Up and down hill he rode; but the stream persistently remained out of sight.
To Bob Somers’ mind there was humor in the situation—but the humor was of rather a grim sort. Weeks might be spent in that wild region without encountering a single human soul.
“It’s a good thing I’m not a tenderfoot,” he grinned. He stroked his pony’s neck. “I guess, though, we’ll be able to find our way out of here before very long, old boy.”
Bob Somers’ hopeful prediction did not seem likely of fulfilment. He could find nothing that looked familiar.
“Lost at last!” he muttered, with a smile.
His horse was plainly showing evidences of distress. The long, hard climbs over steep and slippery surfaces, together with the heat of the day, were exhausting the animal. So Bob presently dismounted.
“Poor old chap,” he murmured, commiseratively. “You certainly need a rest.”
The lad looked over the oval-shaped valley and the line of encircling hills, then, drawing a long breath, exclaimed:
“I guess my troubles are only beginning.”