So we went to work and in a couple of hours we had finished our task. The sandstone was soft, that is, comparatively so, and we enjoyed working in it. There was a peculiar pleasure in our quiet industry in that sheltered place away from the turmoil of the river and the lone, weird desert land through which we were traveling.
I finished my name first.
"Jo Darlington." If you ever visit that cavern, which is most improbable, you will see it there. If some future explorer, several thousand years from now chances to drop in, he will also see my name there, as durable as the stone itself.
I left the other artists at work and went out to take a look at our boat. I just stepped outside of the entrance, and at my first glance through the screen of cottonwoods I saw something that froze me in my tracks.
I made out an Indian making his way along a trail towards our boat. Who would reach it first? His purpose was evident. To reach the boat and cut it loose and drift with it into the river. Then where would we be? Stranded high and dry, with neither supplies nor guns, nor boat.
I gave one yell to the boys in the interior of the cave, and sprang forward with unleashed energy. The Indian started at the same time towards the boat. He had a clearer trail than I did, and leaped forward with the swiftness of a deer.
Never had I run for such a stake, neither brush nor logs could stop me. I tore through the bushes with tremendous speed and down the slope towards the boat I hurled myself.
But the Indian was ahead by fifty feet, and sprang on "The Captain." Then he turned towards me, throwing one hand up, exclaiming:
"How, how, Jo Darlington?"
I stopped and sat down in absolute and unbounded amazement. It was Juarez Hopkins.