of rock which might, at some distant day, become sand,
too, Big Bob and his band of cut-throats came upon a deserted hut which
had undoubtedly been used at some time by men who were searching there
for gold.

The storm-clouds were shutting out the light of day when they paused
before the one-hinged door of the two-room habitation. Seeing the
approaching tempest, the renegade ordered his men to gather fuel and
build a fire on the hearth, preparatory to passing the night there.
This order was obeyed with reluctance, for the men were worn out with
their exertions and ready to roll up in their blankets and seek rest
without the comfort of a fire. Besides, fuel was not plentiful there,
and it was a long time before enough to satisfy the renegade could be
gathered.

Fremont was placed in a room to the west, a room only roughly
partitioned off from the other. There was one window opening to this
room, and that faced the west and the mountain range.

The storm was soon dashing in fury against the roof of the hut. The
frail structure trembled beneath the blows of the wind, and the clamor
of the beating rains made all interior sounds inaudible. The prisoner
knew that the outlaws were sitting before the fire in the outer room,
probably jesting and smoking, but they might have been far away for all
evidences of their presence he heard.

With individual noises thus shut away by the noise of the downpour, the
boy felt himself isolated and alone. For the first time since his
capture, his courage was wavering, not so much because of the peril of
the moment, but because of the general hopelessness of the situation.

Only a few days before he had been a trusted and respected member of
the Cameron family, one of the wealthiest and most exclusive in New
York. Now, discredited and in danger from the threatened exercise of a
law he had not violated, he was presumably a prisoner on his way back
to the Tombs. And yet, was he really on his way there? That was a
question fully as puzzling as any other feature of the case.

It seemed a short time since he, with other members of the Black Bear
Patrol, had visited in their luxurious club-house, planning a trip to
Mexico. He had reached Mexico, all right, he thought, bitterly, but
under what adverse circumstances. Instead of the companionship of his
friends, instead of the jolly camps on the hills and long, pleasant
days on the river, he was here a prisoner.

And he was the prisoner o