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.”