It was decidedly warm the following Monday noon at Bonepile, and Wilson
Jennings, his coat off, but wearing the fancy Mexican sombrero that the
Bar-O cowmen had given him, sat in the open window to catch the breeze
that blew through from the rear. From the window Wilson could not see the
wagon-trail toward the hills to the west. Thus was it that the low thud
of hoofs first told him of someone's hurried approach.
Starting to his feet, he stepped to the end of the platform. At sight of
a horseman coming toward him at full speed, and leading a second horse,
saddled, but riderless, Wilson gazed in surprise. Wonder increased when
as the rider drew nearer he recognized Muskoka Jones, the big Bar-O
cowman.
"What is it, Muskoka?" he shouted as the ponies approached.
The cow-puncher pulled up all-standing within a foot of the platform.
"There's been an explosion at the Pine Lode, kid, and ten men are bottled
up somewhere in the lower level. Two men got in through a small hole--the
mouth of the mine is blocked--and one of them is tapping on the iron
pump-pipe. Bartlett, the mine boss, thinks it may be telegraph
ticking--that maybe Young knows something about that. Will you come up
and listen?
"You see, if they knew what was what inside, they'd know what they could
do. They are afraid to blast the big rock that's blocking the mouth for
fear of bringing loosened stuff down on the men who have been caught."
Wilson was running for the station door. "I'll explain to the
despatcher," he shouted over his shoulder.
"I, I, X," responded the despatcher.
"There has been an explosion at the Pine Lode mine," sent Wilson rapidly,
"and a man has been sent to take me there to try and read some tapping
from the men inside. Can you give 144 and the Mail clearance from Q and
let me go up?"
"Some tapping? What--Oh, I understand. OK! Go ahead," ticked the
despatcher. "Get back as soon as possible."
"I will."
"All right, Muskoke," cried Wilson, hastening forth, struggling into his
coat as he ran.
"Get round thar," shouted the cowboy, swinging the spare pony to the
platform. Wilson went into the saddle with a neat bound.
"Say, you've seen a hoss before, kid," observed Muskoka with surprise as
he threw over the reins.
"Sure I have. Used to spend my summer vacations on a farm. Can ride a bit
standing up," said Wilson, with pride.
They swung their animals about together, and were off on the jump. As the
two ponies stretched out to their full stride the cowboy eyed Wilson's
easy seat with approval. "Well, kid," he observed after a moment's
silence, "next time I come across a dude I'll git him to do his tricks
before I brand him. I don't see but what you sit about as good as I do."
Wilson's pleased smile gave place to gravity as he returned to the
subject of the explosion. "When did it happen?" he asked.
"Early this morning. Just after the men went in. They're not sure, but
think it was powder stored at the foot of the shaft down to the lower
level. The main lead of the Pine Lode, you know, runs straight into the
mountain, not down; and the shaft to the lower level is a ways in. We
heard the noise at the Bar-O.
"There's nothing much to see, or do, though," the cowman added as they
raced along neck and neck. "A big rock just over the entrance came down,
and when they got the dirt away they found it had bottled the thing up
like a cork. It's that they are afraid to blast until they know how the
men are fixed inside. Hoover and Young got in through a small hole at the
top, Hoover about half an hour before Young. He started tapping on the
pipe too, then stopped. They don't know what happened to him."
Twenty minutes' hard riding brought them to the foothills. Still at the
gallop the ponies were urged up a winding rocky trail, and finally a tall
black chimney and a group of rough buildings came into view.
"There it is," said the cowboy, indicating a ledge just above.
As they went forward, still at full speed, Wilson gazed toward the mine
entrance with some astonishment. Mine disasters he had always thought of
as scenes of great excitement--people running to and fro, wringing their
hands, excited crowds held back by ropes, and men calling and shouting.
Here, about a spot but little distinguished from the rest of the rocky,
sparsely-treed mountain side, was gathered a group of perhaps fifty men,
some sitting on beams and rocks, others moving quietly about, all
smoking.
On their being discovered, however, there was a stir, and as Muskoka and
the boy dismounted at the foot of a rough path and ascended there was a
general movement of the miners and cowmen to meet them.
"I got him," Muskoka announced briefly to a grizzle-haired man who met
them at the top. "This is Bartlett, the mine boss," he said to Wilson by
way of introduction. The boss nodded.
"The tapping's going on yet, is it, Joe?"
"No. It's stopped, just like Hoover's did," was the gloomy response. "And
just when we were getting onto it ourselves."
The speaker held up a small board pencilled with figures and letters.
"Redding there hit on the idea that maybe Young was knocking out the
numbers of letters in the alphabet, and we made this table, and just
found out we had it right when the tapping stopped. That was twenty
minutes ago, and we haven't had another knock since."
