"This," said Phil Clode, setting down his bag, "is the
limit!"
Having given vent to which expressive remark, he laughed
to himself and gazed round upon the most desolate scene
that it had ever been his fortune to behold. Behind him
stood a small, wooden erection, not unlike an enlarged run,
which was, however, dignified by the name of station. For
the rest, a clove-brown plain stretched away to infinity,
marred only by the shining ribbons of the railway track and
an occasional clump of cactus or greaseweed.
"The limit," the boy repeated solemnly. "Hullo! there's
a man, or something very like one. I will get a line on to
his vicinity, and try to extract a little useful information."
Picking up his grip, he hustled over to where a specimen
of the cowboy genus had lounged from behind the station,
leading a broncho that looked rather the worse for wear.
Phil, as he approached, saw that a bag branded with the
sign "U. S. Mail" was slung over the beast's saddle, and his
eyes brightened. He knew that even in that deserted region
of Colorado any servant of Uncle Sam's could be trusted.
"Say," he sang out. "Can you give me any notion where
I am, mister? I was told to get off at Silver Bridge, and
here I am right enough, but I can't see much sign of the
town."
"You on foot?" the other returned with undisguised astonishment.
"You must be stark——"
"Broncho waiting for me at Silver Bridge," Phil interrupted
shortly. He had urgent reasons for not wishing to
talk about his private affairs.
"So?" the man muttered with a sidelong glance. He had
a pleasant face, rough but good humored, and the lad took
to him instinctively. "You're an Easterner, ain't yeh?"
"Yes, and proud of it."
"That's all right. I'm from the East, too, only I've been
here so long that yeh wouldn't think it. I guess yeh'd better
hop up behind me, pardner. Betsy's a game chicken—she's
carried three before now."
"You going to Silver Bridge, then?" Phil queried as the
cowboy stroked the unprepossessing broncho fondly.
"I should smile. I'm cattle tender to the ore-crushing
plant there."
Phil received this information with a start, but made no
remark. In silence he mounted behind the man, who gave
his name as Idaho Bart, and felt with some surprise the
plain bumping rapidly away beneath them, as the broncho,
becoming a bunch of throbbing muscles, pounded eastward
with the regularity of tirelessness of a steam engine.
The mail rider did not seem disposed to let the silence
continue. Out West curiosity about another man's affairs
is usually the signal for gun play, but Idaho Bart proceeded
to break the rule by a series of interrogations of the most
pointed and particular description.
Phil Clode, however, was old for his years, and he met
him at every point, giving a false name, and a reason for
his arrival at Silver Bridge that was so obviously wide of
the truth that the mail carrier, having turned in the saddle
to fix him with a twinkling eye, emitted a short laugh, and
relapsed into taciturnity.
This muteness remained undisturbed until they were in
sight of Silver Bridge, the big ore-crushing town, the shares
of which, back in Wall Street, were at a premium. It appeared
suddenly as they topped a swelling hill that surrounded
two sides of the city like a wall, and Phil surveyed
it with the curiosity of first acquaintance. It reminded him
of a battle ship out of action—of something Titanic which is
wrapped in incongruous slumber. Though only midday, not
a sound rose from the vast collection of shacks and wooden
buildings. The mighty ore crushers and distributors were
idle, the men lounged listlessly round the two hotels, and the
river swirled past unstained by the red of washed metal.
The river? In those two words lay the tragedy—the
reason of the inaction that spelled ruin to thousands, including
the canvas-coated men who diced and gambled and swore
in the saloons. For the river was now a mere meandering
stream, and the power that worked the mills was gone, leaving
the great plant worse than useless, for it would cost more
than it was worth to entrain it to any place where there
would be the likelihood of a buyer.
"Looks pleasant, I don't think," Idaho Bart said bitterly
as he watched Phil's keen, dark eyes glancing over the
drowsy, deserted streets, splashed golden by the afternoon
sun. "Two weeks ago yeh would have opined that yeh were
back in New York. Busy? I guess we had got the Fountain
of Youth faded to a Harlem ash can, when it came
to hustling."
"And now the river's gone," the boy rejoined quietly. His
remarks were all couched to extract information without
giving any in return.
"Say, that's a right hook on the jaw of truth! It's a
lead-pipe cinch that this is about the most mysterious thing
that ever gave a whole layout brain storm. The river
stopped in the night, and we woke up to find this here dribble.
