“Quicksand!” shouted Steven, and the Indian paddled violently across current and away from the grizzly. The bear with a mighty effort lunged free from the sand, but there was not enough depth for him to swim in, and he made straight for the canoe, floundering, but gaining ground. His paws reached the stern of the bull boat. Juan beat at them in the gathering darkness. The canoe tipped and the prow rose under the pressure of the great bear of the Rockies. Steven seized a small hatchet and, leaning back as far as he dared, he chopped at the paws which were inundating them. There was a roar of rage and pain, and the bear dropped back, sinking below the surface for a moment. _Gracias a Dios_ they had struck the main channel again! The current bore them on to the far side of the river and in the darkness they left the bear behind. But dangerous as it was to be swept along by night on that black and swollen stream, Juan would not attempt a landing for another half hour. When they had drawn their canoe up on a small strip of sandy beach and lit a fire, they saw the giant claws of the grizzly imbedded in the blood-stained thwart of the boat. Steven wondered if they would ever survive to find Doren and his father. To Juan their progress was not unusual or eventful; he pointed out how much better time they were making, with no Indians to attack them on the way, than the Yankee possibly could, traveling overland with mules. It seemed as though every four-footed creature of the Rocky Mountain country came to the banks of the river, and wild fowl of all kinds were there for the shooting--duck, geese, swan, bittern, crane, heron. On the third day Juan pointed to a certain peak rising from a low-lying range east of the river. That was where they were bound. The river had now become unnavigable, for the deep channels disappeared at times and they were forced to make portages in midstream, so to speak. Great dun-colored hills, bare and without a sign of vegetation, closed them in. “It is there, to the Mescalero, where the Apaches are,” said Juan, “that we must go. By this time the Señor Yankee may have reached that country, and as he sought gold and silver, it is in the mountains that we will find him, not in the river valley. His pursuers cannot have overtaken him yet, unless he stopped by the way, in which case we would have been too late, anyway. As it is, we are ahead of them at least.” To Steven this appeared like a monstrous valley of death. Not a living thing was to be seen, except the leering faces of carp poking their evil heads, with whiskers like tentacles, from the muddy waters. On the land where they abandoned the bull boat a few small lizards scurried away. High in a turquoise vaulted heaven soared those scavengers of death, the buzzards. Underfoot stirred one living thing that rattled as Steven passed. It too spelled death.