THE RED SPIDER.
"This," said Phil Clode, setting down his bag, "is the limit!"
Having given vent to which expressive remark, he laughed to himselfand gazed round upon the most desolate scene that it had ever beenhis fortune to behold. Behind him stood a small, wooden erection, notunlike an enlarged run, which was, however, dignified by the name ofstation. For the rest, a clove-brown plain stretched away to infinity,marred only by the shining ribbons of the railway track and anoccasional clump of cactus or greaseweed.
"The limit," the boy repeated solemnly. "Hullo! there's a man, orsomething very like one. I will get a line on to his vicinity, and tryto extract a little useful information."
Picking up his grip, he hustled over to where a specimen of the cowboygenus had lounged from behind the station, leading a broncho thatlooked rather the worse for wear. Phil, as he approached, saw thata bag branded with the sign "U. S. Mail" was slung over the beast'ssaddle, and his eyes brightened. He knew that even in that desertedregion 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? Iwas told to get off at Silver Bridge, and here I am right enough, but Ican't see much sign of the town."
"You on foot?" the other returned with undisguised astonishment. "Youmust be stark----"
"Broncho waiting for me at Silver Bridge," Phil interrupted shortly. Hehad 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'rean 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 longthat 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 strokedthe 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. Insilence he mounted behind the man, who gave his name as Idaho Bart, andfelt with some surprise the plain bumping rapidly away beneath them, asthe broncho, becoming a bunch of throbbing muscles, pounded eastwardwith the regularity of tirelessness of a steam engine.
The mail rider did not seem disposed to let the silence continue. OutWest curiosity about another man's affairs is usually the signal forgun play, but Idaho Bart proceeded to break the rule by a series ofinterrogations of the most pointed and particular description.
Phil Clode, however, was old for his years, and he met him at everypoint, giving a false name, and a reason for his arrival at SilverBridge 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 ashort laugh, and relapsed into taciturnity.
This muteness remained undisturbed until they were in sight of SilverBridge, the big ore-crushing town, the shares of which, back in WallStreet, were at a premium. It appeared suddenly as they topped aswelling hill that surrounded two sides of the city like a wall, andPhil surveyed it with the curiosity of first acquaintance. It remindedhim of a battle ship out of action--of something Titanic which iswrapped in incongruous slumber. Though only midday, not a sound rosefrom the vast collection of shacks and wooden buildings. The mighty orecrushers and distributors were idle, the men lounged listlessly roundthe two hotels, and the river swirled past unstained by the red ofwashed metal.
The river? In those two words lay the tragedy--the reason of theinaction that spelled ruin to thousands, including the canvas-coatedmen who diced and gambled and swore in the saloons. For the river wasnow a mere meandering stream, and the power that worked the mills wasgone, leaving the great plant worse than useless, for it would costmore than it was worth to entrain it to any place where there would bethe likelihood of a buyer.
"Looks pleasant, I don't think," Idaho Bart said bitterly as he watchedPhil's keen, dark eyes glancing over the drowsy, deserted streets,splashed golden by the afternoon sun. "Two weeks ago yeh would haveopined that yeh were back in New York. Busy? I guess we had got theFountain 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 wereall 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 cinchthat this is about the most mysterious thing that ever gave a wholelayout brain storm. The river stopped in the night, and we woke up tofind this here dribble. The men are going to pike out, if there don'tcome a change 'fore Saturday."
Phil muttered something to himself.
"Why don't you find out what has dammed the source of the river?" heasked a moment later.
"Say, yeh are a young green-growing thing, all ready canned andlabeled!" Bart sniggered. "Do you know that the source of Silver Riveris up in Black Ca?on?"
"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 Ca?on, and comeout alive. Two o' them were engineers belonging to the United StatesReclamation Service, and they had the time of their lives. The otherwas a Indian, and went in to escape the posse that was trailing him forhoss stealing. He said afterwards that he wished he'd stopped and beenlynched."
Phil made no reply to these revelations, for they were now in the mainthoroughfare of Silver Bridge, and the ore-stained men were loungingup with a tumultuous outcry for the mail. They also bestowed upon theboy the benefit of their rather doubtful wit, but, finding that theygot rather better than they sent, soon betook themselves back to theenticements of the saloons, leaving Idaho Bart to take the few officialletters up to the office.
"Say, kid, where are yeh going?" he drawled as he strode away with theloping 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 awayalong the shining homeward track right now," he said poetically. "OldAllsoner's hoppin' mad, and he'll have yer scalp before yeh could sayTeddy."
