THE EXPLOSION.
The Mispah Mining Company of Forest Hills had the reputation of
being one of the best managed, as well as one of the most paying,
propositions of its kind in the State.
Though technically a stock company, it was practically owned by the two
brothers, John and Orren Fairchilds, who were thoroughly up to date in
their methods and believed in giving their employees the benefit of
every possible convenience and comfort.
The natural result was that the men gave them willingly more real work
and good results than they could possibly have secured by the grasping,
driving methods of some more shortsighted business men; labor troubles
were practically eliminated, and everything worked smoothly and in
perfect harmony.
The mine was located in the mountains to the north of Forest Hills. In
fact, that portion of the town, occupied mainly by the miners, with
its rows upon rows of comfortable frame cottages, closely abutted on
the land owned by the company along the level ground at the foot of
the rocky slope, where was situated the large brick office building,
which was used by the officers of the company, their clerks, surveyors,
draftsmen, and civil engineers.
Here were also storehouses, railroad sidings, and a number of other
buildings, which looked almost like a little town in itself, while
behind the office building was the baseball diamond, laid out by the
enthusiastic Orren Fairchilds, with its grand stand, bleachers, and
high board fencing, complete.
Halfway up the side of the mountain, perhaps a thousand feet above the
level, was the main shaft of the mine, with its shaft house, pumping
station and all the infinite details which go to the proper equipment
of a mine. Made of timber cased in sheet iron, well painted, they
seemed to be poised on the side of the mountain like a fly on a wall,
and the stranger always expressed wonderment as to how they had been
built in that apparently inaccessible spot.
Connecting the two levels curved the inclined track, down which shot
cars, filled with ore destined for the smelter, to be carried back
empty, or filled with supplies, shifts of laborers, or any one else who
wanted to go up to the mine. For this was the only way of reaching the
mouth of the shaft.
At five minutes before nine the _Wizard_, with Dick Merriwell at the
wheel, whirled through the open gates which marked the entrance to the
property of the Mispah Mining Company, and drew up before the handsome
office building.
The four Yale men alighted and walked into the main office, where Dick
sent his card in to the mine owner. The office boy returned with a
message that Mr. Fairchilds would be out in a few moments, so they made
themselves comfortable on a heavy oak bench that stood near the door.
In less than ten minutes Dick’s friend of the night before appeared
from his private office, and advanced with outstretched hand.
“Well, well, my boy, how are you this morning?” he said briskly. “I
hope you’re ready for a good sweat. It’s pretty warm down on the lower
level.”
Then his eye fell on Buckhart.
“Bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “The Yale catcher, or I’ll eat my hat! I
don’t know your name, but I never forget a face.”
“Buckhart,” Dick put in, as the Texan shook the older man’s hand.
“Bradley Buckhart from Texas.”
“Glad to meet you--very glad,” the mine owner said in his sharp,
incisive manner. “Have you brought any more of your team with you,
Merriwell? I foresee that my boys will have to stir themselves to lick
you this afternoon.”
Dick smiled.
“Tommy Tucker, here, sometimes plays short,” he explained. “He’s going
to hold down centre field to-day.”
There was a whimsical look of mock consternation on Orren Fairchilds’
face as he shook hands with Tucker and Bigelow.
“I wish you’d brought the other six along,” he said. “There’d be some
honor in beating the Yale varsity.”
Without waiting for a reply, he ushered them into an adjoining room,
which was fitted up with a number of lockers, and opening one of them
he began to toss out a variety of garments.
“We’ll have to change here,” he explained. “There’d be very little left
of your regular clothes if you went down in them.”
In the course of five minutes all five were arrayed in rough woolen
trousers, flannel shirt, heavy shoes, and felt hats. The transformation
was astonishing. But for the healthy tan on their faces, they might
easily have been taken for a party of laborers, ready for their daily
descent into the mine.
The mine owner then led the way through the office and across the yard
to a platform outside the smelter. Here they climbed into one of the
short, dumpy little ore cars and were borne swiftly up the incline.
It took but a minute to reach the top, where they found, to their
surprise, that there was a good deal more space than they had supposed.
Jumping out of the car, they followed their guide into the pump house
where they gazed in surprise at the huge engines which worked night and
day pumping air into the underground workings, and drawing out through
the ventilation shafts the hot, poisonous vapors from below.
From thence they passed quickly to the shaft house, where two mammoth
hoisting engines of a thousand horse power each operated the cages, of
which there were four, the main shaft being divided into that number of
compartments.
The engineer and his assistant nodded as the chief entered.
“Be one along in a minute, Mr. Fairchilds,” the former said, as he
glanced at the dial before him.
In less than that time, a cage shot up from the shaft and two miners
stepped out. One of them was a big, burly fellow with a long scar on
one side of his face.