"Let's see it. What did you get?"
"There--'20, 7, 5, 20, 21, 16'--'T G E T U P.' Something about 'can't get
up,' we figured it. But it's not enough to be of any use.
"And there's not another man here can wriggle in through the hole," went
on the boss, turning toward the great rock which sealed the mouth of the
mine. "A dozen of 'em tried it, and Redding got stuck so we had to get a
rope on him. Nearly pulled his legs off."
Wilson made his way forward and examined the strangely blocked entrance.
The small hole referred to was a triangular-shaped opening about a foot
in height and some sixteen inches in width, apparently just at the roof
of the gallery. Some minutes Wilson stood studying it, pondering. Finally
he turned about with an air of decision and returned to Muskoka and the
mine boss.
"I have a plan," he announced. "If you will go back to the station again,
Muskoke, I'll send for another operator, and go in the mine myself. Two
operators could talk backwards and forwards easily on the piping. And--"
"But whar's the other operator?" interrupted the cowboy.
"There is a freight due at the station in about twenty-five minutes. I
can give you a message to hand the engineer for the operator at Ledges,
the next station--a message asking the despatcher to send the Ledges
operator down on the Mail. Someone could wait for him, and if there is no
hitch he'd be here inside of an hour and a half."
"That'll work!" exclaimed the boss. "That's it! You'll go, Muskoke?"
"Sartenly. I'll get a fresh hoss, and wait fer him myself." Wilson,
finding an envelope in his pocket, dropped to a boulder and began
writing.
* * * * *
"W. B. J., Exeter," he scribbled. "Am at the mine. The tapping has
stopped. No one else can go in, so I am going myself. Please send down
operator from Ledges to read my tapping if I am unable to return.
"Jennings."
* * * * *
"Redding! Whar's Red?" shouted Muskoka as he folded the message.
"Here. What?"
"I'm going back to the station for another operator. I'm going to take
your Johnny hoss. Mine's blowed."
"Sure yes," agreed the owner, and with a "Good luck, kid," Muskoka was
clattering down the path.
"Now, Mr. Bartlett, will you please explain the plan of things inside;
just how the tunnel runs?" requested Wilson.
"Have a seat and I'll draw it," said the boss, setting the example. He
turned the board bearing the fragmentary message, and Wilson dropped down
beside him.
"The main gallery, the old lead, runs straight in, at about this dip
down," he said, drawing as he spoke. "Runs back 550 feet, and ends. That
was where the old lead petered out.
"Here, about 200 feet from the entrance, is a vertical shaft, 90 feet,
that we put down to pick up the old Pine-Knot lead. It's from the foot of
that the new gallery, the lower level, starts. It slopes off just under
the old lead--so--330 feet, there's a fault, and it cants up 12
feet--so--then on down again at a bit sharper dip, nearly 600 feet; then
another fault and a drop, and about 50 feet more.
"It's down there at the end we think most of the men have been caught,
but some may have been near the shaft. The pumping-pipe where Hoover and
Young must have been tapping is here, half way between the first and
second faults, where it comes down through a boring from the old gallery.
It must have been at that point, because we had disconnected two leaking
sections just below there only this morning."
"How do you get down the shaft to the lower level?" Wilson asked.
"There was a ladder, but it was smashed by the explosion. Hoover, the
first man in, came out for a rope, so I suppose that's there now. Young
must have gone down by it.
"Hoover also reported that the roof of the old gallery was in bad shape
just over the shaft. That's the particular reason we are afraid to blast
the rock here until we know whether any of the men were caught at the
bottom of the pit."
Wilson arose and began removing his collar. "How about water, Mr.
Bartlett, since the pump is not working?" he inquired.
"Unless the explosion tapped new water, there'll be no danger for
twenty-four hours at least. But if the drain channel of the lower gallery
has been filled the floor will be very slippery," the mine boss added.
"It's slate, and we left it smooth, as a runway for the ore boxes."
As the young operator removed his spotless collar--one similar to that
which had so aroused the cowmen's derision on his first day at
Bonepile--without a smile one of the very men who had formed the
"welcoming committee" that day rubbed his hands on his shirt, took it
carefully, and placed it on a clean plank.
"You'll want a lamp. Somebody give the boy a cap and lamp," the boss
directed. A dozen of the miners whipped off caps with attached lamps, and
trying several, Wilson found one to fit. Then, buttoning his coat and
turning up the collar, he made his way to the rock-sealed entrance, and
climbed up to the narrow opening.
"I'll tap as soon as I reach the pipe," he said. "So long!" and without
more ado crawled head first within and disappeared.