"I don't want a job," was the irritating reply, and Phil grinned as henoted the other's mystification.
The office of Mr. Allsoner, general manager of Clode's Silver BridgeReducing Company, Limited, was not an imposing structure. In fact,it might well have been taken for a stack of damaged firewood bythe uninitiated, but Phil Clode did not make this mistake. Suddenlyshouldering his way ahead of Idaho Bart, he entered the office at arun, and disappeared into the manager's private office--the most sacredspot in the whole townstead--with a coolness that left the two clerksin the outer department absolutely petrified.
Mr. Allsoner, however, was far from being petrified, and he had alreadyused more adjectives than could be found in any dictionary before helooked up, started as though he could scarcely believe the evidence ofhis senses, and ejaculated:
"Phil Clode!"
"Yes, it's me," was the ungrammatical rejoinder. "Father's got tokeep his eye on the market, or we'd go up in a balloon before an hourwas through, and there was nobody else to come. Mr. Allsoner, there'streachery afloat."
The keen-eyed business man uttered an exclamation of wonderment, andthen, 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 thesequietly spoken words.
"Nonsense! The source is in Black Ca?on."
He made his rejoinder with an air of finality, as though there was noroom left for argument.
"Nevertheless, father overheard a conversation between two Wall Streetbrokers that convinced him that t
hey have paid some bad man to dam theriver 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 riverwould do to anybody."
"You are dense," smiled the boy. "Don't you see? Silver Bridge riverruns dry. Panic in Wall Street, and two-hundred-dollar shares sold inbucketfuls, 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 themarket, down comes the river again, up go the shares to top notch, andthey've netted a cool million."
Silence reigned for a minute, while the manager reviewed this startlingidea. Then he murmured "Jove!" in the tone of one seeing visions.
"You couldn't tell me who's working the rig, could you?" he askedfacetiously. The realization that the stoppage was only temporary actedlike a tonic. "The boys would give him a lively time, if they got theirfingers in his wool. It would be a case of the nearest telegraph pole."
"The man mentioned," Phil answered in a cautious whisper, "wasnicknamed 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 hourthere is a meeting, and the state of affairs here will become publicproperty. The river must be running before then."
"There isn't a man here that will go into the Black Ca?on, and I don'tblame 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 OmahaIndian 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 thetown.
He was alone. As one man the ore workers had jeered at the idea ofattempting to penetrate into the famous Black Ca?on. They had alreadybeen as far as possible, and found the river unstopped. It had failedat its source, they argued. Such things had been heard of before. Mr.Allsoner did not agree with this latter conclusion, but he was entirelyconvinced that any attempt to enter the ca?on would be futile, and hedid not scruple to tell Phil so.
The boy, however, although he pretended to accept the manager'sdecision as final, secretly determined to make an attempt at solvingthe mystery single-handed. He knew that the failure to resumeoperations on the morrow would mean ruin to his father, and with theimpetuosity 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 agallop, and set off to where the mountains rose stark and flat againstthe mauve-colored rim of the horizon, keeping his course by the driedriver bed that led the way into the very heart of Black Ca?on.
After about an hour's hard riding the track grew even too steep forthe broncho, and Phil, tethering the animal to a rock, made his wayforward on foot. Gradually the walls of rock rose up and encompassedhim, leaving only a strip of sky faintly seen above his head, and thestillness became so unearthly that he paused occasionally to cast astone down a chasm for the mere pleasure of hearing it rattle.
Arrived at the entrance of the ca?on, he halted and surveyed the wayfor a few minutes. As Allsoner had told him, the river--now a morass ofhorrible mud--entirely filled the gulch from side to side, renderingprogress without a boat an impossibility. The dam controlling theflow, however, was built half a mile farther up, and this was reachedby a species of a?rial railway, built on the plan of the old overheadswitchbacks, with a car slung to a double rope, worked by block andpulley on the return journey.
It was certainly not an inviting mode of progression, but Phil did notfalter. Setting his teeth, he grasped the iron ladder that led up tothe summit of the first trestle, and mounted steadily. By the time thathe reached the top the wind was shrieking in his ears with demoniacfury, and the trestle seemed to sway bodily before the furious gusts,although only a mild and gentle breeze could be felt in the ca?on below.
Buttoning his fluttering jacket tightly around him, he steppednervously on to the flat, swaying car, and fumbled with the two hooksthat held it in place, being secured to a couple of iron rings in thetop corners.
