At noon they came to a lonely little valley, not two acres in extent, shaded at one end by half a dozen trees and a huge overhanging precipice.
Here two fat, sleek mules fed undisturbed, and as they rode up near them, the guide pointed to a pack and riding-saddle hanging side by side under the cliff.
“Here we camp. The man I seek is within a mile of this place, but no one outside of him ever went over the trail that reaches his claim, so far as I can learn,” said Mr. W——, carefully looking over his map, sketch, and letter of instruction. “I will lunch, and then, leaving you here, try to find him.”
The guide assented. He had never been up the river quite so far before, and, old hand as he was in the mountains, he did not want to go any farther.
Half an hour later Mr. W—— left, heading for a black patch of chaparral that seemed to hang on the side of a fearful cliff.
He was gone over two hours, and he came back in a fearful stage of agitation.
“My friend is found,” he said. “But I fear that the joy of the news I carried him has killed him. I found him sick—very low. Thinking it would revive him, I broke my news too suddenly. I left him in a death-like swoon, and I could not revive him. Come with me quickly. I will pay you treble our agreement if we can only get him out safe, where I can get medical aid.”
The guide did not hesitate a second. He was rough, but all heart. His name was Hal Westcott.
After a fearful climb, which took them all of thirty minutes, the two men stood breathless on the plateau we saw in the sketch in front of the log cabin and above the whirl of milk-white waters.
“I almost dread to go in lest he be dead,” said Mr. W——.