“Hello, Bill,” the mine owner called. “After anything important? I want
you to show us around down below.”
The fellow grinned, displaying a void on his upper jaw where two front
teeth were missing.
“Need a little powder, that’s all,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a
jiffy.”
He strode out of the door, and Orren Fairchilds turned to Dick.
“That’s my prize pitcher,” he explained. “Six months ago he knew as
much about baseball as a two-year-old, and I thought he’d never be able
to get a ball over the plate. But he was anxious to learn, and we kept
at it. I’m proud of him now.”
The fellow came back on the run, a package of dynamite sticks swinging
carelessly from one hand. At the sight of them, Bigelow’s fat face
turned pale and he edged away a little.
“My goodness!” he whispered hoarsely to Tucker. “Look at the way he
carries them. What if they should drop.”
“Don’t worry, Bouncer,” Tommy returned, with a nonchalance he was far
from feeling. “It needs a spark combined with the concussion to set it
off.”
“Still, I don’t like it,” complained the fat chap.
The mine owner had paused at the cage door.
“Merriwell, shake hands with my pitcher, McDonough,” he said briskly.
“You two boys will be up against each other good and hard this
afternoon.”
Dick put out his hand promptly, and the miner’s great paw closed over
it with a grip which gave a hint of amazing strength. He looked the
Yale man straight in the eyes, and for a brief instant Merriwell seemed
to read something like a threat which flashed into those dark orbs and
was gone.
“Glad to know you,” McDonough said quietly. “I reckon we’ll try to give
the grand standers the worth of their money.”
He followed Dick into the cage and dropped the dynamite on the floor
with a thump which made Bouncer jump nervously. Then the descent began.
In an instant the floor of the shaft house had vanished and they were
dropping noiselessly into the darkness, lit only by the flickering rays
of the lantern which hung from the top of the cage, showing the timbers
that lined the shaft seemingly leaping upward.
Bigelow caught his breath in a sudden gasp and clutched Tucker’s wrist
convulsively.
Presently the cage passed a large, irregular, well-lighted room opening
back into the rock from the side of the shaft. Men were busy there, and
they could hear the throbbing of machinery at work.
“That’s one of the stations,” explained Fairchilds. “It’s the opening
to one of the intermediate levels, but we won’t stop. I want you to see
the lowest level.”
Down they went. Other stations flashed past at regular intervals until
they had counted seven or eight of them. Presently the cable supporting
the car began to take on a peculiarly disagreeable bobbing motion,
which gave the novices an odd sensation, as though they were hung over
an abyss by a rubber strap, and caused Bouncer to clutch Tucker again
and gasp anew. Then the car stopped and they stepped out onto the floor.
The station of the lowest lift was like all those they had
passed--well-lighted, walled, floored and roofed with heavy planking,
and filled with all sorts of mining supplies. A narrow-gauge track led
from the shaft back into the drift, or tunnel beyond, which was fairly
well lighted by electric globes at intervals along the walls.
McDonough took the lead, and they at once plunged into the tunnel,
which had a barely perceptible upward grade.
“Follows the course of the vein, you understand,” the mine owner
explained, as he pointed out where the ore had been taken out along
one side of the drift. “We’ll get to where they’re working in a few
minutes, and then you can see how it’s done.”
“Look out!” yelled McDonough warningly.
He caught Dick’s arm and drew him back against the wall, the others
following suit, and a moment later a laden ore car flashed past in the
direction of the shaft, and disappeared.
Presently they turned into a crosscut, and a few minutes later they
began to pass small groups of men working at the rock with picks and
bars. Almost without exception they were stripped to the waist,
for the heat had become oppressive, and was growing greater as they
advanced.
They crossed the openings of innumerable small drifts which led out of
the main tunnel, some of which were short, blind tunnels, while others
extended for a long distance, sometimes curving around and returning to
the drift from which they started. It was a veritable labyrinth.
At length they reached a spot where a number of men were loading the
ore cars, and the mine owner stopped.
“This will show you the working as well as any place,” he said, taking
off his hat and mopping his forehead. “You notice that the tunnel runs
along one side of the vein? That’s to prevent caving. The ore is much
softer than the rock through which it runs. You can see for yourselves
how it is taken out with pick and bar. Sometimes we help it along with
a blast.”
While he was talking Dick stepped up to the side of the drift and
looked closely at the vein. It did not look in the least like one’s
preconceived notion of gold ore, but the Yale man had had enough
experience to see that it was good stuff.
“It ain’t as rich here as we struck it a ways back,” said a voice.
And turning, Dick saw McDonough standing at his side.
“Still, I shouldn’t mind having a couple of thousand tons of this ore,”
Merriwell said, smiling.
The big fellow grinned.
