_The Day of Reckoning_
If Miss Hartwell was a debtor she was a creditor as well. In spite of a
calm exterior, the hand that so tightly clasped Elise's throbbed and
pulsed with every tumultuous beat of the heart that was stirred with a
strange excitement born of mortal terror. Gradually the rapid strokes
slowed down till, with the restful calm that comes to strained nerves in
the presence of a stronger, unquestioning will, the even ebb and flow of
pulsing blood resumed its normal tenor.
The bread that Elise had cast upon the waters returned to her in a
manifold measure. The vague sense of oppression which she had felt on
leaving the doors of the Blue Goose gave way to an equally vague sense
of restful assurance. She could dissect neither emotion, nor could she
give either a name. The sense of comfort was vague; other emotions stood
out clearly. These demanded immediate attention. She rose gently, but
decidedly. The calm beat of the clasping hand again quickened with her
motion.
"I must leave you now." Her voice was even, but full of sympathy.
"Don't. Please don't. I can't bear it."
"I must; and you must." She was gently freeing the clasping hand.
"Where are you going?"
"To the mine, to warn Mr. Firmstone."
"Don't go! Why not telephone?" The last was spoken with eagerness born
of the inspiration of despair.
"The wires are cut." Her hand was free now and Miss Hartwell was also
standing. There was a deathly pallor on the quiet face, only the rapid
beat of the veins on her temples showed the violence of the emotion she
was mastering so well.
"But my brother?"
"Your brother is perfectly safe." Elise told briefly the circumstances
of Hartwell's capture and detention. "They have men posted in the canon;
they have men between here and the mine. Mr. Firmstone does not know it.
He will try to come down. They will kill him. He must not try to come
down."
"How can you get up there?" Miss Hartwell clutched eagerly at this
straw.
Elise smiled resolutely.
"I am going up on the tram. Now you must listen carefully." She
unbuckled her belt and placed her revolver in Miss Hartwell's listless
hands. "Keep away from the windows. If there is any firing lie down on
the floor close to the wall. Nothing will get through the logs." She
turned toward the door. "You must come and lock up after me."
At the door Miss Hartwell stood for a moment, irresolute. She offered no
further objections to Elise's going. That it cost a struggle was plainly
shown in the working lines of her face. Only for a moment she stood,
then, yielding to an overmastering impulse, she laid her hands on the
shoulders of Elise.
"Good-bye," she whispered. "You are a brave girl."
Elise bent her lips to those of Miss Hartwell.
"Yours is the hardest part. But it isn't good-bye."
The door closed behind her, and she heard the click of the bolt shot
home.
There were a few resolute men in the mill. It was short-handed; but the
beating stamps pounded out defiance. In the tram tower Elise spoke to
the attendant.
"Stop the tram."
The swarthy Italian touched his hat.
"Yes, miss."
The grinding brake was applied and an empty bucket swung gently to and
fro.
"Now, Joe, do just as I tell you. I am going up in this bucket." She
glanced at the number. "When three-twenty comes in stop. Don't start up
again for a half hour at least."
The man looked at her in dumb surprise.
"You go in the tram?" he asked. "What for?"
"To warn Mr. Firmstone."
For reply, the man brushed her aside and began clambering into the empty
bucket.
"Me go," he said, grimly.
Elise laid a detaining hand upon him.
"No. You must run the tram. I can't."
"Me go," he insisted. "Cable jump sheave? What matter? One damn dago
gone. Plenty more. No more Elise."
Elise pulled at him violently. He was ill-balanced. The pull brought him
to the floor, but Elise did not loose her hold. Her eyes were flashing.
"Do as I told you."
The man brought a ladder and Elise sprang lightly up the rounds.
"All right," she said. "Go ahead."
The man unloosed the brake. There was a tremor along the cable; the next
instant the bucket shot from the door of the tower and glided swiftly up
the line.
"Don't forget. Three-twenty." Already the voice was faint with distance.
In spite of injunctions to the contrary, Miss Hartwell was looking out
of the window. She saw, below the shafts of sunlight already streaming
over the mountain, the line of buckets stop, swing back and forth, saw
the cable tremble, and again the long line of buckets sway gently as the
cable grew taut and the buckets again slid up and down. Her heart was
beating wildly as she lifted her eyes to the dizzy height. She knew well
what the stopping and the starting meant. Sharp drawn against the lofty
sky, the great cable seemed a slender thread to hold a human life in
trust. What if the clutch should slip that held the bucket in place?
