Also In This Series

By Kenneth Robeson

#1: JUSTICE, INC.

#2: THE YELLOW HOARD

#3: THE SKY WALKER

#4: THE DEVIL’S HORNS

#5: THE FROSTED DEATH

#6: THE BLOOD RING

#7: STOCKHOLDERS IN DEATH

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

FIRST PRINTING: JANUARY, 1973

COPYRIGHT © 1940 BY STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS, INC.

COPYRIGHT RENEWED 1969 BY THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS, INC.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

THIS WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION IS PUBLISHED BY

ARRANGEMENT WITH THE CONDÉ NEST PUBLICATIONS. INC.

COVER ILLUSTRATION BY PETER CARAS

WARNER PAPERBACK LIBRARY IS A DIVISION OF WARNER BOOKS,

75 ROCKERFELLER PLAZA, N.Y. 10019.

A Warner Communications Company

ISBN: 0-446-74-008-X

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

THE GLASS MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I: Lightning Bolt

CHAPTER II: Whom the God Hates

CHAPTER III: Out of the Sky

CHAPTER IV: Lightning Defied

CHAPTER V: Out of the Tomb

CHAPTER VI: Walking Tree

CHAPTER VII: Landslide

CHAPTER VIII: Face of the Rain God

CHAPTER IX: Dead Man’s Ranch

CHAPTER X: Falling Cliff

CHAPTER XI: Heart of the Mountain

CHAPTER XII: The Labyrinth

CHAPTER XIII: Frozen Cure

CHAPTER XIV: The New Crew

CHAPTER XV: The Old Indian

CHAPTER XVI: Two Nellie Grays

CHAPTER XVII: Fifteen Million Dollars

CHAPTER XVIII: Death of a God

THE

GLASS MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I

Lightning Bolt

Old Joe Bass was commonly called Fish-eyes. That was partly because of his name, and partly because he had that kind of eyes. They stuck out a little, were far apart in his rather narrow face, didn’t ever seem to blink, and had a glazed look.

Joe Bass dressed in overalls that were ninety percent patches faded to all different shades of blue, had skin like leather from years of exposure to sun and wind, and left an almost unbroken trail of tobacco juice behind him wherever he went. His friends said he could live on tobacco, and sometimes it seemed that he must live on nothing else. For sometimes he was completely broke, instead of having two or three dollars in his pocket with which to buy food.

He was that way, now: completely broke. Four years ago he had nearly a hundred thousand dollars, but that was gone now, so he was out hunting more. He was going to get it out of the ground.

Old Joe Bass was one of the few genuine old-time prospectors left. He could go out with a pack on his back, not even with a burro, and usually come up with something that would keep him in chawin’ tobacco for a few more years.

He was prospecting for copper now.

Many years ago, he had suddenly recalled, he had been in this part of Idaho looking for gold and had found an old Indian arrow head crudely hammered out of virgin copper. The copper might have come from near here, or it might have been brought up, several hundred years ago, from as far as New Mexico. But it was worth looking around here to see if it was local.

Joe Bass was inclined to think it was local. That was because of the Indian history of the place.

Straight ahead of him, towering up with remarkable regularity in the clear, dry afternoon air, was the forbidding dark pile called Mt. Rainod.

Rainod was a contraction of the two words, Rain God.

The mountain was of smooth black basalt, which is just about as flinty and obdurate as glass. Black glass. And legend had it that in this black glass mountain the old Rain God of the Pawnees kept his residence.

He was a fierce old guy. Every now and then some individual incurred his displeasure. Then something extremely unpleasant happened to the individual. He died at the wrong end of a lightning bolt—if a lightning bolt can be said to have any other than a wrong end.

The Rain God would stroll from his glass mountain wrapped majestically in a little cloud. The cloud would envelop the person the god didn’t like, roll on after a while, and there that person would lay, electrocuted.

All of which didn’t bother Joe Bass much. He was as superstitious as anyone else; but he figured that the Rain God had left these parts long ago, when his children, the Pawnees, had vanished.

Joe squinted the sun out of his eyes and headed toward a dead tree.

It was a very big dead tree, or rather, the twenty-foot stump of one with a few dead branches sticking out like skeleton arms. It was this dead tree that he had fixed in his mind as a landmark years ago, when he found the crude, copper-flake arrowhead.

As Joe plodded over the high rocky tableland, he decided he’d have to be very careful if he did make a strike. There was a confounded railroad-construction camp only a mile off. If any of the men caught wind of a copper strike they’d try to jump his claim. Doggone it, why would anyone want to put a railroad through here, anyhow?

Joe shifted the heavy pack on his back and kept trudging for the dead tree, with the slow, plodding tread that seemed so snail-like and yet which had carried him over most of the West. Then he slowed and stared—hard.

The big dead stump was right next to the high flank of the glass mountain. Just behind it was a strange rock outcropping. The outcropping looked a little like Donald Duck on a gigantic scale.

Between this outcropping and the dead tree it seemed to Joe that a faint cloud was forming. A very small cloud, of very thin mist.

He blinked, decided that his old eyes weren’t what they used to be, and went on.

“Thought for a minute the old Rain God might be a-walkin’,” he chuckled to himself. “All wrapped in his cloud and everythin’.”

He plodded, head down, eyes on the rock-strewn ground. He went about fifty yards before he looked up again. And then he stopped dead. Because then he knew he was seeing it. It wasn’t any mirage or hallucination or flaw in his sight.

Behind the dead tree, between it and the Donald Duck outcropping, there was a small cloud! Rather like a pillar of mist twenty feet high and fifteen feet through. The mist was so thick that it seemed like a solid thing. And it was faintly greenish in the bright, glaring sunlight.

“Phoo!” said Joe Bass, though a little shakily. “It’s a new steam geyser, or somethin’.”

He stayed put for several minutes, looking at the greenish mist pillar and thinking. He wanted to get away from there. Every instinct developed over a lifetime in the open told him there was something badly wrong.

But, hang it, his mark was that old tree. Half a mile due south from it was where he’d found the strange arrowhead; and he told himself at the time that the flank of the glass mountain near the great stump was the place to look around.

He decided that no green pillar of mist was going to drive him away. Rain God?

“Phoo!” he said again, and went forward.

The green pillar seemed to be advancing to meet him. But that, of course, was surely imagination. He was sure it was imagination—till the pillar got between him and the dead tree. Then he knew it wasn’t imagination. It had moved, and toward him!

Joe Bass stood still then. But the green pillar did not It kept on coming toward him. So he turned to run.

At first he kept his pack. He hated to lose his old tools, with no money to buy more. But you can’t run with eighty pounds on your shoulders; so after a few steps he slid out of the pack straps and dropped his burden.

That, it turned out, was his major mistake.

The old straps seemed to coil around his left ankle like malevolent snakes. They tripped him. He fell headlong and lay there dazed for a minute!

When he got his wits enough to scramble to his knees, it was too late. The green mist was on him!

And the nauseating-looking mist rolled over him silently, smoothly, like a wave over an exhausted swimmer.

There was no sound from Joe Bass, who hadn’t believed in the Rain God. No sound at all!

The pillar went back again in a leisurely way. As its thinning edges retreated, like a witch’s skirts, Joe could be seen.

He lay on the rock-flawed ground like a man asleep. Very still.

The greenish pillar retreated to the dead tree. It got between the tree and the rock outcropping that was shaped like a duck. Then it slowly faded into nothingness.

But Joe lay on, still and stark. He would never prospect any more. There was a round black spot on his shoulder blade where a bolt of lightning had hit. There was a similar area on the sole of each foot where the bolt had grounded itself after coursing its deadly way through his old body.

Joe Bass had come too close to the black glass mountain called Rainod; so a pillar of cloud had enveloped him, and a small and personal bolt of lightning had killed him.

He lay there with the dusk finally gathering, faced toward the big old stump as though even in death he meant to keep on going toward it.

Night came, and morning. Joe Bass hadn’t moved. He was facing the same way. But somehow he was no longer staring at the dead tree with his dead, glazed eyes.

The tree was a hundred and fifty yards to the right of the Donald Duck outcropping.

It seemed to have walked there in the night.

From the construction camp, a mile away, two young surveyors set out after a breakfast of thick black coffee and beans and fried potatoes. They had a transit with them. They started for the thing Joe Bass had headed for yesterday: the big dead tree. Also, secondarily, the curious outcropping of black basalt.

The man with the transit was Tommy Ainslee. The other youngster, who was his helper, was Fred Nissen. This short excursion in the clear morning air was Ainslee’s idea. He was going to do a bit of checking on his own.

“The new roadbed hits the proposed tunnel site after a long, flat curve, at a spot about eighty yards to the left of the dead tree and sixty from the outcropping,” Ainslee said. “But it looks to me as if the site where the men have cleared away to start drilling the tunnel, if connected with the site of the camp on a parabola, makes a whole lot sharper curve than the chief engineer intended!”

Nissen laughed.

“Trusting your own eyesight against a transit and rod-work?” he taunted.

“At least we can go over it again,” said Ainslee. “Mistakes have been made before now in surveying.”

“But not a mistake of a couple of hundred yards,” argued Nissen.

Ainslee shrugged, located the peg two-thirds of the way from construction camp to proposed tunnel site, and adjusted his transit till the point of the plumb bob hung directly over it. Then he swung his transit to the proper direction.

Nissen, meanwhile, ambled on ahead to mark the exact spot on the flank of the glass mountain which would be the center of the tunnel if that was drilled to conform to the curve planned for the new roadbed.

Ainslee looked through the transit tube and then scowled in bewilderment.

The present site was charted as being eighty yards and a fraction to the left of the dead tree. But now, as he stared through the transit, the crossed lines centered right on the tree itself.

He had conceived the idea that the tunnel site was off about two hundred yards to the left of where it should be, landmarks or no landmarks. Now he found it was eighty yards to the right of where it should be!

He waited till Nissen should reach the flank of the mountain, swearing softly to himself. He saw the greenish pillar of mist forming off near the Donald Duck outcropping and remarked on it as a curious thing, but that was all. He didn’t even pay much attention when the funny little cloud seemed to move toward the dead tree from one side at about the same pace employed by Nissen from the other. He was too busy wondering how such a colossal mistake could have come out of the engineering department.

Nissen got near the tree, a little figure in the distance. The pillar of mist was near the tree, too. Ainslee looked through the transit tube to wave directions to his assistant.

He looked harder. For some reason he couldn’t see Nissen. There was the dead tree and the greenish pillar of mist. But no Nissen.

The pillar was standing still now. And it looked oddly solid. So solid that it cloaked Nissen from view. Feeling uneasy and puzzled, Ainslee waited for the mist to go away.

It did, and he saw Nissen.

Nissen lay on the ground at the foot of the big dead stump. One of the tree’s skeleton arms was out directly over his head as if in benediction.

“Nissen!” shouted Ainslee, with a great fear stirring in him.

But Nissen didn’t move.

Ainslee started running. He went stumbling at top speed over the shale-strewn ground, shouting as he went. And he saw the greenish pillar of mist that had been fading out and retreating back toward the rock outcropping, get more solid again and come back once more toward the tree.

It was a race now. Ainslee knew it was a race. Something was hellishly wrong with that pillar of mist. He knew it now. He must get to Nissen’s prone body before it enveloped him again.

He ran with the speed of a man not long out of college and track-trained. The greenish pillar of vapor moved only about as fast as a man could dogtrot. But the pillar was much closer at the start.

Man and pillar got to the body at about the same time. No chance now to shoulder Nissen and get him away from whatever that mist pillar happened to represent in the way of bizarre peril.

Instinctively, Ainslee crouched and threw up his fists in self-defense. But you can’t defend yourself against vapor.

The greenish pillar drifted back once more toward the outcropping. This time it left two prone bodies behind it, one sprawled over the other.

Two dead men!

Ainslee and Nissen lay, electrocuted, as if struck down by two small but tremendously powerful bolts of lightning lurking in the heart of the little cloud as bigger lightning lurks in the hearts of summer thunderheads.

CHAPTER II

Whom the God Hates

It was the Chicago & Portland Railroad that was running the new roadbed west through Idaho. The biggest single piece of construction on the right of way was the proposed tunnel through the very heart of Mt. Rainod.

Bids had been submitted on the tunnel, and the job had been won by the Central Construction Co., offices in Chicago, at a price of $20,180,000.

Now, in the Central Construction offices, the three partners of the company were closeted in the small conference room. They were talking things over, and talking very pessimistically.

“It’s certainly rotten luck, at the very start of a job in which we’ll need all the luck we can get,” said Jim Crast, oldest of the three. He was a stocky, gray-haired man, still strong from his early years as a driller. He had a jaw like the foot of a granite cliff and narrowed, indomitable gray eyes.

Tom Ryan nodded gloomy agreement. Ryan was an ex-foreman, admitted into the partnership through sheer display of ability. He was over six feet, thin but wiry, and his thin face bore the sallow remnants of a tan that he would never quite lose.

“But what kind of a freak local storm could strike those two boys by lightning?” marveled Arthur Fyler, third partner. Fyler was an indoors man, white of skin and soft of hand. He was the legal and money end of the Central Construction Co.

“Apparently it wasn’t a local storm,” said Jim Crast, chewing the stub of his dead cigar. “It was something odder than any freak storm.”

“Lightning—storms,” shrugged Ryan. “It has to be that way.”

“But Harry Todd, chief engineer, insists that the sky was cloudless all that morning. And there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, apparently, the afternoon before, when that old prospector died.”

“So lightning struck out of a cloudless sky,” snapped Fyler. The nerves of all the men were raw. Ryan started to snap back an angry retort, but Jim Crast held up his hand.

“No sense in getting all disorganized over this. We are here to talk over what can be done, not quarrel because our nerves are shot.”

“What the devil can be done?” barked Ryan. “You know how a couple of hoodoo deaths can upset a gang of workmen. They’re all superstitious, anyway. And here we have three deaths, in country where there’s an old legend about a Rain God that walks around in a cloak of mist and kills with a lightning bolt! That tunnel job has started just about as badly as it is possible for a job to start.”

“We’ve got to pull it off, though,” said Ryan. “The future of the company depends on it—”

The phone on the conference table rang. Crast picked it up.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes! Send him in at once!”

He replaced the phone on its cradle, and there was a look of intense relief in his eyes. It was as if he had suddenly had a shot of stimulant.

“Why,” demanded Ryan angrily, “do you let anybody in when we’re in a conference like this? This is important.”

“So is our visitor,” said Crast.

“Who is he?”

“Dick Benson,” said Crast.

“Benson?” said Ryan.

“Benson!” exclaimed Fyler.

They looked as if they had had a shot of something soothing and reassuring, too.

There were several reasons for that.

Richard Henry Benson was not primarily an engineer; but as a youth he had done several jobs for the French Railway in North Africa that were more complicated than any jobs the Central Construction Co. would ever do. So he might give highly valuable advice on how to tunnel through a mountain that was practically made up of one solid piece of black glass.

It wasn’t so much for his engineering ability, however, that the three faced the door with pleased smiles. Benson had many other abilities.

Incalculably wealthy, he had devoted his life to investigating the bizarre and deadly, and to fighting crime. There didn’t seem to be anything criminal here, but there was certainly something very bizarre—and very deadly. It would be advantageous to talk it over with him.

“When did you get in touch with Benson?” asked Ryan.

“Late last night,” said Crast. “He’s an old friend of mine. When I phoned him in New York and told him of the strange deaths in Idaho and begged him to advise us, he promised to take a plane at once. So here he is.”

“We’ll retain him no matter what fee he asks,” said Fyler.

Crast smiled.

“Any fee we could afford to pay him would be funny. Benson could buy us and throw us away and not know he had spent any money. He doesn’t work for cash—”

The door of the conference room opened and the man they had been talking about stepped in.

Richard Henry Benson was a young man; but his hair was snow-white. Also, his face was dead. Literally dead. The facial muscles were so completely paralyzed that never again would any emotion be expressed on it.

From the awesome, white, dead face peered eyes that were so pale they were almost totally without color. They looked like stainless-steel chips in his unchanging countenance.

Looking at Benson, you could understand why the underworld whispered fearfully about him and called him—The Avenger.

Benson shook hands with Crast and was introduced to Fyler and Ryan, to whom he was only a name.

After the greeting and some explanations, Crast said:

“So there you have it. Three men have been electrocuted near the construction camp at about the proposed site of the new Mt. Rainod tunnel.”

The Avenger’s pale deadly eyes studied Crast’s face.

“Electrocuted?”

“Yes, literally. The report we got was that the three were struck by lightning. Yet the same report said that there was no storm at the time, not even any clouds in the sky.”

The Avenger’s eyes remained fixed like pale diamond drills.

“It puts us in a jam,” admitted Crast. “We have staked everything on the Mt. Rainod tunnel. It’s a big job. But we won’t even get started if this kind of thing happens again. There’s a silly sort of legend out there—”

“I know,” nodded Benson, face as still and white as ice. “The legend of the Pawnee Rain God.”

Later the three partners would learn that, apparently, The Avenger knew everything about everything; but just now they looked surprised.

“I know you’re busy,” said Crast, clearing his throat. “Yet I ventured to call on you for help—”

“I’m glad you did,” said Benson. “In the first place, I’m not forgetting the time you saved my life in Australia. In the second, this sounds like precisely the sort of thing that should be investigated at once. So I’ll proceed to investigate it. I have already sent some of my aides out to Idaho to begin looking around.”

“I certainly hope they find something,” said Ryan fervently. “The morale out there, I understand, is pretty lousy.”

Lousy was a mild word for the spirit reigning in the construction camp at the glass mountain. In fact, there wasn’t any morale at all, lousy or otherwise.

The men had set up camp at the flank of Mt. Rainod, and that was all they had done. The gasoline-power generators were ready. The drills were assembled. All was set to start on the tunnel.

But the men were not starting on anything—unless it was a trip home. It had been all Harry Todd, engineer in charge, could do to keep them from leaving the place.

Three dead! Struck by lightning out of a clear sky! And nobody could guess how many more might be treated the same way if that mountain continued to be disturbed!

The old Indian didn’t help matters.

He looked to be a hundred years old. And a cowhand from thirty miles south had drifted past and insisted that he was Chief Yellow Moccasins, and in reality two hundred years old. He had a face so wrinkled that it looked like soil erosion. However, he stood and walked as erect as an arrow, and he talked all too glibly.

He was on a small flat rock now, exhorting a group of the loafing workmen.

“Oh, friends,” the old Indian was saying, “heed the warning of the Pawnee Rain God. Thrice has he struck. There will be many, many more if you keep displeasing him.”

One of the men who was not quite so cowed as the rest spoke up.

“What’s displeasing your danged Rain God, anyhow? What have we ever done to him?”

“He is angry because the mountain, which is his soul and home, is to be pierced by your tunnel. It is as if you had driven a shaft to his very heart. He will not allow it. As long as you persist in drilling here, you will be stricken with his lightning bolts.”

“How’s he do it, anyway?” said another man, half skeptical and half fearful.

“The Rain God cloaks himself in mist,” said the old Indian. “Walking thus, invisible to the eyes of men, he strikes with a lightning bolt carried like a spear inside the mist. And, indeed, you all saw the marks of the lightning on the dead men’s bodies and on the soles of their feet.”

The men muttered uneasily. They had seen—all of them.

“The new railroad must go around the glass mountain. Modern civilization has struck against the ancient force of the Rain God. And modern civilization will be powerless. You must leave the mountain alone and go around it.”

The drill foreman, who had been valiantly trying to make the men go to work, shouted:

“We can’t go around. All you men know that. There’d be so many tunnels and trestles that the whole railroad would have to be given up. We have to go through Mt. Rainod. It’s the shortest point. Don’t listen to this old windbag.”

The ancient Indian drew himself up to full height. He was in ordinary overalls and checked shirt; but he looked for a moment like an old chief in full war regalia.

“Chief Yellow Moccasins will not forget that insult. Chief Yellow Moccasins wants only to warn you. For that aid he does not expect blows.”

“Fine lot of help you are!” howled the enraged foreman. “Look, you guys, you’ve got to get on the job!”

The men paid no attention to him. One stared at the old Indian fearfully.

“Say, I heard you were the Rain God himself. I heard he takes on a man’s look when he wants to be with humans—and that you’re him.”

The Indian stared at the man for a long time before replying. He only said, however:

“I am a mere mortal, though very old. The Rain God is a god.”

“The Rain God won’t do half as much to you bums as Crast and Fyler and Ryan will,” bellowed the foreman. “I’m tellin’ you, you better get on the job unless you all want to be fired right away.”

The moment he had said that he realized he had made a mistake. There was probably nothing more the men wanted right now than that very thing—to be fired. They wanted to get away from this region where men were found struck dead by lightning bolts, though no cloud had been in the sky at the time of their deaths.

There were angry murmurs and a concerted move for the temporary shacks of the camp.

The men were going to quit!

CHAPTER III

Out of the Sky

The whole tunnel project hung in the balance at that moment. If those men went back to their respective homes and told of the strange deaths at Mt. Rainod, no other men would come to take their place. The world of construction engineering is a small one. News gets around it. And no man wants to work on a hoodoo job.

However, just at that moment when the foreman was thinking that nothing could be done save wring his hands, there was a speck in the sky. The speck turned into a plane in a few moments, and everyone stared at it because there was no other place for a plane to be coming but here.

It circled three or four times, dropped deftly, bumped over the uneven tableland, and came to a stop several hundred yards from the men.

Three men got out. One was a giant, six feet nine and weighing nearly three hundred pounds, all of it solid muscle. The second was a tall, thin Scotchman with big ears and freckled red skin and huge hands and feet. He looked funny till you stared into his bitter, bleak blue eyes. Then you didn’t laugh at him. At least to his face. The third was a Negro, even taller, even thinner, than the Scot.

The three were dressed for work. They had canvas bags over their shoulders with their belongings. Every man in the camp guessed the reason for their coming.

They were three crackmen, trouble shooters, specially hired and specially transported by plane to this job where so much trouble had developed.

Well, the muttering of the men promised, no three trouble shooters were coming in here and expect to stop a scramble out of the Rain God’s territory!

The plane’s motor slammed on. The ship took a short rough run and sailed aloft. The three men from it reached the sullen-looking group.

“Hi, men,” said the big fellow. “When do we go to work?”

He was even bigger than he had looked from a distance. His chest was about the size of a rain barrel, so muscled that his vast arms would not hang straight. His name was Algernon Heathcote Smith—called, by all who wished to stay healthy, by the less provocative nickname, Smitty.

During the altercation with the foreman, the men had been represented by a loud-talking, red-haired hulk with a six-day beard on his face and the look of a chronic kicker in his eyes. He was the bully of the camp.

The red-haired man stared at Smitty with a sneer on his lips. He had fought from Nome to St. Augustine and never met a man, no matter how big, that he couldn’t down. He stared at the other two with the giant and laughed.

The Scotchman, Fergus MacMurdie, as has been said, looked unimpressive till you stared closely at his bleak blue eyes.

And the sleepy-looking Negro looked unimpressive no matter how you took him. Few realized that Josh Newton was an honor graduate from Tuskegee, and could fight like a pack of black tigers when it became necessary.

“When do we go to work?” Smitty called cheerfully again. His full-moon face was very good-natured-looking, and his china-blue eyes seemed as ingenuous as a child’s.

“We don’t go to work at all,” growled the big, red-haired man. “We’re all quittin’. So what do you think you’ll do about that?”

“Why, we’ll stop you, my friends and me,” said the giant, Smitty, still beaming good-naturedly. “That’s what I think about it. We heard there was some crazy stuff here about lightning bolts out of a clear sky; so we came down to see what the joke was all about. Because a thing like that has got to be a joke or—”

“Joke, is it?” the camp cook, a little scraggly man with a stringy mustache suddenly screamed. “I suppose it’s a joke when three guys die! I suppose it’s a joke when the Rain God himself, lookin’ like an old Indian, comes and warns us not to dig into that mountain! It may be a joke, but I’m gettin’ out of here right now!”

