He returned to the closed mouth of the crosscut and attempted to pry away the bowlder, using the longer of the two drills thrust into the opening as a lever. He could as easily have tilted the rim rock itself. Sunlight streamed in through a crack possibly eighteen inches long and the width of his hand, but except for the ventilation it gave, the opening merely served to emphasize the hopelessness of his prison. He looked at his watch mechanically, and saw that it was just fifteen minutes past twelve. He had timed his work, like all good miners, so that he could “shoot” at noon and let the smoke clear away from the workings while he rested and ate his lunch. He did not feel like eating now. He did not feel like much of anything. His brain refused to react immediately to the full horror of his position. That he, Gary Marshall, should actually be entombed alive in Patricia’s gold mine--“The Pat Connolly” mine--was a thing too incredible for his mind to grasp. He simply could not take the thing seriously. The unreasoning belief that Mills would presently shout, “Cut!” and Gary would walk out into the sunlight, persisted for a time. The dramatic element loomed high above the grim reality of it. The thing was too ghastly to be true. To believe in the horrible truth of it would drive a man crazy, he told himself impatiently. He put his face to the widest part of the opening between the bowlder and the wall, and shouted again and again frenziedly. “_Monty! Oh-h, Monty!_” he called. The pity of it was that Monty Girard was at that moment jogging into the mouth of Johnnywater Cañon, swinging his feet boyishly in the stirrups and humming a little song as he rode, his thoughts with Gary, wondering how he was “making it” these days. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX “GARY MARSHALL MYSTERIOUSLY MISSING” By riding as late as he dared that night, and letting the horses rest until daylight the next morning, and then pushing them forward at top desert speed--which was a steady trail trot--Monty reached the first ranch house a little after noon the next day. In all that time he had not seen a human being, though he had hoped to be overtaken or to meet some car on the road. Nerve-racking delay met him at the ranch. The woman and two small children were there, but the man (Ben Thompson was his name) had left that morning for Las Vegas in the car. Monty was too late by about four hours. He ate dinner there, fed his horses hay and grain, watered them the last minute and started out again, still hoping that some car would be traveling that way. But luck was against him and he was forced to camp that night thirty miles out from Las Vegas.