Out of the Depths

by Bennet, Robert Ames

  “Hold on,” called the engineer. “We want to make haste slowly. That buckskin you’re on isn’t so young as he has been, and my pony has to lug around two hundred pounds. We’ll get back sooner by being moderate. Besides you don’t wish to knock up old Buck. He is about the only one of these jumpy cow ponies that is safe for Jenny.”

  “That’s so,” admitted Ashton. “Suppose you set the pace.”

  He stopped to let Blake pass him, and trailed behind up the mountain side. He had headed into a draw. The engineer at once turned and began zigzagging up the steep side of the ridge that thrust out into the valley between the draw and the gulch of Dry Fork. At the stiffest places he jumped off and led his pony. None too willingly, Ashton followed the example set by his companion. There were some places where he could not have avoided so doing––ledges that the old buckskin, despite his years of mountain service, could hardly scramble up under an empty saddle.

  Long before they reached the point of the ridge, Ashton was panting and sweating, and his handsome face was red from exertion and anger. But his indignation at being misguided up so difficult a line of ascent received a damper when he reached the lower end of the ridge crest. Blake, who had waited patiently for him to clamber up the last sharp slope, gave him a cheerful nod and pointed to the long but fairly easy incline of the ridge crest.

  “In mountain climbing, always take your stiffest ground first, when you can,” he said. “We can jog along pretty fast now.”

  They mounted and rode up the ridge, much of the time at a jog trot. Before long they came to the top of High Mesa, and galloped across to one of the ridges that lay parallel with Deep Cañon. Climbing the ridge, they found themselves looking over into a ravine that ran down to the right to join another ravine from the opposite direction, at the head of Dry Fork Gulch. Blake turned and rode to the left along the ridge, until he found a place where they could cross the ravine. The still air was reverberating with the muffled roar of Deep Cañon.

  From the ridge on the other side of the ravine, they could look down between the scattered pines to the gaping chasm of the stupendous cañon. But Blake rode to the right along the summit of the ridge until they came opposite the head of Dry Fork Gulch. Here he flung the reins over his pony’s head, and dismounted. Ashton was about to do the same when he caught sight of a wolf slinking away like a gray shadow up the farther ravine. He reached for his rifle, and for the first time noticed that he had failed to bring it along. In his haste to start from camp he had left it in the tent.

  “Sacre!” he petulantly exclaimed. “There goes twenty-five dollars!”

  “How’s that?” asked Blake. He looked and caught a glimpse of the wolf just as it vanished. “Why don’t you shoot?”

  “Left my rifle in camp, curse the luck!”

  “Keep cool,” advised Blake. “It’s only twenty-five dollars, and you might have missed anyway.”

  “Not with my automatic,” snapped Ashton. “You needn’t sneer about the money. You’ve seen times when you’d have been glad of a chance at half the amount.”

  “That’s true,” gravely agreed the engineer. “What’s more, I realize that it is far harder for you than it ever was for me. I want to tell you I admire the way you have stood your loss.”

  “You do?” burst out the younger man. “I want to tell you I don’t admire the way you ruined me––babbling to my father––when you promised to keep still! You sneak!”

  Blake looked into the other’s furious face with no shade of change in his grave gaze. “I have never said a word to your father against you,” he declared.

  “Then––then how, after all this time––?” stammered Ashton, even in his anger unable to disbelieve the engineer’s quiet statement. He was disconcerted only for the moment. Again he flared hotly: “But if you didn’t, old Leslie must have! It’s all the same!”

  “No, it is not the same,” corrected Blake. “As for my father-in-law, if he said anything about––the past, I feel sure it was not with intention to hurt your interests.”

  “Hurt my interests! You know I am utterly ruined!”

  “On the contrary, I know you are not ruined. You have lost a large allowance, and a will has been made cutting you off from a great many millions that you expected to inherit. But you have landed square on your feet; you have a pretty good job, and you are stronger and healthier than you were.”