With a sudden swoop the frail craft left its moorings, and Phil foundhimself spinning at a dizzy speed through space. Presently the slopebecame less steep, and as his conveyance slackened speed he was able tolook about him.
Not that there was much to be seen, even though the moon rendered itnearly as light as day. Before him the ropes ran on in an everlastingstream, and on each side nothing was visible but the walls of rock,smoothed in places by human handiwork to allow of the passage of thetraveling cradle. Occasionally the car would almost stop as it passedwith a shock over the platform of one of the trestles, and Phil foundthat, by clutching the railings at the proper moment, he could arrestit without feeling any particular strain.
He had closed his eyes, and was almost enjoying the rush through thescented night air, when he felt a sudden shudder run through the car,as if it had struck against something. Opening his eyes hastily, hepeered round, and then a terrified cry rose to his lips.
The swaying cradle had a new passenger, in the shape of a picturesquelygarbed Mexican, who glared upon the boy with fierce wolfish orbs, fieryand 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 theplains, who stood before him.
"Carajo!" the man hissed gutturally, thrusting the firearm forwarduntil 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 forcedhim slowly toward the edge of the car.
"Come to that, who are you?" the boy retorted pluckily. "You've gotless 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 nearerand nearer to the edge of the vibrating car.
"You find so many boys trying to steal rides on the trolleys, don'tyou?" 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 holdof one of the iron crossbars that secured the car to the rope, andheld on like grim death. The outlaw, with a shriek of fury, liftedhis revolver, and his finger was pressing upon the trigger when thelast platform stopped their progress with appalling abruptness. Phil,clinging desperately as he was, narrowly escaped being flung off, andthe Mexican, unprepared for the impact, literally hurtled through theair. Over the boy's head he flew, spread-eagled and screaming, and wentdown--down--down, with the swiftness of a shot bird, and disappearedinto the purple mists that veiled the bottom of the ca?on from sight.A crash, a single soul-appalling scream, and Red Spider had vanishedforever from the sight of men.
Sick at heart, Phil Clode lay for a few minutes without tempting tomove. Then he rose cautiously, and, keeping his eyes averted from thedreadful ca?on, commenced the descent. Before he had reached the bottomall his natural courage had returned, and he pressed on with renewedenergy, inspired by the idea that the outlaw might have left some trailwhich would lead to his hiding place.
It was black as within a tomb now, for the rocky walls towered up andup higher than the eye could reach.
The track was no more than a smear along the face of the cliff, andPhil began to realize the difficulties that he was to encounter ash
e proceeded inch by inch, clinging on with teeth and hands, with athousand-foot drop waiting below. The path, too, grew narrower, andhe was just about to relinquish his herculean task in despair when hesaw a gleam of light--lantern light--searing the eternal glooms like astreak of fire, and not twenty yards ahead of him as he rounded a sharpbend.
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 theoutlaw returned. Beyond, the path grew so narrow that it was a humanimpossibility to scale it; below, until the mysterious catastrophe ofits cessation, lay the river, sliding and thundering in cascades andwaterfalls, and usually fifty feet or more deep. Phil realized that thepassage of Black Ca?on was a thing to be dreamed of, and not attempted.
Taking up the lantern, he set off at a brisk pace up the sandy tunnelat the entrance of which it was placed, keeping his eyes open forpitfalls and fissures. The passage led to the right, and perceptiblyupward, and ere long he found himself walking parallel with what hadonce been the river.
After an hour's hard walking he came suddenly into a spacious cave, andfound himself gazing once more at the oozing river bed, and at--RedSpider's dam!
Yes, there it was, a great mass of blocks of stone, walling the ca?onfrom side to side, and cunningly diverting the foaming water into asubterranean stream that had been uncovered and channeled for thepurpose. Picks and ropes, and blocks of stone, were strewn around inevery direction, and just over the mouth of the underground river hunga platform of planking supported by countless ropes, and loaded with aton 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 wentto work busily to hack the ropes in twain.
A score of them were severed, when an ear-splitting crack made himstart hastily back. Next instant the whole load of rock fell with amighty crash, completely blocking the entrance to the subterraneanstream that had been draining the life from the river.
Something had to give way, and Red Spider's cunningly constructed damwas directly in the path of the river as it swelled, and rose, andbellied upward. Then, with a roar louder than any thunder, it brokethe barrier away, and hurled itself into Black Ca?on with irresistiblefury, to race and tumble down to where the Silver Bridge ReducingCompany's plant was waiting to sully its foaming waters with the redstain of the ore.
Motor Matt's Hard Luck; or, The Balloon-House Plot Page 18
