He was useful, but apparently was not overstocked with information about the mountains.
It was after seven o'clock that evening before they swung into a valley that, according to the map, narrowed into a cut in the mountains, through which ran a stream of sparkling water fed by equally sparkling mountain rivulets that rippled down to it in silver cascades.

The Overland party was still riding under difficulties, for the trail was narrow and, in some instances, overgrown.

They were now looking for the stream that the map indicated as being somewhere in the vicinity.
"Here's water," called Lieutenant Wingate, who was in the lead.
"Washington!" called Grace.

"What is this stream ?" "Ah reckons it am watah," answered the colored boy, which brought a laugh from the Overlanders.
"Laundry must have been 'con-centrating,'" observed Anne Nesbit.
"This may be Spring Brook," called Miss Briggs.

"We shall have to take for granted that it is." "I think it is," answered Grace as they rode out into a fairly open space and discovered the cut in the mountains through which the stream was flowing.
The ponies already were showing their eagerness to wade into the water and drink, and Grace had just headed her mount towards the stream when she brought him up with a sharp tug on the bridle-rein.
Just ahead of her stood a tall, gaunt mountaineer leaning on his rifle.
The expression on his face was not one of welcome, but Grace Harlowe saw fit to ignore that.
"Howdy, stranger," she greeted, smiling down at the man.
"Howdy," grunted the man, as they regarded each other appraisingly.
"Where do ye-all reckon yer goin' ?" he demanded gruffly.
"Is this Spring Brook ?" interjected Hippy.
"Ah reckon it air." "Then that is where we are going." "Yer kain't go this a-way," replied the mountaineer.
"Why can't we ?" demanded Grace.
"'Cause Ah says ye kain't." "Perhaps you do not know who we are.