CHAPTER XVIII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
At six o’clock Nash finished his supper, strapped a pair of powerful field glasses over his shoulder, and set out in the direction of the “coyote.” The sun was just dipping behind the highest mountain, bathing the sky with gold and coral. The lower valleys were hung with purple mists.
Nash tramped on, breathing in the clean, damp air, which, now and then, smelled of the distant Pacific. Saucy, bushy-tailed gophers darted here and there, scolding loudly when disturbed; once an unseen California mocking bird burst into a glorious, heart-quickening melody, its pure, liquid notes pouring out so clearly that Nash halted, listening almost greedily. He loved music, and it was one of the things he missed out here in the mountains. And when the invisible singer had finished he applauded softly.
“Bravo!” he whispered. “Bravo!”
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.”
“You’re found now,” he said, smiling into her colorless face. “How lucky I happened to be in this part of the hills. Why, you might have wandered around for hours—maybe all night.”
The events of their previous meeting came back to him vividly, almost bitterly. He felt that he must ask her certain questions, and that she must answer them. Yet, now that they had met once more, he hesitated. She was weakened by her afternoon’s adventure. It would be better, he resolved, to wait for a more desirable opportunity. Or possibly she might explain matters herself.
“Isn’t this—your ‘coyote’?” she asked suddenly, looking around.
“Yes. I was just making a final examination of the wires. It is to go off at eight o’clock.”
“To-night?”
He nodded. She shrank back, as if death itself lurked in the yawning tunnel mouth.
“Oh, there’s no danger now,” he replied, laughing. “It is only a few minutes after six. Why, I was just about to go inside to inspect the big chamber. This is my first coyote on the Los Angeles aqueduct, and I can’t afford to take any chances of a failure.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” she asked.
“Of what? The dynamite can’t go off unless the batteries are attached to the wires and the button pressed. Besides, the greater part of the stuff is buried under six feet of solid concrete.”
She sank to a pile of rocks, and pulled back her sleeve. There was blood on her white arm. “It’s been hurting dreadfully,” she said, disclosing a ragged wound, caused, she admitted, by a stumble. “That’s why I’ve been so faint.”
“Why didn’t you let me know at first?” Nash broke in quickly. “Wait. I’ll fix it in a jiffy.”
He hurried down the slope to where a little spring bubbled out from its mossy bed. In the crystal, snow-fed waters he dipped his handkerchief, wrung it out, and returned.
“Now just let me tie this around that cut, Miss Breen. This mountain water has wonderful healing properties.” He accomplished his task while the girl watched him in silence. “There,” he said, drawing down her sleeve. “Isn’t that better?”
“Oh, a great deal,” she answered.
“Well, suppose you excuse me for ten or fifteen minutes, while I take a farewell trip into the tunnel. You can rest here, and——”
“Why can’t I go with you?” she interrupted.
“Do you really want to go?” He looked down into her face with a surprised frown. “It isn’t very clean—and it is very damp and cold. Besides, you’ll have to crawl on your hands and knees for a hundred yards.”
His warning did not appear to frighten her. “Oh, I don’t care about that,” she declared eagerly. “And I would like to see just how the thing is arranged.”
“Very well,” he agreed. “I’ve some candles in my pocket. I’ll light one, and you follow close behind me. All ready?”
“All ready,” she repeated, her eyes sparkling at the thought of the adventure.
He lighted a candle and started in the drift. She came right behind him without the least hesitation. The tunnel was damp, and at places they were forced to crawl through pools of water. Still, she did not complain.
“Nervy little woman, all right,” Nash muttered to himself.
Finally they emerged into the chamber, and both stood erect. He held the candle high above his head, so that she could see. The walls, hewn roughly from solid rock, glistened with moisture; the floor was muddy.
Miss Breen held her hands together and shivered. “Ugh! Are there any bats in here?” she asked.
“Hardly.”
In the glow of the candle the girl’s face shone pale and tense.
“The dynamite is under us,” Nash explained. “And over in the corner are half a hundred boxes of the same stuff, that will produce a second explosion.”
She followed him while he made a careful survey of the whole chamber. Everything seemed to be in excellent condition.
“You’re not—not forgetting the time, are you?” she broke out suddenly.
