THROUGH GLOOM TO LIGHT.
The discovery made by Burr Wythe was a heart-crushing one coming just
as it did, when they believed that freedom was now within their grasp.
And for a time the two friends sunk helpless beneath the blow.
But the reaction came soon. It was foreign to their natures to submit
without a struggle, at any time much less now, when to yield meant
_death_--death the most horrible; by starvation.
They carefully worked with their fingers around the edge of what had
once been the entrance. Only hard rock was there; not a particle of
earth to give them renewed hope of cutting their way to the outer world
by persistent use of their strong-bladed knives.
"'Tis of no use, Duplin," at length muttered Wythe, brushing the great
drops from his brow. "We are blocked in--we must die here like dogs!"
"It seems so. All around the mouth seems solid rock. But who can have
blocked it up? Not that one we fired at? Surely what one man could
place there, two could roll away."
"It must be the big rock that stood just above the hole. It could be
rolled over, I think. If so, fifty men couldn't raise it now."
"Well, one thing is settled. Whoever closed this entrance wished for
our death. Thus it's not likely we have any thing to hope from them. So
we must depend upon ourselves, if we hope to ever see daylight again,"
thoughtfully added Duplin.
"Yes--but what can we do? We have no light, no food, no drink. We might
as well sit down here and die, at once, as to wander blindly on through
these winding passages that seem to end nowhere."
"Come--this is pure folly, Burr. Though I admit that the case looks
hard, very hard, I will not knock under so easy. We may as well _try_
for life, even though we fail, as to sit here idly bemoaning our fate.
Time will pass easier and quicker while we are busy. I am going to
fight for it as long as I can. Then--when I can stand it no longer--the
thirst and hunger, I mean--why, I have a revolver, well loaded, here.
You understand?"
"Yes, and I am with you, Duplin. I was a fool. We will make another
attempt. It can be no worse than now, and may be better," energetically
cried Wythe, springing to his feet, and then the hands of the comrades
met in a hearty clasp.
They turned and blindly reëntered the tunnel. It was slow, weary work,
but they persisted, and for hours crept on, for the greater part of
the time upon hands and knees now and then cheering each other with an
encouraging word of hope.
Even was there time, it would be wearisome to follow them step by step
through all these winding passages, more than once retracing their
steps to begin anew, as they came to the abrupt termination of some
tunnel. Enough has already been said, to give the reader an idea of
their experience, in a preceding chapter.
Enough to say that kind Providence guided them aright, after almost
incredible sufferings, and finally a dim light, far in the distance,
broke upon their strained vision.
For a moment they paused, fearing to move, to breathe, lest the glad
vision should vanish. And in that moment they read the truth.
With inarticulate cries they arose and rushed forward. It was no
delusion--the light was that of heaven; and then they stood in the open
air, beneath the welcome sun!
They sunk upon the ground, faint and speechless. They were not what
is called _Christians_, and they did not raise their voices in loud
thanksgiving for the great mercy that had been shown them. And yet they
were grateful--they recognized the goodness of the Omnipotent in their
rescue, and their thanksgiving, if mute, was no less sincere and devout
than if it had been couched in the most eloquent of terms.
Their hands met and were lightly clasped. For a time they seemed
drinking in the fresh, balmy air, the clear, glorious sunlight, with
a rapture that until now had been a stranger to their hearts. All
this was what they had mentally bidden farewell to, as they believed,
forever.
"We are free at last, Burr!" murmured Duplin.
"Yes--but I'm awful thirsty!" was the prosaic reply.
That word recalled them to a sense of their sufferings. As they now
knew, by the position occupied by the sun, they had been beneath the
surface for over a day and night; and during all these hours they had
ate no food, tasted no water whatever.
Duplin gazed keenly around. Then he gave a low, husky cry. He
recognized the spot where they were. In their wanderings they had
passed entirely through the great hill!
"Yonder is the creek--now for water!" he cried, and then sprung forward
like a startled deer.
Flat upon their stomachs they lay, and quaffed the cool, sparkling
water with ecstatic delight. It was almost worth enduring such a trial
for the pleasure imbibed with that draught.
"Ha!" suddenly exclaimed Wythe, as he started up. "Look at this,
Duplin," and he pointed to a damp, blood-stained rag that lay half upon
a rock, half in the water.
The same thought struck them both. They had passed through the
labyrinth--might not Jack and his captor or captors have done the same?
"It's so," muttered Duplin, pointing to a broad track close beside
their own. "There is the same track that Jack measured. Hurrah! we may
find him yet!"
"True--but how? Alive, or--_dead_?"
In silence the two friends scrutinized the sandy ground around. Finally
they were rewarded by finding where the trail led away from the further
side of the creek.
In silence they glanced at each other, as they noted the point toward
which the trail now tended. It seemingly led direct to the valley
whence they had made that strange discovery--to the cliff in which
lived the strange couple.
Then the truth struck them, and they wondered that they had not
thought of this solution before. The madman was their strangely-acting
adversary. And in this fact they saw a solution of his wild antics with
the glowing skeletons. Surely no sane man would have acted as he had
done--have braved such danger.
