THE RACE WITH DEATH.
"Job, you'll have to go. No one knows this country as you do, and no
one can do it but you."
It was the superintendent speaking. Huddled in a group the little
company sat in the dark, looking death in the face. Surrender, death,
or outside help, were the only alternatives. They could keep from
starvation for a day more on the provisions they had. Someone must go
through the lines and get help. They had decided that it was useless
to call on the sheriff, for he could never raise a posse large enough
to cope with this mob, now armed and well prepared. Troop A was on
duty near Wawona, guarding the Yosemite Reservation. Someone must go
and notify them, and telegraph to the Secretary of War and get orders
for them to come to the relief of the besieged men. It was a
dangerous undertaking. Even if one could pass through the line around
the office, would he ever be able to get through the streets alive?
And then would he ever get past the outer picket?
Someone must take the risk. Someone must go, and perhaps die for the
others. One of the clerks said he guessed Job was the best prepared.
The superintendent urged him to go. Finally rising, Job said he knew
both the way and the peril it meant, and he would make the attempt.
Not even to them did he tell the route he would take and the dangers
he knew he must face. He had a plan, and if it succeeded there was
hope; if it failed, there was no getting back. One silent prayer in
the corner, and he crept softly and hastily through the half-open
door, as the sentinel went down towards the other end of his beat.
There Job lay flat on the ground and waited to see who it was. In the
dim twilight he descried, as the sentinel turned, no other than Tim's
father. Job stole up to him, caught him before he cried "Halt!" and
said:
"For Tim's sake, Mr. Rooney, let me through the lines. We will starve
in there!"
"Job, me boy, is that ye!" whispered the guard. "Hiven bless ye! I
wish I could let yez t'rough, but by the saints I can't! I've sworn
that I wouldn't let a soul pass, and they said if a mon wint t'rough
the line and me here, they'd finish me!"
Job pleaded, and the tears streamed from Pat Rooney's eyes, but he was
firm; he had given his word, and he could not break it. But after what
seemed to Job a long time, Pat said:
"Job, if ye'll promise me no mon but the one ye go to see shall see
yez, and that ye'll come back to-morrow night and be here if the
soldier boys come, so no one will know I let yez t'rough, I'll let yez
go; and Job, I'll be at the ind of Sullivan's alley and pass yez; and
then the next shift I'll be here, and ye'll get in safe."
Job promised. Many times afterward he wished he had not; but he made
up his mind, as he slunk through, with Pat's "Hiven bliss ye!"
following him, that only death should prevent him from keeping his
word.
Just back of the office was the abandoned shaft where he had gone
often to pray. Once he had sounded its sides, and suspected that it
opened into the first level. If this was the case, and he could get
into that, and from that into the next lower level, Job knew that the
end of that one went clear through to the old half-finished
drainage-tunnel which ran in from the canyon back of the quartz mill.
Once in the tunnel he knew that he could reach the canyon, then get
outside the lines and away.
It took but a moment to drop down the old shaft, which ran down but a
few hundred feet on a steep slant. Then rapping softly on the wall, he
thought he heard a hollow sound. There were voices above him. He kept
still and lay down close against the side till they passed on. Then he
dug a hole, inch by inch, till he could reach his arm through. No
doubt this was the tunnel!
Finally, after what seemed hours--though it was not even one--Job had
the opening almost large enough to crawl through. Then he struck the
timbers--how was he to get through now? Well, just how, he never knew;
but he did. He dropped down to the floor of the level, lit a little
candle he had with him, ran along to the big shaft, and saw the ladder
reaching down to the next level. Then he bethought himself that his
light might be seen, so he blew it out. How could he get down the
ladder in the dark? One misstep and--he shuddered at the thought. But
he would dare it.
It was slow work, step by step; but at last he found an open space
through the boards, reached out a little lower and felt the floor of
the second level, and stepped off safe. Along the wooden rails laid
for the ore-cars he felt his way, till he began to grow confused. He
must have a light; surely no one could see it. Then he thought he
again heard voices. He stood still. He could hear his heart beat. It
was only the drip of water from the roof. He lit the candle and
hurried on. The air was close and hot, but he never stopped. On down
the long, dark cavern he made his way by the flickering light of the
fast-dying candle.
At last he reached the spot where he was sure the drainage tunnel and
the second level met. Again he dug and dug, using an old pick he found
there. He tore at the hard earth with his fingers, till he found
himself growing drowsy and faint. It was the foul air! He must get
through the wall soon, or perish where he was. The candle was gone.
Now it was a life-and-death struggle. He thought of that night in the
snow and his awful dread of death. All was so different now. A great
peace filled his soul. But he must not die; he must get through; other
lives were in his care; starving men were awaiting him; his promise to
Tim's father must be kept. At it he went again. He felt something give
way, felt a breath of fresh air that revived him, lifted a silent
thanksgiving to God, and crept through into the drainage tunnel.
