Dared for Los Angeles.
By ROLAND ASHFORD PHILLIPS.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 134 of Nick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
CHAPTER XVI.
THE OLD WOUND.
Nash’s hesitation was but of a second’s duration. With an exclamation of wrath and disappointment he thrust his gun back to his pocket, and leaped forward. He reached the pipe line, vaulted it, and plunged fearlessly in the general direction taken by the stranger. Once he heard the sound of falling rocks. Encouraged, he doubled his speed, only to trip upon an unseen root and sprawl heavily. The very forces of nature seemed pitted against him, for no sooner had he regained his feet than the half twilight died away, and the mountain slope became wrapped in a confusing blanket of gloom.
In another hour—perhaps before then—the moon would creep over the distant coast range, and bathe the quiet world in silver; until then all hope of pursuit was futile. He stumbled on, groping his way back to the pipe line. Once there, he listened hopefully for some sign, some slight noise that might guide him, but his anxious ears were unrewarded.
When at last he returned to the high trail he found only his pony awaiting him. Miss Breen had vanished as suddenly and as mysteriously as had the man she warned.
It was quite useless, he knew, to remain where he was. The chances of following the stranger were becoming more and more hopeless. So he climbed into the saddle, and allowed his pony to pick its way slowly and carefully along the trail.
What a puzzle this was, to be sure, he reasoned to himself. Undoubtedly the man he had seen, who, thanks to the girl’s warning, had escaped, was none other than the person instrumental in the previous night’s adventure. The fact that he was carrying a sledge hammer gave added proof to this suspicion, to say nothing of his fright at Nash’s abrupt interruption. And yet, what had led Miss Breen to cry out just at the moment when his capture seemed certain? What connection had she with this slinking intruder?
Mentally Nash recalled to mind the maps he had stumbled upon; those cleverly executed and highly technical drawings. And how intensely interested she had been in the construction work; what unusual questions she had asked.
In spite of this Nash could not bring himself to the point of suspecting the girl of being an accomplice of the man who had committed, or intended to commit, such dastardly outrages. Some of her actions were puzzling, he admitted, and yet she seemed to be cast in too fine a mold for such an association.
Upon his return to his cabin, an hour later, Nash found Hooker awaiting him. Hooker came regularly from Los Angeles twice or three times a month, bringing letters and specifications from Sigsbee and the construction board of engineers.
“Hello, Nash,” he said. “You’re late to-night. I’ve been waiting since five o’clock.”
“I am a bit later than usual,” Nash admitted. “We’ve been troubled with bursted water mains lately. Some vandal has been smashing them with a sledge. I’ve been trying to get at the bottom of the mystery.”
Then, as briefly as possible, he told Hooker of the previous night’s accident. Of the recent affair he mentioned not a word.
“Nasty business,” answered Hooker. “If it isn’t stopped it’s likely to put you away behind on your contracts. So far, however, Sigsbee is highly elated over your work, Nash. Don’t mind me telling you so, do you? It might seem funny, coming from one in my position, eh? But I’m as glad as the boss. He gave me the same opportunity—and I fell down. Maybe it was the booze, and maybe again it wasn’t. Anyhow, I’m glad to see you’re making good.”
“What’s the occasion for to-night’s visit?” Nash asked. “Anything new?”
Hooker brought out some folded papers, spreading them upon the table. “These are the rest of the steel specifications,” he said, running his fingers down the list of numbers. “You’ve followed the others, haven’t you?”
“To the hair’s breadth,” Nash replied.
“Ordered the siphon steel?”
“All of it. In fact, to-day I started construction of the big siphon across Soledad Cañon.”
“Good for you!” Hooker’s eyes brightened. “That’s speedy work, all right, Nash. Sigsbee wants to see Camp Forty-seven get the first siphon completed. It’ll carry a hundred-dollar bonus if you complete it before the fifteenth.”
“I’ll win it.”
Hooker’s face glowed with admiration. “Nash, you’re a brick. I never saw a fellow put so much enthusiasm into his work.” Then, after a moment, he added: “Not having any trouble, are you?”
“Trouble? None, except that water main being smashed. Why?”
