The round valley itself, however, was beautiful.  Ripening grasses grew shoulder high.  Shady trees swarmed with birds.  Bees and other insects hummed through the sun-warmed air.

In vain Bob looked about him for the horses, or for signs of them.  They were nowhere to be seen.  Saleratus Bill, reading his perplexity, grinned sardonically.

“Yore friends might come in here,” said he, evidently not unwilling to expose to Bob the full hopelessness of the latter’s case.  “And if so, they can trail us in; and then trail us out again!” He pointed to the lacets of the trail up the north wall.  He grinned again.  “You and I’d just crawl down a mile of mine shaft.”

Having thus, to his satisfaction, impressed Bob with the utter futility of an attempt to escape, Saleratus Bill led the way back to the deserted village.  There he turned deliberately on his captive.

“Now, young feller, you listen to me,” said he.  “Don’t you try no monkey business.  There won’t be no questions asked, none whatever.  As long as you set and look at the scenery, you won’t come to no harm; but the minute you make even a bluff at gettin’ funny—­even if yore sorry the next minute—­I’ll shoot.  And don’t you never forget and try to get nearer to me than three paces.  Don’t forget that!  I don’t rightly want to hurt you; but I’d just as leave shoot you as anybody else.”

To this view of the situation Bob gave the expected assent.

The next three days were ones of routine.  Saleratus Bill spent his time rolling brown-paper cigarettes at a spot that commanded both trails.  Bob was instructed to keep in sight.  He early discovered the cheering fact that trout were to be had in the glass-green pools; and so spent hours awkwardly manipulating an improvised willow pole equipped with the short line and the Brown Hackle without which no mountaineer ever travels the Sierras.  His bound elbows and the crudity of his tackle lost him many fish.  Still, he caught enough for food; and his mind was busy.

Canvassing the possibilities, Bob could not but admit that Saleratus Bill knew his job.  The river was certain death, and led nowhere except into mysterious and awful granite gorges; the outlets by roads were well in sight.  For one afternoon Bob seriously contemplated hazarding a personal encounter.  He conceived that in some manner he could get rid of his bonds at night; that Saleratus Bill must necessarily sleep; and that there might be a chance to surprise the gun-man then.  But when night came, Saleratus Bill disappeared into the outer darkness; nor did he return until morning.  He might have spent the hours camped under the trees of the more remote meadow, whence in the brilliant moonlight he could keep tabs on the trails, or he might be lying near at hand; Bob had no means of telling.  Certainly, again the young man reluctantly acknowledged to himself, Saleratus Bill knew his job!