The hollow reports sounded in the interior. A cloud of bats came out of the passage in a black cloud, whirling bewildered in the sunshine, dazed by the gases, seeking other caves. One shot hung fire as they counted off. Just as it sounded there came a rush of disintegrated clay from high up the cliff, rushing down in a cloud of dust, flinging fragments far and wide as they dodged back, piling up a little in front of the entrance.
They rushed back, torches probing the gloom, to find a pile of shattered rock and the black gap of a tunnel. Sheridan had brought in some tufts of dried grass which he lit and tossed into the hollow. They blazed freely and he leaped ahead, exultant, the brilliant pencil of light from his torch stabbing far ahead of him. The tunnel, twisting like a snake, its floor wavily irregular, but in the main, level, led northwest, towards the end of the little ravine. It seemed as if it must join the bandits' caves. It was evidently a conduit for flood waters that had gouged it out of the heart of the cliff.
Suddenly it ended, progress blocked in a steep back slope impossible to climb, the stairway of a now dry cascade. At its top they could just make out the lips of a narrow cleft. Down this the torrents had poured, seeping from the outer slopes. But it was too narrow to explore, even if they could have reached it, and led apparently directly upwards.
Sheridan sent back for the tools, left behind in their rush. Once more they sounded and once again found a spot that promised other caves beyond. The place was honeycombed.