  “If you break up Mr. Knowles’ range with your irrigation schemes, I stand to lose my job. You know that.”

  “If the project proves to be feasible, I shall offer you a position on the works,” said Blake.

  “You needn’t try to bribe me!” retorted Ashton. “I’m working for Mr. Knowles.”

  “Well, he directed you to help me with this survey,” replied the engineer, with imperturbable good nature. “The next move is to chain across to the cañon.”

  He pulled his surveyor’s chain from the bag and descended the ridge to an out-jutting rock above the head of the tremendous gorge in the mountain side. Ashton followed him down. Blake handed him the front end of the chain.

  “You lead,” he said. “I’ll line you, as I know where to strike the nearest point on the cañon.”

  Ashton sullenly started up the ridge, and the measurement began. As Blake required only a rough approximation, they soon crossed the ridge and chained down through the trees to the edge of Deep Cañon. Ashton was astonished at the shortness of the distance. The cañon at this point ran towards the mesa escarpment as if it had originally intended to drive through into Dry Fork Gulch, but twisted sharp about and curved back across the plateau. Even Blake was surprised at the measurement. It was only a little over two thousand feet.

  “Noticed this place when out with Mr. Knowles and Gowan,” he remarked, gazing down into the abyss with keen appreciation of its awful grandeur. “They told me it is the nearest that the cañon comes to the edge of the mesa, until it breaks out, thirty or forty miles down.”

  “How––how about that ‘if’ you said this measurement would settle?” asked Ashton.

  “What’s the time?”

  Ashton looked at his watch, frowning over the evasive reply. “It’s two-ten.”

  “I’ll figure on the proposition while we eat lunch,” said Blake. “I can answer you better regarding that ‘if’ when I have done some calculating. Luckily I climbed up to examine the rock in the gulch.” He smiled quizzically at his companion. “You were right as to its being unclimbable; but I found out even more than I expected.”

  Ashton silently took the bag from him and arranged the lunch and his canteen on a rock under a pine. The engineer figured and drew little diagrams in his fieldbook while he ate his sandwiches. Ashton had half drained the canteen on the way up the mountain. Before sitting down Blake had rinsed out his mouth and taken a few swallows of water. After eating, he started to take another drink, noticed his companion’s hot dry face, and stopped after a single sip.

  “Guess you need it more than I do,” he remarked, as he rose to his feet. “Time to start. I wish to go around and down the mountain on the other side of the gulch.”

  “How about the––the ‘if’?” inquired Ashton.

  “Killed,” answered Blake. “There now is only one left. If that comes out the same way, Dry Mesa will have good cause to change its name.”

  “You can tunnel through from the gulch to the cañon?” exclaimed Ashton.

  “Yes; and I shall do so––if Deep Cañon is not too deep.”

  “I hope it is a thousand feet below Dry Mesa!” said Ashton.

  “In the circumstances,” Blake replied to the fervent declaration, “I am glad to hear you say it.”

  Ashton stared, but could detect no sarcasm in the other’s smile of commendation.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVII

  A SHOT IN THE DUSK

  They returned to their grazing ponies, and at once started the descent of the mountain, after crossing the ravine where they had seen the wolf. Blake cho
se a route that brought them down into the valley above the waterhole shortly before five o’clock. They cantered the remaining distance along the wide, gravelly wash of the creek bed to the dike.

  Looking down from the dike, they saw that Knowles and Gowan had come up the creek and were waiting for them in company with the ladies. Ashton set spurs to his horse and dashed across above the pool, to descend the slope to the party. Blake descended on the other side, to water his horse and slake his own thirst.

  To Ashton’s chagrin, Isobel joined Genevieve in hastening to meet the engineer. He rode down beside the two men and jumped off to follow the ladies. But Gowan sprang before him.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Mr. Knowles wants your report.”

  “If you’ll oblige us, Lafe,” added the cowman. “I’m pretty much worked up.”

