It was perfectly simple; perfectly amazing also. The boxes had been opened, probably in order to carry the contents more easily up the bluff; the most ambitious man would scarcely want to make that climb with a fifty-pound box of dynamite on his shoulder. But both boxes were full, or so nearly full that the few missing sticks did not matter. The coffee can contained six boxes of caps, and in the canvas bundle were eight full coils of fuse. “Golly grandma, if this ain’t movie luck!” Gary jubilated to the cat, which had tagged him into the cave. “Or it would be if the dynamite were fresh. From the weird tales I’ve heard about men who got fresh with stale dynamite and landed in fragments before a horrified audience, Handsome Gary’s liable to lose his profile if he doesn’t watch his step. But it’s giant powder, and if it will shoot at all, I’ve simply got to use it. It’s just about as necessary a prop in this scene as a rope is in a lynching bee. Well, now we’ll go ketchum that Voice.” By dint of hard climbing he made his way higher, to where the ledge seemed broken in splintered clefts above the slide. As he went, the Voice bellowed at him with a rising tone which distance might easily modify to a human cry. Even so close, he was some time in discovering just how the sound was made. But at last, after much listening and investigating the splintered slits, he caught the rush of wind up through a series of small, chimneylike openings. Here, then, was the Voice that had given Johnnywater Cañon so weird a reputation. As to the appearance of the Voice just after Steve Carson’s disappearance, Gary considered that an exaggeration, unconscious, perhaps, but nevertheless born of superstitious fear. Steve Carson might have told a different story could he have been questioned about the sound. “I’d say that Injun was about due to check out, anyway,” he told Faith, who was nosing a crack that probably held a rat or two. “Now I see how it’s done, the Voice isn’t half so mysterious or spookish as all that giant powder right on hand where I need it. Don’t even have to pack it up the bluff. And that’s Providence, I’ll tell the cock-eyed world! When I think how I chased that supernatural Voice all over the bluff and then sat and shivered in the cabin because I couldn’t find it--Faith, I should think you might have told me! You can’t kid _me_ into believing you weren’t wise all the while. You know a heap more than you let on. You can’t string _me_.”