THE OLD SHAFT.
The Black Cañon trail, up to the point where the road to Castle
Creek Cañon broke away from it, was familiar ground to the king of
scouts. He and Nomad had had some exciting experiences in this part
of the country--experiences which impress land-marks and topography
indelibly upon a man’s mind.
Therefore, although the scout and the baron traversed the Three-ply
road during the earlier half of the night, the scout’s knowledge,
added to that acquired by the baron, was sufficient to keep them on
the right course.
As the scout had stated, it was his intention to camp out somewhere
in the vicinity of the Three-ply Mine, prosecuting his work of
apprehending the bullion thieves, unknown even to McGowan.
The Black Cañon trail was to be followed until they were hard upon
the Three-ply camp; then they would break from it and establish
themselves in some favorable locality where water could be had, and
where they would yet be in touch with the mine.
As to what he intended to do, the scout’s plans were rather vague,
but he was hoping for good results from the work of Nomad and Cayuse.
If the trapper and the little Piute trailed Bernritter and Jacobs
according to instructions, they would sooner or later arrive at the
Three-ply camp. When they arrived there, the scout felt sure he would
have little difficulty in getting into communication with them.
Undoubtedly Nomad and Cayuse would themselves be hunting quarters
among the neighboring hills, as it was part of their instructions to
keep their surveillance of the super and the cyanid expert a secret.
Completely oblivious of the Apaches, gathered under the leadership of
Bascomb, Buffalo Bill and the baron dropped easily into the trap they
had spread.
The blow was struck swiftly, suddenly, and effectively. Not a sound
heralded it.
From each side of the gully half a dozen noosed riatas leaped out
from the rocks.
The scout and the baron saw the flying nooses. One or two might have
been dodged, but there was no getting away from twelve of them.
Buffalo Bill had barely time to jerk a revolver clear and fire in
the direction of the rocks at the gully-side. The next moment he was
roped and dragged bodily out of the saddle.
The noose had slipped part way down his body before it tightened, and
when it closed on him it pinned his arms to his sides and rendered
him helpless.
He struggled to the best of his ability, but a swarm of redskins
dropped down on him and fairly smothered him by force of numbers.
Among the red faces bending over him he saw a white one. While the
Apaches held him, the white man laid a handkerchief over the scout’s
face.
The handkerchief was saturated with chloroform, and it was impossible
for the scout to get away from the sense-destroying fumes of the drug.
Unconsciousness followed; and when the period of lethargy was finally
broken, the scout sat up and stared about him into pitch-black night.
The drug, in clearing out of his faculties, had left a nausea in his
stomach. From somewhere in the darkness the baron was groaning in the
depths of a similar misery.
“Baron!” called the scout.
“Puffalo Pill!” gulped the baron. “Gootness me! I t’ought meppy you
vas deadt. I peen pooty near deadt meinseluf. Ach, vat a trouple in
mein inside. Ach! I hope dot I don’d haf to live mooch longer und
suffer like vat I am.”
“Nonsense, baron! You were drugged, just as I was. You’ll feel better
when you get over the effects.”
“Vell, meppy. I vish Frieda vas here to do somet’ing for me.”
“Don’t waste any time thinking of Frieda. We have other things to
command our attention. Are you tied?”
“No, I don’d vas tied.”
“Neither am I: That’s something, at all events. Strange those
scoundrels left us the use of our hands. I can’t understand what they
mean by making such a play as this.”
“Id vas mighdy sutten.”
“Sudden! It came like lightning out of a clear sky.”
“Who dit id?”
“Apaches; but there was one white man among them.”
“Vy dit dey dit id?” groaned the baron.
“Give it up,” answered the scout. “It must be that this has something
to do with those bullion robberies at the Three-ply.”
“Vell, meppy. I can’t undershtand nodding aboudt id, only I haf sooch
a sickness. Ach, ach! Oof I don’d ged vell, id vill be some hardt
plows for Frieda, I bed you.”
Rising dizzily to his feet, the scout began groping about him. He
touched a steep, jagged wall on every side save one. He looked up and
saw a circular patch of sky, glimmering with stars; then the truth
dawned upon him.
“We’re in an old mine, baron,” he announced.
“Yah? Iss dere any vay to ged oudt?”
The scout’s distress was rapidly passing. With every minute he was
getting better, and feeling more like himself.
His belt and guns had been taken from him, and his money and watch
were missing from his pockets; but his matches had been left, and he
was able to make a brief survey of the shaft.