He began legging it down the single track that had been laid to the mountain’s flank. Every move he made indicated that he was going to keep on legging it till he was so far away he’d never hear of Mt. Rainod again.

“Come on, guys,” roared the big red-headed malcontent. “We’ll pack and git, too. We’ll take over the work train—”

Smitty was suddenly in front of him, moving faster than anyone would have thought possible after a glance at his ponderous bulk.

“We’re all staying,” said Smitty.

The big red-haired man stared once more at Smitty’s great size. Though he was still sure he could down Smitty, he yelled for aid.

“Jump on the three of ’em! We’ll flatten ’em out, and then take the work train and leave.”

And he jumped for Smitty with an ear-piercing yell of battle.

The redhead had fought in a lot of countries and knew a lot of rough-and-tumble tricks. He was trying a little savate to start.

The leap was supposed to end with his nailed boots in Smitty’s chest, knocking him over on his back. Then the boots would make cat’s meat of Smitty’s moonface. But it didn’t quite work out that way.

One of the most remarkable characteristics of the giant was that in a fight he seldom bothered to fend off any attack. He was so big and so hard that he could just stand and take it. For the same reason he rarely monkeyed with boxing or feinting.

The red-haired man’s boots landed just where they were supposed to, and nothing happened. The heels banged against Smitty’s vast chest with a sound like a club on a bass drum. Smitty, one leg back-braced to take the charge, grinned a little and caught an ankle of the red-haired man. He held it just long enough for the fellow to smash down flat on his back instead of getting his feet under him as he had intended.

“Oomph!” gasped the redhead. And some of the crew snickered a little.

The man was up with murder in his eyes. He bored in again, right fist pile-driving for Smitty’s abdomen. This time Smitty would normally have avoided the fist. But he was playing to get a laugh from the crowd, show them how little this big redhead meant in the scheme of things. So, even though it hurt a little, he stood and took the smack in the stomach, too.

“You tickle!” he said, with his grin broadening. “What are you doing, playing kid’s games?”

The whole crowd chuckled at that, though at the same time they were staring with awe at a man who could take two such blows and apparently not feel them at all.

The red-haired man foamed at the mouth.

“Why, you—” he stammered. “I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

There was a shovel lying nearby. He swooped, caught it up and swung it at Smitty’s head. The thing whistled as it blurred downward. It would have sliced the giant’s skull to the chin if it had hit.

But Smitty saw to it that it didn’t hit. He swayed to one side like a flyweight boxer instead of a man weighing two hundred and eighty-five pounds. The shovel sliced past him and he caught it.

He wrenched it from the man, broke the hickory handle across his vast knee, and then started for the redhead.

Smitty just walked, slowly, a step at a time. And the redhead, eyes wide, retreated the same way, step for step. Smitty wasn’t grinning anymore since the spade episode. His face was a thing to make you feel cold all over.

Evidently the red-haired bully felt just that way. He wasn’t in a battling mood anymore. He went back, step for step. And then his steps began to be a little faster than Smitty’s and finally he turned and began to run a little, looking over his shoulder.

Eventually he stopped looking back, headed straight forward, and concentrated on the business of running. He ran fast, and was still running when he rounded the far bend in the work track and went out of sight.

Smitty turned back to the men, with his easy grin still on his face. He looked unconquerable, big enough to lick a landslide—certainly big enough to lick a Rain God.

The men were guffawing at the redhead’s flight.

“Well,” said Smitty, “when do we get to work?”

They all looked at each other. Then an old-timer spit on his hands and grabbed up a pick.

“Right now, far’s I’m concerned,” he said. “Anybody else?”

“I reckon all of us,” said another man. “But—hey! We ain’t got a cook! He’s halfway to Boise by now. We got to have a cook.”

There was consternation. The cook is as important a citizen in a construction camp as the chief engineer.

Josh Newton shambled forward.

“I’se the cook,” he announced, looking sleepy and good-natured and slow. “An’ I’se de best cook you-all evah see. Wait an’ find out.”

The men cheered and the work started.

A second plane was nearing the tunnel site. It was not a transport, as had been the one bearing Smitty and Josh and Mac to the camp. It was a tiny two-seater job with a small enclosed cabin. In it was the man for whom the three were working.

Benson had half a dozen planes. This was his smallest; a slim bullet with stubby wings capable of snarling through the heavens at five and a half miles a minute. It was set at about top speed now.

The man at the controls, white face looking like a death mask rather than a human countenance, stared down and ahead. The glass mountain had been in sight for some minutes now. It was about thirty miles off, at present. It looked like pictures of Vesuvius, except that the peak was sharp and not chewed out, as is the peak of Vesuvius.

Suddenly the pale eyes of The Avenger, like chips of stainless steel in his immobile white face, glittered like ice under a polar moon.

From behind Mt. Rainod’s sharp peak had appeared another plane. It was an ordinary open-cockpit ship, not very new—the type used to fly the mails on secondary routes. It was heading toward Benson’s little plane.

The mail plane wasn’t going at half Benson’s speed; but the combined speed of the two was such that in about a minute and a half they were going to pass.

It would be natural to expect that the passage would occur many yards apart. But for some reason the pilot of the oncoming plane didn’t veer. He was heading straight for The Avenger’s ship.

Benson held the controls straight. His face was like a thing of ice. His eyes were pale holes into which you could peer and see—death!

Murder was whistling toward him from Mt. Rainod. That was perfectly apparent in the way the pilot held his course instead of veering at once for a wide margin of safety.

The Avenger altered his own course at last. He flipped a little to the right.

The plane ahead changed course so that it was still heading right at him. And now there were only seconds left. It was going to ram him!

Benson’s hands were like steel hooks on the controls. He waited till the last minute, then zoomed almost straight up. But just as swiftly, the oncoming plane went up, too.

So Benson yanked at a third lever.

The two planes hit in midair with a combined speed of nearly nine miles a minute. There was a crash and an explosion that seemed could be heard in Denver. It was like the disappearance in a flash of light of a great explosive rocket. Then fragments rained down. None of them were bigger than a man’s fist.

As they fell they passed the man with the pale and deadly eyes and the immobile countenance.

When The Avenger had pulled that third lever, the bottom of his plane fell away, and he fell with it, seat and all. He had been close enough to where the planes collided to be whirled every which way by the resulting cross-gales of disturbed air, but he swung evenly now in the sling of his parachute.

He settled to the ground. There was a ring of workmen around who had seen the amazing crash and the even more amazing escape, just before, of the faster plane’s pilot.

They caught the parachute and helped Benson out.

Harry Todd, the wide-shouldered engineer on the job, got Benson’s shoulder. Even in such a moment he marveled at the steely feel of The Avenger’s arm.

“My heavens, man!” Todd gasped. “I thought it was all over for you. That madman in the mail plane! But he has certainly paid for it with his life.”

Benson nodded. It was an awesome thing to see his white death-mask of a face—as cold and unmoved as if he had just stepped from a streamlined train instead of out of the jaws of murder.

“We’ll search the debris.” said Todd. “We’ll see if we can identify the plane or the pilot—”

Benson nodded to Smitty. “Let the big fellow look.” The Avenger turned back to Todd. “Where can we talk?”

Todd took him to the little board shack which he had set up as an office. And in there he told what he could about the three deaths.

“You say the two surveyors and the prospector really were struck by lightning?” said Benson at the man’s conclusion. “Well, that confirms what I heard in Chicago, at the Central Construction offices. I’d been thinking that perhaps your report had been garbled in the telegraph office.”

“No, that’s what really happened,” said Todd. “The men were electrocuted just as if struck by lightning. Just as if,” he added, “the mad tales of the Rain God were true.”

“You think they’re true?” said Benson, pale eyes like diamond drills on the engineer’s face.

“No! No, of course not,” said Todd.

“Then what’s your theory about the three deaths?”

Todd was silent for a long time.

“Maybe,” he said, “there is some magnetic influence emanating from the heart of this strange glass mountain. Maybe there are spots where iron outcroppings lie close to the surface, and if a man walks along them there is some sort of static electricity generated that is strong enough to kill him. There has been mention of a sort of vapor that has surrounded the victims before they died. Possibly the moisture from that was enough to build up the static electricity to lethal strength.”

Benson nodded. He didn’t bother to mention that though Todd might be an excellent civil engineer, he was certainly ignorant where electro-physics was concerned. His theory was an utterly impossible one.

And yet three men had been killed by lightning, or some such force.

“That mail plane,” said the engineer suddenly. “It occurs to me, now that I think it over, that I haven’t seen any mail planes fly over here before.”

“Perhaps the pilot was off his course,” Benson said, colorless eyes very still and cold in his white, still face.

He went out to find Smitty.

“There wasn’t any pilot in the mail plane,” the giant reported. “There hadn’t been from the time the thing took off. It was radio-controlled. I found enough bits in the wreckage to know that.”

Benson nodded. Smitty was an electrical engineer of the first rank. His report on such a matter would be final.

“Somebody knew you were coming, Chief,” said Smitty. “Somebody sent the ship up just before you were due to arrive. Somebody kept it circling on the other side of the mountain out of sight till you came in view. Then it was sent straight at you by somebody directing it with the aid of powerful binoculars.”

“The Rain God,” said Benson, “seems to have turned very modern indeed. Gyroscopic controls, radio-run planes, binoculars.”

“And yet,” said Smitty soberly, “there certainly seems to be something to the legend. The old fable has it that the Rain God walks abroad in a pillar of mist and from it strikes with a lightning bolt anybody who has made an enemy of him. Three men died just like that.”

The Avenger’s pale, deadly eyes looked like bits of ice in an arctic dawn.

“We’ve fought humans who killed other humans,” he said. “I guess we can fight murderous gods, too.”

CHAPTER IV

Lightning Defied

Josh had dished out a breakfast such as the construction crew had seldom seen before. From drillers to water boy they were licking their chops. Then Josh took on another job at the command of Dick Benson.

The new job was that of assistant on a surveyor’s task.

Ainslee, dead now, had had an instinctive feeling that no matter what was down on the chart, the tunnel site cleared for the drillers’ work was not in the right place. Benson knew it was not.

Those pale and infallible eyes were better than most instruments. He didn’t have to guess at the inaccuracy here. He could look at the curve of the roadbed over the last mile and know that it did not hit the glass mountain for the tunnel where it should for the fast trains of the present day.

So he was going out with Josh and a transit to check, even as Ainslee and Nissen had gone out. But first he had worked out his own conception of the curve the track should take.

The present location of the surveyor’s peg, wedged in the mountain’s flank for the tunnel mouth, was a little over eighty yards to the left of a big dead tree. So Josh was ambling in the direction of the tree, looking sleepy and slow-witted and harmless.

While he was on his way to a spot not far from a queer rock outcropping that looked like a giant duck, Benson checked the original right-of-way.

And he found that, as marked, it hit the mountain side nearly three hundred yards to the right of the dead tree. So that the original survey had been wrong not only from the standpoint of a practical railroad curve, but also even in the matter of landmarks.

There was a glitter in his pale eyes as he found that out. Because he knew, as Nissen had remarked, that such a thing is practically impossible in surveying. Particularly in such a short distance.

You simply can’t make a mistake of three hundred yards. Yet one had been made here in the matter of landmarks.

Josh was near the dead tree now. Benson, having checked as much as he needed to, without Josh’s aid, was about to call on him to take up his station where the tunnel site should be—far to the right, several hundred yards from the site cleared. Then The Avenger saw that there was some kind of commotion where the workmen were.

The commotion was another visit of the ancient Indian who insisted he was Chief Yellow Moccasins, in spite of the fact that the claim, if true, would make him out to be close to two hundred years old.

The Indian had appeared out of nowhere and talked to the men again.

Smitty was busy with the electrical apparatus, seeing to it that the power generators and motors for the drills were all in order; so he hadn’t seen the Indian’s approach or heard him sound off.

Mac had, but Mac didn’t seem able to counteract the ancient’s croaking speech.

“You are going ahead with your work in spite of all warnings,” the Indian said balefully, looking impressive in spite of his patched overalls and great age. “That means that more will be killed.”

“We want none of ye and yer predictions, mon,” MacMurdie shouted in his Scotch brogue.

The old Indian faced him squarely.

“You are a murderer’s tool, paleface,” he said. “Oh, I know you. You and the Negro and the big man who came in from the sky yesterday are all tools of the murderer.”

“Hey—who’re ye callin’ mur-r-r-r-derer-r-r?” burred Mac, eyes flashing blue flame.

Back came the answer.

“The man who is young but has white hair. The man whose face is dead and never moves. The man whose eyes are like spots of no color, in which death dwells. He is the murderer. He has killed. One of the simple folk in this countryside has fallen under his murdering hands.”

Mac considered knocking what few teeth the old man had down his throat. But he couldn’t hit a bag of bones that skinny and ancient.

“Ye’re plain loony, mon,” he said.

The Indian turned to the men, who had started to mutter again. There was something about that old, old redskin to shake the stoutest nerve.

“The man with the white face and pale eyes would lead you to your deaths,” he said, almost chanting it. “He would lead you once more against the Rain God, whom none can withstand. I tell you to rise and strike him down. Kill the man with the white hair and the lying voice, lest you be killed yourselves.”

“Let’s get to work, men,” said Mac. “There’s profit to no one in listenin’ to this fool.”

But the men were listening, and they kept right on listening.

“Here is what you shall do,” said the old man. “See for yourselves if the Rain God is to be cowed by this man with the white eyes. Make the man challenge the Rain God openly, defy the god to make his answer known. By the result of that shall you know whether to follow the man any more or kill him and leave the mountain.”

A squat man with long arms and a face that wasn’t too bright said:

“That’s fair enough. Get the white-haired guy here and we’ll see what we’ll see.”

“Ye’re a fair pack o’loonies,” barked MacMurdie. “Do ye believe in ghosts as well as spirits?”

But the damage was done. Work was demoralized till this new subtle barb of the ancient Indian could be turned away.

Mac stared off toward where Benson, at that moment, was standing beside his transit. He waved. But The Avenger had already seen, and he had sensed the meaning of the men’s behavior. He started toward the tunnel site.

He could see Josh, at that point, and he could see the men and machines. But an out-thrust bastion of the glass mountain kept Josh from seeing the men, or vice versa.

He saw that the Negro was sitting on a rock now, near the Donald Duck outcropping, waiting for further orders.

The Avenger got to where the men waited, sullen-faced.

Smitty was with them now. He shook his head at his chief.

“They’ve sure got a crazy one now,” he snorted. “Mac was just telling me.”

The Scot’s lips were thin with disgust and anger.

“They want ye to play Ajax defyin’ the lightnin’, Muster Benson,” he said. “That crazy old Indian—”

“Where is he now?” asked Benson, pale eyes on the muttering men.

“Ye’ll do me a favor if ye can tell me that,” Mac shrugged. “He did the most complete disappearin’ act I’ve ever seen. One minute he was here—the next he was no place.

“Anyhow, he tells the men to see whether you are the master here, or the Rain God. You’re to challenge the Rain God, to show his hand. Like I say, it’s to be like Ajax defyin’ the lightnin’ to strike him down. Can ye think of a sillier thing?”

But The Avenger did not laugh at the fantastic proposal. His face seemed whiter than ever, and his eyes colder, as the flaming genius behind them tackled the problem.

“There’s a curious method in all this,” he mused at last.

“Method?” said Smitty.

“Yes. There must be. It is desired that I go through a theatrical procedure of defying the Rain God. Why? There must be some good reason; or, rather, a very bad reason.”

“Ye think it’s some kind of trap, Muster Benson?” said the Scot.

“Yes—I do! But a trap so fantastic and unusual that its meaning is not yet even to be guessed at. Well, let’s—”

He walked toward the knot of workmen.

Smitty and Mac followed anxiously. “Ye’re goin’ to do it?” said Mac.

The Avenger nodded, eyes never colder or paler.

“Yes! I’d like to see what happens. Something is certainly scheduled to occur if I defy the Rain God. There would be no point in goading me into doing it otherwise.”

“But, mon,” pleaded Mac, “ye mustn’t do it. If somethin’s planned by somebody, it’d be planned against the mon who did the defyin’ act.”

The Avenger’s pale eyes didn’t even flicker.

“Of course,” he said. “Otherwise, if my act placed someone else in danger, I wouldn’t do it.”

He was within shouting distance of the workmen by now. They had seen the giant and the sandy-haired Scot talking to him and guessed it was about what the Indian had said.

“Well,” called the squat man with the not-too-bright face, “have you got the guts to do it?”

Benson came on without answering.

“The Indian said if you’d challenge the Rain God you’d see who was strongest here,” yelled another man. “Let’s see you try.”

Still Benson didn’t say anything.

“He ain’t got the nerve,” a third man jeered. “He’s too yellow.”

There was a low flat rock in the middle of the crew. The Avenger was making for that. He got to the ring of men. Now, closer to them, the pale, cold eyes seemed to slash at them like knife blades. The tremendous power subtly proclaiming itself in Benson’s average-sized body awed them. No one man wanted to jeer at him now. They realized that it was pretty ridiculous to call this man afraid of anything.

They gave way respectfully before him. And Benson got to the low, flat rock. He stood on it, a little above the heads of the men.

The Avenger didn’t treat the matter as a joke. He knew how grave it was to these workmen, still under the spell of the Indian’s words.

“You have been told,” he said quietly, but with his vibrant voice heard distinctly by everyone there, “that tunneling into his mountain is to displease an Indian spirit called the Rain God. You have been told that he can strike with lightning, and that three men found dead near here were so struck. You have been told that others will die if the work goes on.”

“Yes—yes!” came the answers.

“You have also been told that if the Rain God is challenged he will answer that challenge with some stroke that all may recognize as a direct reply.”

“That’s right,” said the squat man with fear on his face.

“I think,” said The Avenger in his quiet but compelling voice, “that such a challenge should be made. And I shall volunteer to make it—now! Then we shall see what answer is made by this powerful spirit.”

Mac stirred restlessly and whispered up at Smitty’s ear:

“ ’Tis not like the chief. It is a tr-r-rap of some kind, and he’s fallin’ right into it.”

“He doesn’t fall into traps,” replied Smitty stoutly. “He walks into ’em, open-eyed, and comes out with results—always.”

But there was trouble in the giant’s eyes. He was suddenly more afraid for Benson than he ever had been before. After all, three men had been struck dead near here by lightning coming from no man knew where.

The Avenger spoke.

“Draw back from me, men. I’ll be alone in this, with no chance of a mishap to any of you.”

The men drew back, breathless, watching. It wasn’t necessary, Benson was sure. But, master of psychology, he felt that it was good to use theatricals. It would rivet their attention on him even more firmly.

With a thirty-foot circle clear around the low rock on which he stood, Benson stood straight and taut as a figure of metal. Wearing gray, as he usually did, and with his snow-white hair and his dead, pale face and flaming eyes, he looked like a man of gray steel rather than of flesh to the workmen.

He raised his hand in a sort of salute to the heavens. He stared upward.

“Rain God of the Pawnees,” he said, “if you can hear, listen. We shall defy you by going ahead with this work into the glass mountain where your soul is supposed to reside. We shall pierce the mountain in spite of you. This is a challenge, and I am the challenger.”

No man there knew quite what he had expected. A bolt from the cloudless heaven? A bolt that no one could see, suddenly laying this indomitable figure low before them? Some other strange and awful phenomenon?

But none of these happened. At least, not to Benson.

From around the jutting basalt bastion cutting Josh off from sight of the men came a cracked shout of agony and fear. There was death in that cry.

Everyone whirled, and from his rock, Benson stared, too. There was grim apprehension in his eyes. He had meant to risk only his own life, not that of another. But it seemed that the challenge had been accepted and hurled back—on the head of Josh Newton.

“Quick! Help him!” snapped Benson, leading a rush around the jutting rock toward the spot where he had left the Negro.

All saw it as they rounded the natural bastion.

There were faint wisps of greenish vapor, fading even as they first set eyes on it, but plainly the remnants of a compact pillar of mist. And under the fog shreds lay Josh.

He lay very still, body twisted in an unnatural fashion on the rough ground. There was no need of a closer approach to tell that he was dead!

CHAPTER V

Out of the Tomb

Richard Benson had defied the Rain God and the Rain God had struck one of his men dead in instant answer. That was the conclusion in every white face in the crew.

But it wasn’t what The Avenger was thinking. In the quick mind behind the pale, deadly eyes was no surrender to the tomb, but only lightning plans to cheat the tomb.

“Smitty! Run a cable to him at once. Start the generators. Rheostat! Only ten or a dozen volts.”

The giant raced back toward the machinery.

“Mac, get a plank and put it over a rock next to Josh, see-saw fashion.”

The Scot raced off in his turn. And The Avenger went on to his man.

Josh was dead, all right. There was a black burn on his neck, and there were black areas on the soles of his shoes. He had been electrocuted, just as Ainslee and Nissen and Joe Bass had been electrocuted. The workmen stared in something like horror at Benson. He must be mad to work in this frenzy around a man who was undoubtedly dead.

The Cable was run from the generators to Josh. Mac set up the plank over the rock.

The Avenger, pale eyes like holes in his immobile face, put Josh on one end of the plank.

“Move him up and down slowly,” he snapped.

Mac, at the empty end of the plank, set up a gentle see-saw motion. Josh went slowly up and down.

“What’s that for?” whispered one of the workmen to another. His tone was almost frightened. This all looked like a conjuration, with the white-haired man as the wizard.

“I don’t know,” his pal whispered back. “Maybe it’s to get the blood to circulatin’ again, or somethin’.”

Which happened to be exactly right.

Benson, moving his hands deftly to follow the slow see-saw motion, placed a bared end of the power cable against Josh’s chest just under the heart.

In hospitals they use elaborate electric needles for the purpose. Benson used the crude wire end. No regular hospital attendant, however, had the surgical and medical skill that Benson had. He timed the impulses just right.

By electrical energy Josh had died. By electrical energy Benson proposed to make him live again. An electrical impulse applied to the heart muscles at just the right time for a beat, withdrawn, applied again. Each twitch of the cable should twitch at the heart muscles, as a frog’s leg, though only dead meat, jumps with the application of an electric current.

On one of those little artificial beats the heart should catch and beat, too—and keep on beating. When it did, the blood was already circulating a little from the see-saw movement of the plank, ready for the resuming heartbeats.

As he worked, Benson’s sensitive left hand was on the chest of the Negro. He felt the heart beat three times of its own volition.

He dropped the cable, nodded to Mac to stop the plank’s movement, and began working Josh’s lungs in and out as he would if the Negro had drowned. In and out, in and out—

He felt the pulse again, finally, and stopped.

And then Josh’s eyelids fluttered and a distinct moan came from his lips.

The workmen sighed in a sort of ragged concert and stared at Benson with open mouths. Artificially he had started a heart. Artificially he had caused blood to circulate. Artificially he had made lungs pump air in and out.

And here was a live person instead of a dead one!

Josh opened his eyes.

“Where am I?”

“Not in heaven, anyhow,” said Smitty, words jesting but voice gentle. There was a strong bond among the aides of The Avenger.

Benson watched with his pale eyes hawklike. Things can happen when a man is dead. And Josh had been literally dead. There might be bad after-effects.

But Josh wavered to a sitting position in a moment and looked weakly around. He was even in command of himself enough to lapse into his deliberate Negro inflection.

“I’se still seein’ de angels,” he said.

“Mon, ye cer-r-r-tainly shook hands with ’em,” said Mac in heartfelt tones.

Smitty was the one whose mind came to the present necessities first. There was work to be done.

“Well, men,” he called to the dumbfounded crew, “the Rain God hit this man with everything he had. And Mr. Benson brought him around again. That puts us one up on the Rain God, don’t you think?”

A few nodded. The rest looked as if they didn’t know what to think—except that the guy with the white hair was certainly a great man.

“How about going back on the job?” said Smitty, suiting the words by starting back to the tunnel site.

And the men followed.

Benson called Mac and gave him a short order, which he was to repeat to Smitty. It was simple: Wear rubber-soled shoes from now on, such as linemen wear, at their work.