Hooker shrugged, and turned the subject with a laugh. “Oh, nothing in particular, Nash. Only, you know, a man in your position is always hated by some of the workers. I guess you can take care of yourself, can’t you? You’re no weakling. And remember, this isn’t New York.”
“What do you mean by that?” Nash asked, not liking the other’s tone.
“Well, if you should—hurt a man out here—it wouldn’t be necessary to disappear,” Hooker answered. “I believe that was the reason for your departure from New York, wasn’t it?”
Nash calmly ignored the insinuation, gathered up the papers Hooker had brought, and fastened them with the others on his board.
“Sigsbee send any further orders?” he asked, after he had finished.
“That’s all, Nash. I came down from San Fernando in his car. The moon’s up now, so I might as well be hitting the trail back. Like to take a little spin?”
“Not to-night, thank you,” Nash replied. “Got too much work to do.”
Hooker frowned, and shrugged his shoulders. Before leaving the cabin he turned, and said: “Don’t take things so serious, Nash. I didn’t mean anything when I said you——”
“Of course you didn’t,” Nash interrupted dryly. “Convey my best wishes to Sigsbee, will you?”
Hooker went out, slamming the door behind him. Long after the sound of the chugging motor had died away on the still night air, Nash remained bending over his desk, marshaling into order the confusing rows of figures, transferring the totals from his memorandum book to the ledger, and preparing, as he always did, for the work of the coming day.
The subject touched upon by the old foreman brought back an instant and bitter flood of memories; but he fought against them, crushed them back, firm in his resolve not to allow the past to interfere with the duties on hand.
CHAPTER XVII.
GETTING READY.
Early the next morning, while Nash was still at breakfast, a man came running up with the information that a body had been found at the foot of a high cliff, a short distance from where the siphon was being constructed.
“One of our men?” Nash questioned, concerned over the news, but not surprised, as accidents, from one cause or another, among the thousand-odd laborers were frequent.
“I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I heard some of the others talking about it. Guess he was known to some of them.”
“I’ll be over right away,” Nash said.
He had his pony brought around to the cabin, and in less than half an hour was at the scene. Pushing his way through the crowd which had gathered about the body, he suddenly caught his breath in astonishment.
The dead man was the old subforeman, under whom he had worked that first day—Macmillan!
“Give me the details,” he demanded abruptly of the nearest subforeman.
“The body was brought in about an hour ago,” the latter hurriedly explained. “Some few of us older men recognized Macmillan right away. One of the watchmen found him at the foot of the high cliff back there. Must have been an accident; don’t you think so?”
Nash followed the speaker’s finger. He saw the cliff mentioned; and, on its edge, winding down to the valley, ran the black pipe line. Then, like a flash of fire from a cloudless sky, the truth came to Nash.
Macmillan had been the mysterious stranger of last night; the man with the hammer; the man Miss Breen had warned! No doubt he had been the one who had destroyed the pipe several nights previous.
After the girl’s warning Macmillan had dashed away, probably lost his bearings in the darkness, and by accident stepped off the cliff.
Once he had examined the body carefully Nash was positive that these suspicions were correct. As conclusive evidence, the white, wide-brimmed sombrero with the silver ornaments on the band was brought in by the same watchman who had discovered the body.
“Found this hanging on a bush about ten feet from the top of the cliff,” the watchman declared, answering Nash’s questions. “Guess the fellow made a try at the bush himself—half of it is missing. Only the hat stuck.”
Nash finally gave directions for the removal of the body, and watched as two Italians carried it to a wagon, preparatory to its being sent on to camp. A few necessary requirements and forms had to be observed—the notification of the county sheriff being the principal one; and after that, Macmillan’s body, unless claimed by relatives, would share the barren plot on the mountainside with the hundred-odd others who had met death, by fair means or foul, in Camp Forty-seven.
All the remainder of that day Macmillan’s death was on Nash’s mind. It wasn’t so much the final tragedy that worried him, as the events leading up to it. Revenge, doubtless, had been the motive. It was quite natural, after his discharge and his words with Hooker, that the former subforeman should seek revenge. Being interested in the construction of the conduit, and realizing full well that the loss of water would prove a serious blow, Macmillan had determined upon this damaging method.
