The trapper dismounted and advanced in his turn.

His broad face wore a genial expression, and there was a trusting light in his fine blue eyes.

“Wall, straunger, since ye ask, I’ll make free to say thet I am goin’ back to ther old trappin’ grounds up north.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Frank, “then you are a trapper?”

“That’s the size of it.”

“I am glad to meet you!”

“Put it thar, pilgrim!”

“My name is Frank Reade, Jr. I am from the far East.”

“Wall, my name is Bill Swazey. Beaver Bill they call me up in ther Powden river kentry an’ I’m a trapper.”

“If that is so, what are you doing away down here?” asked Frank, in amazement.

“Eh?” exclaimed the trapper, with a start. “Ye don’t seem to onderstand. This is the trapper’s highway along yer. Thar’s fully a hundred of us goes up an’ down over this trail in the seasons. When trapping season is ended we generally all pilgrimate to Arizony or some warmer locality. Then we go back when fur is in season agin. See?”

“I do,” replied Frank, with asperity. “You go to the miserable settlements to spend the money you have earned so hard by trapping.”

“Wall,” rejoined the trapper, in a somewhat resentful tone, “it’s honestly earned, and we kin do as we please.”

“Oh, of course,” said Frank, quickly. “Well, friend, I am glad to have met you.”

“Ther same, pard. But what in tarnation do ye call that ’ere thingem-a-jig out yender on ther perairy?”

“That is the Steam Horse,” replied Frank readily.

“A Steam Hoss!” gasped Old Bill. “Ye don’t mean to say that thing is alive?”

“Oh, no! It goes by steam.”

“By steam?”

“Certainly.”

The trapper scratched his head and looked perplexed.

“Mebbe I’m a sucker an’ a greenhorn,” he said, “but I reckon that runs jest ther way a puffin’ lokermotive does?”

“Exactly,” replied Frank.

“Umph!” grunted the trapper. “’Pears to me, I hev heerd of the iron hoss. But I s’pose it had to go on rails.”

“By no means!” replied Frank, “the Steam Horse needs no rails to travel on.”

“Do tell? Kin he go fast?”

“Almost a mile a minute!”

“Whew!”

The old trapper seemed overcome. He drew his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his steaming brow.

“Wall, I never!” he muttered. “What will the world come to next I wonder. I say, straunger, I’d like to take a peep at that masheen.”

“Certainly!” replied Frank. “Come along with me and I’ll make you acquainted with my traveling companions.”

The trapper left his pony and shambled up to the Steam Horse.

He surveyed the invention and listened to Frank’s dissertation with blank amazement.

“Wall, I swar!” he muttered, “I never heard tell of sich a thing. It’s a wonderful masheen no doubt.”

Then he turned about and bent a keen penetrating gaze upon Frank.

“Straunger, wud ye mind tellin’ me what ye’re in this part of the kentry arter anyway?”

“Certainly!” replied Frank.

“What might it be?”

“We are looking for evidence to clear an innocent man now languishing in prison of the charge of murder.”

Beaver Bill gave a violent start and drew a deep, long whistle.

“Ye don’t mean it, straunger?” he gasped.

“Yes I do!” replied Frank. “The real murderer is at large and I am searching for him.”

“Sho! What war the murder?”

Frank explained matters.

When he told of the strange tragedy which had overtaken Clem Johnson, the trapper gave a start.

“I heern tell of that!” he cried. “I onct knew Clem. So it’s Bert Mason ye’re lookin’ fer, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Wall, that’s strange.”

“Do you know him?” asked Frank eagerly.

“Wall, I should say so!”

“Where is he now?” asked the young inventor excitedly.

“Wall, that’s not so easy to say,” replied the trapper, with a drawl. “I ’low he was at Lone Trail when I wuz down thar this winter.”

“Can you swear to that?”

Beaver Bill looked surprised.

“In course I kin.”

“Then you are just the man I want. If you will go to Silver City and swear to that you will save Benjamin Astley from the scaffold.”

But the trapper said coolly:

“Hold on a bit, straunger. Thar’s a better way. They mought not take my word. Ye want to find Bert Mason an’ perduce him in court.”

Frank saw that this was true.

“You’re right!” he cried, earnestly; “but tell me where you think Mason is?”

The trapper indulged in a big chew of plug tobacco.

“Wall,” he said, slowly. “I ’low that he’s somewhere hereabouts.”

Frank gave a gasping cry.

“You don’t mean it?” he cried.

“Yas, I do, straunger,” replied the trapper. “I heern it said that at Lone Tree that him an’ a dozen others had come up inter ther Great Basin prospecting for gold.”

“Ah, and that is why you believe that he is near here?”

“Sartin!”

