"Yes, of course," answered Bob slowly as his hopes fell. "Put me out wherever you like," he added.
"You can go up now and have a look around," said Ned at last, "both of you. I'll take the wheel."
The relieved boys scrambled onto the bridge deck. Night was coming on and the mountains to the west were already black. Evening shadows were lengthening on the sloping plains beneath and a gentle, rising breeze flapped the flag and pennant and swayed the bag above them. Beneath, the Chusco wound its half dry course and off to the east a blue haze, melting into the unending sand, told of a treeless and waterless waste.
"And there," exclaimed Alan at last, pointing off to the northwest where snow-capped, ragged peaks rose out of a black jumble of mountains, "are the Tunit Chas and the land of our dreams. To-morrow—"
"One moment," interrupted Bob quickly. "I think you are forgetting. That is your secret and not mine."
Alan flushed. "I forgot," he said with a stammer, "and I thank you."
"I can't afford to make you sorry you brought me," added Bob, "and you are not going to be."
There was a little jar. The propeller slackened a trifle, and Alan explained that Ned had headed the Cibola another point into the freshening breeze.
"Steward," said Ned from below, "it's seven o'clock and I'm hungry. Besides, it's getting pretty dark down here."
Alan and Bob looked at each other and laughed.