“If I knew where we could dive and strike it I’d say yes in a minute,” replied Dick, “but I could never locate the place and I don’t care about running the horses around to the other trail without Doctor Dan.” “I suppose that means we are to go across the lake again and see what we can find of the girl?” “That’s what we ought to do.” “Then by all means let’s do it. Duty first and pleasure afterward. How long do you intend to stop up here, anyhow?” “Oh, a day or two. If we fail entirely I think I shall try to persuade Doctor Dan to take me on to Mr. Eglinton’s mine and see if Clara is safe there.” “That means time lost. How about telegraphing Professor Poynter?” “We can do that from the mine just as well as from Node Ranch. No doubt there is a line through to there.” “The girl is a nuisance,” declared Charley. “I really believe you are ready to fall in love with her, Dick.” “I’m ready to help her if she needs help and to save her from that scoundrel Mudd,” declared Dick, “but don’t let’s do any more talking until we have made a start.” The boat was soon stretched and the seats placed and the boys then carried it down to the lake and got in. It was not a pleasant craft to navigate, but Charley had become quite skillful with the paddle and they were soon making good headway across the lake. “If we happen to run into old P. D. or his enemy there’s going to be an interesting time of it,” observed Dick. “You don’t say a word about that, Charley, but I know you are thinking about it all the same.” “And why not?” replied Charley. “Of course I’m thinking about it, but what’s the use talking? We have just got to take our chances. When I’m out on an expedition like this I don’t believe in showing the white feather. It isn’t my style nor yours, either, Dick.” “If it was mine you bet I wouldn’t be here,” said Dick, “but the danger is real just the same.” Charley paddled on until at last they reached the other side of the lake and pulled up their boat on the shore close to the hut. It still wore the same air of desertion. Dick had left the door partly open and had placed a small pebble on top of it in such a manner that if the door was touched the stone would be sure to fall. He seized hold of the door and pulled it open, but no pebble fell. “There’s been some one here!” he exclaimed. “Look, Charley, the floor is all tracked over with alkali since we were here.” “That’s what, Dick. If it was mud, now, we might guess it was your friend.” “Ten to one it was Mudd,” replied Dick. “Hello, what’s this?” In the middle of the long table which occupied the centre of the room lay a paper upon which some words were written, fastened to the table by a rusty old bowie knife which had been driven deep into the wood. “That’s yours, Dick,” cried Charley. “Don’t you see what it says?” “For you, Dick Darrell,” were the words scrawled over the paper in letters at least six inches long. CHAPTER XII. INTO THE BOILING POT.