“But you don’t know the exact locality where he is?”

The trapper was thoughtful.

“Wall,” he muttered after a time. “I reckon you’ve heard of Satan’s Hole?”

“No,” replied Frank.

“Sho! Wall there is where he an’ his party likely is.”

“What sort of a place is it?”

Beaver Bill shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t imagine him nor his pals are in ther hole,” he said, “for no man kin live thar any great length of time. But it was said that thar was a big gold mine jest at ther entrance to Satan’s Hole.”

This account was extremely interesting to Frank.

“Go on!” he said.

“Wall, Satan’s Hole is a terrible place. It’s a deep valley two miles long and hemmed all in by high walls of rock.”

“In ther centre of that valley thar’s nuggets mixed with the sand, pure gold, and lots go into the valley but never come out. Ther gold tempts ’em.”

“What is the trouble?” asked Frank. “Why cannot a man live in the valley?”

“Ugh!” grunted the trapper, “thar’s a powerful reason why. Satan’s Hole is as hot as Hades, an’ thar’s powerful gases come up out of the ground an’ overcomes one. Thar’s a trail across that valley strewn with corpses, an’ it is called the Sandy Trail of Death.”

“You mean skeletons?” corrected Frank, “not bodies.”

“I axe your parding boss, but it are bodies, not skelingtons. Thar’s something about the atmosphere ov the gases, that preserves ther human body, an’ there are bodies of men who went inter ther place twenty years ago, as natural as life.”

Frank was astonished at this marvelous tale, the like of which he had never heard before.

“Wonderful,” he exclaimed. “Why is it that the scientific world has not heard of this strange valley?”

The trapper smiled.

“Thar’s a powerful good reason,” he declared. “Ten years ago a party of them chaps cum out hyar. They knew it all, an’ they wouldn’t heed anybody’s warning. They went inter the valley an’ half way across the gas caught ’em.”

“Horrible!”

“An’ thar they air to-day.”

Frank experienced a chill.

“That is a horrible thing,” he declared. “I suppose unsuspecting travelers are apt to walk right into the place?”

“Certain. I know of at least three men who hev crossed ther valley safely.”

“How did they do it?”

“Oh, thar’s days when ther gases don’t come up, I suppose.”

Frank was thoughtful a moment.

Barney and Pomp had been listening with the deepest of interest.

“How far is it from here to the Satan’s Hole?” Frank finally asked.

“Oh, a matter of fifty miles I reckon,” replied Beaver Bill.

He pointed to the westward.

“Right down yonder inter the Great Basin,” he continued, “powerful curus country down there. Don’t do to travel far on any of their rivers, for they mought switch ye under ground any minnit.”

“Yes,” replied Frank. “I am aware that most of the rivers in the Great Basin run underground.”

“I reckon so, straunger.”

“Golly, Marse Frank!” cried Pomp, “don’ yo’ s’pose dis gentleman would go wif us an’ show us de way?”

The same thought had struck Frank.

He turned inquiringly to the trapper. The latter wore an inscrutable expression upon his grizzled face.

“Wall, I don’t mind givin’ ye a lift on it, friends,” he said, cheerily.

“I will pay you well,” declared Frank.

“Don’t want no pay!” exclaimed the trapper, indignantly. “I ain’t that kind of a chap yew kin bet.”

“At least we shall be everlastingly in your debt,” insisted Frank.

“No, ye won’t, nuther. I’m glad to be able to help ye out. Moreover, I’ve got a bit of a grudge against Mason myself, an’ I’d like ter see him suffer.”

“Then it is agreed!” cried Frank.

“Thar’s my word on’t.”

“But what will you do with your pony?”

“He’ll trail on all right enuff.”

“All right. Get right into the wagon.”

Beaver Bill climbed into the wagon and Frank went to the dasher.

“How many men do you think Mason has with him?” he asked.

“He mought have a dozen.”

“What is their game?”

“I heard that they watch for a chance ter cross ther Death Valley, and pick up nuggets, but I reckon there’s sumthin’ else keeps ’em busy thar.”

The old trapper winked significantly.

“Eh?” said Frank, failing to understand.

“Don’t ye embrace the idee?”

“No.”

“It means that they’re in the reproducin’ business, that is ther mannyfacter of bad coin.”

Frank gave a gasping cry.

“Counterfeiting?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I never! Are you quite sure of that, Bill?”

The trapper inclined his head.

“Yew bet I am!” he declared. “Thar’s lots of ther stuff goes down towards Lone Tree, and over inter Mexico. It’s a purty good imitation, too! They do say that Mason has a die for throwing out silver dollars by ther thousand.”

Frank Reade, Jr., was quite overcome by this announcement. It was entirely unexpected.