Indeed, a little way beyond where they had turned in to enter the cave there was scarcely the semblance of a road. A mountain torrent, formed by the heavy rain, had washed down the middle of the trail, making a deep gash—a miniature canyon in which even now a little water still trickled.
Cromley had tethered the horses near a natural pool at which the animals had slaked their thirst, and now they were quietly cropping some scanty grass that grew on the mountain side.
“Where’s this blue rock you were telling about, Jerry?” asked Ned, as they stood for a moment near the entrance to the cave.
“It was right over there, a bit to the right,” answered the tall lad. “I only saw it by a lightning flash. Maybe it was carried down into the gulch.”
“Let’s take a look,” proposed Bob. “Is this anything like the place where the stage coach went over?” he asked Cromley.
“Well, it is, and it isn’t,” was the somewhat puzzling answer. “It’s about here, but the trail is different, somehow.”
“You must remember,” said Tinny, “that the accident happened a number of years ago. Since then there have been changes made in the trail—changes by man and changes by nature, such as happened last night. As I remember it, the old stage coach trail ran along up there, Bill,” and he pointed to an upper shelf of rock which wound around a spur of the mountain.
“Yes,” agreed the old miner, “that’s where it was. And that’s the same color of blue rock, too!” he suddenly cried, pointing in the direction indicated by Jerry as the place where he had seen that indigo hue. “Yes, I’m pretty sure this is the place. But what a change!”
Well might he say that, for the havoc of the storm was great.
“Let’s take a look,” proposed Ned.