was not necessary. One man was picked to look after the horses and, later, to start a fire for supper. Sheridan, with Quong beside him, led the way to the main canyon.
The White Chapel was readily placed, a look at the magazine illustration confirming the location. Fifty feet to the west, the little ravine; the open tunnel, as Quong had described it, that had led to the bandits' stronghold, could be traced by the rim rock and that portion of it at the entrance that had not been entirely filled by the earth avalanche. Part of the dump overflowed into the main canyon in a tongue of crumbly clay. It was in this, Sheridan fancied, that Juan Mendoza had been caught.
He scaled the cliffs above the White Chapel and traced the width and depth of the ravine. The slide had sagged, with its looser formation, and the dimensions were plain enough. It ran back almost at right angles from the canyon for nearly eighty yards and was originally some thirty feet wide and about sixty deep. If the floor had been level, which was probable, his rough estimate of the amount of dirt they had to displace or mine was a staggering one. Jackson had been pecking at the edge of the mass and his face was dubious as Sheridan rejoined him and Quong. They three made up the engineering board, the two riders standing wondering and ready.
"Dynamite ain't no use here," said Jackson. "Too loose. A blast 'ud just bust it up a bit but it wouldn't make much clearance. You got to have hard resistance to git a real kick out of the stuff. I've got a