  “You have cause to be!” replied Ashton. “He says the only question left is whether the water in the cañon is not at too low a level. We measured across from the creek gulch to the cañon. A tunnel is practicable, he says.”

  “Through all that mountain?” scoffed Gowan. “It’s solid rock, clean through. It would take him a hundred years to burrow a hole like that.”

  “You know nothing of engineering and its tools. We now have electric drills that will eat into granite like cheese,” condescendingly explained Ashton.

  “Think I don’t know that? But just you try to figure out how he’s going to get his electricity for his drills,” retorted Gowan.

  Without stopping for his disconcerted rival to reply, he turned his back on him and started towards Isobel. The girl was running up from the pool, her face almost pitiful with disappointment.

  “Oh, Daddy!” she called, “Mr. Blake says that if the water in the cañon––”

  “Needn’t tell me, honey. I know already,” broke in her father, hastening to meet her.

  She flung her arms about his neck, and sobbed brokenly: “I’m––I’m so sorry for you, D-Daddy!”

  “There, there now!” he soothed, awkwardly patting her back. “’Tisn’t like you to cry before you’re hurt.”

  “No, no––you! not me. It doesn’t matter about me!”

  “Doesn’t it, though! But I’m not hurt either, as yet. It’s a long ways from being a sure thing.”

  “All the way down to the bottom of Deep Cañon!” put in Ashton.

  “And then some!” added Gowan. “I’ve hit on another ‘if,’ Miss Chuckie.”

  “You have? Oh, Kid, tell us!”

  “It’s this: How’s he going to get electricity to dig his tunnel?”

  Blake was coming up from the pool, with his baby in one arm and his wife clinging fondly to the other. He met the coldly exultant glance of Gowan, and smiled.

  “The only question regarding the power is one of cost, Mr. Gowan,” he said. “There is no coal near enough to be hauled. But gasolene is not bulky. If there was water power to generate electricity, a tunnel could be bored at half the cost I have figured. The point is that there is no water power available, nor will there be until the tunnel is finished.”

  “What! You talk about finishing the tunnel? Didn’t you say it is still uncertain about the water?” demanded Knowles.

  “I was merely explaining to Mr. Gowan,” replied Blake. “The question he raised is one of the factors in our problem as to whether an irrigation project is practicable. We now know that we have the land for it, the tunnel site, the reservoir site––” he pointed to the valley above the dike––“and I have figured that the cost of construction would not be excessive. All that remains is to determine if we have the water. I have already explained that this will require a descent into the cañon.”

  “You say that that will decide it, one way or the other?” queried Knowles, his forehead creased with deep lines of foreboding.

  “Yes,” replied Blake. “I regret that you feel as you do about it. Consider what it would mean to hundreds, yes, thousands of people, if this mesa were watered. I assure you that you, too, would benefit by the project.”

  “I don’t care for any such benefit, Mr. Blake. I’ve been a cowman for twenty-five years. I want to keep my range until the time comes for me to take the long trail.”

  “It would be hard to change,” agreed the engineer. “However, the point now is to find what Deep Cañon has to tell us.”

  “You still think you can go down it?”

  “Yes, if I have ropes, a two-pound hammer, and some iron pins; railroad spikes and picket-pins would do.”

  “Going to rope the rocks and pull them up for steps?” asked Gowan.

  “I shall need two or three hundred feet of half-inch manila,” said Blake, ignoring the sarcasm.

  “They may have it at Stockchute,” said Knowles. “Kid, you can drive over with the wagon and fetch Mr. Blake all the rope and other things he wants. I can’t stand this waiting much longer.”

  “There will be no time lost,” said Blake. “It will take Ashton and me all of tomorrow to carry a line of levels up the mountain.”

  “Why need you do that, Tom?” asked his wife.

  “Yes, why, if all that’s left is to go down into the cañon?” added Isobel, dabbing the tears from her wet eyes.

  Ashton thrust in an answer before Blake could speak. “We must see how high the upper mesa is above this one, Miss Chuckie, and then compare the difference of altitude with the depth of the cañon, to see whether its bottom is above or below the bottom of the gulch.”