Mac went to catch Smitty, and Benson stayed with Josh.

“How did it happen, Josh?” The Avenger said quietly.

Josh shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He looked toward the Donald Duck outcropping.

“I was sitting here waiting for you to come back to wave me where you wanted me to drive the tunnel peg. I heard a sort of hissing behind me. I turned and couldn’t see anything. So I turned away again, and didn’t pay any more attention. It was about the noise a slight breeze would make in the vegetation around here. But finally I did turn again, and I saw something coming toward me.”

He shivered and clenched his hands weakly.

“It was a column of greenish fog, or mist, about twenty feet high and nearly as thick. It was almost a solid thing; you couldn’t see into it at all. It came down on me before I had a chance to jump to my feet. It rolled over me, and seemed like any other mist. It was wet to the touch, and I noticed drops of moisture on my sleeves. Then—that’s all I did notice. The world stopped for me right there.”

He rubbed at the burn on his shoulder.

“Can you walk yet, Josh?” said Benson. “Better go and tend to that, then. I’ll stay here awhile.”

The man who had been dead walked slowly, taking his time, around the basalt bastion toward camp. Benson sat there, pale eyes intent in thought, white face like something chiseled out of steel.

He turned to look at the glass mountain. Then he ducked sideways like a streak of light. And as he did so, there was the sharp snap of a small-caliber but high-powered rifle, the thud of a bullet on a rock behind him in line with where his head had been, and the shrill scream of the deformed slug as it ricocheted off toward the sun.

High on the mountain’s flank, he had seen a tiny stone dislodged near a rock about the size of a trunk. The stone hadn’t even started to fall yet, really; had just begun its downward slide when he saw it, knew a furtive foot had loosened it, and ducked.

He was up and flashing to the right in a second. There was another sharp crack, and a bullet slammed into stone a few inches behind him. Then no more came. He was out of sight of the person behind the trunklike rock.

He climbed the other side of the bastion. It was a smooth slant you’d think a mountain goat couldn’t negotiate; but Benson went up it as if it had been a sidewalk. He got to a point a little above the rock, slid over the hump, narrower here, and jumped.

He lit on a narrow platform where the marksman still crouched behind the trunklike stone.

“Oh!” said the marksman. “You can’t—”

Benson took the gun in a hand whose movement made the dart of a snake’s head look like slow motion. Then his pale, steely eyes drilled into the shooter.

It was a girl, about twenty-two, in whipcord riding pants and khaki shirt. But the rough attire could not hide the beauty of her figure, and the wide-brimmed hat could not droop low enough to conceal the loveliness of her face.

But it was a furious face at the moment. Her brown eyes glared at The Avenger’s dead countenance. Her red lips were twisted hard. If looks could have killed, Benson would have fallen deader than Josh had been.

“All right,” she panted, “you’ve got me. Why don’t you kill me, like you killed my father? You murderer!”

The Avenger’s dead face was as motionless as though the girl had merely remarked about the weather instead of making this inexplicable, mad accusation.

“Killed your father?” he repeated.

“Yes! Oh, I know all about it. So does everyone else around the Cloud Lake Ranch.”

As she spoke her slim right hand was touching the fold in her whipcord riding pants at the side. Benson apparently did not notice.

“I’m afraid you have made a mistake,” he said. “I haven’t been a mile from the construction camp since I came here. And I know there is no place, within a mile, called the Cloud Lake Ranch—”

Her hand flashed from the little sheath at the fold of her riding breeches. In it had appeared a slender little hunting knife. It slashed toward Benson.

She was very quick, but she had no chance of hurting this man with the cougar-lithe body.

He moved three inches to the left so the knife blade almost slashed his coat, then caught the girl’s slim wrist. She dropped the knife. He stooped to pick it up, and she whirled and ran.

Benson let her go. There wasn’t much he could have done with her if he had caught her. She was the victim of some queer delusion, that was all. Murdered her father, at the Cloud Lake Ranch—

He went back to the camp and to the temporary telegraph set-up. He knew people, and he knew that this girl with the blazing brown eyes and the firmly rounded chin wasn’t through with the person she thought was her father’s murderer.

She would appear again; and if there were to be women messing in this he wanted a woman to handle it.

He wired to Nellie Gray, who was also an aide of his, to come at once from their Bleek Street headquarters in New York.

He was turning from the instrument when one of the workmen rushed up. It was significant that, as short as was the time Benson had been there, the men already were coming to him if there was trouble, instead of to Chief Engineer Todd.

And there was trouble here.

“There’s another guy dead,” the man panted. “The Scotchman with the big ears. The Rain God got him.”

The Avenger followed the man fast. But he wasn’t so tensely alarmed as he had been when Josh got hit. For now, if orders had been followed, the danger from the curious lightning bolts was not so great. And The Avenger knew that those working for him always followed orders.

Mac was not far from where Benson had almost been shot by the girl. He was near the camp, yet out of sight of it because of an outthrust of the glass mountain’s flank.

MacMurdie was sitting up weakly when Benson got there.

“Everything’s all right, Chief,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear his wits. “I’ve got on the rubber-soled shoes ye told us to wear. I guess that’s what saved me. Though even at that it was a near miss. Whoosh! I felt as if I’d been hit with a giant’s club!”

Benson nodded to the workman who had come to him. The nod meant to go back to the others. And the man obeyed without a word, such was the tremendous authority expressed by the pale, infallible eyes and cold, dead face.

When the man had gone Benson looked at Mac.

“I don’t know a thing of what it’s all about,” Mac answered the questioning look. “I can tell ye a bit more about the pillar of green mist that Josh mentioned, but that’s all.”

He unbuttoned his work shirt and slid it down over his shoulder. There was an angry burn there.

“I came out here to look around just before I saw ye go into the telegraph shack. I wanted to see where the dickens that old Indian might have gone when he vanished. But instead of seein’ any hole he might have ducked into, I saw a little cloud. As I got around the rock outcropping, there it was, as solid and still as if made of rock itself.”

He rubbed his shoulder.

“I thought ’twas about time we found out what the thing really was, so I went toward it—and it came toward me.”

“Describe it exactly,” said The Avenger, pale eyes like ice in his death mask of a face.

“It was maybe twenty feet tall and a little less through. It hung together, but fringed a little at the very edges. It was slightly greenish—kind of a bilious color. It moved about as fast as a mon might walk.”

“Did you hear the hissing sound Josh told of?”

Mac nodded, big sail ears moving a little as his head moved.

“Sounded almost like wind whisperin’ through leaves,” he said. “But it came from the center of the pillar of fog, and there are no leaves on this bare rock pile to rustle, and there was no breeze at the moment.”

“Go on!”

“I got scared,” the Scot admitted simply. “But I kept on goin’ toward the thing. When it almost touched me I jumped straight toward the heart of it. And that’s all I know. There was somethin’ like all the lightning bolts of the entire West rolled into one and hittin’ straight at me, and then I was sittin’ up rubbin’ my shoulder and you were comin’ toward me. And there was no more cloud.”

“It was a real lightning bolt?”

“Felt real to me,” said Mac.

The Avenger didn’t say any more. One of the workmen was running around the bastion that cut off this section from view of the camp. He veered toward Benson as he saw him.

His face was sheet-white and his legs were trembling a little under him.

“Say!” he gasped as he got near. “Say! You guys know that big dead tree we used as a marker?”

Benson nodded, flaming eyes steady on the man’s agitated face.

“Well,” said the man, lifting a trembling hand to his face. “That big dead tree—I just saw it moving. It was—walking!”

CHAPTER VI

Walking Tree

Against the side of sinister Mt. Rainod, the men had cleared a new tunnel site, as marked out by Dick Benson. It was many yards from the first false start. The move had been made with Engineer Todd’s full agreement. Todd had heard, before even looking at the white emotionless face and into the pale, marksman’s eyes, of the engineering exploits of this man. He was prepared to take anything The Avenger said as gospel.

But, while the error had been corrected and work was now going on where it should, Benson was in the shack used as an office, looking over the original survey maps.

The landmarks mentioned in all of them were the outcropping of rock that looked like a duck—and the great dead tree.

The tree that the workman had said he’d seen walking.

This tree had twice been found in different places than originally described in the survey. And then Benson had gone out and checked, and found it in still another place.

Three surveys could have been wrong, one after the other—or the tree could actually, incredibly, have moved.

“But, Chief,” remonstrated MacMurdie, “trees don’t walk. ’Tis insane, such an idea.”

“Three surveys of the same right-of-way don’t come out with three different tunnel locations, either,” said The Avenger, eyes brooding and pale.

“So?” said Mac.

“So you will have a good look at this tree that walks, Mac.”

His steely, slim hand touched the Scot’s shoulder for an instant in one of the rare demonstrations of the affection he felt for the men who worked for him.

“Watch yourself, Mac,” Benson said. “There’s something here more fiendish than anything we’ve come against before.”

Mac ambled toward the big dead-tree stump. As he went he studied it with puzzled eyes.

It looked like any other dead tree. It was grayish from long exposure. It was perhaps twenty feet tall, with a rotten cavity showing at the top. It had four or five long, broken stubs of branches. Gnarled roots showed at its base.

It didn’t walk, of course. No tree walks, ever. The very idea was crazy.

Yet Mac had an uncomfortable conviction that the big dead stump was not where it had been an hour ago; and a suspicion that an hour ago it was not where it had been the day before.

Mac tilted the wide brim of his hat a little more over his coarse-skinned, freckled face. It was hot as blazes, though the air was so thin and bone-dry that you didn’t notice it too much.

He was pretty near the big stump now. It was in a sort of bay, to the left of the Donald Duck outcropping. It was that which made him sure that the tree had moved; even though logic told him that such a move was impossible.

A while ago the dead tree had been to the right of the freak outcropping and not so near to it. At least, that was his thought. He was prepared to doubt his own senses on the point.

He climbed a little ridge. The ridge was of the black basalt forming the bulk of the mountain itself.

The rock around here was hard enough—but that black basalt! It was exactly of the texture of inferior glass, almost as smooth and dense as metal. Tunnelling through that was going to be a real job!

He looked at the tree again.

“Whoosh! I’m balmy with the heat,” he said aloud.

The tree had been right beside a boulder, shaped a little like a decayed skull. Now it was in front of the boulder.

Mac told himself that as he himself had moved, his line of vision had altered enough to account for the change. But he didn’t believe it for a minute.

“It did move!” he admitted finally.

Then he saw three men.

There was no place the men could have come from, without Mac’s having seen them before. The mountain’s side was smooth in front of him, with no rock big enough to hide the three. The camp was quite a distance off. The three men would have to spring from the ground, itself, to get so near Mac so fast. That was as absurd as the thought of a tree walking.

But there the three men were.

They were dressed as were the construction crew. But Mac couldn’t place them. That didn’t mean for sure that they weren’t from the camp, because about sixty men were on the rolls, and the Scot couldn’t be dead sure of that many faces.

Nevertheless, he was disquieted a little because he couldn’t recognize them, and he moved warily as he neared them.

“Hello,” he said. “Some kind of work goin’ on here, too?”

The biggest of the three smiled ingratiatingly.

“It’s noon hour,” he replied. “We’re just strollin’ around a little to get the rock chips out of our lungs.”

Mac nodded. It was lunch time, all right. But most of the men spent that period right at the tables now being served by Josh. The Scot’s wariness increased.

He kept on toward the tree that was his goal. He was pretty close, and it seemed to him that there were signs of fresh dirt or, rather, fine shale, around the gnarled roots.

The men kept on, too—toward Mac.

He debated shouting to the camp, but decided it would be foolish to holler before he was hit. And the men seemed quite good-natured. It was the natural decision of a man who doesn’t want to risk looking like a fool. And it was a wrong decision, this time.

Mac got to the tree just as the men did. The biggest of the trio grinned at Mac with all the amiability in the world. At the same time he said to the two others:

“All right, take him!”

It was done with such two-faced, treacherous swiftness that Mac, even though he’d had a slight apprehension of trouble, wasn’t ready for it.

A man got him from the right and another from the left. He felt a fist club under his ear, and another rake across his cheek.

The Scot had fists, himself. Doubled, they were like big bone mallets. Dazed as he was by the blow under the ear, he lashed out and knocked the man to his left sprawling. He doubled the other man up with a blow to the stomach.

The third, the biggest fellow, rammed him. There was a smack as knuckles contacted with Mac’s jaw, and a thud as a heavy boot caught him in the thigh. He sank to the ground feeling as if his legs had been broken. Then the big fellow picked up a rock and hit Mac with it.

The Scotchman went out as if dropped into a black ocean, after seeing a million lights explode behind his eyeballs.

“Kind of tough, ain’t he?” said one of the men, getting up from the ground and rubbing his jaw.

“All the guys who work for that dead-pan they call The Avenger are tough,” said the big fellow.

He was bending over Mac’s feet. From them he was taking the rubber-soled shoes that had saved his life from a lightning bolt awhile ago.

“But this one,” he said, when the Scot’s feet were sheathed only in socks, “won’t be tough enough to shed lightning, I think.”

As he was speaking, from near the duck outcropping, a pillar of fog was swiftly forming. The appearance of the thing was like the slow emergence from its hole of a great serpent, when other beasts—or men—have killed and left the victim near it.

The pillar solidified, turned greenish. Then, at a pace about as fast as a man can walk, it rolled toward Mac. The three men ran stumbling in fright from it. In a way they were working with the thing; but they feared it as much as the keepers of a great beast might fear the thing even as they fed it.

The pillar of greenish mist didn’t go after them. It advanced straight toward the one goal; the unconscious man lying with bared feet.

As it moved, a faint hissing sounded from its center, like the hissing of a mighty reptile. Or, perhaps, of an enraged god?

But Mac didn’t hear that, or anything else. He lay as helpless as a child before the advancing pillar.

A dusty touring car had come to the edge of the camp. At the wheel was a man who seemed, from a distance, to be a cattleman from the vicinity. Wide-brimmed hat, tieless shirt, dusty coat, he appeared to be a typical rancher. But he was not a cattleman. It was Jim Crast, from Chicago.

The Avenger went to the car, got in, and the two drove off a little distance. Crast was here secretly. He had wired Benson before coming. He didn’t want anyone in the camp to know of his visit.

“Well?” he said anxiously, looking at the masterful, dead face and the strange, pale eyes of The Avenger. “Has anything been found out?”

“Nothing definite,” said Benson. “Plenty has happened. The Rain God has walked abroad several times, enveloped in his cloud, and has struck down with lightning bolts.”

Crast stared at him.

“You mean you believe—”

“But no fact has yet emerged to really work on,” Benson continued. “I have some ideas of what is going on. Most amazing ideas. But they are still—only ideas.”

“I was hoping things were clearing up,” sighed Crast. His face was suddenly old with worry. “Everything we have is tied up in the Mt. Rainod tunnel. The least trouble will bankrupt us. We . . . we’re about four million dollars under the next lowest bid. That’s how close we shaved it.”

“That’s a big discrepancy,” said Benson.

“We figured we could do it all right. Fyler made up the total, and he’s a good man with figures. But even if everything goes smoothly, we have our work cut out for us. Drilling through a mountain of glass is a terrific job.”

“I have a suggestion there,” Benson said. “A way to short-cut the drilling. This stuff is glass. Therefore, treat it like glass. Don’t drill it—crack it.”

“I don’t understand,” said Crast.

“Build fires,” ordered Benson. “When the basalt is hot, play cold water on it. The stuff will crack just as a hot tumbler cracks when cold water is poured in it.”

“Holy codfish!” said Crast reverently. “Why couldn’t I have thought of that? But I’ve always known you were the world’s greatest engineer—”

The Avenger cut in: “Can you trust the people in your organization, Jim?”

Crast looked troubled.

“Why, I suppose so. Most of them have worked for us for a long time. Why do you ask?”

“Because there has been treachery on the part of some one in the Chicago office,” said Benson, eyes like steel splinters.

“You’re sure?” gasped Crast.

“Very sure,” said The Avenger. “Someone knew all about the arrival here—-and sent a radio-controlled plane to ram my ship and kill me. Someone knew all about the arrival of my aides, and their connection with me. That could only have come from the Chicago office.”

Crast was looking a little sick.

“What’s the matter?” said Benson.

“Ryan,” said Crast. “But that’s impossible.”

The Avenger’s face was a frightening mask. His eyes had the glitter of diamond drills.

“Tom Ryan went out of the conference room just after you left,” Crast went on. “I remember, now. He telephoned. I know that much. It might have been to his wife. It might have been—to a confederate who could notify someone at this end.”

The Avenger’s eyes were ice-cold, but fair.

“It would be more logical that he would phone much later, after getting entirely away from the office, if he had crooked work in mind,” he said. “The phone call may be coincidence, no indication at all that he is the leak in the Chicago office.”

“Of course, of course!” said Crast, fairly grasping at the words. “It—must have been just coincidence! Ryan, my own partner? No, he couldn’t be mixed up in anything crooked.”

He lit a cigar with a trembling hand.

“Run me back to the edge of the camp,” said Benson. “Then you might as well go back to Chicago. There is nothing you can do here.”

Benson got off near camp, and Crast drove away in a cloud of dust. Some of the men eyed The Avenger sideways as he passed them on his way to the office shack. And The Avenger saw their lips move.

The things they were saying, he had seen the men say before, in the past few hours. They were calling him a murderer; even as the girl had called him one, and for no more reason that Benson could see.

And as he thought of the girl, he saw her slim figure coming toward him from around the construction office shack.

CHAPTER VII

Landslide

The last time this girl had faced Benson, she had glared murder at him and had accused him of being a killer. This time she came up to him doubtfully, but not so furiously. In fact, there was almost an air of apology in her walk. Also there was an air of urgency.

She stared at The Avenger’s dead face and pale eyes and prematurely white hair, and in her gaze there seemed to be something that was instantly concealed. But no man, not even Benson, could be sure of that.

“A friend of yours,” she said abruptly, “is in a jam.”

The colorless eyes drilled into her brown ones. They seemed able to keep right on going and read the thoughts in the back of her head.

“Yesterday,” said The Avenger, “you tried to kill me. Today you apparently want to help me—or at least a friend of mine. Don’t you think this is an abrupt change?”

The brown eyes avoided his awesome, colorless ones.

“I’ve changed my mind since yesterday,” the girl said. “And anyhow, the life of an innocent man should not be concerned with whatever may lie between you and me.”

“The life of an innocent man?” repeated Benson.

“Yes, the life of your friend. The Scotchman with the sandy-red hair and the big ears. And big feet and hands,” she added accurately.

“MacMurdie!” said Benson. “What about him? Why is his life in danger?”

“He has been kidnapped, that’s why,” said the girl. “You are his friend, and you seem to be the boss of this place, now; so I came to you about it.”

The pale eyes were probing her. The almost immobile lips were still in the expressionless white face. She went on:

“Three men got him. I saw them, from up on the mountain. He fought them hard, but one knocked him out. Then they carried him away. I know, from their direction, where they carried him to. I know all this section so well that I could travel it in my sleep. I came to you. I’ll lead you to him, so you can rescue him.”

There was absolute sincerity in her tone, and a fear in her eyes that was surely genuine.

“Lead on,” said Benson.

She went toward the Donald Duck outcropping, with The Avenger walking swiftly, effortlessly beside her. He seemed to be going almost at an ordinary man’s run, though he was walking easily enough. The girl began to breathe hard before they’d covered a quarter of a mile.

“Who are you?” asked Benson, pale eyes on the glass mountain, around the foot of which they were skirting.

“My name is Ethel Masterson,” she said.

“You live around here?”

“Yes. At Cloud Lake Ranch, eight miles away. I just rode over this morning to . . . to—”

“To take another shot at me?”

Ethel Masterson bit her lip and was silent.

“There is a lake near your ranch?” said Benson. “Is that the reason for the name?”

“Yes. There is a lake in an old crater that borders our . . . my . . . land, and the ranch next to us. It’s not very big, but it’s absolutely bottomless, as far as any one knows. Dad and I live . . . lived . . . there. Then, a few days ago, he was . . . he was—”

She couldn’t go on.

The colorless, deadly eyes raked hers.

“He was killed?” said Benson.

She looked up at him out of the corners of her eyes.

“Yes! He was killed. I’m all alone, now.”

They covered more ground. She said:

“You didn’t know there was a lake up on the other mountain?”

“No,” said Benson.

“You’ve never been around here before?”

“Never, in quite this territory,” said Benson. His pale, icy eyes met hers for an instant. “It is curious that you should think I was at your ranch, and was the man who had killed your father.”

“I . . . I don’t think that any more,” said Ethel, avoiding his eyes again. “See there. That black slot in the face of the mountain is a fissure. From it, a deep cave opens. I’m sure that’s the place the three men must have taken your friend. It’s the only place around here where you could hide anybody.”

“We’ll go there,” nodded Benson. “Tell me a little more about your father’s death.”

Ethel’s firm, round chin quivered.

“There isn’t much to tell. He was down at the edge of the lake. I was in the ranchhouse getting dinner ready for him. I heard three shots. They came from the place where Dad was. They weren’t from his gun—I know the sound of that as well as I know his own voice. So I hurried down there.”

Her gaze was straight and hard on the rock before them.

“Dad was lying next to his boat, which he kept moored to a little dock he’d built. He was half in the water, and he was dead. All three shots had gone through his head, at close range. Any one of them would have killed him, of course, but the murderer wanted to make sure of it. I saw him, running, just before he got on a horse and got away.”

“You saw the murderer?”

“Yes. He was a man of average size,”—she was keeping her eyes carefully away from Benson—“and had snow-white hair. I saw that from the back.”

“You notified the sheriff?”

“Yes, but of course a description that vague didn’t do any good.”

“Your father was at the edge of the lake?” The Avenger repeated, with little glints in his eyes. “How high is Cloud Lake, anyway?”

“About eight thousand feet,” said Ethel. “About three thousand feet above the rest of this tableland, I’d say.”

They were at the fissure in the basalt flank of Mt. Rainod.

“You think the men took MacMurdie in here?” said Benson, eyes like pale diamond drills.

“It’s the only place near here, where they could hide him,” she repeated.

Benson sized up the fissure. It was so narrow that his body could barely manage to get through.

“It widens in there?” he asked.

She nodded.

The Avenger wormed into the fissure.

Smitty had once made the remark that Benson seldom avoided a trap. Instead, it was his custom deliberately to walk into them, to see what could be learned. Traps were nearly aways revealing—if they didn’t kill you before you could put your information to use.

However, The Avenger didn’t care much about that. He knew he was going to die some day, in his many fights with superkillers. He knew it, and didn’t bother even to think about it. Death could come any time it liked. Life wasn’t too kind, with wife and daughter taken from him in a criminal plot.

This girl could be giving him the straight dope, with her mistaken idea that he was her father’s murderer buried in her mind by the danger of an innocent man. Or she could be a murderous little actress. It was all one to the man with the dead, white face and the coldly flaming, colorless eyes.

He found that the fissure did widen a bit after he’d gotten in. And it darkened as daylight faded behind him. He got out a small flashlight with a big beam, designed by him for just such emergencies.

He saw a cave extending ahead of him as far as the beam could penetrate. There was a black fissure in its ceiling, which was ten feet or so above his head.. The fissure was toward the rear of the cave.

He went a few steps farther, and saw the end of the cave. And did not see MacMurdie. The place was as empty as a vacant room, and the flash showed that the only way in or out was that fissure behind him.

The pale eyes glittered like ice in a polar dawn. So it was a trap. Benson turned.

The whole mountain seemed to tremble, and a dull roar sounded. At the same moment the crack of light through the fissure blanked out.

There had been a landslide, and it had blocked the opening.

Benson went swiftly to the fissure. A glance told him that it would take at least a half hour to dig away the rocks that had sealed him into the cave. But they could be dug away. The girl, it would seem, had underestimated his strength.

She had led him in here, by a bit of devilishly clever acting; then, no doubt, she had scurried to a point above the fissure and started the rock slide, figuring that it would entomb him forever.

