Bob Hazard, dam builder
Date: 2020-11-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Adventure stories; Dams -- Design and construction -- Juvenile fiction; United States Reclamation Service -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Bob Hazard, dam builder

Author: Carl Brandt

Illustrator: Herbert Morton Stoops

Release date: November 29, 2020 [eBook #63918]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63918

Credits: Juliet Sutherland, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOB HAZARD, DAM BUILDER ***

A second later Bob was climbing through space, faster than a rocket.

Bob Hazard
Dam Builder

By
Carl Brandt

Illustrated by Herbert Morton Stoops

The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago

Copyright, 1916
By
The Reilly & Britton Co.

Bob Hazard, Dam Builder

CONTENTS

I | Father and Son | 9
II | U. S. R. S. | 19
III | When the Chief Was Away | 32
IV | The Labyrinth | 44
V | Jerry’s Story | 78
VI | The End of the Labyrinth | 88
VII | The Project | 98
VIII | Bob’s Chance | 109
IX | The Dam | 128
X | Ted Hoyt | 136
XI | Trouble | 144
XII | At the Cable Tower | 154
XIII | An Unexpected Ally | 168
XIV | The Unmasking of Jerry | 175
XV | The Capture of Bob | 194
XVI | The Escape | 202
XVII | Dynamite! | 212
XVIII | The Raiders Raided | 232
XIX | Jerry Comes Back | 247
XX | The Future | 264

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A second later Bob was climbing through space, faster than a rocket. | Frontispiece
“Look out for falls!” Bob shouted. | 70
A bullet whistled by him. Then came another and another. | 148
Under his feet he saw the snake-like line of fuse. With a leap he pulled the whole thing over the bank. | 230

Bob Hazard, Dam Builder

CHAPTER I
FATHER AND SON

“So you would rather be an engineer than a lawyer, Bob? Is that what you want to tell me?”

“Yes, sir,—an engineer rather than anything else!”

The speakers were sitting on a bench in the park which surrounds the old Virginia State House in Richmond. Father and son they were certainly—the likeness was unmistakable.

The man hesitated a moment before going on with the conversation. When he spoke it was seemingly from a new angle.

“How old are you now, Bob? Seventeen, isn’t it? Yes, yes, of course. And in a week or two you will have finished with Crossways for good?”

“Mr. Moseley says I am ready for my college exams, Dad. Tells me that he can’t take me along any further.”

“And instead of taking the examinations for Harvard and then going fishing with me, you want to go out West and work on an engineering corps all summer. After that, what?”

“If you’ll let me, I want to go to Rensselaer and study civil engineering. I’ll have had some practice then and the theory will come easier.”

“I see. But, my son, do you realize that if you follow your desire to be an engineer there will never be the firm of Robert Hazard and Son? That the practice I have built up will not pass on to you as I have so often planned? We would have made a great team, my boy, and it’s rather hard to give up the idea so suddenly. But I see that you must do as you wish.”

This way of taking it was rather disconcerting to Bob Hazard. He had hoped his father would be a little angry, perhaps, at the news of his decision. And if he had, Bob could have stuck to his determination with more heart, for he would have felt he had been treated a little unjustly. But his father’s acceptance of the situation left him without any defense. Besides, the note of disappointment which was so evident, convinced him that from his father’s standpoint he was ungrateful for the love and care he had received.

“No, no, Dad!” Bob cried. “We won’t give up the idea! I—didn’t know you felt that way about it. The engineering can go. I’ll write Whiskers and tell him I’m not coming. Of course we’ll have the firm of Hazard and Son and we’ll make rival lawyers sit up and take notice!”

The older Hazard looked at his son with gleaming eyes. What stuff the lad was made of! An immense pride filled him that this boy could be so unselfish and destroy his own carefully laid plans for the future with such a brave attempt at sincerity.

“Thank you, Bob,” he said slowly. “But I can’t let you give up your ambition for mine. You would not be happy, nor after a time would I, for I realize that your desire to be an engineer is not just a whim. You could not be a good lawyer unless your heart were in it, and I don’t want a son of mine to be anything but a good lawyer, if he’s one at all. I’d far rather have you a good engineer than an almost good lawyer. You will have to try out your plan. If it works, well and good; if it doesn’t, you can still try something else. You are old enough to decide for yourself, my son.”

“You are a good Dad!” cried Bob, putting an arm around the older man’s shoulders and hugging him unashamedly. “Whiskers—that is, Steve Whitney—wrote and told me to report to him as soon as I could. Then I have your permission to go West just as soon as school closes?”

“Yes,” was the quick answer, although the speaker had hoped that the boy would suggest spending a week or two with him before he left for the West. But Bob’s next words cheered him a lot.

“Of course, Dad, I don’t mean to go until we’ve had a chance to see each other. If you could only come out to Crossways for the next week or two it would be great! That way, we could visit and still I could get out on the job just as soon as possible. I don’t want Whiskers to fill my place just because I don’t show up. But I’ll come up to New York—”

“You won’t have to do that,” said Mr. Hazard with a smile.

“You mean you can come to Crossways?”

“I do. It just so happens that I can spare a few days right now. Besides, I’d like to meet the fellows you are always writing about—Tom and Ned—and see the place where you grew that big crop of corn last summer.”

Mr. Hazard was as good as his word. The same night found him installed in the colonial house from which the great plantation of Crossways had formerly been managed. Now the plantation was a thing of memory only. Only the house and comparatively few cultivated acres remained of the once proud estate. Edward Moseley, the last of a long line, kept a school, which, primarily started for the benefit of his tenants’ children, had become so famous that boys from all parts of the country were now enrolled.

The summer before, when Mr. Hazard found that it was necessary for him to make a trip abroad, he had left Bob at Crossways; and to make things pleasanter he had sent down a canoe, giving it to Tom Wickham and Ned Moseley, Bob’s chums. Therefore, when he appeared in person, Tom and Ned were prepared to like him. They were not disappointed.

When he demanded it the boys showed him the island in the low grounds on which they had grown the test crop of corn.

“It seems to me that you fellows hit on a really excellent plan to occupy your time during the summer. Who thought of it?” he asked after examining the plot.

“Tom,” said Ned quickly. “He planned it and we did the work.”

“I reckon I did my share of the work too,” exploded Tom. When the laugh died down, Mr. Hazard went on with his questions.

“Are you going to plant it again this year?”

“Not this piece, sir,” answered Tom. “I’ve got all I can do helping my father. When we raised more than double the average yield of his fields on our little patch here, he decided that there was something in modern farming methods after all, so this year we’re putting all our corn in as it should be! And we’re going to have some crop, too!”

“Didn’t you meet Mr. Whitney somewheres around here, Bob?” Mr. Hazard asked, turning to his son.

Before Bob could answer, Tom Wickham had broken in.

“Mr. Whitney? Oh, you mean ‘Whiskers,’ who put the engineering bug into Bob’s head, last year. We found him up the river at the cave. Would you like to go up there?”

Mr. Hazard assented, so they planned the expedition for another day, as this afternoon was growing old. When they went, however, he was told of the adventures that had centered around the cave and Whiskers. How they had come on him by chance and, thinking him an escaped criminal, had undertaken his capture. This had led to Ned’s being caught instead and when Bob and Tom had effected the rescue, had resulted in the discovery of the secret chamber behind the cave. Mr. Hazard was particularly interested when he heard of the part Whiskers had taken in the defense of the island and its precious crop from the onslaught of the summer freshet. They told him that it was not until the crop was safe that Whiskers had revealed who he was, an engineer in the United States Reclamation Service. He had hidden himself away until certain unfounded charges against him were cleared away. These had been brought by grafters he had found on the job he had in charge.

“Well, Bob,” remarked Mr. Hazard when the tale was done, “you certainly had a better time here than you would have had if you had gone to Russia with me!”

Finally Bob’s father had to go back to New York. Several telegrams had come and the last one could not be disregarded. The night before he left Mr. Hazard led Bob out into the grounds. When they came to the fence, they leaned on it and started talking. The moon was up and shed its light on the flat fields. In the hum of the country stillness, only the summer whistle of the quail and the sharp plaintive cry of the whippoorwill were distinct.

“You are determined, Bob?” the older man asked. Bob knew to what his father referred.

“Yes, sir! Absolutely!”

“You have counted the cost well? There is no great reward in what you plan to do. There will be no limousines—no luxury in the life you will lead. A lawyer can have both.”

“I know it, sir!”

The man knew his was a losing fight yet he wanted to struggle on. Through the years he had watched over his motherless boy, he had dreamed dreams. He had seen the time when Bob would enter his office, when he would become a partner and at last when he would take onto his young shoulders the whole burden of the work. It had been a good dream and he was loath to give it up. He made one more effort.

“If you find that the work is not as much fun as you expected, will you come back and tell me so? You won’t stick it out just as a matter of pride?”

“I can safely promise that, Daddy. You know, don’t you, that I really would like to be a lawyer if I only could? But I know I’ve just got to try this engineering. If it turns out wrong for me I’ll come back gladly.”

Both were silent for a few minutes. Then Bob spoke again, his manner saying more than his words:

“You’ve been bully to me, Dad.”

“You are all I’ve got, son,” was the quiet reply. “I must let you do the best you can for yourself.”

They went into the house and the next day Mr. Hazard was whirling northward, gazing out of the car window and hoping that some good chance would bring his boy back to him. As it was he felt lost and quite alone.

CHAPTER II
U. S. R. S.

The long trip across the continent proved to be no hardship for Bob. It was the first time he had ever gone alone on so long a journey and he could not help but feel a certain sense of liberty. He made friends with everybody on the train and many tired travelers saw the scenery through his enthusiastic eyes, finding beauty in what ordinarily would have seemed to them commonplace.

One thing only served to disturb his perfect enjoyment: This was a conviction not to be denied, that his father was hurt by his action. As he thought over their talks he knew that underneath the approval his father had given, lay a deep disappointment. That Bob would not be a lawyer was a hard blow; the knowledge that his son’s choice of an occupation in life would mean almost constant separation, must hurt the elder Hazard, who thought the world of his only son.

Bob realized these things keenly and they were painful to him, yet he could not bring himself to give up his plan to be an engineer.

“Dad made his own way, tackled the job he wanted and made good. I’ve got to do the same. Probably his father wanted him to do something quite different. I’ll ask him about that some time. Besides, if I just took up Dad’s business, it wouldn’t seem right somehow.”

But thoughts such as these occurred to him less and less as the distance between him and the East grew greater. By the time he dropped off the train at Williams, Arizona, where he changed to the day coach that would take him to the Grand Canyon, his mind was so full of the future that there was no room for the things he had left behind him.

When the jolting train stopped at the last station, the boy stepped off almost at Whiskers’ side. Dropping his suit case, he caught the hand that was stretched out to him and was happy when he saw the man’s grin of welcome.

“Good work, Bob, my boy! It’s great to see you! Have a good trip? You’ve grown since I saw you—how’re the other fellows? How’s Big Chris?”

“Fine! Fine!” answered Bob. “And it’s good to see you too. I’m awfully glad you’ve got a place for me. Is the job here at the Canyon?”

Steve Whitney shook his head. “No—but I’ll tell you all about it as we go to the hotel. Grab your satchel and come along.”

“Right you are, Whisk—I mean, Mr. Whitney,” Bob answered in some confusion. “I suppose you’ll have to be Mister Whitney now since you are the Big Boss. Last summer you were the fellow who was so good to us kids and we took liberties.”

“You are right, Bob. I am the chief and starting from to-day I will have to be Mr. Whitney. There is another rodman here and it would be bad for discipline if you called me by that—‘vacation’ name, let’s call it. But we had mighty good times when I was just Whiskers, didn’t we?”

“You bet,” answered Bob. “I’ll never forget ’em.” For a moment he said nothing, letting his thoughts drift. Then—“But where is the job? You said it wasn’t here.”

“No, just now there isn’t any job at all—”

“What?” exploded the boy, anxiously.

“Don’t worry,” the engineer assured him; “there will be plenty of work. I have just finished a project in Colorado and am waiting for further orders. I told you to meet me here because I wanted you to see the greatest natural wonder we have in the United States, the Grand Canyon, and I am going to work you so hard later on that you won’t have another chance to get here before you go back to college. And I want your first sight of it to be at sunset. Then it is most wonderful.”

By this time they had reached the hotel.

“Go and wash up and come down quickly,” urged Bob’s new boss. “It’s almost sunset, and I don’t want you to miss it! I’ll wait for you here on the porch.”

Bob wasted no time and a few minutes later joined Mr. Whitney. The veranda of the hotel is built almost on the edge of the great rift in the surface of the earth. Bob started to pull up a chair to the railing where his friend was sitting but stopped as the other rose.

“I’ve got a better place than this to see it from,” said Mr. Whitney. “A lot of folks will be coming out here presently and too many people spoil the thing. Come along.”

Bob followed and was led to a little clump of bushes that grew on the edge some distance from the hotel. Mr. Whitney pushed them aside and disclosed a little ledge a few feet down from the rim, which afforded a comfortable seat.

“Some class, eh, Bob?” laughed Whiskers as they settled themselves. “I found it and try to get here every night. But let’s stop talking; it’s about to begin.”

There was no need to talk; in fact, the glorious beauty of the panorama spread before him would have made it almost impossible to talk even if Bob had wanted to.

As far as the eye could reach, the great chasm extended. In it rose pinnacles, spires and mountain ranges, alternating with deep valleys and gulches. At the very bottom wound a tiny thread of silver, the Colorado River, for whose passage nature had undertaken such a gigantic task and, in its accomplishment, had created such beauty.

Bob’s first feeling was of his own littleness, his unimportance in the face of such magnitude. But this went away as the sun, dropping steadily to the opposite horizon, began to paint the scenes with magic colors.

It was as if the sun were an artist, who, not satisfied with his efforts, changed and changed again the colors on his canvas, for each moment the tints and hues would fade or grow more intense as the shadows grew deeper, and the scene would seem quite different.

When at last the sun dropped below the edge of the distant hills, leaving the Canyon in deep purple shadow, Bob turned to Mr. Whitney.

“That is all I can stand now,” he said. “It is too wonderful.”

He walked back to the hotel, too overcome by the beauty of the thing he had seen to attempt talking of it. Evidently Steve Whitney knew how the boy felt, for he did not break the silence. But once inside the house Bob realized that it had been a long time since luncheon.

“When’s supper, Boss Whitney? I’m hungry enough to eat tacks!”

The man laughed. “Even the Grand Canyon can’t keep a good, healthy appetite down for long, can it? I guess supper is pretty nearly ready now. But wait a minute—here is someone I want you to know.”

Bob looked up to see a young fellow of about his own age coming towards them. He was rather tall and dark and dressed in khaki, and wore canvas leggins. It was the costume of a regular civil engineer, thought the boy from the East.

“This is Jerry King, Bob,” said Whitney. “Another member of my corps. Shake hands with Bob Hazard, Jerry. We will all be together this summer.”

The newcomer put out his hand and Bob grasped it warmly. He was prepared to like anybody and anything in this new life he had begun. After a few words they moved off in the direction of the dining room.

“What have you been up to this afternoon, Jerry?” asked the Chief, when they had found their table.

“Nothing much,” was the answer. “Fooling ’round the Canyon a little.”

“You go down into it, then?” asked Bob.

“Yes, there’s a trail but there’s nothing much down there anyway.” This from Jerry in an unenthusiastic tone.

The talk went on mostly about the Canyon. Bob noticed, however, that Jerry King took very little part in the conversation. He didn’t seem exactly unwilling to talk, but his remarks were few and far between. And when they came they were short and matter of fact. Mr. Whitney appeared not to notice this much. It was rather as if he was used to Jerry’s manner. But Bob, however, felt that he was going to have a hard job in thawing out this chap who was to be his companion through the summer. He wanted to make friends but Jerry seemed to repulse every advance he made.

When supper was over the party went out on the porch of the hotel. The Chief lit his pipe and settled into a big rocking chair. “Well, Bob,” he said, “now that you are here, are you glad that you came?”

“You bet I am,” was the enthusiastic answer.

“But he hasn’t seen any work yet,” put in Jerry shortly.

“I’m not worried about that,” Bob said confidently. “I think I’ll like that too.”

“It’s not all a cinch,” said Whiskers. “The Reclamation Service is a hard taskmaster. Jerry knows. He has been with me almost a year—ever since I came back from Virginia.”

There was silence for a moment and then Bob asked quietly.

“Please, Mr. Whitney, won’t you tell me something about the Reclamation Service? Although I have read what I could, I know very little about the real spirit of it, only just figures showing what it’s done or is going to do.”

“All right, Bob, I will, but you’ll have to stop me if I begin to bore you. The Service is an enthusiasm of mine, you know.”

“I guess you know very well I won’t be bored. Go ahead.”

Steve Whitney filled his pipe and then began a description of what is perhaps the most important thing the Government has ever done for the West.

“About twelve years ago,” he said when his pipe was well lighted, “after a great deal of agitation over it, Congress passed a bill which created the thing we call the Reclamation Service. Its object was to increase the number of farms and to increase the total area of productive land. As you no doubt know, almost all the desert land in the United States would be extremely productive provided it could get a sufficient supply of one thing.”

“Water?” put in Bob.

“Yes, just that. In other parts of the country this water is provided by rainfall. But deserts are deserts only because the rainfall is slight, if there is any at all. Therefore it is necessary to build dams in the country where there is rainfall, collect the water, and send it down to the desert lands where it is needed.”

“Is that what the Service does?”

“Yes, that is our biggest job. We call it irrigation. But it isn’t always necessary to build these dams where the rainfall is heavy. If we can dam a river above the point where it begins to dry up, we can usually collect enough water during the flood season to supply a great area of dry land below it during all the months of the year.”

“And has the plan been a success?” interrupted Bob again.

“Decidedly. During 1913 the value of the crops produced on the lands we have already irrigated was nearly sixteen million dollars. If all the land had been worked which we are now able to irrigate, we would have had nearly a million and a half acres of productive land which before was only plains of alkali dust. The projects already planned and not yet completed, or in some cases not even started, will more than double the results I have just told you about. It is a great work.”

“But does the Government pay for all this?” asked Bob.

“At first it does, but the plan is that farmers who use irrigated lands must pay a water tax which will eventually repay the Government the amount of money it has invested. On some projects the farmers have entirely repaid the Government. On others it will be years before the money is finally returned.”

Bob drew a long breath. “This is work really worth while doing,” he said, his eyes shining. “It must be great to know that each new dam you complete will make thousands of acres of land green and productive. I will be glad to help.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Whiskers. “As I said before, it is good work. The reward is not all in the pay you get. It is in the achievement and the service that you render. That is all that you can look forward to in the way of payment. But I have talked too long. You must be tired after your long trip. You’d better chase off to bed.”

But Bob would not go. He kept asking Mr. Whitney questions about the details of the work and the man had to answer. He saw in the boy’s enthusiasm something of the enthusiasm he himself had felt when he had joined the Service, and which he had never lost, in spite of the disappointments and hard knocks that had come his way. Finally, however, he insisted on breaking up the conversation. But before Bob left he said to him quite earnestly and seriously, “I have told you about the Service, Bob, and I want you to think pretty carefully about it. If you once start, you will have a hard time breaking away. There are a lot of other things you can do which will bring you more money and more fame. This working for the Government, the extending of the territory of the country and increasing its value, gets into your blood and once it does you will never be fit for anything else. It is not too late to stop now if you want to. Good night, and let me know in the morning what you decide to do.”

CHAPTER III
WHEN THE CHIEF WAS AWAY

Bob was asleep almost as soon as he touched the pillow. The long trip on the train had tired him more than he had thought and he did not wake until a heavy pounding on the door broke into his slumbers. Jerry King came in when he at last answered.

“The Chief sent me up to wake you. Breakfast is almost over.”

Bob shook the sleep out of his eyes and hustled into his clothes. When he came downstairs with Jerry he found that Mr. Whitney had already finished his breakfast and had gone out. So he and Jerry had theirs. During the meal Bob tried again to draw his new comrade out, but the same unwillingness to talk possessed Jerry. Bob rather wondered what was the matter. He had not been used to meeting with such reserve. He remembered also that during the conversation on the porch the night before Jerry had spoken hardly a word but sat in his chair motionless. At last, giving it up as a bad job, he finished his meal in silence. Steve Whitney met them in the lobby.

“Well, fellows,” he greeted them, “my orders have come, or at least I think they will be my marching orders. A telegram has just been given me. I’ve got to go to El Paso and meet the Division Superintendent. It probably means my little vacation is over.”

“I’ll be glad to get to work,” said Jerry shortly.

“I don’t think you will have to wait much longer,” said Whitney laughing. Then he turned to Bob. “Made up your mind yet? You can go along with me if you’re going back East—”

“Not so’s you could notice it!” exclaimed Bob indignantly. “I’ve made up my mind but it’s to stay right here!”

“Oh, if that’s the way you feel about it,” laughed Mr. Whitney, “all right. Bob, I’m afraid the Service has got you. Now as to the future. I probably won’t come back up here so I’ll telegraph you where to meet me as soon as I know where we’ve been assigned. It’ll only be a few days now, I reckon. My train’s going in a few minutes, so I’ll have to hustle and pack. I’ll see you at the train.”

Bob got up early in order to see the Canyon at sunrise the morning after Steve Whitney went away, but found that in comparison to the sunset it was tame. Yet so inspiring was it that he was glad he had taken the trouble. The panorama spread before his eyes was one of which no other country could boast. Bob had seen pictures of it, had read about it, and had been taught about it from his geography, but nothing that he had read or heard or learned had given him even a faint idea of the glory of the thing as it actually was, no matter what time of the day it was seen.

After drinking his fill of the wonder he went back to the hotel to breakfast and found Jerry King already at the table. The other boy continued to puzzle him. Jerry made no effort to begin a conversation and Bob refused to lay himself open to a turn-down by making the first remark. However, as he rose from the table he asked if Jerry had been down the Bright Angel Trail to the very bottom of the Canyon.

Jerry answered shortly, “Yes.”

“Go with me this morning?” asked Bob as shortly.

This time the answer was no—once was enough. So Bob, determined to get as much fun as possible out of his enforced stay at the Canyon, started out alone and joined the group of tourists in front of the hotel. They were already preparing to make the descent. He decided to walk rather than trust to one of the funny fat little mules which were provided for the visitors who were too stout or too lazy to use the means of locomotion given them by nature.

At last the start was made and after a walk of about a quarter of a mile along the rim the party came to the head of the Bright Angel Trail which led to the bottom. At first the going was fairly easy, but soon the trail grew steeper and steeper and Bob was amazed to see the calm way in which the little donkeys kept their footing, particularly when they were carrying large and heavy human beings. Owing to the immense zigzags that the trail had to take in order to provide a safe path, a lot of ground had to be covered. Therefore it was not until almost noon that the party reached the first plateau. This “plateau” is in reality far from flat. It is merely a slight leveling out of the general declivity about two-thirds of the way down.

Along with the most determined of the tourists, Bob made the final descent to the bank of the river. It had been hot enough up at the hotel. On the plateau it was fairly sizzling, but once at the bottom the heat was intense. This probably accounted for the fact that the whole party was quite ready to begin the return trip as soon as the tourists got back their breath.

At the very depth of the Canyon Bob suddenly realized what the Reclamation Service had to contend with. It was places like this which needed feats of engineering skill to let people even get near to them, that the Service had to contend with. Nature was the Service’s foe. Its task was to subjugate her to its own ends. Of course this Canyon was too big; the desert land was too far away for any irrigation project to be thought of.

But it was in similar canyons, smaller, perhaps, that the Service built its dams. Down the sides of cliffs like these, which even the mountain goats had difficulty in mastering, the Service had to build its roads. It was to such desolate beauty that the Service brought progress and the service of mankind. In his imagination Bob saw the smooth face of an enormous dam filling even this great canyon,—generating enough horse power to run all the factories of the West, and collecting enough water to irrigate all the homes that could be made on the great American desert. Right then nothing was too stupendous a task for final achievement. His whole being thrilled with the thought that he was to be a part of the Service, that he was to have a hand in the great work that it was doing and would do.

His mind busy with these thoughts, he found that the long climb to the top did not bother him. After a wash-up he had supper and went out on the hotel piazza. The sun had gone but its last banners of light were flung up against the sky behind the farthest horizon. The depths of the Canyon were black. Out of this rose myriad pinnacles, dim in outline, rich in deep colors. Just at the opposite rim a strip of color spun along, tipping the horizon with a golden glow.

“Wasn’t much after all your trouble to get down, was it?” said a voice behind him. Bob looked up to find that Jerry had appeared.

“It was worth the trouble anyway,” answered Bob as Jerry settled into a chair. He realized that Jerry’s remark was in reference to his trip down the Canyon. “I’m mighty glad I went. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go again for a pretty,” returned Jerry. “Once is a great plenty. Besides, there isn’t any chance of our ever doing anything with this place. Anything useful, that is. I don’t know what the Chief wanted to bring us up here for. Wish we were on the job. Hate this loafing.”

“I wish we were too,” agreed Bob, warming up to Jerry’s unexpected long speech. “Isn’t there anything exciting we can do while waiting for Mr. Whitney?”

“Not a thing if we’ve got to stay here,” said the other and relapsed into silence.

After a long period Jerry spoke again almost to himself. “If we were only up Green River way, now, there would be a chance. I was by there once. There’s a canyon there we might do something with—”

“Do you mean there’s a chance for a dam?” asked Bob.

“Yes,” said the other. “But it would mean tunneling through a mountain to get the water out after the dam was built. That is nothing for the Service if only we could get a road down into the canyon. Need it to get machinery and materials down to the dam site. Nobody’s ever gone through the canyon alive, so no one knows whether a road is practical or not. Lots have started. I’ve sort of a hankering to try it.”

“What is it called?”

“The Labyrinth. It is only about sixty miles long. But in those sixty miles there are more rapids, and bad ones, than there are in all of the Grand Canyon. Well, I reckon there isn’t much chance of my ever tackling it.”

“Why not?” asked Bob.

But evidently Jerry had used up all the words he had on tap. After some sort of unsatisfactory answer he got up and moved off in silence in the aloof way he had. Bob sat still and thought over what the other had just told him. The plan of exploring this canyon which no one else had ever been able to go through fired his imagination. He wanted to try it.

His reverie was broken into a few moments later by a bell boy coming out with a telegram. It was from Mr. Whitney, and sent from El Paso. Bob opened it and read: “Unexpected developments. Must go Washington. Back within three weeks. Will wire further instructions.”

For a moment or two after he had read the message all Bob could think of was that there was a long procession of boring days to be met. It would have been a lot easier if Jerry King had been more of a chum and less of a grouch. But orders were orders and it was up to him to obey. He stuck the telegram in his pocket and set off to find Jerry, if that was possible. Jerry had a way of disappearing, only to show up at meal times.

He had not gone but a few steps before a great idea come to him. Why couldn’t they try the Labyrinth Canyon stunt in the three weeks the Chief would be away? This idea lent him speed in his search for his companion. At last he found Jerry sitting in a tall chair watching some tourists play pool. He went over to the other boy and said, “Come on along outside for a minute, Jerry. I’ve got something to tell you.”

