IV
Sandy Macdougal was glad to see Hammond again, but he appeared to be particularly out of sorts and uncommunicative this morning. It was only when Hammond was leaving the dining camp that he had anything in particular to say.
“It ain’t none of my business,” he told Hammond, “but if I was asked for any advice, I’d say keep away from that Cup. There ain’t anybody white ever went up there monkeyin’ around that something didn’t happen they were sorry for.”
The little expedition which set out for the mountain was composed of Inspector Little, five of his most experienced men, Lynch the private detective and Louis Hammond. Before they struck out Inspector Little insisted there was no necessity for the civilians in the party carrying firearms and used this as an excuse for relieving Lynch of a murderous-looking revolver.
Lynch was loud in his protests that as a detective he should be allowed to carry the weapon, but it did not go with the inspector. “I am not carrying a gun myself,” he pointed out. “My men are armed and that is all that is necessary, for they are not liable to shoot unless it is a case of protecting our lives and their own.”
It was not only that he sought to guard against unnecessary bloodshed, but Inspector Little was not any too sure of his ground in entering the Cup of Nannabijou by means of force. The police held no warrant for the arrest of any one except Nathan Stubbs, the pseudo camp preacher, and the doughty inspector was far from convinced that Stubbs was up in the Cup. The only pretext on which he felt he could legally demand the privilege of entering the Cup with an armed force, in case resistance were offered, was the right to search for the missing girl, Josephine Stone.
On the other hand, his distrust of Gildersleeve was growing, along with a conviction that the mysterious happenings on Nannabijou Limits were far from being what they appeared to be on the surface. In this latter regard, he was determined not to be made the catspaw of Gildersleeve through any trickery on the part of his detective.
The journey up the mountain and along Solomon Creek trail was made in comparative silence, except for the volubility of Lynch who bored the patient inspector with wild theories as to what existed beyond the cliffs of Nannabijou.
When they reached the tunnel that opened out over the rapids of the creek, Lynch was all impatience to demonstrate his prowess in showing how the water-gate was operated. He reached up to the jutting bit of rock and fumbled for the tiny hole and inserted a match which he pressed.
There came instantly the mellow alarm of the bell above.
“Cripes, that’s sudden action for you,” he exclaimed. “I hardly pressed my finger on the match when the bell rang. It must be set on some sort of hair-trigger.”
Almost immediately the water in the channel dwindled and ceased to flow.
“That’s certainly a novel device,” declared the inspector as he stood with the others of the party staring at the stream-bed where the last trickle of water had vanished.
“Watch while I let it loose again,” cried Lynch. “Keep back, everybody, for she certainly comes down hell-bent when she’s opened.”
“Hold on! Don’t touch it!”
Inspector Little and Louis Hammond, certain they caught the sound of voices somewhere above, yelled it in unison.
But there was no stopping the irrepressible Lynch. The gong sounded again, followed by the roar of the released torrent.
From up the channel there came a man’s hoarse shout and the piercing scream of a woman.
“Shut off the water, you damned idiot!” shouted Inspector Little.
But Lynch, in the excitement, had completely lost his wits. He didn’t seem able to locate the button again.
The inspector sprang back and shoved the detective out of the way while he reached for the projecting match in the hole himself.
Louis Hammond, at the edge of the raging torrent, stood transfixed, terrified at what he saw being flung down toward him on the crest of the maddened tide.