“Another thing,” Frank went on, “there was something about the smell of that same smoke to remind me of powder, dynamite or such things, and not the gas they say always comes with an outbreak from a volcano.”
Bob stared at him. So great was his astonishment that his mouth even opened, and Frank was forced to smile at the picture his chum presented.
“Powder!” ejaculated Bob. “Then Frank, you believe that awful explosion was caused by human hands, and not Nature: is that it?”
Frank nodded.
“It wasn’t the smash of a volcano breaking loose,” Bob went on, voicing his surprise; “we won’t be drowned, or burned to cinders in a flood of lava flowing down the side of the mountain—it isn’t even a fierce landslide that’s carried away half the old ridge; but just an every-day explosion—some miners, perhaps, blown up with all their stuff?”
“Hold on, there; you’re going a step too far, Bob. I never had miners in my head when I said that,” Frank remarked.
“But who else would carry explosives around with them, and carelessly let the whole outfit go up in one big smash?” demanded Bob.
“Well, there’s Mendoza, for one,” the other said, quietly.
“Mendoza? the rustler?” echoed Bob.
“Sure.”