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
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
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