The pickets on the banks above were calling, "Three o'clock and all's
well," as Job crept silently down the canyon and made for the heavy
timber of the mountain opposite.
* * * * *
The bugle had just sounded "taps" at Camp Sheridan, on the flat
between the South Fork and the Yosemite Fall road, one mile east of
Wawona. The southern hills had echoed back its sweet, lingering notes.
The blue-coats had turned in. The officer of the guard was inspecting
the sentries, when the guard on Post Number Four saw a haggard,
white-faced young fellow, with hat gone, clothes torn, hands bleeding
from scratches, pull himself up the bank of the creek, and at the
sentry's "Halt!" look up with anxious appeal and ask for the captain.
That instinct which is sometimes quicker than thought told the guard
this was no ordinary case. In two minutes the corporal was escorting
Job to the headquarters tent. What a dilapidated object he was! For
twenty long hours he had been working his way over the rear of Pine
Mountain, down the steep sides of the Gulch, up that terrible jungle
which even the red man avoids, over the great boulders and falls of
the South Fork, and up the long miles through the primeval wilderness
to where he knew the white tents of Camp Sheridan lay.
The captain could hardly believe Job's story. The officers marveled at
the heroism of the boy. But he told it all without consciousness of
self, begged them for God's sake to lose no time, and fell over limp
and faint at the captain's feet.
When he came to, it was dawn, the troops were in the saddle, and the
sergeant was reading this telegram:
"Proceed at once to the Yellow Jacket Mine and quell the riot
and disorder. LAMONT."
The horses were pawing the ground, the quartermaster was hurrying to
and fro, the captain was buckling on his saber, and Job was lying on a
cot in the surgeon's tent, while that good man was feeling his pulse.
Quick as he could, Job started up. "Are they off?" he cried.
"Yes, my boy; and you lie still. They'll settle those fellows over at
the mine," was the reply.
"But, doctor, I must go! I promised Rooney! Let me go!"
"No, young man. You're plucky, but pluck won't do any more. A day or
two here will fix you all right. Your pulse has been up to a hundred
and four. You can't stir to-day."
Job was desperate. The bugle was sounding, the officers were shouting
orders. Through the door of the tent and the grove of trees he could
see troops forming.
"Send for the captain, doctor, please," he pleaded.
The captain came, heard Job's story, and shook his head.
Job was half frantic. What would Pat Rooney say? He begged the doctor
with tears in his eyes. He beseeched the captain. At last they
yielded. But how could he cross the line in the daytime? They would
have to wait till night. Finally the captain said he would wait and
send Job with a scout at dusk, and follow with the troops at midnight.
The bugle sounded recall, and the soldiers waited, so that Job could
keep his promise. All that summer day as he lay on the cot, listening
to the ripple of the spring, the neighing of the horses, the
bugle-calls, and the coming and going of the men, he thought of those
comrades shut in the store office without food, and waiting for relief
which it must seem would never come.
Just at dusk, mounted behind a sturdy little trooper, and well
disguised, Job started back. They passed around Wawona by a side
trail; and, striking the main turnpike near its junction with the
Signal Peak road, galloped on in the dark, fearing no recognition, and
well prepared to meet anyone who demanded a halt. The light was
burning in Aunty Perkins' window as they passed. It was after midnight
when they crept slowly down the timber on the other side of
Rattlesnake Gulch, and Job dismounted and stole on ahead.
A gloom rested on the Yellow Jacket. A few lights shone out of shanty
windows and in saloons. The stars seemed to rest on the top of the
smoke-stacks which rose like vast shadows in the distance. A low,
far-off murmur of voices, now rising, now dying down, stole out on the
clear night air.
Down Job crept, now on hands and knees, to the foot of Sullivan's
alley. He heard a step. The sentry was coming. Job gave the call Pat
and he had agreed upon--the sharp bark of a coyote. In an instant he
saw a flash and heard a report, as a bullet whizzed past him. Then he
heard voices:
"What was that, Jacob?"
"A leetle hund, I tinks."
"A hund? You shoot him not! You save bullets for bigger ting. See?"
Oh, where was Pat Rooney! It was fully an hour before the sentry's
pace changed and the step sounded like Pat's. Again Job barked, and a
hoot like an owl's replied. It was Tim's father! A few minutes, and
Pat had clasped him to his heart, and told him the officers were still
in the store office; that the men were desperate--they had been
drinking heavily, and, he was afraid, before another night would burn
the whole place. Would Job go back into the mine and take his chances?
Of course Job went. He slunk up the alley into a hidden passage-way he
knew of back of the Last Chance Saloon, and kept in between the
buildings till within a stone's throw of the office. There, wedged in
between two old shanties, he had to wait two hours for Pat to get on
the office beat. Oh, what a long night! Just ahead were the office and
the starving men. Between them and their rescuer a Chinaman stalked,
gun in hand, pig-tail bobbing in the night air, and eyes ever on the
alert to see an intruder. In the bar-room Job could hear the talking.