The Avenger didn’t waste any more time thinking about her or the slide. When in a trap, learn all you can before fighting your way out.

He went to the rear of the cave. It tapped the mountainside about eighty feet before it tapered to nothingness. He stood under the fissure in the ceiling.

It seemed to him that he could hear faint rumblings up there. However, the sound was so far off, and so doubtful, that even with his keen hearing he could not be sure.

He shot his powerful little flash upward. The fissure was wide enough for a man to get through, if he had a ladder or some other means of getting up to it.

He sent the flash around the rest of the cave. Near the back, among the rock debris, was something that looked like a stubby black worm. It was quite thick, though only a couple of inches long.

He went to it, and picked it up. It was a bit of hollow, rubbery stuff, ragged at the ends—like two inches of small, rubber pipe. A shred of greenish fabric adhered to it.

The rumbling from the fissure overhead was unmistakable now. Benson listened to it with eyes like ice flakes in his dead face. Then he dropped the little black pipe and leaped for the entrance where the rocks sealed him in.

He began to tear at them with all the phenomenal strength residing in his average-sized body.

That rumble could be identified, now. And he knew it was caused by one of the most fearsome things facing a man held underground with no escape.

Water!

He could get out of here in thirty minutes or so of gigantic labor. But what if he were not allowed the thirty minutes?

The rocks rolled as if endowed with volition of their own, under the impetus of his steely hands. And a thin stream of water trickled from the fissure, to splash innocently on the cavern floor.

But the trickle swiftly increased to a roaring flood, and then the water was coming through the fissure in a solid flood that filled the cavern at the rate of two feet or more a minute.

Long before The Avenger had an appreciable amount of the rocks rolled from the entrance, it was within six inches of the cave’s roof. And up there, with just room for his nose to break the surface for life-giving air, the Avenger trod water in pitch blackness, with his flashlight dark and useless on the cavern floor.

CHAPTER VIII

Face of the Rain God

Josh was peeling potatoes for the evening meal, though it was barely past the noon-day one. He had to start early, because sixty or sixty-five workmen eat a lot of potatoes.

Josh didn’t like peeling potatoes. His sleepy-looking face didn’t show it, but his actions did. He was slicing a sharp knife along the skins with much more energy than was necessary.

Smitty had the power generators and other electrical equipment in the excellent order that only an electrical wizard such as himself could have achieved. So he was at the camp with Josh.

“For a dead man,” the giant remarked cheerfully, “you show a lot of pep at potato peeling.”

Josh shivered a little.

“Don’t even joke about it,” he said, recalling the bad moment when he had come to, to find himself on one end of a seesaw plank with The Avenger looking down at him.

“You sure were dead,” mused Smitty. “How does it feel?”

“To be dead?” said the Negro, shivering again. “It doesn’t feel at all.”

“You didn’t have any visions or anything?”

“No. It was just like unconsciousness, that was all. Something hit me on the shoulder like a falling mountain, and then everything went dark. Just like unconsciousness.”

Smitty watched the too energetic potato peeling some more. Then he said, “What do you suppose all this nonsense is about the chief being a murderer?”

“I don’t know,” said Josh, “but somebody has been very methodical in spreading the rumor. Evidently some person living in the neighborhood has been killed recently, and they’re trying to pin it on Mr. Benson.”

“Well, that seems pretty silly.” Smitty picked up a small raw potato and began to gnaw on it. The giant took a lot of food, more than he could usually pack away at regular mealtimes. His big frame needed a great deal of fuel.

“Silly things can occasionally cause a lot of trouble,” observed Josh. He was a dusky philosopher, in his way. “It’s the senseless things that stir the crowd. Logic is too coarse to get in between the skull bones. Where’s Mac?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since before the chief went off with that girl.”

“Who is the girl, anyway?” asked Josh, pausing in his peeling long enough to wipe his dark countenance with the tail of the white apron he had donned on taking over the camp cook’s job.

“I don’t know. From some ranch eight or ten miles away, I think. She has something to do with the crazy yarn about Mr. Benson’s being a murderer.”

Off against the mountain flank, at the new and accurate tunnel site pegged by The Avenger, was a miniature edition of Hades.

Great piles of wood had been heaped and set afire next to the glass mountain’s sharp rise. The flames roared, making an inferno of the already hot air, heating the dense, black basalt to intolerable temperature.

There was a hiss, and an increased roar as water was hosed on the hot mass. Then there were cracking sounds like the breaking up of a glacier. Little chasms a foot or more wide and going far back into the glass mountain appeared as heat expansion and cold contraction rent the stuff into a thousand fragments.

“Boy, we’ll get some place in a hurry with that cracking process,” gloated Smitty. “There’ll be hardly any work for the drills—”

One of the workmen was running toward them.

“Now, why isn’t this guy at his post?” Smitty said.

“Oh-oh!” said Josh. “Trouble coming. I can smell it. On a hot day a man only runs for a maid or a murder. And there are no girls around—”

The man stopped, panting, before them. He was the big fellow who had overpowered Mac when the Scot had succeeded in downing the other two assailants. But not being seventh sons of seventh sons, Josh and Smitty could not know that.

“The Scotchman!” gasped the man, gulping for air as if he had run a mile at top speed. “He’s in trouble! He’s a pal of yours, ain’t he?”

The giant Smitty nodded. He had leaped to his feet. His vast hand fastened on the man’s shoulder with an unconscious force that made the fellow cry out.

“Where is he?” snapped Smitty. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s a little valley around the left end of the mountain,” panted the man. “I was there a little while ago and—”

“How is it you were around the foot of the mountain?” Smitty caught him up. “Why weren’t you at the tunnel site?”

“They didn’t need me. I’m a driller, an’ they ain’t drillin’ right now. They’re crackin’ the rock.”

“Go ahead!”

“I was near this little valley, an’ just goin’ in when I seen this pillar of cloud everybody’s talkin’ about. It was quite a ways off so I watched it for a while, ready to run if it came my way. Then I seen the guy lyin’ a little ways in front of the mist.”

“MacMurdie? You’re sure?”

“Yeah!”

“And he was just lying there? You mean he was unconscious?”

“Yeah! Sure! He must have been or he’d run—like any sensible guy from that damn green cloud. I didn’t have the nerve to get him. I’ll admit it. Everybody that’s gone near the green fog has died, an’ I didn’t want to be one of the dead ones. So I legged it for camp. Hurry back with me! It’s probably all over, minutes ago. But we might still be in time.”

Josh was shedding his apron. The man began running back, along the foot of the glass mountain.

“Why,” moaned Josh, who hated physical exercise as a cat hates it, “couldn’t they have horses here at camp?”

“What do you think this is?” said Smitty in reply. “A construction camp, or a riding academy? We’ve got a couple trucks, to go to town Saturday nights, but they happen to be away. So we leg it.”

It developed that they weren’t destined to leg it very far.

Ahead of them was one of the jutting slopes that occurred like bastions around Mt. Rainod’s foot at irregular distances. Between each of these, like the space between outstretched arms and a chest, with the mountain being the chest, was a shallow box canyon.

They rounded the natural bastion ahead of them, and abruptly stopped running. The man who had come to them with the urgent message about Mac being in trouble, grinned. He was breathless but triumphant.

There were two men at the other side of the rock outcropping. Each had a gun. Each had stepped suddenly into the way of the running men.

A gun was poking a hole in Josh’s stomach, and another was grinding against Smitty’s hard abdomen.

The giant looked down at the gunman in front of him, and then at the man who had come to camp for them.

“So we weren’t running to help Mac,” he said evenly. He was breathing almost easily in spite of the run in the hot, thin air. And the gunmen noticed that fact, significant of great endurance as well as great strength, and handled their guns even more warily than they had before.

“No,” said the panting man who had guided them into this pitfall, “you weren’t runnin’ to help your Scotch buddy. Nobody can help him. It’s even too late, now, for the guy with the white hair to bring him back to life. He’ll have been dead an hour by now.”

“You seem very sure,” said Smitty.

“Oh, I’m sure enough,” retorted the man, wolfish grin widening. “I oughta be. I’m the guy that turned him over to the Rain God.”

“Then I’m going to be the guy who turns you over to the rats,” said Smitty. “I’ll let you feed your brothers, if they can stand you.”

“You won’t be turnin’ nobody over to nobody,” said the man whose gun was in Smitty’s stomach. “But you’ll see your pal, all right, after the Rain God gets done with you.”

The other man nodded. His gun was not so warily held as was his companion’s. It didn’t seem necessary to watch anyone as sleepy-looking as Josh very closely. Just a scared, dull-witted, harmless Negro.

“March,” said the man with Smitty, “right on along the way you were running. And I’ll blow your spine in two if you make a funny move.”

Smitty and Josh went along the way they’d started, around the next bastion. Behind each marched a man with a gun. And behind the lot of them came the third man, also with a gun out, to rectify any slip either of his two pals might make.

The next shallow, dead-end little canyon had a back end as steep as the wall of a house. In the bottom of it, though, was a crack about twenty feet long and tapering from nothing at each end to about two feet in the middle.

“Turn around!” said Smitty’s man.

The giant stood still.

“You won’t shoot,” he said. “If you’d wanted to, you’d have done it long ago. Either you don’t want the sound of shots to be heard, or you have some reason for not wanting our dead bodies found with bullet holes in them.”

“I’ll lean on this trigger so fast you’ll never know what struck you,” snarled the man, “if you don’t stop stalling, and turn around.”

Smitty’s vast shoulders weren’t hunched for a try at escape any more. Josh had turned, too. They were both acutely conscious of the guns at their spines.

“Holy gee!” Smitty heard one of the men breathe. He caught fear and awe in the speaker’s voice. And he felt the gun waver a bit.

“Here she comes,” said one of the others.

Smitty turned his head enough to see back over his shoulder a little. And out of the tail of his eye, he saw a greenish wisp of vapor, cloud-like and thin. Turning a little more, he saw the pillar, itself.

A solid-looking pillar of green fog. It hadn’t been there before. Nothing had been between them and the black cliff.

“Smitty—” Josh’s voice cracked.

Smitty’s vast shoulders were hunched for a try at escape in spite of the gun. But he knew it was hopeless. It was a hundred to one that he couldn’t move fast enough to evade the murderous muzzle of the automatic.

He didn’t have to try.

There was a scrambling sound from beyond the far rock “arm” forming one side of the shallow little canyon. Then there was a swish, almost lost in the hissing noise that came from the green pillar. At the end of it, the man with a gun in Smitty’s back staggered and yelled.

Smitty whirled like a flyweight boxer instead of the vast hulk he was. He got an instant’s glimpse of the man clawing at his face. Blood was streaming down from under his left eye, where a rock had hit him. His gun wasn’t in line for the moment.

The man watching Josh yelled and ducked as another rock sailed in a flat and deadly arc toward his head. So Josh knocked the man out with a wicked loop to the side of his head. And Smitty’s tremendous paw caught the gun wrist of the other man.

The fellow dropped the gun and screamed as the giant put on a little pressure. The third man, the one who had led them here, was looking in all directions at once. He sent a shot at random toward the spot where the rocks had seemed to come from. Then he saw what had happened to his two companions.

He snapped his gun up to shoot Smitty down. But the giant moved first. He jerked the man he held by the arm toward the third fellow. The man whirled a dozen feet over the rocky ground like a snapped melon seed and crashed into the other.

Smitty bounded after the thrown body. He caught the one man by the shoulder, and the other by the nape of the neck. He crashed the two together.

It was not entirely by design that their skulls collided squarely, and with such force as to kill the one who had led the way here and almost kill the other. But Smitty had said he’d feed the guide to his brother rats; and that was the way it turned out.

The Avenger himself never took a human life. It was his subtle code to force the supercriminals he fought to destroy themselves by their own greed. But The Avenger’s aides sometimes found themselves in a position where it was kill or be killed. When they did, they were unable to feel any qualms about it.

Smitty stared with no feeling of guilt, whatever, at the dead guide, and the man with the cracked skull, and the fellow Josh had knocked out.

Then he heard Josh yell: “Mac!” and turned.

The Scot was climbing laboriously, and a little unsteadily down the rock flank. He came up to them, and they saw that his coarse, freckled face was pale.

“So you’re the big-league pitcher who saved our lives,” Smitty said. “Good pitching, Mac. A direct hit and a near-hit, from at least fifty yards away.”

“We heard you were dead, Mac,” said Josh. “How did you get here?”

“I dinna rightly know,” said Mac, lapsing into broader Scotch than usual. “I was wanderin’ in mind and body, and found myself up there. Then I looked down and saw those skurlies with guns on you, holdin’ you for the green fog to get you.”

“Which reminds me,” said Smitty. “Where is the green pillar?”

It wasn’t in view. It had faded from sight as suddenly and temperamentally as it had grown into being.

“It seems to move around pretty fast,” said Mac. “I was quite a distance from here when it came after me.”

“You did have a brush with it, then,” Smitty said. “At least there was that much truth in the words of the guy who led us here.”

“The skurly who led you here,” Mac said somberly, “was the same one that put me in the way of the green pillar. He knocked me on the head; so it was an hour or more before I was thinkin’ straight again. Then he left me for the fog to get.”

“And?” said Josh.

“I don’t know yet quite how I got away. By climbin’ the tree, I guess.”

“Tree?” said Smitty.

“I was knocked out at the foot of the big dead tree, near the funny outcropping. I came to, a very little, when something wet touched my face. The wetness was the greenish fog of that queer lookin’ pillar. I caught a branch low enough to feel with my hands up, and hauled myself into the tree. I kept on goin’ till I was near the top, though still in the mist. And after a while the pillar went back toward the mountain again, and I got down. There was a blank spell, and now I’m here.”

“The Rain God walking enveloped in his cloud,” Josh mused. “Striking with a lightning bolt. But it’s odd that merely climbing a tree should fool a god.”

“Maybe he can’t see in his own cloud any more than others can,” shrugged Smitty.

Mac wasn’t listening to either of them.

“I saw him for a minute, in the cloud,” he said.

They gaped at him.

“Saw who? The Rain God? Don’t be nuts!”

“But I did,” said Mac. “And a horrifyin’ thing it was too. I got just a glimpse of his face. An old, old Indian, it seemed to be. But he looked like somethin’ straight out of the Pawnee hell.”

CHAPTER IX

Dead Man’s Ranch

The Avenger had estimated that it would take half an hour to dislodge enough stone from the entrance of the cave in which he was sealed, to get his body through and out into the open air again.

It took nearly forty minutes.

He had worked as long as he could, breathing the rapidly diminishing air in the water-filling cave. Then, when that last four-inch space disappeared, he had snapped into place the apparatus he rarely traveled without.

The Avenger, with the dead flesh of his face able to be molded into any outline desired, was a master of disguise.

Man of a Thousand Faces, he was called. And rightly so.

However, changing a face is not enough. Benson often found himself forced to alter bodily lines, too.

In order to facilitate that, he had, in the linings of all his suits, thin rubber bladders which could be inflated cleverly to give him more bulk wherever he wanted it. But the bladders served another function.

Hated by the underworld, The Avenger went in constant danger. The commonest form of attack against him, next to gunfire, was an attempt to get him by deadly gas. So Benson carried always with him a little nose-clip gas mask, and always had oxygen in the disguise bladders.

The apparatus worked as well for water as for gas. So for over half an hour, The Avenger had been digging away at the rock slide in what was literally a miniature diving arrangement.

With the forming of a clear hole at the top of the cavern mouth, the water in the cave began to run out. It washed at the rest of the walls and helped him in his work.

He stepped through the fissure onto rocky ground; then he removed the little mask.

There was no sign of the girl. He’d known, of course, there wouldn’t be. With vengeance satisfied, as far as she knew, she would have gone back to the ranch now held in the name of a dead man.

Benson started walking, but not toward the camp. He had two other objectives he wanted to visit before he returned.

One was the other side of Mt. Rainod.

From around the glass mountain, when he had flown in the first day, had come the mail plane that had so nearly killed him. A phony mail plane, of course. A checkup had revealed that no mail plane in the West had been near Mt. Rainod that day.

But even phony mail planes have to have landing fields, of a sort. And radio-controlled ones also have to be near some source of power.

Where had that plane been kept? And how had its radio control been operated? Benson wanted to find out.

He seemed utterly unconscious of his wet clothes and the recent terrific ordeal he had undergone.

It was nearly six miles around the glass mountain to the side opposite from the tunnel mouth. Benson made it in a shade less than an hour. His clothes had dried on him by then in the hot, dry air.

All the land around the glass mountain was as flat as a table top, and looked like one. Only it was strewn with countless rock fragments, from fist size to house size. However, after rounding the foot of the mountain, half a mile ahead, Benson saw one strip that was mysteriously cleared of rocks.

That, he knew, would be the landing field.

A person looking at that bare table formation would have sworn that nothing could take cover on it for any length of time. But The Avenger could hide himself where you’d think nothing larger than a squirrel could keep out of sight.

Lengthwise behind a rock hardly bigger than a pumpkin, crouching behind boulders lower than waist-high, flitting shadowlike to rocks behind which he was able to stand erect, The Avenger got to the edge of the rough landing field so that the eyes of a hawk could hardly have spotted him.

Certainly the one pair of eyes, human, near the field didn’t see him.

There was a rather artificial-looking cave mouth at the mountain end of the cleared strip. At the entrance to this a man sat on a rock and gazed rather vacantly at the landscape. Near him was tethered a horse with an Eastern saddle.

Beyond him, The Avenger’s keen eyes could just make out the tip of a plane. A mate to the crashed mail plane, hangared in the cave.

Benson was curious. The construction camp was comparatively near. How did the man with the horse think that plane could stay out of sight if anybody blundered close?

He let his foot scrape against a rock. The sound carried clearly in the thin air.

The man jumped as if a wasp had stung him. His arm flashed out, and suddenly there wasn’t any cave mouth. There was a sheer section of rock where it had been.

Only eyes as good as the pale, icily flaring ones of The Avenger could have seen that the new stretch of rock was a heavy canvas backdrop, beautifully shaded to match the black basalt around it.

The man’s hand had snapped back from whatever pressure it was that released the canvas curtain, and grabbed his gun out of its holster. He stood now, facing this way and that, obviously not certain that a human foot had made that scraping noise, but not wanting to take any chances.

So Benson removed him from the world of conscious men for a while.

The Avenger had two of the world’s most curious weapons. One was a little, silenced .22 revolver. It was so streamlined that it seemed nothing but a length of slim, blued pipe with a slight bend for a handle and a little bulge where an undersized cylinder carried four special bullets. This he called Mike; and he wore it in a holster strapped to the calf of his right leg.

Strapped to the calf of his left leg, since a quick search of a man for weapons rarely goes below the knee—was a needle-pointed, razor-sharp little throwing knife with a hollow tube for a handle, which he called Ike.

He drew Mike now, seemed not to aim at all, and pressed the hair-trigger. There was a hushed, little spat from Mike’s silenced muzzle. And the man at the cave mouth fell over on his face—but not dead.

Mike’s leaden pea had neatly creased him on the top of the skull so that he was knocked out as if hit on the head with a club. It was shooting requiring infinite skill, but it was an eight-inch shot which Benson had practiced till he never missed.

He walked to the unconscious man, face as cold and calm as a glacier’s surface, stainless-steel chips of eyes reflecting no emotion whatever.

He had seen about all he needed to, he thought, after a quick glance into the cave had revealed nothing but plane and drums of gas and oil.

There was an airplane here. There was a guard. That was all.

He flipped onto the man’s horse and started toward the larger, more sprawly mountain next to Mt. Rainod.

Crater lakes are always spectacular things. They look like a giant’s drinking cups, perched high in the sky with steep cliffs for banks. The water in them, welling up under subterranean pressure from somewhere deep in rock that once belched lava, is nearly always crystal clear.

The lake in the crater of the mountain next to Rainod, called appropriately Cloud Lake, was not quite as clear as some. Leaves from clustered trees along its fringe, and ages of water vegetation and algae, had turned it slightly greenish. But it was no less beautiful; and its sheer sides were no less spectacular.

But one bank of the lake didn’t have a sheer cliff. That section was low, looking like a large cup with a bite chewed out of one side. Evidently, ages ago when this was an active volcano, the belching lava had torn down one rim of the inner cavity and escaped that way.

On the rim of the lake, here, was a sprawling, comfortable-looking ranchhouse, with outbuildings and corral fences. Stretching away from it on a long slant down, was the land belonging to it.

The Avenger rode his horse down a slope to a trail winding along the side of the cliff beneath him. He followed the trail to the house.

It was here that Ethel Masterson must dwell—the girl who had twice made such determined attempts on his life, and whose father he was supposed to have killed.

Benson didn’t go to the house at once.

On the lake rim, a hundred yards from the house, were a boat and a little dock. Ethel had mentioned these. It was here that her father had died, shot three times in the head. The pale eyes of The Avenger dwelt on the boat and dock, and then he reined his horse that way.

He dismounted with his icily flaring eyes more glittering than ever.

The dock’s piling showed that the lake was at an ebb slightly lower than usual. The boat showed it, too. It was partially beached, though it was the type that should never be out of the water because, unless submerged, its seams dried and opened.

Benson vaulted back onto the horse and went at a walk toward the house.

The structure ahead of him seemed absolutely deserted. The shades were drawn against the Idaho sun, there was no sign of life anywhere around, and his marvelous ears could catch no sound.

It looked as if the girl had let the normal ranch hands go when her father died and lived on here alone. And it looked now as if even the girl were not here.

Yet The Avenger felt eyes on him.

He kept on his way, hands in plain sight, taking a chance against a sudden bullet if his hunch were right. It wasn’t likely that anybody would cold-bloodedly shoot from ambush unless some rat from the underworld happened to be crouching in that still, vacant-seeming building.

He got to the door without hearing a sound or seeing a thing. He had an idea by now of why Ethel Masterson’s father might have met his death—down at the shore of Cloud Lake. If that idea was right, Masterson might have left some sort of notation, or written word, before he was murdered. Benson wanted to look through the house for such a notation.

He tried the door. It was unlocked, of course, out here. He opened it, stepped into a room that was dim from the window shades.

And four forms closed slowly in on him as he stood there, with four guns pointed straight at his body.

“Jest stand steady, stranger,” drawled one of the four.

Benson stood steady. The four men were lanky, squint-eyed, capable Idaho cowhands. He knew the breed. They shot fast and they shot straight. No man could evade death from the guns of men like these if he disobeyed orders.

Three guns remained on him while the fourth man went over him for weapons. Mike and Ike were not found, but it didn’t seem to matter. Not with these men facing him.

“O.K.,” drawled the searcher. “Got yer rope, Les?”

The four looked curiously at Benson’s face. The absolute lack of expression in the dead, white flesh baffled and awed them, as it did all men. And the cold, pale eyes plainly made them uneasy, even though it was four to one and that one unarmed.

“Yeah, I got the rope, greased an’ handy,” said the one called Les.

“Why are you holding me at gun point?” said Benson, voice quiet but compelling. “Who do you think I am?”

Les said: “That’s a good one! This lousy killer asks who we think he is!”

“Killer?” said Benson.

“Yeah! We been waitin’ twenty hours to see if you’d come back. They say a killer allus comes back to the scene of his killin’, an’ it looks like yuh did.”

“I’ve never been to Cloud Lake before,” said Benson.

“Naw? That’s a hot one! Well, say yuh ain’t been here before. Say yuh didn’t kill Masterson down by the lake. Then why are yuh here now, bustin’ into Masterson’s ranch-house like a damn burglar?”

The Avenger said nothing, his cold, colorless eyes looking for a way out. His reason for being here was so fantastic that it would be worse than useless to give it.

“I’ll tell yuh why you’re here,” said Les. “Yuh came back to be shore yuh didn’t leave nothin’ around that would tie yuh up with Masterson’s death.”

“I can only repeat,” said Benson, “that I have never been here before. I have letters and documents that will establish my character to the satisfaction of everyone, I believe.”

