The Bully Boys by Eric Walters

through again . . . so long as I hadn’t grown so much over the past years that I was now too big to fit . . . A cold sweat started trickling down my sides and I stopped. But as hard as it had been to climb up, I knew it would be almost impossible to back down.
    â€œKeep moving,” FitzGibbon said softly, reaching up and tapping me on the bottom of my left shoe.
    I pressed forward. My fear of getting trapped was growing, but it was still less than my fear of disappointing FitzGibbon. Another twist . . . I didn’t want to go up or around any farther . . . but wait, there was more light now. I could see things more clearly. We were nearing the opening at the top. I climbed up and crawled around the bend. It was suddenly much brighter. Looking up, I saw the end of thecave and the blue sky beyond it. With renewed energy I scrambled the rest of the way. The space became much wider and it was easier to move. I stopped a dozen feet short of the opening. FitzGibbon came up beside me and then moved past me. He, too, stopped just short of the entrance.
    Carefully I moved up beside him. I opened my mouth to say something but stopped; I could clearly hear voices and laughter flowing into the mouth of the cave. FitzGibbon poked his head out. He grabbed onto a jagged piece of rock and leaned forward, twisting his head so he could see up. If anybody at the top, just a couple of feet away, had looked down they couldn’t have helped but see him. How fast could we get back down to the other end? I was sure I could move a whole lot faster knowing there were men with guns after me, but maybe not fast enough. And even if I could get to the other end, they’d still be up top, looking down, ready to fire as I tried to run to the overhang.
    FitzGibbon swung back into the cave—thank God.
    â€œNo good,” he whispered. “I could hear them but they weren’t saying anything worth listening to.”
    â€œMaybe we should get back down before they hear us,” I whispered back.
    He nodded. “Yes we should—” Then he stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. Had he heard something that I hadn’t?
    â€œOr maybe they should hear us,” FitzGibbon said. “How loud can you yell?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œCome,” he whispered as he grabbed me by the arm and led me to the very edge of the cave.
    I leaned slightly back and away from the drop, the long drop, from the cave down to the bottom of the cliff.
    â€œWhen I start yelling, you yell too,” FitzGibbon whispered.
    â€œBut—”
    â€œJust do what I say,” he interrupted.
    I started to nod my head in agreement when FitzGibbon suddenly shrieked and whooped at the top of his lungs. I jumped as the sound echoed through and out of the cave. It was an incredible noise. It didn’t sound like one man, or two, or even ten—it sounded like an entire tribe of Indians right there surrounding me! I added my voice and suddenly two entire tribes of natives were yelling and screaming and shrieking.
    FitzGibbon abruptly stopped yelling and put a hand over my mouth to silence me. There was no sound. No voices. Not the neighing of horses or laughter or even the sound of birds singing. Silence.
    Slowly FitzGibbon inched to the mouth of the cave. He leaned out and looked up. Then he started to climb out and up. I rushed forward to the entrance just in time to see him above me, first peeking over the top and then climbing right up and out of sight. His head soon reappeared over the edge.
    â€œIt’s all right, Tommy,” he said, laughing. “Come on up.”
    Carefully, making sure I had secure foot- and handholds, I climbed up the few feet separating me from the top. FitzGibbon stood alone. In his hand was a canteen.
    â€œThis is all that’s left of those Americans. Probably dropped it as they bumped into each other trying to get away.”
    He opened the lid, turned the canteen upside down and poured out the