Flagg shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he said. “How do I find that spur you mentioned?”
“Follow the county road past the private entrance. About five miles farther along, the main railroad track crosses it. Walk back on the tracks to the second switch. Not the first, but the second.”
“Right.”
“You’re not going up there alone, are you?” Terry asked. There was concern in her voice.
Flagg grinned. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. He moved to the door. “Thanks.”
“Will I see you again, Flagg?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Take care of yourself.” He slipped out and closed the door quietly behind him.
Flagg found the spur without difficulty.
The sun was setting, and there was less than an hour of daylight left. He moved quickly along the side of the track, keeping to the brush as much as possible, stopping occasionally to listen. He wore khakis now, which blended with the surrounding terrain better than black or dark beige clothing, and a new navy blue seaman’s knit cap pulled down to conceal his prematurely salt and pepper hair. He had a long-bladed hunting knife sheathed at his waist.
He thought about the shine operation as he went. Two weeks ago, after three days of abortive low flying over every inch of the county in a chartered plane, he had been forced to admit that the still was extremely well hidden. During his prolonged study of the wild, mountainous terrain, he had uncovered no signs of activity in isolated places, no telltale columns of smoke to point to the possible location of the cooker, no signs of pollution in the streams he subsequently checked. Nothing at all.
He had begun the tavern-by-tavern search then, drinking Old Pilgrim in each one, asking carefully veiled questions in the hopes of uncovering information about discounts and deals. Until he came to Barney’s Oasis, he had drawn a total blank. It was obvious that Riley Morgan was distributing most of the moon out of the county, and perhaps out of the state.
But Morgan had been selling shine to Barney, and that was his big mistake. It had given Flagg the lead he needed. He now knew almost everything he needed to know: that the fuel oil company stored and bottled and distributed the bootleg, and that it was being manufactured in the old abandoned mine. At least, he was almost positive that was where the still was located; logic told him that the tankers would drive through the gravel pit and inside the main shaft of the mine to load from the vats. Too, Terry had said the spur tracks led inside an auxiliary tunnel; that would undoubtedly connect with the main shaft, as would other passages. These would serve as the still’s ventilation system, explaining why he had seen nothing from the air. Nevertheless, he had to make absolutely certain; that was his job.
He rounded a slight curve in the tracks, moving silently and staying in the protective cover of a high growth of juniper. Suddenly, through the thicket, he saw a man dressed in a pair of Levi’s and an old plaid work shirt. The man was sitting on a high, flat-topped rock next to the tracks, his back to Flagg, throwing pebbles at a rotted log on the other side. A rifle rested beside him, propped against the rock.
Flagg backed off a few steps and made a wide circle around the guard, climbing over rocky ground. He could see the mine tower now, a crumbling wooden structure outlined against the sunset sky in gloomy emphasis.
Several minutes later, he stood hidden behind a large boulder at the entrance to the auxiliary tunnel. The timbers of the tower were ridden with termites and worms and dry rot, and the structure looked near collapse. The iron elevator wheel tilted where a support had fallen away. Debris cluttered the weed-choked ground. Off on one side was a crude stone fireplace and chimney, all that remained of a mine office.
Flagg left his concealment and approached the black mouth of the tunnel cautiously. When he was certain there was no one about, he swept aside vinelike weeds and slipped inside. The blackness was absolute, and he groped his way along one of the cold, damp walls until he had penetrated some fifty feet. Then he took the pen-glass from his pocket, shielded it in his handkerchief, and switched it on.
In its faint light, he could see that the tunnel was nearly a cave-in, with mounds of earth and shale and fallen timbers choking the passage. He moved forward carefully.
Five minutes passed. A collapsed section of the tunnel forced Flagg to crawl part of the way on his hands and knees. But as soon as he was able to stand again, he reached a dead end; the tunnel was completely blocked. At first, he thought it was another, final cave-in, but then he realized that the obstruction had been manmade. This must be where the tunnel connected with the main shaft.
