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.