The one question which still tortured Nash’s brain was how Miss Breen had become mixed up with such a man as Macmillan. And it stood to reason that she must be, else why had she warned him last night? The more he studied over the problem, the more entangled it became, so finally he gave it up.
In the two days which followed this tragedy Nash was so busily engaged in the final preparations of his “coyote” that the affair, at least for the present, was relegated to the background. This had not been his first experience with leveling off a mountaintop, but it was one presenting the greatest difficulties. Unusually hard rock had been encountered from the very beginning, an extra force of men had been engaged in the bore, and even then the work progressed slowly. It was exactly a week later that the final “shot” was touched off, and the last of the débris cleared from the tunnel.
Two hundred cases of dynamite were placed in the big rock chamber, together with a hundred bags of black powder. The wires were laid about them, and carefully adjusted. Then both dynamite and powder were covered with six feet of cement and broken stone. This was allowed to harden for three days.
On top of this new floor fifty cases of dynamite were placed. The first explosion would come from below, ripping away the concrete and shattering the walls. By leaving this air chamber, additional force would be created. The first explosion would explode the dynamite on the concrete floor.
Nash spent most of his time at the “coyote,” overseeing the thousand and one details which were necessary to the success of the undertaking.
Finally the last bag of powder was in place, and the wires carefully laid from the chamber, along the tunnel, out into daylight and across the valley—fully a mile—to the top of another hill. Here, at the given time, the batteries were to be adjusted, and the button pressed.
If things happened as Nash had forecast, the top of the big mountain—those rock-strewed, pine-covered acres which had smiled into the California heavens for so many ages—would be shattered, torn into a thousand pieces at the pressure of a finger on a harmless-looking button.
Nash was not to press the button himself! he conferred the honor upon the subforeman who had taken charge of the bore. Nash intended being nearer than the other men, and had already picked out his point of observation. He wanted to be close enough to determine just how the explosion acted.
The day of the explosion arrived. Nash gave final orders.
“We’ll make it eight o’clock to-night,” he said to the men in charge. “The moon ought to be up by that time. I wouldn’t tell too many of the men, because they might get curious, and venture too near. I don’t want any accidents.”
“The batteries are all tested out,” the subforeman responded. “Everything’s in shipshape order. At eight sharp I press the button. Will you be with us, Mr. Nash?”
“Oh, I’ll be around somewhere near,” Nash answered. “But don’t wait for me. I might creep in a few yards nearer the fun.”
“Very well, sir. Eight, prompt, it’ll be.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
At six o’clock Nash finished his supper, strapped a pair of powerful field glasses over his shoulder, and set out in the direction of the “coyote.” The sun was just dipping behind the highest mountain, bathing the sky with gold and coral. The lower valleys were hung with purple mists.
Nash tramped on, breathing in the clean, damp air, which, now and then, smelled of the distant Pacific. Saucy, bushy-tailed gophers darted here and there, scolding loudly when disturbed; once an unseen California mocking bird burst into a glorious, heart-quickening melody, its pure, liquid notes pouring out so clearly that Nash halted, listening almost greedily. He loved music, and it was one of the things he missed out here in the mountains. And when the invisible singer had finished he applauded softly.
“Bravo!” he whispered. “Bravo!”
He plodded on again deserting the trail of the shorter, though more arduous, climb up the slope.
Within half a mile of the “coyote” a feeling that he was being followed came over him. Once or twice he halted, and looked back, certain that he had heard the falling of a dislodged rock or the snap of a dead pine branch. But each time his eyes went unrewarded.
The higher he ascended the brighter became the glow from the lowering sun, and the deeper became the shadows below him in the valley. The mists were creeping up, foot by foot, their greedy fingers snuffing out the gold in the air.
Finally the mouth of the tunnel was reached. It was a small, insignificant affair, that drift below the top of the mountain: a hole hardly more than four feet square. One had to crawl on hands and knees in order to reach the chamber where the dynamite and powder were awaiting the tiny spark, which, swifter than the winking of an eye, would rock the surrounding hills like an earthquake.
