Late that evening Saleratus Bill halted for the night at a little meadow.  He fed Bob a thick sandwich, and offered him a cup of water; after which he again shackled the young man’s ankles, bound his elbows, and attached the helpless form to a tree.  Bob spent the night in this case, covered only by his saddle blanket.  The cords cut into his swelled flesh, the retarded circulation pricked him cruelly.  He slept little.  At early dawn his captor offered him the same fare.  By sun-up they were under way again.

All that day they angled to the northwest.  The pine forests gave way to oaks, buckthorn, chaparral, as they entered lower country.  Several times Saleratus Bill made long detours to avoid clearings and ranches.  Bob, in spite of his strength and the excellence of his condition, reeled from sheer weariness and pain.  They made no stop at noon.

At two o’clock, or so, they left the last ranch and began once more leisurely to climb.  The slope was gentle.  A badly washed and eroded wagon grade led them on.  It had not been used for years.  The horses, now very tired, plodded on dispiritedly.

Then, with the suddenness of a shift of scenery, they topped what seemed to be a trifling rounded hill.  On the other side the slope dropped sheer away.  Opposite and to north and south were the ranks of great mountains, some dark with the blue of atmosphere before pines, others glittering with snow.  Directly beneath, almost under him, Bob saw a valley.

It was many thousand feet below, mathematically round, and completely surrounded by lofty mountains.  Indeed, already evening had there spread its shadows, although to the rest of the world the sun was still hours high.  Through it flowed a river.  From the height it looked like a piece of translucent green glass in the still depths; like cotton-wool where the rapids broke; for the great distance robbed it of all motion.  This stream issued from a gorge and flowed into another, both so narrow that the lofty mountains seemed fairly to close them shut.

Through the clear air of the Sierras this valley looked like a toy, a miniature.  Every detail was distinct.  Bob made out very plainly the pleasant trees, and a bridge over the river, and the roofs of many houses, and the streets of a little town.

To the left the wagon road dropped away down the steep side of the mountain.  Bob’s eye could follow it, at first a band, then a ribbon, finally a tiny white thread, as it wound and zigzagged, seeking its contours, until finally it ran out on the level and rested at the bridge end.  Opposite, on the other mountain, he thought to make out here and there faint suggestions of another way.