started toward the nearest. If she went down it she would be almost certain to wander, lost, in a labyrinth of caves and tunnels till she died. But even that was better than staying here by the basalt altar in the shadow of the Rain God.
She got almost to the exit, then stopped, rigid with horror.
A figure was coming from it into the great cavern. The sight of it constricted Nellie’s throat so that what she had meant for a cry came out only as a feeble squeak.
The man approaching her with measured tread, erect in spite of an obvious great age, was an old, old Indian. He was, indeed, the Indian she had seen talking to Ethel Masterson.
But he hadn’t had the expression then that he had now. A look of appalling ferocity, though there was something very impersonal in it. A look of savagery to make a person’s blood feel like ice water in his veins. And that look gave him an appearance which was what had brought the aborted cry to Nellie’s lips.
This man was the living image of that frightful stone statue of the Rain God.
Smitty, in the construction camp, was uneasy. He was always uneasy when diminutive, lovely Nellie Gray was helling around, on some dangerous job. He thought the present job more dangerous than anything yet; and he was consequently even more uneasy than was to be expected under the circumstances.
Also, it seemed to him that Nellie had been gone for a very long time now. Certainly long enough to have observed all that was necessary about Ethel Masterson.
He stared unseeingly at the yawning new tunnel mouth.
With the new process suggested by The Avenger, the work was going very rapidly. Fire and water, heat and cold, cracked a way into the glass bulk of Mt. Rainod at an astounding pace. There was nearly eighty yards of rough hole into the mountain now. Over a month’s work with the drillers, had they been forced to use only them. The Central Construction Co., was due to make a nice profit on this job, for they and everyone else had figured on drilling only.
Far in the new bore, Smitty saw lights wink out as water poured with a hissing roar on heated basalt. He heard the usual cracking sounds, the break-up of a small glacier. Then he heard something else. Cries of the men above the cracking sounds!
The men started pouring from the bore like disturbed ants. Smitty leaped to his feet and ran toward where the group of them gathered outside the yawning hole.
“What’s the matter?” he said to the nearest one as he ran up. “Did some of the roof crack down when you hosed the rock?”
“We didn’t hose the rock,” said the man. His face was white with the terror of his narrow escape.
“What are you talking about?” snapped Smitty. “I saw the fires go out and I heard the water that put it out—”
“There was water,” said the man, “but we didn’t hose it. The water’s gushin’ from some spring or somethin’.”
Several more men came out, soaked to the skin.
“It looks pretty bad,” said one of them. Smitty recognized the drill foreman. “The bore slopes down at a four-percent grade, as you know, in order to come out at the right elevation on the other side. The water’s pocketed down there, and it’s up to a couple feet from the top of the bore. We can’t work in that stuff, and it’s coming in too fast to be pumped out.”
Smitty swore fervently. Their purpose in coming here had been twofold, he knew. The Avenger was out to see why men died from lightning bolts wielded by some “god” walking in a pillar of green mist. Also he was personally pushing this job through so that his old friend, Crast, wouldn’t go bankrupt.
The latter part of the endeavor was blocked, now, with the water.
A last man staggered from the bore. On his face was a look unlike that of any of the others. A look of fear that went beyond normal fear and into the supernatural.
“There’s somebody in there,” he said. “Somebody trapped between the water and the end of the bore. I heard her
She got almost to the exit, then stopped, rigid with horror.
A figure was coming from it into the great cavern. The sight of it constricted Nellie’s throat so that what she had meant for a cry came out only as a feeble squeak.
The man approaching her with measured tread, erect in spite of an obvious great age, was an old, old Indian. He was, indeed, the Indian she had seen talking to Ethel Masterson.
But he hadn’t had the expression then that he had now. A look of appalling ferocity, though there was something very impersonal in it. A look of savagery to make a person’s blood feel like ice water in his veins. And that look gave him an appearance which was what had brought the aborted cry to Nellie’s lips.
This man was the living image of that frightful stone statue of the Rain God.
Smitty, in the construction camp, was uneasy. He was always uneasy when diminutive, lovely Nellie Gray was helling around, on some dangerous job. He thought the present job more dangerous than anything yet; and he was consequently even more uneasy than was to be expected under the circumstances.
Also, it seemed to him that Nellie had been gone for a very long time now. Certainly long enough to have observed all that was necessary about Ethel Masterson.
He stared unseeingly at the yawning new tunnel mouth.
With the new process suggested by The Avenger, the work was going very rapidly. Fire and water, heat and cold, cracked a way into the glass bulk of Mt. Rainod at an astounding pace. There was nearly eighty yards of rough hole into the mountain now. Over a month’s work with the drillers, had they been forced to use only them. The Central Construction Co., was due to make a nice profit on this job, for they and everyone else had figured on drilling only.
Far in the new bore, Smitty saw lights wink out as water poured with a hissing roar on heated basalt. He heard the usual cracking sounds, the break-up of a small glacier. Then he heard something else. Cries of the men above the cracking sounds!
The men started pouring from the bore like disturbed ants. Smitty leaped to his feet and ran toward where the group of them gathered outside the yawning hole.
“What’s the matter?” he said to the nearest one as he ran up. “Did some of the roof crack down when you hosed the rock?”
“We didn’t hose the rock,” said the man. His face was white with the terror of his narrow escape.
“What are you talking about?” snapped Smitty. “I saw the fires go out and I heard the water that put it out—”
“There was water,” said the man, “but we didn’t hose it. The water’s gushin’ from some spring or somethin’.”
Several more men came out, soaked to the skin.
“It looks pretty bad,” said one of them. Smitty recognized the drill foreman. “The bore slopes down at a four-percent grade, as you know, in order to come out at the right elevation on the other side. The water’s pocketed down there, and it’s up to a couple feet from the top of the bore. We can’t work in that stuff, and it’s coming in too fast to be pumped out.”
Smitty swore fervently. Their purpose in coming here had been twofold, he knew. The Avenger was out to see why men died from lightning bolts wielded by some “god” walking in a pillar of green mist. Also he was personally pushing this job through so that his old friend, Crast, wouldn’t go bankrupt.
The latter part of the endeavor was blocked, now, with the water.
A last man staggered from the bore. On his face was a look unlike that of any of the others. A look of fear that went beyond normal fear and into the supernatural.
“There’s somebody in there,” he said. “Somebody trapped between the water and the end of the bore. I heard her
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