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?”
“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?”
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