"Ah!" Sheridan's eyes lit up. "Juan said there was a network of communicating caves. Suppose we tackle the inside of the White Chapel? It may lead in the right direction. If it does we may be able to use the dynamite. Worth trying, at any rate."
"It's a hunch!" cried Red enthusiastically catching up a pick. "Bring the rest of the stuff along, hombres."
The entrance to the White Chapel was a fissure crack, leading back as a narrow passage some twenty feet to a great cave, its floor covered with silt, its walls convoluted but smoothed by floods, the ceiling higher than the rays of the electric torches could determine.
Half pillars bossed out from the sides, there were vaulted openings that seemed to lead to inner chambers. Sheridan directed his efforts to the western wall and to the rounded corner where that curved off against the back of the cave. Three torches sprayed white light while they searched, entering the side recesses, some high enough for upright entrance, others that had to be crawled into. But none of them was deeper than a dozen feet and all ended in rock that sounded solid.
But Sheridan was not through. He set them to sounding the wall everywhere as high as they could reach. There might be some water-worn cavern not reaching to the Chapel, connecting with the maze of inner chambers once inhabited by the bandits. It was cool enough in the big cave, but this testing out was hard and tiring work—discouraging.
At last a cowboy, in disgust, flung his pick to the