What if other clutches should slip and let the heavy masses of steel
slide down the cable to dash into the one that held the girl who had
grown so dear to her? In vain she pushed these possibilities aside. They
returned with increased momentum and hurled themselves into her
shrinking soul. There were these dangers. "All employees of the Rainbow
Company are forbidden to ride on the tram. ANY EMPLOYEE VIOLATING THIS
RULE WILL BE INSTANTLY DISCHARGED." These words burned themselves on her
vision in characters of fire. Elise had explained all of these things to
her, and now! She buried her face in her trembling hands. Not for long.
Again her face, pale and drawn, was turned upward. She moaned aloud. A
black mass clinging to the cable was rising and sinking, swaying from
side to side, a slender figure poised in the swinging bucket, steadied
by a white hand that grasped the rim of steel. She turned from the
window resolved to see no more. Her resolution fled. She was again at
the window with upturned face and straining eyes, white lips whispering
prayers that God might be good to the girl who was risking her life for
another. The slender threads even then had vanished. There was only a
fleck of black floating high above the rambling town, above the rocks
mercilessly waiting below. She did not see all. At the mine two stealthy
men were even then stuffing masses of powder under the foundations that
held the cables to their work. Even as she looked and prayed a
flickering candle flame licked into fiery life a hissing, spitting fuse
and two men scrambled and clambered to safety from the awful wreck that
was to come. A smoking fuse eating its way to death and "320" not yet in
the mill! She saw another sight.
From out the shadow of the eastern mountain, a band of uncouth men
emerged, swung into line and bunched on the level terrace beyond the
boarding-house. Simultaneously every neighbouring boulder blossomed
forth in tufts of creamy white that writhed and widened till they melted
in thin air like noisome, dark-grown fungi that wilt in the light of
day. Beyond and at the feet of the clustered men spiteful spurts of dust
leaped high in air, then drifted and sank, to be replaced by others.
Faint, meaningless cries wove through the drifting crash of rifles,
blossoming tufts sprang up again and again from boulders near and far.
Answering cries flew back from the opening cluster of men, other tufts
tongued with yellow flame sprang out from their levelled guns. Now and
then a man spun around and dropped, a huddled grey on the spurting sand.
It was not in man long to endure the sheltered fire. Dragging their
wounded, Jack Haskins's gang again converged, and headed in wild retreat
for the office. The opposing tufts came nearer, and now and then a dark
form straightened and advanced to another shelter, or was hidden from
sight by a bubble of fleecy white that burst from his shoulder. Close at
the heels of the fleeing men the spiteful spurts followed fast, till
they died out in the thud of smitten logs and the crashing glass of the
office.
The answering fire of the beleaguered men died to silence. The dark,
distant forms grew daring, ran from shelter and clustered at the foot of
the slide, across the trail from the Blue Goose. Rambling shots, yells
of defiance and triumph, broke from the gathering strikers. The shafts
of sunlight had swept down the mountain, smiting hard the polished
windows of the Blue Goose that blazed and flamed in their fierce glory.
Suddenly the clustered throng of strikers broke and fled. Cries of
terror pierced the air.
"The cables! The cables!"
Overhead the black webs were sinking and rising with spiteful snaps that
whirled the buckets in wild confusion and sent their heavy loads of ore
crashing to the earth, five hundred feet below. Then, with a rushing,
dragging sweep, buckets and cables whirled downward. Full on the Blue
Goose the tearing cables fell, dragging it to earth, a crushed and
broken mass.
Morrison's emissaries had done their work well. The tram-house at the
mine had been blown up. They had accomplished more than he had hoped
for. Pierre was in the bar-room when the cables fell. He had no time to
escape, even had he seen or known.
Momentarily forgetful, the strikers swarmed around the fallen building,
tearing aside crushed timbers, tugging at the snarled cable, if
perchance some of their own were within the ruins. There came the
spiteful spat of a solitary bullet, then a volley. With a yell of
terror, the strikers broke and fled to the talus behind the saloon. They
were now the pursued. They paused to fire no return shots. Stumbling,
scrambling, dodging, through tangled scrub and sheltering thicket, down
by the mill, down through the canon, spurred by zipping bullets that
clipped twigs and spat on stones around them; down by the Devil's Elbow
they fled, till sheltering scrub made pursuit dangerous; then,
unmolested, they scattered, one by one, in pairs, in groups, never to
return.