The men are going to pike out, if there don't come a change
'fore Saturday."
Phil muttered something to himself.
"Why don't you find out what has dammed the source of
the river?" he asked a moment later.
"Say, yeh are a young green-growing thing, all ready
canned and labeled!" Bart sniggered. "Do you know that
the source of Silver River is up in Black Cañon?"
"What of that?" queried Phil ingenuously.
"Oh, come off! This ain't the season for spring chickens,
I reckon. I only know of three men what have been into
Black Cañon, and come out alive. Two o' them were engineers
belonging to the United States Reclamation Service,
and they had the time of their lives. The other was a Indian,
and went in to escape the posse that was trailing him
for hoss stealing. He said afterwards that he wished he'd
stopped and been lynched."
Phil made no reply to these revelations, for they were
now in the main thoroughfare of Silver Bridge, and the
ore-stained men were lounging up with a tumultuous outcry
for the mail. They also bestowed upon the boy the benefit
of their rather doubtful wit, but, finding that they got rather
better than they sent, soon betook themselves back to the
enticements of the saloons, leaving Idaho Bart to take the
few official letters up to the office.
"Say, kid, where are yeh going?" he drawled as he strode
away with the loping movement peculiar to the riders of the
plains.
"To Mr. Allsoner," Phil returned carelessly, keeping pace
with him.
He made a clucking sound in his cheek.
"If yeh are after a job, yeh'd better carry your store
clothes away along the shining homeward track right now,"
he said poetically. "Old Allsoner's hoppin' mad, and he'll
have yer scalp before yeh could say Teddy."
"I don't want a job," was the irritating reply, and Phil
grinned as he noted the other's mystification.
The office of Mr. Allsoner, general manager of Clode's
Silver Bridge Reducing Company, Limited, was not an imposing
structure. In fact, it might well have been taken for
a stack of damaged firewood by the uninitiated, but Phil
Clode did not make this mistake. Suddenly shouldering his
way ahead of Idaho Bart, he entered the office at a run, and
disappeared into the manager's private office—the most
sacred spot in the whole townstead—with a coolness that left
the two clerks in the outer department absolutely petrified.
Mr. Allsoner, however, was far from being petrified, and
he had already used more adjectives than could be found in
any dictionary before he looked up, started as though he
could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and ejaculated:
"Phil Clode!"
"Yes, it's me," was the ungrammatical rejoinder. "Father's
got to keep his eye on the market, or we'd go up in a balloon
before an hour was through, and there was nobody else to
come. Mr. Allsoner, there's treachery afloat."
The keen-eyed business man uttered an exclamation of
wonderment, and then, rising, locked the door.
"Spit it out," he said tersely.
"You know our river is stopped."
"I do."
"It's been dammed purposely."
The manager had just seated himself, but he leaped up
again at these quietly spoken words.
"Nonsense! The source is in Black Cañon."
He made his rejoinder with an air of finality, as though
there was no room left for argument.
"Nevertheless, father overheard a conversation between
two Wall Street brokers that convinced him that they have
paid some bad man to dam the river for a time. It's a certainty,
not guesswork."
Mr. Allsoner stared at him in bewilderment.
"I may be dense, Phil, but I fail to see what good damming
our river would do to anybody."
"You are dense," smiled the boy. "Don't you see? Silver
Bridge river runs dry. Panic in Wall Street, and two-hundred-dollar
shares sold in bucketfuls, and bought by the men
who have had the river dammed. Then, after, say, a month,
when they've got control of every share in the market, down
comes the river again, up go the shares to top notch, and
they've netted a cool million."
Silence reigned for a minute, while the manager reviewed
this startling idea. Then he murmured "Jove!" in the tone
of one seeing visions.
"You couldn't tell me who's working the rig, could you?"
he asked facetiously. The realization that the stoppage was
only temporary acted like a tonic. "The boys would give
him a lively time, if they got their fingers in his wool. It
would be a case of the nearest telegraph pole."
"The man mentioned," Phil answered in a cautious whisper,
"was nicknamed Red Spider."
"What! By heavens, you are right! Red Spider is an
outlaw half-breed, horse stealer, cattle runner, murderer, and
everything else abominable. He is known to have a cache
up in the hills, too."
