TWENTY PRECIOUS MINUTES.
It seemed to Nash that an eternity passed before he finally brought
himself together, groped for the candles, found and lighted them. By
this time Miss Breen had come back to the world again, and when he
spoke to her she moved, and afterward drew herself erect, leaning
against the damp chamber wall.
Nash comforted her as best he could, but she seemed dazed, and unable
to understand. Her first coherent words were:
“What--time--is--it?”
Nash showed her his watch. She bent down to it, holding it between her
hands, gazing steadily upon the white dial.
“Twenty-five minutes after seven,” she murmured. Nash nodded. Suddenly
she lurched to her feet.
“We--we can’t die--like rats in a hole!” she exclaimed hysterically.
“Why don’t you do something? Why do you stand like that? I’ll help you!
We’ve only thirty-five minutes left!”
A swift throb of pity surged into Nash’s heart. He fancied that horror
and fear had driven the girl out of her right mind. Perhaps it was just
as well, he reasoned dully, for when the time came----
He steeled himself against the fear that was slowly mastering him. He
must not give up until the last minute of the precious thirty-five.
“I’ll try again,” he said aloud. “I feel--stronger now. Hold those
candles higher--higher. There--that’s right!”
Once more he tore at the pitiless barrier of stone that shut them in
from the stars. His new strength was not imaginary; he moved huge rocks
which, a few minutes before, he could not budge. But the struggle was
not for long. A great slab of granite met his fingers, and although he
exerted every ounce of his strength--until all the muscles in his tired
body seemed to tear themselves asunder--the cold, slippery rock refused
to give.
He sank down in the mire of the cleared space, breathing heavily. “It’s
useless,” he panted. “Might as well tackle a sheet of armor plate.”
The first of the two candles burned down, and Miss Breen dropped it to
the floor. The other one was half gone.
“Careful--of the light,” he said, wondering as he said it why he had
thought of such a thing. “I haven’t any more matches.”
The minutes ticked away. The water dripped steadily from the roof,
splashing on his hands. Fascinated, he stared at the sickly yellow
flame that pulsated atop the remaining candle.
Then, with a quickening of his pulse, he jerked himself erect.
“Do you see how that candle burns?” he burst out, his voice ringing
strongly. “It wouldn’t last so long if there wasn’t a lot of air.” He
sniffed critically. “And it’s fresh and clean, too! Why didn’t I think
of it before?”
A new color sprang to the girl’s cheeks as Nash finished. She seemed to
sense a triumphant note in his steady voice.
“Here, Miss Breen!” he exclaimed. “Follow me with that candle! Hurry
now!”
He led the way to the distant corner, where the cases of dynamite were
stacked. Without a word of explanation, he began to pull them down
recklessly. Finally he gave a shout.
“An air vent!” he cried. “I thought so. The boys told me something
about this crevice--but I didn’t pay any attention at the time. Come
along, Miss Breen! We’ll cheat this explosion yet.”
The hole, or, rather, a crevice, ran up at an angle, and was barely
wide enough for the passage of a body. Nash took the candle and forced
the girl in before him. They crawled slowly and painfully ahead.
A gust of fresh air struck their faces.
“We’re almost there,” Nash shouted. “Don’t stop! Keep up your nerve!
You’re doing splendidly, Miss Breen! We’ll have to make a run for it
after we get out!”
Miss Breen, who was well ahead, at last uttered a little cry. She was
scrambling out into the soft moonlit world.
“There!” Nash drank deep of the air. “It’s all over but the shouting
now. One more pull and----”
Miss Breen was standing free now, amid the scrub oak and aspens that
grew thickly about the mouth of the hole. Nash himself, his head and
shoulders well out of the crevice, and ready to give the final effort
that would serve to lift him beside the girl, suddenly felt a weight
crush against his legs. For the moment he struggled desperately; then
stopped.
“What’s the matter?” Miss Breen asked, frowning. “Why don’t you hurry?”
She steadied herself, and stretched out a hand. “Here, take hold. Maybe
I can help some.”
Nash took in a deep breath, and put forth a determined effort, but it
was a useless exertion. His legs were wedged firmly.
“I--I’m stuck, somehow,” he said. “Some loose rock is pressing against
my legs.”
“Stuck?” Miss Breen cried aloud. “Oh, not now! Not when we’re all but
free. Try hard.”
Nash did not need the girl’s encouragement to urge him to a greater
endeavor. Savagely he jerked, but the sharp edges of the rock were
cutting into his flesh, and the pain caused by this effort brought a
smothered groan to his lips.
“Can’t budge,” he said at last, strangely calm now that he realized his
helpless position. “Listen to me, Miss Breen,” he commanded, fumbling
for his watch. “You’ve got to run like a March hare.” He peered closely
at the watch, barely able to distinguish the hands in the moonlight.
“You’ve less than half an hour to get away. This whole mountaintop will
go up like a skyrocket in twenty minutes. And if you’re within half a
mile----”
The girl’s eyes widened with terror; she was instantly aware of the
situation. “But you!” she cried. “You can’t--remain here.”
“We can’t waste time arguing,” Nash answered.