Suddenly, from bending over the wires he had been examining, Nash stood erect, whirling as he did so.
Miss Breen was standing a short distance beyond him, her face strangely white and drawn, her hands clenched at her sides.
“Why, Miss Breen,” he began, “where have you been all this time? What brings you away up here—at this hour?”
“I—I——” She attempted to speak, and failed. Then she took a forward step, and crumpled to the rocks.
Nash leaped across and caught her. “You’re ill!” he exclaimed. “What has happened?”
She recovered instantly. “I’m—just a trifle weak, that is all,” she answered, trying to laugh it all away. “My pony got away two hours ago, and I’ve been roaming about—trying to find the trail back to the ranch. I—I guess I’m lost.”
“You’re found now,” he said, smiling into her colorless face. “How lucky I happened to be in this part of the hills. Why, you might have wandered around for hours—maybe all night.”
The events of their previous meeting came back to him vividly, almost bitterly. He felt that he must ask her certain questions, and that she must answer them. Yet, now that they had met once more, he hesitated. She was weakened by her afternoon’s adventure. It would be better, he resolved, to wait for a more desirable opportunity. Or possibly she might explain matters herself.
“Isn’t this—your ‘coyote’?” she asked suddenly, looking around.
“Yes. I was just making a final examination of the wires. It is to go off at eight o’clock.”
“To-night?”
He nodded. She shrank back, as if death itself lurked in the yawning tunnel mouth.
“Oh, there’s no danger now,” he replied, laughing. “It is only a few minutes after six. Why, I was just about to go inside to inspect the big chamber. This is my first coyote on the Los Angeles aqueduct, and I can’t afford to take any chances of a failure.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.
“Of what? The dynamite can’t go off unless the batteries are attached to the wires and the button pressed. Besides, the greater part of the stuff is buried under six feet of solid concrete.”
She sank to a pile of rocks, and pulled back her sleeve. There was blood on her white arm. “It’s been hurting dreadfully,” she said, disclosing a ragged wound, caused, she admitted, by a stumble. “That’s why I’ve been so faint.”
“Why didn’t you let me know at first?” Nash broke in quickly. “Wait. I’ll fix it in a jiffy.”
He hurried down the slope to where a little spring bubbled out from its mossy bed. In the crystal, snow-fed waters he dipped his handkerchief, wrung it out, and returned.
“Now just let me tie this around that cut, Miss Breen. This mountain water has wonderful healing properties.” He accomplished his task while the girl watched him in silence. “There,” he said, drawing down her sleeve. “Isn’t that better?”
“Oh, a great deal,” she answered.
“Well, suppose you excuse me for ten or fifteen minutes, while I take a farewell trip into the tunnel. You can rest here, and——”
“Why can’t I go with you?” she interrupted.
“Do you really want to go?” He looked down into her face with a surprised frown. “It isn’t very clean—and it is very damp and cold. Besides, you’ll have to crawl on your hands and knees for a hundred yards.”
His warning did not appear to frighten her. “Oh, I don’t care about that,” she declared eagerly. “And I would like to see just how the thing is arranged.”
“Very well,” he agreed. “I’ve some candles in my pocket. I’ll light one, and you follow close behind me. All ready?”
“All ready,” she repeated, her eyes sparkling at the thought of the adventure.
He lighted a candle and started in the drift. She came right behind him without the least hesitation. The tunnel was damp, and at places they were forced to crawl through pools of water. Still, she did not complain.
“Nervy little woman, all right,” Nash muttered to himself.
Finally they emerged into the chamber, and both stood erect. He held the candle high above his head, so that she could see. The walls, hewn roughly from solid rock, glistened with moisture; the floor was muddy.
Miss Breen held her hands together and shivered. “Ugh! Are there any bats in here?” she asked.
“Hardly.”
In the glow of the candle the girl’s face shone pale and tense.
“The dynamite is under us,” Nash explained. “And over in the corner are half a hundred boxes of the same stuff, that will produce a second explosion.”
She followed him while he made a careful survey of the whole chamber. Everything seemed to be in excellent condition.
“You’re not—not forgetting the time, are you?” she broke out suddenly.
