"That's queer," remarked our friend. "I had not heard of those before. I wonder if Pedro knows anything about it. It is a puzzler, as you say."
"Yes, I can't make it out," continued Dick; and after standing for a minute thinking, he repeated, with a shake of his head: "No, I can't make it out. I can't see what that bridge was for. Well, never mind that for the present; let's go and see the old mine."
"Come on, then. But before we go, I'll just speak to Pedro, or he may be going off and hiding himself somewhere up in the old workings. Do you notice," he asked, "how smoothly the swirl of the water has scoured out a sort of half-arch at the base of the cañon-wall all the way from the end of the dam here, under the waterfall, round to the bulge on the other side? It forms a perfect 'whispering gallery.' Hallo, Pedro!" he called out, putting his face close to the rock. "It is all right. We are coming up now."
Descending to the bed of the pool, whence all the water except three or four permanent puddles had now drained away, we first searched for our rifles, and having recovered them, followed our guide around the bulge in the wall, and there found ourselves confronting the old mine-entrance.
About ten feet above the floor of the pool was a big hole in the rock, evidently made by hand—for it was square—leading up to which were several roughly-hewn steps, more or less rounded off and worn away by the water. On top of the steps, framed in the blackness of the opening behind him, stood the squat figure of Pedro Sanchez—in his rough shirt of deer-skin representing very well, I thought, the badger in the mouth of his hole.
"BEHIND HIM, STOOD THE SQUAT FIGURE OF PEDRO SANCHEZ."
"Pedro," said our new friend, "these gentlemen were seeking the old mine, as I thought. You have nothing to fear from them."