“Me neither,” he returned. “But if you’ll step into this here crosscut,
I’ll show you something that’s about three times as good.”
For an instant the Yale man hesitated, thinking of the sinister note
on the blotter. But here in this lighted spot, with men on every side,
there was nothing McDonough could do, even if he was the man to whom
that note was written. Certainly he didn’t propose to let the fellow
think he was afraid.
“Why, yes,” he said quietly; “I’d like very much to see it.”
The rest of the party were busy watching the miners and paid no
attention when Dick turned and followed the brawny foreman about twenty
feet back along the passage and then into a drift which ran at right
angles.
This drift curved so sharply that they had not gone more than a dozen
steps before the entrance was lost to sight. Presently McDonough
stopped and held his candle close to the wall.
“That’s some to the good, I tell you,” he said enthusiastically; “and
it’s better yet further on. We----”
He broke off abruptly and listened.
“Gee! There’s the old man calling!” he exclaimed. “Hold this, will you?
I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
He thrust the candle into Merriwell’s hand and darted back along the
passage. Dick examined the ore with much interest. It certainly was
rich and averaged much more to the ton than that in the outer drift. A
footstep sounded, and looking up, he saw a figure advancing toward him
from the opposite end of the passage. For a moment he thought it was
McDonough, and wondered how he had managed to get around so soon; for
he comprehended at once that the tunnel must have another entrance.
Then the man spoke, and he realized that it was Orren Fairchilds.
“Taking a look at my prize vein, are you?” the mine owner said briskly.
“How did you find----”
A sudden, muffled roar drowned his voice. A cloud of smoke belched from
the wall, and the next instant a huge section of the rock crashed down
into the tunnel, filling it to nearly half its height, and totally
obliterating every sign of the unfortunate man who had stood there.
The cry of horror which Dick Merriwell uttered as he sprang forward,
changed to one of joy when he saw that, instead of being utterly
crushed, Fairchilds had escaped the heaviest part of the fall by a
swift, forward plunge, and was only pinned down by the weight of some
large chunks of rock which had dropped on his legs.
He saw something else, too, which sent a thrill through him and turned
his tanned face a shade less brown.
Directly above the mine owner, a great mass of loosened rock hung
as if suspended by a thread, and as the Yale man glanced up, it
quivered a little. The slightest movement--the vibration of a voice,
perhaps--would send it crashing down on those two beneath. Yet Dick did
not hesitate an instant.
Swiftly sticking the candle upright in a crevice, he bent over the
fallen man and, with infinite caution, began to lift the pieces of ore
from his legs.
Despite the shock he had experienced, Orren Fairchilds was quite
conscious. Lying on his back, his eyes fixed on the tottering mass
which was poised above him, he knew well that death was staring him in
the face, and he appreciated to the full the heroism of the man who was
deliberately risking his own life in what seemed a futile attempt to
save another’s.
He moistened his dry lips.
“You can’t do it,” he whispered. “Leave me. Get back--quickly! Another
moment and it will fall!”
He dared not raise his voice; his eyes never left the trembling rock
above him.
Dick Merriwell made no answer; apparently he did not consider one
necessary. One by one the heavy chunks of rock were lifted up and put
aside.
“Go, I tell you,” repeated the mine owner in that same suppressed tone.
“Why don’t you go? Do you want to be crushed to death?”
The Yale man dashed the sweat from his eyes.
“Do you really think I will?” was all he said.
“No,” breathed the older man. “No, I don’t; but I wish----”
He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening with horror. The rock was
moving. Slowly, slowly, it crept forward, sending rattling showers of
dust and small stones in its wake.
“It’s coming!” gasped Fairchilds. “It’s moving! For God’s sake save
yourself!”
Abandoning all caution, Dick rolled the last piece of rock from the
fallen man and, catching him in his arms, staggered backward.
There was another crash, louder than the first, as the great mass
plunged downward into the tunnel. Something struck Merriwell on the
right shoulder, hurling him against the wall, and thence to his knees.
Then came the flash of light along the passage, the sound of hurrying
feet, the quick, staccato note of many voices raised in excitement, and
the next instant Dick felt himself caught up in a powerful grasp and
literally carried out of the drift into the main tunnel.
Wrenching himself free, he turned and looked into the face of Brad
Buckhart, drawn, white and horror-stricken, great beads of perspiration
standing out on his forehead.
“You?” Merriwell exclaimed. “I thought---- Thank you, old fellow.”
The Texan drew one sleeve across his forehead.
“By George, pard!” he grunted; “I sure thought you were done for that
time.”
“Where’s Mr. Fairchilds?” Dick asked anxiously. “Did he get out all
right?”
“He did, thanks to you, my boy.”
