DYNAMITE!
In the cool water, Bob soon forgot his hurts. Coming out on the shore
he took stock of the damage that had been done. His hands were sore and
stinging sensations from different parts of his body told him that he
had not come off scot-free. Such clothes as he had on were ruined and
he knew that in all probability he was such a sight that his own father
would not have recognized him if they had met face to face.
Assured that he had suffered no damage that was really serious, Bob
gave some thought to other pressing matters. Since no one had appeared
after he had broken out of the hut, he must have been right when he
figured that Harper had had no intention of sticking around all night.
But because no one was around now, it did not mean that no one would
be. Probably the best plan would be to go and go quickly before either
Wesley or Harper decided to come down and bring their captive food and
water.
“Some surprise those chaps will get!” laughed Bob to himself as he
started down the river in the general direction of the dam. “I wonder
what they’ll do. Hit the high spots probably getting away from this
neck of the woods!”
It took longer to get back to camp than he had supposed, for he was
afraid to leave the river which served as his guide. Therefore it was
nearly noon when a bend of the river showed him the dam.
Fearing that his appearance would cause a sensation, Bob waded and
then swam across the shallow river and struck off to one side, meaning
to circle around to the upper camp. Then he could slip into the
Quarter-house by the back way.
This maneuver was executed without mishap and the only person who saw
him go in was the Mexican cook, who paid little attention.
“I guess he thinks the Gringo got mixed up with a charge of dynamite!”
was the boy’s reflection as he scuttled up to his room.
It was not long before he presented himself, washed and changed, at the
general offices. As he went in he asked the girl at the telephone if
Mr. Whitney had returned.
“Not yet,” was the crisp reply, “but Mr. Taylor wants to see you. Jerry
King didn’t show up to-day either and he’s worried.”
So Jerry had not come back. It did not surprise Bob much, but it meant
that Jerry had now openly allied himself with the other faction. The
fight was to be in the open, from now on. Coming back to himself, he
asked: “Where’s Mr. Taylor then?”
“In his office.”
He found Mr. Taylor busy over some blue prints. The engineer looked up
as he entered and Bob at once saw that the man was angry. His first
question proved it.
“What the dickens do you mean by not reporting this morning? Just
because Mr. Whitney is away, do you think you can take a vacation when
you feel like it? And King, too; wait till I get hold of him! But what
have you got to say for yourself, young man?”
“I couldn’t help it--”
“Couldn’t help it!” exploded the irate man. The total responsibility
for the project had fallen on him for the past few days and it had made
him nervous. “Of course you could help it. You’ve got to help it if you
belong to the Service!”
Bob waited until the storm had passed and then asked calmly:
“Has the Chief told you he suspects trouble with the Mexicans?”
The man looked at the boy sharply but made no reply. From his manner
Bob was sure that Mr. Taylor knew but did not wish to confess his
knowledge. Figuring that his silence was equal to an assent, Bob went
on:
“Mr. Whitney told me something about it and the reason I’m late to-day
is that I got mixed up in the mess--”
This startled Mr. Taylor.
“You--you’ve found out something?” he stammered eagerly.
“Yes,” answered Bob, “I have. I wanted to tell Mr. Whitney personally
about it but as things are likely to happen right off, I think we’d
better get busy without him.”
Rapidly Bob sketched out what he had learned during the past few days
and related briefly the adventure that had befallen him the day before.
As to Jerry’s part in the mix-up, he said as little as possible, but
of course it could not be entirely hushed up. As Bob was talking, Mr.
Taylor took the telephone receiver off the hook and called a number.
By the time his story was finished, a knock sounded on the door and it
opened to let in Jenkins, the camp marshal.
“I just telephoned the marshal to come up as we were talking,”
explained Mr. Taylor. “I want him to get those two cowboys if he can.”
“Won’t be much chance,” put in Bob, “if they’ve been to the hut. But if
they were going to leave me there without food or water, perhaps you
can get ’em.”
The engineer stated the case briefly so that the officer would
understand.
“I’ll try to git ’em,” announced Jenkins. “I guess I better git the
sheriff down to Las Cruces to call out a posse--”
“No, don’t do that,” put in Taylor. “This is a Federal job and we don’t
want the county in on it. Go to it alone.”
Stolidly the man took his orders and stumped out. When he was gone Mr.
Whitney’s assistant turned to Bob.
“What do you think will be the first move? Did you hear anything
definite?”