The lamp on his cap lighting up the narrow trough-like tunnel, Wilson
easily wormed his way forward ten or twelve feet. Then the passage
contracted and became broken and twisted. However, given confidence by
the knowledge that others had passed through, Wilson squeezed on, there
presently came a widening of the hole, then a black opening, and with a
final effort he found himself projecting into the black depths of the
empty gallery.
Below him the debris sloped to the floor. Pulling himself free, he slid
and scrambled down, and quickly was on his feet, breathing with relief.
Only pausing to brush some of the dust from his clothes, Wilson hastened
forward.
Two hundred feet distant a windlass took shape in the obscurity. He
reached it, and the black opening of the shaft to the lower level was at
his feet. Looking, he found the rope the mine boss had spoken of. It was
secured to one of the windlass supports, and disappeared into the depths
on the opposite side of the pit. Directly below was the shattered wreck
of the ladder.
Leaning over, Wilson shouted, "Hello! Hello!" The words crashed and
echoed in the shaft and about him, but there was no reply. Once more he
shouted, then resolutely suppressing his instinctive shrinking, he made
his way about to the rope, carefully lowered himself, and began
descending hand under hand.
Wilson had not gone far when with apprehension he found the rope becoming
wet and slippery with drip from the rocks above. Despite a tightened grip
his hands began to slip. In alarm he wound his feet about the rope. Still
he slipped. To dry a hand on his sleeve, he freed it. Instantly with a
cry he found himself shooting downward. He clutched with hands, feet and
knees, but onward he plunged. In the light of his lamp the jagged broken
timbers of the shoring shot up by him. He would be dashed to pieces.
But desperately he fought, and at last got the rope clamped against the
corner of a heel, and the speed was retarded. A moment after he landed
with an impact that broke his hold on the rope and sent him in a heap on
his back.
Rising, Wilson thankfully discovered he had escaped injury other than a
few bruises, and gazed about him. At first sight he appeared to be in the
bottom of a well filled with broken water-soaked timbers and gray,
dripping rock. He knew there must be an exit, however, and set about
looking for it, at the same time listening and watching shrinkingly for
signs of anyone buried in the heap of stone and timber. Not a sound save
the monotonous drip of seeping water was to be heard, however, and
presently behind a shield of planking he located the black mouth of a
small opening.
Dropping to his knees, he crawled through, and stood upright in a
downward sloping gallery similar to that above--the "lower level."
Once more he shouted. "Hello! Hello!" The clashing echoes died away
without response, and he started forward.
Scarcely had he taken a half dozen steps when without warning his feet
shot from under him and he went down on his back with a crash, barely
saving his head with his hands. The smooth hard rock was as slippery as
ice from the water flowing over it. Wondering if this icy declivity had
anything to do with the failure of Hoover and Young to return, Wilson
arose and went on more cautiously.
As he proceeded the walking became more and more treacherous. Several
times he again went down, saving himself by sinking onto his outstretched
hands.
On rising from one of these falls Wilson discovered something which sent
him ahead with new concern. A few yards farther he halted with an
exclamation on the brink of a yellow stretch of water that met the
gallery roof twenty feet beyond him.
Blankly he gazed at it. Then he recalled the "fault" the mine boss had
spoken of--an abrupt rise of the gallery twelve feet. This must be it.
Its drain had choked, and filled it with water.
But both Hoover and Young had passed it! The pipe they had tapped upon
was beyond. They must have waded boldly in, dove or ducked down, and come
up on the other side. At the thought of following them in this Wilson
drew back. Had he not better return?
Could he, though? Could he ascend a rope down which he had been unable to
prevent himself sliding? The answer was obvious.
Desperately Wilson decided to venture the water, to reach those he now
knew were on the other side, and the pumping-pipe. In preparation he
first securely wrapped the matches he carried in notepaper taken from an
envelope, and placed them in the top of the miner's hat. Then removing
his shoes, to give him firmer footing, he stepped into the yellow pool
and carefully made his way forward. Six feet from the point at which the
water met the top of the gallery the water was up to his chin, and he saw
he must swim for it, and dive. Without pause, lest he should lose his
nerve, he struck out, reached the roof, took a deep breath, and ducked
down.
Three quick, hard strokes, and he arose, and with a gasp found himself at
the surface again. A few strokes onward in the darkness, and his hands
met a rough wall, over which the water was draining as over the brink of
a dam.
At the same moment a sound of dull blows reached his ears. Spluttering
and blinking, Wilson drew himself up. A shout broke from him. Far distant
and below was a point of light.
"Hello!" he cried. Immediately came a chorus of response, as though many
were excitedly shouting at once. Unable to distinguish anything from the
jangle of echoes, Wilson cried back, "Are you all safe?"
Again came the clashing, incomprehensible shout.
"I'm coming down," he called, though not sure that they heard him.
