Chapter 2: Gold!

“Ten miles down, drillers!
Hell-bound, and proud of it!
Ten miles down, drillers!
Hark to what I say:
You’re pokin’ through the crust of hell
And braggin’ too damn loud of it,
For, when you get to hell, you’ll find
The devil there to pay.”

From the black, night-wrapped valley, far below, the singer’s voice went silent with the slamming of a door in one of the bunkhouses. The song was popular; some rimester in the Tonah Basin camp had written the parody for the tormenting of the drill crews. And, high on the mountainside, Dean Rawson hummed a few bars of the lilting air after the singer’s voice had ceased.

“Ten miles down!” he said at last to his assistant, sprawled out on the stone beside him. “That’s about right, Smithy. And maybe the rest of the doggerel isn’t so far off either. ‘Pokin’ through the crust of hell’--well, there was hell popping around here once, and I am gambling that the furnaces aren’t all out.”

They were on the outthrust shoulder of rock where the mountain road hung high above the valley floor. Below, where, months before, Rawson had rescued a man from desert death, was blackness punctured by points of light--bunkhouse windows, the drilling-floor lights at the foot of a big derrick, a single warning light at the derrick’s top. But the buildings and the towering steelwork of the derrick that handled the rotary drills were dim and ghostly in the light of the stars.

“We’ve gone through some places I’d call plenty warm,” said Smithy, “but you--you craves it hot! Think we’re about due?” he asked.

Rawson answered indirectly.

“One great big old he-crater!” he said. His outstretched arm swept the whole circle of starlit mountains that enclosed the Basin. “That’s what this was once. Twenty miles across--and when it blew its head off it must have sprayed this whole Southwest.

“Now, those craters”--he pointed contemptuously toward the three conical peaks off to the right--”those were just blow-holes on the side of this big one.”

In the ragged ring of mountains, the throat of some volcanic monster of an earlier age, the three cones towered hugely. Their tops were plainly cupped; their ashy sloping sides swept down to the desert floor. At their base, the gray walls of stone in the ghost town of Little Rhyolite gleamed palely, like skeleton remains.

“I’ve seen steam, live steam,” Rawson went on, “coming out of a fissure in the rocks. I know there’s heat and plenty of it down below. We’re about due to hit it. The boys are pulling the drill now; they cut through into a whale of a cave down below there--”

He broke off abruptly to fix his attention on the dark valley below, where lights were moving. One white slash of brilliance cut across the dark ground; another, then a cluster of flood lights blazed out. They picked the skeleton framework of the giant derrick in black relief against the white glare of the sand. From far below; through the quiet air, came sounds of excited shouting; the voices of men were raised in sudden clamor.

“They’ve pulled the drill,” said Rawson. “But why all the excitement?”

He had already turned toward their car when the crackle of six quick shots came from below. His abrupt command was not needed; Smithy was in the car while still the echoes were rolling off among the hills. Their own lights flashed on to show the mountain grade waiting for their quick descent.

The sandy floor of this part of the Tonah Basin was littered with the orderly disorder of a big construction job--mountains of casing, tubular drill rod, a foot in diameter; segmental bearings to clamp around the rod every hundred feet and give it smooth play. Dean drove his car swiftly along the surfaced road that was known as “Main Street” to the entire camp.

There were men running toward the derrick--men of the day shift who had been aroused from their sleep. Others were clustered about the wide concrete floor where the derrick stood. Clad only in trousers and shoes, their bodies, tanned by the desert sun, were almost black in the glare of the big floods. They milled wildly about the derrick; and, through all their clamor and shouting, one word was repeated again and again:

“Gold! Gold! Gold!”

The big drill head was suspended above the floor. Dean Rawson, with Smithy close at hand, pushed through the crowd. He was prepared to see traces of gold in the sludge that was bailed out through the hollow shaft--quartz, perhaps, whose richness had set the men wild before they realized how impossible it would be to develop such a mine. But Rawson stopped almost aghast at the glaring splendor of the golden drill hanging naked in the blinding light.

Riley, foreman of the night shift, was standing beside it, a pistol in his hand. “L’ave it be,” he was commanding. “Not a hand do ye lay on it till the boss gets here.” At sight of Rawson he stepped forward.

“I shot in the air,” he explained. “I knew ye were up in the hills for a breath of coolness. I wanted to get ye here quick.”

“Right,” said Rawson tersely. “But, man, what have you done with the drill? It’s smeared over with gold!”

“Fair clogged wid it, sir,” Riley’s voice betrayed his own excitement. “You remimber we couldn’t pull it at first--the drill was jammed-like after it bruk through at the ten-mile livil. Then it come free--and luk at it! Luk at the damn thing! Sent down for honest work, it was, and it comes back all dressed up in jewelry like a squaw Indian whin there’s oil struck on the reservation! Or is it gold ye were after all the time?” he demanded.