"Dead or alive, we will find Jack there," at length uttered Duplin.
"Find him we must, but it requires caution. One man like that could
keep a thousand at bay from the cave. And if he is mad, it would be a
crime to kill him, even in self-defense."
"Come. We will do the best we can."
Though feeling morally certain as to where the trail would lead them,
the gold-hunters did not neglect any precaution, and slowly traced out
the footprints. True to their suspicions, they led directly to the foot
of the cliff, where they were lost upon the flinty rocks.
Concealing themselves, they patiently watched the cliff for hours, in
vain hoping to learn whether the madman was still in the cave. But
then, urged on by anxiety for their comrade, they cautiously began
scaling the cliff.
When half-way to the ledge that served as entrance to the cave, Duplin,
who was in advance, abruptly paused. A slight noise from above caught
his ear.
For a brief instant a face met his startled gaze, then it vanished.
But, brief though the glance was, he recognized it as the face of the
maiden he had seen once before.
"They've discovered us, Burr," he muttered. "Now for it! Up, or we are
lost!"
But, contrary to their expectations, they reached the cliff-ledge
unmolested, and then sprung forward to the cave entrance. They paused;
all was still. Only for that brief vision, they would have believed it
was unoccupied.
All within was dark, impenetrable to their gaze, dazzled by the bright
sunlight. But then there came a cry--a voice well known to their ears.
The voice of Jack Tyrrel, for whom they had dared and endured so much!
"Boys--thank God! you are here!"
These were the words. Then Duplin and Wythe sprung forward. It was a
happy meeting, and for a time none noticed the maiden, who had shrunk
back against the wall. But then Jack glanced around and said:
"Lucy, come here; these are my friends. And, boys, if you are glad to
see me, thank her. She saved my life."
This introduction put all upon the best of terms, and for a time that
was a joyous group. But then Lucy's thoughts reverted to her father.
Where was he? Why had he not returned? Never before had he remained so
long absent.
Jack, with eyes wonderfully sharpened by the last few hours, read
aright her thoughts, and closely questioned his comrades, who were
now eating the food set before them by Lucy, in immense haste, as
to whether they had seen the madman--or, as he said, Mr. Bradford.
Warned by their suspicions, they said little of what had occurred, but
volunteered to go in quest of him.
"Thank you, boys. I'd go, but this confounded hurt won't let me. Take a
look at the camp, while out. He may be there."
Their hunger appeased, the two men descended the cliff, and set off
at a rapid rate toward their camp. After an hour's hard walking they
reached the crest of the hill from which they had first gazed down upon
the valley that contained the bed of gold nuggets.
Both paused, with a simultaneous cry. Human forms met their gaze. Their
camp was occupied!
Over a mile distant, they could not recognize sex or color. Of course,
none but _men_ were there, but were they white or red--enemies or
friends? Scarcely the latter, though.
The two friends exchanged glances. A hard, determined expression rested
upon each face, and their eyes told their resolve.
A fortune, hard-earned, lay there, belonging to them. Should they
abandon it now, after all that they had endured? No!
Neither spoke a word, but looked to their pistols, renewed each cap,
after seeing that the nipples were well primed. A miss-fire might be
fatal, now.
Then they glided forward, not seeking to hide their movements. That,
after the valley was reached, would be impossible. Nearly a mile of
level sand, without a rock or shrub, must be passed over.
And yet they reached the water-course unmolested, unchallenged, unless
the one feeble shout that came to their ears was such. They stood
amazed. A terrible spectacle lay before their eyes.
Four men lay stretched upon the ground, only one of whom gave signs of
life. He had dragged himself to the brush camp, and was now lying in
its shelter.
The others were dead. Two of them lay upon their faces, the flint-head
of an arrow protruding from each back. The other, close by, still
clutched a bow; in the other hand was an arrow, that could not be
fitted to the string before death overtook him.
"It is the madman--Bradford!" muttered Duplin.
"And that man is Paul Chicot!" added Wythe.
"Help, friends--for the love of God! help!" gasped the wounded man--the
sole survivor of this tragedy.
It was hours before Chicot could explain this scene. First he told
all--how Upshur had tempted him and Dooley, and of all that had
occurred since then. Of how the madman had warned them away, when
Upshur incautiously shot him. Even as he fell, Bradford had his
revenge. Like lightning-bolts three arrows sped, and two men died.
The third, with sure aim but failing power, pierced Chicot's breast,
inflicting a severe but not necessarily fatal wound, now that he could
have care. The robbers had searched in vain for the buried store of
gold, and Wythe found it intact.
And then, while Wythe nursed Chicot, Duplin hastened to carry the
mournful tidings to Lucy. For a time she sunk beneath the shock, but
then revived. It had in a measure been expected. She had known that his
life could end only in that way.
Thus it chanced that a week later we find her cooking for the
busily-laboring gold hunters, and nursing Paul Chicot.