“It’s clear enough to me,” said Scanlon, bluntly, “that some one has pretty plain sailing into these cellars of yours. They seem to come piling in whenever the spirit moves them. I’d do something in the matter if I were you, even if it was only to post a warning to trespassers.”
“There must be a way of getting in,” admitted Campe, dully. “I made up my mind to that some time ago. But,” and his voice broke into a sharpness that startled Scanlon, “a man whose life is in danger every moment of it can’t take too many chances.”
Bat put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and looked steadily into his face.
“Hold up!” said he, “Hold up! You’re up against something raw and hard. But don’t let them stop you. No matter what the thing is—sit tight. You’re going to win out.”
“Win!” Campe threw up his hands and laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know the facts or you wouldn’t say that.”
“Maybe I’m not on to all the facts,” said Bat, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “but I’m on to the very worst of the lot. And even in spite of that, I say you’ll win.”
“The worst!” said Campe, and his eyes searched Bat’s face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean just that—the worst! Listen. One time when I was a youngster I was out with old Dick Bunder, packing stuff out to Gabriel City. Now Gabriel was out on the desert and was made up of a half dozen houses and a few tents around a water-hole. The first night I spent in the place it was attacked by Apaches, and the thing went on for days. Bitter, cruel work it was in the heat, with no sleep, and death barking always from across the sands. The Apaches were bad, but,” and Bat shook his head, “there was something worse.”
“Yes?” said young Campe.
“Much worse,” affirmed Bat. “And it was inside. Somebody was calling off our hands to the enemy.”