His hand went for his inner coat pocket.

“Keep yore hands up!”

“I only wanted to show—” Benson began. He shrugged. “You went over me for weapons and found none.”

“We ain’t takin’ no chance of lettin’ yuh get yore hand in yore coat. Yuh may have some trick thing we don’t know about.”

“Aw, what’re we waitin’ for?” growled another of the men. “Tie his hands and hobble his ankles.”

Benson’s hands were tied behind his back. At no time were there less than three guns on him. He hadn’t a chance of resisting.

“March!” said one, when wrists had been lashed together and ankles hobbled so that he could only step a foot at a time. “Head out to that tree with the nice big branch about nine feet up. We’re goin’ to hang yuh, mister. The description we got of Masterson’s killer ain’t enough fer the law, the sheriff tells us. But it’s plenty enough fer us. Loop that rope for him, Les.”

CHAPTER X

Falling Cliff

Nellie Gray was dynamite in a beautiful package and the Avenger valued her services as much as those of Mac or Smitty or Josh.

Nellie had started on the job almost with her arrival in camp in the ancient automobile that had wheezed forty miles from the nearest railroad station. She had had just a word with Smitty concerning the girl who had tried to kill the chief, when the girl in question showed up in camp.

She looked around the place, obviously searching for someone. She was equally obviously secretive about it.

“She’s not very smart,” said Nellie with a little sniff.

“She is practically advertising the fact that some dirty work is in the wind. Also the fact that whoever she wants to see here is absent at the moment.”

Ethel Masterson drew off from the camp a little way, being elaborately careless about it. So Nellie followed her.

“I’d like to see,” she said to Smitty, “who she meets, if anyone. Also hear what’s said, if that is possible. Perhaps some of the workmen here aren’t what they seem.”

The giant, Smitty, had a soft spot in his vast chest for the diminutive blonde. It was to be suspected that Nellie had a similar spot in her heart for Smitty; but she wouldn’t have let that fact be dragged out of her with a steam winch.

“Be careful,” Smitty said anxiously. “There’s the craziest, deadliest stuff around here you’ve ever heard of. Nobody knows what it’s all about, or where it’ll hit next, but it’s bad medicine.”

“Don’t you know I’m always careful?” said Nellie, with a reckless light in her lovely eyes.

“Yeah—like a test pilot, or a lion tamer, or something,” growled Smitty.

“Don’t worry. The girl probably isn’t going far.”

Ethel Masterson didn’t go far. Just to the stone outcropping the shape of a great duck, near the big dead tree.

The tree, by the way, had been investigated, and was found to be like any other tree. It was a hollow shell, but seemed firmly rooted. There was no reason for it to move. Therefore everyone had accepted as fact the statement that it had not moved.

Everyone, that is, save Dick Benson.

Under the shadow of the rock outcropping, you could not see the construction camp. It was as deserted a spot as could be found in all Idaho.

Ethel went there, with Nellie a full quarter of a mile behind, and felt sure she wasn’t seen by her quarry. Ethel went right to the flank of the glass mountain and sat down on a square rock.

She looked as if she was waiting for someone, and, sure enough, in a short time, she had company.

Nellie didn’t see the approach of that company. She was looking downward for a moment to be sure she planted her trim small feet where they wouldn’t make any noise. When she had looked down, Ethel was alone. When she looked up again Ethel was not alone.

It was uncanny; as if the man suddenly with her had materialized out of thin air. And, indeed, the man seemed the type that might be able to do all sorts of weird things.

He was an old, old Indian in patched overalls, but somehow looking as dignified as though in full, ancient war regalia.

Smitty had told her about this Indian, whispered to be Chief Yellow Moccasins himself. He had also told her how much trouble the old Indian had stirred up with his talk to the men about the Rain God, and the ability to walk abroad in a little green cloud and kill folks he disliked with lightning bolts.

Now he was meeting a girl who was a bitter enemy of The Avenger.

Nellie edged forward. She would have given a year of her life to be able to hear what this rancher’s good-looking daughter and the seamed old Indian were talking about. But she was not to have that privilege. Long before Nellie had gotten near enough even to try to read lips, as all The Avenger’s aides could do, the Indian disappeared again.

His disappearance was not quite so spectacular as his appearance had been, but it was startling enough.

He walked toward the straight wall of black basalt at the foot of the Donald Duck rock. He stooped over. Then he wasn’t there any more.

“I’m crazy, or he’s a magician,” Nellie whispered to herself.

She came nearer, then suddenly lowered behind a rock. Ethel, it seemed, was going to have more company. A very busy girl, Ethel!

Two men, dressed as were the workmen in the construction camp, appeared around the far hummock beyond the outcropping. They saw the girl, waved, and came toward her.

Nellie had to hear. That was all. Just seeing the people Ethel conspired with wasn’t enough.

The girl was sitting within ten feet of the black basalt wall. And about twenty feet behind her was another boulder. If Nellie could get behind that boulder she could hear. And she thought she could get to the boulder by skirting along the foot of the cliff from the camp side.

She got to the beginning rise of the glass mountain, sure she had not been seen; and began worming her way nearer the girl she was detailed to watch.

Not unlike The Avenger himself, Nellie was trained in the ways of woodcraft and wilderness. She had accompanied her archaeologist father on all his expeditions, and was as expert at concealing herself in an astonishingly bare space.

She got to the boulder. And now she could hear.

“It’ll happen soon,” growled one of the men. “Depends on how the tunnel goes. When it does— Well, you had better play ball with us.”

“You know I will,” Nellie heard the girl say huskily. “You know why I’ll co-operate to the last move.”

“Yeah! Sure! Just don’t forget, that’s all. Where’d that old Indian go?”

“I don’t know,” Ethel shrugged. “Why?”

“There’s stories going around that he ain’t human. He gives me the creeps. Sometimes I’ve wondered if he ain’t—ain’t—”

“The Rain God himself?” said Ethel. “I hardly think so. I’ve known him a little all my life. I guess he’s human.”

“Well, mind what we’ve told you,” the man concluded.

He and the other man went off toward camp. And Nellie had had her work for her pains.

She had found out nothing. “It will happen soon, depending on how the tunnel goes.”

Those were the only words she had heard, after all her effort. And she couldn’t see that they had any meaning. But maybe if she followed the girl some more she might still learn something of value.

Ethel got up from her flat rock and began to walk slowly along the foot of the black basalt cliff. Nellie crept after her, about fifty feet behind. She was in about the center of the smooth-rock spot when the thing happened.

It was one of those nightmarish things that simply cannot occur in real life. And yet it did occur.

She was crouched at the very foot of the cliff. It reared up beside her, straight, smooth for thirty feet, then rugged and rough.

And the cliff fell on her.

There was nothing but a rustling sound to warn her. That and movement caught out of the corner of her eyes. She saw something like the wall of the mountain itself leaning toward her. She turned her head.

The entire straight part of the cliff was leaning over her at a forty-five-degree angle. In another three seconds she would be under hundreds of tons of black, glassy rock—pounded like a fly between hammer and anvil, as the thirty-foot slab ground her into the rocky floor beneath.

She was too horrified to scream. Her breath froze in her throat. She could only cower there, with the whole world seeming to be rushing down on her in ghastly silence.

At Cloud Lake Ranch, The Avenger stopped his hobbled march under the big tree designated by his four captors—the tree with the heavy limb nine feet above the ground. Such a handy height for a hanging.

That Benson was to be hanged had been made all too clear. These four Idaho ranchers, neighbors and employees of Ethel Masterson, were going to take a life for a life. Somebody cleverly impersonating Benson, after receiving word in advance that Benson was coming to these parts, had killed Ethel’s father. Now the murderer was to be killed, too, as far as the men knew.

“The limb looks big enough,” said Les stolidly. “But we better test it.”

They had lashed Benson’s wrists, and the white-haired man was hobbled, so they had sheathed their own guns. They didn’t see the need for keeping guns trained on a bound man.

In this they showed that The Avenger was unknown to them. Had they had any idea at all of the capabilities of this man with the white, paralyzed face and the blazing, colorless eyes, they wouldn’t even have taken the chance of hanging him. They would have shot him down at once.

They had lashed the wrists of the man they were sure had killed Masterson.

But those wrists weren’t lashed now!

Benson’s hands were even more inconspicuous than the rest of him. None of him was oversized. He was average in size throughout—perhaps a little less than average—and it verged on the miraculous to discover what power and quickness were in him.

His hands were a good example.

They were white and well-kept, with slender fingers.

They were steely in strength, but slim. In fact, they were slim enough so that when The Avenger held them with thumb in palm and fingers compressed, as only his training was able to do, they were no bigger in circumference than his wrists.

More than once people had discovered that too late. The Avenger could slide out of the tightest handcuffs and ease out of the harshest bonds. And he had done so now.

He had loosened the rope around his wrists by slight hand movements as they marched him to the tree. Now, as the four men gave the lynching tree their attention instead of the man they proposed to lynch, Benson dropped the rope to the ground and was free.

Any other man would have found himself about as bad off as when bound. But not The Avenger. Though he knew that Mike and Ike, undiscovered in their holsters, would not prevail against these four men. Another method of action had snapped instantly into being behind the pale and deadly eyes.

Les had his rope over the branch. One end was formed into a running loop. The other end was unknotted. He pulled on the rope doubled, and the limb above scarcely quivered.

“It’d hold six like this guy,” he said.

And his hold on the rope slackened.

It was the moment The Avenger had been waiting for. Three of the four men were next to the bole of the tree, including Les. The fourth man was standing beside Benson.

So fast that the eye could hardly follow his movements, The Avenger whipped his hands from behind his back. His left, like a gray steel model of a hand instead of flesh and blood, caught the man beside him on the side of the jaw. His right got the rope and jerked it from the lax grasp of the startled and incredulous Les.

The rope whisked down from over the tree limb and seemed to come alive in The Avenger’s steely, slim hand. It snapped around tree and men in a great circle.

Benson had thrown the loop end of the rope because that had more weight than the other end. The loop slapped into his hand after making a flying circuit of men and tree. The free end seemed to leap through the loop of its own volition.

Then Benson whipped the rope taut.

Les had managed at last to get his gun out. The free end of the rope lashed out like the end of a blacksnake whip. It smacked the gun from the rancher’s hand just as it belched flame. The bullet went into the ground.

One man unconscious on the ground, three men lashed to the bole of the tree like three captives bound to an Indian stake—and the white-haired man with the blazing, glacial eyes the only one free.

Holding the rope taut, Benson reached down with his left hand and got Ike from its slim scabbard. The throwing knife slashed the rope hobbling Benson’s ankles. But at no second was Benson’s white gaze off the three men.

Still holding the rope taut, he walked up to them. Just out of reach of Les’ free arm, he reached into his pocket and drew out letters and documents.

“You wouldn’t let me show you these before,” he said, voice quiet and calm. His face was expressionless, of course; it never would show emotion in that dead flesh. The roped men gazed at him in awe. What manner of person was this who could come within an ace of being hung, escape by a trick little short of miraculous in its swiftness—and still look as calm and cool as if strolling down a city sidewalk?

“I’d like you to glance at these now,” said Benson.

He opened the letters one by one in front of Les. The other two men were held, backs against the tree, at Les’ left and right, and couldn’t see.

“What do they say, Les?” one demanded, tone bitter at the reversal of circumstances and because of wounded pride in being trapped like this.

“Plenty,” said Les. “This guy seems to be about the biggest thing in the State. Letter from the governor of New York an’ from J. Edgar Hoover of the F.B.I., and one from the President. All sayin’ he’s a special investigator an’ to be given every consideration.”

“You still believe I murdered Masterson?” asked The Avenger, quiet-voiced.

Les’ lips compressed.

“Yuh could have forged these—or swiped ’em somewhere.”

“The man who killed Masterson apparently had white hair. I also have white hair. So you have leaped to conclusions. I’d like the benefit of the doubt, and I know you’ll be fair enough to give it to me.”

“Why’re yuh in these parts if yuh didn’t have anythin’ to do with Masterson’s death?” snapped Les.

Benson hesitated, then told as much as he could and still be believed.

“There is trouble in the construction camp over at Mt. Rainod. I was sent to end it. At the same time, I am sure, I will find out who did kill Masterson. Now, if you will give me your word not to make trouble I’ll turn you loose and get back to my work.”

“Yuh can’t stand there holdin’ that rope on us all day, an’ yuh don’t dast turn us loose,” jeered the man to Les’ right. “Got a tiger by the tail, ain’t yuh?”

“No,” said Benson, “I haven’t. I could easily knock you unconscious one by one and leave here.”

“Guess yuh could,” acknowledged Les grudgingly. “All right, turn us loose. We won’t try nothin’.”

Benson released his hold on the rope. The three men stepped, sheepish and furious, from the tree. Their hands went longingly to their guns, but they did not draw.

“O.K.,” Les drawled, tone and eyes deadly. “Mebbe yuh’ll be sorry yuh didn’t kill the lot of us. Because I promise yuh this, mister; if yuh don’t turn up somebody else yuh can tag as Masterson’s murderer in about four days, we’re comin’ for yuh. An’ we’re comin’ shootin’.”

Benson nodded. That was all. His dead, awesome face was as expressionless as white metal. His eyes were as unmoved as burnished chromium. He turned and walked to his horse and rode away.

The man The Avenger had knocked out, moaned and stirred a little. Les stared absently at him, intently at the figure on horseback disappearing in the direction of Mt. Rainod, and spoke for the four of them.

“Guess we made kind of a mistake, boys, when we thought we was goin’ to trap that guy! It’d be a sight easier to try an’ trap a hurricane.”

CHAPTER XI

Heart of the Mountain

Nellie Gray lived through about six lifetimes in the three seconds it took the section of cliff to fall on her. She saw all of her past as a drowning person is supposed to see it, and came to the conclusion that there were a great many things she would have done differently had she known she was to come to such an untimely end. Being nicer to Smitty was one of them.

Then the cliff fell on her. And she wasn’t smashed after all!

Afterward she was never sure of just what it was all like. But she had a vague feeling that someone had thrown the whole top of a three-ring-circus tent over her slender body, pinning it to the ground under hundreds of pounds of strangling weight.

It wasn’t a thirty-foot slab of rock that hit her. It was a great big piece of canvas, cleverly painted to resemble the black basalt of the mountain.

She was held as tightly as a fish in a net. Like a fish, she flopped frantically to get free, but couldn’t.

The canvas rippled up in a fold near her. Someone was moving toward her under the fabric. The person was burrowing under the thing like a mole under the surface of a lawn. Like a mole’s passage, the passage of this burrower was marked by the humped-up canvas moving as he moved, and leaving a permanently raised trail behind him.

Then the burrower reached Nellie.

Arms like a gorilla’s were suddenly around her, and she was being dragged off.

She tried to struggle, and the net result was a smash in the jaw that put her right out for an unguessable time.

When she came to she was still being carried, but wasn’t under the canvas any more. She was in a tunnel or something, leading on a level line into ever deeper blackness.

Her brain was still fogged by that ungentlemanly sock on the jaw, so she was only dimly conscious of the fact that at long last she was dumped like a meal sack on hard rock, like a cement floor.

There were steps and her bearer went away. She was left alone.

The place in which she had been left alone was immense. She could sense that. It gave you the same feeling you get in an enormous cathedral, the height of which dwarfs a human being. In a minute more she had her wits back enough to confirm this. She began looking around; and she decided she was still in a dream—or a nightmare. For surely there wasn’t really any such place as this.

In the first place, she was able to look around by dim light, where there should have been no light.

You don’t expect to find light in a cave that is many hundreds of yards from outer air. She knew this cave was a long way into the heart of Mt. Rainod, yet it was about as light as late dusk in there. And she couldn’t see where the light came from. It apparently emanated from up high, near the irregular arch of the ceiling, but came from behind stalactites and things so that she couldn’t see the actual source.

However, the puzzle of the light quickly dropped from her mind at the things the light revealed to her.

She had likened the vastness of this place to that of a cathedral when she first opened her eyes. The simile deepened as she stared around. It was like a cathedral; but a cathedral dedicated to devil worship.

In the center of this vast place was a rough stone statue, looking small in comparison to its surroundings even though it was actually huge. It was the statue of an Indian. An old, old Indian. Yet such was the skill of the unknown savage sculptor that there was contained in the seamed rock face and carved eyeballs a look of immortality such as no human ever wears.

The statue was very, very old. Hundreds of years old. Nellie’s experience with her archaeologist father told her that. Also, it had been dragged in here from some far place; the rock of which it was composed was not at all like the black basalt that glittered like dull glass all around the walls of the cavern.

In front of the statue was something very familiar to Nellie, with her training in the lore of old mythologies. It was also very sinister.

There was a black basalt slab that could have only one function; use in sacrifices. And the sacrifice, from the savage, hideous expression of the statue and the glass-bladed knife nearby could only be one kind: human.

Nellie’s heart began to pound. Had she been brought in here to be a human sacrifice to the Rain God? For that, of course, was the personage the statue depicted.

Mt. Rain God! With the god supposed to dwell in its glassy black heart! Well, here was the source of the legends. Centuries ago men had worshipped the Rain God here, had sacrificed human beings to him, and the legends of those days had persisted to the days of the more modern Pawnees. So, Mt. Rain God, then Mt. Rainod.

But were the ancient days to be revived by some unknown descendants of those old-timers and Nellie carved to bits on the black slab with the huge knife?

She looked around. There didn’t seem to be a soul in the vast cavern. There were five or six entrances to it, a few looking smooth and artificially—though anciently—carved, the rest rough, natural fissures. She started toward the nearest. If she went down it she would be almost certain to wander, lost, in a labyrinth of caves and tunnels till she died. But even that was better than staying here by the basalt altar in the shadow of the Rain God.

She got almost to the exit, then stopped, rigid with horror.

A figure was coming from it into the great cavern. The sight of it constricted Nellie’s throat so that what she had meant for a cry came out only as a feeble squeak.

The man approaching her with measured tread, erect in spite of an obvious great age, was an old, old Indian. He was, indeed, the Indian she had seen talking to Ethel Masterson.

But he hadn’t had the expression then that he had now. A look of appalling ferocity, though there was something very impersonal in it. A look of savagery to make a person’s blood feel like ice water in his veins. And that look gave him an appearance which was what had brought the aborted cry to Nellie’s lips.

This man was the living image of that frightful stone statue of the Rain God.

Smitty, in the construction camp, was uneasy. He was always uneasy when diminutive, lovely Nellie Gray was helling around, on some dangerous job. He thought the present job more dangerous than anything yet; and he was consequently even more uneasy than was to be expected under the circumstances.

Also, it seemed to him that Nellie had been gone for a very long time now. Certainly long enough to have observed all that was necessary about Ethel Masterson.

He stared unseeingly at the yawning new tunnel mouth.

With the new process suggested by The Avenger, the work was going very rapidly. Fire and water, heat and cold, cracked a way into the glass bulk of Mt. Rainod at an astounding pace. There was nearly eighty yards of rough hole into the mountain now. Over a month’s work with the drillers, had they been forced to use only them. The Central Construction Co., was due to make a nice profit on this job, for they and everyone else had figured on drilling only.

Far in the new bore, Smitty saw lights wink out as water poured with a hissing roar on heated basalt. He heard the usual cracking sounds, the break-up of a small glacier. Then he heard something else. Cries of the men above the cracking sounds!

The men started pouring from the bore like disturbed ants. Smitty leaped to his feet and ran toward where the group of them gathered outside the yawning hole.

“What’s the matter?” he said to the nearest one as he ran up. “Did some of the roof crack down when you hosed the rock?”

“We didn’t hose the rock,” said the man. His face was white with the terror of his narrow escape.

“What are you talking about?” snapped Smitty. “I saw the fires go out and I heard the water that put it out—”

“There was water,” said the man, “but we didn’t hose it. The water’s gushin’ from some spring or somethin’.”

Several more men came out, soaked to the skin.

“It looks pretty bad,” said one of them. Smitty recognized the drill foreman. “The bore slopes down at a four-percent grade, as you know, in order to come out at the right elevation on the other side. The water’s pocketed down there, and it’s up to a couple feet from the top of the bore. We can’t work in that stuff, and it’s coming in too fast to be pumped out.”

Smitty swore fervently. Their purpose in coming here had been twofold, he knew. The Avenger was out to see why men died from lightning bolts wielded by some “god” walking in a pillar of green mist. Also he was personally pushing this job through so that his old friend, Crast, wouldn’t go bankrupt.

The latter part of the endeavor was blocked, now, with the water.

A last man staggered from the bore. On his face was a look unlike that of any of the others. A look of fear that went beyond normal fear and into the supernatural.

“There’s somebody in there,” he said. “Somebody trapped between the water and the end of the bore. I heard her scream!”

“Her?”

Smitty’s vast paw was a vise on the man’s arm. The man yelled and sank to his knees. Smitty realized belatedly that he was a little too urgent with his clasp, and released him. The man got slowly to his feet again.

“Yeah, a woman,” he repeated, rubbing his numb arm. “I heard her.”

“You must be hearing ghosts, then,” said the drill foreman impatiently. He hadn’t heard of Nellie’s arrival at camp, yet. “No one could get in there to be trapped by the water, let alone a woman—”

He stopped. Might as well save his breath. The mad giant had entered the black bore.

Smitty splashed in water ankle-deep almost the instant he got inside. He sloshed in a turgid, knee-deep flood before many more feet had been traversed. It went to waist, shoulders. Then he could see where the roof dipped into water, and paused a moment. It was where the new section had been cracked out that roof sloped down to water. The roof would be higher when the bore was completed; but it wasn’t high enough now to save a rat from drowning—if the rat were silly enough to keep on going.

Smitty clenched his great hands in torment.

The man might have been wrong, of course. There might have been no scream. But Nellie had been gone from camp too long, and—

Then he heard it himself. A faint, bubbling cry, seeming to come right from the water between freshly-rent roof and rough floor. It was a woman’s scream!

“Coming!” he bellowed.

Outside, the men heard that stentorian hail. Then they heard the bellowing stop as Smitty dove straight into the black water.

They waited a long time, and didn’t hear the sound again. Fifteen minutes. Half an hour. No man could live in there that long.

“He’s dead!” said the drill foreman, taking off his battered hat.

CHAPTER XII

The Labyrinth

The Avenger came back from Cloud Lake Ranch to find a pretty grim situation in the camp.

Nellie Gray had vanished—gone no one knew where. The only clue to her whereabouts was that the last workman out of the flooded bore had thought he heard a woman scream, back in there. And that was pretty improbable.

Smitty had also vanished. He had dived into a place that could hardly be anything other than a watery tomb, and hadn’t been heard from since.

It looked as if The Avenger’s aides were dead. In addition, work on the Mt. Rainod tunnel seemed to be permanently stopped, so there could be no attempts made to retrieve the bodies.

The crew looked furtively at the face of the gray steel man whom they had come to regard with such respect in so short a time. They wondered how he would take the news—this man whispered to be a murderer.

The dead, white countenance, of course, told them nothing. The brilliant, colorless eyes were as unreadable as the face.

Benson turned to Todd, the chief engineer.

“Order ammonia coils and apparatus flown here at once.”

“Amm—” repeated Todd, looking bewildered. Then he nodded. “Why, of course! Just the thing! I’ll wire for the necessary stuff immediately.”

Benson looked around for Mac and Josh. But he didn’t see the Negro and the Scotchman. They were nowhere around, it seemed—

They weren’t in sight at the moment, because they were sloshing in the water of the flooded tunnel. There was a bond among the Avenger’s aides much stronger than among most associates. One would sacrifice all for the others, at any time. Similarly, the rest would risk death in an instant to help any one of them in trouble.

Mac and Josh were preparing to give up their lives for Smitty and Nellie—even though it was a thousand-to-one that Nellie and Smitty were dead and past all help.

The two were near the end of the bore. The water, it appeared, had found its permanent level, which was several inches lower than it had been when Smitty came in. It exposed the newly cracked tunnel roof a half a dozen feet farther than the giant had been able to see.