“But--but surely I can do something,” she faltered. “Tell me where the
men are. I’ll warn them that you are----”
“It is impossible, Miss Breen. They are over a mile from here, and
you can only cross the river at one point. A man used to the trails
couldn’t cover the distance under an hour.”
“Then--the wires!” she exclaimed. “I can cut them.”
For the instant Nash entertained that hope. Yet, after reflection he
knew such a quest was useless.
“We’ve come out of the chamber on the opposite side of the mountain,”
he told her. “You could never in the world find your way around to the
mouth of the drift. There are no paths.”
Miss Breen continued to gaze upon him with terror-stricken eyes. The
pain in Nash’s legs was becoming more and more severe. He fought back
the desire to groan, although he knew his lips were trembling and that
his face must be very white.
“For God’s sake, Miss Breen,” he said, “go away from here! There is yet
a change that I can free myself before---- Anyway, you can do no good.
Go straight down the slope, and turn under the high cliffs below the
pipe line.”
She sank down beside him, overcome, as Nash fancied, by the horror of
it all. He began to fear that she would have no strength left with
which to run.
“What--time is it?” she begged. Yet before he could take out his watch
her hand crept into his pocket, removing it.
“It’s a quarter to eight,” she announced. She held the watch in her
hands, forgetting to return it.
Nash pleaded with her once more. “You must get away! You must! If the
worst should happen--yours would be a useless sacrifice. You can do me
no good by remaining. Your own life is----”
“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” she choked, interrupting him. “I--I am not
worthy.”
He stared into her partly hidden face. “Miss Breen,” he commanded
firmly, “every minute is precious. Pull yourself together. You must be
brave.”
“Yes,” she repeated, “I must be brave.” Never had her voice sounded so
strangely. “I’ve been--been a coward all these months. Now--now I’m
going to be brave. I’m going to tell you the truth. You’ve sacrificed
everything for me. I--I should have known before.” She caught at her
breath, and forced back a sob. “Mr. Nash, I--I have been living a
lie. I am not merely an Eastern girl out here for my health, as you
suspected--as I led you to believe. I--I am a spotter employed by the
city of Los Angeles.”
The declaration came like a blow in the face to Nash. For the moment he
forgot his pain--forgot the situation--forgot that in a few minutes the
whole mountaintop would be a living volcano.
“You--a spotter?” he asked, scarcely believing his ears. And then,
feeling a throb of pity for the girl, he changed. “Well, what does it
matter? There has been no harm done.”
“But there _has_ been harm done,” she stammered, looking at him with
bewildered, misted eyes. “There _has_ been harm done! I--I have
informed the authorities at Los Angeles, and--and you are to be
arrested before the week is out.”
“Informed the authorities!” Nash could only stare at her. “Arrested?”
He started to say something, then hesitated. He fancied, suddenly, that
he understood. Miss Breen, breaking under the strain, was bereft of her
right mind. Her declarations were but the wanderings of a shattered
brain.
He sought to humor her. He must get her away from this spot before it
was too late.
“There, there, Miss Breen,” he said. “Don’t worry. Everything will come
out all right. Only--only you mustn’t stay here another instant. You
must run away--now please----”
“Oh, you don’t seem to understand,” she burst out, almost in a frenzy.
“You’re not taking what I say to be serious. Can’t you realize the
truth? I have told the authorities--the police--and they were to arrest
you. It would mean--mean a long term in prison. And--and I would be the
cause of it all.”
The girl’s earnest, almost pleading assertion aroused Nash. She
appeared to be telling the truth. And yet----
“What did you tell the authorities?” he demanded.
“That--that you were not following the city specifications.”
Her declaration seemed so absurd that, despite the situation, Nash
laughed. If he had a moment since entertained one atom of belief in
Miss Breen’s statements, this final declaration killed it. Too well
he knew he had followed the specifications from the head office; had
double-checked them, assured himself that every figure was right. He
would be willing to wager his life that his work--the work he was held
directly and solely responsible for--was flawless.
Further argument, he felt, would be useless. The moments were far too
precious. So, when he at last spoke, it was upon another subject; one
that appeared to him to be more vital.
“What time is it, Miss Breen?” he asked calmly.
Her eyes sought the watch, which she still held. “It--it is ten minutes
to eight,” she answered.
“Then you’ve yet time,” he pleaded. “Don’t argue. It won’t do any good.
Get away--now, while you can.”
She lifted her eyes from the watch. He fancied her cheeks were flaming
with color.
“Is--is the button to be pressed promptly at eight?” she questioned.
“Yes. Those were my orders. You must not----”
“But suppose something happened,” she interrupted, “to prevent the
explosion?”
“What do you mean?”
“If the explosion doesn’t occur at eight o’clock--isn’t it probable it
will not occur at all?”
“Miss Breen!” he half shouted. “Don’t stay here and waste time with
such foolish questions. You----”
“If--if the explosion doesn’t come at eight--it won’t come at all.
Isn’t that--right?” she burst out.
“For Heaven’s sake, Miss Breen, get away from here. Can’t you
understand? Can’t you see how senseless----”
Miss Breen did a totally unexpected thing. She laughed loudly. Then,
even as Nash was staring as upon a mad-woman, she stopped, trembled,
and instantly had thrown herself face down to the rocks, pillowing her
head in her arms, and sobbing wildly, hysterically, like a frightened
child.