He had no means of guessing what the hour might be, and no sounds reached him from the other parts of the house.  His muscles were sore and bruised.  For some time he was quite content to lie on his side, thinking matters over.

From his knowledge of the connection between Baker and Oldham, Oldham and his captor, Bob had no doubt as to the purpose of his abduction; nor did he fail to guess that now, with the chief witness out of the way, the trial would be hurried where before it had been delayed.  Personally he had little to fear beyond a detention—­unless he should attempt to escape, or unless a searching party might blunder on his traces.  Bob had already made up his mind to use his best efforts to get away.  As to the probabilities of a rescue blundering on this retreat, he had no means of guessing; but he shrewdly concluded that Saleratus Bill was taking no chances.

That individual now entered; and, seeing his captive awake, gruffly ordered him to rise.  Bob found an abundant breakfast ready, to which he was able to do full justice.  In the course of the meal he made several attempts on his jailer’s taciturnity, but without success.  Saleratus Bill met all his inquiries, open and guarded, with a sullen silence or evasive, curt replies.

“It don’t noways matter why you’re here, or how you’re here.  You are here, and that’s all there’s to it.”

“How long do I stay?”

“Until I get ready to let you go.”

“How can you get word from Mr. Oldham when to let me off?” asked Bob.

But Saleratus Bill refused to rise to the bait.

“I’ll let you go when I get ready,” he repeated.

Bob was silent for some time.

“You know this lets me off from my promise,” said he, nodding backward toward his elbows.  “I’ll get away if I can.”

Saleratus Bill, for the first time, permitted himself a smile.

“There’s two ways out of this place,” said he—­“where we come in, and over north on the trail.  You can see every inch—­both ways—­from here.  Besides, don’t make no mistakes.  I’ll shoot you if you make a break.”

Bob nodded.

“I believe you,” said he.

As though to convince Bob of the utter helplessness of any attempt, Saleratus Bill, leaving the dishes unwashed, led the way in a tour of the valley.  Save where the wagon road descended and where the steep side hill of the north wall arose, the boundaries were utterly precipitous.  From a narrow gorge, flanked by water-smoothed rock aprons, the river boiled between glassy perpendicular cliffs.

“There ain’t no swimming-holes in that there river,” remarked Saleratus Bill grimly.

Bob, leaning forward, could just catch a glimpse of the torrent raging and buffeting in the narrow box canon, above which the mountains rose tremendous.  No stream growths had any chance there.  The place was water and rock—­nothing more.  In the valley itself willows and alders, well out of reach of high water, offered a partial screen to soften the savage vista.