“No, sir, and I haven’t any idea what they’ll do. Anything is likely to
happen!”
“Then the only thing to do is to put on extra watchmen and keep a sharp
lookout for trouble among the Mexicans. I’ll see to it at once.” He
started up as if to go out. Then, remembering Bob, he said, “You’ve
done good work, Hazard. Sorry I was so grumpy when you came in. Take
the remainder of the day off and rest up.”
“Thank you, sir,” the boy answered, “but I couldn’t sleep now. There’s
too much excitement around!”
With this they left the office, Taylor to see that all preparations
were made to forestall any attack, and Bob to take up the work Mr.
Whitney had left for him to do.
The day and night passed quietly, but the next morning the mess room
of the Quarter-house was in a turmoil. News had come in that a gang of
Mexican bandits had made a raid on Columbus, killing and wounding many
Americans. This report was unconfirmed but rumors flew thick and fast.
Some had it that it was the army of Carranza and others that it was
merely an unorganized deed of a rash bandit. Most of the men thought it
was Villa.
When Bob heard the news he immediately connected Mr. Whitney’s
prolonged absence with it. The Chief was not back and in all
probability he had remained to talk over the best manner of protecting
Government property from any mishap. The raid was so daring that it
showed the possibility that others might follow and the dam was near
enough the border to be in actual danger. Bob realized that in all
probability this was just what the cattlemen wanted; that it might mean
intervention. Especially so if more outrages took place at once.
All during the day he worked with a cloud of apprehension hanging over
him. But nothing stirred. The Mexicans at the noon hour broke up into
groups and talked excitedly, but as far as Bob could see they did their
work without any friction with their bosses, and under Mr. Taylor’s
generalship the whole job moved smoothly.
But there was something wrong in the air. The very calm itself seemed
unhealthy, and Bob was glad when nighttime came. He noticed that Mr.
Taylor had again put on the extra force of watchmen, as he had planned,
all of whom were Americans. This had been done quietly and passed
without comment from the Mexicans.
However, just before the quitting whistle blew, Bob happened to be near
the spot where the Indians were excavating. He took this opportunity to
go up to Feather-in-the-Wind who was directing his men. Ostensibly he
asked something regarding the work but it was only to give the Indian
a chance to convey any message he might have. The Apache did have
something to say.
“Meet Feather-in-the-Wind by rock crusher to-night,” he whispered
swiftly, but cautiously.
It was sufficient. Bob walked off unconcernedly but as soon as dark had
fallen he went to the appointed place. He had not been there long when
the Indian glided up to him.
“Have you learned anything?” asked Bob quickly.
“Yes; Greasers much excited. One man make bad medicine. He Miguel. They
plan big strike--no more work. To-day came news much killing on border.
Miguel tell ’em Gringo all scared. They keep quiet, then capture dam.”
“Are they going to do what he says?” put in Bob in a tense whisper.
“Yes, Miguel very much strong. Greasers grumble but do what he say.”
But when Bob started to thank Feather-in-the-Wind for finding out what
he had, the Apache stopped him. “Wait! More!” he said. “One my young
men got keen eyes. Not dimmed by white man’s whiskey. He see Miguel
go away from camp one, two, t’ree nights. He take something with him.
Young man no follow. No worry him much. Perhaps go to-night. You want
us follow?”
“You’re whistling,” said Bob shortly.
Probably Feather-in-the-Wind did not understand the slang but he got
what Bob meant, for he said, “Come!” and started off in the direction
of the lower camp. He did not go through the village but cut up on
the hillside, walking swiftly as if he knew where he was bound. Bob
followed.
A few minutes later a slim shadow rose out of the chaparral.
Feather-in-the-Wind spoke in his own language to this newcomer.
Evidently this was the brave who had kept note of Miguel’s comings and
goings. The conference over, Bob’s friend uttered the one word, “Wait!”
and sat down. The other Indian slipped away. Bob followed the example
of Feather-in-the-Wind.
From where they were sitting, screened by the undergrowth, they could
see a section of a rough path that led up the hillside. For a long
time nothing happened. As the Indian did not speak, Bob felt it best
to remain quiet also. Probably there was a reason for it. The delay
did not worry him much, however, as there was plenty of material for
his mind to be busy with. Ever since he had talked with Mr. Whitney,
events had tumbled upon him one after another. Mr. Whitney had gone
and Ted was doing outpost duty. Jerry was on the other side. Only the
Indian was left to him and he was not much of a counselor. True, he was
beginning to prove himself a great help but through the limitations
of language he could not be used to discuss what ought to be done
regarding the things they found out. What the outcome of the mess was
to be was beyond Bob’s imagination to foresee. He was determined to
do what he felt was his duty, and if the consequences were serious it
could not be helped.
