"Mickey, is that you?" he asked, in a cautions whisper, a moment later.

As he asked the question he noticed that work upon the rope instantly
ceased.

"It's Mickey," he said to himself, "but he doesn't think it safe to
speak."

Then to him: "All right old boy, come ahead, and you may do the speaking
after you land. Come ahead--you're near the top."

Again the toiling climber resumed his labor, and he was within a foot or
two of the opening. One more hitch and he would emerge into the moonlight.

"Come old fellow, give me your hand," he added; "you've had pretty hard
work."

Just then the bronzed face of an Apache Indian, smeared with paint and
contorted with eager passion, slowly rose in the moonlight. The exhausted
warrior, feeling that the critical moment was at hand, when all depended
upon prompt and decisive work, made furious efforts to clamber out of the
cavern before the lad who held the key of the situation could prevent.

Although Fred had contemplated this issue, and had prepared for it, yet he
had become so thoroughly imbued with the belief that it was Mickey
O'Rooney who was toiling upward that he was almost entirely thrown off his
guard. Because of this, the cunning Apache would have secured his foothold
and clambered out upon the daring lad, but for one thing. He had done,
tremendous work in climbing a rope for such a distance, and his strength
was nearly gone when he reached the open air.