  “Oh––measure up and then down, to see which way is longest,” said Genevieve.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” broke in Knowles. “We’ll have to be starting now to get home by dark. If you think you can trust me with that young man, I’d like the honor of packing him all the way in. I’ve toted calves for miles, so I guess I can hold onto a baby if I use both hands.”

  “You shall have him!” replied Genevieve, smiling like a daughter as she met the look in his grave eyes. “Tom, give Thomas to Mr. Knowles––when he is safe in the saddle.”

  Even Gowan cracked a smile at this cautious qualification. He hastened to bring Isobel’s horse and hold him for her––which gave Ashton the opportunity to help her mount. Both services were needless, but she rewarded each eager servitor with a dimpled smile. When Blake handed the baby up to Knowles, his wife, untroubled by mock modesty, gave him a loving kiss. He lifted her bodily into the saddle, and she rode off with her three companions.

  Isobel, however, wheeled within the first few yards, and came back for a parting word: “You can expect us quite early tomorrow. We will overtake you on your way up the mountain. I wish Genevieve to see the cañon. Good night––Pleasant dreams!”

  She had addressed Ashton, but her last smile was for Blake, and it was undisguisedly affectionate. As she loped away after the others, Ashton frowned, and, picking up his rifle, started off up the valley. Blake was staring after the girl with a wondering look. He turned to cast a quizzical glance at the back of the resentful lover.

  When the latter had disappeared around the hill, the engineer took the frying pan and walked up into the creek bed above the dike. After going some distance over the gravel bars, he came to a place where the swirl of the last freshet had gouged a hole almost to bedrock. Scooping a panful of sand and gravel from the bottom of the hole, he went back and squatted down beside the pool within easy reach of the water.

  He picked the larger pebbles from the pan, added water, and began to swirl the contents around with a circular motion. Each turn flirted some of the sand and water over the pan’s beveled edge. Every little while he renewed the water. At last the pan’s contents were reduced to a half dozen, irregular, dirty, little lumps and a handful of “black sand” in which gleamed numbers of yellow particles.

  Blake put the nuggets into his pocket and threw the rest out into the pool. He returned to the tent and sat down to re-check his level-book and his calculations on the approximate cost of the tunnel. Sundown found him still figuring; but when twilight faded into dusk,
he put away his fieldbook and started a fire for supper.

  He was in the act of setting on a pan of bacon when, without the slightest warning, a bullet cut the knot of the loose neckerchief under his downbent chin. In the same instant that he heard the ping of the shot he pitched sideways and flattened himself on the ground with the chuck-box between him and the fire. A roll and a quick crawl took him into the underbrush beyond the circle of firelight. No second bullet followed him in his amazingly swift movements. He lay motionless, listening intently, but no sound broke the stillness of the evening except the distant wail of a coyote and the hoot of an owl.

  Half an hour passed, and still the engineer waited. The dusk deepened into darkness. At last a heavy footfall sounded up on the dike. Blake rose, and slipping silently to the tent, groped about until he found a heavy iron picket-pin.

  Someone came down the slope and kicked his way petulantly through the bushes to the dying fire. He threw on an armful of brush. The light of the up-blazing flame showed Ashton standing beside the chuck-box, rifle in hand. But he dropped the weapon to pick up the overturned frying pan, which lay at his feet.

  “Hello, Blake!” he sang out irritably. “I supposed you’d have supper waiting. Haven’t turned in this early, have you?”

  “No,” replied Blake, and he came forward, carelessly swinging the picket-pin. “Thought I saw a coyote sneaking about, and tried to trick him into coming close enough for me to nail him with this pin.”

  “With that!” scoffed Ashton. “But it would do as well as my rifle. I took a shot at a wolf, and then the mechanism jammed. I can’t get it to work.”

  “You fired a shot?” asked Blake.

  “Yes. Was it too far off for you to hear? I circled all around these hills.”