His reverie was broken by a nudge on the arm. He looked up to see a
shadow darting along the path. Nearer and nearer it came until it
passed almost close enough to the point where they were sitting to be
touched by Bob’s hand should he thrust it from cover.
The young Indian had been right. It was Miguel. Even in the uncertain
light Bob could see that he carried a queer-shaped package under his
arm.
A moment or so later the Indian got up and motioned to Bob that it
would be safe to follow. They did not take the path but threaded their
way amongst the underbrush, the sand deadening their footsteps. So
cleverly did the Indian pick his way that hardly a sound was made by
their coming in contact with the bushes. Bob had difficulty in keeping
up with his guide, yet he did his best and when they reached the crest
of the hill he was but a few steps behind.
Once here, the Indian stopped and took an observation. An almost
imperceptible grunt escaped him and, turning on his heel, he motioned
Bob to follow. It was a surprising move, for the Indian practically
retraced the steps they had just taken. Bob was soon to know the
reason, however, for halfway down the hill the Indian spoke, not
turning his head.
“Fool Greaser! Go all way up hill only to throw people off track. I
know where he make for. Come!”
Bob was breathing hard when they finally reached the spot where the
Indian decided to stop. It was above the dam proper and on the same
side of the river. Again they established a hiding place in the
underbrush but this time it was near the edge of the clearing. Below
them was a widening of the river where the coffer dam had been built.
This was erected to divert the water of the river into the spillway,
which left the river bed dry for the construction of the main dam.
“Why do you think he will come here?” asked Bob, amazed at the Indian’s
tactics. He didn’t for a moment doubt that Feather-in-the-Wind knew
what he was about, yet it surprised him and he wanted an explanation.
“Easy,” said the Indian. “Only two places go when get top of hill. One
way lead to station, other way to upper camp. He start direction upper
camp. I know he no go there. Therefore he go round and come back to
dam. Nearest place him come back.”
It was easy once it was explained, Bob realized, and the words brought
a complete faith in his guide’s methods.
Again silence was necessary, for if Miguel was coming it would not be
long before his arrival. Come he did and only a few yards from them.
Bob held his breath until Miguel passed them and reached the river
level. There he put down his package, which Bob noticed he handled
with the utmost care. But this did not impress the boy as much as did
the next move of the man under observation. Going up to a rock which
showed itself above the ground, he knelt and began scooping away the
sand from one side of it. After a few moments of this work he evidently
found what he had been digging for, because he picked some objects out
of the hole he had made and laid them at his side.
Involuntarily Bob gasped. He recognized what it was that Miguel had
taken from the hole and what probably was also in the odd-shaped
package he had been carrying.
It was dynamite, dynamite stolen probably from the work and brought up
and stored here for some evil purpose. Evidently Miguel was preparing
to strike the first blow in the plot against the dam.
Bob kept still, feeling that he would soon know what Miguel planned to
do with the explosive, for if whatever plan the Mexican had conceived
was not to be consummated to-night, it was evident that he would have
buried the additional stuff he had brought instead of digging up his
cache.
In this he was not mistaken. Miguel produced from around his body a
coil of fuse and began joining the sticks of dynamite and placing
detonating caps in them. Every muscle in the boy’s body ached to jump
from the hiding place and grapple with the man who was arranging such
wholesale destruction, but evidently the Indian realized what was going
on within him, for he felt a restraining touch on his arm. At once he
knew what it meant. The Indian was telling him that it would be foolish
to attack the Mexican when he had so much sudden death in his hands.
Before they could reach him, no matter how swiftly they acted, the
Mexican could throw the dynamite and the damage would be done. There
was nothing to do but wait and hope that Miguel would give them an
opening when there was more possibility of averting the catastrophe.