“I should say not!” He took out his watch, and held the candle lower. “It’s just a quarter to seven. We’ve an hour and fifteen minutes yet before the fireworks come off.”
“Where are you going to watch it from?”
“I’ve a little place picked out,” he answered, and laughed. “About half a mile from here. Would you like a reserved seat?”
She nodded readily. “Of course. Now that I’ve seen the mechanism of the thing, I won’t be happy until I see the explosion.”
“Good for you! I’m really as much excited over the affair as you are. Ready to leave now?”
“I guess so. Is there anything more to see?”
“Not a thing. Wait while I light another candle. It’ll make it easier for us to——”
He stopped short, the match he had struck burning down to his fingers. He scarcely felt the pain. A faint rumbling had come to his ears—the sound of falling rock.
“What was that?” Miss Breen asked sharply, nervously, her voice echoing in the big, gloom-filled room.
“Why—nothing much,” Nash replied reassuringly, although his heart had started throbbing at a greater speed. “That is—I suppose it was merely some loose earth falling in the tunnel. It often does that. But we’ll soon see. Follow close now.”
He lighted the second candle, handing the girl the first one. They came to the beginning of the tunnel. Just as he had feared, some loose rock had fallen down, blocking the entrance.
“You take both candles, Miss Breen,” he commanded quietly. “I’ll have to use my hands and open the drift.” He attempted to laugh at his remark. “It’ll only take—take a second.”
He jerked off his coat and dropped it to the muddy floor. Miss Breen held both candles behind him as he began his attack upon the rock. At first, it came away readily enough; then, of a sudden, larger, firmly wedged chunks met his torn fingers.
Frantically, hopefully he dug. The jagged edges of the granite ripped his fingers and wrists. But the pain did not compare with the agony that steadily increased within his brain. The sweat began to pour down his white face; his breath came in choking gasps as he rolled rock after rock behind him.
He did not dare to turn and look into Miss Breen’s eyes. Nash had not been an engineer these years for nothing; he knew, even from the very first, just how hopeless his task would be—how many tons of rock probably lay between him and the cool night air. And then, when he finally came upon huge bowlders which a dozen men could not have moved, he straightened, passed his torn, bleeding fingers across his damp face, and turned slowly.
Miss Breen, holding aloft the candles, met his gaze with wide, staring eyes. Her face was devoid of all color.
“I’ll—I’ll have to rest a minute,” he faltered.
“What good will it do?” she asked.
He thrust his head forward and looked deep into her eyes.
“I guess—guess there’s no use in lying to you, Miss Breen,” he declared, his voice echoing dully in the stillness of the big chamber. “We’re caught in a trap. There is no escape.”
He half expected she would scream, or faint dead away; but she did neither. The candles she clutched trembled slightly—that was all. Despite his own feelings, he marveled at her apparent self-control.
“There are tons of rock across the tunnel,” he said quietly, after a pause.
“But—you knew it—all the time, didn’t you?” Her accusing voice was a mere whisper.
He nodded. “I knew it—from the first,” he repeated.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I—I dreaded even to think that——” He stopped, biting his lips. “I wanted to keep it from you—as long as possible. I—I thought we might have a chance.”
They stood looking at one another, breathing audibly. He took the candles from her cold, stiff fingers. She allowed her arm to drop heavily to her side, as if it was destitute of life.
“What—what time is it?” she wavered presently.
He was a long time fumbling for his watch. Then he drew it out. Somehow his throat felt very hot and painful as the crawling hands on the dial met his eyes.
“It’s—ten minutes after seven,” he said.
“Ten minutes after seven.” She repeated the words huskily, and, to all appearances, subconsciously. “Then—then we’ve fifty minutes before——”
He took up the sentence she was unable to finish. “Fifty minutes before the dynamite explodes.”
Miss Breen sobbed, and, without the least warning, crumpled to the floor. Nash spoke to her, chafed her icelike arms, bathed her forehead with the dirty water from the floor; but she did not respond.
And then, as if to mock his helplessness, the candles he had propped against a rock toppled over, and, with a hiss, were extinguished by the water into which they had fallen, leaving Nash to stare through the utter, suffocating gloom.
TO BE CONTINUED.