In the exposure, the end of a fissure showed, where it had not showed before.

“Look,” said Mac, puzzled. “Whether Nellie was ever in here or not, we dinna know. But we do know that Smitty was in. The whole crew saw him come in. Now—where’s his body?”

Josh shook his head. It was quite a puzzle. The end of the bore should be blank rock at the point where the work had stopped. There was no way out there for a floating corpse. There was no place for it to float to but, eventually, back toward the entrance.

Yet there was no corpse in evidence. And surely this one should be big enough to see.

It was then that Josh saw the end of the fissure. The fissure was widening where it hit the top of the water and disappeared from sight.

The roof was still dripping from the slightly higher level of the water a short time before.

“The flood was higher, before we came in,” Josh observed. “It’s possible Smitty’s body jammed up through that fissure. I’ll go and see.”

“I’ll go!” said the Scot quickly.

“No. I’m thinner than you. I can go through a narrow place easier.”

“Whoosh!” complained Mac. “Ye’re just takin’ the dangerous part, that’s all.”

But Josh’s logic was unanswerable. So, biting his lips, with only his head above water, Mac saw the Negro draw a deep breath and disappear under water, swimming toward the unseen spot where the fissure probably widened.

So that made two who dove into the black depths—and didn’t come back. First Smitty, then Josh. For Josh did not reappear.

Mac watched with growing fear, as the minutes lengthened.

“Josh!” he yelled. “Josh!”

He dove in himself, and hunted for the broader part of the fissure in the roof. He couldn’t find it. He dove a score of times, and still couldn’t locate any such place.

Apparently the roof as well as the end wall was blank, with no place to admit a human body. Yet Josh was gone, seemingly through solid rock.

The reason Mac couldn’t find the broader part of the fissure was that the fissure, after extending under water so it couldn’t be seen anymore, turned almost at right angles. So the place where a body could go up was at least eight feet to the right of where you would expect it.

Mac hadn’t found it because his sense of direction was too good. He had dived too accurately for the place where the fissure should be—and wasn’t.

Josh had found it with the first groping upthrust of his hands, because he had gotten off-line and didn’t know it.

His hands had gone up into air, felt the sides of the fissure, and then his head had emerged.

He trod water and breathed air again, with his head stuck up through the crack in the tunnel roof. The air seemed plenty fresh. What had he blundered into? Was there another opening in the glass mountain, right above the line where the tunnel was being bored, that no one had known of till now? It looked like it. Josh began worming up the fissure to find out.

He was able to crawl up it, like a small bug up a crack in a thick floor, for fifteen feet or so. Then his bleeding hands felt the upper edge of it.

He pulled himself up—and instantly tentacles coiled around him with crushing force. He yelled once, then hadn’t the strength to yell any more. Utter horror filled him—grabbed like this by some vast monster in the heart of Mt. Rainod. But his yell saved him.

“Oh, it’s you, Josh,” the monster said. “Glad you sounded off. I thought you were one of the gang.”

Josh and Mac had come into the water-filled bore equipped with small phosphorus pellets, about the size of cherries, which were the refined and perfected products of Mac’s pharmaceutical laboratory. Their function was to glow when wet.

Josh took one of these from his dripping pocket and dropped it. It glowed like a little, cold lantern, revealing a small cavern that seemed to be merely an enlarged space in a tunnel of unguessable length, for there was a hole out of each end.

In the center of the space were Smitty and Nellie.

“What on earth—” gasped Josh.

“Sh-h-h-!” snapped the giant.

He listened. They all listened; though Josh didn’t know what for.

Smitty explained.

“I think we’re in a jam. It begins to look as though I was allowed to hear Nellie scream so I’d come in here and be caught. Maybe the plan was to draw all of us, including the chief, into a trap. If so, it’s successful to the point of getting two of us.”

Josh looked at Nellie, who told of her bizarre capture after the “cliff” had fallen on her, and of the place to which she had been taken.

“When I saw that old Indian who looked like a reincarnation of the Rain God,” she shuddered, “I ran. How I ran—across the big cave and out a tunnel on the other side from the one in which he came. I ended up here, and heard water and men beneath, and yelled. So pretty soon Smitty heaved up through the fissure beside me, and we’ve been here ever since, alone in the darkness, till you came.”

“If you were allowed to run here so that your cry could draw the rest of us,” said Smitty grimly, “and if it is a trap, then we won’t be alone long! We’ll have company!”

A voice suddenly sounded from one of the tunnels, beyond the gleam of the phosphorus ball.

“See?” the voice jeered. “I told you they was smart. They caught on just like that. Only a little too late to do anything about it.”

Josh jumped for the fissure, to drop back through to the tunnel. A blinding beam of light stabbed at him. It was more light than could come from any flashlight! It was a regular spotlight.

Along with the beam came a bullet. The bullet kicked up basalt chips between Josh and the fissure; so he stood still.

“You fool!” came another voice. “That shot might be heard outside—”

“We’re in the heart of a mountain, dummy. Who’s going to hear shots? Besides, I had to stop the guy from getting away, didn’t I?”

Nellie and Smitty and Josh stood still, raging but impotent in the powerful white glare. The light was so strong that they couldn’t see a thing in the tunnel behind it. There might be two men there—there might be twenty. Meanwhile, if one of the three moved, he could be shot down as easily as a fish is speared by flashlight.

The man who had remonstrated over the shot, spoke up.

“You three—go straight ahead, down the tunnel there.”

“Where are you taking us?” demanded Nellie, a little wildly. “Not back to that hideous Rain God—”

“That’s exactly where we’re takin’ you, blondie,” sneered the unseen speaker. “And the Rain God’ll be glad to see you again. He’ll be glad to see the Scotchman and the white-haired guy when we get ’em in here, too.”

The three went ahead. There was nothing else they could do. Behind them sounded the steps of the man with the light, and others. If only they could know how many, or how few, others!

Nellie went first, then Josh, then Smitty, then the man with the light. They marched in silence for what seemed half an hour. And gradually other light grew into existence along the tunnel.

It came from their goal ahead. Nellie had seen that goal, and marveled over the light that filled the vast cave in which stood the Rain God’s statue. But Josh and Smitty hadn’t. All they knew was that it was getting lighter as they went along the tunnel.

The man with the light behind them decided it was unnecessary to flash it any longer. So he turned it out.

And that was his mistake.

In the first place, for a second or two after that powerful beam went out, nobody’s eyes were ready for the much dimmer illumination ahead. In the second place, Smitty was only a little ahead of their captors.

It wasn’t the first time an enemy had underestimated Smitty. You never underestimated his strength, after one glance at his vast body. But almost everybody badly underestimated the giant’s quickness. You simply wouldn’t believe the way he could whip that near-three-hundred pounds of his around.

The instant the light went out, Smitty whirled and charged like a runaway locomotive back along the way they had come. And the move wasn’t appreciated till too late by the men there because they were blinking and focusing their eyes for the dimmer light.

There was a yell of pain as Smitty crushed over one man like a juggernaut. There were shots, and more yells as the giant crashed into several other men. The shots went wild—and so did Smitty!

He could see, now, a little. He saw that there had been five of their captors. Now there were three, because two lay where they had been knocked, like broken dolls, by the giant’s fists. The other three were retreating hastily toward a bend in the tunnel.

Smitty started to follow, tripped on one of the men he had felled, and was delayed so that the three reached their objective.

A shot smacked from a gun poked around the bend.

“Run!” yelled Smitty to Nellie and Josh. “Straight ahead! They’ll cut us down from behind that bend—”

Nellie screamed. It sliced across Smitty’s command.

“The Indian!” she screamed. “The Rain God—”

Smitty turned. In the mouth of the tunnel ahead, was a solitary figure. It wasn’t a very big figure, but it had something more frightening than size or armaments.

Around the figure were beginning to form little shreds of greenish mist, building up into a high pillar.

Behind the three were lead bullets and sure death! Ahead of them was this fantastic apparition, unexplainable, but no less deadly for all that!

Josh yelled suddenly.

“Here’s a side hole. Follow me!”

He disappeared as if taken into the solid rock. Nellie went after him. Smitty got to the place with slugs caroming off the tunnel walls all around him, and saw a smaller hole into which his comrades had jumped. He squeezed in, too.

The shooting behind them stopped. The slight hissing noise accompanying the dread formation of the green pillar stopped, too. There was no noise.

And no sounds of pursuit.

“That’s bad,” said Josh. “It’s as if they don’t care how far we go along this hole in the mountain. As if they know we’ll fall into something in here that’ll make it unnecessary for them to settle our hash, in person.”

“Well, no matter what’s ahead of us,” said Smitty, “there’s nothing for us to do but go on. If we go back we surely die.”

So they went on. They went by feel, since Josh had only a limited number of the phosphorus pellets and didn’t want to use them, save in emergency.

They went on, it seemed, forever, groping a step at a time. It was a nerve-racking business: at any moment they might walk into space and fall countless yards down a chasm.

They went till a blank wall barred them, at last. No one knew how many subterranean turnings they had taken. Water sounded faintly beyond them and to their right.

“I . . . can’t go . . . any more,” said Nellie apologetically. “Sorry.”

Smitty shrugged in the darkness.

“We’re getting nowhere, fast. And we’re all tired out. There’s just one thing to do—rest.”

They were hungry and thirsty, but exhaustion was more potent.

They slept.

They slept for many hours, though they didn’t know the passage of time, of course.

They slept till a slight, but dreadfully familiar hissing woke them up. Then Josh, catlike, scrambled to his feet. He jerked a phosphorus pellet from his pocket and dashed the damp thing to the floor. A ghastly bluish light blared out.

They saw why they had heard the sounds of water. They were in the very place, above the end of the water-filled tunnel-bore, where they had started from! There was the place where they had been captured. There was the fissure through which Smitty and Josh had come!

Between themselves and the fissure, which represented the sole way of escape, was the thing that had been hissing.

The greenish pillar of mist. The little cloud in which walked the Rain God, striking down humans with lightning bolts.

Nellie cried out, with the sound of her voice echoing loudly in the confined space. The pillar of greenish mist, towering to the ceiling, came slowly, methodically, toward them.

CHAPTER XIII

Frozen Cure

Almost at dawn, the ammonia coils had come by plane to the construction camp. With every man working at top speed, Benson placed the coils.

He had thoroughly explored the water-filled portion of the bore, acting like a diver with his nose-clip mask and oxygen bladders, and had found where the water came from. It was from a narrow but long rent in the rock at the very end.

Into the fissure went the coils.

“We’ll freeze the water into a solid plug of ice that will keep any more from getting into the workings,” said The Avenger. “Then we can pump the rest out.”

“But we may be freezin’ Smitty and Nellie and Josh into ice plugs, too,” moaned Mac. “If they’re still alive, as ye seem to think.”

“I’ve told you I heard a shot in there yesterday afternoon,” said Benson. “People don’t shoot at corpses. They must have been alive then. It’s just possible they still are.”

Mac said nothing. He had heard no shot; but he knew the uncanny sharpness of The Avenger’s hearing.

Pipe had been laid from the water-pocketed bore to the outside. Pumps were running with deep and sonorous rhythm, pumping out the water, and pumping ammonia around the coils in the fissure.

Ammonia works fast. The ice was forming in the narrow fissure very shortly. Soon there was a rough-ended plug of it jamming the place where the water was coming from, and there was a three-foot space under the rent in the top of the roof instead of a space of merely a few inches.

Benson and Mac went toward that. Enough water had been taken out to show that, if the ones they were after had gone anywhere out of the bore, it must have been up there.

The two hadn’t gone half the distance when The Avenger held up his hand for silence. That acute hearing of his was bringing him sounds that Mac couldn’t hear at all.

For an instant he paused that way, then he began to race as hard as he could toward the fissure—but keeping the noise of his passage through the water down as much as he could.

Mac was fast on his feet; but the flashing speed of the gray steel figure of a man he called his chief left him ten yards behind. But as Mac got to the fissure, with Benson already halfway up its thickness, he too heard what Benson had heard.

There was a hissing up there like that of a dozen deadly serpents coiled to spring. The sound made the shivers rasp up and down the Scotchman’s spine.

The Avenger’s white, paralyzed face showed above the top of the rift, like the face of a figure in a waxworks. His pale, infallible eyes took in, at a glance, a picture to haunt the memory forever.

At the opposite wall of a little cave from the rift, were Smitty and Nellie and Josh, illuminated by the last of Josh’s phosphorus pellets. Nellie was half-behind Smitty’s giant bulk. Josh was a little to one side, crouched in a fighting posture.

Smitty was to the fore, with his great arms half-extended, and his body leaning forward for a desperate charge at a pillar of greenish vapor about fifteen feet through and towering to the rock roof.

The pillar was within ten feet of the three, and advancing at a steady pace. From its swirling, misty heart was coming the hissing sound.

“Chief!” yelled Nellie, seeing the white, still face and the deadly colorless eyes. Next instant she bit her lip in a frenzy for having given Benson’s sudden presence away. But it made no difference.

The Avenger had Mike in his hand. The little silenced gun seemed like a pea shooter as a weapon with which to attack this supernormal thing that killed as if with lightning bolts. But the hand that clutched it made it a great deal more effective than it looked.

Mike whispered, and a slug went to the heart of the little green cloud. There was another spat, and another and another, as the four shots in the small cylinder went into the mist.

Trying to harm the Rain God with bullets! Trying to drive a thing like that away with lead!

Four shots went into the mist. In answer to two of them, from the heart of the greenish vapor came brilliant blue flares, like lightning flashes. As if the god were striking back: lightning bolts to bullets.

And then the pillar began to retreat toward one of the tunnels leading out of the small cavern!

Mac and Josh and Smitty and Nellie watched the slow retreat with bulging eyes. The god, it seemed, had been driven off with human weapons, with four small slugs from the special .22!

Smitty leaped toward the retreating pillar of mist, lips curled back from his teeth, plainly intending to charge in and try to get his hands on whatever was in the fog.

Benson’s voice came as a whiplash.

“No!”

Smitty stopped, and stared at the pale, dead face of his chief, showing in the last dying flare of Josh’s pellet.

“Down the fissure, all of you,” said Benson, in a tone that was low but no less commanding.

Smitty and the others reluctantly saw the mist fade from sight down the tunnel darkness. They followed Benson back down the fissure to the tunnel bore. The water was only knee-deep down there, now.

“Why didn’t you let me charge the thing?” asked the giant, still furious at his lost chance.

The pale, inexorable eyes of The Avenger stared at him without, it seemed, really seeing him.

“A god,” said Benson, “might have more than two lightning bolts in his quiver. And you’re much more useful living than dead.”

After the stalking terror at Mt. Rainod, the city streets of Chicago seemed safe and sane and humdrum. But when Benson had traveled through them from the airport, next day, to the offices of the Central Construction, he found—stalking terror.

The three partners, Crest and Fyler and Ryan, were gray-faced with worry and fear.

They faced Benson over the little conference table with gaze questioningly on the dead, white face and the brilliant, colorless eyes.

The Avenger reported, quietly, impassively, what had happened. Crast nodded. He seemed the strongest and most unconquerable of the three.

“It’s about what Todd has reported to us, only more complete,” he said. “The idea of the ammonia coils was good.”

“Not good enough,” said Ryan shakily. “It will take more than that to keep us going. I got hopeful when the bore went so fast with the fire-and-water method of cracking into the mountainside. But water! That’s the worst thing that could happen. We’ll go brankrupt on this, I tell you!”

Fyler shook his head. He was staring hopefully at Benson. The one man of the three partners who was an indoors worker and who hadn’t had actual construction experience, he seemed best able to judge men swifdy and correctly.

“If anyone can save us,” he said, “Mr. Benson can. I feel quite confident that everything will be all right.”

Benson nodded acknowledgement. Ryan said gloomily:

“This is something we’ve never bumped up against, before. We’ve had frightened and rebellious men. We’ve had flooded workings. But we’ve never had to fight an Indian god.”

“Don’t be silly!” snorted Crast. “As if there were any such thing—”

A girl came from the general office. There was an urgent, harried look on her face. In her hand was a telegram. She gave it to Crast, who read it with his hands shaking a little.

“Well? Well?” snapped Ryan, voice showing what a strain he was under. “What does it say? It must be very important or Miss Bayliss wouldn’t have interrupted us like this.”

“It is—quite important,” said Crast, moistening dry lips. “Todd says that in the night the ammonia coils burst, flooding the bore with water again. We’ll have to fly new equipment down.”

“That isn’t so terrible,” Fyler said. “We aren’t yet so close to the line financially that we can’t buy—”

“That’s only a little of it,” said Crast. “Todd goes on: ‘This morning all the men quit. They took the work train and transported themselves to Boise.’ All the men. Todd and Mr. Benson’s three men are all that are left in camp.”

The Avenger’s eyes were like little cold steel spindles in his white, glacial countenance.

“That will be taken care of,” he said, rising. “And the financial part will also be taken care of, gentlemen. You run this end of it, and I think you can take it for granted that things at the other end will be duly accomplished.”

He went out, a gray steel figure of a man whose very walk was enough to inspire respect.

He went to South Chicago, to a large new building that was rising for one of the great Illinois steel companies.

The Avenger hadn’t come to Chicago to talk to the three partners. That was incidental. He had come to talk to an old foreman of his, with whom, when hardly out of his teens, Benson had engineered projects in Africa and China. It was because of this purpose of his trip that the news that all the men had left the Mt. Rainod camp left him so unmoved.

The man he wanted to see had a battered old hat on the back of his head and was yelling at a crane man on the building job. He was a big Swede, and when he saw Benson he danced like a trained bear.

“Mr. Benson! You’re a sight for sore eyes! How many years has it been since you bossed me around and gave me hell? Remember the time you yanked me out of the clutches of an Arab band in Morocco and saved my worthless life?”

Benson nodded and his eyes smiled a very little since his face could not. The Swede looked furtively at Benson’s white hair and dead countenance.

“You’ve had trouble,” he said, with awkward sympathy. “I heard about it. Your wife, and the little girl—”

He stopped at once at the look in the flaring, pale eyes.

“What can I do for you, boss? Want anybody killed, or anything?”

“I want a tunnel drilled in a place where death is lurking around,” said Benson quietly. “A crew has already quit to the last man because of the trouble there. Can you turn this job over to a subordinate and go out to Idaho with a picked crew?”

The Swede looked contemptuously at the steel skeleton of the new mill.

“Sure! This is kid stuff. I’ll be tickled to do man’s work again. You tell me where we’re to go, and I’ll bring a gang that’ll fight the devil, himself.”

“It’s something like that you will be fighting,” said The Avenger. “All right. Get as many men as you can. Tunnel men. Fly them to Mt. Rainod, Idaho. And, Johnson—get men you can trust, and watch out for yourself every minute, from now on.”

The Swede nodded at the first bit of advice and snorted at the second.

“For twenty-eight years I’ve been cheating death by a whisker all over the world, Mr. Benson. It won’t get me now!”

The Avenger left. In his small, fast plane, brought on from New York to replace the one the “mail plane” had crashed, he started back west.

And the Swede, jubilant at the idea of exchanging a tame job for a reckless one, arranged to leave his work on the new building.

As he had said, for twenty-eight years, since he’d been a boy of fifteen, he had been cheating death all over the world. In jungle and desert, under water and underground, he had beaten the Dark Monarch.

He was to lose at last in a prosaic city street, where you’d think a man was as safe as he could be on a somewhat troubled planet.

He left the South Chicago district in a dented roadster, with his hat gleefully on the back of his head. He knew where to get his men—hard men, huskies, young and full of hell. He’d have at least fifty by night.

When The Avenger went to the building, a car had followed, far behind. It had swirled off after Benson had been talking to his old foreman for a minute or two.

Now the car trailed the Swede. And on a broad street near the Chicago line, it crept up on the dented roadster.

Johnson never saw it at all. Adventurous, large-caliber men are all too apt to be incapable of understanding the sly murder practiced by the rats in the city’s underworld.

From the sedan, as it was almost abreast of the roadster, came a single shot.

The battered hat on the hard-bitten, veteran foreman’s head tilted back farther than ever. The head under it tilted too, till it rested on the back of the seat, with sightless eyes staring up at the smoky canopy of the sky.

The roadster crashed into the side of a building with a clang that could have been heard for blocks. The sedan halted, picked up Johnson’s dead body, and sped on.

At least fifty men for the new construction crew—

By nightfall fifty-four men in rough clothes stood ready to be flown to Mt. Rainod. But the kind of clothes they wore were not a true index to their characters.

They were fifty-four of Chicago’s coolest gunmen, the cream of half a dozen gangs that ruled the city with machine guns and rackets. There wasn’t one that didn’t have at least three murders to his credit.

Fifty-four of the choicest killers in the Middle West boarded planes for the construction camp at the Mt. Rainod bore, instead of a crew picked by Johnson.

Johnson, however, went along. In a box labeled “Tools.” His body was to be found near the camp so that the story would be that he had been killed after picking his crew and transporting them, rather than before.

CHAPTER XIV

The New Crew

Ethel Masterson seemed to spend most of her time around the construction camp. Whatever business she may have had at her dead father’s Cloud Lake Ranch was surely being neglected.

She was near the camp this morning, watching it with binoculars from a perch on the glass mountain’s flank where no one in camp could see her.

She stayed there till she heard soft steps immediately behind her. Then she jumped and dropped the glasses.

“Oh!” she said, when she saw who it was. “I thought for a minute—”

“You thought perhaps the man with the white eyes and the white hair might have come up behind you?”

“Yes!”

The man who had furtively approached her was the aged Indian who seemed able to appear and disappear like a being from another planet.

“The man with the pale eyes and white hair will not be moving anywhere, very shortly, if you continue to help us,” the Indian said.

Ethel looked at him in a troubled way.

“I am beginning to wonder,” she said, “if he did kill my father.”

The Indian, for all his apparent age, was very straight. He drew himself up even more erectly.

“I say that he did,” he said evenly. “And no one in all the West is able to say so more surely. For no one can read tracks as I can. No one has better eyesight. And I swear to you that the man with the white hair did murder your father.”

Ethel continued to stare at him with trouble in her brown eyes.

“Your father knew me for many years,” the Indian went on. “You yourself have known me all your life, though you have not seen me often. What I say can be believed.”

Anger flooded back into the girl’s face.

“Yes, I believe you. And I will keep helping you till the cold-blooded murderer, Benson, has paid with his own life. And if the girl and the men with him are forced to share his fate, that won’t be too bad either.”

“It is well,” said the Indian gravely.

Ethel stared at him with her face paling a little.

“There have been stories,” she faltered. “Some have said you weren’t as human as you seem, that you are the Rain God—”

“That could not be possible, could it?” the Indian murmured. “I am going now. Please keep facing this way.”

“But I . . . you— Why?” said Ethel.

“Please keep facing this way.”

The Indian went around behind her, to the edge of the black basalt. And Ethel kept facing the way she was, looking out away from the mountain.

Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She turned.

A last shred of greenish mist was just fading out of existence, and the old man was gone. She gasped at the implication of the thing. Then she got up and began skirting the foot of the mountain in the direction of Cloud Lake Ranch. She had left her horse there.

About a hundred yards behind her, as stealthily as the old Indian, himself, could have done it, was a trailer. The trailer was a girl, too, small and slim and blond and dainty-looking—Nellie Gray.

If Ethel Masterson was awed and puzzled by the disappearance of the Indian, Nellie was even more so. For Nellie had been looking right at him when he left, while Ethel was obediently facing away from him. Nellie had seen everything.

She had seen a pillar of greenish mist rapidly form just behind where the Indian stood. She had seen the Indian walk calmly into the little cloud as a man might step into a closed car. Then the pillar of fog had rapidly faded away, and there was no Indian there.

Nellie was telling herself furiously that there wasn’t anything but trickery in such an exit. It couldn’t be what it seemed to be. Just the same, she felt as if she had swallowed a couple of ice cubes when she remembered how the little cloud had faded, and the Indian had faded, too.

