Arthur gave a little start, as, in the dusky corner of the derrick thus pointed out, he now for the first time saw the well-remembered square tins, in which the terrible explosive rested so quietly.
“I’ve brought the shells, too,” continued Brace. “Now, I only want you to say ‘go ahead,’ and then help me put into the Dale-Dustin a bigger shot than I have ever used before. It can’t do any harm, and it may do a great deal of good. What do you say? Shall we try it?”
“Of course we will!” cried Arthur, greatly excited. “And, oh, Brace! if the oil only would come, shouldn’t we be happy?”
“Well, I rather guess we would,” replied the torpedo man, heartily, as he began making his preparations for the great shot.
Everything had been made ready, on a liberal scale, for the expected oil that had thus far failed to appear. Two tanks, each capable of holding a thousand barrels, stood empty and waiting. The casing head was in position, and the heavy iron “oil-saver” lay near the well, waiting to be used. Colonel Dale never did anything by halves, and he had been thoroughly prepared for every emergency, except the striking of a dry hole. This he had feared and dreaded, but had not really expected.
In less than an hour, the experienced well-shooter and his fearless young assistant had filled the bright tin tubes with one hundred and twenty quarts of nitro-glycerine, and they now hung in the well, ready to be sent to the bottom as one huge torpedo, eighty feet long. Arthur stood by, without a tremor, as, with steady hands, Brace Barlow emptied can after can of the awful liquid, and was so quick to lend a helping hand whenever he could be of assistance, that he seemed to know what was wanted before the other could utter a request.
So eager and anxious were they, that they hardly spoke while engaged in their dangerous task.
At length the great torpedo was lowered, slowly and carefully, to the very bottom of the well, and its line was reeled in. The empty cans had been carried to a safe distance, and Brace now stood beside the boy, on the derrick floor, holding the go-devil in his hand. He looked at Arthur, and the latter understood the look.
“Yes, Brace,” he said, “I want to drop it.” With the utmost coolness and steadiness of nerve, ‘Prince Dusty’ held the iron-winged messenger of destruction over the mouth of the well for an instant, and then sped it on its downward flight, toward the monster waiting a thousand feet below, to receive it.
Hand in hand the man and the boy fled from the place, out from among the trees, and down the hillside.