They discussed plans, details, equipment necessary to attack the hogback. Hollister moved camp next day in a pelting rain and set up his tents on the soggy hillside close to the ridge. For a week the rain kept up almost steadily. The whole country was sloshing with moisture. During a visit to the main camp for a consultation with Merrick, he went down to the dam and observed that a heavy flow of water was pouring into the reservoir. With an ordinary winter’s snowfall in the mountains, Sweetwater would be full to the brim long before the spring freshets had ended. Day by day the drills bored deeper into the hogback and the tunnel grew longer. By means of a chance rider of the hills, word reached Prowers of it. He and Don Black, who was out on bond signed by Jake, rode over to see what this new development meant. “What do you fellows think you’re doing?” asked the cattleman in his high, crackling voice. “Mining,” answered Hollister. “What for? What’s the idea?” “We’re driving a tunnel.” “I got eyes, young fellow. What for?” “Mr. Merrick didn’t tell me what he wanted it for. He told me to get busy. Mine not to reason why, Mr. Prowers.” “Smart, ain’t you, by jiminy by jinks?” A foreman came up and propounded a difficulty to Hollister. That young man walked briskly away to look the matter over and did not return. The two riders hung around for a time, then disappeared over the brow of a hill. “The old man’s got something to think about,” the foreman said to Hollister, chuckling. “Yes, and his thinking will bring him straight to one conclusion; that we’re not going to run through Black’s homestead claim. When he figures out where we _are_ going, he’ll start something.” “I don’t quite see what he can do.” “Nor I, but we didn’t foresee what he would do last time. He killed poor Coyle, and he didn’t leave enough evidence to prove in a law court that he did it.” “He’d ought to be behind the bars right now--him an’ that Black too,” the foreman said bitterly. “But they’re not--and they won’t be. That’s his reputation, to do all sorts of deviltry and get away with it. That’s why men won’t cross him, why they’re so afraid of him. He’s got no scruples and he’s as cunning as the devil.” “I’ve heard he’s a tough nut, too. He don’t look it, with them skim-milk eyes of his and that little squeaky voice.” “No. Size him up beside Merrick, say, and he doesn’t look effective,” admitted Hollister. “But he’s one of these quiet sure killers, according to the stories they tell. Not a fighting man, unless he’s got his back to the wall. You’ve heard of dry-gulching. It means shooting an enemy from ambush when he doesn’t know you’re within fifty miles. That’s Prowers’s style. He gives me a creepy feeling.”