The mine owner’s voice sounded from the tunnel’s mouth, and the next
instant he appeared, supported by Bill McDonough and another miner.
There were cuts on his head and face, one hand was bruised, and he
could not stand alone; but his eyes were bright and his voice firm.
“By gorry!” he exclaimed. “That was the closest thing I ever saw. I
shall never forget this, Merriwell. Are you hurt?”
Dick smiled.
“None to speak of,” he returned. “Shoulder a little numb, that’s all.”
“Good.”
The monosyllable was snapped out like a pistol shot, and into Orren
Fairchilds’ face came a look which seldom appeared there, and which
those who knew him dreaded. His eyes grew cold and hard and piercing,
and, as he turned slowly from one to another, men dropped their heads,
and with nervously shuffling feet and crimsoned faces awaited in
awe-struck silence the inevitable explosion.
It came.
“Who set off that blast?”
There was a steely menace to the words as they issued from the mine
owner’s set lips.
Not a man spoke. Not one in the circle lifted his eyes. Fear and
embarrassment made them all look equally guilty.
“McDonough!”
Fairchilds withdrew his hand from the foreman’s arm, and the big fellow
took a step forward.
“McDonough, you’re in charge of this level,” snapped the mine owner.
“Who set off that blast?”
The man with the scar moistened his lips with his tongue. His face was
a little pale, but he met his chief’s eyes squarely.
“I don’t know,” he said in a level tone--“so help me, I don’t.”
There was a momentary silence as the bright, steely eyes of the smaller
man seemed to bore into the foreman’s very soul.
“You don’t know?” he rasped. “You must know! A blast can’t be planted
without your knowing.”
The burly giant never hesitated.
“I didn’t know it was planted,” he said in a low tone--“I swear I
didn’t. That’s what I brought the powder down for. If you want to know
what I think, I bet it was meant for me. There’s a lot of fellows
here’s got a grudge agin’ me ’cause they think I drive ’em hard; and I
bet one of ’em put that blast there while I was up above, thinking to
let it off the first time I went in there. When they seen me go in with
Mr. Merriwell, they done the trick.”
“Humph!” snapped Fairchilds. “What made you leave Mr. Merriwell there?”
“I thought I heard you calling me.”
The mine owner looked a little doubtful.
“I did call you,” he said slowly.
He tried to take a step forward, and a twinge of pain crossed his face.
“Get an empty,” he said shortly. “I can’t stand here any longer. I’ve
got to go up.”
His stern eyes left McDonough’s face and traveled swiftly over the
other men.
“But this thing is not going to drop,” he rasped. “I’ll find out who
set off that blast if I have to grill every man in the shift. I’m going
to get at the truth somehow.”
An empty ore car was brought up and the mine owner helped into it. He
was followed by the other members of the party. As McDonough stepped
forward to help Dick into the car, the Yale man looked at him keenly,
searchingly, with narrowed lids. It was the briefest sort of a glance,
but there was something in Merriwell’s eyes which caused the burly
giant to move uneasily and turn away his head.
Dick sprang into the car without assistance. They moved slowly down the
crosscut to the main drift, and were soon back at the station again.
By the time the mine owner’s office was reached, Fairchilds was able to
hobble along without assistance, though he still suffered considerable
pain. He led the Yale men into his private office, where he insisted on
Dick’s taking off his shirt so that his shoulder could be attended to.
Though Merriwell made light of it, there was an ugly bruise where the
piece of rock had struck him, and his whole arm pained him, as if it
had been badly hurt. Fairchilds’ secretary, who was experienced in
looking after such things, painted it well with iodine, after he had
assured himself that there were no bones broken, and cautioned Dick
about taking care of it for a few days, so as not to strain it further.
“Swell chance I’ll have of taking care of it, with a game on this
afternoon,” Dick remarked, as they were changing their clothes in the
small room off the main office.
“Great Scott, pard!” Buckhart exclaimed in dismay. “I’d clean forgot
the game. How in thunder are you going to pitch?”
Dick smiled.
“Be a south paw, I reckon, if I find the other wing won’t stand the
racket.”
“But can you swing a bat?” Tucker put in anxiously.
“I hope so,” Merriwell said quietly. “It’s not so bad as all that, and
it will be much easier this afternoon. Don’t worry, Tommy; we’ll get
through somehow. I’ve got to pitch, you know. There isn’t anybody else.”
They had already said good-by to the mine owner, so when they finished
dressing they went out to the car. Dick took his seat at the wheel
while the Texan turned the engine over.
As they went through the gates, Tucker leaned forward from the tonneau.
“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.
Merriwell’s eyebrows went up a little.
“Why, to the Field Club, of course,” he returned. “Have you forgotten
that we promised Gardiner to come there directly from the mine? We
didn’t get half enough practice yesterday.”