Once again on the piazza Jerry said, “What is it?”

Bob held forth the telegram. The other read it and said questioningly, “Well?”

“Don’t you see?” said Bob eagerly.

“Don’t I see what?”

“We can tackle the Labyrinth if it isn’t too far away.”

“You’re crazy. That would take money. Besides it’s too risky for a tenderfoot.”

But Bob was too much in earnest to take the last remark seriously. He laughed. “Oh, I’m a tenderfoot all right but I know something about paddling a canoe. Had a lot of it last summer and I can swim. And if it is not too expensive, I’ve got the money. Any other objections?”

He pulled out a draft his father had given him before he had left for the West. His father had said it was for emergencies and had drawn it for a respectable sum. Jerry looked at the figures and whistled. “Oh, I guess you’ve got the money all right. It’d be enough to put the thing through. But it’s too risky.”

This was too much for Bob. He flared up. “I don’t see that you’re taking me. If I want to go, I can go. You said you wanted to try it. Now you’re the one who’s backing out when the chance to try it comes along. I think it’s you who has the tender and cold feet.”

“Cut it out, kid,” said Jerry. Evidently Bob’s tone of determination had impressed him. Also the taunt about cold feet stung him. “I just wanted to make sure you wanted to go, that’s all. You’re taking a chance of never going back East again.”

“That part is all right,” said Bob, now on his mettle. The way Jerry had taken his suggestion had got his fighting blood up and he was now determined to go through with the adventure at all costs. “How far is it to the place we start?”

“About six hours on the train,” was the answer. “We ought to be able to find a boat when we get there. If we’re going to do it at all we’ve got to start in a hurry. Otherwise we won’t be back here when the Chief’s telegram is due. That is,” he added, “if we live to get the Chief’s telegram.”

“Oh, don’t be so pessimistic,” said Bob. “I bet we’ll come through alive and kicking. Shall we start in the morning?”

“I’m game.” And with this Jerry turned on his heel and walked off. At the door he flung back, “If we’re going on that train you’d better hit the hay soon. You’ll need all the strength you’ve got.”

CHAPTER IV
THE LABYRINTH

Late in the afternoon of the next day the two boys dropped off the train at a little station in the desert. There was no hotel among the houses scattered along the track but they were lucky enough to find a room over the general store in which to sleep.

As they had so little time in which to accomplish their plan every minute was valuable, so, as soon as they had provided for the night, they started out to find some sort of a boat to carry them on their adventure.

The proprietor of the store, who was also their host, directed them to a man he thought might have one. The latter, a rancher in a small way, was rather dubious as to the boat’s being in a condition to navigate. “It’s down by the river,” he said. “Been down there pretty nigh a year, too, ef somebody hain’t swiped it. Take ye down to look at it in the mornin’. Ef you’re aimin’ to commit suicide tryin’ to get through the Labyrinth, it ought to be jest the thing for you. ’Twas built by a party what aimed to try the stunt but got cold feet before they tackled it. They give it to me, so ef you’re willin’ to pay about ten dollars, you’re welcome to it.”

This sounded good to the boys and they went back to the store feeling in luck. They had brought with them the air mattress which Jerry had advised buying at the Canyon, as it would give them a dry bed no matter where they might be forced to camp. They added to this before going to bed by buying provisions from the storekeeper, endeavoring to get as much food in as little bulk as possible. At last their preparations for the trip were complete, and they went to bed anxious for the morning, and hoping that the boat would prove what they wanted.

In order not to lose any time they packed the dunnage they expected to take into two loads and carried it with them when they went down the next morning to inspect the boat. It was a long way from the little town to the river and their spirits sagged as the loads grew heavier. However, they found the boat covered over by brushwood and some old sail-cloth, and when its owner pulled it out into the open they were much encouraged. The boat was about sixteen feet long, high at both ends with water-tight compartments.

“If it only doesn’t leak,” said Jerry, “it will be all right.”

They pulled it into the water and watched with bated breath. It leaked badly and Jerry was disgusted. Bob, however, knowing more about boats than his companion, realized that the long time the boat had been out of water had caused the strips to contract and in all probability a few hours’ soaking would make them tight. Bob had insisted on putting the boat into the water before paying for it and as the water came in more slowly after a few minutes, he was satisfied. They paid the man and he went off after wishing them a rather pessimistic farewell.

“I reckon I’ve seen as many as twenty danged fools try this stunt and I’ve never heard of any of them comin’ out the other end—that is, comin’ out breathin’. It’s a pity when the two of you air so young. I’ll be right glad to hear from you ef you do get through, seein’ as how it was my boat. Danged ef I figger I’ll hear, howsomever. Good-bye to you.”

With this he started back up the trail, shaking his head. Jerry suggested they make camp and wait until the boat was water-tight. This seemed a good suggestion, so they built a fire and made some coffee. In the afternoon Bob baled out the water that was in the boat and after watching carefully for half an hour found that no more water had come in.

“She’s all right,” he called to Jerry, who was building a lean-to for the night.

“All right,” answered the other, “pull her up on the bank and we’ll stow away everything that we don’t need for the night. We can leave just as soon as it is light to-morrow. We wouldn’t get far enough along to pay us for starting now.”

The boat easily carried all the things they had brought. Jerry took particular care in stowing away a box which he had hung onto jealously since they started. It was rather a mysterious looking case about which he had volunteered no information. Up to this time Bob had not questioned him, although he had wondered what was in it. However, as Jerry reserved the safest and dryest part of the boat for it Bob ventured to ask what it was.

“Light transit,” said Jerry. “We will need it to make sure that a road into the canyon is possible. What might seem quite possible to the eye, is often no use at all. I thought we’d better make sure.”

Bob was interested. He had read of and knew in a general way what use engineers made of transits and levels but up to this time he had not had an opportunity to see them in actual service.

“If we’ve got to use it, Jerry,” he suggested, “don’t you think you had better tell me something about it now while we’ve got a chance? Then I’ll be of more use when we get down to the canyon.”

“All right,” said Jerry rather ungraciously. “But you’ll soon catch on to it when we start work. You’ll have to.”

At the same time he took the case out of the boat and opened it. It was a beautiful little instrument, weighing hardly twenty-five pounds. It stood on telescopic legs of steel. Jerry showed Bob how to set it up and to manipulate the four screws by which it was made level. Then he showed him how to focus the telescope and all the other elementary things. After a little practice Bob felt competent to give Jerry what help he would need.

“Gee whiz, it’s interesting,” said Bob at last, when Jerry put the fascinating instrument away.

“After you’ve carried one for about five years you won’t think it so interesting,” returned Jerry, suddenly remembering that he was a grouch.

The night came down cold. The boys were glad to bundle up into their sleeping bags and get what rest they could. The novelty and excitement could keep Bob awake for only a little while, for the danger into which he was headed did not worry him for a moment, and he was very tired. He wanted adventure and he was going to have it. Only one thing deterred him at all, and that was the thought of his father. But before he had left the hotel at the Grand Canyon he had written a letter explaining to the older Hazard what he was planning to do. He had, of course, minimized the danger. But, even so, when Mr. Hazard got the letter he was very much upset and had an impulse to get on the next train and bring his boy back to civilization, if he still had a boy to bring back.

Jerry was first awake in the morning. He roused Bob but not until he had a fire going and the coffee-pot singing merrily. Bob got up and, slipping off his clothes, dived into the river. The water was cold but not unpleasantly so. Jerry looked at him for a minute and laughed as he came out dripping.

“You won’t need to take a bath after this. If you don’t have about five unexpected ones during the day I miss my guess.”

Bob laughed. “Well, water won’t hurt us. You’re sort of a grouch, aren’t you, Jerry?” he said pleasantly. It was a tactless thing to say, for the other boy shut up like a clam and except as it was absolutely necessary he gave no openings for further conversation.

“Jolly sort of trip I’m going to have,” thought Bob, “if Jerry is going to keep up this sort of thing. I ought never to have said he was a grouch, though.”

After breakfast they rolled up their mattress and stowed away in the boat the things they had used during the night. At last they were ready to start.

“We might as well be going,” said Jerry. “Hop in.” He was already at the oars, which he had tied securely to the oarlocks. The wisdom of this precaution was later to be proved to them. Once Bob was in, Jerry pulled off. He was a fair oarsman and going with the current the boat made good time. At this point the river was broad and, except for the towering hills which rose in the distance, it might have been a peaceful tributary stream of any civilized river. Its calm surface gave no warning of what was to come in the way of rapids and whirlpools. After a bit Bob took the oars and as he had had more experience with boats he made even better time than Jerry had. Turn by turn they went through the morning.

It was not long before the rolling hills on either side of the stream gave way to rocky cliffs and deep gulches through which little creeks trickled into the river. The current grew faster and here and there an ugly rock showed its head above the surface, the water rushing by angrily on either side.

“Getting a little interesting,” ventured Bob.

“This isn’t anything,” growled Jerry, and then they went on again in silence.

About noon they pulled in to a rocky ledge and had some lunch, and after a short rest went on again. Towards the middle of the afternoon, as they were turning a bend in the river, Bob, sitting in the stern, saw what seemed to him to be a mountain cut in half.

“That must be it,” he said. “Look, Jerry!”

Jerry turned. “You’re right, I guess. It’s the Labyrinth.”

“We ought to get there by night. It’s only around the next bend,” Bob ventured.

Jerry looked around again and laughed shortly. “We’ll be lucky if we’re there by to-morrow night. That cliff is twenty miles away at least.”

Bob was amazed. It looked to be only about a mile away. Jerry must be mistaken. But Jerry was right. Although they had covered a great deal of distance, when it came time to camp for the night the cleft in the mountain seemed as far away as when Bob had first sighted it. Two days later, however, they did reach it. And it was not until the river had swirled them through this giant gateway that they encountered any rapid water. They began to think that the passage of the Labyrinth had been overestimated.

In the late afternoon of the second day, after they had slipped silently by the towering walls of the canyon which here came down sharply into the river, and had swung around a bend, Jerry sighted the first rough going.

“Pull in to shore, Bob,” he said quickly. “We’d better take a look at what’s coming before we tackle it.”

Once ashore they made their way as near to the rapids as possible. The water boiled in fury as it rushed by the rocks that opposed its way.

“Gee whiz!” ejaculated Bob. “This is worse than anything I’ve tackled before—ever!”

Jerry laughed and said, “There’ll be a lot worse than this before we’re through, I’m afraid. This isn’t much. We’ll be able to shoot it all right.”

Back in the boat Jerry took the oars, and, helped by the current, drifted swiftly towards the first rapids of the shallow and dangerous passage. Once into the white water they found the going easier than they had expected. After a struggle and a narrow escape or two from shipwreck on jagged rocks they saw smoother water ahead. But this held a new danger. Here the river made a short bend, and the current, throwing itself against the opposite bank, threatened to dash them against it before they could control their boat.

It was a ticklish moment. They shot out of the white spray and were headed for the rocky wall. “Quick, Jerry!” yelled Bob. “Pull her ’round.”

Jerry used both his arms on the right hand oar and a moment later, breathless and a little exhausted, they came to quieter water.

“Like shooting the chutes, isn’t it?” said Bob, putting his feeling into words as soon as he could speak. “Great sport!”

Jerry, however, bent to his oars, betraying his emotion only by the gleam of his eyes. No more rapids of any consequence hindered their way the remainder of the afternoon. It was not until well along the next morning that they came again to anything which really could be called dangerous.

The first intimation the boys had of the approaching rapids was the increasing speed of the boat. As they looked ahead the water seemed clear and unbroken, but some current stronger than usual was hurrying them along.

“We’re in for it again,” yelled Jerry to Bob, who was rowing. “Back water—hard!”

Bob dug in the blades of his oars with all the force he could muster. The boat lost a little headway but the effort came too late. The current had them in its grasp. A quick rush in the blinding spray and the boys found themselves in the icy water. Bob, however, had kept hold of one of the oars of the overturned boat and he thanked his stars that Jerry had had the foresight to tie it to the oarlock.

As soon as he shook the water out of his eyes a glance showed him what had happened. Some freak of nature had left a ledge in the bottom of the river over which the water flowed, making a waterfall of perhaps six or eight feet. So even was the edge of the fall that it had not been visible to them as they came down stream through the first rough water.

“All right?” called Bob to Jerry, who had been carried past him by the foam-flecked water.

“Sure,” the other sputtered. “Just keep drifting and we’ll land on that point down there. I’ll stand by to help beach the boat when you get there.”

The boys pulled the boat up on the rocky ledge that Jerry had called a point, where they discovered to their great relief that no great damage had been done. The water-tight compartments had held and their provisions and clothing were quite dry. A few minutes later they were off again, but paddling a little more cautiously this time, for they had experienced the first trick the Labyrinth could play. They would be better prepared for the next.

A stretch of good going gave them time for a little reflection. Bob busied himself with thoughts of a possible dam site. It seemed queer to him that Jerry had appeared to take no interest in the canyon for this purpose.

“Why haven’t we looked for a place for the dam?” Bob ventured at last. “We’ve passed a lot of places where the canyon walls were narrow.”

“No hurry,” answered Jerry. “It’d be too far to tunnel a canal through the mountain right here. The valley we want to irrigate is miles farther down. There’s no use bothering our heads about it until we get nearer.”

Satisfied, Bob let the matter rest. So far the journey, with the exception of the one upset, had proved rather tame going and both boys were a little surprised that former explorers had found it impossible to make the passage. The boy from the East rather doubted that they would meet any worse obstacles than they had already. But Jerry was more skeptical. When Bob ventured that he thought the trip was a cinch, Jerry agreed, with a reservation.

“It’s been a cinch so far, but just wait. We’ve not started to get into trouble yet. We’ll get ours all right before we’re through.”

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when more trouble ensued. The canyon broadened and instead of the river being confined in a deep, fast-flowing current, it was spread out into a shallow, dawdling stream. Several times they grounded, there was so little water covering the sand. Here and there rocks stuck above the water, and in places it was necessary to jump out and push the boat into a deeper part.

“It seems to me we’re going to get that trouble right now,” said Bob. “As soon as this narrows a little bit, if it doesn’t get deeper I bet we’ll have rapids with a vengeance.”

This turned out to be the case, for the water went faster as they proceeded, and instead of the sandy bottom, rocks became more and more numerous, the water rushing by them with angry murmurs. Bob had difficulty in keeping the craft from mishap. After narrowly escaping shipwreck between two particularly vicious looking jagged stones he decided that there was no safety in going on the way they had. Suddenly he had an idea.

“The next time we get to a shallow spot, Jerry,” he ordered between strokes, “take hold of the painter and jump out. We must bring the bow up stream.”

Jerry saw that Bob must have some good reason for the maneuver and without a word took hold of the rope which was fastened to the bow of the light craft and slipped overboard at the first likely spot. Pressing himself against a rock, he held taut and let the action of the current, helped by Bob’s pulling strongly on one oar, turn the boat’s nose in the direction from which they had come. It was ticklish work in view of the position in which they were placed. But once around he saw what Bob had in mind when he had planned the stunt, for as soon as he was aboard again Bob began rowing against the current. This allowed the boat to go very slowly down stream. In this way he had much more control than merely backing water could give him. Besides he could see for himself what was coming, as in a rowing position he naturally faced the stern.

“A good idea,” commented Jerry as Bob, due to the new method of progress, missed hitting a wicked rock.

This word of commendation from his comrade pleased Bob immensely. It was the first word of approval he had had from his gloomy chum. “Easier, that’s all!” he answered. But both boys were glad when a new stretch of still water was reached.

Just before sundown next day they came to an obstacle which at first sight rather daunted them. As they rounded a bend, the most surprising bit of scenery they had so far encountered flashed before their eyes. The canyon seemed to stop, to have no outlet. It was as if they had come into an amphitheater from which there was no escape. Even the way they had come in was not visible. The point of rocks which had made the bend in the river merged into the sides of the canyon in such a way as to make it seem that there was no opening at all.

“Golly!” almost whispered Bob, awed by the strangeness of the scene. “I reckon this is why no one came through. There doesn’t seem to be any way to get out—”

“There’s got to be a way through,” growled Jerry. “Where does the water go? Must go somewhere; can’t stop here, that’s sure as rain.”

“P’r’aps—p’r’aps it goes through a cave,” suggested Bob. “I’ve read about underground rivers, haven’t you?”

“Oh, shucks,” said Jerry. “Probably the way out is hidden just like the way we’ve come. Look back. You can’t see how we got in here, can you?”

Bob had to admit this was so. “Maybe you’re right. Anyhow, it’s so dark we can’t tell for certain. I think we’d better get ashore somewheres and make camp. We’ll find out about it in the morning.”

When they awoke the next morning the rounded chamber of the canyon was flooded with light.

“Find your ridge,” invited Bob politely, “the one behind which our river flows on and on and—”

“Oh, shut up!” was Jerry’s ungrateful retort. Since he had opened his eyes he had endeavored to find just that thing—with no success. But he would not own up until he had had another long look. But after a while he had to give in.

“Looks like you were right,” he said tersely. “The river must go through a tunnel, because it sure comes out on t’other side. This river is part of what goes through the Grand Canyon.”

Bob had the good sense not to gloat openly over Jerry’s discomfiture.

“All right,” was all he said. “But let’s find the mouth of the tunnel. Hustle up with the grub.”

They gulped their coffee and soon cast off, letting the stream carry them gently towards the face of the great obstruction. A few minutes later they saw the solution of this mystery. Under the cliff the river flowed swiftly and silently into a dark hole.

“Back water,” said Bob. “We’d better explore a little before we start through.”

“You don’t mean to go through it, do you?” said Jerry, startled out of his usual calm manner by the way in which the other boy had spoken.

“Why not?” returned the other. “It looks like the only way we can go, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Jerry, “but—I didn’t figure on anything like this.”

“We can’t go back again, can we?” asked Bob. “There doesn’t seem to be anything else to do but to try the tunnel.”

His first surprise over, Jerry saw that Bob was right. If they didn’t go through the tunnel they would probably never go anywhere. It would be more than their strength could accomplish to force the boat back through the rapids they had encountered. And even if they could reach the top of the cliffs, Jerry knew that they would die of thirst before they could make their way to civilization.

“You’re right, I guess,” he assented. “We’ve got to do it. Come on, we might as well get it over.”

But Bob, who was at the oars, pulled towards the bank. “Just a jiffy, Jerry, I’ve got a hunch. Why couldn’t a dam be built here?”

In a flash Jerry saw what Bob meant, and for a second was ashamed that in the excitement he had forgotten the real object of their expedition. They were out to find a place where a dam might be built that would bring the water of life to the parched desert on the other side of the mountain—and he had forgotten all this when his personal safety was in danger. He looked up at the wall nature had built across the canyon. This time it was not as an obstruction that he saw it but as a possible location for a dam. When the boat touched the shore, he brought out the transit and set it up. Bob waited breathlessly for his decision. At last Jerry took his eye from the telescope.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it looks possible to me. Better’n that, Bob, it looks mighty lucky. Nature has given us a big help if it turns out that it is possible.”

“You think my hunch may be right then?” put in Bob, his eyes shining. “P’r’aps this big wall might become part of the dam itself!”

“Yep! Here, take a squint through the telescope and see for yourself. The top of this wall is more’n halfway to the top of the canyon.”

Bob applied his eye to the glass and confirmed his comrade’s statement. “Can’t we take some measurements?” he wanted to know.

“Won’t be necessary. We couldn’t climb to the top anyway—”

“Then the transit’s no use?”

“Except as a telescope. But at that it’s told us a lot. But that was a wonderful hunch of yours, Bob. I guess you must be a born engineer. To put it through we’d have to stop up the mouth of the tunnel into which the river runs. Then extra masonry work on top of the cliff would bring it up to the necessary height.”

“I’ll bet a road could be made from the edge of the canyon to the top of the cliff,” asserted Bob confidently, “and what work had to be done here at the river bed could be managed by derricks and cranes from that spot. Don’t you think so?”

“It’d be a big saving all right if it could,” exclaimed Jerry at last. “And I believe it will work. There’s only one thing more to find out and that is how long the tunnel is.”

“There’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” said Bob. “That’s to go through it. Are you ready?”

Jerry realized that they had wonderful news to bring back to the boss. To find a location was good work, but to find a dam almost ready-made would mean such a saving for the Reclamation Service that the stunt would be almost unique. It fired his enthusiasm and stilled any fears he might have of the danger to be overcome.

“Sure,” he said. “Let’s go to it. If we get through we’ll know what we want to know. If we—we don’t, it doesn’t make much difference, does it, old man?”

Impulsively Bob put out his hand. “We’ll win out, Jerry, and we’ll be proud that we did it. If something should happen—it’s for the Service!”

They felt the spirit of pioneers and an immense loyalty to the Service and what it stood for. Jerry shook his hand warmly.

A moment later the boys were afloat. As they got near to the dark entrance they saw that the jagged rocks which fringed the arch came very near to the water.

“We’ll have to feel our way through,” said Bob. “Lie low until we get in and then try to catch hold of the roof. We don’t want to go through too fast.”

“All right,” sang out Jerry. “But I wish we had a lantern.”

“Keep wishing,” laughed Bob. “That’s about all the good it’ll do you.”

The very real danger had shaken Jerry out of his aloofness. This is very often the case in moments of real peril when even bitter enemies are drawn together and become friends during the moments of danger.

“Duck!” yelled Jerry.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth before the boat and its occupants were plunged into the gloom of the cavern.

“Don’t bother about the oars,” said Bob, his voice echoing from the walls of the passage. “It’s too dark for ’em. Try to get a hold on the roof.”

It was some moments before their combined efforts to clutch the rocky roof of the tunnel succeeded sufficiently to bring their boat under control.

“Better not let go one hand till you get another hold!” cautioned Jerry. “It’s mighty slippery.”

Foot by foot they made their way through the tunnel of dread. Cold fear clutched at the heart of each boy, for any moment disaster might come in one of a hundred ways—and they couldn’t see it coming!

For a time all went well, but soon Jerry said in a whisper—somehow the dark made him whisper rather than speak aloud—“I can’t touch the roof any more, can you?”

“No, but it’s all right,” said Bob as cheerfully as he could. “We’ll just have to trust to luck. Sit down and let her rip!”

They slid noiselessly through the impenetrable darkness with only the murmur of the water to break the stillness. The very quietness added a terror of its own. There was no way of telling how fast they were going. They could not see the water and only the rush of cold air against their faces told them they were moving at all.

“Wonder how much longer it’ll be,” whispered Bob, forcing a little laugh. “Seems like we’ve gone miles!”

“I’ve got beyond wondering how far we’ve got to go,” said Jerry fervently. “I just want something to happen. Anything at all would be better than just sitting helpless.”

After this attempt at conversation each boy relapsed into his own gloomy thoughts. These were suddenly disturbed, however, for Jerry called out, a note of hope in his voice, “I think I see light ahead!”

Bob looked and saw it was so. A little speck of white appeared in the distance. Rapidly it grew larger. Now the blackness turned to a gray and in the new light the boys saw why it was they had come through without rubbing against the side walls.

The tunnel was absolutely straight and could not have been carved more evenly through the mountain by the machinery of man. So swift was the current that the boat had had no choice but to go in a straight line, and so wide was the tunnel that there was slim chance of interference with its walls. The boys were so thankful that they were approaching the end of the cavern and its darkness that neither thought of picking up the oars which were still dangling idly alongside the boat. They sat as if fascinated, watching the opening grow larger and larger.

Nearer it came to them until at last with a swoop they were out into the daylight. Blinking in the bright light, their eyes unaccustomed to the sun, they did not realize that a new danger threatened them. It was a long moment before Bob saw what a predicament they were in.

“Look out for falls!” he shouted. Jerry turned and saw that they were on the very brink of a precipice over which the river was flowing. It was a nasty hole they were in. From the noise the water made when it dropped, Jerry was sure it was a long way to the bottom. Besides, he saw in a flash that along its edge gashes of rock stuck up like sentinels. If they were driven against any one of these it would mean instant shipwreck.

Simultaneously the boys reached for the oars but a sudden twist in the current swung the light craft broadside to the stream and as it turned the bow grazed a half submerged rock. The violent shock caused Jerry to lose his balance. Before he could so much as move, Bob saw his chum topple overboard, where the current swept him towards the brink.

Bob’s first impulse was to jump in after Jerry, but in a flash he realized he could help him a lot more if he could save the boat and pull him to shore. Grabbing the oars, he made a vain effort to stem the boat’s headway by pulling against the stream. He was too late. The current had the frail craft in its grip.

“Look out for falls!” Bob shouted.

He thrashed the water with the oars, but, in spite of his frantic efforts, the boat was whirled towards what end he could not guess. Just at the brink a sudden cross rip caught the boat and flung it against one of the rocks which the hurrying waters had not been able to wear away. A sickening crash announced the end of the craft that had given such good service. The same jar flung Bob out and a second later he was hurtling through the foam-laden air over the edge of the fall.

Luckily for him, the impact which had thrown him out, served to propel him a little to one side of the spot where the wrecked boat plunged ahead of him, and to land him in a pool of deep water. If this had not happened and he had crashed into the boat’s wreckage, broken bones would have been his portion. As it was, he missed this fate by only a hair’s breadth.

After having gone deep into the pool, Bob came to the surface, his lungs bursting. One side of his body was numb from the impact of his fall on the surface of the water. Aside from this, he was little the worse for his experience.

He was far too dazed to try to swim. But the whirlpool below the fall flung him aground and, instinctively, he scrambled up a rocky shallow out of the water. He lay there, too stupified to move. Then the realization came that for the moment he was safe. A second afterwards he remembered that Jerry had gone over the fall too. Something must be done and he was the only one to do it. Pulling himself together, he crawled to his knees and looked out over the surging water below the fall. He could see no signs of his chum. He groaned.

The fact that Jerry was gone whirled in his head. He must find out where his comrade was. Looking down, he saw something which had escaped his first look. It was a black object bobbing about in an eddy off the main rush of the current. He could not be sure that it was Jerry. His wracked bones told him it was only driftwood—that Jerry was gone—that he could make no further effort. But his pride and determination told him he must go on. It might be Jerry and if he did not make sure he could never forgive himself.

Stumbling over the rocks, he started off as fast as he could manage. Half blinded, he slipped off a rock and was plunged into the current. Instinct made him swim and the current helping him, he approached rapidly the place where he thought he had seen Jerry. Little by little his forced exertions cleared his brain and his determination to go on made him forget his pains.

As he swam nearer to the object which was swirling around in the water, it constantly eluded his grasp, but he saw that it was Jerry. It was as if the river was playing tag with him, snatching the thing he wanted out of his reach. Reason told him that Jerry was dead. What was the use of his trying to keep up this endeavor when it was all so useless? But something kept him striving, held him to his aim. He couldn’t give up. With a last despairing lunge, he shot into the eddy and caught his comrade’s shoulder. With infinite pains he swam with his prize to the bank. Safely there, he had only strength to pull it halfway out of the water.

