"That's what I said. Up hill from the slide. Slide stuff never runs up hill. This stuff was blown there."
"Gus put in a little shot—"
"Near a week ago. The dirt on these rocks ain't dry yet. Same with the wood. They ain't been lyin' out in the sun no time at all. All Gus did was to put in a little coyote hole, and she blew straight out. This shot was above, and when she blew she ripped the whole sidehill loose. Mebbe there was more than one shot. I'll bet I heard it, and thought it was thunder. Anyway, all this stuff was above where the slide started. And that's what made the first slide, too. It wasn't water. Some son of a gun shot the ditch."
Angus turned the bits of evidence over in his hands, frowning.
"Who would do a trick like that?"
"You can come as near guessin' as I can."
Angus shook his head. Nobody, so far as he knew, would deliberately cut off his water. And yet, according to this silent but conclusive evidence, somebody had done so. The repairs had been wrecked as soon as completed. They might be wrecked again. It gave him a strange, uncomfortable feeling, akin to that of a mysterious presence in the dark. Also it moved him to deep, silent anger.
"I would give a good deal to know," he said quietly.
"Nobody hangin' round lately that I've noticed. But somebody was keepin' case all right, 'cause we only got water a few hours. And I'll tell you somethin' else: When we get the flume pretty near in again I'm keepin' case myself."