Arthur and his father lost no time in removing some of the travel-stains from their hands and faces, and when they had put on plainer suits of clothes and taken off some of the jewelry they had worn during their journey, they went out—Uncle Bob to find Mr. Evans, and Arthur to hunt up Bob, who had promised to show him and George the mountain under which the vanquished giant was imprisoned.

The former found Mr. Evans waiting for him in a little room in which the late owner of the ranch had transacted all his business, and which was known as the office.

There was a desk and safe there, arm-chairs in abundance, and two large bookcases—one being devoted to works on agriculture and stock-raising, while the other was filled with histories, biographies, and works of like character—for Eben Howard, unlike his brother Robert, was a hard reader and a man of considerable attainments.

The safe was open, and piles of papers and note-books relating to the business of the ranch were scattered about over the desk.

Uncle Bob, assisted by Mr. Evans, at once went to work to make himself master of the contents of the books and papers, paying particular attention to his brother’s will, of course, while the boys walked down the river-bank toward the canyon, with a score or more hunting-dogs at their heels.

Arthur, who hadn’t soul enough in him to like either a dog or a horse, couldn’t see the use of such a pack of mongrels, some of which looked savage enough to tear him in pieces, and he did not hesitate to say so.

“There’s not a single mongrel in the whole lot,” said Bob, who was not accustomed to hearing his favorites spoken of so slightingly. “These two,” he added, putting his arms around a brace of glossy-coated setters, which sprang up, one on each side, and placed their paws on his shoulders, “are the best bird-dogs I ever saw, and cannot be beaten as land and water retrievers. That fellow is a Scotch deer-hound, and he and his mates can overtake and pull down a prong-horn in a fair race. In fact, there’s nothing in this country they can’t catch, except the mule-rabbit—sometimes called the jack-rabbit—although it is no more a rabbit than I am, for it doesn’t burrow.”

“What gives it its name?” asked George.

“Its ears, which are the biggest part of the animal. I tell you they are fleet. One writer says they can run so fast that the whizzing sound they make in passing through the air can’t keep up with them. The savage ones in the pack are wolf-dogs. We have about fifty of them altogether, and we couldn’t get along without them. They keep the gray wolves—which are much more abundant in the mountains than we wish they were—from killing off the sheep.”

While Bob was describing the characteristics of the different members of the pack, and relating some interesting hunting stories, of which they were the heroes, he and his companions were walking slowly along the bank of the river, which was as smooth as a mirror and as black as ink; but its color was owing to the nature of the soil through which it flowed, for, when Bob dipped some of it up in his drinking-cup, they found that it was as clear as crystal.

Boy-like, they amused themselves by skipping stones over its glassy surface, and finally, Arthur threw in a stick and tried to induce one of the retrievers to go in and bring it out; but the dog only dropped his head and tail, and moved further away from the bank.

“You can’t make them go into the water this side of the lake,” said Bob, with a laugh. “You can’t even make them wet their forefeet, unless you take hold of them and push them in.”

“Why not?” inquired Arthur.

“Because they have been whipped for it too many times. I tell you some of them cost a lot of money, and they are too valuable to be lost. You may not think so, but if the best swimmer in the pack should venture as far out into the water as you threw that stick, he would never come ashore again.”

“Where would he go?”

“Down into the bowels of the earth, if that’s where the river goes, and the Indians say it is. If you don’t believe it, just look there.”

At this moment the three boys emerged from a little grove of scrub-oaks, which lined the bank of the river for a hundred yards or more. It was one of Bob’s favorite resorts. He always kept a hammock swung there when he was at home, and during the hot days in summer, when the rays of the sun beat down into the valley with merciless fury, and the panting sheep sought refuge in the cottonwoods, and all nature seemed gasping for breath, Bob would take possession of that hammock, and while away the sultry hours with some interesting book, or swing himself to sleep, lulled by the drone of insect life, with which the branches above him were filled.

As Bob spoke, he pointed toward the lower end of the valley, which was not more than five hundred yards distant. The boys looked, and an exclamation of amazement burst from their lips.

“Why, where does the river go?” cried Arthur, as soon as he could speak.

“It goes into that hole, of course,” replied Bob. “And look here. Do you see those two cracks that run diagonally up the bluff each side of the hole? They show the shape and size of the mountain that the victorious giant threw upon his foe to keep him down.”

“He must have thrown it into the canyon with force enough to split it,” observed George; “for I can see a third crack running up the cliff from the top of the hole.”

The “hole” to which the boys referred appeared, at first glance, to be the mouth of an enormous cave, but it was not so in reality. The “crack,” to which George directed the attention of his companions, pointed out the position of a canyon—a very narrow one, to be sure, for, if the boys could have contrived any way to get to the top of the cliff, they would have found that they could almost jump across it.