"Then catch Red Spider before eleven o'clock to-morrow.
At that hour there is a meeting, and the state of affairs here
will become public property. The river must be running
before then."
"There isn't a man here that will go into the Black Cañon,
and I don't blame them," the manager declared hopelessly.
"It's certain death."
"What Red Spider can do we must do."
"He's discovered some secret way. Besides, a cross between
an Omaha Indian and a Mexican produces something
tougher than a white man."
"I start at midnight," said Phil Clode, strolling toward the
door.
It was a few minutes after midnight when Phil Clode rode
out of the town.
He was alone. As one man the ore workers had jeered
at the idea of attempting to penetrate into the famous Black
Cañon. They had already been as far as possible, and found
the river unstopped. It had failed at its source, they argued.
Such things had been heard of before. Mr. Allsoner did not
agree with this latter conclusion, but he was entirely convinced
that any attempt to enter the cañon would be futile,
and he did not scruple to tell Phil so.
The boy, however, although he pretended to accept the
manager's decision as final, secretly determined to make an
attempt at solving the mystery single-handed. He knew that
the failure to resume operations on the morrow would mean
ruin to his father, and with the impetuosity of youth he
stigmatized the ore workers as a pack of "superstitious
grandmothers."
Once out of sight of the camp, he urged his game little
steed to a gallop, and set off to where the mountains rose
stark and flat against the mauve-colored rim of the horizon,
keeping his course by the dried river bed that led the way
into the very heart of Black Cañon.
After about an hour's hard riding the track grew even
too steep for the broncho, and Phil, tethering the animal to
a rock, made his way forward on foot. Gradually the walls
of rock rose up and encompassed him, leaving only a strip
of sky faintly seen above his head, and the stillness became
so unearthly that he paused occasionally to cast a stone down
a chasm for the mere pleasure of hearing it rattle.
Arrived at the entrance of the cañon, he halted and surveyed
the way for a few minutes. As Allsoner had told
him, the river—now a morass of horrible mud—entirely
filled the gulch from side to side, rendering progress without
a boat an impossibility. The dam controlling the flow, however,
was built half a mile farther up, and this was reached
by a species of aërial railway, built on the plan of the old
overhead switchbacks, with a car slung to a double rope,
worked by block and pulley on the return journey.
It was certainly not an inviting mode of progression, but
Phil did not falter. Setting his teeth, he grasped the iron
ladder that led up to the summit of the first trestle, and
mounted steadily. By the time that he reached the top the
wind was shrieking in his ears with demoniac fury, and the
trestle seemed to sway bodily before the furious gusts, although
only a mild and gentle breeze could be felt in the
cañon below.
Buttoning his fluttering jacket tightly around him, he
stepped nervously on to the flat, swaying car, and fumbled
with the two hooks that held it in place, being secured to a
couple of iron rings in the top corners.
With a sudden swoop the frail craft left its moorings, and
Phil found himself spinning at a dizzy speed through space.
Presently the slope became less steep, and as his conveyance
slackened speed he was able to look about him.
Not that there was much to be seen, even though the moon
rendered it nearly as light as day. Before him the ropes ran
on in an everlasting stream, and on each side nothing was
visible but the walls of rock, smoothed in places by human
handiwork to allow of the passage of the traveling cradle.
Occasionally the car would almost stop as it passed with a
shock over the platform of one of the trestles, and Phil
found that, by clutching the railings at the proper moment,
he could arrest it without feeling any particular strain.
He had closed his eyes, and was almost enjoying the rush
through the scented night air, when he felt a sudden shudder
run through the car, as if it had struck against something.
Opening his eyes hastily, he peered round, and then a terrified
cry rose to his lips.
The swaying cradle had a new passenger, in the shape of
a picturesquely garbed Mexican, who glared upon the boy
with fierce wolfish orbs, fiery and bloodshot, as he flourished
a long-barreled revolver in his face.
Phil did not need to inquire who the stranger was.
He guessed, and rightly, that it was Red Spider, the outlaw
of the plains, who stood before him.
"Carajo!" the man hissed gutturally, thrusting the firearm
forward until it snicked the boy's nose. "Whose baby are
you? Why are you here? Answer, or over the side you go!"
