Boco had
been passed. Any turn now, he imagined, might bring the party out upon
the river. When he caught up with them he imparted this conviction,
which was received with cheer. The hopes of all, except the Indian,
seemed mounting; and if he ever hoped or despaired it was never
manifest.

Shefford's anticipation, however, was not soon realized. The fugitives
traveled miles farther down Nonnezoshe Boco, and the only changes were
that the walls of the lower gorge heightened and merged into those above
and that these upper ones towered ever loftier. Shefford had to throw
his head straight back to look up at the rims, and the narrow strip of
sky was now indeed a flowing stream of blue.

Difficult steps were met, too, yet nothing compared to those of the
upper canyon. Shefford calculated that this day's travel had advanced
several hours; and more than ever now he was anticipating the mouth
of Nonnezoshe Boco. Still another hour went by. And then came striking
changes. The canyon narrowed till the walls were scarcely twenty paces
apart; the color of stone grew dark red above and black down low; the
light of day became shadowed, and the floor was a level, gravelly,
winding lane, with the stream meandering slowly and silently.

Suddenly the Indian halted. He turned his ear down the canyon lane. He
had heard something. The others grouped round him, but did not hear a
sound except the soft flow of water and the heave of the mustangs. Then
the Indian went on. Presently he halted again. And again he listened.
This time he threw up his head and upon his dark face shone a light
which might have been pride.

"Tse ko-n-tsa-igi," he said.

The others could not understand, but they were impressed.

"Shore he means somethin' big," drawled Lassiter.

"Oh, what did he say?" queried Fay in eagerness.

"Nas Ta Bega, tell us," said Shefford. "We are full of hope."

"Grand Canyon," replied the Indian.

"How do you know?" asked Shefford.

"I hear the roar of the river."

But Shefford, listen as he might, could not hear it. They traveled on,
winding down the wonderful lane. Every once in a while Shefford lagged
behind, let the others pass out of hearing, and then he listened. At
last he was rewarded. Low and deep, dull and strange, with some quality
to incite dread, came a roar. Thereafter, at intervals, usually at turns
in the canyon, and when a faint stir of warm air fanned his cheeks, he
heard the sound, growing clearer and lo