Cottonwoods; they always had gold; but of late the amount gambled
away and drunk and thrown away in the villages had given rise to

much conjecture. Oldring's more frequent visits had resulted in
new saloons, and where there had formerly been one raid or

shooting fray in the little hamlets there were now many. Perhaps
Oldring had another range farther on up the pass, and from

theredrove the cattle to distant Utah towns where he was little
known But Venters came finally to doubt this. And, from what he

had learned in the last few days, a belief began to form in
Venters's mind that Oldring's intimidations of the villages and

the mystery of the Masked Rider, with his alleged evil deeds, and
the fierceresistance offered any trailing riders, and the

rustling of cattle-- these things were only the craft of the
rustler-chief to conceal his real life and purpose and work in

Deception Pass.
And like a scouting Indian Venters crawled through the sage of

the oval valley, crossed trail after trail on the north side, and
at last entered the canyon out of which headed the cattle trail,

and into which he had watched the rustlers disappear.
If he had used caution before, now he strained every nerve to

force himself to creeping stealth and to sensitiveness of ear. He
crawled along so hidden that he could not use his eyes except to

aid himself in the toilsome progress through the brakes and ruins
of cliff-wall. Yet from time to time, as he rested, he saw the

massive red walls growing higher and wilder, more looming and
broken. He made note of the fact that he was turning and

climbing. The sage and thickets of oak and brakes of alder gave
place to pinyon pine growing out of rocky soil. Suddenly a low,

dull murmur assailed his ears. At first he thought it was
thunder, then the slipping of a weathered slope of rock. But it

was incessant, and as he progressed it filled out deeper and from
a murmur changed into a soft roar.

"Falling water," he said. "There's volume to that. I wonder if
it's the stream I lost."

The roar bothered him, for he could hear nothing else. Likewise,
however, no rustlers could hear him. Emboldened by this and sure

that nothing but a bird could see him, he arose from his hands
and knees to hurry on. An opening in the pinyons warned him that

he was nearing the height of slope.
He gained it, and dropped low with a burst of astonishment.

Before him stretched a short canyon with rounded stone floor bare
of grass or sage or tree, and with curved, shelving walls. A

broad rippling stream flowed toward him, and at the back of the
canyonwaterfall burst from a wide rent in the cliff, and,

bounding down in two green steps, spread into a long white sheet.
If Venters had not been indubitably certain that he had entered

the right canyon his astonishment would not have been so great.
There had been no breaks in the walls, no side canyons entering

this one where the rustlers' tracks and the cattle trail had
guided him, and, therefore, he could not be wrong. But here the

canyon ended, and presumably the trails also.
"That cattle trail headed out of here," Venters kept saying to

himself. "It headed out. Now what I want to know is how on earth
did cattle ever get in here?"

If he could be sure of anything it was of the careful scrutiny he
had given that cattle track, every hoofmark of which headed

straight west. He was now looking east at an immense round boxed
corner of canyon down which tumbled a thin, white veil of water,

scarcely twenty yards wide. Somehow, somewhere, his calculations
had gone wrong. For the first time in years he found himself

doubting his rider's skill in finding tracks, and his memory of
what he had actually" target="_blank" title="ad.事实上；实际上">actually seen. In his anxiety to keep under cover he

must have lost himself in this offshoot of Deception Pass, and
thereby in some unaccountable manner, missed the canyon with the

trails. There was nothing else for him to think. Rustlers could
not fly, nor cattle jump down thousand-foot precipices. He was

only proving what the sage-riders had long said of this
labyrinthine system of deceitful" target="_blank" title="a.欺骗的，骗人的">deceitfulcanyons and valleys--trails led

down into Deception Pass, but no rider had ever followed them.
On a sudden he heard above the soft roar of the waterfall an

unusual sound that he could not define. He dropped flat behind a
stone and listened. From the direction he had come swelled

something that resembled a strange muffled pounding and splashing
and ringing. Despite his nerve the chill sweat began to dampen

his forehead. What might not be possible in this stonewalled maze
of mystery? The unnatural sound passed beyond him as he lay

gripping his rifle and fighting for coolness. Then from the open
came the sound, now distinct and different. Venters recognized a

hobble-bell of a horse, and the cracking of iron on submerged
stones, and the hollow splash of hoofs in water.

Relief surged over him. His mind caught again at realities, and
curiosity prompted him to peep from behind the rock.

In the middle of the stream waded a long string of packed burros
driven by three superbly mounted men. Had Venters met these

dark-clothed, dark-visaged, heavily armed men anywhere in Utah,
let alone in this robbers' retreat, he would have recognized them

as rustlers. The discerning eye of a rider saw the signs of a
long, arduous trip. These men were packing in supplies from one

of the northern villages. They were tired, and their horses were
almost played out, and the burros plodded on, after the manner of

their kind when exhausted, faithful and patient, but as if every
weary, splashing, slipping step would be their last.

All this Venters noted in one glance. After that he watched with
a thrilling eagerness. Straight at the waterfall the rustlers

drove the burros, and straight through the middle, where the
water spread into a fleecy, thin film like dissolving smoke.

Following closely, the rustlers rode into this white mist,
showing in bold black relief for an instant, and then they

vanished.
Venters drew a full breath that rushed out in brief and sudden

utterance.
"Good Heaven! Of all the holes for a rustler!...There's a cavern

under that waterfall, and a passageway leading out to a canyon
beyond. Oldring hides in there. He needs only to guard a trail

leading down from the sage-flat above. Little danger of this
outlet to the pass being discovered. I stumbled on it by luck,

after I had given up. And now I know the truth of what puzzled me
most--why that cattle trail was wet!"

He wheeled and ran down the slope, and out to the level of the
sage-brush. Returning, he had no time to spare, only now and

then, between dashes, a moment when he stopped to cast sharp eyes
ahead. The abundant grass left no trace of his trail. Short work

he made of the distance to the circle of canyons. He doubted that
he would ever see it again; he knew he never wanted to; yet he

looked at the red corners and towers with the eyes of a rider
picturing landmarks never to be forgotten.

Here he spent a panting moment in a slow-circling gaze of the
sage-oval and the gaps between the bluffs. Nothing stirred except

the gentle wave of the tips of the brush. Then he pressed on past
the mouths of several canyons and over ground new to him, now

close under the eastern wall. This latter part proved to be easy
traveling, well screened from possible observation from the north

and west, and he soon covered it and felt safer in the deepening
shade of his own canyon. Then the huge, notched bulge of red rim

loomed over him, a mark by which he knew again the deep cove
where his camp lay hidden. As he penetrated the thicket, safe

again for the present, his thoughts reverted to the girl he had
left there. The afternoon had far advanced. How would he find