Chapter 4: The Light in the Crater

“Of course it wasn’t blood!” said Smithy explosively. “But try to tell the men that. See how far you get. ‘Devils!’ That’s been their talk since yesterday when Riley got smeared up--and now that the bailer’s gone we can’t prove a thing.”

Again he was pacing restlessly back and forth in the little board shack that was Rawson’s field head-quarters. Rawson, seated by the window, was looking at tables of comparative melting points. He glanced up sharply.

“You haven’t found it yet?” he questioned. “A forty-foot bailer! Now that’s a nice easy little thing to mislay.”

Riley had followed the excited Smithy into the room; he stood silently by the door until he caught Rawson’s questioning glance.

“Forty feet or forty inches,” he said, “‘tis gone! ‘Twas there by the derrick last night, and this marnin’--”

“That’s fine,” Rawson interrupted with heavy sarcasm. “I haven’t enough down below ground to keep my mind occupied--I need a few mysteries up top. Now do you really expect me to believe that a thing like that bailer has been carried off?”

This time it was Smithy who interrupted. “You can just practise believing on that, Dean,” he said. “When you get so you can believe a forty-foot bailer can vanish into thin air, then you’ll be ready for what I’ve got. This is what I came in to tell you: that one truckload of steel grillage beams for the turbine footings--they were put out where we surveyed for the first power house--dumped on the sand...”

“Well?” questioned Rawson, as Smithy paused. His look was daring Smithy to say what he knew was coming.

“Five tons of steel beams,” said Smithy softly, “gone--just like that! Just a hollow in the sand!”

The big figure of the Irish foreman was still beside the door. Rawson saw one clumsy hand make the sign of the Cross; then Riley held that hand before him and stared at it in horror. “Divils’ blood,” he whispered. “And I dipped my hands in it. Saints protect us all!”

“That will be all of that!” Dean Rawson’s usually quiet voice was as full of crackling emphasis as if it had been charged with electrical energy. “If anyone thinks that I have gone this far, just to be scared out by some dirty sabotage...

“I see it all. I don’t know how they did it, but it’s all come since the gold was found. Someone else wants it. They think they can scare off the men, maybe take a pot-shot at me, come back here and clean up later on, pull up gold by the pailful, I suppose--”

Riley leaped forward and banged his big fist down on the table. “Right ye are!” he shouted, until loitering men in the open “street” outside stared curiously. “Divils they are, but they’re the kind of divils we know how to handle. And now I’ll tell ye somethin’ else, sir: I know where they are hidin’.

“There was no work for anyone last night, but I’m used to bein’ up. I couldn’t sleep. I was wanderin’ around, thinkin’ of nothin’ at all out of the way, and I thought I saw some shadows, like it might be men, way off on the sand. Then later over to the old ghost town, d’ye mind! I saw a light, a queer, green sort of light. Sure, a fool I was callin’ meself at the time, but now I believe it.”

Dean Rawson had crossed the room while the man was still speaking. He dragged a wooden case from beneath his cot and smashed at the lid with a wrecking bar. Then he reached inside and drew forth a blue-black .45.

He tossed the pistol to Riley. “Know how to use one of these?” he asked. The manner in which the big Irishman snapped open the side ejection was sufficient answer. Dean handed another gun to Smithy, then pulled out more and laid them on his cot together with a little pile of cartridge boxes.

“You’re all right, Riley,” he said. “Just keep your head. Don’t let your damned superstitions run away with you, and I wouldn’t ask for a better man to stand alongside of in a scrap.”

The foreman beamed with pleasure: Rawson went on in crisp sentences:

“Take these guns. Take plenty of ammunition. Pick five or six men you know you can depend on. Mount guard around this camp to-night. I’ll post an order saying you’re in charge--and I’m telling you now to use those guns on anything you see.

“Smithy,” he said to the other man who had been quietly listening, “you and I are going to start for town. Only Riley will know that we’re gone for the night. We’ll have a little listening post of our own up here in the hills.”

But Rawson postponed their going. More material was arriving; one casting in particular needed all the men and Rawson’s supervision to place it on the sand where an erection crew could swing it into place at some later date. And then, when he and Smithy had driven away from camp with the distant city as their announced destination, Rawson still did not go directly to the mountain grade. He swung off instead where rolling sand-hills blocked all view from the camp, and he headed the car into a gusty wind that brought whirling clouds of dust; they almost obscured the crumbling walls at the volcano’s base.

The ghost towns that are found here and there in the forsaken wilderness of the West are depressing to one who walks their empty streets. Little Rhyolite was no exception. In gray, ghostly walls, empty windows stared steadily, disconcertingly like sockets of dead eyes in tattered, weatherbeaten skulls.

Dean and Smithy walked among the roofless ruins. Lizards, the color of the cold, gray walls, slipped from sight on silent, clinging feet. Once a sidewinder, almost invisible against the sand, looped away from the intruders with smooth deliberation.

“No marks here,” said Rawson at last. “Even an Indian can’t read sign in this ashy sand when the wind has dusted it off.”

He turned his head from a whirl of fine ash where the wind, sweeping around a wall of stone, was scouring at a sand dune’s sloping side.

“Dean,” said Smithy, “old Riley may have been looking for banshees when he saw these lights. Superstitious old cuss, Riley! Maybe there wasn’t anything here. But, Dean, there’s some confoundedly funny things happening around here.”

“Are you telling me?” Rawson asked grimly. “But we want to remember one thing,” he added: “We’ve punched a hole in the ground, and we’ve got into a place that is hot enough to melt Krieger alloy one minute and is stone cold the next. That’s disturbing enough, but we don’t want to get that mixed up with what’s happening up top. There’s dirty work going on--”

He stopped. His eyes, that had never ceased to search for some mark of special meaning, had come to rest upon an object half hidden in the sand. He stooped and picked it up.

“Now what the devil is this?” Smithy began. But Rawson was staring at the smooth lava block that was in his hand. It was tapered; it was pierced through with a straight, smooth hole, and its base was round and ringed as if it had been held in a clamp.

“That,” he said at last, “was brought in from outside. Outside, Smithy--get that.”

Dean Rawson’s face was wreathed in a sudden smile of pure pleasure. “No, I don’t know what the darn thing is,” he admitted. “And I don’t care. But I know that someone, or some bunch of someones--outsiders--are trying to horn in. I might even go so far as to say that I suspect the power monopoly gentlemen. I think they have started in on us, plan to run off our men, interfere in every way and drive me out of the field with the boring a failure. Smithy, I begin to think I’m going to enjoy this job!”