Producing the matches from the crown of the hat, he found they had come
through dry, and after some difficulty lighting one against the side of
another, he re-lit the lamp. While at this, voices continued to come up
to him, evidently shouting something. But try as he could he was unable
to make out what was said. It was all a reverberating clamor, as though a
hundred people were talking at once.
As the lamp spluttered up, after the ducking which had extinguished it,
Wilson gazed down the gallery before him with a touch of new dismay. The
water was flowing over it in a thin, glossy coat, and it was considerably
steeper than on the outer side of the fault. Apparently the only thing to
do was to slide.
Working about into a sitting position, facing down the slope, with feet
spread out, as though steering a sleigh, Wilson allowed himself to go.
The rapidity with which he gained momentum startled him. Soon the gray
damp walls were passing upward like a glistening mist. With difficulty he
kept his feet foremost.
Meantime the voices from below had continued shouting. Onward he slid,
and the sounds became clearer. At last the words came to him. They were,
"The pipe! The pipe! Catch the pump-pipe!" Then Wilson suddenly
recollected that the pipe was but half way down the slope.
Digging with his heels he sought to slow up, gazing first at one flitting
wall, then the other. On the right a vertical streak of black appeared.
He clutched with heels and hands, and sought to steer toward it. He swept
nearer, and reached with outstretched hand. The effort swung him
sideways, his fingers just grazed the iron, and twisting about, he shot
downward head first at greater speed than ever. A moment after there was
a chorus of shouts, a sharp cry in his ears, an impact, a rolling and
tumbling, a second crash, and Wilson felt himself dragged to his feet.
About him, in a single flickering light, was a group of strange faces.
While he gazed, dazed, rubbing a bruised head, all talked excitedly, even
angrily.
"Why didn't you hang on, you idiot?" demanded a voice.
"Who is it, anyway? It's a stranger!"
"And a boy!" said another.
Wilson recovered his scattered wits, and quickly explained who he was and
what he had come for. Immediately there was a joyful shout. "We'll be out
inside of an hour!" cried one.
"But how am I going to get up to the pipe?" demanded Wilson.
"We are cutting footholds up the incline.
"White, get back on the job," directed the speaker, who Wilson later
learned was the fire-boss.
"You brought him down with you," he added, to the boy.
The man spoken to began creeping up the water-covered slope dragging a
pick, and Wilson turned to look about him. The eleven men in the party,
not including the man on the slope, were crowded together on the level
floor of what evidently was the lower fault of the lead. From the
darkness beyond came the sound of water trickling to a lower level.
"Are all here, and no one hurt?" he asked.
"Hoover and Young, and everybody, and not one scratched," responded the
fire-boss. "You were the one nearest hurt.
"You were a mighty plucky youngster," he added, "to come through that
water up there."
Wilson interrupted a chorus of hearty assent. "What happened to Hoover
and Young at the pipe?" he inquired. "That mystified everybody outside."
"They both caught it coming down, but Hoover lost his hold trying to
change hands for tapping, and Young dropped the knife he was knocking
with, and slipped fishing for it," the fire-boss explained.
Meantime at the entrance to the mine, a half hour having passed without a
knocking on the pipe to announce the arrival inside of the young
operator, anxiety began to be felt for his safety also. When another half
hour had passed, and there was still no response to frequent tappings of
inquiry, the mine-boss, Bartlett, began to stride up and down before the
blocked entrance. "I shouldn't have allowed him to go in," he muttered
repeatedly. "He was only a boy."
When at length Muskoka Jones reappeared on the scene, and with him the
operator from Ledges, Bartlett met them with a gloomy face. At that very
moment, however, there was a shout from the men gathered about the
pumping-pipe. "He's knocking!" cried a voice.
Bartlett, Muskoka and the Ledges operator went forward on the run. The
latter dropped to his knees and placed his ear to the pipe. At the quick
smile of comprehension which came into his face a great cheer went up. It
was immediately stilled by a gesture from the operator, and in tense
silence he caught up a stone, tapped back a signal, then read aloud
Wilson's strangely telegraphed words of the safety of the men below,
their situation, and the means to be taken to reach them.
And just at sunset the bedraggled but joyful, cheering party of rescuers
and rescued emerged from the entrance--Wilson to a reception he will
remember as long as he lives.
The most important result of Wilson's courage and resourcefulness,
however, was an interview Alex Ward had that evening at Exeter with the
division superintendent. Following a recital of Wilson's feat at the
mine, Alex added: "You said last week, Mr. Cameron, that I might suggest
a third operator for the Yellow Creek construction 'advance guard' of
operators. I'd like to suggest Jennings, sir."
"He is appointed, then," said the superintendent. "Go and tell him
yourself."