As nearly as he could judge, it was some thirty feet from the bottom
of the shaft to the top. The walls were straight up and down, so that
scaling them without a rope, or ladders, was an impossibility.
Oft at one side of the shaft a level had been run. The baron was
sitting in front of the black opening, and the scout peered over his
head into the dark.
“It’s an abandoned mine, all right,” averred the scout.
“I vish dot ve couldt apandon id,” said the baron. “I mighdt schust
as vell be in chail as in a blace like dis. Und id vas all so sutten!
Vy, Puffalo Pill, I didn’t haf no shance to do any shooding mit my
guns, or any fighding mit my fists. Two ropes tropped ofer my headt,
my horse vent righht oudt from unter me, und dere I vas, mit Inchuns
piled t’ree deep on top. Und den dot shmell!”
“Come, come, baron,” adjured the scout, “brace up! Those Apaches have
stowed us away here for safe-keeping, but they have left us the use
of our hands and feet, and perhaps we won’t have to stay here, after
all. Pull yourself together and we’ll see where that level will take
us.”
“Meppy id vill take us oudt oof dis hole!” exclaimed the baron,
getting up.
“No such good luck as that. Those reds and that white scoundrel must
have known about this place before they dropped us into it. I’m
obliged to them for not doing us any injury. No matter what happens
to you in this life, baron, there’s always something to be thankful
for.”
It was an odd adventure. In all the scout’s experience with Indians,
he had never before known them to fall back on a drug when they
wished to put an enemy “out of the running.” More than likely it
was their white leader who had furnished the drug, however, and had
planned to use it.
“Vell,” said the baron, “I t’ink ve can feel t’ankful dot ve’re
alife, even oof ve don’d got no guns left, und no vay oof gedding
oudt oof dis hole. Meppy, Puffalo Pill, dose fellers vas going to
leaf us down here undil ve shtarve to deat’!”
“Starve to death!” scoffed the scout. “We’ll not do that while
there’s no more than thirty feet of shaft keeping us from the surface
of the ground. There’s a way to get out of here, and we’ll find it.
How are you feeling now?”
“Pedder. Der pain ain’d so pad like id vas. I t’ink I vill live long
enough to shtarve to deat’, anyvay.”
“Come on after me,” said the scout, “and let’s see what we can make
out of the level.”
He entered the darkness of the drift, scratching matches as he
proceeded. Twenty feet measured the length of the level, and the
scout brought up short against a wall of virgin rock.
“Nothing much here, baron,” said he. “The men who located this
property drifted twenty feet off the shaft to find the lead. They
didn’t find it, and so gave up.”
“I haf found somet’ing,” said the baron. “Look here, vonce.”
The scout retraced his way a few feet to where the baron was
standing. On the floor of the level, directly in front of the baron,
was something that looked like a pile of silver balls. Each ball was
about the size of a man’s fist, and there must have been more than a
hundred of them.
The scout picked up one of the balls, examined it a moment, and then
dropped it in amazement.
“Vat’s der madder, Puffalo Pill?” queried the baron, in some
excitement. “Meppy dis iss a silfer-mine, hey?”
The match flickered out in the scout’s fingers, and the baron heard a
low laugh.
“Vat for you laugh like dot?” demanded the baron. “Meppy ve can take
dot silfer avay, und sell him und make some money. Oof dere iss money
enough for me to ged marrit on, all vat habbened mit me I vill call
a goot t’ing. Dose Inchuns dropped us indo a silfer-mine; und der
choke’s on dem, hey?”
“Baron,” said the scout, “this isn’t a silver-mine.”
“Ain’d dose palls silfer?”
“No, they’re gold.”
“Goldt? _Himmelplitzen!_ I t’ought goldt vas yellow. Dose palls are
_vite_.”
“They’re gold, nevertheless, baron,” said the scout; “yellow gold
covered with quicksilver. That is a pile of amalgam--gold and
quicksilver as it comes from the plates of a stamp-mill.”
“Py chimineddy! Iss dot some oof McGowan’s lost goldt, Puffalo Pill?”
“I’ll bet my pile it is. Those redskins have dropped us into the
place where the bullion thieves have been caching their loot.”
“Und id don’d pelong to us, but to McGowan!”
“It’s McGowan’s gold, all right, baron.” Once more a laugh broke from
the scout’s lips. “We’d never have found it if that white villain and
those Apaches hadn’t----”
A whistle echoed down the shaft and drifted in along the level to
where the scout and the baron were standing, near the pile of amalgam.