He was done, spent for the moment, but the will power which had driven him on and on roused him. He had done this much, he must do the rest even though every muscle in his body rebelled. He dragged the lifeless form of his friend entirely out of the water and managed to lay him face downward over a round rock, letting his head lie low. Then Bob flung himself on Jerry and tried with the weight of his own body to force the water out of the other’s lungs. Only a little success rewarded this maneuver. Next Bob let the other’s limp body roll off onto the ground and, sitting astride of it, worked his chum’s arms up and down to induce breathing. There was no response.

Tears of utter exhaustion streamed down Bob’s face. But he kept on. Up and down, up and down, he pulled the other’s arms. Just as he was about to give in to the utter refusal of his body to go on, he thought he heard a faint sigh from his comrade. This put new strength in his arms and new ability to continue. He was not mistaken. After another moment Jerry again heaved a long sigh and started breathing, jerkily at first, yet breathing. When Bob was sure that there was no mistake, that Jerry was again in the land of the living, he rolled to one side, absolutely all in.

It was not long, however, before their strong constitutions asserted themselves. Soon both boys were able to sit up and take stock of what damage had been done. Jerry was first on his feet, pale and a little shaky, but again master of himself.

“Was it a close shave?” he asked as Bob sat up.

“You bet,” was the heartfelt answer. “I thought you were a goner sure. But where is the boat?”

Jerry scanned the river a moment before replying: “She’s not in sight.”

“Sunk, do you think?” anxiously queried Bob. “Seems to me I remember hitting a rock just an instant before—before I did my parachute act.”

“I don’t know. Come on and let’s see if it has gone around the bend. At that we’ll never be able to catch up with it unless it’s grounded somewheres.”

Without the boat, they would have no provisions. The nature of the country didn’t promise much in the way of forage, and even if they succeeded in climbing the canyon walls, they would probably starve before they reached civilization. It was a terrifying prospect and each boy realized it fully. But neither would show to the other the fear that gripped him. Stumbling and weak they made their way over the rocks until they could see around the bend.

“Hurray!” called Bob, who was in the lead. “There she is.”

When Jerry came up he saw what had called forth his comrade’s shout. The boat was lying wedged between two rocks on the opposite shore, one end entirely submerged by the rushing stream.

“Can you make it?” asked Bob. “We’ll have to swim.”

“I guess so,” answered the other. “It’s got to be done.”

Without hesitating, Bob slipped into the water and struck out. The current carried him far down the river from the point he was making for, but he reached the other side in safety. Jerry followed and strove manfully, but the accident had taken a good deal of his strength and he was thankful when Bob waded out and gave him a hand to shore.

Their boat was a wreck, they found when they came up to it. The after water-tight compartment was completely stove in. This had caused the stern to sink. Two things, however, were in their favor. The front compartment, in which they had stowed their blankets, extra clothing, matches and the transit, was still intact. Also, as the after compartment had held only their canned eatables, the ducking had not hurt them. Few of the cans had fallen out.

“I reckon we’ll have to wait until morning to see what we can do about fixing the boat,” said Bob. “It’s much too dark now. Come on, we’ll light a fire and be as comfortable as we can. We’re sort of inland Robinson Crusoe’s, aren’t we?”

CHAPTER V
JERRY’S STORY

The boys cooked some supper and made camp as best they could from the salvaged cargo of their boat. Afterwards they slipped out of their wet clothes and rolled up in the blankets before the comforting warmth of their fire.

Bob was looking into the glowing coals, thinking over the events of the day, which, since they had turned out safely, were now to be treasured as great adventures. Jerry for his part was lying looking up at the narrow strip of star-lit sky showing between the edges of the canyon’s top. Suddenly he rolled over and put his hand on his companion’s shoulder.

“You did me a good turn to-day,” he said a little huskily. “Thanks. I—I can’t say things very well but I want to tell you—”

“Cut it out,” stammered Bob, confused. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Saved my life, I reckon, is all you did. It must have been some job, too, although I don’t know how you did it.”

“You’d have done the same thing for me,” returned Bob, anxious to get off the subject. “Let’s talk about the dam site.”

But Jerry was not to be put off. He had come very close to death and it had shaken him out of his reserve. Bob had saved him and he wanted to thank him, to show his gratitude.

“The old dam can wait. You did a mighty fine thing for me and I want to know how you managed it.”

“I just pulled you out and pumped the water out of you and—and here you are,” was Bob’s explanation of the episode.

“Seems to me it was a sort of angry whirlpool you pulled me from,” retorted Jerry. But he saw that he would have a hard time in getting any more details. “Anyhow, I know I’ve got to thank you for my life—such as it is!”

The note of sadness in the latter part of Jerry’s remark struck sharply on Bob’s ears. It flashed on him that there was possibly a reason for his comrade’s fits of silence and grouchiness. This might very well be mixed up with his former life. He made an effort to find out.

“What’s the matter with your life?” he asked quickly. “I’d want nothing better. To be with the Reclamation Service and to have Mr. Whitney for a boss seems pretty good to me!”

“That part’s all right. The Chief is bully, but—”

“But what?” encouraged Bob.

“Oh, it’s nothing I can talk about,” returned the other and buried his face in his hands.

Bob watched him for a moment and then said softly, “But if you can talk about it p’r’aps it will help. Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know,” hesitated the other after a pause. “I reckon it’s mighty kiddish of me but—but I just can’t help it.”

Bob was wise enough to wait until Jerry felt like going on. He knew that the other boy must be very much upset, quite shocked out of his customary reserve by the happenings of the day, to say as much as he had. His patience was at length rewarded.

“It’s—it’s just that I haven’t ever had a family like other fellows. There isn’t a soul who’d care a bit whether I’d been drowned to-day or not. If I get along, it’s all by myself. Somehow it doesn’t seem worth while.”

“That’s mighty tough,” said Bob sympathetically, when Jerry paused for a moment. “I’ll bet Mr. Whitney cares—”

“But that’s not like having someone you belong to!” cried Jerry. “The Boss is all right but he isn’t a family. Why, the first thing I remember is selling papers in the Loop back in Chicago when I was hardly big enough to walk, and getting licked when I got home because I didn’t bring in enough pennies. Home!” the boy’s voice broke on the word. “It wasn’t a home!”

“Surely your parents wouldn’t treat you like that!” expostulated Bob Hazard, horrified.

“They weren’t my parents, no fear. They told that soon enough. I’d been taken in by ’em ’cause they thought I might be useful—”

“Who were they?”

“Oh, a cabby driver and his wife. The old woman told me once she wished she’d left me on the doorstep where she found me. But I stuck it out with them, until I was about fourteen, I reckon, and then something happened. One day a man spoke to me on State Street and asked if I didn’t want to go out in the country. He made a wonderful picture of the road on which there were no houses, the haystacks under which one could sleep. I’d never been outside of the city and it sounded great to me. He said I could go along with him and he would show me all these wonders. It was springtime and the licking I’d had the night before still smarted, so I went.”

Once Jerry had started his tale, it flowed on without interruption. He seemed anxious to get it out.

“I didn’t know what I’d let myself in for. If anything, my life was a lot worse than it’d been before. The Denver Kid was the name of the man who had picked me up and I soon learned that he was a tramp—a hobo. All first class hoboes get boys who go along with them and on whom fall all the hard work. Their pay is in kicks and beatings. And I got my share of both. I found the country to be as he said it was, but we saw very little of it, for the Kid didn’t like walking. He stayed close to the railroad and I saw most of the country from a crack in the door of a box car, or through the flying sand thrown up over us as we clung to a rattling brake-beam.

“It’s hard to escape from a gang of tramps once you’re in it. Not for two years was I able to pull it off. Finally I got my chance to beat it. Somehow, the sight of kids going to school had given me a hankering for an education of some sort and I was ashamed that all I could do was spell out the newspaper and read a time-table.”

“How did you manage it?” put in Bob, who was thrilled with the narrative.

“One day the Kid sent me out to rustle a hand-out. We were in Iowa at that time, just when they were bringing in the wheat harvest. I went up to a farmhouse and started my spiel on a lady who came to the door. She let me finish what I had to say, took me in and without a word gave me a big spread. But when I got through she made up for her silence. She began jawing at me just as a mother might.”

“I know,” put in Bob. “I didn’t have a mother either. At least, it was so long ago I can hardly remember her.”

Jerry went on with his story. “She told me I ought to be ashamed of myself, big, husky boy that I was, roaming around doing no useful work. Wanted to know why I didn’t stay there and help with the harvest and work for my living. This wasn’t the first time that I had been handed out the same sort of chatter. But I fell for it this time—she was sort of homely and nice. The only thing I was afraid of was the Denver Kid. I knew if I didn’t go back with something to eat he would come and find me and lick the stuffing out of me. I told Mrs. Olson—that was her name—that I would have to go but that I’d come back that night. For a moment I don’t think she believed me, but at last she let me go, giving me quite a lot of grub.

“I went back to the bunch and that night just after we’d hopped a freight at the water tank, I took a chance and jumped. By the time the Denver Kid knew I’d gone, the train was rolling too fast for him to follow me.”

“Weren’t you hurt?” asked Bob.

“A few scratches and bruises. Nothing much. But I didn’t care; I was free. I walked back to the farm, camped out under a haystack and the next morning showed up for breakfast. Mrs. Olson certainly was good to me while I was there. After harvest she made me stay on and let me go to school. I paid for my keep by doing chores.”

“Didn’t the Denver Kid come back after you?” Bob wanted to know.

“Never,” said Jerry. “At first I figured he would, but after a month, when he didn’t show up, I doped it out that he thought I’d fallen off the train and been killed. Anyhow, I stayed with the Olson’s until I had learned all that the school there could teach me. Mrs. Olson died soon after and I couldn’t bear to stay around any longer. She was as near to folks as I ever had.”

“That was tough,” said Bob sympathetically. “What’d you do then?”

“I just drifted. I followed the harvest westward and then I had a chance to take some cattle down to Colorado. It was about then I met Steve Whitney, and he gave me a job, and here I am.”

“How did you meet him?” asked Bob, expecting that Jerry had found his job in some exciting way. But he was disappointed.

“I was hanging around the little town I was in, waiting for something to turn up. There was a project under way a few miles out and I hiked over to give it a look. The Chief caught me on the dam and thought I looked sort of hungry. Shipped me to the mess tent and afterwards put me to work. That’s all. Now I’m here. And I’ve told you my yarn,” said Jerry at last. “There’s not much to it, is there?”

Bob was silent a moment, contrasting the life of ease he had spent with the experiences he had just listened to. Before he could speak, Jerry went on, laughing shortly.

“I’m sorry that I inflicted it all upon you, Bob. I was sort of acting the cry baby, wasn’t I?”

“Not at all. I think you have done a lot for yourself and it must have been awfully exciting while you were about it. I’ve never had anything more exciting in my life than just going to school. This engineering is the biggest adventure I’ve ever had. But to-day—to-day’s about made up for all I’ve missed in the past. I couldn’t want much better than this, could I?”

“I should say not,” returned Jerry. “The last twelve hours ought to last you for the rest of your life!”

They talked on until sleep overcame them. For his part, Bob went off into dreamland feeling that the day had been well spent. The adventures had been big adventures and he and Jerry had come through safely. Jerry had loosened up and had come out of his shell and Bob knew that he had made a new friend and a good one.

CHAPTER VI
THE END OF THE LABYRINTH

But a disappointment awaited them in the morning. The craft that had brought them this far was quite beyond repair. It would perhaps not have been impossible to patch it up if they had had the necessary tools, but, lacking them, the boat was a total wreck.

“What can we do?” said Bob, his tone showing his dismay. “Seems like we are in a bad fix. ‘No boat, no can go!’ as the Chinaman says.”

Jerry, however, was not so pessimistic. “Oh, I’m not beaten yet. I think I’ve got a scheme that’ll work, although it means we won’t be dry again until we get out of the canyon.”

“What do you mean? Are we going to swim the rest of the way?”

“You’re not far off,” said Jerry, laughing. “But even if we’ve got to swim we won’t have to carry all our junk. Have you thought what a bully raft our air mattress will make?”

“Gee whiz, that’s some idea,” said Bob. “We can load our stuff on it and let it float down stream, can’t we?”

“You bet! But it will be pretty rough going. We’ll have to nurse it pretty carefully. A submarine rock could torpedo it in a minute. But come on, let’s try it.”

They blew up the mattress to its fullest extent and launched it. Piling on it the things they felt absolutely necessary to take with them, they were overjoyed to find the improvised raft equal to the task. The rest of the truck had to be abandoned.

“Well, might as well start, I reckon,” said Bob. “This is the first time I’ve ever gone in for an all-day swim. We won’t really need a bath the rest of the summer after this.” Jerry laughed a reply.

It didn’t turn out to be so bad as they had imagined. Shortly after they started the river grew smoother and shallower, so that wading was quite possible. During the afternoon of the next day, with almost startling suddenness they found themselves out of the canyon. It ended almost as surprisingly as it had begun. A sudden bend through the high cliffs and they were in the open country.

Bob turned to Jerry and shook his hand. “We’ve done it, old boy. We’ve beaten the Labyrinth.”

In the midst of their mutual congratulations a hail came to them from the bank. Surprised, they looked up to see a figure waving to them. They pulled ashore and found a grizzled old man standing up beside a camp fire.

“Did ye come through the gap?” was his greeting in a mild, unsurprised tone.

The boys answered in the affirmative. The old man nodded his head. “Pretty good, pretty good. You sho’ surprised me. Only ones what I’ve seen come through before have been dead ones. Sit ’round and in a minute I’ll have something to eat for ye.”

Jerry recognized the type at once. It was a desert rat, one of those old men who, lured by the dream of gold, haunt the desert, usually alone. Years pass over their heads in the search which never ends. At last the gold mine that they will find some day becomes merely the excuse not the aim of the unending pilgrimage. The desert, the loneliness is claiming them. If they found a mine worth the developing, probably they would sell it and blow in the proceeds and be off again as soon as possible. They have been too long away from civilization for anything to surprise them. The desert is mysterious, the loneliness makes everything possible.

The old man’s meal was sour dough biscuits and a sort of soup made from jerked beef and river water. But he offered it to them and served it as if it were a banquet. To the tired, hungry boys it was a banquet. They had done tremendous deeds on a diet of canned goods and any change was welcome.

The old man ventured no further curiosity in what they had done. They had come through the Labyrinth, he had accepted the fact, and that was all there was to it. He spoke very little and when the boys asked the way to the nearest railroad, his answer was given in rather a relieved tone. It was as if he would be glad to have the silence to himself again.

To the boys’ great joy, they found they had come out of the canyon at a point only twenty miles from the railroad. They determined to hike for it the next day. Before they started the next morning, Bob had an idea.

“Let’s give the old fellow our air mattress. We won’t need it any more and maybe he would like it.”

“Bully,” agreed Jerry and took it over to the old man.

They showed him how to blow it up and then let all the air out and rolled it up into a small parcel. He was as delighted as a child with a new toy and thanked them for it. At last they started out on their hike, carrying with them only enough food for lunch, the transit and as much water as possible. When they were about fifty feet from camp, the old man called out after them.

“I forgot to ask what this here thing you give me might be for.”

“To sleep on.”

“Well, you’d better take it back, then,” he said. “I hain’t slept on nothin’ but the old earth here for forty year and I reckon I won’t sleep on nothin’ else until I sleep in it. This here thing ain’t goin’ to do me no good.”

The boys laughed and Jerry called back, “Well, give it to the burro to sleep on then.”

With a last wave of the hand, the boys started on their long hike.

From the river the country had looked flat. But once faced in the direction the old man had told them to go, they found the way was quite hilly. Perhaps they had been so used during the past days in the canyon to the walls towering straight up on each side of them that the gradual rise did seem flat. But they soon realized it would be quite a climb.

Noon still found them ascending and they ate their lunch and hurried on. It was sizzling. There were some trees, but these were few and far between. Most of the footing was sandy and made hard walking. Owing to these conditions it was not until after nightfall that they saw the first sign of civilization. Bob was in the lead and was the first to see a reflection on the horizon.

“I thought I saw a light ahead, Jerry,” he cried. “Way off there.”

“Heat lightning, I guess,” returned the other, but before the words were out of his mouth the same phenomenon occurred and this time he saw it.

“Take it all back, Bob; you’re right. I saw it too.”

“But what is it?”

“Reflection from the fire box of an engine on the smoke that passes over. The reason it comes in flashes is that it only shows when the fireman opens the door to pitch on another scoop of coal. Yes, there it is again!” They plodded on, much encouraged.

Jerry had jollied and cheered up Bob during the long tramp, for Bob, while more adapted to the water, found himself at a disadvantage beside his new chum when it came to navigating the desert. When at last they made the track, they were footsore and weary. Finishing their last bit of water, the boys started to walk the ties in the direction they thought the nearest station must be. But after a few steps Bob refused to go farther.

“I don’t care what you do,” he announced to Jerry, “but I stop right here, and unless you give me a shove off the track I probably will sleep right between the rails. The morning will be plenty soon enough for me to go on, hungry as I am.”

“I won’t argue with you,” said Jerry. “And I guess the sand will seem just about as comfortable as any feather bed could, the way I feel. I’m right with you.”

The intense desert sun, however, woke them early to the realization of their weary muscles. Bob was up first and disturbed Jerry’s slumbers by a sudden peal of laughter.

Drowsily Jerry demanded, “What’s so all-fired funny, you early bird?”

“Get up and look,” giggled Bob.

The other scrambled to his feet and, blinkingly, scanned the horizon. Not more than a quarter of a mile away was a water tank and a few houses! The night had been so dark and they had come to the railroad so late that all the lights had been extinguished in the settlement. But as far as they were concerned, the town might just as well have been ten miles away instead of the few yards it was in reality.

“I guess it was a good one on us, all right,” Jerry had to admit. “Come on and we’ll see if we can rustle up some breakfast. Also a wash up. We must be two awful looking sights.”

They found something to eat and water to wash in and felt ten times better.

No questions were asked them. Evidently they were taken for tramps who had a little money.

They decided they might just as well find out if there was any news from Whiskers before they made any move, so they telegraphed to the Grand Canyon, asking that any telegram that had come be forwarded on to them. Then they proceeded to loaf until the answer arrived.

“Gee, this is bully,” commented Bob, as he lay stretched out on the porch of the general store, out of the glare of the sun. “I never thought just resting could be such fun!”

Jerry grunted an assent, too lazy to return a remark.

Neither boy had the energy to lift a finger. They were dead tired and the mere fact of doing nothing was infinitely enjoyable. They had a whole day of this, for it was not until the following morning that an answer came to their wire. It proved to be from the Boss and had been sent from Washington.

“Be at Las Cruces on June 20.”

“We’ve just got time to make it,” said Jerry. “That was sent three days ago and right now Mr. Whitney ought to be pulling out of Kansas City. We’ll catch the local out and be there just before he arrives.”

CHAPTER VII
THE PROJECT

“Well, fellows, what’d you do with yourselves while I was away? Must have been pretty tiresome up at the Canyon, wasn’t it?” It was Mr. Whitney talking. He had told them that his trip to Washington had been a great success. They had sent for him to put him in charge of finishing up the big Rio Grande project.

“That’s great!” said Jerry, who had experience enough to know that a great honor had been conferred on his Chief. The Rio Grande project was the biggest thing the Service had yet attempted and to be in charge of it was equivalent to a high promotion.

Bob Hazard knew from Jerry’s spontaneous outburst that Mr. Whitney was to be congratulated, so he made a little speech.

“Thanks, fellows, thanks,” laughed the Chief. “It will be fine for all of us. But that’s enough of my news—what have you chaps been up to? Been bored?”

“Oh, we found plenty to do,” said Jerry.

“At the Canyon?” asked Mr. Whitney. “I don’t see how you could. It is a pretty dreary place, if you have to be there long.”

“But we weren’t at the Canyon,” put in Bob.

“So? You surprise me. But wherever you were, I bet you were in mischief. Just from the look of you two, I can see that you were up to some devilment. Besides, you’re almost boiling over with the desire to tell me about it. Come on, out with it.”

“We went through the Labyrinth Canyon,” said Jerry calmly.

This news made Steve Whitney jump out of his chair. “What!” he cried. “You went through the Labyrinth? You’re joking.”

“Not at all,” said Bob calmly. “We got tired of doing nothing and we went up the Green River and went through it.”

“But—but nobody’s ever gone through alive,” stammered the man. “I’ve always wanted to try it myself but never found the chance. How did you do it?”

“Boat partly and swimming,” returned Jerry, anxious to state the exact facts.

“But didn’t you have an awful time?”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad,” said Bob. “Once or twice we had a little trouble but all in all it was just fun. And the reason we went was because Jerry thought there might possibly be a project there.”

The calm way in which the boys announced their feat forced Whiskers to believe what at first glance seemed to be a preposterous yarn.

“I’m sure proud of you two,” he said warmly. “But I ought not to be. It was a foolhardy thing to do and if you had asked my permission I certainly would not have given it.” But as he reproved them his eyes glistened with the pride he felt. “I want to hear all about it, but first tell me, did you find a place where you think a dam could be built? There is a wonderful valley out there ready to spring into life if we only could get water to it.”

“You bet we found a place,” said Jerry. “The dam is already half built by nature. Besides, I feel sure a road can be made down from the top of the canyon.”

“That’s great!” said Steve Whitney. “Now go ahead and spin me the whole yarn.”

Jerry let Bob tell of their adventure, putting in a word here and there. But when it came to the part where Bob had saved his life after dropping over the waterfall, he took the narrative in his own hands and in spite of Bob’s protests, told the Chief the whole story of the rescue.

When they had finished, Mr. Whitney was very much excited. “We’ll have to make a report of your find to Washington at once and, if possible, get a bill brought up in the next Congress to authorize us to make a preliminary survey. We can do it next summer.”

That their discovery had a good chance of being acted upon, was a big measure of reward to the two boys. Mr. Whitney’s interest seemed to settle the matter.

“You—you think Congress will authorize it?” ventured Bob, just to make sure.

“They will have to!” was the confident reply. “I’ll draw up a report the moment we strike camp! But now we’ll have to run for our train. I’ve been so interested, I forgot the time.”

The trip passed quickly for Bob and his Chief. Mr. Whitney was on his way to the biggest job he had yet tackled, and Bob would taste for the first time the flavor of the work he felt he most wanted to do. To Jerry, however, the train was only bringing him to a new spell of hard labor.

When at last the jolting cars stopped, they found a car waiting, into which the three piled. Once under way, Bob asked Mr. Whitney, “Doesn’t the railroad go into the camp? It seems to me it must be pretty heavy hauling all the big machinery from here across the desert.”

“A railroad goes to the job all right, Bob, but it’s meant for freight and a train runs only three times a week. The line was built by the Service and belongs to the Government. We’ve come the wrong day to catch that train.”

“I see. And does the Service build other things besides dams and railroads?”

“Surely! On a job like this so far away from any regular transportation line the Service has to construct all the necessities of life—and some luxuries. It built the town that we’ll be coming to shortly, put in the electric light system, erected a school and a hospital. In some places we’ve even built a motion picture theatre to keep the men satisfied. Probably there’s one on this job. When I was up here last they were planning it. I bet you never thought Uncle Sam was in the amusement business.”

Bob laughed. “There sure must be a lot of men working up there.”

“It’s a young city. But here we are.”

The road had been steadily climbing and now it topped the crest of the hill. Before their eyes lay a wonderful panorama. To the north, the wide valley of the river stretched into the distance, a winding band of green and gold, flanked on each side by the glowing desert. Immediately below them the peaceful face of nature was broken.

It was the place where the dam was to be built—where already part of it was built. From the height from which they looked the network of cables and railroad tracks and rushing ant-like figures, seemed a confused jumble without a sense of direction. But as the car coasted down the well-made road—also constructed by the Government, Bob learned later—the jumble became clearer. The cables, extending from one side of the hill to the other, carried buckets which rushed incessantly to and fro. These were lowered and hoisted seemingly by chance. The puffing engines pulled cars of rock to the crusher and backed away for new loads. The swarming men now showed themselves as workers, the directing units, and their rushing about was merely carrying out their part of the great work.

Finally the car came to a stop before a large two-story adobe house. The boys followed Mr. Whitney inside. “This is the Quarter-house,” Mr. Whitney explained as they went in. “They have rooms here for the engineering force and it is also used as a hotel if any guests happen to come along. I’ll see if you boys can be put up here until we can find permanent quarters for you.”

Hardly were they over the threshhold, before a short, stocky, middle-aged man came up to them. He rushed up to Whitney with outstretched hands and said, “I certainly am glad to see you, Whitney. Ted Adams has been gone two weeks and I have been expecting you almost any day. I couldn’t get down to meet you at the station, as they needed me over at the spillway. Little matter of extra shoring. It’s all right now.”

The Chief shook the other man’s hand warmly. “You’re staying on, aren’t you, Taylor?” And when the other nodded his assent, he continued, “I’m glad! Couldn’t have better luck! I was hoping that you would stick as my assistant. My first job for you is to find jobs for a couple of rodmen I brought along with me. Here, boys, I want to introduce you to Mr. Taylor, the assistant engineer and therefore your immediate boss.”

Taylor had flushed at Mr. Whitney’s words of confidence. It was easy to see that he would probably always be an assistant, never a full-fledged chief. He was the kind of man who could execute orders perfectly but when left with the responsibility of making decisions for himself, was likely to become flustered and upset. He took refuge in the inquiry about the boys.

“There’ll be plenty of work for ’em. It happens we’re a little short on rodmen just now. But about sleeping quarters—I’ve got your house ready for you, Whitney, and as soon as your dunnage comes along you can move right in,” he said.

“That’s fine,” returned Whitney. “But the boys—”

“Oh, there’s room here for the time being. We can see about something else later. But you must be famished. Come along to my shack. It’s about supper time. You come too, fellows. The regular mess is over.”

Both Bob and Jerry were overjoyed at the invitation. The long trip had made them hungry and they rather wondered where their supper would come from. Mr. Taylor waited until they had taken their suit cases up to the room that had been assigned them and then the little group walked up the street to the cottage that was the assistant engineer’s. His wife, a pleasant-faced woman, welcomed them and seemed especially pleased to see Whitney. Bob realized that his friend evidently was a great favorite and had made many friends during his years in the Service.

Mrs. Taylor had prepared what seemed to Bob an especially fine supper, considering that they were miles away from civilization. During a lull in the conversation he mentioned it. She was much pleased.

“Oh, New York has very little on us up here,” she said. “What with a cold storage plant and an ice factory, we don’t want for anything.”

It was so. In this frontier camp practically all the comforts that the civilization of a city could give were present: electric lights, ice, excellent stores—and the movie theatre. It was like transplanting a little corner of a city.

After supper they went out on the porch from which could be seen the works. Dusk had come during the meal and already the stars shone pale in the sky. Down at their feet vague outlines of the excavations could be seen, the darker shadows marking their extent. Down to the left was a cluster of bright lights.

“What is that?” Bob asked.

