AFTERWARD.
To say that Nash was amazed at this mingled display of tears and
laughter, would be putting it mildly. He reached out his arm and
attempted to grip hers. But she had fallen just a few inches too far
away.
“Miss Breen,” he called. “Miss Breen!”
Her sobbing had stopped as abruptly as it had come. And although she
did not answer him, there came to his ears another sound, which like
the striking of a gong in a fire house, immediately sent his pulses
racing like mad.
Some one was shouting. Lifting his head Nash answered back. Then the
still night air was rent by a chorus of maddening yells. Nash could
not reason it all out for the moment, but turning his eyes, he saw far
below him a dozen men climbing up the slope--and at their head he made
out the figure of his subforeman--the man who was to have pressed the
button that would have torn asunder the mountaintop.
“Hello!” came the leader’s voice. “That you, Nash?”
Nash answered. Almost instantly, it appeared, he was surrounded by the
members of the “coyote” gang.
“We thought something was up,” the foreman was saying, “and thank God
there was, too! I pressed the button at eight o’clock--and nothing
happened. I knew the battery was O. K., so the only thing I could think
of was that the wires had been broken.”
“At--at eight o’clock!” exclaimed Nash. “What are you talking about? It
isn’t that time yet.”
“What’s the matter with your watch?” The foreman was laughing. “Why,
it’s blamed near nine.”
Nash frowned. “Take care of Miss Breen,” he said. “She’s fainted, I
guess.”
One of the men handed him his watch. He looked at it. The hands marked
eight-forty. Then, in a flash, he understood. Miss Breen had, for some
reason or other, lied to him.
“How in the deuce did you get wedged in here?” the foreman interrupted.
“Miss Breen and I were inspecting the rock chamber. The tunnel caved
in--must have cut the wires at the same time. Then I discovered the air
vent, and we managed to get out--that is, Miss Breen did. Something’s
got my legs in a vise.”
Luckily the men were prepared for trouble, and they had brought some
tools. So, after fifteen minutes of hard work, Nash was released. His
legs were cut and cramped, but otherwise he was uninjured.
As soon as he had restored the circulation to his stiff legs by walking
around for a minute or two, he concerned himself with Miss Breen. She
was still in a dead faint.
“Plucky girl,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t faint until it was all
over. And a spotter, too.” He looked down into her white face. “Wonder
why she lied to me about the time?”
An idea did come to him that might have explained this last, and,
although he would have liked to believe it, the thing seemed all but
impossible.
“We’ve got to get Miss Breen home,” he said, speaking abruptly to the
foreman. “Get two of the boys to rig up a stretcher.”
“Where does she live?” inquired the other.
“Elkhorn Ranch.”
“So?” The foreman looked surprised. “That’s where Macmillan stayed.
Some folks from there came in about seven o’clock to claim his body.”
Nash frowned. Macmillan living at the same ranch as Miss Breen! Perhaps
this explained something definite as to the cause of that certain
night’s affair.
Fifteen minutes later Miss Breen came to. She was still very weak,
and Nash did not question her, much as he would have liked to do so.
Instead, he gave her in charge of two of the boys, who carried her
down the slope where the ponies had been left. Here she was lifted to
a saddle, and supported on both sides, while the journey toward the
Elkhorn Ranch was begun.
Nash, meanwhile, indifferent to the strain he had been under, and to
the questions which still puzzled him, immediately issued orders, and
the remaining group of men, led by himself and the foreman, tramped
over the hill and down the opposite side to where the tunnel mouth
yawned.
It took the best part of an hour to remove the débris from the drift,
and to repair the broken wire. With this completed, they went down to
where the horses were grazing, and were shortly on their way to camp.
“We’ll postpone the fireworks until to-morrow night,” Nash said, in
answer to the foreman’s inquiry.
The foreman apparently was realizing what a narrow escape Nash had
suffered this night, and the single incident that had prevented the
explosion.
“Good Lord!” he muttered, while he and Nash were riding side by side.
“Think of what might have happened--had that wire been intact! The more
I think of it the weaker I get.”
“You’d never have found a piece of me,” Nash answered. “Nor of Miss
Breen, for that matter. What a disappearance!”
“Who is this--Miss Breen?”
“Well,” Nash answered frankly, “as long as you have been doing your
work faithfully, I might as well confess. She’s a spotter.”
The foreman swore. “A spotter?”
“Yes. But somehow I never feel afraid. Never have. Oh, I know how the
majority of men feel about such things. Spotters represent all that
is undesirable to them--and they take the easiest method of ridding
themselves of so-called trouble-makers. Seems foolish to me. A man who
is doing his work right should not fear inspection.”
“Don’t you?” asked the foreman.
“Why should I? Camp Forty-seven is run on the square. My books are
always open. I’m willing that the whole engineering board should come
here and make a personal examination.”
The foreman turned and glanced swiftly, curiously, into Nash’s face.
“There’s no danger of such a thing happening, is there?”
“It isn’t probable,” Nash answered. “Why?”
The foreman shrugged and laughed. “Oh, nothing. Of course, I’m
not worrying--it isn’t my place to do so. You’re the responsible
party here, and you’re too clever a man to leave such things as--as
footprints or thumb marks about.”
“You are not insinuating that I might----” began Nash.
“Certainly not!” exclaimed the other, interrupting. “But often a
spotter--particularly a woman, is likely to get a line on some things
that ought to be--well, kept under cover.”
They had reached camp by this time, and when the foreman finished with
his declaration, he laughed again, and turned into a dark side street.
“See you later, Mr. Nash,” he called back.
Nash continued alone up the main street of the camp, pondering over the
man’s conversation.
“He knows something--or thinks he does, anyway,” Nash muttered to
himself. “If I wasn’t absolutely sure of myself----” He stopped,
laughing at his own suspicions. “Nonsense. I’ll see that fellow in the
morning, and find out just what he’s aiming at.”