Dan Dean and O'Donnell were there. They were boasting that not a soul
outside knew of the strike; that a late telephone to Gold City showed
no one there knew; that the stage was still held at the stables; that
there was no hope for "the boss and the tyrants." To-morrow they would
sign that paper or take the consequences.
Job shuddered at the thought. Then he heard Dan chuckle over him. He
"'lowed the biggest fun would be to see that pious fraud beg for
mercy."
What if Dan knew he was listening, with only a board partition between
them! Job hardly dared to breathe.
It was getting uncomfortably near dawn when Job heard another owl's
hoot and stole past Pat Rooney up to the rear door of the old stone
office, which opened softly in a few minutes as he gave the well-known
private tap of the clerks. What a wretched, haggard lot of men rose
excitedly to meet him! He hushed them to silence, told his story, and
bade them rest and wait a few hours. Troop A would surely be here.
* * * * *
It was daybreak, the dawn of the Fourth of July, when the sound of a
bugle aroused the miners of the Yellow Jacket. Some thought it was
some patriotic Yankee, but the clang, clang, of the old bell at the
stone tower, the calls of the sentries, the rush of hundreds of
half-dressed, excited men down the street, told everyone that trouble
was in the air.
It was all done so quickly that the miners hardly knew where they
were. The guards were on the run, and a troop of cavalry, with a solid
front, stood facing the yelling, yet terrified, mob of men who
blockaded lower Main street. It was only a hundred against five
hundred men; but it was order, discipline, authority, against
disorder, tumult and a mob. All rules were forgotten, all their plans
went for naught. Dan yelled in vain. O'Donnell grew red in the face as
he screamed orders. "Forward, march!" rang out the captain's voice,
and a hundred sabers rattled and a hundred horses started, and five
hundred terror-stricken men, each forgetful of all but himself,
started in a panic to retreat.
From the open door of the office, deserted at the first alarm by the
guards, the imprisoned officers of the company saw the mob come
surging up the street.
Before noon the Yellow Jacket was a military camp. The miners were the
prisoners, disarmed, a helpless crowd, the larger part already ashamed
of having been influenced by such a man as O'Donnell. Before nightfall
the men had personally signed an agreement to go to work on the morrow
at the old terms, and were allowed to depart to their homes. The
saloons were emptied of their liquors and closed until military law
should be relaxed, and the ringleaders were on their way to the county
jail at Gold City.
The strike was over without bloodshed, and when the men came to their
sober senses, went back to their tasks, and saw the folly of it
all--saw how they had been duped by demagogues--they were grateful
that somebody had dared to end the strike, and Job was the hero of the
hour. The reaction that sweeps over mob-mind swept him back into his
place as the idol of their hearts.
We have said the leaders of the strike were taken to Gold City. No,
not all. One lay crippled and fever-stricken in Pat Rooney's shanty
back of Finnegan's. Pat had found him when the mob rushed back, borne
down by the men he was trying to stop, and trampled on by some of the
cavalcade of horsemen as they swept up the street.
Hurried hither by Pat, Job entered the familiar hut to find himself
face to face with Dan. All that long day he sat by the side of the
delirious patient. The soldiers, when arresting the men, let Pat stay
at Job's plea. The troop surgeon came and ordered Job away. "Sick
enough yourself, without nursing this mischief-maker who's the cause
of all this bad business," said he.
But no; Job would not go. Dan was bad. Dan was his enemy, but "Love
your enemies, bless them that curse you, pray for them which
despitefully use you," to Job meant watching by Dan Dean when his own
head was aching and the fever was even then creeping upon him.
All night he sat there, bathing the head that tossed restlessly to and
fro. He heard the delirious lad mutter, "Curse the pious crank! He'll
get Jane yet!" then half rise, and say with a strange look in his
eyes, "Stand fast, boys! Stand, ye cowards! It's justice we want!" and
fall back exhausted. Yes, it was Job who stood by, praying with all
his heart, as at daylight the doctor did what seemed inevitable if
Dan's life was to be saved--amputated the crushed, broken right leg.
Never again would he roam over the Sierras as he had when a boy. For
the sins of those awful days Dan was giving part of his very life.
Once he opened his eyes and saw Job, and as he caught the meaning of
it all, a queer look came over his face. Finally he muttered:
"Job, go away from me! I don't deserve a thing from you! I can stand
the pain better than seein' you fixin' me!" and a hot tear stole down
the blanched, hardened face.
But still Job stayed, as the delirium came back and the fever fought
with the doctor for the mastery. Only when the danger line seemed
past, and the noon bell was striking, Job passed out of the old
shanty, up the street by the crowds of men going to the noon shift,
heard the roar of the machinery, staggered in at the office door and
fell across the hard floor.
They were harvesting the August hay on the Pine Tree Ranch before Job
left his invalid chair on the rose-covered porch and mounted Bess for
a dash down to the mill with some of his old-time vigor.