“Of course,” said he, to himself, “it’s not for me to kick. But it does seem to me that the place to get the good going over is the house. And here we haven’t done any more than look at a few corners of it.”
It was now considerably past noon; the sun was warm and the brown hills, with here and there a patch of vivid green, stretched away to the south, the west and the north. To the east the river slipped by smoothly, and toward the river Ashton-Kirk turned his steps. He paused upon an overhanging mass of rock and looked over its edge.
“It’s under this, I think, that we found the opening to the secret way.”
“Yes,” replied Bat.
After studying the situation for a little, the special detective moved on. He held to the river banks for the better part of a mile; then he paused.
“Just a moment,” said he to Scanlon. He left the path and sprang down the bank; plunging into a tangle of shrivelled vines and small trees he disappeared for a few moments, and when he reappeared his face wore a satisfied look.
“Now, then,” said he, cheerfully, “we’ll take a brisk little walk across country. And at the end of it I may be able to show you something that will surprise you.”
So away they went, up-hill and down-hill, and Scanlon noted that their way was taking them in the general direction of the inn.
“Your life in the West,” said Ashton-Kirk, after a period of silence, “must have made you acquainted with the various Indian tribes.”
“A good many. I’ve eaten with Pawnees, and hunted with Crows; I’ve broke horses with the Cheyennes, when I was a youngster, and I’ve fought the Sioux and the Apache. Another man and I once put in a season with the Navajos; and one time again, I had a party of Blackfeet chase me through about a hundred miles of mountain, with never a stop.”