Ethel rounded a rock, as big as a five-story building, that had cracked off the flank of the glass mountain ages ago. Nellie had let her get farther ahead to be sure she wouldn’t be seen.

So, when the thing happened, Nellie wasn’t seen—or heard, either—by the girl she had been trailing.

The thing that happened was the emergence of a fist from the narrow space between mountain and big rock as Nellie crouched next to it. The fist came out fast, and it stopped just as fast. Stopped against Nellie’s outraged jaw.

For a second time a man had smacked her with a man’s blow when she wasn’t looking for it. Later she would be furious, but right now she wasn’t anything but unconscious.

Dick Benson had wired the camp that the new crew could be expected immediately. Therefore Todd and the aides of The Avenger were on the lookout for the planes flying them in.

What they did not expect was the series of accidents that arrived promptly with the men.

“These guys,” Todd said to Smitty after he had looked them over, “either have never worked on this kind of job before, or have been laid off for a long, long time.”

“Yeah?” said Smitty. It didn’t seem to jibe with the sort of men The Avenger would be sending in such a situation. “How can you tell?”

“Hands,” said Todd succinctly.

Fingers and palms show toil. Calluses and fingernails tell a complete story. You don’t get calloused from shooting a gun; so the hands of this new crew weren’t right to Todd’s discerning eye. The men’s fingernails were grimy enough, heaven knew. But they didn’t have that horny, ridged look that comes with years of hard work at manual jobs.

“The guy in charge of them seems fair,” grumbled Todd. “At least he talks the language. The one who says he came out as Johnson’s understudy. I wonder where Johnson is? I know of him. He’s a good man—”

The answer to that was to come very fast. A man had said that Johnson landed some hours before in a separate plane. The same man stumbled up at a run, with his face screwed up.

“Somebody got the boss!” he panted. “Johnson—some guy shot him. Must have been right after he came here.”

Todd ran after the man, with Smitty following. They came to the corpse which had been planted on the rock-strewn ground to hide the fact that the foreman had been dead before the crew was assembled in Chicago.

“There he is. Shot just once, in the left side of the head.”

Todd and Smitty bent over the still form. Smitty’s huge hand went out.

“He’s cold. Must have come about dawn, and started to look the ground over on his own before the crew got here.”

“Yeah!” agreed the man. “It must have been like that.”

That was nasty surprise number one.

Number two had to do with the ammonia coils. They were new ones, just placed, brought in to replace the ones that had unexplainably burst just before the original crew left. There was a hollow boom from the tunnel bore, and then the too familiar sight of men racing from the tunnel mouth with their clothes dripping.

Todd raced into the bore and came out white-faced with fury.

“What fool did that?” he roared.

There was no answer from the men. Todd turned to Smitty.

“Somebody set off a blast in there,” he raged. “It cracked the ice plug formed by the new coils, and it widened the mouth of the fissure the water comes from till now it’s impossible to plug it with ice any more. It’s lucky it didn’t bring the whole roof of the bore down. As it is, it cracked the surface outside so that we’ll have to shore up the slope above the tunnel mouth or we’ll be having a landslide.”

He had hardly finished speaking when Mac came running up with nasty surprise number three.

“Smitty,” he panted, “the motors—somethin’s wrong with them.”

Something was very wrong indeed, as the giant discovered the moment he set eyes on the equipment.

Somehow, the motors had been burned out. It didn’t seem possible that enough of an overload could have been applied to blow them, so Smitty examined them more closely.

He finished the examination with his face ashen with anger and his big hands trembling with a desire to choke somebody.

The motors had deliberately been burned out by shorting the armatures. It meant a great deal more delay, and more heavy equipment to be flown in.

It went on.

The fourth occurrence was just what Todd had mentioned as a thing they must instantly take steps to guard against: Possible sliding of the rock loosened above the tunnel mouth by the crazy blast inside that wrecked the ammonia coils.

There was a shattering roar, that had grown from a low rumble, and all of a sudden, several hundred tons of rock were blocking the entrance to the flooded bore and were resting on smashed machinery that had been hauled from the water.

Even that wasn’t the end. There was nasty surprise number five. And that concerned Todd himself.

The head engineer was found by Mac, near the Donald Duck outcropping and the puzzling dead tree that seemed to have walked, not once but several times. Todd was dead!

On his back was a great burn, and on the soles of his feet were two more. He had, apparently, been struck by lightning.

One of the workmen said he had seen it happen. He told and retold the story, with the other men staring at him in much the same fashion as the first crew had stared at similar accounts.

“There was a little green cloud, see? It starts toward this guy, Todd. Todd’s bendin’ down, lookin’ at the roots of the dead tree. See? He don’t notice the green mist comin’ up behind him. He straightens, sees it, yells, and starts to run. But the green stuff’s got him by then. See? It rolls back after a couple minutes and shows the guy again. Only now Todd’s lyin’ down. I take about fifteen minutes to be sure the fog ain’t comin’ back again, and then I run to him. He’s croaked. See? What I wanta know—what’s all this about some kinda god killin’ guys with lightnin’?”

Josh contributed a point, here. He had talked with Todd for a minute before the engineer left camp. Josh was probably the last person to see him alive.

“He said a kind of funny thing,” Josh told Smitty in an undertone. “You know the three partners of the Central Construction Co.—Fyler and Crast and Ryan?”

Smitty nodded.

“Well,” said Josh, “Todd said he thought he saw Crast, for a minute, quite a ways off, near the dead tree. He said he was sure it couldn’t really be Crast, because if one of the partners was coming, he’d probably wire. And if he did come without wiring, why would he stay away from camp and act as if he didn’t want to be seen? So Todd was sure it wasn’t Crast, but said he was going to stroll out and see who it was.”

“And Mac strolls out after him,” said Smitty grimly, “and finds him dead. Josh, this business is getting me jumpy.”

The colored man looked at him.

“I’d like to see you jumpy,” he remarked. “It would be like seeing Mount Rainod with a case of nerves.”

Smitty skipped the reference to his vast size.

“I wish the chief would get back,” he said worriedly. “It’s funny he isn’t here already. I rather expected him this morning, before the crew came. And now it’s late afternoon and he hasn’t arrived. I wonder if something—”

It was almost lese majesty to wonder if something had happened to that gray steel man called The Avenger; so Smitty didn’t finish it.

He went on with another wonder instead.

“Now where’s Nellie? I haven’t seen her for hours. If she’s gone and got herself in a jam, again, she can just get out of it alone. I’m through losing weight worrying about her.”

“When a man swears he’s through worrying about a woman,” said Josh philosophically, “it means he is on the verge of taking all her worries on his shoulders for the rest of time.”

“Me? Nellie?” exclaimed Smitty. “Not on your life! But I wish I knew where the reckless little witch was. And I wish I knew what was keeping the chief!”

CHAPTER XV

The Old Indian

In thinking that Benson, in his faster plane, should have landed near the camp before the other planes with the new crew, Mac and Smitty and Josh had been right. It was in the cards that he should beat them there by hours; and, indeed, he had preceded them.

The sky was light-pink when The Avenger landed, as lightly as a dried leaf, and taxied his plane beyond the curve of the glass mountain, hidden from the camp.

He had coasted down on a long slant for eighteen miles to avoid having his motor heard, for he wanted to land here without anyone knowing it.

He got out of the plane, and came back around the foot of the mountain to where he had first seen Ethel Masterson. The dead rancher’s daughter, it appeared, had met the old Indian, who claimed to be Chief Yellow Moccasins, several times in this vicinity.

The Avenger wanted to meet the old Indian, too. But not just to chat with him.

He had been there for three hours before he heard anything near him. In the meantime, the planes with the new crew had landed, and the camp had filled again.

Then Benson heard a breath of sound some little distance to his right. He stared over that way.

The ancient he wanted to see was just picking a silent way around a rock shoulder. The Indian sat down on a big rock and stared out over the rock-strewn tableland.

So much time had passed that Benson knew he had to move fast. He started creeping up on the man.

He got within fifty yards of the old Indian, unseen and unheard. Then Benson took out Mike.

The special little .22 took a fleeting aim, and a slug whispered from its silenced, venomous little muzzle.

The Indian sagged sideways, without a sound, creased by the bullet. He would be out for hours.

Benson went up to him. In his left hand was a case which he had brought from his plane. It was about the size of an ordinary overnight bag; but when he opened it, the contents were revealed as being far indeed from ordinary.

There was a top tray with dozens of pairs of little glass shells, designed to slip over a human eyeball. Each pair had a slightly different colored pupil on them. There were wigs and plastics and flesh-colored adhesive, and a hundred other aids to make-up. And in the top lid was a small but perfect mirror.

The Avenger propped the deeply unconscious Indian up in a sitting position, and placed the case so that the mirror was next to the Indian’s face. Then Benson went to work on his own paralyzed features—and a miracle was wrought.

Man of a Thousand Faces, able to simulate the appearance of practically any person! His title, it could be seen now, was well-earned.

Steely, slim fingers prodded at the flesh of his face. And where that dead flesh was placed, it stayed, as if made of some sort of plastic itself. For when Benson’s face was paralyzed and his hair whitened by the nerve shock of his tragic loss, more than the nerves of his countenance seemed to have been affected. The flesh seemed to have lost life itself, and to have become incapable of springing back to its natural outlines when moved out of them.

A hawk nose appeared, and deep seams of great age, and a slightly narrower jawline. Eye-shells with brown, slightly muddy pupils were slipped over the icily flaring, pale eyes. A small razor took off hair at temples till Benson’s skull was bald high above the forehead as an Indian’s skull is hairless. There was a wig with long, straight black hair containing just a few that were gray.

The Avenger slipped on the redskin’s patched overalls and stood up. He was no longer Benson; he was the old Indian!

He bound the unconscious man’s legs and arms, examined him to make sure he had suffered no serious hurt, and left him in a shallow niche at the foot of the rock where the sun wouldn’t bake him the rest of the day.

With the Indian on ice for many hours to come, Benson went back in the direction from which the redskin had appeared. As he moved, he examined the flank of the glass mountain, inch by inch. He was hunting for a lair, or cave, from which the native might have emerged.

The painted pupils on the eyeshells interfered with vision a bit. But in spite of that, Benson saw what ninety-nine out of a hundred plainsmen would have missed; a spot where a squat, gnarled tree that was hardly larger than a bush seemed to have a darker background at its base than at its top.

He went to it. The tree hid a hole in the base of the rock hardly larger than an incinerator chute. Benson crawled lithely in, and was at once in a labyrinth.

There were burrows like those in a rabbit warren going all over the place. Most of them were irregular and natural; but a few were carved by human hands, though it had been done a long, long time ago.

Benson nodded, the seamed, darkened skin of his made-up face as expressionless as only dead flesh can be. Everything he was seeing was confirming the ideas he had slowly, methodically formed about the glass mountain and its vicinity.

To choose one of the many tunnels to travel along seemed hopeless; but Benson didn’t hesitate more than a few seconds. He stared at the various holes only till he found one going definitely upward. Then he entered that one, with his small but powerful flash, and began a long, steady ascent.

Mt. Rainod was certainly a thing of surprise. No wonder it had a sinister reputation, extending back through the-ages! It was small, as mountains go; but with all these tunnels and age-old shafts piercing its vitals, all sorts of weird things could happen here.

Benson went up and up along the low tunnel. This was one of the artificial ones, painfully hollowed out of the glass mountain by countless savage hands centuries ago. It was quite regular and easy to travel. But even at that, it took him over an hour to get to the end of it.

When he got to the end of the tunnel, he got to the heart of at least one mystery.

The shaft ended in a larger one that was a natural rift in the basalt. And this, in turn, ended in something as unexpected, in this place of nature’s freaks and ancient man’s labor, as would be a night club on top of Mt. Everest.

It ended in an ordinary, modern gate-valve.

The thing was immense with at least a five-foot opening. It was set in tons of concrete, which blocked tightly the space between valve and walls of the rift.

Benson went back to the tunnel he had just left. Beside it, where it entered the bigger rift, was a block of basalt as accurately cut as if by jewelers’ tools. Cut to fit the tunnel mouth and block it from the rift.

The gate-valve was shut, with just a few drops of water oozing under apparently enormous pressure around the edges of the bronze gate. And lying next to it, as if his had been the hand to shut it, lay a man. But the man would not shut, or open, anything any more.

He was dead. And, also, he was familiar.

Benson went swiftly to the body, and knelt down with the flashlight on his face.

The dead man was Crast, from the Chicago office.

Benson was very still. The pale eyes behind the eye-shells glared like ice under a polar moon. Jim Crast, here in this place, though everyone had supposed him to be in Chicago!

Crast had been shot in the back of the head. The gun that had killed him lay beside him. Benson picked it up in hands stained and lined to resemble the hands of the ancient Indian. There were initials on the butt of the revolver.

The initials were T.R. The Avenger knew of only one man, remotely connected with this business, with those initials.

Thomas Ryan.

Benson started to go through Crast’s pockets for a key to his unexpected presence here at Mt. Rainod. Then his hands jerked back, and he got to his feet in one fast, flowing motion.

Steps were sounding down the rift from the big gate-valve. The steps of many men.

Benson stood straight and still beside the corpse, facing in the direction of the sounds. He made no move at all to get away. His flash was off and in his pocket.

Men came into sight down the tunnel. There were eight of them, dressed in working clothes. Benson recognized them. They were of the original crew. Evidently not all had gone to Boise on the work train after they’d quit.

The men stopped short as they saw the erect figure before them—ancient, seamed face, straight body in faded overalls.

“Well, well,” said the man in the lead, “it’s old funny face. How’d he get loose?”

“Maybe it’s—” began another.

“Naw! He’s back there. This is the other one, all right. Hey, Chief Yellow Dogs, time to go back to your basket.”

Benson drew himself straighter still, and folded his arms over his chest.

“Don’t he make a pretty picture?” sneered the man in the lead. “But he makes a prettier one tied up like a furled sail and stuck in the back of the Rain God’s house. Get him and take him back.”

The men’s words were telling Benson many things. So many that he made not one move when the men laid violent hands on him.

He stood perfectly still, as the dignified old savage he was pretending to be probably would have done. Since it was apparent that eight young men could overpower one old one, Chief Yellow Moccasins probably would not have lost his dignity by engaging in useless struggle.

The men tied him even more securely than he had tied the old Indian outside. And then there were more steps. And a figure came into the light that made the men swear and blink in awe.

The figure that wove into the light was apparently the same figure that stood tied by the gate-valve. There was the same seamed and ancient face, the same hawk nose and arrogant posture, the same faded overalls.

“Boy, you’re good,” said one of the men holding Benson, as he stared at the second figure.

The Avenger stared, too, eyes icy behind the disguising eye-shells.

Benson knew that the man he had bound and left outside was not this man. Even if he had not known it was impossible for him to be up and around so soon, he would have known because this man had no gash on the top of his skull where Mike’s small slug had bitten.

So there were, with Benson’s own pretense, three old Indians around the glass mountain where only one was supposed to be.

“I think we ought to knock the old duck off,” said one of the men, glaring at Benson. “This is the second time he has worked out of his ropes.”

“No, not yet,” said the other figure in the faded overalls. “Take him back to his cell again.”

“How about this thing?” said a man, nudging the body of the dead partner, Jim Crast, with a callous toe.

“Leave it here.”

“The gat? There’s initials on the butt.”

“Leave it, too. It will be sealed in here forever next time the valve is opened.”

The men followed the one figure in faded overalls back down the rift, half-shoving and half-herding the other, similar figure; that of Benson.

The Avenger said nothing and attempted nothing. He went where he was prodded, all the long way down a slope similar to the one he had climbed from outside the mountain. He got to the great cave Nellie Gray had seen, in which was the weird image of the Rain God.

There he was dragged to a place behind the statue. A rock slab was rolled back, and he was shoved in. The slab was replaced.

Benson had snapped out his flash when he heard sounds while standing at the gate-valve. The men hadn’t bothered to search him, so he still had the flash. He lit it after some time had elapsed, holding it in his bound hands.

He was in a cell about ten feet square. There were remains of food in here, and, on a sharp projection, a wisp of faded blue denim. The old Indian whom he had creased with Mike had obviously been held in here for some time before escaping—to fall into The Avenger’s impersonal way.

The third figure in faded denim? The twin to Chief Yellow Moccasins?

There was the heart of the riddle.

CHAPTER XVI

Two Nellie Grays

Mac and Josh and Smitty didn’t like men who looked like rats and the new crew hadn’t been around very long when the three got very wise to them.

“There has certainly been a colossal slip-up somewhere,” said Smitty. “These guys are all crooks and killers if ever I saw any.”

Mac nodded somberly.

“They’re certainly not the kind the chief would pick. Nor would any friend of the chief pick them.”

Josh spoke up with some of his dusky philosophy.

“When the lamb finds itself in the wolves’ lair, the lamb should move!”

The other two nodded. They weren’t exactly lambs, but they certainly found themselves in a wolves’ lair at the moment. They walked with death beside them. They sensed that; knew it. Todd had already died. It was quite logical that The Avenger’s aides would be tackled, too. And there were half a hundred of these killers that had come so surprisingly to Mt. Rainod as a workers’ crew.

“Whoosh! They’ll get us, of course, no matter what we do,” said Mac dourly.

The Scot was the gloomiest soul alive—till things got really desperate. Then, when there didn’t seem a chance of escaping death, for some cockeyed reason he got as sure of success as an optimist drunk on champagne.

“They’ll likely do for us if we stick around,” said Smitty. “My vote is, slip out of camp and make ourselves scarce till the chief shows up.”

“Aye,” said Mac.

Josh nodded, too.

The three were not afraid; it took more than a pack of gunmen to affect them that way. It was simply bad sense to wait around till some rat shot you in the back; good sense to stay alive so you could work some more.

So they slipped out of camp, one at a time, and met again near the Donald Duck outcropping. Here Mac balked at going farther.

“I’m stayin’ here,” he said, “till I see what ails this big dead trrree. ’Tis too much it has moved with us not knowin’ why.”

They examined the “walking” tree.

Others had examined it and found it like any other tree. The three aides of The Avenger didn’t find anything out of the way, either, at first, so cleverly was it done.

Then Josh, who had been scraping away at the shale and earth, exclaimed aloud. He had come to the end of one of the roots. There should have been no end. The root should have kept on extending for yards under the surface.

They found more root ends. Then Smitty, with a grunt, tipped the big thing over. Four average men couldn’t have done it, for the extending roots, short as they had been cut, made a wide base. But the giant, with a heave and a snort, tipped it in a hurry. Then there were more exclamations.

The thing was hollow all the way down. At the base, in the hollow, was a clever arrangement of wheels and levers. By lifting the levers you lowered the wheels, jacklike, till the stump was raised on them a few inches. Then you rolled the great dead thing wherever you wanted it, barring too-great irregularities in the ground.

“But why?” gasped Josh.

“Easy,” said Smitty. “This tree was used as a surveyors’ mark in laying out the new roadbed. Somebody knew that. So they moved the mark, which set the tunnel site deliberately at the wrong place. For some reason, the tree-mover didn’t want drilling to start at the correct spot.”

Mac was standing on the big dead stump. He could see farther than the rest from his four-foot elevation.

“Oh-oh!” he said. “A bunch is coming from camp. They’ve found out we left, and they want to locate us.”

“How many?” said Smitty, swelling his giant muscles. “We can take care of any number up to eight.”

“There are a lot more than—Smitty! Look behind you! At the cliff!”

Smitty whirled. And then his bellow of alarm roared out.

Nellie Gray was at the foot of the cliff, at the mouth of an irregular opening that seemed to stop at a great boulder a few feet in. The three were yards from her, but there was no mistaking the diminutive, fragile, feminine figure and the tawny-gold hair, even though Nellie’s back was to them.

Her back was to them because something within the rift had hold of her. They could see a hand, not large, but purposeful, on her throat. They could see her fight wildly, silently.

Then they saw her hauled into the recess out of sight.

Led by Smitty in a mad bull-elephant rush, the three raced toward the fissure. Forgotten were the men coming from the camp. In Smitty’s mind everything else was forgotten, too.

Nellie Gray fighting for her life! That was the payoff for the giant. When he saw a thing like that, there was violent action due.

They got to the recess, and found it wasn’t a recess at all. It was one of the fissures, beginning now to look uncountable in number, leading into the heart of the glass mountain.

They squeezed in. There was no sound from Nellie, and that was bad. That hand at her throat—

They had gone twenty yards over a rough floor when they saw a feminine form again, flitting ahead of them, hanging back as if being dragged.

They rushed to it!

There was a sound behind them like the thudding into place of a bank vault door, magnified many times. Even with Nellie on their minds, the three turned automatically.

They saw that the action which had produced the sound was much as if a vault door had thudded into place behind them.

A slab of solid basalt, many feet through, had been dropped from somewhere in the roof of the tunnel, and had smashed ponderously on the rock of the floor. Now it barred the way they had come, rising sheer from floor to roof, and extending from wall to wall of the rift.

They had been sealed in with tons of stuff as hard and obdurate as smooth, black glass.

Smitty swept his flashlight from the newly-fallen mass.

“No freak of nature ever did that,” he said somberly. “That’s a man-made trap.”

The light stabbed along the passage, and lit on the feminine figure whose distress had drawn them in here.

The girl was laughing, if you’d want to call it that. Her face was twisted with laughter, but it was a kind of sobbing sound that came out, bordering on hysteria.

And the girl was not Nellie Gray.

With her hair lightened, and wearing Nellie Gray’s clothes, she looked like Nellie. But at close range the shape of her face and color of her eyes gave her away. It was Ethel Masterson.

“You’ll die!” she screamed. “You’ll all die! I didn’t get your leader with my trick, but at least I got you, his friends. And your deaths will be a part-payment for my father’s murder.”

Smith glared at the girl.

“I tricked you nicely,” she shrilled. “I grasped my own throat, with my own hand, with my back turned to you, and pretended to be dragged forward by someone. I did it all alone, for vengeance.”

“Very clever,” grated the giant.

There was a second ponderous thud, and suddenly a thick wall of black basalt appeared behind the girl, shutting them all into a thirty-foot stretch of the tunnel.

The girl laughed crazily.

“You’ll die! You’re all trapped!”

Smitty’s look and tone softened. The giant knew distress when he saw it. He knew that this girl wasn’t acting in character; she had been driven half-mad by the conviction that The Avenger had killed her father. She was no murderess. She wasn’t responsible for the things she was doing.

Also, it seemed to Smitty, she wasn’t very bright.

“Aren’t you overlooking something?” the giant said.

She stared at him with a little more sanity in her eyes.

From some place not far off came the sound they had heard before, and had learned to dread. The sound of underground water.

“We’re trapped, yes,” said Smitty, “but you seem to be overlooking the fact that you’re trapped, too. Whatever happens to us, will also happen to you!”

Ethel stared back at the second great slab that had dropped from the tunnel roof to block them off. And sudden bewilderment and terror showed in her eyes.

“Why,” she stammered, “why . . . that slab . . . I was to have been on the other side when that dropped, shutting you all in—”

From around the bottom and lower sides of the first slab gushed water. In a torrent it began to fill the cave, rushing in freely but with too much pressure behind it to allow it to run out again.

The level rose several inches a minute. In a good deal less than half an hour it would hit the roof. And there was no way out save the two blocked by the basalt slabs.

Benson’s ruse had done one thing for him at least. His disguise as the old Indian, Yellow Moccasins, had gotten him to the heart of the mystery of the glass mountain unharmed. However, bound hand and foot and thrust into a solid rock cell, it didn’t look as if he could do much about it.

He set about remedying the situation.

Those slim hands of his that, given time, could beat any bonds, began to work. No larger in circumference—when palms and thumb were compressed—than his wrists, they slowly worked the ropes down over his fingers.

In the dark, he untied the rest of his bonds, and stood free.

He could manipulate his small flashlight better now than when, before, he had held it awkwardly in bound hands after nudging it laboriously from his pocket. He played it on the opening through which he had been brought.