The other two “cracks” were simply wide and deep fissures, which had been cut in the face of the cliff by the action of the elements, but still the space between them did look wonderfully like a mountain turned bottom side up.

The mouth of the canyon did not seem to be so very large, after they came to look at it awhile, and Bob’s companions were much surprised when he told them that, according to his father’s measurements, it was four hundred feet wide, and more than half as high.

It was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, and not a sound came forth from its depths. Swiftly and silently the river sped on its way, and so smooth and deep was its channel, so free from hidden rocks and every other obstruction, that there was not even the smallest ripple on its surface.

“I’ll tell you what’s a fact,” said George, who had been awed into silence by the terrific grandeur of the scene. “If I had just half a grain more of superstition, I could put full faith in that Indian legend.”

“His story fits the place pretty well,” answered Bob, “and in making it up he did better than any white man can do—he accounted for everything in a way that was perfectly satisfactory to himself. How do you suppose he knew that there was a time when this valley was all under water?”

“He didn’t know it,” replied George. “He only guessed it.”

“And geology bears him out in his guess,” said Bob. “If you are persevering and enduring enough to climb about half-way up some of these cliffs—as a party of Eastern college students did a few years ago—you will find shells that were left there when the water receded.”

“If a fellow got into this current, he wouldn’t have much show for his life, would he?” said Arthur, who marveled greatly at the rapidity with which the sticks he threw into the water disappeared in the black mouth of the canyon.

“He might as well be in the rapids at Niagara Falls,” answered Bob. “Now, while I think of it, I want to give you two a word of caution and advice: The lake and the river above it, as far up as the falls, are perfectly safe for boating and bathing, but this end of the stream will be the death of the first person who ventures upon it, I don’t care how good a boatman he may be. So, when you go out on the river, remember that constant vigilance is the price of your life; and do not, under any circumstances, allow the current to carry your boat below that big cottonwood you see up there on the opposite bank.”

Having taken a good look at the canyon, the boys bent their steps toward the rancho. As they were passing through the grove, they met a roughly-dressed but intelligent-looking man, who greeted Bob cordially, and was introduced to George and Arthur as Mr. Jacobs, the superintendent.

He had had full charge of the ranch ever since it was started, and that he cherished a deep-rooted affection for his late employer, and anything but kindly feelings for those who had come there to take his place, was made very plain by his actions.

He greeted Arthur coolly, and did not offer to shake hands with him, but when he spoke to Bob of his father the tears came into his eyes.

After telling the boy how glad he was to see him again, and how deeply he sympathized with him in the great loss he had sustained, he began talking about the affairs of the ranch. At length he said abruptly:

“By-the-way, Sam has come back again.”

“He has!” exclaimed Bob, in a tone of disgust. “What does he want?”

“He wants a job of herding sheep,” answered the superintendent.

“Well, he can’t have it! We don’t want any such men as he is. I thought my father told him never to show his face about here again.”

“So he did, but Sam knows that your father is not here now to drive him away.”

“That doesn’t make any difference. I am here, and my father’s wishes shall be respected. This Sam is a bad fellow,” said Bob, turning to his companions. “He and three other cowboys once rode into Dixon Springs and began shooting right and left at everybody they saw on the streets.”

“What did they do that for?” asked George.

“They did it out of pure bravado—nothing else—for the citizens hadn’t done anything to them.”

“Why didn’t they arrest them?” inquired Arthur.

“Arrest them!” repeated Bob, smiling at Mr. Jacobs, who smiled in return. “They couldn’t, and besides that isn’t the way things are done in this country. The citizens returned the fire, killed two of the cowboys and captured another, whom they hanged to the nearest tree. Sam was the only one who escaped. Of course father discharged him at once, and Sam sent him word that he was waiting for a chance to take vengeance on him. Now he has the impudence to come back here and ask for a job. Kick him off the ranch, Mr. Jacobs.”

“I don’t think it would be quite safe to attempt that, Bob,” said the superintendent. “Sam’s temper is rather uncertain, and he is very fond of using his revolver; but, if you say so, I’ll not give him work.”

“I do say so, certainly. I don’t want him around.”

“All right. And I say, Bob,” added the superintendent, in a lower tone, “we can’t get rid of him until he chooses to go, and, while he is hanging about here, I would be a little careful of myself, if I were in your place. Sam is treacherous and vindictive, and there is no telling what he may make up his mind to do.”

Mr. Jacobs went off about his business, and the three boys kept on to the ranch. When they reached it, Bob and George went to their room to overhaul their fishing-tackle, preparatory to a day’s sport on the lake, while Arthur lingered on the porch. He wanted to see Sam.