A long, undulating slope of treacherous soil stretched downward. The bronchos slipped and slid along it, and, occasionally, the boys had to dismount and lead the way on foot, or prospect around to find some reasonably safe route. It was, therefore, a long time before they came abreast of the men.
The rushing torrent at this point was too dangerous to ford, so they kept steadily on, paying no attention to a number of loud salutations.
Hails from several figures below soon followed, sounding astonishingly loud and distinct, and among them Pete Colliver's voice was easily recognizable. As the seven caught it, the scowls on their faces deepened.
The stream swept around in a great snake-like curve, cutting its way between two sharply gashed ridges. Fifteen minutes of careful riding brought the boys near the pebble-covered bottom of one of these miniature gorges.
Upon the opposite bank, Smull, Griffin, Pete Colliver and Jimmy stood lined up, grinning broadly, while the two men who had been working on the slope were slipping and scrambling down the rocks and turf toward them.
"Wal, wal, if hyar they ain't, at last!" laughed Pete, boisterously. "Didn't git losted, arter all, hey?"
"Ye can't stake out any claims here, pards," said Tom Smull, "but if yer a-lookin' fur jobs as laborers mebbe we kin perwide 'em."
"YE CAN'T STAKE OUT ANY CLAIMS HERE"