"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 Canon!" 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 canon."

"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 a.s.sure 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 Canon 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 canon?" 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 alt.i.tude with the depth of the canon, 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 canon. 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 pa.s.sed, 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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."

"No, I heard it," replied Blake, looking close into the other's sullen face. "You may not have been as far away as you thought."

"I was far enough," grumbled Ashton. "I've walked till I'm hungry as a shark."

"Do you realize that you want to be careful how you shoot with these high-power rifles?" asked Blake. "They carry a mile or more."

"I've carried mine more than that, and _it_ won't carry an inch,"

complained Ashton. "Wish you would see if you can fix it, while I get on some bacon."

Blake took his scrutinizing gaze from his companion's face, and picked up the rifle. Ashton showed plainly that he was tired and hungry and very irritable, but there was no trace of guilt in his look or manner.

While he hurriedly prepared supper, Blake took apart the mechanism of the rifle. He discovered the trouble at once.

"This is easy," he said. "Nothing broken--just a screw loose. Have you been monkeying with the parts, to see how they work?"

"No; I don't care a hang how they work. What gets me is that they didn't work!"

"Queer, then, how this screw got loose," said Blake as he tightened it with the blade of his pocket knife. "It sets tight enough. Of course it might have come from the factory a bit loose, and jarred out with the firing; but neither seems probable."