“The town,” was the answer; “the mechanics’ houses and the bunk houses for the Mexican laborers. The only people who live up here on the hill are the engineers and executives.”

When the men got their cigars lighted they began to talk. Whitney was of course anxious to know what the situation was on the job he was to tackle in the morning. If the laborers were satisfied, how the work was progressing, and a thousand and one other things he needed to know bubbled forth. The assistant engineer was a veritable mine of information. Practically every question was answered without a moment’s hesitation. Bob was contented to sit and listen, drinking in all the information he could. This was the Reclamation Service and to-morrow would see him taking an active part in the work.

CHAPTER VIII
BOB’S CHANCE

To Bob’s great disgust his first job was not out on the construction work. Whiskers had turned him over to Mr. Taylor, who set him to work in the draughting room. All day long he sat on a stool, and did simple sums: endless multiplications and divisions of figures that came from the blue prints made by the engineers. It was stupid work and had in it little of the romance which he had always associated with the work he was to do. However, he comforted himself with the thought that if it were not necessary, the Chief would never set him at it.

Jerry, on account of his experience, had at once been assigned to active outside work as the aid of one of the many junior assistant engineers. At night he would tell Bob of the day’s work and commiserate with him that his lot was not as exciting. But at lunch hour and after work was over for the day, Bob found a chance to investigate the outside work. It was fascinating. Along one side of the valley the river had been forced by means of a temporary dam into an artificial channel, called the spillway, so that the river bottom where the dam was to be built should be clear of water. From the river bed rose the rough foundations of the permanent dam.

It was like a giant staircase on the side which would not come against the water. It was about half finished when Bob first got there, but each day it rose steadily higher and higher. Bob examined it all. Each operation he came to fascinated him, and by using his eyes he soon grew to understand much of the method by which results were achieved.

It was weeks before there came a break in the monotony of his work. He had forced himself to be cheerful about his stupid job and not to show by the least sign that he was not entirely content with the work he had been set to do. Mr. Taylor, who since the advent of the Chief, had taken charge of the office work, spoke to Mr. Whitney. “That boy, Hazard, is a good lad,” he said. “Although the plucky beggar won’t own up, I think he is eating his heart out at the draughting board. I can get along without him, so give him a chance outside if you can.”

“A little office work won’t do him any harm,” commented Mr. Whitney. “I asked you to put him to work there on purpose. I don’t want him to get too inflated an idea of the romance of engineering. But I’ll remember what you said and if something turns up I’ll see what I can do.”

The time was to come sooner than either Taylor or Whitney expected. The Chief Engineer had been so busy familiarizing himself with all the details of the outside work that he had spent little time in the office and so had not often seen Bob. Not an activity, from the operation of the railway branch to the pouring of a new batch of concrete on the dam itself, had escaped his inspection. He wanted to know all the foremen of the different gangs, to size them up, and to gain their personal loyalty. The long experience he had had in bossing men, taught him that being human and approachable did not impair discipline. Besides, in times of emergency, the men could be more counted on.

From the men with whom he came into contact, Bob Hazard realized that his boss was rapidly becoming very popular. Every one was singing his praises and the general feeling was that the work was going ahead at a pace never equalled under the preceding engineers. All this was pleasing to the boy who had idolized the man, and helped him to be content with the work at which he had been placed.

It was not of course the sort of life he had pictured. That had been rather a vague idea of khaki-clad figures, perched with their instruments on perilous peaks and over yawning chasms; and a general idea of romance had run through his dreams. To be put into an office to do sums was little better than going to school. That his drawing board faced a window below which the job spread out, was a help, for while his mind mechanically did the figuring that was necessary, he could imagine himself out on the work mingling with the crowd.

One part of the activity drew him especially. This was the cableway system. Between the towers set up on the high ground on each side of the river, the strands of wire rope were suspended. Along them ran great pulleys from which the buckets hung. The buckets would flash across Bob’s vision endlessly, carrying loads of mixed concrete, of sand, of anything that was needed.

Their flight was swift, swooping something like a bird’s. From one tower the bucket would speed, only to stop silently and, almost before its crossways movement had ended, it would drop to the surface of the work. An instant to unload the bucket and in a flash it was up and gliding like the wind back to its starting point.

There was something so fascinating, so rhythmical in this operation, that Bob had difficulty in tearing his eyes away and concentrating on his work.

One morning, however, something new occurred to distract his attention. Happening to glance out of the window, he saw Jerry coming up the path to the office, running with all the speed of which he was capable.

The door of the draughting room was open into the hall where the telephone central was seated. Her job was trying to keep in touch with all the different division chiefs so that they might be found if any emergency should occur. Therefore Bob knew that he would hear what was the cause of this especial emergency that had galvanized Jerry into such a tremendous haste.

“The Chief!” he heard Jerry pant as the footsteps ended in the hall. “Where is he?”

“Mixer last!” snapped the girl, plugging in and ringing her call at the same time. “I’ll see if he’s still there!”

“Meantime, where’s Mr. Taylor? He’d help—”

“Can’t get him—gone to Las Cruces. Yes, hello, Mixer? The Chief? Gone? Yes, yes! Where? North end spillway! Right! ’Bye.” She pulled out the plug and said to Jerry, “Started for spillway ten minutes ago. No phone there yet. Take fifteen minutes get messenger there—can you wait?”

“No,” said Jerry. “Mr. Rutherford, my chief, wants him. Wall of auxiliary spillway this side of the river giving way—will flood all the buttress excavation. We’re shoring it, but Mr. Rutherford wants the Chief and in a hurry. I’m off but I’m afraid I’ll get him too late! If he calls up send him to Mr. Rutherford at once!” With this Jerry shot out of the office and down the hill, evidently planning to make his legs take him to the Chief.

Inside, Bob had been listening with wide open ears and his mind pictured the scene Jerry had left to find Mr. Whitney and filled out the holes the winded boy had left in his description. He knew the auxiliary spillway and the harm it could do if it should fail to carry its burden. It was a temporary affair of wood to be used only until a system of drains could be built to take care of the excess water that collected below the coffer dam. His mind’s eye saw Rutherford and Jerry at the dangerous place: Rutherford, young and inexperienced, doing what he could to avert disaster, but rattled, probably badly so. He wanted Mr. Whitney or somebody with practical knowledge and he had sent Jerry off to bring help. All Bob could do was to hope that the wall would hold.

Reluctantly he started to take up his dreary work but on the way to the board, his eyes glanced through the window and rested on a grab bucket that was speeding through the air. For a second the sight meant nothing special to him, then suddenly it brought him to his feet. Without a word to the other draughtsmen he dashed out of the room, not waiting to snatch his cap.

A plan had come to him in a flash. Whitney was needed and needed in a hurry. He was on the other side of the river valley at the head of the spillway. The opposite cableway tower over there was near this spot—if the buckets could go over, couldn’t he? He’d try anyway!

With all the speed he could muster he ran towards the cable tower, thanking his stars that the control station was on this side of the river, and that he knew one of the lever men. It was this fellow’s job to dispatch the buckets and hoist and lower them.

“Trouble below, Billy!” gasped Bob as he came to the shed that protected the operator from the rays of the sun. “Need the Big Boss. He’s over at the spillway. Shoot me over?”

“’Gainst rules, son,” was the man’s answer, pulling a lever which made a great bucket shoot up from the depths.

“But this—this is serious,” cried the boy. “Rules don’t count! They’ve got to have him!”

“Sorry,” was the short response, “but orders are orders. Nothing doing.”

Bob continued to waste a few precious seconds in a vain endeavor to move his friend Billy, but kept his eye on the returning bucket. It came almost to Billy’s shed and then, in response to a sharp jerk on a lever, it dropped into the mixing shed of the concrete plant.

A way of overcoming this obstacle came to Bob. Without wasting any more time talking he rushed down to the concrete shed to get there just as the loading gang had finished changing the great hook of the cableway from the empty bucket to a full one. The foreman had his hand raised to signal Billy to hoist away when Bob darted in and jumped onto the bucket.

The foreman was so surprised that involuntarily his hand made the signal and a second later Bob was climbing through space, faster than a rocket!

The wind whistled in his ears and he was choked by the rapid ascent, yet the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. It was like riding in the fastest elevator he’d ever been in—at triple the speed.

Not until the bucket had reached the height of the cableway was he able to take any interest in looking about him. The second or so that had elapsed since he had taken passage on the concrete conveyor had been fully occupied in putting himself in a position where he could hold on and not be in danger of being tipped over the side. Worming himself around he found he could seat himself comfortably in the hook that held the bucket and clasp his arms around the great iron ball that hung just under the many sheaved pulley.

When this was done he ventured a look over the side. From the attitude of Billy he knew that the operator had seen him. What would Billy do? The success of his whole scheme depended on it. He had figured that the man would be sport enough to shoot him across if he had once got on the bucket and was on his way.

The speed of the bucket slackened as it neared the cable height and for an agonizing second he thought that Billy was about to drop him back to the spot he had started from. It would be a rotten ending to his adventure, and the whole camp would have the laugh on him. On a sudden impulse he disengaged one hand and motioned that he wanted to go on.

It was a dangerous expedient but it was worth it, for Billy, resigned to the situation, waved back and a moment later the bucket started to swoop towards the other shore.

Bob was facing the way in which they were going and he was conscious that it was like sliding down a great hill, for the cable above him dipped towards the center. There was little time for thought, however, as the bucket lost no time in gathering headway. At one moment it was almost still, the next it was whistling through the air.

The first down rush was glorious. Not until he started to climb up the other incline of the cable did Bob give any thought to the speed he was making. There was a slight slackening in the rush through the air, but so quickly was the whole journey over that Bob’s first impression was the one that he slipped off the bucket with when it touched ground at the foot of the west tower.

Billy had been a sport! He had shot Bob just as far over as he could and the boy was correspondingly grateful.

The inspection trips he had made outside of working hours now proved a great help, for he knew the quickest way to the place the Chief was supposed to be. Setting out on a run he was soon there. Mr. Whitney was engaged in conversation with the foreman but broke off as the boy rushed up.

“What’s the row, Bob?” he wanted to know.

“Need you—quick—over at the east spillway—wall giving way—” But faster than the words could tremble out, the Chief was acting.

“Come along,” he directed. “Talk as we go!”

He made tracks for a dinky engine that was hitched to a load of empties.

“Uncouple!” he yelled to the engineer. As he and Bob swung into the cab, the little locomotive was already moving slowly. “To the east bank, quick!” he ordered and caught the whistle cord. The prolonged screech told the switchmen and other trains that something serious was afoot, and that the line must be cleared.

“Know anything else?” demanded the Chief as the engine rocked crazily on the narrow gauge track, and when Bob shook his head, asked, “How did you get over?”

“Bucket,” said the boy briefly.

“Good idea,” commented Mr. Whitney and was silent until the engine pulled up snorting as near their destination as it could get. “Come along,” invited Mr. Whitney as he swung off the engine. Pleased, Bob did his best to keep up with his long-legged boss who had headed for the point of trouble with great strides.

It has taken a long time to describe the things that had happened to Bob since he heard Jerry’s predicament in the office, yet the actual time it had taken him to get Mr. Whitney to the scene of action was hardly a handful of minutes. This was proved by the fact that Bob had a confused belief that halfway back on the little engine he had seen Jerry on his way to find Mr. Whitney. These thoughts mingled in his brain as he followed his Chief to the temporary spillway.

Nothing serious had happened so far, he was glad to see, as they came upon Mr. Rutherford and the gang of men who were attempting to shore up the wall of the stream. The waterway at this point was built entirely of wood and the present trouble was due either to an unexpected pressure of water or some defect in construction.

The gang had been working feverishly and without much order until Steve Whitney came on the scene. Bob was amazed at the change that seemed to take place as soon as his Chief had uttered a few incisive directions. The rescue work went on smoothly and efficiently. There was no panic, no blundering.

“Here, you men, down stream a bit with that timber. Rutherford, you’ve the right idea—stick to it. Rush ’em up, boys,” to a gang bringing up a supply of planks. “Have you diverted any of the water, Rutherford?”

“No, sir, I—I never thought of—”

“You should have!” This was all the rebuke the young engineer was to get. Perhaps it was because Whitney did things that way, that all his men adored him. He did not think that because a man made a mistake that he should be shamed before his fellow workers. He turned to Bob.

“Chase up to the dam line. There’s an overflow gate in the spillway there. Break it open!”

Bob hustled off on his errand and found the place the Chief had designated. A few blows with a stone and he had loosened the gate sufficiently to let a big stream of water flow out.

“What the dickens are you doing?” yelled the foreman of a surfacing gang, starting for the boy on a run. “Want to flood the works?”

“Keep your shirt on! Chief’s orders!” but he had to explain the whole matter before the man realized that he was not an anarchist. The foreman’s strength added to his was sufficient to give the water a clear outlet, and Bob saw with satisfaction that the body of water passing down the canal to the weakened spot was considerably less.

When he reported to the Chief he found that all danger was past and the gang at work making a permanent repair of the damage.

“Good work,” said Mr. Whitney as the boy came up. “Water slackened just in time.” Then he turned to Rutherford.

“When you finish the shoring, close the gate immediately.”

Suddenly Bob remembered that he had left his job in the office without anybody’s authority. The excitement had made him forget that he had a job. Now, when everything was quiet, the realization that probably he had been missed came to him and he started to make tracks in the general direction of the office. He had not gone far, however, when he heard a familiar voice hail him from behind. It was Mr. Whitney, so he slowed up and turned.

“Hold on, Bob. I want to speak to you.”

A moment later Mr. Whitney was beside him, an expression on his face which the boy could not fathom. It was a stern look yet there was a twinkle in the kind eyes. His first words were ominous.

“What are you doing away from your drawing board? Did Mr. Taylor send you for me?”

“No—no, sir,” stammered Bob, helplessly. “He wasn’t there—he’s in Las Cruces—”

“And you came across the river on the cableway, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir. It was the only—”

“No excuses! It means that you have broken discipline twice, doesn’t it? Left your work and then rode a bucket, which is against all orders. I’ll have to fire that control operator who let you do it.”

“He couldn’t help it!” cried the boy, horrified that what he had done might get someone else into trouble. “I jumped the bucket in the mixing plant and I was halfway across before Billy ever saw me!”

“So that’s how you did it!” ejaculated the Chief. “In that case I may not have to do more than reprimand Billy.”

“That’s fine!” said the much relieved boy.

“But as for you—I must punish you much more severely,” the twinkle in the man’s eyes grew more pronounced, and in spite of himself he smiled. “You are sentenced to be my rodman, to stay with me all the time we’re on the job.”

“Gee whiz!” whistled Bob, the suddenness of the turn the talk had taken amazing him. “Then—then what I did was right?”

“You bet it was! Both right and plucky. I’m proud of you—”

“And I’m going to be on your own corps? This is too much,” and the boy laughed happily.

“Yes, Bob,” said Steve Whitney seriously, “I want someone on whom I can rely to think quickly and not lose his head in an emergency. Rules and regulations must be broken when the jam is tight enough—and many tight jams occur in the Service. You proved to-day that you used your brains and were plucky enough to act on what your brain told you to do. Probably the few minutes you saved in getting me, were worth thousands of dollars to the Service and days of delay. If that spillway wall had broken, the buttress excavations would have filled and all the digging work would have had to be done over.”

Before Bob could stammer his thanks, the Chief continued, “Report to me in the morning. Better go back now and finish up your work.”

The conversation had taken place as they climbed the hill to the Upper Town. Now, Mr. Whitney went off in the direction of his cottage, and Bob to the office.

That night Jerry came in late to the room that he still shared with Bob.

“Lucky stiff!” he said pleasantly. “Beat me to it, didn’t you?”

“Reckon so,” grinned Bob happily. “Sore?”

“Not a bit—only wish I’d thought of it. Was the old man pleased?”

“He made me his rodman, if that’s any sign.”

“You are lucky but I’m mighty glad for you. It’ll be a heap more fun than that office work.”

Bob thought he detected a little note of disappointment in his chum’s tone, but the words of congratulation seemed sincere.

“It will be your turn next,” said Bob as they turned off the light.

CHAPTER IX
THE DAM

“So you want me to tell you something about the dam?” said Mr. Whitney, smiling at his rodman. The two were sitting on the side of a hill overlooking the construction work several days after Bob had been promoted from the office to the proud position of being the Chief’s aide. He had been on a message to the cofferdam gang and had returned to find the boss seemingly loafing. When he saw there might be a few free moments before he was set to work again he ventured some questions regarding the thing that was of most interest to him.

The way Mr. Whitney answered was encouraging, so Bob came back, “Yes, sir, I’d like to know a lot more about it than I do. Anything you tell me is going to help. I’ve picked up a little here and there and know some of the details but I don’t really know anything about the general plan. Wasn’t there any irrigation on the Rio Grande before the Reclamation Service took hold?”

“Indeed there was,” was the answer. “The Indians were the first irrigators. The Pueblo or village Indians, as they were called, while it was in a crude way, irrigated all the land on which they raised corn. They were the first settlers of the Rio Grande Valley. We know this is so, for one of the Spanish Conquistadores, Coronado by name, wrote it down in the record of his travels. When he marched from the south into what is now New Mexico in search of the gold which was the aim and hope of all the adventurers of his time, he found the Indians irrigating the land by means of crude ditches dug with their primitive implements. This was the first record we have, but it has been established beyond any reasonable doubt that such irrigation as he found was practiced here by this river that flows below us long before Columbus discovered America. The theory is that in all probability irrigation along the Rio Grande was in vogue even before the Egyptians used the waters of the Nile for the same purpose. When the first Spanish settlers came along, and later the Americans, they adopted the same methods of making the ground productive as had the Indians. All we have done as time went on is to improve the general principles taken from the savages. Of course, as we made better tools, we have been able to build larger ditches and so increase the area of fertile land far beyond the dreams of the Indians.”

“But, Mr. Whitney,” Bob put in, “if irrigation was such a success, why weren’t more canals constructed before the Government took hold of the job?”

Mr. Whitney laughed. “The greatest drawback was a ridiculous thing. A long time ago a treaty was made with Mexico which prohibited the storing of flood water on the Rio Grande and it’s the flood water that is used in modern irrigation.”

“But how would that hurt the Mexicans?”

“The reason given was that the lack of water would interfere with navigation, but when you realize that it isn’t until the Rio Grande flows a thousand miles on the other side of the Mexican boundary that any navigation begins, you can see how ridiculous that objection was. We were able to get this treaty broken at last and have substituted a new one in its place. Under this new treaty we guarantee to deliver to Mexico a certain minimum number of gallons of water a year and we are at liberty to do what we like with the remainder. By building this dam we will give Mexico only one-tenth of the total amount stored each year, yet that one-tenth is more than half as much again as they are getting now!”

“That new treaty clears up the biggest trouble, then, doesn’t it?” said Bob. “But in the early days of settlement I wouldn’t have thought that the Mexicans would have enforced the old treaty.”

“I don’t suppose they could,” returned Mr. Whitney, “but the uncertainty kept many a prospective irrigator from spending his time or energy in the work. Now, however, even Mexico is strong for the completion of the big dam, as it will irrigate a lot of her land which before was desert. Besides, it will cost them nothing and that always appeals to folks—including Mexicans!”

“It certainly is going to be some big dam,” said Bob, waving his hand over the work spread out below them. “How high is it going to be?”

“If I remember the figures exactly, it will be two hundred and twenty-five feet from the foundation to the top—almost as tall as the Flatiron Building in New York. It will be nearly twelve hundred feet from bank to bank across the top.”

“It will have to be awfully thick, won’t it, to be able to hold the water?”

“It’ll be twenty feet through at the top. At the bottom it has to be pretty nearly two hundred feet. Although it is all filled in now by masonry, they had to dig down to bedrock and to get there they had to excavate about five hundred and fifty thousand cubic yards of sand, shale and rock. It’s sixty-five feet from the river bed to the bottom of the foundation.”

“That must’ve been some job. I wish we had been here to do it, don’t you, Mr. Whitney?”

The man smiled at the boy’s eagerness. “There will be other jobs for us to do,” he said, “where we’ll go through with it from the start to the finish. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if about the time you have graduated from college we would be ready to begin work on the Labyrinth which you and Jerry found. You’ll come out to be my chief assistant and we’ll do the whole thing.”

“That’ll be great,” said Bob, his face glowing. “But go ahead about this dam. I’m learning more than I have all the time I’ve been here poking around by myself. It ought to make a pretty big lake when once the water is dammed up, shouldn’t it?”

“You bet,” said Mr. Whitney. “The lake will be forty miles long, and if you started to walk around it, keeping directly on the shore line, you would have covered two hundred miles before you could get to your starting point. If the water it will hold was spread out one foot deep, it would cover nearly five thousand miles or about twice the size of the State of Delaware.”

“And how many gallons will it hold?”

“There will be so many that we have found it easier to figure in what we call acre feet. The gallon figures are too cumbersome. An acre foot is the amount of water that would be sufficient to cover an acre one foot deep.”

“And the water of the reservoir would cover how many acres?”

“Two million at least,” he answered. “In gallons that would be something around nine-hundred billion gallons. So you can see how much easier it is to figure in acre feet.”

“I should say so,” said Bob. “But it must cost a fortune to construct all this. Do you know about how much?”

“The estimate for the dam itself is five million, three hundred thousand dollars, and the canals and other expenses will bring the entire cost up to over seven million.”

“Gee, how will the farmers ever pay that off? Didn’t you tell me that the money was only advanced by the Government and that the farmers would have to return it after the water is delivered to them?”

“I did,” said Mr. Whitney, “but as the dam will furnish enough water to irrigate one hundred and eighty thousand acres, you see that brings the cost down to about forty dollars an acre, which won’t be much once it is all under cultivation. This charge is like a mortgage—the Government is secured by the land itself. But it won’t be long now—two or three years at the outside—before the dam is finished and the land is ready to be cultivated. Ted Adams, my predecessor here, finished up a diversion dam below at Leesburg which has been a help.”

“What a wonderful thing it is,” Bob said at last.

“Yes,” he said, “it is wonderful. Centuries of primitive irrigation have furnished the knowledge which has made this dam possible. It is the greatest irrigation scheme ever attempted and I am proud that it is to be my lot to finish it—mighty proud.” His eyes were on the swarming crowd of men, the cable wires humming, the derricks shifting their burdens, all the myriad activities that went to the building of his dam. “It will be a dream fulfilled,” he said almost to himself. Then, suddenly, he knocked the ashes from his pipe and got up. “Come, Bob,” he said. “We must get on the job. We’re not bringing the finish along any quicker by sitting here dreaming of it.”

CHAPTER X
TED HOYT

Two or three Sundays after they had come to the dam, Bob and Jerry found themselves with a day on their hands.

“Come on, Bob, let’s get a couple of horses and ride up into the range country. I hear there are some wonderful ranches farther up country.”

“No,” said Bob. “I’ll stick to the water. I found a canoe and I am just aching to do some paddling. Come on with me.”

“Didn’t you get enough water in the Labyrinth?” laughed Jerry.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough water,” returned Bob. “Are you coming?”

“No, I reckon I’ll let you go alone. Me for the high places!”

So the two boys spent their Sunday apart. The canoe had belonged to one of the engineers who had left for another project, and the storekeeper who had bought it was willing to rent it out. Bob decided to go down stream the first day and take a look at the land which would be irrigated by the water stored up by the dam when it was finished. He took his lunch with him as he expected to make an all day trip of it.

Soon after leaving civilization the river broadened out into a shallow slow-moving stream. Bob lay back in the canoe and merely paddled sufficiently to steer it, letting the lazy current carry him slowly along. Close to the river bank everything was green and fresh looking, but this vegetation did not extend so far that Bob could not see where the green left off and the desert began.

His mind’s eye pictured the network of canals that would run off on each side and which, by bringing that magic thing, water, to the parched earth, would transform it into fruitful acres. Once around a bend from the dam he was alone in the immense country. Not a vestige of human occupancy could be seen. The desert stretched way out on either side, broken here and there by hills, or buttes, as they are called.

Therefore, when he saw in the distance a figure seated on a rock fishing, it came as a great surprise. He pointed the canoe’s nose toward the fisherman. When he got close he saw that it was a boy of perhaps his own age.

“Hello,” said the stranger as he grew nearer. “Where you from? The dam?”

“Yep,” answered Bob.

“But what are you doing down here?”

“Just out on a little jaunt. Where did you come from?”

“I live over the hill there,” answered the other boy. “Dad’s a stock raiser. You can see the house from the river after you get down a little further. I sneaked away from my old man this morning to see if I could get a few fish. They aren’t biting very good here, though,” he concluded. “I wish I had a boat, because I know of a peach of a place—”

“Come along with me then,” suggested Bob. “I would be tickled to death to have company, especially if you’ve got another line and plenty of bait.”

“Sure Mike!” said the other boy. “I’m with you.” And he stepped gingerly into the canoe. The newcomer did not seem particularly familiar with the easily capsized craft, yet Bob noted with satisfaction that he had sense enough to keep very quiet once he was aboard.

As Bob shot out into the stream he asked the newcomer, “Want to paddle?”

“Don’t know much about it, to tell you the truth. All the boatin’ I’ve done was in a flat bottomed scow I had up to the last flood. The high water swiped it on me and I reckon the Mexicans have got it by now,” he grinned. “I felt pretty sore about losing it, but my Dad figured it was good business. Said I spent too much time on the river anyhow; that I ought to be out riding range for him.”

“Cowboy?” said Bob, at once interested by the two magic words “riding range.” He had met them in many books of adventure. They brought up thoughts of bucking bronchos, fights with Indians, and all the rest of the romance of the West. That this boy of about his own age could be a cowboy was really exciting. But he missed the woolly chaps and the sombrero. The boy was simply dressed in overalls, went barefooted and wore a heavy slouch hat.

“Nope,” said the other. “Dad don’t want me to be a cowboy. I wouldn’t mind that much. He wants me to be a farm hand! Nix on that! I wish I could go up to the dam. That’s regular work. Reckon I could get a job up there?”

Bob did not know what to say. Mr. Whitney had given him the feeling that for anyone who was really enthusiastic about the Service, the Service had room. But he thought he had better not be too encouraging. “Why don’t you come up and try? I’ll introduce you to the Boss.”

The other boy laughed. “My old man would whale the tar out of me if he caught me monkeying around up there.”

“Doesn’t your father believe in the project?”

“He’s a cattleman,” said the boy, as if that explained everything.

“But what difference does that make?” insisted Bob. “He ought to be glad to see the dam built!”

“You must be a tenderfoot,” the other said pityingly. “It’s this way. My father raises cattle. For cattle, you need the range on which they feed and which has been free to all. About all the range there is around here is along the banks of the river. Now this irrigation business comes along and the Government won’t let anybody have more than 160 acres of land. Then my Dad has got to get rid of all his cattle and go to farmin’—which is pretty nigh as disgraceful for a cattleman as sheep-keeping. That is, of course, if he wants to stay around this part of the country.”

“I see,” said Bob. “Then he’s got a real reason for not liking the irrigating scheme. But you don’t seem to think the way he does about it.”

