The Complete Crime Stories by James M. Cain

he tamps in his powder again, and—”
    â€œI still don’t hear—”
    But her words froze in her throat, for off in the rock somewhere began a faint clink, clink, clink. Then it stopped. “That’s it—that’s the needle. Now comes the tamping iron.” The sound resumed, reached a brisk crescendo, and stopped again. “Now he’s coming out! Now he’s coming this way! And we can’t move; we got no light!”
    They were crouched on the floor now, locked in each other’s arms, in an ecstasy of terror. Several times the sound was repeated, and they strained closer as they listened and waited. But fear is a peculiar emotion: it cannot be sustained indefinitely at the same high pitch. In spite of his horror of the ghost, he gradually became aware that there was something distinctly pleasurable about this: lying in the dark with this girl in his arms, shuddering in unison with her, mingling his breath with hers; indeed, with an almost exquisite agony he began to look forward to each repetition of the sound. He thought of her flesh again, and in a moment his hand was touching her side, patting the torn place in her dress, as though this were what the circumstances called for. She didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, his thick paw apparently soothed her; so that she relaxed slightly, and put her head on his shoulder, and sighed. He patted and patted again, and each time the sound would resume they would draw together.
    Suddenly, though, she sat up, listened, and turned to him. “That ain’t no miner.”
    â€œOh, yes, it is. He—”
    â€œThat ain’t no miner. That’s water. I can tell by how it sounds.”
    â€œGee, if we could only get some! But I can’t even start the lamp. I’m scared so bad I can’t spit.”
    â€œGive me that lamp. I can spit.”
    She took the lamp, and he heard it hiss from plenty of good wet spit. He struck the flint, and flame punctured the darkness. “We got to hurry. That won’t last long.”
    â€œKeep still, so I can hear.”
    He held the light, and she crawled on her hands and knees, cocking her head now and then to listen. The flame grew smaller and smaller. Suddenly she thrust her hand under a slab of rock. “There it is.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œGive me the bucket.”
    She took the bucket and thrust it under, and at once came the loud clank of water on tin. They looked at each other, and he spoke breathlessly: “That’s it! That’s how it sounded, only now it’s in the bucket.” The lamp went out, and they waited in the dark while there came a few drops, then a pause, then a few more drops, then the rapid staccato of a full trickle, then a long pause, then the separate drops again. After a long time she shook the bucket, and they heard the water slosh. “That’s enough. That’ll get us out.”
    They poured water in the lamp, struck the flint, and a fine big flame spurted out. They were off at once. They went through more dead entries, then came to where the going was better. He laughed—a high nervous giggle. “Ain’t that a joke? Won’t them miners feel silly when I tell them that haunt ain’t nothing but water?”
    â€œIt come to me, just like that, that them was drops.”
    â€œAnd think of that—that was why they stopped working that coal. That’s why the company had to close down them entries. Not no miner would work in there.”
    â€œGee, that’s funny.”
    When, still laughing at this, they popped suddenly on to the old drift mouth, it was nearly dark outside, and snowing. They said stiff good-byes; she thanked him for helping her out, and promised to protect him in his guilty secret. She started down the mountain toward the part of the camp where she lived. He watched her a moment, and then something rose in his throat, an overwhelming recollection—of a naked