It was, in short, a reproduction on a reduced scale of the magnificent Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, which is a source of admiring wonder to thousands of tourists.
Something away down in the bottom caught the attention of Fred, and, at his suggestion, they laid aside their rifles and venison and crept forward on their faces until their heads projected over the edge of the dizzying depth.
"Do you see him ?" asked Fred.
"Yes; who would have thought of such a thing ?" At many points in the yeasty foam black masses of rocks rose so high above the roaring stream that the water whirled and eddyed around them.
It was mostly these obstructions that kept the current in a state of turmoil, and made it show distinctly in the twilight gloom of the canyon.

On one of the dripping rocks was a man, standing so like a statue that in the indistinct light Fred Greenwood took him for some fantastic formation of stone, worn by the eroding action of the angry waters, but the suggestion of a living person was so striking that the two called their spy-glasses into use.
The result was astounding.

Instead of being an Indian, as they had believed at first, it was a white man.

Furthermore, the instruments proved beyond question that he was their old friend, Hank Hazletine.
"What in the name of wonder is he doing down there ?" exclaimed the amazed Jack.
"Standing on a rock," was the reply.

"He finds some amusement in that, or he wouldn't do it." "He must have entered at the mouth of the canyon, which cannot be far off." "That may be so.