“You bet I don’t train along with him. I’m so sick of cows that I never want to see a long horn again. I’d like to be an engineer. I sneaked up once or twice to the dam. It must be fun to help built it. But I reckon it’s not for me.” The boys were silent, each busy with his own thoughts. Then the newcomer exclaimed, “But here’s the place we want to do some fishing. Grab a line and bait up!”

For several hours the boys fished with more or less success, and during this time Bob learned a lot about his new friend. His name was Ted Hoyt and he had never been farther away from home than Las Cruces. He had had some schooling and the coming of the Reclamation Service had fired him with an ambition to rise higher in the world than was promised by the education he had received. The boys grew very chummy and it was when they were eating their lunches that Bob finally made up his mind to side actively with his new-found friend.

“I think it’s a rotten shame. I don’t think your father ought to stand in the way of what you want to do.”

“I don’t reckon he ought myself,” was the laconic answer. “But he does and that’s about all there’s to it as far as I can figure.”

“Don’t you think it might help if I got my boss, Mr. Whitney, to come down and talk to him about it?”

“Gee whiz, no!” the other cried. “I reckon Dad would set the dogs on the Chief Engineer from the dam. He hates him worse than poison.”

“But my boss has only been here two or three weeks. I don’t see how your father has had time to quarrel with him.”

“That makes no never mind. The man he is laying for is the feller bossing the dam. Dad don’t care if they change them every two days. He can shift a grudge as fast as they can shift men!”

But when they finally parted they had come to the arrangement that Bob was to keep his eyes open for a possible job for Ted. Ted on his side promised that he would make one more effort to get his father to let him do as he wished. They planned to meet the following Sunday at the same place and compare notes.

Once back at the dam Bob took his share of the fish he had caught up to Mr. Whitney’s cottage. “Brought you some fish, Chief,” he said. “But I think I’ve hooked a much bigger fish. I met a young chap down the river who seems to be the right stuff for the Service. He’s crazy about it.”

“I can always make use of a fellow like that,” said the Chief when Bob had finished his story. “Tell him for me that he can have a job whenever he can take it.”

CHAPTER XI
TROUBLE

But Bob didn’t have to go down the river to tell his new friend that there was a job waiting for him whenever he chose to come and get it. Ted showed up at camp one night just before quitting time. He was waiting for Bob when the latter knocked off and had started homewards.

“Hello there,” said Bob. “What’re you doing up here?”

“I came up after that job we were talking about the other day.”

“Your father’s let you go?”

“Not so’s you could notice it. We had an awful fight to-day and I just up and left. I couldn’t stand it any longer. Do you think there is a chance of my hooking on? I’ve got to have it because I haven’t any money to go any further hunting one.”

Then Bob told him the news that he had been saving for next Sunday. “Come along to the Quarter-house with me and feed, and then we’ll go hunt Whiskers—I mean Mr. Whitney.”

Ted was puzzled at the reference Bob had made to the Chief Engineer. “You called him Whiskers—is that your nickname for him?”

“Not the one we use on this job,” laughed Bob. “We used that back in Virginia.” And during supper Ted made Bob tell the adventures he had had in Virginia with the man who was now in entire charge of the dam.

Mr. Whitney was as good as his word and gave the newcomer a chance to make good as a rodman. Bob felt that because he had found him he was a sort of protégé of his and they were together a good part of the time. At first Jerry was one of their group. But little by little he slipped back into the mood of silence and reserve which had been most noticeable about him before the trip through the Labyrinth had been made. Again he would go off by himself, seeming to prefer it to the companionship of the other two boys. Bob noticed that very rarely did he go down stream when he started off from the camp, but was headed in the general direction of the north. Never since that first day had he invited Bob to go along with him and after several of the trips he let fall remarks about the Service and his job that did not ring true in Bob’s ears. It was as if Jerry were nursing a grudge. But the fact that the boy who had shared the great adventure of the Labyrinth with him seemed to be growing away from him again, did not bother Bob as much as it might have had he and Ted Hoyt not become such good friends.

On Sundays they went fishing together and spent most of the time talking about the Service and their work. Ted soon grew to have the same passion for the Service as had Bob. He was quick to learn and together the boys pored over such text books as they could lay their hands on.

The work on the dam had gone smoothly since Mr. Whitney had taken the job over. Except for minor accidents, nothing really bothersome had happened to delay the work in any way, yet Bob, who was now constantly with the Chief, realized that something was bothering the man he was so fond of. Gone was the half chummy, half paternal air of Mr. Whitney. He was irritable and not at all himself.

Finally it got too much for Bob and one day, taking his courage in both hands, he blurted forth, “Say, Whisk—Mr. Whitney, what’s gone wrong? Is it anything money won’t cure?” He held his breath awaiting the answer. It was a cheeky, nervy thing to do and if his boss did not take it the right way, he would be perfectly justified in sending him back to the horrible punishment of the draughting room. But he need not have worried. Mr. Whitney was too much of a big boy himself and had too much understanding not to realize that the question had been asked because anything that troubled him meant so much to the boy.

“I guess I’ve been a bear lately, Bob,” he said laughing. “But I’m up against an awfully queer proposition and I don’t yet see just how to tackle it.”

Bob was about to ask another question, but thought better of it.

Evidently his keeping silence was wise, for a minute later Whitney continued, “Although everything seems all right on the surface, I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble with the Mexican laborers. Somebody’s been tampering with them and the trouble down on the border isn’t helping the situation any.”

“Gee, if the Greasers struck it would tie us up for fair,” broke in Bob anxiously. “Except for the mechanics, and that bunch of Indians from the reservation, they are about all we’ve got. We would have to shut down, wouldn’t we?”

“I don’t reckon it would be as bad as that,” answered Whitney. “When Uncle Sam once starts something, he is pretty likely to carry it through. But we’d have a rough time of it all right. If I could only find out who’s behind ’em—they are not capable of stirring it up amongst themselves—I’d be able to nip the trouble before it got started. If they do strike and we are delayed, the Water Users Association will start on the rampage again.”

“Who are they and why should they be worried by what happens here?” Bob wanted to know.

A bullet whistled by him. Then came another and
another. (Page 195.)

“They are the farmers who expect to benefit by the water stored by the dam,” explained the man. “They are the people who got together and collectively pledged themselves to pay the Government a certain amount of money each year until all the money the Government has spent is returned. They firmly believe that the engineers in charge of the dam take a malicious pleasure in delaying progress and that they try to spend as much money as possible simply to make the farmers pay more in the end. Naturally, as they make such a fuss, all the engineers know that whenever trouble comes, they will be the first mourners.”

“Gee, that’s tough!” commented Bob, happy that Mr. Whitney had enough confidence to tell him all these things. “But about the Mexicans; you don’t suspect anyone around the job is the trouble maker, do you?”

“No.” The answer was final and assured. “But I wouldn’t put it beyond a lot of the stock and cattlemen around here. They’ve been sore about the dam, with as little reason as they have on every job the Service has tackled. They always end by being a lot better off with the project finished than they ever would have been if the range had been left alone. At first they can’t help but suffer some annoyance from the building of the dam. A good part of the land which we will irrigate, while not sufficiently productive to be good farming land, raises enough natural grass to feed stock. Above the dam the stored water will form a lake that will cover thousands of acres of such pasturage, I’ll admit. But the cattlemen are so blind that this point is all that they can see. They will have the same chance to profit by the irrigated lands below. It has always worked out well in the end.”

“I think it’s a rotten deal they’re handing you!” exploded the boy.

Big Chief Whitney laughed. “It would have come sooner or later, so don’t worry your head about it. I’ve got to beat this some time and it might as well be now. I’ll find a way. But don’t let this bother you, kid. These are my exclusive troubles. Some day or other, if you stay with the Service, I suppose you’ll be a Chief Engineer and then you’ll have to worry over things like this. No use in borrowing trouble.” And with this he closed the talk.

Bob could hardly wait until the quitting whistle blew. He wanted to see Ted, and wanted to see him in a hurry. When he finally located the other boy, he sketched out rapidly what Mr. Whitney had said.

“You’re with us—the Service, I mean—aren’t you?” finished Bob seriously. “Even if it means going against what your father thinks is best?”

“You can just bet your boots I am,” returned Ted, holding out his hand. Bob shook it warmly.

“Well, then, I want you to help. The Chief needs to know who’s back of the trouble and I believe you can find out!”

“Me?” the other boy echoed. “How? Shoot!”

“This is the plan. You go back home and say you are sick of engineering—that riding range is good enough for you. If you do that your father will be likely to take you back, won’t he?”

“Mebbe so. I dunno, but go on.”

“The Chief thinks the cattlemen are behind the trouble. I guess if you get home and can mingle with ’em, you ought to find out what’s up. Don’t you?”

“I get you. I can try it anyhow. But, Bob, I figger there’s a lot in that trouble down at the border. Before I left home some broncho busters happened in from Columbus and they said somethin’ was liable to bust most any time. The Greasers are sore as pups since we sent a bunch of troops down there. If some yellow half-breed could blow up what we’ve got finished of the dam, wouldn’t it be a mighty fine feather to stick in his sombrero?”

“P’r’aps that’s got something to do with it, but I’ve a hunch Mr. Whitney’s right about those cattlemen. It’s up to you to find out.”

“I’ll hike up home to-morrow and see if the old man will let me stick around. He was pretty much het up when I left. But, wait a minute. Are we going to let Jerry in on this play?”

Bob hesitated for a perceptible interval before he answered. “I don’t know. Somehow I don’t think we’d better,” he said at last. “Lately I don’t know what has come over him. He never was very enthusiastic about the Service but I thought he was really fond of Mr. Whitney. But he’s let out some funny remarks and it might be possible that someone has hurt his feelings. I’ve a sneaking notion that we ought not to tell him. I don’t know why, but I just feel it.”

“You’ve got a hunch?” cried Ted. “Out West here we always play hunches. Go to it; you’re probably right. By the way, don’t he go up the river a lot?”

“He starts that way,” answered Bob. “And I remember a long time ago he asked me to go up to some ranch with him. It just so happened that I didn’t want to go. It was the day I met you, Ted.”

“Do you think—” began the other boy.

“I guess we haven’t got a right to think until we know for sure, because if Jerry is in cahoots with the cattlemen, we’ll be on to it before long. Oh, thunder, Ted, I just don’t believe Jerry is mixed up in anything wrong.”

“Then you’ll let him in on this?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got to think about it some more. P’r’aps I can get him to explain. I’ll try to.”

CHAPTER XII
AT THE CABLE TOWER

Jerry did not come home that night and consequently Bob was not forced to decide whether or not his room-mate was to be trusted. The next morning Mr. Whitney mentioned that he had sent Mr. Rutherford and his corps up the river to check up some topographical figures. They were to be gone several days.

This would delay for a time the necessity of taking action in regard to Jerry, and Bob was grateful for the leeway it gave him. Anything and everything might happen in the spare time he was given. Perhaps all the trouble would blow over. He certainly hoped so.

Ted Hoyt evidently had wasted no time in carrying out Bob’s plan, for he did not show up at breakfast. His chances of success worried Bob all morning and once or twice Mr. Whitney had to call him down for some inattention to the business at hand. But when the day passed and Ted had not returned, Bob was reasonably certain that the cattleman had not refused to take in his son. That was a help.

Since becoming an aide to the Chief, Bob had not entirely given up his unofficial inspection trips. The dam and all the operations that were the building of it still fascinated him and his spare time was given to roaming over the job. So good an observer was he, that time after time he surprised Mr. Whitney with his knowledge of some obscure detail of the work.

“How the dickens do you happen to know that?” he would exclaim.

“Happened to be over there the other night and used my eyes,” was the usual reply of the boy.

There was a full moon the night following the day Ted had gone home and Bob had taken advantage of it to go up to the west cableway tower, from the foot of which he could see the whole work lying bathed in the intense silver light. He wanted to think and he was always able to do that better out of doors.

He did not feel he was doing his share towards clearing up the trouble which threatened to break. Cudgel his brains as he would, there seemed nothing for him to do. It had been his idea to send Ted off, but since then he might just as well have been in Alaska for all the good he’d been. For a long time he lay there, without finding a way out of his difficulty.

At last he was about to get up and go home when he saw a figure dodging from shadow to shadow and making up the hill in the general direction of his position.

Glancing about him, Bob saw no way to get away from the tower without being seen by the furtive newcomer. The moon was high and the ground at the tower’s foot was clear of any cover. Something told him he wanted to know what the approaching figure was up to and he would spoil any chance of that if he disclosed his whereabouts. Happening to glance up he saw that one side of the tower was in shadow. He crawled around to it. Then he had an idea.

“Crazy lummox, why didn’t I think of this before,” he muttered to himself as he began to climb up the tower. It was built of steel and an iron ladder had been provided to make the oiling of the pulley wheel at the top a simple task.

Hardly had he reached a height he felt was safe, when the figure glided swiftly across the clearing and sat down almost in the spot he had just quitted.

Bob was surprised when he saw the man roll a cigarette and coolly light it. This display of unconcern as to whether or not he was observed, did not fit in with the dodging tactics he had employed when coming up the hill. Then the explanation came in a flash. Surely the spot had been chosen on account of the clear space around it and the impossibility of anyone’s coming upon it unobserved. The man had dodged on his way up because he did not want to be recognized by a prowling night watchman. Once he had arrived, no one could get near enough to be dangerous.

In the flare of the match Bob had recognized the newcomer. It was a Mexican, Miguel Philipe, who was an underforeman at the trap rock quarry.

But before Bob’s mind had accepted the fact that a Greaser was sitting up here in the moonlight, instead of gambling or watching a cock fight down in the Townsite, a crackling in the underbrush to the right caught his attention. A moment later a figure stepped out into the clearing. To his dismay, he recognized the approaching man.

Jerry King!

Jerry King, who was supposed to be up country on a map-making expedition, was back and meeting a Mexican in a place that must have been agreed upon before.

All the suspicions of Jerry’s attitude that he had fought down, came back in a rush and were not lessened when he saw by the signs of greeting displayed by Miguel, that Jerry was the person he expected to see.

Bob’s perch on the tower was far from comfortable, so he hoped the conference going on below him would last no great length of time. The thin iron rungs of the ladder cut into his legs and his arms had begun to ache from the strain of holding himself in place without making any noise that would give him away. To add to his discomfort, he soon realized that although he could overhear clearly every word that passed between the figures on the ground it would do him no good, as they were talking in Spanish, a language in which Bob remembered Jerry could at least make himself understood. Since his arrival at the dam, the Eastern boy had made some attempt to pick up a working knowledge of it, but his time had been so short that he had not got very far. Therefore, only a word here and there meant anything to him and as these were simple words, they gave no clue to what was being discussed.

About all he could gather was from their actions. Jerry seemed to be instructing the Mexican and emphasizing that certain things must be done. Miguel at times grew excited and waved his hands frantically as a torrent of words came from his lips. Finally, just as Bob was sure his cramped muscles would force him to move his position, thereby giving away his presence, they seemed to come to an agreement.

A moment later Jerry had slipped out of the open space into the underbrush directly behind the side of the tower to which Bob was clinging. For a long moment Bob held his breath, fearing that Jerry might turn and see his dark form making an unaccustomed blot against the iron work. But as the cracklings of the bushes died away, he realized that Jerry’s one desire was to get as far away as possible in the shortest space of time.

“He’ll have to hike some,” thought Bob, “if he’s going to get back to Rutherford to-night.” Then he turned his attention to the Greaser, who had not moved out of the sprawling position he was in. The ache in Bob’s muscles became almost unbearable. When the Mexican rolled and lit another cigarette as if he expected to stay where he was all night, he was almost tempted to drop off the ladder and let the worst happen.

But this would not do except as a last resort, when all his will power and determination had fled. With infinite care Bob shifted his position a little and so gave his tortured muscles a slight rest. A few moments later he was glad he had not given up to his fatigue, for Miguel arose leisurely and sauntered down the hill, evidently not at all bothered about being seen.

When he thought it was safe, Bob dropped off the ladder and for a moment or so sat quietly, fully occupied in nursing his cramped limbs back to some degree of usefulness. Then, having given the Mexican plenty of time to reach the bottom of the hill, Bob followed, his mind busy with the new angle of the situation chance had laid before him.

One thing was sure. After what he had seen he could no longer pretend even to himself that Jerry was not mixed up somehow in what certainly seemed to be a disgraceful business. He could put no other explanation on it. Although it was hard to think that the boy who had shared the adventure of the Labyrinth with him could be guilty of anything really wrong, he realized the time had come when he could not let anything but facts sway him. Jerry was on the other side without a doubt. Most probably he was the connecting link between the cattlemen who wished to stir up trouble for the dam by means of the Mexicans, and the leaders of the Mexicans themselves.

But it puzzled him to know why Jerry could be a traitor to Mr. Whitney and the Service. What was the inducement the cattlemen had offered him, and what had happened on the job that had made him unhappy enough to be unfaithful to it? There was no answer to these questions. He gave it up as a bad job.

The next thing to decide was whether the time had come to tell Mr. Whitney what he had learned. This was easy. He did not have a complete case yet and would not until Ted came back with some sort of report.

The best thing for him to do was to learn as much as possible regarding Miguel and to find out if he had been at all active in stirring up discontent among his countrymen. Acting on this resolve, he made guarded inquiries the next day of some of the men on the job who came in contact with the gang of which Miguel was a sort of deputy foreman.

“He’s a bad egg,” was the comment of Tim Flannigan, the engineer of the dinky that pulled the rock cars from the quarry to the crusher. “He’s all the time startin’ somethin’ down to the Townsite. He’s got a game cock that nobody kin lick, and the marshal has had him up several times for gambling. Tried to run him out of camp a bit back but such a gang of Greasers threatened to leave with him that Boss Adams, who was here before Boss Whitney came, told the marshal to keep a close eye on him and let it go at that.”

This information was valuable to Bob, especially the part about the other Mexicans leaving if Miguel went. From this it was clear to see that the man had influence among his countrymen and probably was just the person to start trouble, if trouble was coming.

That night, in accordance with his plan to try to get as much as he could of the general atmosphere of the situation, Bob decided to go down to the lower camp. On the highest ground were the mechanics’ houses, and from them, sloping to the river bank, were the bunk houses and shacks of the Mexican laborers. At one side, a little apart, was the camp of the Indians who, aside from the Mexicans, were practically the only laborers to be had in that section of the country. Of course, they were far less in number than the Mexicans. The street on which the motion picture theatre and the stores were located, was well lighted by the power plant and had been dubbed “Broadway.”

Bob mingled with the crowd and finally drifted into the moving picture show. His mind was busy with his problem and he did not pay as much attention as usual to the scenes that were flashed before him on the screen. He became aware, however, even in the dim light, that directly in front of him sat an Indian, seemingly alone. A little to the left were a crowd of Mexicans, who, from their boisterous behavior, seemed to have been able to smuggle some whiskey into the camp, which, of course, was absolutely forbidden on a Government job.

By some chance the next picture was a lurid western romance in which Indians and cowboys were all jumbled together with furious riding and rescues of the beautiful heroine. Of course, the Indians in the picture were the villains. As the film unfolded the Mexicans grew more excited over the story and Bob noticed that they began to throw slighting remarks towards the Indian sitting directly in front of him.

Finally something was said which was more than the redman could stand. He got up and in a dignified manner moved to the spot where his tormentors were sitting. He spoke to them in Spanish.

A moment later the place was in an uproar. Fired by bad whiskey and the knowledge that numbers were with them, the bunch of Mexicans had jumped for the solitary figure.

Bob was on his feet in an instant and sprang for a Mexican who had slipped into the aisle and was coming upon the Indian from behind. In the dim light everything was confused, but Bob’s fist found its mark and the man fell. The Indian was holding his own valiantly but Bob’s help had come at the right moment. Together they backed towards the door, fighting as they went. Then the lights went up and the Mexicans, fearing the consequences of their action, slipped into the nearest seats, hoping to escape notice.

When the fight ended in this fashion, the Indian drew himself up to his full height and with a scornful look on his face turned and walked out of the theatre. Bob followed and on the street found the man he had helped waiting for him.

As he came up the Indian held out his hand and said gravely, “Feather-in-the-Wind thanks you.” Without further word he marched off.

As he made his way back to the upper camp, Bob realized that in all probability he had done a foolish thing to mix in on a quarrel between the Mexicans and the Indians. That probably would mark him out among the Mexicans as someone unfriendly to them and it might have been better if he had stayed in the background. But the sight of the crowd jumping on the solitary Indian had been too much for him.

When he reached his room he found the light on and Jerry about to slip into his bunk.

“Hello, Bob,” was his greeting. “Just got back from up river. Rutherford had me measuring the elevation of all the anthills from here to Canada.”

Bob answered him rather curtly, amazed that Jerry could seem so carefree when he must be concealing some terrible secret. It was surprising that Jerry should be in such a good humor. He was much more communicative than he had been for weeks.

“What’s your grouch?” Jerry asked, seemingly puzzled by Bob’s manner. “Aren’t you going to welcome me home any better than that?”

“Oh, I’m tired,” returned Bob, “that’s all. I got into a sort of jam in the lower camp to-night.” He decided it would be better not to let Jerry know that he was at all suspicious, so in order to appear natural, when the other boy wanted to know the details, he told him of his share in the brawl at the theatre.

“Must have been fun,” was Jerry’s comment. “And if you’ve made a friend of Feather-in-the-Wind, you ought to be proud. He’ll be useful, too, as he’s the chief of that bunch of Apaches. Once an Indian is a friend, you know, he’s a friend for good.”

As Bob tried to go to sleep his amazement that Jerry could be so two-faced, grew more and more pronounced. Jerry did not exhibit any of the symptoms of a person who was engaged in a treacherous plot, rather he seemed happy and buoyant over the accomplishment of something well worth while. Could he have been mistaken?

CHAPTER XIII
AN UNEXPECTED ALLY

The following night, just as Bob was about to turn in, Ted Hoyt knocked at his door. Evidently Ted had come in a hurry, for he was covered with dust and was breathing hard.

“You were right, Bob,” he panted. “The cattle bunch are behind any trouble that might get unhitched. But come along with me and we’ll talk as I start back. I’ll lose my pull with the old man if he catches on that I’ve been away from the house. I had to slip out the window to get up here as it is. The sooner I get back the less chance that he’ll get wise!”

Once they were out of the house they started in the direction of the Hoyt ranch. “Now, tell me about it,” urged Bob.

“Well,” Ted replied, “I hung around the house all day yesterday and worked like a dog. Dad was tickled to death when I got back. Thought that I’d proved by coming back that he was right. But he took good care to give me a bunch of stiff jobs all the same. I didn’t get onto anything yesterday until about ten o’clock. I had hit the hay but had not gone to sleep, when Dave Wesley and John Harper rode in. Both of ’em are cattlemen and they were some lit up, believe me. They had been down to Las Cruces and had mopped up all the liquor in sight. They had been around the ranch a lot recently but I had not paid much attention to them. When they came along before they had long confabs with Dad, but took care to have them where they could not be overheard. Last night they were not so careful and in spite of all my old man could do they talked and talked loud. The booze made ’em careless, I reckon, ’cause I heard them all right.”

“What did they say?” asked Bob, quickly.

“A whole heap. It seems that the talk was in town that the lid was going to blow off down at the border and that if they could get the Greasers riled up on the dam, the trouble would not be laid to them but simply on the general bad blood between the Mexicans and Americans. Wesley and Harper were so enthusiastic they wanted to blow up the spillway and the mixing plant. Even in their enthusiasm they realized that the portion of the dam already built would be more than a job for dynamite.”

“But what did your father say to all this?”

“Thank heaven, he wouldn’t stand for the rough stuff. He told them that just out of sheer meanness he would not mind delaying things, but when it came to blowing up Government stuff and laying it onto the Mexicans, it looked too much like treachery for him. He was American—that the plan did not seem like the American way of doing things. Gee, I was proud of him. Finally the other two men started to raise thunder with the old man and he kicked them out. That’s all. I reckon I found out what you wanted, didn’t I?”

“You bet you did,” was Bob’s answer. “Good for you. I don’t think there is any question but what the cattlemen are behind this.”

“I’m afraid you’re right,” was the other’s answer. “But I’m sure glad my old man isn’t mixed up in it any more than he is. I s’pose you want me to go back and stick around home? Don’t want to much—things are more’n likely going to happen round here and I’d like to be on the job.”

“Yes,” said Bob, “I do. I don’t think you’ll have to stay there long because if anything happens it’ll happen quick. After that I don’t think even your dad will be against your doing what you want.”

“But what about Jerry?” asked Ted. “Has he come back?”

“He’s been back twice,” said Bob, “and I don’t know what to make of it.”

He told Ted of the happening at the foot of the cable tower.

“Don’t let him fool you,” said Ted when he had listened to the end of the story. “Jerry’s mixed up in this as sure as shooting, and he’s putting on that careless attitude just as a blind.”

“I’m afraid you’re right, Ted,” said Bob. “But I sure hate to think it.”

They had covered quite a lot of ground while talking and now Ted spoke.

“Don’t come any further. Beat it back. I reckon we’ve told each other everything we know. Good night. I’ll come back again as soon as I hear anything new.”

Bob started to retrace his steps but he had not gone far before he was aware that soft footsteps were following him. He turned in his tracks and stood still. A moment later the Indian he had befriended the night before slipped up beside him.

“Feather-in-the-Wind is watching Boss Bob,” he said quietly. “Greasers in show last night make big talk. Swear much. They hurt you because you help me. When you go out I follow. Now I go home with you.”

Bob was overcome with astonishment. Not for a minute had he thought that the episode of last night would have brought on him more than the passing enmity of the Mexicans, but he realized that the Apache probably knew what he was about. Then it came to him that if there was bad blood between the Indians and Mexicans, in all probability Feather-in-the-Wind would know if there was any trouble brewing amongst the Mexicans themselves.

“It was good of you,” he said as gravely as the Indian had spoken. “But you can help me further perhaps.”

Feather-in-the-Wind signified his willingness to do what he could by a nod of his head.

“Your people and the Mexicans—they do not get along together?”

Again a nod.

“You like Big Boss Whitney?”

“Big Boss good to my people. Not let storekeeper cheat or Greaser hurt,” was the answer.

“You want to help the Big Boss?”

Once more a gesture of assent.

“Listen. Big Boss thinks the Mexicans will start trouble. Does not know what man is responsible—what man is saying big words and starting trouble. You can help if you find out and tell me who the man is.”

“Yes, can do,” stated the Indian, and as they had approached the upper camp during their talk, he made a swift move of the hand in farewell and slipped swiftly into the shadows.

“Gee, but he went quick,” said Bob to himself, “and I wanted to put him wise to Miguel! Well, he’s gone, so there’s no use bothering. Now to tell Mr. Whitney the dope Ted brought!”

But when he came to it, the front of the Chief’s cottage was dark. A ray of light came from the kitchen and Bob went to the back.

“Where’s the Boss?” he demanded of the Chinaman who served Mr. Whitney. “Gone to bed?”

“Nope. Boss man he gone downside El Paso. Get little yellow tlicket, gone off slam blang!”

