It was a land of extravagances and of wonders.  The marvellous adventures of the “Arabian Nights” would have seemed natural in it.  It reminded you after a vague fashion of the scenery suggested to the imagination by some of its details or those of the “Pilgrim’s Progress.”  Sindbad the Sailor carrying the Old Man of the Sea; Giant Despair scowling from a make-believe window in a fictitious castle of eroded sandstone; a roc with wings eighty feet long, poising on a giddy pinnacle to pounce upon an elephant; pilgrim Christian advancing with sword and buckler against a demon guarding some rocky portal, would have excited no astonishment here.

Of a sudden there came an adventure which gave opening for knight-errantry.  As Thurstane, Coronado, and Texas Smith were riding a few hundred yards ahead of the caravan, and just emerging from what seemed an enormous court or public square, surrounded by ruined edifices of gigantic magnitude, they discovered a man running toward them in a style which reminded the Lieutenant of Timorous and Mistrust flying from the lions.  Impossible to see what he was afraid of; there was a broad, yellow plain, dotted with monuments of sandstone; no living thing visible but this man running.

He was an American; at least he had the clothes of one.  As he approached, he appeared to be a lean, lank, narrow-shouldered, yellow-faced, yellow-haired creature, such as you might expect to find on Cape Cod or thereabouts.  Hollow-chested as he was, he had a yell in him which was quite surprising.  From the time that he sighted the three horsemen he kept up a steady screech until he was safe under their noses.  Then he fell flat and gasped for nearly a minute without speaking.  His first words were, “That’s pooty good sailin’ for a man who ain’t used to’t.”

“Did you run all the way from Down East?” asked Thurstane.

“All the way from that bewt there—­the one that looks most like a haystack.”

“Well, who the devil are you?”

“I’m Phineas Glover—­Capm Phineas Glover—­from Fair Haven, Connecticut.  I’m goin’ to Californy after gold.  Got lost out of the caravan among the mountings.  Was comin’ along alone, ‘n’ run afoul of some Injuns.  They’re hidin’ behind that bewt, ‘n’ they’ve got my mewl.”

“Indians!  How many are there?”

“Only three.  ‘N’ I expect they a’nt the real wild kind, nuther.  Sorter half Injun, half engineer, like what come round in the circuses.  Didn’t make much of ‘n offer towards carvin’ me.  But I judged best to quit, the first boat that put off.  Ah, they’re there yit, ‘n’ the mewl tew.”

“You’ll find our train back there,” said Thurstane.  “You had better make for it.  We’ll recover your property.”

He dashed off at a full run for the butte, closely followed by Texas Smith and Coronado.  The Mexican had the best horse, and he would soon have led the other two; but his saddle-girth burst, and in spite of his skill in riding he was nearly thrown.  Texas Smith pulled up to aid his employer, but only for an instant, as Coronado called, “Go on.”