Leaning forward, he seized Phil's wrist in a vise-like grip,
and forced him slowly toward the edge of the car.
"Come to that, who are you?" the boy retorted pluckily.
"You've got less right than I have to be here, I guess."
The half-breed's teeth grated with fury at this impertinence.
"I am left here to guard the trestle railway," he yelled,
with a curse. "And my duty is to shoot brats who have no
business here!"
He pushed the revolver into Phil's face, gradually forcing
him nearer and nearer to the edge of the vibrating car.
"You find so many boys trying to steal rides on the trolleys,
don't you?" that worthy choked, keeping his wits by a
mighty effort of will. He could see that they were rushing
rapidly toward the last platform, and, if he managed to cling
on till then, he might manage to escape, hopeless as it
seemed.
Reaching out as the Red Spider made a vicious lunge, he
caught hold of one of the iron crossbars that secured the
car to the rope, and held on like grim death. The outlaw,
with a shriek of fury, lifted his revolver, and his finger was
pressing upon the trigger when the last platform stopped
their progress with appalling abruptness. Phil, clinging desperately
as he was, narrowly escaped being flung off, and the
Mexican, unprepared for the impact, literally hurtled through
the air. Over the boy's head he flew, spread-eagled and
screaming, and went down—down—down, with the swiftness
of a shot bird, and disappeared into the purple mists that
veiled the bottom of the cañon from sight. A crash, a single
soul-appalling scream, and Red Spider had vanished forever
from the sight of men.
Sick at heart, Phil Clode lay for a few minutes without
tempting to move. Then he rose cautiously, and, keeping
his eyes averted from the dreadful cañon, commenced the
descent. Before he had reached the bottom all his natural
courage had returned, and he pressed on with renewed
energy, inspired by the idea that the outlaw might have left
some trail which would lead to his hiding place.
It was black as within a tomb now, for the rocky walls
towered up and up higher than the eye could reach.
The track was no more than a smear along the face of the
cliff, and Phil began to realize the difficulties that he was to
encounter as he proceeded inch by inch, clinging on with
teeth and hands, with a thousand-foot drop waiting below.
The path, too, grew narrower, and he was just about to relinquish
his herculean task in despair when he saw a gleam
of light—lantern light—searing the eternal glooms like a
streak of fire, and not twenty yards ahead of him as he
rounded a sharp bend.
In another minute Red Spider's secret lay revealed.
A square of rock, fitted with powerful hinges, had been
opened inward, and the lantern set in the entrance as a guiding
light when the outlaw returned. Beyond, the path grew
so narrow that it was a human impossibility to scale it;
below, until the mysterious catastrophe of its cessation, lay
the river, sliding and thundering in cascades and waterfalls,
and usually fifty feet or more deep. Phil realized that the
passage of Black Cañon was a thing to be dreamed of, and
not attempted.
Taking up the lantern, he set off at a brisk pace up the
sandy tunnel at the entrance of which it was placed, keeping
his eyes open for pitfalls and fissures. The passage led to
the right, and perceptibly upward, and ere long he found
himself walking parallel with what had once been the river.
After an hour's hard walking he came suddenly into a
spacious cave, and found himself gazing once more at the
oozing river bed, and at—Red Spider's dam!
Yes, there it was, a great mass of blocks of stone, walling
the cañon from side to side, and cunningly diverting the
foaming water into a subterranean stream that had been uncovered
and channeled for the purpose. Picks and ropes,
and blocks of stone, were strewn around in every direction,
and just over the mouth of the underground river hung a
platform of planking supported by countless ropes, and loaded
with a ton or more of cut rock.
Phil was not long in doubt as to its use.
With a little bubbling cry of joy he produced his clasp
knife, and went to work busily to hack the ropes in twain.
A score of them were severed, when an ear-splitting crack
made him start hastily back. Next instant the whole load of
rock fell with a mighty crash, completely blocking the entrance
to the subterranean stream that had been draining the
life from the river.
Something had to give way, and Red Spider's cunningly
constructed dam was directly in the path of the river as it
swelled, and rose, and bellied upward. Then, with a roar
louder than any thunder, it broke the barrier away, and
hurled itself into Black Cañon with irresistible fury, to race
and tumble down to where the Silver Bridge Reducing Company's
plant was waiting to sully its foaming waters with
the red stain of the ore.
