“I am the son of an Arizona rancher,” he said. “My name is Jack Merrill. With two companions I was accompanying the Texas Rangers on a scouting trip for the sake of the experience. While on guard duty I saw your raft land and thought it my duty to try to find out what you were doing on the American side of the river.” To Jack’s surprise the other showed no trace of anger. Instead he appeared grief stricken. “Alas, señor,” he said, “you may have been the cause of the death of my two companions, for if the Texas Rangers captured them they will assuredly shoot them.” “I’m sure they would do no such thing,” rejoined Jack indignantly; “they are not inhuman wretches. If your companions can show that they were doing no harm on our side of the Border they will be released with a warning not to spy upon Americans again.” “Ah, then, you knew that we were spying, señor?” “Yes, I overheard your conversation at the river’s edge. But it is important now that we should get out of this valley as soon as possible. Have you any idea where we are?” The Mexican shrugged his shoulders dubiously. “Alas, señor, I am not certain, but I am inclined to think that we are in what is called the Lost Valley.” “Lost Valley!” echoed Jack, struck by the dismal suggestion of the name. “Is there no way out?” His companion shook his head. “The legend says that they who blunder into the valley never escape,” he declared. Jack could not repress a shudder as he thought of the skull by the pool; but the next instant he regained his nerve, for he knew that the stream must emerge from the valley somewhere. “But surely this river has to find a way out of the valley?” he asked. “Si, señor,” was the reply, “but the stream, so they say, burrows its way through a tunnel by which no human being could hope to pass.” “Then you mean that we are prisoners here?” “Unless somebody discovers us—yes.” “Are there many people dwelling in this part of the country?” inquired Jack, with a sinking heart, for, despite his effort to keep up his cheerfulness, his hope was fast ebbing. “No, it is a wild section devoted to cattle raising, and only a few wandering vaqueros ever come this way. It is from them that the news of the Lost Valley, which this may be, reached the outer world.” “But we must escape,” cried Jack wildly, “we can’t remain here. We have no food, no means of getting any, and————” “I have my revolver,” interrupted the Mexican, “also plenty of cartridges. Perhaps we can find some game.” This at least was a spark of cheering news. Both Jack and the Mexican were almost famished and decided to set out at once to see if they could bring down anything to serve as food. A revolver is not much of a weapon to use in hunting; but the Mexican declared that he was highly proficient with it. Jack hadn’t much confidence in his own ability as a revolver shot, so it was agreed that his dark–skinned companion should do the shooting.