The geyser hole.
“Why, such things have been done,” said Bob. “The shaft of that Iceland geyser has been measured, and found to be nine feet in diameter and seventy feet deep.”
Bob took another long look at the yawning gulf below him, and then crawled down the ridge and joined his companion. He picked up his gun, and was about to say something more to him, when he noticed that one of the setters had come to a point, and that the other was backing him beautifully.
“A flock of quails for a dollar!” said Bob. “Now look sharp. It is almost impossible to flush them, and so you will have to shoot them running.”
As Bob ceased speaking, his gun spoke twice in rapid succession. No birds arose at the reports, but a couple of mule deer, which had been enjoying their mid-day nap in a thicket not more than twenty yards away, broke cover, and set off toward the farther end of the valley at the top of their speed.
“Don’t shoot!” cried Bob, as George’s light double-barrel arose to his shoulder. “You’ll only wound them, and, besides, we want them to show us the way out.”
CHAPTER XXX.
IN THE MOUNTAINS.
“Seek dead!” commanded Bob; whereupon the setters began beating the bushes to find the two birds that had fallen to their master’s gun.
“Didn’t I tell you that there were wild animals in this valley? The presence of those black-tails proves that there must be some way of communication with the outer world, and if we are smart enough to find it, we are all right.”
“They have found another flock,” said George, who was closely watching the movements of the setters.