It wound straight up into the mountains, hugging the steep wall on one side, while on the other the ground fell away abruptly into a multitude of gorges and ravines. Sometimes the descent was precipitous and the track seemed almost to be hung in mid-air over an abyss, while at other places the slope was more gradual and covered with great boulders, mingled with a heavy growth of pine and bushes.
At length they rounded a sharp turn and came out on a fairly level plateau, perhaps a hundred yards in diameter, completely hemmed in on three sides by high cliffs, while on the fourth it fell away abruptly into a deep ravine.
Facing them, and built against the highest cliff, was a stone house, which they at once made certain was the one they sought.
It was large and square, and composed entirely of the same dark, somber rock of which the surrounding mountains were made. Hugging, as it did, the cliff, it was somewhat hard to distinguish just where the natural rock ended and the house began. This difficulty was increased by the fact that the dwelling was in reality built into a sort of depression in the side of the cliff, the jagged top of which overhung the roof.
In the middle of the front side was a large door that seemed to be closed by a single sheet of iron or steel, while the windows, even on the upper floors, were protected by stout iron bars and some sort of inside shutters.
Taken all in all, it was a most dreary, desolate, prison-like structure, to which the surrounding barriers of jagged, gray cliffs, hard, bare, with no relieving touch of green, added an almost sinister grimness.
“By George, pard, what a place to live in!” Buckhart said in a low tone. “I’d as soon bunk up in a prison.”
The depressing influence of the surroundings was so great that, unconsciously, the Texan had lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
His companion did not answer. His head was bent slightly forward and there was look of keen intentness in his eyes. The next moment he spoke.
“Listen!” he said softly. “What’s that noise?”