He was alone. As one man the ore workers had jeered at the idea of attempting to penetrate into the famous Black Cañon. They had already been as far as possible, and found the river unstopped. It had failed at its source, they argued. Such things had been heard of before. Mr. Allsoner did not agree with this latter conclusion, but he was entirely convinced that any attempt to enter the cañon would be futile, and he did not scruple to tell Phil so.
The boy, however, although he pretended to accept the manager's decision as final, secretly determined to make an attempt at solving the mystery single-handed. He knew that the failure to resume operations on the morrow would mean ruin to his father, and with the impetuosity of youth he stigmatized the ore workers as a pack of "superstitious grandmothers."
Once out of sight of the camp, he urged his game little steed to a gallop, and set off to where the mountains rose stark and flat against the mauve-colored rim of the horizon, keeping his course by the dried river bed that led the way into the very heart of Black Cañon.
After about an hour's hard riding the track grew even too steep for the broncho, and Phil, tethering the animal to a rock, made his way forward on foot. Gradually the walls of rock rose up and encompassed him, leaving only a strip of sky faintly seen above his head, and the stillness became so unearthly that he paused occasionally to cast a stone down a chasm for the mere pleasure of hearing it rattle.
Arrived at the entrance of the cañon, he halted and surveyed the way for a few minutes. As Allsoner had told him, the river—now a morass of horrible mud—entirely filled the gulch from side to side, rendering progress without a boat an impossibility. The dam controlling the flow, however, was built half a mile farther up, and this was reached by a species of aërial railway, built on the plan of the old overhead switchbacks, with a car slung to a double rope, worked by block and pulley on the return journey.
It was certainly not an inviting mode of progression, but Phil did not falter. Setting his teeth, he grasped the iron ladder that led up to the summit of the first trestle, and mounted steadily. By the time that he reached the top the wind was shrieking in his ears with demoniac fury, and the trestle seemed to sway bodily before the furious gusts, although only a mild and gentle breeze could be felt in the cañon below.
Buttoning his fluttering jacket tightly around him, he stepped nervously on to the flat, swaying car, and fumbled with the two hooks that held it in place, being secured to a couple of iron rings in the top corners.
With a sudden swoop the frail craft left its moorings, and Phil found himself spinning at a dizzy speed through space. Presently the slope became less steep, and as his conveyance slackened speed he was able to look about him.
Not that there was much to be seen, even though the moon rendered it nearly as light as day. Before him the ropes ran on in an everlasting stream, and on each side nothing was visible but the walls of rock, smoothed in places by human handiwork to allow of the passage of the traveling cradle. Occasionally the car would almost stop as it passed with a shock over the platform of one of the trestles, and Phil found that, by clutching the railings at the proper moment, he could arrest it without feeling any particular strain.
He had closed his eyes, and was almost enjoying the rush through the scented night air, when he felt a sudden shudder run through the car, as if it had struck against something. Opening his eyes hastily, he peered round, and then a terrified cry rose to his lips.