"I am a man of considerable reading," muttered the professor gloomily, "yet our present position goes to show that all the book-learning in the world is of no use to men in our position."
"No, I guess Coyote Pete, or Jack Merrill, or Walt Phelps could get us out of this a whole lot quicker than all the classical authors that ever classicked," said Ralph disgustedly.
"I have a fine library at home in the East," said the professor suddenly, and with the air of a man in whose mind a great hope had sprung up. "Do you imagine that this Black Ramon, or whatever his name is, would consider taking that in exchange for our liberty?"
"I'm afraid not," moaned Ralph disconsolately. Yet he could not forbear a smile at the old man's simplicity.
"Library," grunted Pete, who had overheard the professor's remark; "the only kind of library he'd have any use for would be an edition de luxury of a complete issue of greenbacks, bound in calf and horse hide."
"Where can they be taking us?" wondered Jack, as hour after hour passed, and the procession still wound on along the foot of the mountains.
"I've no idea," rejoined Walt Phelps, "I've never been on this side of the range before."
"I was over here oncet," said Pete, "after some strays, but I don't recollect this part of the country."
"How far have we come?" inquired Ralph, more for the sake of saying something than anything else.