The boys did not reply. To have given utterance to their feelings in words would have been as useless as to have made active resistance. Seth, who was slightly in advance, while old Harley and his other son held the boys, paused suddenly.
“Here we are,” he said, and stooping, he raised a big flat stone which in turn disclosed a door, apparently a part of the cellarage of the former mission building.
There was a ring in the door which the younger Harley gripped, and then flung the portal back. It revealed a steep flight of steps and beyond them abysmal darkness. It was plain enough to the boys that they were to be thrust into this place as prisoners.
If any doubt of this fact had existed in their minds it was speedily dissipated.
“Git down thar’,” growled old Harley with an oath, as he gave Nat a vicious shove.
“See here, Harley,” exclaimed the boy. “What useful purpose do you think you’re serving by treating us this way? You know as well as I do that you are amenable to the law for your conduct. Don’t think for a minute that you can ever escape your just punishment.”
“Talk like a striplin’ preacher, don’t yer?” sneered the old man. “Jes’ let me tell yer one thing, young feller, thar’ ain’t a law in Santy Barbary County that kin touch ole Iz Harley; so put that in your pipe an’ smoke it.”
The boys were suddenly jerked forward, and toppling over, fell in a heap down the steep steps of the cellarage. Then they heard the door above them slammed to with a bang, and they were alone in the darkness, lying, luckily uninjured, at the foot of the steps.
“Nat, are you all right?” spoke Joe.
“Sure, but I feel a bit dizzy after that plunge.”