He looked at the river.
Then at the ancient stone structures.
An idea began to form.
It was dangerous.
Possibly foolish.
But it was the only chance they had.
He leaned toward Chato.
“Can your men reach the eastern ridge?”
The chief studied him.
“Yes.”
“Can they get behind the soldiers without being seen?”
Chato's eyes narrowed.
“If the wind holds.”
Daniel nodded.
“Then we don't attack them.”
He turned toward Naya.
“We make them stop themselves.”
The plan required patience.
Daniel, Chato, and Naya remained near the canyon entrance while the Apache riders disappeared into the rocks.
Whitcomb ordered his men to keep their weapons trained on the three prisoners.
He seemed confident that the situation was under control.
“You should have stayed on your ranch, Mercer.”
Daniel shrugged.
“I was beginning to get tired of the place.”
Whitcomb smiled.
“You won't have to worry about it much longer.”
He turned toward the soldiers.
“Prepare the charges.”
Two men approached the nearest crate.
Naya's face went white.
“Daniel.”
He squeezed her hand.
“Wait.”
The soldiers began carrying the dynamite toward the narrow opening beneath the mountain.
Daniel watched carefully.
He noticed that the men handling the explosives wore no protective clothing. One carried a lantern. Another held a coil of fuse.
The charges had been placed too close to the main river channel.
If they detonated all at once, the mountain might collapse exactly as Whitcomb intended.
But the pressure of the underground water could also force the river through the lower passage.
Daniel had seen something similar during the war.
A flooded mine near Chattanooga had collapsed after an explosion, sending water through a tunnel and washing away an entire supply camp.
He looked at the canyon walls.
The ancient structures were not merely ruins.
They were part of a system.
Stone channels had been carved into the rock, directing water from the springs toward the lower valley.
The system had been built to protect the water, not redirect it.
Daniel leaned toward Naya.
“Can you read the markings on those stones?”
She followed his gaze.
“Yes.”
“What do they say?”
“Not words. Directions.”
She studied the carvings.
Then her expression changed.
“The water is meant to flow through the eastern passage.”
Daniel looked at the explosives.
“What happens if that passage is blocked?”
Naya stared at him.
“The water will rise.”
“How much?”
“Enough to flood the basin.”
Daniel smiled faintly.
“Then we have a chance.”
He turned toward Whitcomb.
“Before you destroy the springs, you ought to know something.”
Whitcomb looked annoyed.
“What now?”
Daniel pointed toward the ancient structures.
“Those stones aren't ruins. They're part of a water system. If you set off your charges, the water will rise and flood this entire basin.”
Whitcomb laughed.
“That's a story.”
Naya spoke calmly.
“It is not.”
Whitcomb turned toward her.
“You expect me to believe that your ancestors built a machine beneath the mountain?”
“No,” she said. “I expect you to believe that water follows the path of least resistance.”
For the first time, Whitcomb looked uncertain.
He turned toward one of the engineers.
“Is that possible?”
The engineer hesitated.
“Sir, we haven't examined the lower channels.”
Whitcomb's face darkened.
“Then examine them.”
The engineer moved toward the stone structures.
Daniel watched him go.
This was the moment.
On the ridge above the basin, a bird cried out.
Once.
Twice.
Chato's signal.
Daniel moved.
He lunged toward the nearest soldier, knocked the rifle from his hands, and drove his shoulder into the man's chest.
Naya seized the lantern and threw it into the river.
The flame hissed out.
Darkness fell across the lower basin.
At the same instant, Apache warriors appeared along the eastern ridge.
They shouted and fired into the air.
The soldiers turned in confusion.
Whitcomb screamed for order.
But the plan had already begun.
Daniel ran toward the dynamite.
He reached the first charge and tore the fuse away.
A soldier grabbed him from behind.
They struggled beside the riverbank.
Daniel struck the man with his elbow, twisted free, and threw the dynamite into the water.
Another soldier raised his rifle.
Naya shouted.
“Daniel!”
He turned.
The rifle fired.
The bullet struck the ground beside his foot.
Before the soldier could fire again, Chato appeared behind him and knocked him unconscious with the butt of his rifle.
The chief looked at Daniel.
“Your plan?”
Daniel glanced toward the eastern passage.
“Not finished.”
They ran toward the stone channels.
The engineer had reached the lower opening and was shouting for Whitcomb.
“Sir! The water pressure is building!”
Whitcomb ignored him.
“Set the remaining charges!”
The engineer hesitated.
“Sir, we need to evacuate the basin.”
Whitcomb drew his revolver.
“Do it!”
Daniel understood.
Whitcomb was going to destroy the springs even if it killed every man in the valley.
He was not going to stop.
Not for the soldiers.
Not for the Apache.
Not even for himself.
Daniel turned toward the engineer.
“Get your men out of here!”
The engineer stared at him.
“Who are you to give orders?”
“Someone who doesn't want you to drown.”
For a moment, the man hesitated.
Then he shouted.
“Evacuate the basin!”
The soldiers began retreating.
Whitcomb fired at the engineer.
The man fell.
Naya screamed.
Daniel turned toward Whitcomb.
The two men stared at one another across the river.
Whitcomb raised his revolver.
Daniel raised his rifle.
Neither fired.
Then the ground trembled.
A deep rumble rolled through the canyon.
Water burst from the lower passage, surging across the stone channels.
The river rose.
The first wave swept through the basin, knocking over tents and carrying crates downstream.
Whitcomb stumbled backward.
His revolver fell from his hand.
Daniel grabbed Naya and pulled her toward the higher ground.
Chato shouted orders to the warriors.
The Apache riders helped the soldiers climb the rocks, dragging wounded men away from the rising water.
Within minutes, the lower basin had become a raging torrent.
The dynamite charges disappeared beneath the flood.
And the hidden river, which had flowed quietly beneath the mountain for generations, roared through the valley with a force no man could control.
The flood lasted less than an hour.
By the time the water began to recede, the lower basin had been transformed. The tents were gone. The wagon lay overturned against a boulder, and the crates of explosives had disappeared beneath the muddy current.
Whitcomb was nowhere to be seen.
Daniel stood on the ridge, soaked to the waist, watching the river settle into its natural channel.
Naya stood beside him.
“Is it over?” she asked.
Daniel looked toward the eastern passage.
“No.”
He could see movement among the rocks below.
Whitcomb had survived.
The mining company's president was climbing toward the ridge, one hand pressed against a bleeding shoulder. His clothes were torn, and his face was twisted with rage.
He carried a knife.
Daniel stepped forward.
“Stop right there.”
Whitcomb laughed.
“You think you've won?”
“You've lost your explosives.”
“I have money. I have men. I have the governor's signature.”
“You have a knife and a bad attitude.”
Whitcomb lunged.
Daniel barely had time to move.
The knife sliced through his sleeve, cutting his arm. He struck Whitcomb across the face, but the older man grabbed his coat and pulled him toward the edge of the ridge.
Below them, the river thundered through the rocks.
Naya screamed.
Daniel drove his knee into Whitcomb's stomach.
The man staggered.