The Mexican worked swiftly and at last he had his infernal machine
ready. Straightening up, he carried it to the coffer dam and began
laying the dynamite sticks at equal intervals along the bank. This
dam was constructed of timber backed up by refuse material from the
crusher and the excavation. It was neither high nor wide at this time
as it only served to divert the ordinary flow of the Rio Grande. It
had not been destined to cope with any flood, should one come, as the
engineering plan was to get the dam in such shape as to withstand a
freshet before the rainy season came on. But the dynamite the Mexican
was laying was sufficient to wreck what had been built, and, should the
water be released, it would undo thousands of dollars worth of work at
the main dam, besides the delay caused by the rebuilding.
It _was_ the first blow in the Mexican campaign and at all hazards it
must be stopped. Bob knew this and the Indian at his side knew it.
Miguel went farther and farther from them towards the center of the
river. They could follow him with their eyes as his movements were
clearly outlined in the white moonlight. There was no watchman on the
coffer dam. There seemed no reason for one; yet Bob realized that a
watchman was needed everywhere with this plot seething.
It was a horrible situation, for there seemed to be nothing that could
be done. Probably the Mexican was desperate enough to sacrifice his
life if he should be detected while laying his mine. He would set off
the dynamite if he saw anything to disturb him. Therefore, to attack
him openly seemed out of the question.
What was to be done? There seemed no answer. At last an idea came to
Bob. “Go quick,” he said to the Indian, “get help! Bring a gun. Perhaps
we can shoot him! I’ll stay here and watch. You can go quicker than I.
Hurry!”
Feather-in-the-Wind knew it to be the only plan and started off with
long running leaps, keeping himself well hidden from the Mexican. There
was just a chance that he could get to the camp and back before Miguel
could complete his dastardly work.
As soon as the Indian was gone Bob started to carry out a plan of his
own. He knew the Indian would not have allowed him to take the chance,
so he had been forced to use a stratagem to get Feather-in-the-Wind out
of the way.
Kicking off his shoes, he wormed his way on his stomach towards the
upper side of the coffer dam. Miguel was working on the lower side and
Bob knew that the dam was sufficiently high to keep his actions hidden
from the Mexican.
When he reached the edge of the river Bob slipped into the water with
as little noise as possible. Keeping close to the dam he found that
he could make fair headway by half swimming and half walking along
the slanting boards which held the Rio Grande in check. His plan was
desperate, yet it was the only one that seemed feasible. Miguel would
probably set a rather long fuse, one long enough to allow him to get
safely away. “If I can only get there before the fuse has burned to the
first stick of dynamite!” gasped Bob to himself.
Panting, struggling, gasping, he fought on. His mind was filled with
the horror of what would happen should he be too late. There was no way
of telling how far Miguel had gone. The dam that kept him hidden from
the Mexican, also hid the Mexican from him. He must--he _must_ go on
until he was well past the center of the dam--Miguel would do the job
thoroughly if at all. Once there he must go through a fresh ordeal. He
must climb out of the water and look over the edge of the dam in order
to get his bearings and to find out where the Mexican had lit the fuse.
Should he look over at the wrong spot and Miguel see him, it was the
end--the end probably of his life and surely the finish of the coffer
dam.
At last he passed the sluice gates which marked the center of the dam.
A few rods further on he knew he must climb up and look over.
There was no time in which to gather his nerves together. He must
act and act at once. So, pulling himself up with as little noise as
possible, he peered over. No Miguel was in sight. But a hundred feet
down the dam was a tiny thread of white smoke shining gray in the
moonlight. With a despairing sob he leaped towards it as fast as his
soaked clothes would let him.
[Illustration: Under his feet he saw the snake-like line of fuse. With
a leap he pulled the whole thing over the bank.]
Zing! A sharp report and a whistle through the air by his ear told him
that Miguel had caught sight of him and hoped to stop him by means of
a bullet. But Bob had to go on. Again came a shot, but this time
farther from him. “Rotten shooting!” panted Bob for the wind to hear.
Now he was almost at his goal. He saw that there was still a length
of fuse to be burned before it got to the explosive but the smoke was
moving rapidly towards him. Another bullet came. He would not have time
to get to the end of the fuse before it exploded. Despairing, he was
almost ready to give up.
Then under his feet he saw the snake-like line of fuse. Reaching down,
he grabbed it. It was necessary to take the chance that this sudden
disturbance of the dynamite might set it off. With a leap, he pulled
the whole thing over the bank with him and dropped with it into the
water of the Rio Grande. He did not hear the sizzling sound that
told that the fuse was dead. As he sank into the water, Bob was only
conscious that he had done his best.