He was riding Mr. Evans’ horse, that gentleman having taken his seat in the wagon. Bob did not object to this arrangement now. He knew that Mr. Evans was his friend, and it mattered little what his uncle said to him.
“Yes, it’s a splendid sight,” said Bob, who was thinking of the lonely grave there was somewhere in that valley, and not of the beauty of the scenery. “People who have traveled among the Alps say that Switzerland has nothing that can beat it. Every foot of that valley belonged to my father.”
“And if anything should happen to you during the next three years it is quite possible that every foot of it will belong to me,” said Arthur to himself.
This thought had been uppermost in his mind ever since the day that telegram was received. He had pondered upon it day and night, and he continued to ponder upon it until it led to something—something that created the greatest excitement, and came pretty near ending in a fearful tragedy.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE MYSTERY OF THE CANYON.
The valley toward which the three boys directed their gaze was quite ten miles long and a little more than half as wide. It was almost oval in shape, and was surrounded on all sides by rocky bluffs, which, in some places, arose to the height of nearly two thousand feet.
The base of these bluffs was lined with an almost unbroken forest of cottonwood trees, which in addition to supplying the numerous inhabitants of the valley with fuel, gave secure protection to the ranchman’s sheep, that sought shelter there when the cold winter winds swept down the gorges and blocked all the trails with snow.
The valley was watered by a deep stream, which, entering at one end by a succession of lofty cascades, and running through the verdant fields with an almost imperceptible current, finally disappeared in a cavern so dark and gloomy that it made one shudder to look at it.
Near the middle of the valley this stream widened into a lake of considerable size. It was on the bosom of this lake that Bob Howard had cast his first fly to tempt the wary trout from his hiding-place; and among the weeds and rushes that lined the further shore he had killed his first wild duck.
By the aid of a powerful field-glass which Bob had brought with him, Arthur and George were enabled to make a close examination of all the objects he pointed out to them. Something which, at the first glance, looked like a cobble-stone, turned out to be a roomy rancho; a little patch of white in the middle of one of the fields the glass showed to be an immense flock of sheep; small clumps of bushes became extensive groves of scrub oaks; things that looked no larger than a sprig of clover changed into horsemen; and the dark lines that ran across the valley in every direction took the form of rail fences, staked and ridered, and strongly built to withstand the violence of the winter winds.