From which Bob gathered that a telegram had called the boss from the job and that it was his job to sit up alone with his troubles until the Chief chose to come back.

CHAPTER XIV
THE UNMASKING OF JERRY

As far as the dam was concerned and the work going on there, things were quiet for the next day or two. But the situation between the United States and Mexico seemed to be growing more and more tense. From the border came rumors of dissatisfaction caused by the presence of American troops on patrol duty and the deportation of Mexicans from the United States back into their country. As these reports multiplied they furnished a topic of discussion for all. The American element feared especially the effects any serious clash might have on the work at the dam and openly discussed the possibility that an attack of some sort might be made on the work itself.

Bob learned that the cattlemen were strongly in favor of having the United States go into Mexico and stay there until things had been settled for keeps. The most outspoken of the crowd wanted the United States to conquer and then to annex Mexico, feeling that it was the only way in which peace could be assured for any length of time. The reason for their feeling was that the ranchers along the border were in constant fear of cattle rustlers, who, once they were in Mexico with their booty, were safe from pursuit. Under Diaz, who had ruled Mexico firmly, there had been no great trouble. In those days raids were few and they were quite as likely to have been made by American outlaws as by Mexicans. Besides, Diaz would, wherever it was possible, aid in the return of the stolen property. Since he had lost control things had changed. The constant revolutions that came after him left the border states without law and order. All sorts of robbery and murder were permitted to go unpunished.

Even the builders of the dam often felt that intervention was the only way out of a bad situation. Bob was sure that this unsettled condition was responsible for Mr. Whitney’s being away from the work at a time when matters were in such a ticklish condition.

Nothing new had developed in the plot which he felt was being formed between the cattlemen and the Mexicans by means of Jerry. Feather-in-the-Wind had not reported anything further. What worried Bob most was his suspicions regarding Jerry King. Although he was sure that Jerry was not doing what he should, he realized that all he had to go on was circumstantial evidence. He had no real proof!

But he could not trust Jerry, and the feeling worried him. When Sunday came around without the return of Mr. Whitney he determined to make a last effort to find out just where Jerry stood. He did not dare risk coming out into the open and asking Jerry what his suspicious movements meant. If Jerry were guilty of wrong-doing, he would at once know that Bob was onto something. In that case it was quite possible that Jerry would fire the first gun before Bob was ready to combat it.

There was only one other thing which seemed practicable. Of course it had in it a great element of chance as to his finding out anything of value. But he determined to try it for want of anything better.

On Sunday morning he was up before his room-mate, and when the latter came out the front door of the Quarter-house he was waiting for him.

“Going up river again to-day, Jerry?” asked Bob.

“Thought I would,” answered Jerry shortly, but halting.

“Think I’ll go along then,” stated Bob as casually as possible. “I’ve never been up that way and I’d like to see the country that the lake will cover.”

Jerry was taken aback and for a moment he hesitated before answering.

“Why—why you never wanted to go before and I—I don’t think I can take you with me to-day.”

“I don’t care where you’re going,” said Bob laughing. “We’ll go exploring, like we did at the Labyrinth.”

“But—but,” stammered Jerry, “I’m going to see somebody. They expect me.”

“Oh, let them wait,” said Bob. “You can go next Sunday. We haven’t been out together for a long time. Come on, be a sport.”

There was nothing to it. Evidently Jerry saw that Bob was determined to go and he was afraid that if he refused it would look funny. Bob saw the hesitancy and continued:

“Besides, I’d like to see a ranch. I’ve never been to one since we came out here. The people you’re going to see won’t mind my coming along, will they?”

Again Jerry hesitated and Bob realized that a struggle was going on within him.

At last Jerry said with forced enthusiasm, “All right, old man, come along. I reckon there’s another nag for you down at the stables. We’ll go up to old man Holman’s ranch. He asked me to come up for dinner. There’s always an extra place for anyone who stops by.”

Bob was rather elated that his plan had worked so far and they started off mounted on a couple of bronchos that the stable in the lower camp provided.

As they rode along Bob ignored Jerry’s evident irritation, knowing that it was caused by his forced presence. He talked about a thousand things. Jerry tried to answer in a light and casual manner but he made a rather bad attempt at it.

The sun was hot as they rode and they kept close to the winding river where there was some vegetation and a few trees that gave a little shelter. After they had covered several miles they came upon crude attempts at irrigation which extended the fertility of the land back some distance from the river.

“These canals were started by the Indians,” said Jerry, “and were made bigger and longer by the white settlers. When we get up to Holman’s you’ll see some real irrigation.”

They did. Bob realized they were approaching the ranch by the sight of broad green fields which were watered by orderly ditches and laterals spreading out from the main canals like the branches of a tree. Here and there were gates which could be used to direct the water down any given canal or ditch.

“I thought Holman was a cattleman,” said Bob. “This looks as if he were a farmer.”

“He is a cattleman, though,” was the answer. “The range is to the north. A branch river flows into the Rio Grande and forms a triangle of green grazing. Holman has put in this irrigation merely to grow crops necessary for house use. It’s taken him years to make this place, and the dam we’re building will wipe it out overnight.”

“That’s tough luck,” said Bob, thinking that if he sympathized Jerry might let something fall which would be useful. But his ruse did not work, for Jerry merely said:

“It is pretty hard, but when the dam is built there’ll be many other fields below the dam. He’ll have to move down there, that’s all.”

There was very little more chance for conversation, as they were rapidly approaching a low, adobe house surrounded by outbuildings which were evidently stables and laborers’ houses. When they galloped in they were hailed by a bunch of cowboys who were perched on the corral fence. Jerry answered them with a shout and waved his hand but continued to lead the way to the main building. On the porch two men were sitting in chairs tilted up against the wall. Jerry introduced Bob to them.

“This is my friend, Bob Hazard, Mr. Holman,” he said. “Wanted to come and see a ranch. He is a rodman down at the dam.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance,” said the man Jerry had addressed.

He was rather stout. Humorous eyes twinkled from under bushy brows. “Glad to show ye what we got, though we ain’t goin’ to have it long if you fellows keep on buildin’ that there dam. Meet up with my foreman,” he said turning to the other man.

“Hello, Link,” said Jerry. “I didn’t bring Bob up only to show him the ranch, but to let you give him a square meal for once. If you’ve still got Sing Lee properly trained he’ll get it!”

The man Jerry had addressed as Link got up and gravely extended his hand to Bob.

“I figure you won’t go away hungry,” he said in a voice Bob was surprised to find was cultivated and soft. “The old man here sees to it that we get enough. It won’t be long either. I’ll go and see. I’m sort of housekeeper as well as foreman around this hang-out. Fine job for a full-grown man.”

With that he disappeared into the house.

“Must be a big help to have Link around, isn’t it, Mr. Holman?” said Jerry.

“You said something, my boy. The only trouble is I can’t keep him around. He’s been with me a dozen times but he always goes away again. Sometimes he ups and leaves overnight and then I’m out a foreman. But he knows he can always come back. When he is here he makes things hum. Besides, he’s the only man who can make the Chink cook a good meal.” Then he turned to Bob. “Soon’s we’ve had something to eat I’ll have one of the boys show you around the place. You must be hungry after your ride, ’specially if you’re not used to riding.”

Bob laughed, “We get enough to do week days on the dam to get up a pretty good appetite. But I won’t deny that I’ll be ready when the dinner bell rings. We’ve got a Mexican cook where we grub and he’s a lot better on quantity than quality.”

“That’s right,” said the rancher; “Greasers are all like that. If they start to rustle off some of our cattle they go in and take a big bunch. Don’t seem to make much difference what sort they lift. They just take the nearest to hand.” He grew serious. “I want to tell you boys it’s getting bad. I had more cattle stole the last two year than ever before. I wish the United States would make up its mind to go into Mexico and clean out that bunch of thieves. It’s the only way we’ll ever get any peace here on the border.”

Bob was interested in this view of the matter.

“Do you think that will help, sir?” he asked.

“I sure do. It’s disgraceful that we ain’t gone in there a’ready. The Greasers are killing our people and doing everything they can to raise trouble. Why I’d do almost anything myself to get things started down there. I own a bunch of land there that I was planning to use when that dam you’re a-buildin’ runs me out o’ here, but, shucks, it ain’t worth a jitney to me now, an’ won’t be onless Uncle Sam gets a move on pretty quick.”

“I think you’re right,” put in Jerry. “There ought to be nothing but the United States between Canada and the Panama Canal. But I don’t think we’ll go into Mexico unless the Mexicans raid our territory and kill somebody.”

“If they did that,” exploded the rancher, “there’d be nothing to it. We would be obliged to go in. I could come mighty nigh wishing somebody a hurt if ’twould bring it about.”

Then before the conversation went further the foreman came out the door. Bob noticed for the first time how powerful was the man’s build. He was tall and rangy, yet he seemed to radiate power.

“Come on in, folks,” he said. “Sing Lee’s done himself proud.”

During the meal the conversation was without any special interest, but afterwards, when Mr. Holman had retired for his siesta, Link O’Day joined the boys on the porch. The talk drifted from cattle to farming and from farming to forestry. On this topic the man spoke not only with knowledge but with enthusiasm.

“It’s great stuff,” he stated. “Formerly the lumberman would go into a forest and cut his lumber without any regard for the future. What he did not use he would ruin. It was not until most of the harm was done that the Government woke up to the fact that in a few years more there would be no more timber worthy of the name.”

“Now it’s against the law to cut trees under a certain diameter, isn’t it?” put in Jerry King. Bob saw the great interest that Jerry showed in the subject and all during the conversation he felt that a close attachment was being formed between Link O’Day and the boy. Probably one of the chief attractions the ranch had held for Jerry before he had become mixed up in the Mexican tangle was the relationship with this man. While Bob was thinking these things O’Day had answered Jerry’s question in the affirmative and had proceeded:

“Yes, but there is a lot more to forestry than that. I’d like to show you some day how modern logging is done.”

“Sort of gets me,” was Jerry’s enthusiastic comment. “Somehow the thought of shady woods sounds mighty attractive after the dose of sun and desert I’ve had the last couple of years. How about you, Bob?”

“Interesting all right, but I wouldn’t swap the Service for it by a long shot!”

“You’re a Service bug,” smiled Jerry, who had lost all signs of being uneasy. “I bet you’ll be an engineer all your life.”

“I hope so,” Bob answered. “Won’t you?”

“I don’t think so. There are a lot of other things I’d rather do if I had the chance. Forestry’s one of ’em,” he finished with a smile at the ranch foreman.

“If you still feel that way in the fall, I might take you along with me when I drift out. I’ll be going up north then, I think.”

“Will you? That would be great!”

The man nodded and for a moment Bob was amazed at the look of resemblance that was common to both. They might have been brothers or father and son.

“We’ll talk more about it later,” was what he said. “Now, young Hazard, if you want to see the ranch I’ll go along with you. Coming, Jerry?”

“No, Link, I guess not. I’ve seen it all and I think I’ll go down and visit with the boys at the bunkhouse till you get back.”

Bob thought he detected a glance of understanding flash from one to the other but put it down to his being suspicious of everything that occurred. He accepted O’Day’s invitation and they moved off the veranda in separate directions.

Bob instinctively liked the man who was showing him what had been done to reclaim the desert. By the time they got back to the house they had become good friends and the man had asked the boy to come up and visit the ranch again.

They found Jerry at the bunkhouse sitting in a game of poker with four or five of the cowboys. The players asked Bob to take a hand in the game but he refused. He had never played cards for money and he never intended to. Somehow, he was surprised that Jerry was playing; he had never mentioned cards, but Bob had always felt that Jerry was not that sort. He watched for a moment and saw that Jerry was evidently quite far behind. He was flushed and nervous.

“Come on, Jerry,” Bob said; “let’s be getting back.”

“No,” snapped the other. “I’m not ready. Go along yourself if you’re in such a hurry.” Then he went on with the game.

But before Bob left he heard a name which he recognized. Someone had spoken to one of the players calling him “Harper.” He tried to think where he had heard the name before. Then it came to him. Harper was one of the men Ted Hoyt had told him about who had tried to make Ted’s father join in the plot against the dam. Although Bob had started for the door he stopped. Possibly the other man Wesley was here too. He was, for a moment later Jerry said:

“I’ll call you, Wesley,” and shoved some chips to the center of the table. The man addressed, a rather villainous looking person, smiled and laid down his hand. Jerry did not smile. He threw his cards face down on the table. He had lost.

Bob’s mind began to act quickly. The links of his chain of evidence against Jerry were rapidly coming together. From Ted he had learned that Wesley and Harper represented the most desperate faction of the cattlemen; they were the spokesmen of the crowd that wanted the Mexicans to do real damage to the dam. Here they were gambling with Jerry and winning from him.

Wasn’t there a likelihood that they were doing this to get the boy under some obligation to them? If so, it was a point against Jerry. Then, Jerry was intimate with Miguel, who undoubtedly was the leader of the dissatisfied and reckless element among the Mexican laborers. The cattlemen had no way of getting in touch with the Mexicans at the dam without being suspected of some treachery. Hence Jerry’s coming to them might possibly have been a lucky thing from their standpoint. Still all this was circumstantial and as yet Bob had no proof. But everything that happened made him more and more suspicious of Jerry’s good faith.

At last he slipped out of the bunkhouse, went up and said good-bye to his host and rode off in the direction of home. In all probability Jerry would not come home until late.

Bob made his way back toward the dam slowly, his mind too busy with the situation in which he found himself to pay much attention to the beauties of the landscape. Before he had gone many miles he was surprised to hear the sounds of galloping hoofs coming behind him. His first thought was that Jerry had changed his mind and was going to accompany him back to camp. But the noise was more than one horse could make, so he was prepared to see strangers ride past him. He turned in his saddle as the first horse came around the bend in the trail.

It was Jerry, closely followed by the men he had identified as Wesley and Harper! In a moment they caught up to him and stopped. But Jerry’s first words were more surprising than his sudden appearance.

“What’d you sneak off for like that?” he said sneeringly. “Going back to tell the boss you caught me gambling?”

Jerry’s two companions had reined up also and were waiting for the answer. Bob quickly saw the object of this maneuver. After he had gone one of them had suspected that his being at the ranch with Jerry was not just an innocent visit. Probably they had struck on what was really the truth of the matter—that Bob was suspicious in a general way of Jerry and had taken a chance that he might learn something definite if he came out and spent a day with him. Evidently Jerry had not been able to make Wesley and Harper believe that Bob’s suspicions had been quieted and they had insisted on following him on the pretext of shutting him up about the poker business. This was to be used only as a cloak under which to threaten him against telling anyone of any suspicions he might have. They hoped in this way to frighten him into silence.

But Bob would not be frightened. He realized that the time had come when there could be no more fighting under cover. Throwing his head up and looking Jerry in the eyes he said quietly,

“You know that I won’t tell Whitney about your poker playing. What I am going to tell him is that you’re a traitor to the Service.”

Jerry quailed before the thrust. “What—what do you mean?” he stammered.

“Yes, what do you mean?” said one of the men threateningly.

“I mean that you and the cattlemen are planning to interfere and delay the work of the Service! For the cattlemen it is only a crime. But for you to help them, is treachery!”

As he spoke Bob did not flinch before the threatening attitude of the two cowboys. “You little shrimp,” said Wesley. “I’ve got half a mind to wring your neck and throw you in the bushes.”

Bob paid no attention to him. “Jerry,” he said, “is it true? If you tell me now it isn’t I’ll believe that you just got mixed up in the poker game and—and—Oh, Jerry, I can’t believe it. Please—please tell me it isn’t true.”

For a moment Bob thought he had won, for there was a look in his former chum’s eyes as if he was struggling to express something he could not say aloud. But Jerry’s words belied the message of his eyes.

“Why—why of course not. Why of—of course it isn’t true. I—I don’t know what you mean. I—I—”

From this hesitating manner Bob knew that Jerry was guilty.

“You are lying,” he said evenly. “Traitor!”

CHAPTER XV
THE CAPTURE OF BOB

“Traitor!” repeated Bob and then pulled his horse’s head around and struck hard with his quirt. In a flash his little horse was flying in the direction of home. It was a desperate chance he was taking, for he had read in the faces of the two men as he turned that they were determined that he should not get back to the dam with his suspicions confirmed. He knew that in running he braved possible death, for he had noticed that both men were armed. The sound of his horse’s hoofs and the rushing wind drowned the noise that would have told him whether he was being pursued or not. He was bending low in the saddle and it was hard to turn and see what had become of Jerry and his companions. But he managed it.

They were coming all right. But for the time he was holding his own and even doing a little better. They had raced their horses from the ranch in their endeavor to catch up with him, while he had only ambled along over the same distance. He exulted as he realized the distance was rapidly growing greater between them.

“Why don’t they shoot?” he thought. Hardly had the thought flashed through his brain when a bullet whistled by him. Then came another and another.

“Guess I’m too far,” he thought. “Out of range!” But he guessed wrong, for a moment later his pony stumbled and fell. He rolled clear and staggered to his feet and started to run on. But a moment later he was jerked to earth. One of the men had roped him.

When his captors came up he realized that Jerry was not with them and he turned to look back over the way they had come. No Jerry was in sight. Evidently as soon as real trouble started the men had decided it was better for Jerry to keep out of it.

“Thought you’d get away, did you?” said Wesley with an ugly laugh. “Swell chance.”

Bob kept quiet. They tied his arms to his sides with the lasso and then one of the men went over to the pony Bob had ridden and, putting a revolver to its head, fired. Bob realized that no matter how mean a citizen a cowboy might be, he would not let an animal suffer. The shot which had dismounted him had hit the pony in one of the hind legs and had broken it.

Little was said as they took Bob and hoisted him into the saddle of one of their horses. Harper got up behind him and handled the reins on either side of his body. He turned the horse’s head away from the trail into the low brush that here covered the ground. The other man followed.

Bob was not gagged. Probably his captors were certain that no matter how hard he yelled there would be no one near enough to hear. That being the case, the boy decided that it was useless to wear out his lungs. So he kept his tongue still and suffered in silence.

After the little procession had been going for some time, Harper began to taunt Bob.

“You figgered you was goin’ to git clean away an’ dust it for the dam, huh? Goin’ to tell ’em that we-uns up here was aimin’ to play thunder with that ol’ bunch o’ masonry that’s a-goin’ to take the bread out o’ our mouths, huh?”

Bob paid no attention to this outburst, letting it go past his ears. Wesley’s voice from behind took up the refrain.

“And, if it’ll do you any good, which it ain’t, you might know that we are not only aimin’ to bust up that dam down yonder, but we’re goin’ to do it, sure. It’ll all be over by the time you get back there, though, so I reckon the information won’t help you much.”

They both laughed.

“This li’l’ rooster thinkin’ he could come along up this here way an’ fool us! But Jerry’s got the hand all dealt with Miguel. The Greasers will turn the trick any night now. Then it’s good-bye ol’ dam for some time.”

“Yep,” boasted Harper, “an’ mebbeso we can keep a-puttin’ it off ontwell they git plum tired of tryin’ to buck us cowmen.”

“You can’t do it!” flared out Bob, unable to restrain himself any longer. “The Service will beat you, and don’t you forget it!”

“Shut up!” roared Harper in his ear. “Children should be seen and not heard!” And to emphasize his remark he fetched the boy a ringing clip on the side of the head. Not having the use of his hands, Bob lost his balance and fell out of the saddle.

A short dash for freedom was all he got, for Wesley on the other horse caught him before he had gone many steps. This time they tied his feet by means of a rope under the horse’s belly.

“Reckon you won’t try that again,” grunted Harper when once again they were proceeding towards what the boy imagined would be some sort of prison.

His captors began talking about the situation at the Mexican border and Bob drank in every word they said. It was just now that he began to realize what depth of feeling there was about the way the situation was being handled and to what lengths the ranchers and cattlemen would go to force the United States to make war on the other country. Wesley and Harper undoubtedly were “bad men,” but Bob was convinced by their talk that they had started on this particular piece of villainy for reasons which they thought were right. Probably when the thing began, they never planned anything worse than a strike among the Mexicans in order to delay for a year or two longer the flooding of the rangeland. Then had come the chance to induce the Mexicans to commit worse crimes in order to strengthen the feeling against Mexico and thus bring on war. Holman, the boss of these men and Bob’s host, had said that he wanted to move his stock to his ranch in Mexico when the dam was finished—but it would be foolish to do that while the country was still so unsettled. Presumably, there were a lot of men in the same fix as Holman, and these, naturally, wanted the United States to step in and make the unsettled country peaceful.

As he was revolving these things in his mind they came to an opening in the thick brush. It lay right on the edge of the river, close to which they had been traveling. Evidently it was the place that had been decided upon as his prison, for, almost screened by the encroaching scrub oaks, was an adobe hut. Bob could not imagine what it had been used for. As they approached it in the gathering gloom of night, it did not seem to have any opening except a door. No windows were visible from the direction in which they came and Bob doubted if there were any on the other side.

“I figger our bird will be pretty near safe in this li’l’ cage,” said Dave Harper. “’Member when we holed up that hoss thief here?”

“Sure do,” was the answer. “’Specially safe as I elect myself a c’mittee o’ one to stick here on guard.”

They unbound the boy and pulled him off the horse. They went rapidly through his pockets and relieved him of everything they could find—his watch, small change, and the jackknife he always carried. Then, before he had a moment to limber up his cramped muscles, he was dumped unceremoniously into the hut and the door was pulled to.

“It’s good we fixed up this door and put this bolt on,” Bob heard Wesley remark as the bar fell into place. “Now both of us can go back to the ranch so’s it won’t look suspicious. The kid is safe here till doomsday.”

“Mebbeso, but I ain’t goin’ to take no chance on it! I’m goin’ to stay right here till morning and then you can come down and do a spell o’ watchin’ too!”

Probably this last remark was meant only to impress him, Bob thought. If the hut would hold him, Harper wouldn’t spend the night watching. It would be too uncomfortable. Moreover, it would be all the same if Harper was able to make his prisoner believe he would be outside waiting for an attempt at escape. Once more he heard a voice. This time it was directed at him. It was Harper.

“Listen, kid! Someone will let you out o’ there before you starve. And I’ll be camped right here until the thing that’s goin’ to happen, happens. You might jest as well make yourself at home and stop worrying, ’cause it won’t get you nowheres. Good night and sweet dreams!”

The murmur of voices came to him for a little and then all was still.

CHAPTER XVI
THE ESCAPE

Naturally, Bob’s first thought was of escape, of some way in which to get out of the four walls which kept him from carrying the warning to Mr. Whitney that might mean the saving of the dam. If he could only get out, he did not fear Harper’s being on guard. The last speech that had come to him through the door had been so contradictory and had emphasized so strongly the fact that Harper would be outside, that Bob was quite sure he wouldn’t. At any rate he was willing to take the chance if only he could get out.

The first thing was to examine his prison. There might be an opening that had been overlooked. Bob started from the door and felt every inch of the wall within his reach. His fingers had to do duty for his eyes, as by this time night had fallen and the interior of the hut was pitch dark. Not even a ray of moonlight came through the cracks in the door. In this slow fashion he made the circuit of the room without finding even a crack in the dried clay.

He was trapped!

But Bob refused to give up hope. Too much depended on his getting free and being at the dam in time to prevent anything serious happening. Back at the door, he threw his whole weight time and time again on the boards but they held firm. This way, too, was closed to him.

What next? Feverishly he started to go through his pockets, hoping that in their hurried search the cowmen had overlooked his jackknife. If they had he could try to dig through the walls! Hope flared up for a moment but soon died, as all he could find was a loose button and a broken match that had lodged in the lining of his khaki jacket.

“Much good they’ll do me,” he muttered to himself and sat down with his back to the door to plan some new attempt.

But at first all he could think of was what would happen if he did not get out. Probably it meant the blowing up of the dam and machinery and a serious uprising of the Mexicans—one that would mean bloodshed. It was terrible to think of, yet he was convinced that that was the least that could be expected. The cattlemen could not hold the Mexicans in check once they had been started on the rampage.

Mr. Whitney knew that something was wrong, but he did not know what. Bob’s confidence in his Chief was great but he feared that no matter how strong and capable Mr. Whitney might be, he would be powerless to avert the calamity that seemed on the way, unless he had some definite notice that it was approaching.

Who else could help?

Feather-in-the-Wind! Perhaps the Indian would miss him and sound the alarm? Besides, Bob had asked him to look out for trouble with the Mexicans and perhaps, just perhaps, he might tell Mr. Whitney.

Then, as suddenly as the hope had come, it fled. Possibly Mr. Whitney had not come back! Feather-in-the-Wind alone would be no use! He must get out himself!

As he pondered his problem, his fingers had been playing with the loose button that had been in his pocket, and now it slipped from his hand and rolled off on the dirt floor toward the center of the room. Rather aimlessly, he reached out and groped for it. As his hand swept the floor it came in contact with a fine, floury substance. “Ashes,” was his thought. An inch or so farther and he gripped an object that he felt to be a half burned stick of wood.

Immediately the button was forgotten, for an idea had come to him. He would burn down the door!

He had a match and if there was enough wood there was a chance. The planking of the door was dry and there was no reason why it would not catch.

The possibility of getting free intoxicated him and on hands and knees he searched the floor. There were other sticks. Evidently the horse thief had been given a fire and it had only been put out when he was taken away for the last time—probably to the nearest tree high enough to swing a man clear of the ground. Besides this, to Bob’s great delight, a little pile of unburnt wood was stacked in one corner. He wondered why he had not stumbled over them when he first made the circuit of the hut.

Only when he had carried all his treasure to the door, did he realize that in all probability his work had been in vain.

There was nothing to use as kindling! He had only one match and a broken one at that. To make sure of his fire catching he ought to have paper or some substance equally easy to light. The wood was dry but it was too big to catch from one match.

Bob almost sobbed with his great disappointment. It seemed to be the end; there was nothing more to be done. He had explored the room—every nook and cranny of it—and he had come across nothing that could be used.

But he made one more try. Possibly a picture or newspaper had been tacked on the wall and had escaped his fingers when he had first gone round the room.

There was no better luck this time and when he came again to the door he was ready to admit defeat.

Then, in a flash, he knew he wasn’t beaten! Far from it. As he yanked off his coat he muttered savagely to himself.

“You poor nut! You haven’t any sense anyway!”

After his coat, Bob ripped off his flannel shirt and tore it down a seam. Then, with the greatest care, he began to unravel the threads that made up the fabric. The loose threads would burn when the cloth itself would only go out. Before he had a pile of threads that he felt would be sufficient for his purpose, his fingers ached and his nails were bleeding.

At last, however, he decided to take the chance of having enough. Going over the stack of sticks, he selected the smallest and those that had already been somewhat burned, as they would be the easiest to catch fire again. Then he separated his flannel ravelings into three piles and put them against the door.

Now came the crucial moment. He felt in the pocket where he thought he had put the single match that might possibly be the key to his prison, and for a second was sick with fear that he had lost it. But his fingers closed on the precious object and he breathed again.

