GETTING READY.
Early the next morning, while Nash was still at breakfast, a man came
running up with the information that a body had been found at the foot
of a high cliff, a short distance from where the siphon was being
constructed.
“One of our men?” Nash questioned, concerned over the news, but
not surprised, as accidents, from one cause or another, among the
thousand-odd laborers were frequent.
“I don’t think so,” was the reply. “I heard some of the others talking
about it. Guess he was known to some of them.”
“I’ll be over right away,” Nash said.
He had his pony brought around to the cabin, and in less than half an
hour was at the scene. Pushing his way through the crowd which had
gathered about the body, he suddenly caught his breath in astonishment.
The dead man was the old subforeman, under whom he had worked that
first day--Macmillan!
“Give me the details,” he demanded abruptly of the nearest subforeman.
“The body was brought in about an hour ago,” the latter hurriedly
explained. “Some few of us older men recognized Macmillan right away.
One of the watchmen found him at the foot of the high cliff back there.
Must have been an accident; don’t you think so?”
Nash followed the speaker’s finger. He saw the cliff mentioned; and, on
its edge, winding down to the valley, ran the black pipe line. Then,
like a flash of fire from a cloudless sky, the truth came to Nash.
Macmillan had been the mysterious stranger of last night; the man with
the hammer; the man Miss Breen had warned! No doubt he had been the one
who had destroyed the pipe several nights previous.
After the girl’s warning Macmillan had dashed away, probably lost his
bearings in the darkness, and by accident stepped off the cliff.
Once he had examined the body carefully Nash was positive that
these suspicions were correct. As conclusive evidence, the white,
wide-brimmed sombrero with the silver ornaments on the band was brought
in by the same watchman who had discovered the body.
“Found this hanging on a bush about ten feet from the top of the
cliff,” the watchman declared, answering Nash’s questions. “Guess the
fellow made a try at the bush himself--half of it is missing. Only the
hat stuck.”
Nash finally gave directions for the removal of the body, and watched
as two Italians carried it to a wagon, preparatory to its being sent on
to camp. A few necessary requirements and forms had to be observed--the
notification of the county sheriff being the principal one; and after
that, Macmillan’s body, unless claimed by relatives, would share the
barren plot on the mountainside with the hundred-odd others who had met
death, by fair means or foul, in Camp Forty-seven.
All the remainder of that day Macmillan’s death was on Nash’s mind.
It wasn’t so much the final tragedy that worried him, as the events
leading up to it. Revenge, doubtless, had been the motive. It was quite
natural, after his discharge and his words with Hooker, that the former
subforeman should seek revenge. Being interested in the construction of
the conduit, and realizing full well that the loss of water would prove
a serious blow, Macmillan had determined upon this damaging method.
The one question which still tortured Nash’s brain was how Miss Breen
had become mixed up with such a man as Macmillan. And it stood to
reason that she must be, else why had she warned him last night? The
more he studied over the problem, the more entangled it became, so
finally he gave it up.
In the two days which followed this tragedy Nash was so busily engaged
in the final preparations of his “coyote” that the affair, at least
for the present, was relegated to the background. This had not been
his first experience with leveling off a mountaintop, but it was one
presenting the greatest difficulties. Unusually hard rock had been
encountered from the very beginning, an extra force of men had been
engaged in the bore, and even then the work progressed slowly. It was
exactly a week later that the final “shot” was touched off, and the
last of the débris cleared from the tunnel.
Two hundred cases of dynamite were placed in the big rock chamber,
together with a hundred bags of black powder. The wires were laid
about them, and carefully adjusted. Then both dynamite and powder were
covered with six feet of cement and broken stone. This was allowed to
harden for three days.
On top of this new floor fifty cases of dynamite were placed. The
first explosion would come from below, ripping away the concrete and
shattering the walls. By leaving this air chamber, additional force
would be created. The first explosion would explode the dynamite on the
concrete floor.
Nash spent most of his time at the “coyote,” overseeing the thousand
and one details which were necessary to the success of the undertaking.
Finally the last bag of powder was in place, and the wires carefully
laid from the chamber, along the tunnel, out into daylight and across
the valley--fully a mile--to the top of another hill. Here, at the
given time, the batteries were to be adjusted, and the button pressed.
If things happened as Nash had forecast, the top of the big
mountain--those rock-strewed, pine-covered acres which had smiled into
the California heavens for so many ages--would be shattered, torn into
a thousand pieces at the pressure of a finger on a harmless-looking
button.
Nash was not to press the button himself! he conferred the honor upon
the subforeman who had taken charge of the bore. Nash intended being
nearer than the other men, and had already picked out his point of
observation. He wanted to be close enough to determine just how the
explosion acted.
The day of the explosion arrived. Nash gave final orders.
“We’ll make it eight o’clock to-night,” he said to the men in charge.
“The moon ought to be up by that time. I wouldn’t tell too many of the
men, because they might get curious, and venture too near. I don’t want
any accidents.”
“The batteries are all tested out,” the subforeman responded.
“Everything’s in shipshape order. At eight sharp I press the button.
Will you be with us, Mr. Nash?”
“Oh, I’ll be around somewhere near,” Nash answered. “But don’t wait for
me. I might creep in a few yards nearer the fun.”
“Very well, sir. Eight, prompt, it’ll be.”