“Vat id iss?” whispered the baron, taking a tense grip on the scout’s
arm. “Meppy der Inchuns haf gome pack to put us oudt oof der vay.”
But the baron was wrong in this conclusion. While he and the scout
stood there, trying to puzzle out the cause of that whistle, a voice
came to their ears.
“Buffler! Aire ye thar, ole pard?”
“Nomad!” cried the scout, starting for the shaft.
“Py shinks oof id ain’d!” added the baron, with a whoop of joy.
“Thet’s yerself, is et, Buffler?” called the old trapper, from the
top of the shaft.
“Sure, Nick,” replied the scout, looking upward to where two heads
were framed darkly against the background of sky. “Who’s that with
you?”
“Cayuse.”
“Great Scott! I can’t understand this at all.”
“Jest wait till we git ye out o’ thar an’ we’ll spring a shore enough
surprise-party on ye. Aire ye all right?”
“As well as ever.”
“An’ Schnitz--hes he got any bones broke?”
“Nod dot I know anyt’ing aboudt,” the baron answered for himself.
“Hooray! I was thinkin’ mebbyso ther reds had damaged ye some when
they sprang their leetle trap. I’m goin’ ter throw down the end of
er rope. Lay holt o’ et, you two, an’ we’ll snake ye out with one o’
ther hosses.”
The scout and the baron stepped back into the drift until the end of
the rope had come swishing down; then they went out and laid firm
hold of it.
“All ready, Nick!” shouted Buffalo Bill.
“Gee-haw with thet pesky cabyo, Cayuse,” called Nomad to the Piute
boy; “git him a-goin’, son, an’ stop ther minit I sing out.”
The rope tightened, then straightened out under the weight of the
scout and the baron. Up and up they went at a smart clip until they
reached the mouth of the shaft. At a quick command from the trapper,
Cayuse stopped the horse; then Buffalo Bill and the baron climbed out
on top of the old ore-dump.
“Howlin’ painters,” jubilated Nomad, grabbing his pard’s hand, “but
et’s good ter see ye, Buffler, an’ ter know ye pulled out o’ thet
trap without so much as moultin’ er feather.”
“Weren’t there any Apaches on guard around here?” inquired the scout,
sitting down on the rocks.
“Nary. I reckon ther reds thort they had ye bottled up fer keeps down
thar, an’ thet thar wasn’t no way fer ye ter git out without help.
’Course,” laughed Nomad, “they didn’t opine noways thet ye was goin’
ter git help.”
“I can’t understand that play of theirs at all. They snagged the
baron and me with riatas, dumped us out of our saddles, drugged us,
and then lowered us into that old shaft. If they had wanted to put us
out of the way, why didn’t they use their guns, or their knives? It
isn’t like a pack of reds to go to all that extra trouble.”
“Thar was a white man with ’em, wasn’t thar?”
“Yes.”
“Waal, them Injuns was bein’ bossed by ther white man. All ther pesky
white varmint wanted ter do was ter hang ye up, hard an’ fast, durin’
ter-morrer.”
“Why was that?”
“They hev a mill clean-up at ther Three-ply ter-morrer, an’
Bernritter an’ Jacobs an’ them reds aire plannin’ ter git away with
more’n forty thousand in bullion.”
The scout stared at the old man in astonishment.
“Where did you get next to all that, Nick?” he asked.
“By doin’ what ye told me ter do an’ follerin’ Jacobs.”
“This is important. Give me the whole of it.”
The trapper went into details, leaving out nothing that had the
slightest bearing on the peculiar situation.
Little Cayuse likewise added his testimony, explaining how he had
discovered that the scout and the baron had been lowered into the old
shaft.
“So far,” applauded the scout, “this little drama has been a two-star
performance, with Nomad and Cayuse occupying the center of the
stage. Nick, you and Cayuse have done mighty well. By acting on this
information you two have collected, we’ll be able to run out this
trail of McGowan’s in short order.
“Bascomb and the redskins, unless I misread the signs are going
to storm the Three-ply camp to-morrow, after the amalgam has been
scraped off the mill-plates, and make ’way with it.
“I have suspected Bernritter and Jacobs ever since I saw them in
the sheriff’s office. What do you think of them for a pair of
contemptible, scheming scoundrels? McGowan has all the confidence in
the world in Bernritter, and the super has taken advantage of that
confidence to rob his employer systematically.