Holding it as if it were glass, Bob scratched it on the hard floor. It did not light. Again he pulled it across the hard surface and a little flare spurted from the head and then died out.

Bob gasped. He was sure that the match’s usefulness was over, but feverishly, throwing caution to the winds, he rasped the head against the planking of the door.

It lit, flashing a glare into his eyes so accustomed to the utter darkness. But his gesture had been so violent that the stick broke and the flaming head flew off and fell on the floor.

Bob grabbed it and, before it could go out, nursed the flicker in his cupped hands, not realizing that it was burning his fingers cruelly. Carefully, yet swiftly, he carried the flame to the little pile of threads. As these caught, his heart grew light with thankfulness.

Little by little the boy fed the smoldering ravelings of his shirt with the other piles, holding in the center of the glowing coal the smallest of the sticks.

Hardly daring to breathe, he watched and hoped for a flame to spring from the wood. If it came, he had won; if not, his losing was the end of the fight. There would be no other way out.

Just as Bob was about to give up hope, for his fingers told him that the last pile of threads was about all gone, a sliver of flame ran up the stick he held in his left hand. It went out but a second later another one came and stayed!

With the utmost caution, the boy laid the burning stick down on the faintly red ashes of the threads and arranged other sticks on it. Then, gently, he breathed over it and the little flame grew and multiplied. Soon it was going briskly, but it was not till then that the load of fear dropped from Bob’s shoulders.

When the fire was burning strongly, he moved it as close to the door as possible so that the flames could lick the planking. His whole scheme depended on the door burning sufficiently to let him either crawl through or to weaken it to the point where his strength could break it down. Therefore, once the fire was in place he must not be stingy with his wood; the hotter the blaze, the more chance he had.

He piled on all the sticks he had and watched the flames mount higher and higher until the whole doorway was a sheet of roaring fire.

He thought the door had caught but he could not be sure. But soon he lost interest, for a new danger threatened him. It was one which he had failed to foresee when he had planned this means of escape.

There was no outlet for the smoke! The little room was practically air-tight except for the cracks around the door and these now were bringing in only the oxygen that allowed the fire to burn.

Choked, stifling with the intense heat, Bob fell on his face, remembering that smoke always rises.

For a moment or two this helped, for he was able to breathe, but soon the smoke was everywhere and Bob knew that he would have to move.

Was he to die, trapped like a rat? Was this the end of his adventure? It looked very much like it. But something would not let him give up. He would make one more attempt for his life and liberty.

Struggling to his feet, his eyes almost blinded, smarting with the sting of the smoke, he dashed headlong into the flaming door.

He bounced back, not knowing that his clothes were afire in several places. Instinctively he charged again.

This time a crash, a splintering of the wood was the result. Once more he dived into it and the next moment he was in the gray air of the early dawn.

Stumbling, panting, he ran around the corner of the hut, urged by the knowledge that he was afire. Luckily the river nearly touched the back wall of the hut that had been his prison. A few steps and he fell face downward in the shallows.

CHAPTER XVII
DYNAMITE!

In the cool water, Bob soon forgot his hurts. Coming out on the shore he took stock of the damage that had been done. His hands were sore and stinging sensations from different parts of his body told him that he had not come off scot-free. Such clothes as he had on were ruined and he knew that in all probability he was such a sight that his own father would not have recognized him if they had met face to face.

Assured that he had suffered no damage that was really serious, Bob gave some thought to other pressing matters. Since no one had appeared after he had broken out of the hut, he must have been right when he figured that Harper had had no intention of sticking around all night.

But because no one was around now, it did not mean that no one would be. Probably the best plan would be to go and go quickly before either Wesley or Harper decided to come down and bring their captive food and water.

“Some surprise those chaps will get!” laughed Bob to himself as he started down the river in the general direction of the dam. “I wonder what they’ll do. Hit the high spots probably getting away from this neck of the woods!”

It took longer to get back to camp than he had supposed, for he was afraid to leave the river which served as his guide. Therefore it was nearly noon when a bend of the river showed him the dam.

Fearing that his appearance would cause a sensation, Bob waded and then swam across the shallow river and struck off to one side, meaning to circle around to the upper camp. Then he could slip into the Quarter-house by the back way.

This maneuver was executed without mishap and the only person who saw him go in was the Mexican cook, who paid little attention.

“I guess he thinks the Gringo got mixed up with a charge of dynamite!” was the boy’s reflection as he scuttled up to his room.

It was not long before he presented himself, washed and changed, at the general offices. As he went in he asked the girl at the telephone if Mr. Whitney had returned.

“Not yet,” was the crisp reply, “but Mr. Taylor wants to see you. Jerry King didn’t show up to-day either and he’s worried.”

So Jerry had not come back. It did not surprise Bob much, but it meant that Jerry had now openly allied himself with the other faction. The fight was to be in the open, from now on. Coming back to himself, he asked: “Where’s Mr. Taylor then?”

“In his office.”

He found Mr. Taylor busy over some blue prints. The engineer looked up as he entered and Bob at once saw that the man was angry. His first question proved it.

“What the dickens do you mean by not reporting this morning? Just because Mr. Whitney is away, do you think you can take a vacation when you feel like it? And King, too; wait till I get hold of him! But what have you got to say for yourself, young man?”

“I couldn’t help it—”

“Couldn’t help it!” exploded the irate man. The total responsibility for the project had fallen on him for the past few days and it had made him nervous. “Of course you could help it. You’ve got to help it if you belong to the Service!”

Bob waited until the storm had passed and then asked calmly:

“Has the Chief told you he suspects trouble with the Mexicans?”

The man looked at the boy sharply but made no reply. From his manner Bob was sure that Mr. Taylor knew but did not wish to confess his knowledge. Figuring that his silence was equal to an assent, Bob went on:

“Mr. Whitney told me something about it and the reason I’m late to-day is that I got mixed up in the mess—”

This startled Mr. Taylor.

“You—you’ve found out something?” he stammered eagerly.

“Yes,” answered Bob, “I have. I wanted to tell Mr. Whitney personally about it but as things are likely to happen right off, I think we’d better get busy without him.”

Rapidly Bob sketched out what he had learned during the past few days and related briefly the adventure that had befallen him the day before. As to Jerry’s part in the mix-up, he said as little as possible, but of course it could not be entirely hushed up. As Bob was talking, Mr. Taylor took the telephone receiver off the hook and called a number.

By the time his story was finished, a knock sounded on the door and it opened to let in Jenkins, the camp marshal.

“I just telephoned the marshal to come up as we were talking,” explained Mr. Taylor. “I want him to get those two cowboys if he can.”

“Won’t be much chance,” put in Bob, “if they’ve been to the hut. But if they were going to leave me there without food or water, perhaps you can get ’em.”

The engineer stated the case briefly so that the officer would understand.

“I’ll try to git ’em,” announced Jenkins. “I guess I better git the sheriff down to Las Cruces to call out a posse—”

“No, don’t do that,” put in Taylor. “This is a Federal job and we don’t want the county in on it. Go to it alone.”

Stolidly the man took his orders and stumped out. When he was gone Mr. Whitney’s assistant turned to Bob.

“What do you think will be the first move? Did you hear anything definite?”

“No, sir, and I haven’t any idea what they’ll do. Anything is likely to happen!”

“Then the only thing to do is to put on extra watchmen and keep a sharp lookout for trouble among the Mexicans. I’ll see to it at once.” He started up as if to go out. Then, remembering Bob, he said, “You’ve done good work, Hazard. Sorry I was so grumpy when you came in. Take the remainder of the day off and rest up.”

“Thank you, sir,” the boy answered, “but I couldn’t sleep now. There’s too much excitement around!”

With this they left the office, Taylor to see that all preparations were made to forestall any attack, and Bob to take up the work Mr. Whitney had left for him to do.

The day and night passed quietly, but the next morning the mess room of the Quarter-house was in a turmoil. News had come in that a gang of Mexican bandits had made a raid on Columbus, killing and wounding many Americans. This report was unconfirmed but rumors flew thick and fast. Some had it that it was the army of Carranza and others that it was merely an unorganized deed of a rash bandit. Most of the men thought it was Villa.

When Bob heard the news he immediately connected Mr. Whitney’s prolonged absence with it. The Chief was not back and in all probability he had remained to talk over the best manner of protecting Government property from any mishap. The raid was so daring that it showed the possibility that others might follow and the dam was near enough the border to be in actual danger. Bob realized that in all probability this was just what the cattlemen wanted; that it might mean intervention. Especially so if more outrages took place at once.

All during the day he worked with a cloud of apprehension hanging over him. But nothing stirred. The Mexicans at the noon hour broke up into groups and talked excitedly, but as far as Bob could see they did their work without any friction with their bosses, and under Mr. Taylor’s generalship the whole job moved smoothly.

But there was something wrong in the air. The very calm itself seemed unhealthy, and Bob was glad when nighttime came. He noticed that Mr. Taylor had again put on the extra force of watchmen, as he had planned, all of whom were Americans. This had been done quietly and passed without comment from the Mexicans.

However, just before the quitting whistle blew, Bob happened to be near the spot where the Indians were excavating. He took this opportunity to go up to Feather-in-the-Wind who was directing his men. Ostensibly he asked something regarding the work but it was only to give the Indian a chance to convey any message he might have. The Apache did have something to say.

“Meet Feather-in-the-Wind by rock crusher to-night,” he whispered swiftly, but cautiously.

It was sufficient. Bob walked off unconcernedly but as soon as dark had fallen he went to the appointed place. He had not been there long when the Indian glided up to him.

“Have you learned anything?” asked Bob quickly.

“Yes; Greasers much excited. One man make bad medicine. He Miguel. They plan big strike—no more work. To-day came news much killing on border. Miguel tell ’em Gringo all scared. They keep quiet, then capture dam.”

“Are they going to do what he says?” put in Bob in a tense whisper.

“Yes, Miguel very much strong. Greasers grumble but do what he say.”

But when Bob started to thank Feather-in-the-Wind for finding out what he had, the Apache stopped him. “Wait! More!” he said. “One my young men got keen eyes. Not dimmed by white man’s whiskey. He see Miguel go away from camp one, two, t’ree nights. He take something with him. Young man no follow. No worry him much. Perhaps go to-night. You want us follow?”

“You’re whistling,” said Bob shortly.

Probably Feather-in-the-Wind did not understand the slang but he got what Bob meant, for he said, “Come!” and started off in the direction of the lower camp. He did not go through the village but cut up on the hillside, walking swiftly as if he knew where he was bound. Bob followed.

A few minutes later a slim shadow rose out of the chaparral. Feather-in-the-Wind spoke in his own language to this newcomer. Evidently this was the brave who had kept note of Miguel’s comings and goings. The conference over, Bob’s friend uttered the one word, “Wait!” and sat down. The other Indian slipped away. Bob followed the example of Feather-in-the-Wind.

From where they were sitting, screened by the undergrowth, they could see a section of a rough path that led up the hillside. For a long time nothing happened. As the Indian did not speak, Bob felt it best to remain quiet also. Probably there was a reason for it. The delay did not worry him much, however, as there was plenty of material for his mind to be busy with. Ever since he had talked with Mr. Whitney, events had tumbled upon him one after another. Mr. Whitney had gone and Ted was doing outpost duty. Jerry was on the other side. Only the Indian was left to him and he was not much of a counselor. True, he was beginning to prove himself a great help but through the limitations of language he could not be used to discuss what ought to be done regarding the things they found out. What the outcome of the mess was to be was beyond Bob’s imagination to foresee. He was determined to do what he felt was his duty, and if the consequences were serious it could not be helped.

His reverie was broken by a nudge on the arm. He looked up to see a shadow darting along the path. Nearer and nearer it came until it passed almost close enough to the point where they were sitting to be touched by Bob’s hand should he thrust it from cover.

The young Indian had been right. It was Miguel. Even in the uncertain light Bob could see that he carried a queer-shaped package under his arm.

A moment or so later the Indian got up and motioned to Bob that it would be safe to follow. They did not take the path but threaded their way amongst the underbrush, the sand deadening their footsteps. So cleverly did the Indian pick his way that hardly a sound was made by their coming in contact with the bushes. Bob had difficulty in keeping up with his guide, yet he did his best and when they reached the crest of the hill he was but a few steps behind.

Once here, the Indian stopped and took an observation. An almost imperceptible grunt escaped him and, turning on his heel, he motioned Bob to follow. It was a surprising move, for the Indian practically retraced the steps they had just taken. Bob was soon to know the reason, however, for halfway down the hill the Indian spoke, not turning his head.

“Fool Greaser! Go all way up hill only to throw people off track. I know where he make for. Come!”

Bob was breathing hard when they finally reached the spot where the Indian decided to stop. It was above the dam proper and on the same side of the river. Again they established a hiding place in the underbrush but this time it was near the edge of the clearing. Below them was a widening of the river where the coffer dam had been built. This was erected to divert the water of the river into the spillway, which left the river bed dry for the construction of the main dam.

“Why do you think he will come here?” asked Bob, amazed at the Indian’s tactics. He didn’t for a moment doubt that Feather-in-the-Wind knew what he was about, yet it surprised him and he wanted an explanation.

“Easy,” said the Indian. “Only two places go when get top of hill. One way lead to station, other way to upper camp. He start direction upper camp. I know he no go there. Therefore he go round and come back to dam. Nearest place him come back.”

It was easy once it was explained, Bob realized, and the words brought a complete faith in his guide’s methods.

Again silence was necessary, for if Miguel was coming it would not be long before his arrival. Come he did and only a few yards from them. Bob held his breath until Miguel passed them and reached the river level. There he put down his package, which Bob noticed he handled with the utmost care. But this did not impress the boy as much as did the next move of the man under observation. Going up to a rock which showed itself above the ground, he knelt and began scooping away the sand from one side of it. After a few moments of this work he evidently found what he had been digging for, because he picked some objects out of the hole he had made and laid them at his side.

Involuntarily Bob gasped. He recognized what it was that Miguel had taken from the hole and what probably was also in the odd-shaped package he had been carrying.

It was dynamite, dynamite stolen probably from the work and brought up and stored here for some evil purpose. Evidently Miguel was preparing to strike the first blow in the plot against the dam.

Bob kept still, feeling that he would soon know what Miguel planned to do with the explosive, for if whatever plan the Mexican had conceived was not to be consummated to-night, it was evident that he would have buried the additional stuff he had brought instead of digging up his cache.

In this he was not mistaken. Miguel produced from around his body a coil of fuse and began joining the sticks of dynamite and placing detonating caps in them. Every muscle in the boy’s body ached to jump from the hiding place and grapple with the man who was arranging such wholesale destruction, but evidently the Indian realized what was going on within him, for he felt a restraining touch on his arm. At once he knew what it meant. The Indian was telling him that it would be foolish to attack the Mexican when he had so much sudden death in his hands. Before they could reach him, no matter how swiftly they acted, the Mexican could throw the dynamite and the damage would be done. There was nothing to do but wait and hope that Miguel would give them an opening when there was more possibility of averting the catastrophe.

The Mexican worked swiftly and at last he had his infernal machine ready. Straightening up, he carried it to the coffer dam and began laying the dynamite sticks at equal intervals along the bank. This dam was constructed of timber backed up by refuse material from the crusher and the excavation. It was neither high nor wide at this time as it only served to divert the ordinary flow of the Rio Grande. It had not been destined to cope with any flood, should one come, as the engineering plan was to get the dam in such shape as to withstand a freshet before the rainy season came on. But the dynamite the Mexican was laying was sufficient to wreck what had been built, and, should the water be released, it would undo thousands of dollars worth of work at the main dam, besides the delay caused by the rebuilding.

It was the first blow in the Mexican campaign and at all hazards it must be stopped. Bob knew this and the Indian at his side knew it. Miguel went farther and farther from them towards the center of the river. They could follow him with their eyes as his movements were clearly outlined in the white moonlight. There was no watchman on the coffer dam. There seemed no reason for one; yet Bob realized that a watchman was needed everywhere with this plot seething.

It was a horrible situation, for there seemed to be nothing that could be done. Probably the Mexican was desperate enough to sacrifice his life if he should be detected while laying his mine. He would set off the dynamite if he saw anything to disturb him. Therefore, to attack him openly seemed out of the question.

What was to be done? There seemed no answer. At last an idea came to Bob. “Go quick,” he said to the Indian, “get help! Bring a gun. Perhaps we can shoot him! I’ll stay here and watch. You can go quicker than I. Hurry!”

Feather-in-the-Wind knew it to be the only plan and started off with long running leaps, keeping himself well hidden from the Mexican. There was just a chance that he could get to the camp and back before Miguel could complete his dastardly work.

As soon as the Indian was gone Bob started to carry out a plan of his own. He knew the Indian would not have allowed him to take the chance, so he had been forced to use a stratagem to get Feather-in-the-Wind out of the way.

Kicking off his shoes, he wormed his way on his stomach towards the upper side of the coffer dam. Miguel was working on the lower side and Bob knew that the dam was sufficiently high to keep his actions hidden from the Mexican.

When he reached the edge of the river Bob slipped into the water with as little noise as possible. Keeping close to the dam he found that he could make fair headway by half swimming and half walking along the slanting boards which held the Rio Grande in check. His plan was desperate, yet it was the only one that seemed feasible. Miguel would probably set a rather long fuse, one long enough to allow him to get safely away. “If I can only get there before the fuse has burned to the first stick of dynamite!” gasped Bob to himself.

Panting, struggling, gasping, he fought on. His mind was filled with the horror of what would happen should he be too late. There was no way of telling how far Miguel had gone. The dam that kept him hidden from the Mexican, also hid the Mexican from him. He must—he must go on until he was well past the center of the dam—Miguel would do the job thoroughly if at all. Once there he must go through a fresh ordeal. He must climb out of the water and look over the edge of the dam in order to get his bearings and to find out where the Mexican had lit the fuse. Should he look over at the wrong spot and Miguel see him, it was the end—the end probably of his life and surely the finish of the coffer dam.

At last he passed the sluice gates which marked the center of the dam. A few rods further on he knew he must climb up and look over.

There was no time in which to gather his nerves together. He must act and act at once. So, pulling himself up with as little noise as possible, he peered over. No Miguel was in sight. But a hundred feet down the dam was a tiny thread of white smoke shining gray in the moonlight. With a despairing sob he leaped towards it as fast as his soaked clothes would let him.

Under his feet he saw the snake-like line of fuse.
With a leap he pulled the whole thing over the bank.

Zing! A sharp report and a whistle through the air by his ear told him that Miguel had caught sight of him and hoped to stop him by means of a bullet. But Bob had to go on. Again came a shot, but this time farther from him. “Rotten shooting!” panted Bob for the wind to hear. Now he was almost at his goal. He saw that there was still a length of fuse to be burned before it got to the explosive but the smoke was moving rapidly towards him. Another bullet came. He would not have time to get to the end of the fuse before it exploded. Despairing, he was almost ready to give up.

Then under his feet he saw the snake-like line of fuse. Reaching down, he grabbed it. It was necessary to take the chance that this sudden disturbance of the dynamite might set it off. With a leap, he pulled the whole thing over the bank with him and dropped with it into the water of the Rio Grande. He did not hear the sizzling sound that told that the fuse was dead. As he sank into the water, Bob was only conscious that he had done his best.

CHAPTER XVIII
THE RAIDERS RAIDED

When he came to the surface, Bob’s first sensation was one of extreme weariness. So spent was he that it was all he could do to keep himself afloat. The possibility of another shot from Miguel did not spur him to dodging in the water. If the shot was to come, it would. Bob knew that he was alive, therefore the danger which threatened the dam was over. This being the case, a great contentment came to him—what could happen to him now mattered very little.

But as the minutes passed he got back his grasp on things and realized that no more shots were coming. Evidently the Mexican had become frightened and had run. The next thing he knew was that he was being pulled out of the water by Feather-in-the-Wind.

“Hurt?” said the Indian.

“No,” Bob gasped. “Mig—Miguel got away!”

The redskin did not seem to bother about the Mexican’s escape. From the gentle way in which he handled the boy, it was clear that he was proud of him, proud that the young white man had done such a brave deed. He had seen what had happened as he came running back from the camp.

“No matter,” he said. “You save dam. I see. Good work.”

The praise acted like a tonic on the weary boy. He stood up.

“We’d better hurry back,” he said, “and send someone after the Greaser. He’s dangerous.” And without further words the two set forth.

Under the moon the town lay quiet, only a lighted window here and there to tell that it was inhabited. Around the machinery and on the dam itself tiny shadows moved to show that the watchmen were not sleeping. Just before they reached the Quarter-house, a horse and rider galloped up the hill. Bob recognized Jenkins and stopped him.

“Did you get your men?”

“They dusted ’fore I got there,” was the disgusted answer. “I trailed ’em down stream but I reckon they’ve hit the border by now.”

“Sorry,” sympathized Bob, “but I guess they found I’d got out and that scared ’em.”

“I reckon so, ’cause they had too good a start for me to catch up with ’em. Good night to ye,” he finished and galloped off to put his tired horse away and get some much-needed rest for himself.

“Too bad,” grunted the Indian as they walked on. “But you no tell him ’bout Miguel. Why not?”

“I think I’d better report to Big Boss first. Perhaps he will have some other plan.”

“Boss Whitney not here,” stated the Indian. “Boss Taylor good man but not like Chief. You wait for him. Now I go send one, two my young men trail Miguel. Perhaps they catch him—Jenkins, he never catch him. He tired. Not much good trail nohow.”

This sounded like good advice to Bob.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’d like to see Miguel well punished.”

The Indian stalked swiftly away and Bob turned towards his boarding house and sleep. It seemed a safe bet that there would be no further trouble that night. In all probability if an uprising amongst the Mexican laborers had been planned it would not come off to-night. Bob was sure that the blowing up of the dam would have been the signal for the starting of general hostilities. Since he had been able to prevent the signal being given, and at the same time had scared Miguel off, the chances were that all would remain quiet. Leaderless, the Mexicans were harmless, and Bob had a hunch that Miguel was the only one of them who was strong enough to direct the revolt.

But a surprise awaited him when he pushed open the door of his room. Seated on the bed was Ted Hoyt, who showed signs of having anxiously awaited him.

“At last! I thought you’d never show up.”

“What’s the rush?” asked Bob. “Found out something?”

“You bet I have. A whole heap. Bet it’ll make your hair curl—”

“Come on, Ted, old scout, out with it,” Bob urged the excited boy. “You haven’t said anything yet. You’ve tuned up, now play something!”

“I—I think a bunch of Greasers are goin’ to raid the dam!”

“What?” Bob exploded. “Mexicans from the other side of the border?”

“Yes, I think so. Reg’lar bandits—about fifty of ’em.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw ’em. Dad sent me out ’bout sundown to hunt a stray calf and I saw some smoke coming from a draw where nobody had any business being. I hitched my nag and crawled up until I could see.”

“And what did you see?”

“A bunch of armed Mexicans! They had camped for supper. I figgered that they were coming on up here to-night, so I beat it straight for you. Bet Dad’s got a search party out huntin’ me right now!”

“Gee whiz, but we’ll have to get busy in a hurry,” snapped Bob. “Come on, we’ll wake Mr. Taylor.”

He had turned towards the door as he was speaking and the words died in his throat as the door flew open and a dusty form stepped into the lighted room.

It was Jerry King!

“You?” gasped Bob. “You? What are you doing here? To tell us that the dirty work you started is successful?”

The boy stood straight under the taunts his former friend heaped upon him. A little smile was at the corner of his mouth as he answered.

“You haven’t much faith in me, have you? You are quite ready to believe that I have been a traitor to the Service.”

“But—but you are!” stammered Bob, taken aback for a moment by Jerry’s words. “Didn’t you admit it—”

“Whatever I am, we haven’t got time to gas about it now. I came to—”

“I don’t care what you came for,” flashed Bob. “Don’t try to sell out the other side now! It’s bad enough as it is without your double-crossing your new friends!”

For a long moment both boys eyed each other without flinching. Then in a flash Bob’s anger fled and he thought clearly. Jerry must not be let out to do more damage. He was too dangerous. He must be caught and put away until the crisis was over. No sooner had the thought flashed through his mind than he acted. Jerry was nearest the door, which was still open, so a leaping tackle was the only thing that would work.

Bob dived at his former chum with all his force. They grappled.

“At him, Ted! We’ve got to keep him!” he panted as he struggled with his adversary.

Ted was so amazed by the sudden happening that he could not make his muscles respond to the call immediately. When he did get started it was too late, for Jerry had got an arm free and had swung his fist to Bob’s jaw. The blow, while it did not knock the Eastern boy out, was sufficient to loosen his grasp and Jerry jerked away and flashed out of the room.

Ted went after him on a run but again he was too late, for when he reached the threshhold of the house, his quarry had disappeared. Dashing back through the hall, he met Bob on his way out, and they went to the door.

“Lost him,” reported Ted. “Clumsy fool I am!”

“Don’t worry,” returned Bob. “I ought to have been able to hold him. I’m only worried about what he might do now. I’m going to wake Mr. Taylor.”

“No good do that,” a quiet voice came to them from right beside them in the shadow of the doorway.

“Feather-in-the-Wind!” gasped Bob. “You back?”

“I go myself trail Miguel. I catch his track and run swiftly. Big moon help much. Pretty soon I see little light just below big dam in bushes.”

“Was it—was it some strange Mexicans?” asked Ted excitedly.

“Yes. All got guns. Horses too. Bad men.”

“Your bandits!” whispered Bob to Ted. The other boy nodded an assent. “Go on,” he urged the Indian.

“I crawl up. Much big talk. Miguel talk much. Think want Greasers start trouble. Greaser leader say no start trouble till Miguel get Greasers here start trouble too. Pretty soon Miguel he start back towards camp. But much afraid you tell ’bout dynamite dam and people watch for him. He go slow. I run behind. Catch—”

“You killed him?”

The Indian came as near to chuckling as he was able.

“No kill. Tie, gag, throw in bushes. Him no more trouble to-night. Then come here get you.”

“Fine work!” was Bob’s comment. “Gives us time to turn around.” Then he suddenly remembered that the Indian had started the talk by advising against bringing Mr. Taylor into the emergency. “But why not get Boss Taylor?”

“No use. He just rouse camp. Everything mixed up. Got better plan.”

“What is it?” urged the boys.

“Plenty young men my tribe. Got five—six guns. Plenty make much noise.”

“I see,” cried Bob joyously. “We’ll take ’em and surround the Greasers. Then shoot off the guns and scare ’em off! That it?”

The Indian grunted and without a word led the way towards his camp. Bob rushed back to the house and caught up a revolver that he had bought to take care of any snakes that he might meet on his jaunts away from the dam. He did not catch up with Feather-in-the-Wind and Ted until they had reached the Indian encampment. The redskin was already rousing the braves he had picked to take part in the adventure, and there was nothing for the boys to do until all the arrangements had been made.

Bob wondered what had become of Jerry. Could he have gone to warn the bandits? It seemed the most likely thing, yet there was just a chance that as the plot had become so mixed up by Miguel’s failure to pull off the mining of the coffer dam, that Jerry would be busy in another direction. He might have decided to go and tell the cattlemen that a serious hitch had occurred. It was all very puzzling, especially Jerry’s sudden appearance in their room.