“I should say not!” He took out his watch, and held the candle lower. “It’s just a quarter to seven. We’ve an hour and fifteen minutes yet before the fireworks come off.”
“Where are you going to watch it from?”
“I’ve a little place picked out,” he answered, and laughed. “About half a mile from here. Would you like a reserved seat?”
She nodded readily. “Of course. Now that I’ve seen the mechanism of the thing, I won’t be happy until I see the explosion.”
“Good for you! I’m really as much excited over the affair as you are. Ready to leave now?”
“I guess so. Is there anything more to see?”
“Not a thing. Wait while I light another candle. It’ll make it easier for us to——”
He stopped short, the match he had struck burning down to his fingers. He scarcely felt the pain. A faint rumbling had come to his ears—the sound of falling rock.
“What was that?” Miss Breen asked sharply, nervously, her voice echoing in the big, gloom-filled room.
“Why—nothing much,” Nash replied reassuringly, although his heart had started throbbing at a greater speed. “That is—I suppose it was merely some loose earth falling in the tunnel. It often does that. But we’ll soon see. Follow close now.”
He lighted the second candle, handing the girl the first one. They came to the beginning of the tunnel. Just as he had feared, some loose rock had fallen down, blocking the entrance.
“You take both candles, Miss Breen,” he commanded quietly. “I’ll have to use my hands and open the drift.” He attempted to laugh at his remark. “It’ll only take—take a second.”
He jerked off his coat and dropped it to the muddy floor. Miss Breen held both candles behind him as he began his attack upon the rock. At first, it came away readily enough; then, of a sudden, larger, firmly wedged chunks met his torn fingers.
Frantically, hopefully he dug. The jagged edges of the granite ripped his fingers and wrists. But the pain did not compare with the agony that steadily increased within his brain. The sweat began to pour down his white face; his breath came in choking gasps as he rolled rock after rock behind him.
He did not dare to turn and look into Miss Breen’s eyes. Nash had not been an engineer these years for nothing; he knew, even from the very first, just how hopeless his task would be—how many tons of rock probably lay between him and the cool night air. And then, when he finally came upon huge bowlders which a dozen men could not have moved, he straightened, passed his torn, bleeding fingers across his damp face, and turned slowly.
Miss Breen, holding aloft the candles, met his gaze with wide, staring eyes. Her face was devoid of all color.
“I’ll—I’ll have to rest a minute,” he faltered.
“What good will it do?” she asked.
He thrust his head forward and looked deep into her eyes.
“I guess—guess there’s no use in lying to you, Miss Breen,” he declared, his voice echoing dully in the stillness of the big chamber. “We’re caught in a trap. There is no escape.”
He half expected she would scream, or faint dead away; but she did neither. The candles she clutched trembled slightly—that was all. Despite his own feelings, he marveled at her apparent self-control.
“There are tons of rock across the tunnel,” he said quietly, after a pause.
“But—you knew it—all the time, didn’t you?” Her accusing voice was a mere whisper.
He nodded. “I knew it—from the first,” he repeated.
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I—I dreaded even to think that——” He stopped, biting his lips. “I wanted to keep it from you—as long as possible. I—I thought we might have a chance.”
They stood looking at one another, breathing audibly. He took the candles from her cold, stiff fingers. She allowed her arm to drop heavily to her side, as if it was destitute of life.
“What—what time is it?” she wavered presently.
He was a long time fumbling for his watch. Then he drew it out. Somehow his throat felt very hot and painful as the crawling hands on the dial met his eyes.
“It’s—ten minutes after seven,” he said.
“Ten minutes after seven.” She repeated the words huskily, and, to all appearances, subconsciously. “Then—then we’ve fifty minutes before——”
He took up the sentence she was unable to finish. “Fifty minutes before the dynamite explodes.”
Miss Breen sobbed, and, without the least warning, crumpled to the floor. Nash spoke to her, chafed her icelike arms, bathed her forehead with the dirty water from the floor; but she did not respond.
And then, as if to mock his helplessness, the candles he had propped against a rock toppled over, and, with a hiss, were extinguished by the water into which they had fallen, leaving Nash to stare through the utter, suffocating gloom.
TO BE CONTINUED.