"How near is the next rancho, and whose is it?"
"A league beyond the Mission grant. It is Don Juan Ortega's."
"Very well, we go there and ask for horses."
The boys made their way rapidly down the slope, which after all was only
that of a foot-hill. Beyond were other foot-hills, and they skirted
among them, finally entering a canon. It was as dark and cold and damp
as the last hour of the tunnel had been, but the narrow river, roaring
through its middle, had caught all the snow, and there was scarce a
fleck on the narrow tilted banks. The hill opposite was the last of the
foot-hills; but how to reach it? The current was very swift, and boys
knew naught of the art of swimming in that land of little water.
Suddenly Roldan raised his hand with an exclamation of surprise and
pointed to a ledge overhanging the stream. A hut stood there, made of
sections of the redwood and pine. From its chimney, smoke was curling
upward.
The boys were too hungry to pause and reflect upon the possibility of a
savage inmate; they scrambled up the bank and ran along the ledge to the
hut. The door was of hide. They knocked. There was no response.
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