It was closed by a basalt slab. But the slab was not very large. The gang must have thought it plenty safe enough for the Indian that Benson was supposed to be. No ordinary man could have budged it, let alone a man as old as Yellow Moccasins. But Benson was neither old nor ordinary.

Sitting on the floor, he got his feet against the slab. There was enough of a crevice in one place to admit his fingers. So with the full force of arms, shoulders, back and legs, he thrust at the slab. Its five hundred or so pounds grated softly, then slid a couple of feet outward.

He got through the small opening, and stood in the great cave with the statue of the Rain God.

He was struck at once by the thing that had first taken Nellie Gray’s attention. That was the fact that the place, far underground, was dimly lighted. He set out to investigate that first. He soon found the answer. Like the gate-valve, the things were as out of place in this tomb of ancient worship as would be a nightclub on Mt. Everest.

They were ordinary electric-light bulbs, sparsely placed up near the top of the cavern, hidden by stalactites.

Electric-light bulbs!

But The Avenger had known there was some such thing in here. He had known it ever since he had found the short black tube of rubber with the bit of fabric adhering to it. For that little rubbery length had been a bit of insulation from an electric power cable, peeled off when a blade cut the cable to shorten or splice it.

He began following the wires. They led down a rift in the basalt that he had not seen before. As he went, he heard a faint humming. It grew louder till he stepped into a small cavern in the center of which, beside a silently rushing underground stream, was an electric generator.

The motor was brand new; had very recently been set up in here. It was powered by the stream. The Avenger nodded, dead face even more stoical than that of the old Indian he was made up to represent. He started farther along the tunnel—and saw a man.

The man stood facing a slab of basalt that closed off the rift, and seemed to be listening. Benson tensed as the man turned. Then he relaxed as he saw the man look at him with no surprise or apprehension at all. In fact, the fellow was grinning. But the grin was murderous, wolfish.

“Well, we got ’em,” the man said. “All but the guy with the dead pan and the white hair. They’re trapped in there with the water rising. I just turned the water on.”

Benson’s brain was even faster than his body. It caught the whole story in a fraction of a second.

“Turn it off again,” he said instantly, calmly. “I don’t want them killed, yet.”

The man’s mouth went slack with surprise. Evidently, whoever he thought Benson was had spoken differently a short time before.

“But you said—” he began.

“I have changed my mind,” said Benson. “I want them alive for questioning. Shut off the water and raise the slab.”

“O.K. with me,” said the man, sullenly, shaking his head. He turned a wheel set into the basalt wall with concrete reinforcing it. Then he began laboriously to raise the big block into the roof again with a huge hardwood lever that worked up and down in a slot and was the grandfather of all jacks. The wheel was modern; the crude jack, which lifted the block an inch at a time, was ancient.

Those inside weren’t waiting for the full clearance to show. They scrambled under the block when it was hardly a yard up, and out of their watery trap.

Josh and Mac and Smitty stared at their chief without recognition, narrow of eye, wondering what new funny stuff was afoot. But Ethel Masterson looked at him with wild relief, for about a minute.

“Thanks to Heaven,” she said, “it’s you! I knew you had made a mistake in having me brought here, but—”

She stopped, stared over Benson’s shoulder, and cried out huskily.

Behind Benson, four men were coming down the rift, carrying a fifth. The man in the lead—was the old Indian, Yellow Moccasins. But the man the other three carried was the old Indian too; the one whom Benson had left outside after creasing him with Mike. He had been discovered and carted in here. Then, to the eye at least, Benson was the old Indian.

There were three Chief Yellow Moccasins here, where there should have been but one.

Catlike in his swiftness, Benson darted toward the narrow opening under the newly lifted basalt slab.

“No, Chief,” said Smitty quietly. The lightning swiftness of this third “Indian’s” movements had told him his identity. “There’s no way out there. It’s sealed shut.”

Benson stopped. From down the rift, after the four men who carried the real Yellow Moccasins, more men were coming. At least two dozen men, members of the new crew of killers.

They surrounded Benson and his aides, and Ethel Masterson, and took them back to the cave of the Rain God. There, they thrust them into the small cell from which Benson had just escaped.

CHAPTER XVII

Fifteen Million Dollars

Benson’s flash, stood on end, was a ghostly white lantern in the somber little death cell. Benson paced slowly back and forth, colorless eyes like chips of polar ice in his dead face. He had taken the disguising eye-shells from his eyeballs, because they were apt to break and injure his eyes if struck. Otherwise, he was still the old Indian, in faded overalls but moving with bewildering youth and agility when you looked at the ancient face.

Like most criminals, the gang here was too stupid to learn very fast. They had preconceived ideas about tying people up, and it was hard for them to unlearn those ideas.

They had tied Benson once, and he had gotten free. They’d thought merely that the man who tied him had been careless, so with childlike trust they had tied him again.

And again, of course, he had slipped his bonds over those unusual hands of his the moment he was left alone. Then he had freed the rest. They sat around the tiny space now, looking at him. Their freedom didn’t mean much. There were many men in the other cave if they tried to roll the slab back from the cell opening and make a dash for it.

The old Indian—the genuine article—was conscious now, and sitting up with the rest. He must have had a devil of a headache, from the gash on the top of his skull. But with the stoicism of his race, he didn’t show it.

He looked at the man who so eerily resembled himself, save for the pale, icy eyes.

“I do not understand,” he said, in slow but good English. “For many days I have been held here by one who looks as I do—and yet not by you, who also look as I do.”

Ethel Masterson stared at him quickly.

“Then it hasn’t been you who has been telling me—the things about my father’s death?”

The old man stared at her with hurt in his eyes if not in his face.

“Your father is dead? I did not know. That is bad. He was a good man. No, it has not been me.”

“Then the man masquerading as you—” Ethel burst out.

“You have been misled from the start,” Benson said quietly. “The men who wanted to kill me and my friends saw in you a possible tool. So they used you as a dupe.”

“And you stole my clothes—” Nellie Gray began indignantly. She was still dressed in the cowgirl’s costume, switched when Ethel took Nellie’s things during the blond girl’s unconsciousness.

But Nellie stopped at the look on Ethel’s face. No accusations could make the cowgirl feel worse than she already did. That was evident.

“Your father,” said Benson, “was investigating Cloud Lake. The water level was fluctuating in the little lake. It had never done that before, and he was curious to know why it should now.”

“That’s right,” said Ethel. “But how did you know?”

“When I was at your ranch, I saw evidence of the changing level on the piling of your little dock. Also, your boat was half out of water, stranded when the water went down. I knew it was beached by the accident, and not on purpose, because it is the type of boat that should never be taken out of water; the seams dry and open if that is done.”

Ethel was staring at him with a new respect. Also with an increase of disillusion and contrition in her pretty face as she realized even more fully how absurd she had been in allowing herself to be set against this man.

“Because your father was getting curious about the changing level of Cloud Lake, he had to be killed before he discovered too much. The killer knew that I was to be called here soon. So, with a white wig, he impersonated me roughly when he shot your father, for the benefit of possible witnesses. When I arrived, I stepped into a complete murder frame.”

Ethel shook her head. She looked puzzled, as did the rest.

“Why should Masterson’s curiosity be so dangerous to this gang, Chief?” said Smitty. “And why did the level of the lake shift?”

“The lake level shifted when the water was diverted to run through a channel not far from here and power an electric generator. It shifted again when the tunnel bore was ‘accidentally’ flooded.”

“Whoosh!” said MacMurdie, staring. “Ye can’t mean that. Cloud Lake is full eight miles from here!”

Benson nodded, icy eyes flaring.

“I know. The distance is what kept people from thinking of it in connection with the flooding. But there is a rift going from the heart of this mountain clear to the lower level of the crater lake. Furthermore, there is a very modern and efficient gate-valve set into the rift so that the bore could be flooded any time desired.”

The Avenger paced the little cell, seeming to flow rather than walk, such was the smooth litheness of his movements.

“It’s all very elaborate and complicated, and yet the stake was high enough to justify it.”

Josh thought back to the report on Joe Bass’ death. Bass had been a prospector, after copper.

“You mean,” he said hesitantly, “there is copper here, and someone knew it and tried to keep the tunnel from being started because it would hit into the vein and—”

“No,” said Benson, “it’s not quite that indirect. I managed to orientate myself pretty thoroughly in the big cave outside, get all my directions down accurately, and those directions told the story.

“The Central Construction Co., along with others, bid on this Mt. Rainod tunnel job. The estimates were based on laborious drilling through a great, solid mass of stuff literally as hard and stubborn as glass. Central Construction got the job at a figure slightly over twenty million dollars. What they did not know was that straight through the heart of the mountain, so close to the line laid out for the tunnel that it is easily usable, there is a natural tunnel, or rift, that only needs a little widening in spots to accommodate a double-track roadbed.

“This means that instead of having all the glass mountain to drill through, it is only necessary to drill through a short space at either end, to open up the natural rift. Probably ninety percent of the tunnel has been done for them by nature, countless ages ago. And this means that out of the twenty-million-dollar bid, at least fifteen million will be clear profit.”

The pale, all-seeing eyes stared in the direction of the tunnel bore.

“Somebody knew that, secretly. So he set out to bankrupt the Central Construction Co. and take over the valuable contract. First he tried to get drilling operations started in the wrong place by shifting the surveyors’ marks. In that way the bore wouldn’t strike the fissure even if it did get far enough into the mountain. Then he upset the crew and drove them away by the mumbo-jumbo about the vengeance of the Rain God. Also, through the great valve, the waters of Cloud Lake were diverted into the bore, stopping all work. All to break the company.”

Nellie Gray’s lovely eyes were reflecting doubt.

“That green pillar of fog the Rain God walks in,” she said, “and the lightning bolts that killed people—they looked like more than mumbo-jumbo!”

The Avenger’s icily flaring eyes glittered.

“The green cloud was quite simple. With water available, a little of it was atomized through a hose under pressure. In this hot, dry air of Idaho, the moisture instantly formed into a mist. The greenish color was the key to the riddle. Cloud Lake, unlike most crater lakes, is not crystal-clear. Its water is greenish from water growth and algae. Hence the color of the cloud formed to hide whoever wanted to kill from it.”

“And the lightning?” said Ethel breathlessly.

“Simply a high-tension wire carried by the killer in rubber-gloved hands. There’s an excellent generator in here. It could easily deliver a lethal shock through wire cable trailed off from it. And the presence of the electric cable was indicated clearly when I fired into the cloud and twice there were blue arcs in answer: the bullets struck the wire.”

“Mon, ’tis incrrredible,” burred the Scot. “And yet, it all ties together. For instance, when I got away from the Rain God in his cloud by simply climbin’ the dead tree.”

The Avenger nodded.

“The man playing god in the cloud couldn’t see in it any better than anyone else. He could simply grope till he touched his enemy with the bared end of the cable. You were up out of his reach; so the man didn’t find you.”

“The man who walks in the green cloud, and the man who is made up as our friend, Yellow Moccasins, is the same?” said Josh slowly.

“Yes,” said Benson.

“He is the murderer of my father?” asked Ethel.

“In all probability.”

“And he is the one behind the flooded bore and the installation of generators, and the trick with the atomized water, and the rest?” demanded Smitty.

“Whoosh!” said Mac hotly. “If I ever get my hands on the skurlie—”

“He’s mine,” said Josh quickly. “He killed me, didn’t he? At least for half an hour till the chief brought me back.”

“I’ll take him,” rasped Smitty, giant hands clenching. “Just one crack at him—”

Ethel Masterson’s laugh rang out. It was cracked, hysterical.

“How you all talk,” she half-laughed, half-sobbed. “Here you face hopeless death—and you talk of dealing justice to this murderer! Why, you don’t even know who he is—who’s hiding under the Indian disguise!”

Benson’s voice was a quiet dam in the swirling path of her hysteria.

“But we do know,” he said. “I suspected it from the first—the moment I heard the successful bid of the Central Construction Co. was a full four million dollars lower than the next lowest price—”

The slab at the cell opening was rolled back. A harsh spotlight, not a flashlight but a regular reflector with an electric cable trailing back from it, stabbed within.

“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” gasped a man. “They’re loose. The white-headed guy untied himself, again!”

“It don’t matter,” said another, indifferently. He raised his voice. “Come out, you apes in there. Out into the Rain God’s cave.”

Smitty’s enormous shoulders bulged with a resolve to smash out of the cell like a tank and take as many men as he could with him to the death that was so certain for all.

Benson’s steely, slim hand touched his shoulder in a restraining gesture. There was a calmness in the hand that was incredible under the circumstances.

“Come out, I said!” the man repeated insolently. “And come one at a time, with your hands up. This is the last act for you all. You can take it now, with slugs, or you can live a little longer by doing as you’re told.”

CHAPTER XVIII

Death of a God

There had been changes in the big cave since the man with the cold, pale eyes and the others had been herded from it into the cell.

There were six runways leading into the big space from other parts of the amazingly labyrinthine glass mountain. Four had been blocked solidly, tightly, with the basalt slabs cunningly carved centuries ago by the original occupants of the cavern.

One tunnel, leading, Benson knew, toward the new Mt. Rainod tunnel bore, was open.

The rift right across from it, leading back to where the swift stream powered the generator, was also open and unblocked.

These things the colorless, infallible eyes saw first. Then the pale, cold gaze went to the statue of the Rain God.

The thing was over twenty feet high. The head of the statue, with carved headdress, was as big as a rain barrel. And on the head stood a figure that was right in place, there.

The figure of an Indian seeming to be centuries old, and with a face that strangely resembled the statue’s.

“Masquerading to the last,” whispered Smitty. “Guess he doesn’t want even his own thugs to know who he is.”

“Of course not,” Josh whispered back. “That way lies future blackmail, what with murder and all the rest that’s been done around here.”

The figure on top of the statue spoke, then. The armed criminals who surrounded the prisoners were silent, and a little bit in awe, even though they knew enough of the layout here to realize there wasn’t anything supernatural about it. The measured, impressive tone of the man on the statue—

“Benson,” the man said, “you and your employees, and the Indian and the rancher’s daughter, are going to die in here. That’s the reward you get for meddling in affairs that are none of your business.”

The man’s voice had been impressive. It was made to sound futile and weak by the measured tone of The Avenger.

“Murder is my business,” the man with the dead face said. “I will always meddle with it. And so far, all the murderers in whose affairs I have meddled have somehow been destroyed by their own deadly greed. Take warning from that.”

The man on the statue quivered with anger, then relaxed and laughed. It was a harsh bark of sound.

“You pick a fine time to talk big,” he sneered. “You will find yourself talking to Death in a few minutes. Have you anything to say before you die?”

“Nothing, Fyler,” said Benson steadily.

There was a full minute of silence.

“What did you call me?” said the man so theatrically posed on the statue’s head, in a strangled tone.

“I called you by name,” said The Avenger evenly. “And that is—Arthur Fyler.”

The man laughed. But the sound was strained.

“A last guess, and a bad one,” he said. “I’m not—”

“The man who saw to it that the Central Construction Co. got the Mt. Rainod tunnel job, even though it had to bid millions under the next lowest estimate,” said The Avenger, voice like that of doom, “is the man who will presently meet his victims beyond the grave. And that man is you.”

The bizarre figure on the statue faced the motley crew of gunmen.

“He’s insane,” came his urgent words. “I’ve never heard of this Arthur Fyler. I—”

“You killed Masterson, impersonating me,” Benson said, voice not seeming loud and yet drowning the other’s out. “You killed the others with your power cable. You killed Crast when he came secretly to find out for himself what was wrong and when he actually discovered the gate-valve. You used a gun belonging to your other partner, Tom Ryan, to frame him if ever the murder should be discovered. You have a fast plane hangared on the other side of the mountain, that has shuttled you back and forth from Chicago to do all these things. Probably you plan to desert your men now, and leave them here while you fly back to reap the fifteen-million-dollar reward for all your murderous work.”

The men were looking at each other, and then at the man on the statue, with smoldering eyes. A grin touched Smitty’s lips briefly, Fyler might get away with this last mass murder, but it would do him small good. These thugs would bleed him of every cent he’d ever get, now that they knew his identity. The way they were staring at each other, greedily, speculatively, proved that—

There was a movement beside the giant so fast and so unexpected that even Smitty, used as he was to The Avenger’s lightning motions, gaped with surprise.

Like a leaping cougar, the gray steel man was across the cave and at one cleared entrance—leading toward the tunnel bore in Mt. Rainod’s flank—before anyone else could move.

“Get him!” yelled one of the men. “If he gets away—”

The leader on the statue’s stone head didn’t move. There was a curious smile on his lips. Instantly the reason for the smile came out.

Four men walked into the cave from the rift. And Benson came backing before them, because four guns were trained on his chest.

“I anticipated some such thing,” said Fyler. “So—don’t kill him!”

Benson hadn’t given up yet. With another of his incredibly fast moves, he was on the men, sweeping their guns aside, grappling with them.

But the outcome was the expected one when the odds are one to four. The men got him down on the floor, in the very entrance of the rift. Then they brought him roughly back.

“I’m glad you heard my orders not to kill him,” said the man on the statue. “That would have been too swift.”

Benson stood silent, basilisk-eyed.

“I was beginning to think nothing could beat that man,” whispered Ethel to Nellie.

Nellie waved her hand impatiently, and kept on staring at The Avenger. She still believed nothing could beat him—would keep on believing that right up to the moment when she gasped her last breath.

Fyler was climbing down from the statue. He went toward the open rift leading toward the tunnel bore. All the men with him retreated slowly, too, with guns on the prisoners.

Far off, down the other rift that was unblocked by the basalt slabs, could be heard a rumble. The rush of water. Many tons of it.

Smitty quivered for action, but still the cold gaze of The Avenger held him back. Josh was biting his lips, knowing he was to die and not liking it any more than any other man, but quite calm. Nellie’s head was high, and the dead rancher’s daughter was taking a bit of courage from her example.

Mac spoke, with his crazy reversal of pessimism coming to the fore, as usual, when there was no way out.

“I’d hate to be in Fyler’s shoes when the chief gets through with him,” he said. “I’ll pray a wee bit for him when we get out of this. He’ll be needin’ it.”

Fyler heard, and laughed once more. Then he was in the rift. The men crowded in after him, three abreast, guns holding the captives to the last. They were finally all out.

“Chief,” pleaded Smitty, “let me rush ’em. I could get at least three or four—”

“No!” said The Avenger, icy eyes on the tunnel entrance.

There was a scraping sound. Then one more of the great basalt slabs dropped from the top of the rift. The last man out had released it.

Now there was only one opening into the cave of the Rain God. That was the one down which sounded the furious rushing of water. A sound that was very near, now.

All the other exits were hopelessly blocked with tons of the glasslike basalt.

Suddenly the lights went out. They were in pitch darkness. And the sound of the flood was a booming roar in their ears.

Ethel screamed wildly.

Nellie said: “Oh! That’s worse than anything else. This darkness.”

“The water has flooded the generator,” said Benson, voice quiet in the dark. “The gate-valve from Cloud Lake has been fully opened, for the last time. Everybody, start climbing the statue of the Rain God.”

“Where is the statue? I can’t feel—” Ethel cried.

“Here,” said Benson, tone vibrant but calm.

He felt the girl’s hand, and guided her to the back of the statue where irregularities allowed a person to climb.

He guided them all, one by one, before starting up, himself.

And before them the flood had burst from the one rift left open. It came with a roar that was shattering to the eardrums, driven by all the hideous pressure of Cloud Lake, eight miles off and at least a thousand feet higher than this death trap.

“They’ve been gone about four minutes,” said Benson. “It will take at least twenty-five for them to get to the fissure dropping down into the tunnel bore, which is the only exit to that tunnel. The water in here is coming faster than a horse can run.”

The others listened to his voice in the dark, with a silence as blank as their faces no doubt were. Was The Avenger mad? What did he mean?

“I warned Fyler,” said Benson. “I told him that when I worked against a murderer, that murderer sealed his own fate in the end. But he would not be warned. He let loose the flood—”

The water had slammed clear across the cave of the Rain God. It curled in a great breaker up against the slab blocking the passage down which Fyler and all his thugs had gone.

Then there were sounds like half a dozen field guns in war—and the water went rushing on out of the cavern again.

After the men who had left them there to die.

Benson had left his flashlight in the cell. But Mac had one, equally powerful. Its beam split the darkness. It centered on the rift leading toward the tunnel bore, shifted in the opposite direction to the hole where the water gushed out as if from a gigantic hose, came back to the rift.

The water was roaring out the rift as fast as it came in from the other side.

“Chief! The slab they dropped after them!” came Mac’s cry. “It’s split in a dozen hunks, and the hunks are rrollin’ down the tunnel before the flood!”

“It was intended to split,” said The Avenger, voice as cold and calm as his deadly eyes.

“Whoosh! ’Tis the skullies, themselves, that’ll be drowned like rats in a trap—Fyler and all—not us!”

Ethel spoke up, eyes wide and fascinated on the white water roaring along under the flashlight’s white beam.

“Are you a wizard, Mr. Benson, that you can do such things?”

“Hardly a wizard,” said The Avenger. “It is quite simple. You know, awhile ago, I made a break for the mouth of the tunnel, there, and was driven back. But I wasn’t driven back until I had managed to leave something in the entrance, directly under the slab that could be dropped from the roof.”

Mac exclaimed suddenly.

“Whoosh, mon! Of course!”

“I see you’ve hit on it, Mac,” said Benson. “Thermite and sodium, set off by the pound of the dropped slab, burning fiercely when wet. It heated the slab, and the water cooled it again—fast. Exactly the principle that was utilized to crack a way into the basalt for the tunnel bore. The expansion and contraction did for the slab that was to seal us in forever—”

Far down the rift, it seemed as if men’s screams could be heard. But none in the Rain God’s cavern could be sure. Any more than you could be sure you heard the piping cries of birds over the tumult of waters in a storm at sea.

But whether or not cries could be heard, the fate of the killers in the passage, headed by the master killer, Fyler, was as clear and inevitable as if written by—well, by the old Rain God, himself.

“Turn out your flash, Mac,” said The Avenger, tone as calm and even as though nothing out of the way had occurred. “We mustn’t waste it. It will be hours before the lake is drained enough so that we can go out the rift. Meanwhile, everything is finished and all right.”

Everything all right.

When they got out, they could have the rest of the gunmen in the camp rounded up and jailed.

Work on the tunnel could be successfully resumed, with that secret gate-valve closed and sealed—though only one partner, Tom Ryan, remained to benefit.

As devilish a murderer as even The Avenger had ever met, was annihilated with several dozen of his cutthroat crew—destroyed by his own hand as Benson had warned he would be.

Everything all right.

But in the flare of Mac’s flashlight, before he put it out to conserve its power, The Avenger’s face and eyes showed no triumph.

The face, dead flesh with the brown-red tint on it that matched that of Yellow Moccasins, was, as ever, a deathly mask. The icy, colorless eyes remained terrible in their impersonal calmness, their lack of triumph.

The Avenger met and overcame the superkillers that dared to cross weapons with him. But the vanquishing of none of them could give him a feeling of triumph. Perhaps he would find triumph only in the death—inevitably to be his some day in his dangerous work—that should release him from a somber world and set him again beside the wife and child the criminal underworld had taken from him.

THE END

Table of Contents

CONTENTS

THE GLASS MOUNTAIN

CHAPTER I Lightning Bolt

CHAPTER II Whom the God Hates

CHAPTER III Out of the Sky

CHAPTER IV Lightning Defied

CHAPTER V Out of the Tomb

CHAPTER VI Walking Tree

CHAPTER VII Landslide

CHAPTER VIII Face of the Rain God

CHAPTER IX Dead Man’s Ranch

CHAPTER X Falling Cliff

CHAPTER XI Heart of the Mountain

CHAPTER XII The Labyrinth

CHAPTER XIII Frozen Cure

CHAPTER XIV The New Crew

CHAPTER XV The Old Indian

CHAPTER XVI Two Nellie Grays

CHAPTER XVII Fifteen Million Dollars

CHAPTER XVIII Death of a God