Silence reigned for a minute, while the manager reviewed this startling idea. Then he murmured "Jove!" in the tone of one seeing visions.
"You couldn't tell me who's working the rig, could you?" he asked facetiously. The realization that the stoppage was only temporary acted like a tonic. "The boys would give him a lively time, if they got their fingers in his wool. It would be a case of the nearest telegraph pole."
"The man mentioned," Phil answered in a cautious whisper, "was nicknamed Red Spider."
"What! By heavens, you are right! Red Spider is an outlaw half-breed, horse stealer, cattle runner, murderer, and everything else abominable. He is known to have a cache up in the hills, too."
"Then catch Red Spider before eleven o'clock to-morrow. At that hour there is a meeting, and the state of affairs here will become public property. The river must be running before then."
"There isn't a man here that will go into the Black Cañon, and I don't blame them," the manager declared hopelessly. "It's certain death."
"What Red Spider can do we must do."
"He's discovered some secret way. Besides, a cross between an Omaha Indian and a Mexican produces something tougher than a white man."
"I start at midnight," said Phil Clode, strolling toward the door.
It was a few minutes after midnight when Phil Clode rode out of the town.