“I know, now, just as well as I know I am sitting here, that those
rascals contrived to put that bar into the baron’s saddle-bag,
solely for the purpose of bringing our Dutch pard under suspicion
and sidetracking McGowan’s distrust until the mill clean-up could be
stolen and rushed away.
“We’ll nip this pretty plot in the bud, but we shall have to go about
it carefully. Bascomb and his Indians think the baron and I are holed
up in that shaft. We’ll let them continue to think so, and will so
mask our movements that they will not know we’re at large until we
show ourselves to frustrate their designs on the Three-ply gold. Give
me a saddle-blanket, one of you fellows.”
Nomad was puzzled by this request, but he immediately loosened his
saddle-cinches and drew out the blanket. Then the scout dropped the
riata into the shaft once more and let himself down.
He was down a short time, when he called out to be drawn to the
surface again.
He came up with the saddle-blanket secured at the corners, and a
heavy weight in it.
“What ye got thar, Buffler?” asked the curious trapper.
“About thirty pounds of amalgam, at a rough guess,” was the answer.
“Amalgam!” cried the startled Nomad.
Then the scout explained, and when the truth dawned on the trapper he
chuckled mightily.
“Et wasn’t er good thing for them varmints ter put ye down thar with
thet Three-ply loot,” said he. “Didn’t ther ijuts know better, er was
they jest takin’ er chance ye wouldn’t find et?”
“They were taking the chance that we couldn’t get out if we did
find it,” answered the scout, “and it was Little Cayuse’s work that
enabled us to fool them. The baron and I will stow the stuff in our
war-bags, and then we’ll ride.”
“Whar’ll we ride ter, Buffler?”
“To some place near the Three-ply camp.”
The amalgam was quickly stowed in the war-bags, Nomad replaced his
saddle-blanket, and the little party mounted.
Cayuse and Nomad took the lead to the gully. This was followed almost
to the point where it entered the valley, and there the horsemen
spurred out of it, crossed two or three low hills, and rounded up in
a small arroyo. During the entire journey from the old shaft nothing
had been seen of Bascomb or any of his Indians.
“Whar d’ye reckon ther reds aire, Buffler?” asked Nomad.
“They are probably lying low and waiting for their work to-morrow,”
was the reply.
The scout turned to the baron.
“Where does McGowan sleep, baron?” he inquired.
“In a leedle room off der office,” answered the baron.
“Where do Bernritter and Jacobs sleep?”
“Pernritter shleeps by der bunk-house, und Chacops shleeps in der
laporadory glose to der cyanit-danks.”
“Good. Cayuse, you and the baron come up this hill with me. Nomad,
keep your eye on the horses.”
The scout, followed by the Dutchman and the little Piute, gained
the crest of the hill. The camp lay below them, with all lights
extinguished save those in the mill. The stamps were still pounding
away, powdering ore and releasing gold which Bernritter, Jacobs, and
their gang were planning to get away with on the following day.
“Where’s the office, baron?” went on the scout. “Point it out to me.”
“Dere,” said the baron, stretching out his hand. “Id iss dot leedle
puilding oop der site oof der hill.”
The office, being of whitewashed adobe, stood out plainly against the
dark slope of the hill.
“You see it, Cayuse?” asked the scout.
“Wuh!” said the boy.
“I want you to go down there, Cayuse, and wake up McGowan. Do this
quietly, so that no one in the camp finds out about it. Tell McGowan
that Buffalo Bill wants to see him at once. Then bring him here.”
“Wuh.”
Without waiting for further words, Little Cayuse slipped down the
descent, while the scout and the baron turned back to the place where
Nomad was watching the horses.
“Vell,” remarked the baron, “I couldt haf done dot schust so vell as
Cayuse.”
“I’m afraid not, baron. You would probably have had to stop and say
how do you do to Frieda. Until we take care of these bullion thieves
you must forget all about the girl.”
“I can’t do dot. She iss a leedle sunpeam, I tell you for sure. Dere
iss only vone girl in dis vorldt for me, und dot’s Frieda. Somedime,
pefore long, meppy, Frieda vill be _Frau_ von Schnitzenhauser. Ach,
vat a habbiness!”
“Waugh!” grunted Nomad. “Ther baron hes been chewin’ loco-weed.
Wimmen gits ombrays inter trouble, an’ ef et hadn’t been fer thet
thar Frieda ther baron wouldn’t hev rode away from ther Three-ply
with thet bar o’ cyanid bullion.”
“I don’d care aboudt dot,” averred the baron stoutly. “Frieda is
vort’ anyt’ing vat habbens to me.”