Even yet the startled echoes were repeating to the peaceful mountains
the tale of riot and death, but they bent not from their calm to the
calm below that was looking up to them with the eyes of death. Set in
its frame of splintered timbers, the body of Pierre rested, a ruined
life in a ruined structure, and both still in death. Wide-open eyes
stared from the swarthy face, the strained lips parted in a sardonic
smile, showing for the last time the gleaming teeth. Morrison had
triumphed, but the wide open eyes saw the triumph that was yet defeat.
Far up on the mountain-side they looked and saw death pursuing death.
They saw Morrison climbing higher and higher, saw him strain his eyes
ever ahead, never behind, saw them rest on two figures, saw Morrison
crouch behind a rock and a shimmer of light creep along the barrel of
his levelled rifle. The eyes seemed eager as they rested on another
figure above him that stretched forth a steady hand; saw jets of flame
spring from two guns. Then they gleamed with a brighter light as they
saw the rifle fall from Morrison's hand; saw Morrison straighten out,
even as he lay, his face upturned and silent. That was all in life that
Pierre cared to know. Perhaps the sun had changed, but the gleam of
triumph in the staring eyes faded to the glaze of death.
Elise knew well the danger that went with her up the line. It laid
strong hold upon her, as the loosened brake shot the bucket up the dizzy
cable. As she was swept up higher and higher she could only hope and
pray that the catastrophe which she knew was coming might be delayed
until the level stretch above the Falls was reached, where the cables
ran so near the ground she might descend in safety. She had given Joe
the right number, and she knew that nothing short of death would keep
him from heeding her words. She turned her thoughts to other things.
Cautiously she raised her eyes above the rim of the bucket and scanned
the winding trail. She saw men crouching behind boulders, but Firmstone
was not in sight, and strength and courage returned. Her bucket swept up
over the crest of the Falls, and her heart stood still, as it glided
along swiftly, eating up the level distance to another rise. The saddle
clipped over the sheave, swung for an instant, then stood still. She
clambered out, down the low tower, then sped to the trail and waited.
She rose to her feet, as from behind a sheltered cliff Firmstone
emerged, stern, erect, determined. He caught sight of Elise.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, fiercely.
"To keep you from going to the mill." There was an answering fierceness
in her eyes.
"Well, you are not going to." He brushed her aside.
"I am." She was again in his path.
He took hold of her almost harshly.
"Don't be a fool."
"Am I? Listen." There was the glint of steel on steel in the meeting
eyes. Echoing shots dulled by distance yet smote plainly on their ears.
"Morrison's men are guarding the trail. They are in the canon. You can't
get through."
Firmstone's eyes softened as he looked into hers. The set line broke for
an instant, then he looked down the trail. Suddenly he spun around on
his heel, wavered, then sank to the ground.
Elise dropped on her knees beside him, mumbling inaudible words with
husky voice. The hands that loosened the reddening collar of his shirt
were firm and decided. She did not hear the grate of Zephyr's shoes. She
was only conscious of other hands putting hers aside. His knife cut the
clothes that hid the wound. Zephyr took his hat from his head.
"Water," he said, holding out the hat.
Elise returned from the brook with the brimming hat. The closed eyes
opened at the cooling drops.
"It's not so bad." He tried to rise, but Zephyr restrained him.
"Not yet."
Elise was looking anxiously above the trail. Zephyr noted the direction.
"No danger. 'Twas Morrison. He's done for."
Three or four miners were coming down the trail. They paused at the
little group. Zephyr looked up.
"You're wanted. The old man's hit."
A litter was improvised and slowly and carefully they bore the wounded
man down the trail. Zephyr was far in advance. He returned.
"It's all right. The gang's on the run."
The little procession headed straight for the office, and laid their
burden on the floor.
The company surgeon looked grave, as he carefully exposed the wound. To
Elise it seemed ages.
Finally he spoke.
"It's a nasty wound; but he'll pull through."