“He’d hide in the rocks till night—long as he didn’t see any one coming after him—and start ’bout dark, say eight o’clock.”
“Then he’d be here in less than six hours. Might have landed down there early as two o’clock this morning. That’s nearly six hours ago. He may be fifteen miles back in the hills now.”
“Likely,” agreed Mr. Cook, slowly, “if he got out right away. But it’s more likely that he waited for daybreak to climb the canyon walls. It was dark down there an hour and a half ago.”
“Perhaps he’s down there yet,” suggested Roy. “Maybe he’s drowned.”
“Didn’t you see his tracks?” asked Mr. Cook, in surprise.
Roy flushed with embarrassment. He had neither seen them nor thought of looking for them, although the aeroplane had turned and passed low along the abrupt river just above the stranded raft.
“You’re going all right,” added Roy’s passenger, “but head up a little and keep your eye on the machine. I’ll tell you when to change your course.”
For several minutes neither spoke. Despite Mr. Cook’s admonition, Roy took occasional looks at the land over which they were flying. For about three miles back from the river, the sandy plain extended almost free of rocks. Then a ridge of sand buttes began, interspersed with fragments dislodged from a secondary and higher ridge or plateau of rock. These in turn broke into canyons or higher elevations, all at last losing themselves in the mountains about twenty miles from the river. When they had reached the first ridge and were well over it, Mr. Cook exclaimed:
“East. Nothing here.”