This started a new train of thought. Why had Jerry been foolish enough to show himself in the Quarter-house? Nothing could be gained by it. Could it be that he had come to warn Bob of the impending danger to the dam and consequently to himself? Perhaps the memory of the dangers they had shared and overcome in the Labyrinth had stirred him to a moment of remorse and a desire to see his chum safe. This seemed the most likely explanation but further thought was impossible, for Feather-in-the-Wind was ready to start.

The Apache chief had sent his braves ahead, telling them to go separately to the point he mentioned and not to do more until he gave the signal. Therefore, only the two boys were left to go with him.

“Let’s go down by the Mexican bunkhouses and see if anything is stirring there,” suggested Ted Hoyt. “It’s on our way and just the three of us won’t attract much attention.”

They picked their way through the sleeping village, which was now dark as the moon had long since finished its journey across the sky. All seemed quiet in the Mexican houses, but when they got up close a figure slipped from a shadow and challenged them.

“No further this way!” the order came in quiet yet determined English. Bob recognized in the speaker one of the extra watchmen Boss Taylor had put on.

“Right,” answered the boy and the trio moved on, only to be stopped again a hundred feet further on and the same order passed.

“Gee whiz!” Bob exclaimed. “Guess Taylor has gotten wise and stuck a bunch around here to sit on the Mexicans if they start anything. Didn’t think he had it in him!”

“That will help us a heap,” was Ted’s idea. “We won’t have to worry about their taking a hand in our game!”

Feather-in-the-Wind only grunted and led the way swiftly towards the place where he had come on the Mexican bandits. The dark seemed to bother him little, if at all, for he walked with long strides, missing obstructions as if by intuition. The boys had difficulty in keeping up with him and it was a relief to them when he finally slowed down and stopped. Telling them by gestures to use the greatest caution against making a noise, on he went, the boys following.

They had crossed the river and were going down stream. Here there was a gentle rise in the ground. About halfway to the top of this hill the Indian motioned them to stay where they were and then, taking their obedience for granted, dropped on hands and knees and started to crawl rapidly the remainder of the way.

The excitement was too much for Bob. To stay still while serious events might be happening was not what he had bargained for and as soon as Feather-in-the-Wind was out of sight in the underbrush, he too started off, using the same manner of locomotion.

So cleverly had Feather-in-the-Wind secreted himself at the top of the rise that Bob was about to crawl over him, thinking it was a fallen log that obstructed his path. Stifling an exclamation, he lay still. The Indian did not show any signs of annoyance that his orders had been disobeyed and when he started to wriggle into a position from which he could see the other side of the hill, by a move of the hand he invited the boy to follow.

At first glance there seemed nothing amiss. To Bob’s untrained eye, the shadows that lay heavily in the dark of the night were only scrub pine and underbrush. But as he looked these shadows took form and substance. They were men, sitting or lying relaxed, in attitudes of waiting. A faint nicker and trampling of hoofs told that horses were hobbled in the vicinity.

Bob heard a crunching noise behind him and turned his head to find that Ted Hoyt too had been unable to stand the strain of waiting uncertain as to what was happening to his friends.

Suddenly the still and silent air was rent by a noise that has no equal in the world. It was the blood-curdling war whoop of an Indian. Coming so close to their ears, although they had been expecting it, the boys nearly jumped out of their skins with terror.

Feather-in-the-Wind had given the signal to his men. A moment later answering whoops seemed to come from all parts of the compass and these were emphasized by a rattle of rifle shots.

Bob jumped to his feet and began pulling the trigger of his revolver as fast as his fingers would work. Then, yelling, he followed Ted and the Apache in the rush down the hillside.

The Mexicans, surprised by the suddenness of the attack, did not wait to fire many shots in return. A mad scramble for their horses was taking place and dimly Bob saw the outlines of the marauders string out at a mad gallop.

When on a dead run he reached the foot of the hill, all the Mexicans had gone, fleeing from what they supposed was a trap.

Feather-in-the-Wind had become separated from them, but his plan had worked! This was Bob’s first thought, but his exultation was cut short by the most surprising event of this eventful night!

The clear notes of a bugle rang forth in the thrilling signal to charge!

CHAPTER XIX
JERRY COMES BACK

“What’s that?” cried Ted Hoyt, stopping in his stride.

“Blest if I know,” panted Bob. “But come on, we can see from the hill over there!” and with this he started off again. When they reached the place Bob had thought would be a point of vantage, the mystery was explained.

“Soldiers!” Bob gasped as the outlines of the men grew clear against the star-lit sky as they topped a near-by ridge. “Cavalry!”

“You sure?” demanded Ted. “I wonder how in thunder they drifted into this here party. I figgered it was all ours.”

“I don’t know, but I am sure glad they’re here. Maybe they’ll catch those devils and then we won’t ever have any more trouble with ’em. But—listen!”

From a distance came the rattle of gunshots.

“The Greasers making a stand, I reckon,” was Ted Hoyt’s comment. “Probably a regular battle.”

Bob was about to reply when an interruption stopped the words that were on the end of his tongue. A crackling noise in the bushes had been the only warning Feather-in-the-Wind had given of his approach. But his companion was what surprised Bob.

Jerry again! Jerry, on whom the Indian was keeping a firm grip.

“I catch him. Not catch any other—Mexican.” The way the Indian said the last word showed the contempt he felt for the boy who had sold out his friends.

“Good! We’ll keep him until Boss Whitney can attend to his case.” Bob rather expected Jerry to say something, but as there was no sound from him, he continued:

“I think we’d better go back to camp. The shooting over there sounds as if our part of the job is over. Think so?”

“Ugh!” grunted Feather-in-the-Wind, by way of saying yes. So, still keeping his hold on Jerry, he led the way back to the Townsite. As they marched, Bob suddenly realized that after the first yell and charge from the Indians he had not heard or seen anything of them.

“Where are your young men?” he demanded of the Indian.

“I send ’em back. Watch Mexican house. Mebbeso white men need help. All can do was scare Mexican. No got guns ’nough make fight.”

“No need to bother about the Greasers in camp. They won’t make any trouble.” It was the first word spoken by their captive.

“Why?” flashed Bob, quick to take advantage of Jerry’s loosened lips.

“I’ll tell Mr. Whitney and no one else,” was the defiant answer. Jerry’s first remark had evidently been surprised out of him and now he was again in control of himself.

No amount of urging or surprise questions sufficed to break his silence and the little party came to the lower camp before he had opened his lips.

The place was in great confusion. The shooting, first of the Indians and then of the soldiers, had thoroughly waked up the town. The center of the activity seemed to be around the Mexican camp and when they reached the outskirts of the crowd that was jostling together in the street, they realized that the Mexicans were trapped, that if they had been unwise enough to start something they were outnumbered three to one. Here and there were Feather-in-the-Wind’s braves, ready for any emergency.

The bunkhouses seemed deserted. If there were any Mexicans inside they were doing their best to play dead. The crowd seemed to think that the laborers were the ones who had started the trouble and they were shouting, daring the Greasers to come out and start something. But there was no answer from the inside.

Just as the crowd was growing weary, the roar of a high powered gasoline engine drowned out the noise they were making. With the muffler cut out open and the exhaust snapping explosions like the reports of young cannon, a car dashed down the street and stopped with a jerk. Out of it hopped Big Boss Whitney.

“What’s the rumpus?” he roared. “What’s broken loose?”

His presence dominated the crowd and for a moment there was comparative quiet. Then everybody tried to explain at the same time and only succeeded in confusing the man more. His eye, darting through the crowd, fell on Bob and the others. “Here, Hazard,” he called, “tell me quick what’s up!”

In a few words Bob sketched the happenings of the past few hours. When he finished by saying that the cavalry had arrived on the scene and had started chasing the Mexicans, the Chief breathed a sigh of relief.

“It’s all right then,” he muttered and stood up to reassure the crowd.

“All over, men. There’ll be no more trouble to-night. Our Mexicans are not mixed up in this yet and the soldiers have come to see that they don’t. They’ll be here any minute now!”

This satisfied the excited mob and gradually it thinned out as Whitney demanded more details from Bob.

“Did you send me that wire to get up here as quickly as I could? It caught me at Las Cruces just by chance.”

“No,” returned the boy. “I didn’t have time after things started to break loose.”

“I wonder who did then. But I want to go to the troops. Which way did they go?” But before Bob could answer, Mr. Whitney saw for the first time that Jerry was being held prisoner by the Indian.

“But what does this mean?” he exclaimed. “What are you holding onto King for?”

“He has been the go-between for the cattlemen and the Greasers,” said Bob bitterly, sick that it was his job to tell of his former chum’s treachery. “We’ve caught him, that’s all! When we’ve time I’ll tell you the whole rotten thing.”

“Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?” snapped the man. “Is Bob right?”

Jerry looked at the chief steadily and was about to reply when a yell came to their ears.

“They’re coming!”

Before there was time to figure out who it was that was coming, the hoofbeats and jangling of accouterments foretold the approach of the troopers. A moment later the soldiers trotted down the street under the electric lights that had been turned on when the trouble started. In their midst were a number of sullen looking Mexicans, evidently prisoners.

Mr. Whitney stepped out and halted the troop by hailing the captain, who was in the lead. Tom noticed to his surprise that at the officer’s side was Link O’Day, whom he had met as the foreman of Thaddeus Holman’s ranch. What his appearance on the scene meant was more than the boy could imagine.

The officer halted his men and after a brief talk with Mr. Whitney gave some orders to his lieutenant. The Chief then turned to Bob.

“We’re going to my shack to talk this out. Come along. I want Feather-in-the-Wind and Jerry too. Hoyt, find Mr. Taylor and ask him to report to me at once!”

Link O’Day walked with the two men in the lead and all the way to the house Bob racked his brain to find a reason for this man’s having ridden into camp with the soldiers and on top of that to be included in the conference the Chief had arranged.

The porch of the cottage was the spot chosen for the talk. When Taylor joined the group Mr. Whitney opened the proceedings.

“With your permission, Captain Wendell, I would like to get the whole sequence of events in order. You have told me that you have captured the better part of the gang of raiders, so I will ask Bob Hazard to tell me what led up to your timely intervention. Is that all right? Hazard was in the midst of explaining the situation when you rode in, and I’d like to hear the finish of his yarn.”

“Let him shoot!” was the answer.

“All right then, Bob,” encouraged Mr. Whitney. “Start from the beginning and tell us everything that’s happened.”

So many days had passed during which Bob’s one desire had been to unload his troubles on his Chief that he was not at all embarrassed when he found he had to tell his tale before so many witnesses. He started in and until he reached the episode of Miguel’s attempt to blow up the coffer dam he spoke steadily and clearly. At this point, however, when it was necessary to tell of the part he had taken in the adventure, he began to stammer and hesitate. Feather-in-the-Wind broke in to help him out and in his short, broken sentences vividly pictured for the listeners the plucky deed that had been done to save the dam.

When he finished a ripple of admiration passed around the group, and to cover his embarrassment, Bob hurriedly went on to tell of Jerry’s visit and the surprise attack planned by Feather-in-the-Wind.

“That’s the story, Mr. Whitney,” he finished. “And as the dam is safe, everything seems to be all right only, only—” Here the boy’s voice broke—“the part about Jerry. I—I can’t understand how he could do it—how—how he could be a traitor to the Service—”

“I can tell you!” the statement rang out from a corner of the porch. Bob looked around to find that it was Link O’Day who had cried out. “You can’t understand because Jerry is not a traitor!”

“What?” exclaimed Bob, amazed.

“What?” echoed Mr. Whitney, who had decided as he listened to Bob’s story that the evidence against Jerry was sufficient to prove his guilt.

“No,” laughed the man. “I’m quite serious. Even in spite of all appearances the boy is quite innocent of the charge. Am I right, Captain Wendell?”

“You are!” returned the soldier. “Besides, I think he is very much to be commended.”

“Please, please explain,” Bob implored. “I want to believe in him.”

“Yes,” Whitney said quickly, “the sooner any stain is removed from a member of the Service the better. We are not used to traitors!”

“Well, then, it’s just this. Jerry was the first one of all of you to smell trouble brewing. He had been coming up to the ranch and had heard the rather good-natured grumbling that passed between all of us about the damage the dam would do to our particular kind of business. Then when Harper and Wesley—the men Hazard has told you about—began to talk seriously to him he decided that it would be best if he did some ‘secret service’ work by seeming to fall in with their plans—”

Here Bob caused a sudden halt in the proceedings. Rushing over to Jerry he held out his hand.

“Jerry, Jerry, old scout! I’m sorry as I can be. Forgive me for not having faith in you. I wanted to all the time!”

The other boy’s response was quick and generous.

“I understood, Bob, how you felt. That is, all but once or twice when—Oh, but what’s the use? Of course I forgive you!” When they had shaken hands warmly the conference had a chance to proceed. O’Day took up the narrative where he had left off.

“Jerry got into the confidence of the cowmen principally because they needed him as a go-between and it was not until after he had all his plans laid that I got into the game.”

“Link got onto me all right,” put in Jerry. “He started jawing me one day about playing poker and before he got through I’d told him all about it. I hate playing cards and the only reason I did it at all was to make Wesley and Harper believe that they had me thrown and tied. I’m glad you did get on, though, Link, because I was getting tired of playing the big game alone.”

“After that,” continued O’Day, “we held councils of war and decided that it would be best if we could nip the big plot in the bud without letting you fellows at the dam get wise.”

“What was the scheme the cattlemen had decided upon?” Whitney wanted to know.

“To blow up as much of the works as possible. Have a raid by border Mexicans take place simultaneously with a revolt by the laborers.”

“And are all the ranchers in on this?”

“By no means. Comparatively few. Thad Holman never knew a thing about it. They were mostly dissatisfied cowboys and unsuccessful squatters who saw profit for themselves in a war with Mexico.”

“I’m mighty glad of that,” said Whitney. “But go on; I won’t interrupt any more.”

“Well, the signal for the trouble to start was to be the blowing up of the cofferdam but it was slated to take place to-morrow night instead of to-night. The bandits have been on this side of the border for several days, so the speeding up of the plan did not interfere with them. What it did interfere with, however, was the plans Jerry and I had laid to stop the plot’s being carried out. You, Hazard,” O’Day smiled and pointed him out, “you were responsible for our troubles.”

“How?” Bob wanted to know.

“By coming up to the ranch and exciting the cowboys’ suspicions. They made Jerry come with them to overtake you as you went home. If you had not flared up, probably they would have let you go on home, but as it was you gave them no choice but to hold you up. Then when you got away they feared you knew more than was healthy. As they fled they got in touch with the bandit chief and started the ball rolling a day earlier than had been planned. Jerry got wind of it from Miguel only late to-day. There was just a chance that he could ride to Fort Cummings in time to get Captain Wendell and his troop here. First, however, he sent that telegram to you, Mr. Whitney.”

“Thanks, Jerry,” Whitney said seriously. Bob happened to look around and missed Feather-in-the-Wind from the group.

“Captain Wendell already had promised to be on hand for to-morrow night. It was by his help that we expected to hold the lid on. But to get back to Jerry: He had desperate little time to get to the Fort and bring the soldiers back. It was a wonderful ride, but he made it. I only joined the troop on the trail. Jerry had ridden ahead to stop Miguel from blowing up the cofferdam.”

“And I was too late,” put in the boy. “Bob had beaten me to it. I was sure some glad when I found the old wall was safe. It was the thing I feared most as I rode for the soldiers—that Miguel would give the signal before I could get back. I sort of had a hunch that it was Bob who had had a hand in it and I went to his room to tell him I was on his side. But you wouldn’t let me, Bob,” he finished.

“I know, Jerry, and I’m sorry.”

“Anyway,” Jerry went on, “when you chased me out I beat it for the spot I’d agreed to meet Captain Wendell and guide him to the Mexicans’ hiding place. That is, after I’d attended to something—”

“And that was—?” suggested Mr. Whitney.

“Oh, I went to the Mexican bunkhouses and told Miguel’s bunch that he’d sent me to tell ’em to meet him somewheres up the river. I sent ’em just as far away as I could from the place trouble was likely to happen without letting ’em get suspicious. They slipped out one at a time before you doubled the guards, Mr. Taylor,” he finished with a smile.

“Then that was what you meant when you told us that the laborers wouldn’t be any bother, was it?” asked Bob.

“Yes. All the men that were left were harmless. But as soon as I had given the word, I was off to meet the captain. I thought he and his bunch would never show up.”

“But when we did come it was our turn to be disappointed.” Here the cavalry officer took up the story. “Bob Hazard and his friends had got ahead of us too.”

“I’m sorry,” began the boy.

“Don’t be for a minute,” said Captain Wendell. “It was an excellent piece of strategy and quite successful. I’ll admit, though, that it was startling to hear the old Apache war whoop come so suddenly from the darkness. Besides that, it forced us to chase our quarry rather than slip up and surround it. But you couldn’t know that, of course, and as we captured most of the band no harm was done.”

“But what happened to the rest? Did they get away?”

“Yes, for the most part, as their horses were fresher. While we were rounding up the stragglers, the others were so far ahead I didn’t think it worth while pursuing them further. But we’ve got enough to make an example of. It’s been a good night’s work.”

“It certainly has,” said Mr. Whitney, “and it seems to me that my thanks are due to everybody. I was away endeavoring to arrange for a detachment of troops to come here and protect the project from just what was about to happen. The trouble at Columbus mixed things up so that they could not give me any definite promise and I thought it best to stick around until I knew what could be expected. I believed that nothing could happen up here so quickly—it was my mistake. But you chaps have made it all right for me. I want to thank you all!”

The group was a little uncomfortable under the direct praise and welcomed the diversion made by Feather-in-the-Wind’s rejoining them, bringing with him a newcomer.

It was Miguel Philipe, who during the excitement had been left lying bound in the bushes where the Indian had dumped him. When he was brought under the light of the porch, he was a sorry looking specimen. He had been unable to defend himself from the insects and his face was puffed and mottled and his eyes almost closed.

“The poor beggar has sure been punished,” said the soldier.

“You bet,” Jerry said quickly. “Don’t you think he’s had enough, Boss Whitney?”

“Perhaps, but—”

“And I sort of led him on,” interrupted the boy. “I’d like it a heap if you’d let him go.”

Mr. Whitney was silent a minute as he thought over Jerry’s plea for the captive.

“If I could be sure he wouldn’t do any more harm—”

“He no more make trouble,” put in the Indian gravely. “He scared too much. I take him border. He no come back.”

“I think he is right,” agreed Captain Wendell. “Once he’s in Mexico it will be a long time before he ever has nerve enough to slip back.”

“All right then, Jerry,” was Mr. Whitney’s decision. “I’ll leave it to you and Feather-in-the-Wind to do with him as you like.”

CHAPTER XX
THE FUTURE

A few days later a detachment of infantry arrived to relieve Captain Wendell and his men. The new troop was to stay permanently, as the troubles at the border were continuing and Mr. Whitney had found it impracticable to get laborers of any other nationality than Mexicans.

The bunch of Mexicans Jerry had sent off on the wild goose chase the night of the raid came straggling into camp during the early hours of the morning, to find that a tight ring of guards had been made around their section of the lower camp. When they attempted to get through they were put under arrest and during the day were loaded on a train and shipped to the border to be sent back into their native country. The captured bandits were delivered to General Pershing’s headquarters to await trial.

Bob and Jerry were happy. The companionship which they had formed during the days of the Labyrinth and which had been interrupted, now was cemented still further. Ted Hoyt had been allowed by his father to come back to the dam and the trio had great times together.

On Sundays Bob’s and Jerry’s usual plan was to go up to Thaddeus Holman’s ranch and spend the day with Link O’Day, who had taken a great fancy to Bob. Ted, of course, went home. But Bob realized that the reason O’Day was good to him was that he was Jerry’s friend. There was something more than comradeship between Jerry and the tall cattleman; it was more the relation of a younger and elder brother.

This had a good effect on Jerry. It was as if he had found what he had told Bob in the Labyrinth he most wanted—someone to belong to, a family. He was becoming less serious, less self-contained.

Link O’Day talked a lot about the Northwest and especially of the lumbering. He seemed to have a great love of forests. Jerry grew more and more interested.

“I’d like that,” he said one day as the trio were loafing away the afternoon in the shade of Holman’s bunkhouse, “and I think I’ll drift up that way and tackle it.”

“And leave the Service?” put in Bob. “I don’t see how you could. It’s the finest—”

“We know how you feel!” Link O’Day laughed. “According to you, Rockefeller hasn’t anything on the youngest cub of an engineer so long as the cub is one of the Reclamation Service’s outfit. Therefore your opinion isn’t worth anything in this case.”

“Seriously, Bob,” went on Jerry, “the Service is good stuff, but I haven’t the same sort of feeling about it that you have. Boss Whitney is great to work for and—and all that, but I’m not so sure that there isn’t something else to do that I would like a heap better. This forestry business, for instance. It listens good to me. Big trees, the song of the band saws, all the rest of it Link has been telling us about. And if Link would only go along—”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if I did,” said Link with a smile. “I’m getting a little tired of cows now. If you really want to go, Jerry, I’ll start along with you any time.”

“You will?” The boy was overjoyed. “That’s great! You’d better begin getting your stuff together ’cause I’m going to call for you just as soon as Boss Whitney will let me go.”

Bob made one last effort.

“But, Jerry, how about the Labyrinth? We found it—don’t you want to have a hand in what happens next?”

For a moment Jerry seemed to hesitate. Then he answered:

“That’s the only thing I’ll really be sorry for—and leaving you, old man. But after all, it was you who was responsible for the trip. I just went because you dared me into it. No, Bob, if Link will go North with me, I’ll have to pass up the Labyrinth.”

“All right,” said Bob laughing. “I reckon you’re lost. I’m beat, but I sure hope you will find that you picked the right thing for yourself.”

The next day, when Jerry came to Mr. Whitney to tell him of his decision, Bob was there. The engineer listened to the boy and when he had finished told him that he could leave when it was most convenient.

“I’ve known for a long time, Jerry, that you were not a born engineer like Bob Hazard here, but you’ve been a good rodman and I hate to lose you. Besides, I won’t soon forget what you did for us in the Mexican mix-up. But everyone must do what he thinks is best. Good luck to you!”

After Jerry left, the work went on smoothly and the main dam grew higher and higher each day. Bob became proficient in the things Mr. Whitney gave him to do and by the time summer came near its close he felt that he had a good foundation of practical engineering on which to build the theoretical knowledge he would get at college.

The Mexican situation was unchanged. The United States had not gone into Mexico and the cattlemen still grumbled but did no more than that. The presence of the soldiers was enough to keep the laborers in check.

For several weeks before the date Bob had set as the time he must return to the East, he had received no letters from his father. Just as he was about to be a little worried, something occurred which settled all his fears.

Coming back from the job one night, he saw a strange yet familiar figure sitting on the porch of the Quarter-house. When he got near enough to see he started on the run towards the building.

“Dad! Dad! But I’m glad to see you!” he cried.

Unashamed, he put his arms around the man when he dashed up on the veranda and asked a multitude of questions.

Mr. Hazard had grown lonely for his son and had come out to see him on the job and to have the long ride homeward with him across the continent.

“You see, son, I’ll lose you again right after we get home.”

“Why?” Bob wanted to know.

“Because Rensselaer Polytech opens a few days after we get back.”

“You’ve—you’ve fixed it for me to go there?” said Bob, realizing that by letting him go to that particular institution, where only engineering was taught, his father had given up all hope of his ever being a lawyer. “That’s bully of you, Dad!”

“You said you wanted to go there,” was the simple answer.

That night Mr. Hazard and Bob had dinner with Mr. Whitney. The Chief told the boy’s father all the things Bob had accomplished.

“He’s going to make a fine engineer, Mr. Hazard. You’ll be proud of him.”

“I’m sure of that. I want to tell you now how proud I am of the Reclamation Service and the things it’s doing. I’ve looked the Service up and I’ve been to one or two projects that have been finished.”

“You have done that?” Bob said excitedly.

“Yes,” was the smiling answer, “and since I have seen for myself, I’d rather Bob became an engineer on this Service than anything else—excluding, of course, a lawyer!”

During the day or two that remained before Bob’s departure, Mr. Hazard was shown the dam and all the things that made up its building. Bob was busy saying good-bye to all the friends he had made.

Feather-in-the-Wind, while preserving his customary dignity, was genuinely sorry to see him go.

“You will come back,” he said. “You have smelt desert. You have helped build. You come back. I know. Feather-in-the-Wind will wait. Will be glad when you come. Adios!”

When at last Bob was seated in the automobile ready to start for Engle and the train that would carry him back to the East and college, a great feeling of sadness swept over him. He took a last look at the dam and the myriad activities that clustered around it, and he was sorry that he had to go.

“Come on back next summer,” cried Ted Hoyt, who had been given a few minutes from his work to bid his friend good-bye. “And perhaps I’ll go East with you afterwards. My father says he might let me if I’m still so loco about it!”

“That’s great! I sure hope he does. I’ll be back all right—that is, if you’ll have a place for me,” Bob finished, speaking to Mr. Whitney who had come up to the group.

“Don’t fret yourself about that, Bob. I’ll have a job for you all right and one you’ll like,” said the engineer.

“What is it?” demanded the boy.

“To go as my aide on an official survey of the Labyrinth!”

“Then the folks in Washington have told you to go ahead on what Jerry and I reported?”

“They have. I just received the letter in the last mail. I won’t be able to get away from here until about the time your next vacation comes, so it will work out just right. I can expect you, can’t I?”

Bob Hazard gave a joyous assent. A moment later the machine had started and the scene of Bob’s first experience as an engineer was fading into the distance. Ahead were the four years of endeavor that would fit him to take his place with Mr. Whitney as a full-fledged engineer of the Service.

As the machine slipped over the hilltop hiding the dam from sight, Bob turned his eyes to the front. He was riding into the future, happy and content.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.

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Table of Contents

- Bob Hazard Dam Builder
- CONTENTS
- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
- CHAPTER I FATHER AND SON
- CHAPTER II U. S. R. S.
- CHAPTER III WHEN THE CHIEF WAS AWAY
- CHAPTER IV THE LABYRINTH
- CHAPTER V JERRY’S STORY
- CHAPTER VI THE END OF THE LABYRINTH
- CHAPTER VII THE PROJECT
- CHAPTER VIII BOB’S CHANCE
- CHAPTER IX THE DAM
- CHAPTER X TED HOYT
- CHAPTER XI TROUBLE
- CHAPTER XII AT THE CABLE TOWER
- CHAPTER XIII AN UNEXPECTED ALLY
- CHAPTER XIV THE UNMASKING OF JERRY
- CHAPTER XV THE CAPTURE OF BOB
- CHAPTER XVI THE ESCAPE
- CHAPTER XVII DYNAMITE!
- CHAPTER XVIII THE RAIDERS RAIDED
- CHAPTER XIX JERRY COMES BACK
- CHAPTER XX THE FUTURE
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE