Mechanically he walked straight down to the river, to the spot which Nevada always chose as their destination. A flat rock there formed a convenient place to sit and enjoy the view of the river and the hills beyond. Across the swift-moving, muddy stream, bottom lands covered with cottonwoods gave a refreshing touch of green to the picture. Arizona cottonwoods they were, since the Colorado formed the dividing line. Away to the southwest, he could see the hills made familiar at Kingman. Rough, rather forbidding mountains they had been at close range, but now they were made soft and alluring by the blue haze of distance. Straight down the river he could see the hill that looked down on El Dorado, that “city forsaken.” Up the river he could not see, because of the high, granite cliffs that blocked the view. Because nature had seemed to bar the way, Rawley turned and made his way aimlessly toward the barrier. With his left arm in splints and carried in a sling, he could not do much in the way of climbing; but presently he stumbled upon a well-defined path leading amongst bowlders just under the rim of the basin. The path led up the canyon, and Rawley followed it with a desultory interest in seeing where it led,--and for the exercise it promised. Perhaps, had he given the matter thought, he would have owned that a strange trail never failed to tempt his feet to follow. At any rate, he held to the pathway. Now the river was hidden completely from him, though he could hear it complaining over the bowlders in the canyon and hurrying through as fast as if indignation lent it speed. The path went on, finding the easiest places to worm through the jagged rocks and climbing closer and closer to the river, whose roar became more distinct as he neared it. Through a split in the huge wall so narrow as to be almost a crevice, the trail led him quite suddenly to a narrow shelf set sheer above the river. Crude steps cut in the rock went down the cliff at a slant. He heard the water worrying over something unseen at the bottom, and began to descend, his right hand steadying himself against the granite wall. He was curious, somewhat mystified. Neither Peter nor Nevada had mentioned any possibility of reaching the water’s edge in the canyon. He found himself in a tiny cove which had been formed when some primal upheaval had split the granite wall at the base, throwing the outside into the river. No more than a wide crack, it was, but it was serving well a purpose. A small, rock landing filled the shore end of the slit completely. Riding quietly in the slack water of the small anchorage, a squat, powerful looking launch sat bow to the landing, secured there by a heavy chain.