It was as though the shades of the past had come to life again, to
repeat in the twentieth century a happening of the nineteenth. There
was only one difference--no form of a dead man now lay against the foot
wall, to rest there more than a score of years until it should come to
light, a pile of bones in time-shredded clothing. And as he thought of
it, Fairchild remembered that the earthly remains of "Sissie" Larsen
had lain within almost a few feet of the spot where he had drilled the
prospect hole into the foot wall, there to discover the ore that
promised bonanza.
But this time there was nothing and no clue to the mystery of Harry's
disappearance. Fairchild suddenly strengthened with an idea. Perhaps,
after all, he had been on the other side of the cave-in and had hurried
on out of the mine. But in that event, would he not have waited for
his return, to tell him of the accident? Or would he not have
proceeded down to the Sampler to bring the news if he had not cared to
remain at the tunnel opening? However, it was a chance, and Fairchild
took it. Once more he crawled through the hole that he had made in the
cave-in and sought the outward world. Then he hurried down Kentucky
Gulch and to the Sampler. But Harry had not been there. He went
through town, asking questions, striving his best to shield his
anxiety, cloaking his queries under the cover of cursory remarks.
Harry had not been seen. At last, with the coming of night, he turned
toward the boarding house, and on his arrival. Mother Howard, sighting
his white face, hurried to him.
"Have you seen Harry?" he asked.
"No--he has n't been here."
It was the last chance. Clutching fear at his heart, he told Mother
Howard of the happenings at the mine, quickly, as plainly as possible.
Then once more he went forth, to retrace his steps to the Blue Poppy,
to buck the wind and the fine snow and the high, piled drifts, and to
go below. But the surroundings were the same: still the cave-in, with
its small hole where he had torn through it, still the ragged hanging
wall where Harry had fired the last shots of dynamite in his
investigations, still the trampled bit of fuse with its cap attached.
Nothing more. Gingerly Fairchild picked up the cap and placed it where
a chance kick could not explode it. Then he returned to the shaft.
Back into the black night, with the winds whistling through the pines.
Back to wandering about through the hills, hurrying forward at the
sight of every faint, dark object against the snow, in the hope that
Harry, crippled by the cave-in, might have some way gotten out of the
shaft. But they were only boulders or logs or stumps of trees. At
midnight, Fairchild turned once more toward town and to the boarding
house. But Harry had not appeared. There was only one thing left to
do.
This time, when Fairchild left Mother Howard's, his steps did not lead
him toward Kentucky Gulch. Instead he kept straight on up the street,
past the little line of store buildings and to the courthouse, where he
sought out the sole remaining light in the bleak, black
building,--Sheriff Bardwell's office. That personage was nodding in
his chair, but removed his feet from the desk and turned drowsily as
Fairchild entered.
"Well?" he questioned, "what's up?"
"My partner has disappeared. I want to report to you--and see if I can
get some help."
"Disappeared? Who?"
"Harry Harkins. He 's a big Cornishman, with a large mustache, very
red face, about sixty years old, I should judge--"
"Wait a minute," Bardwell's eyes narrowed. "Ain't he the fellow I
arrested in the Blue Poppy mine the night of the Old Times dance?"
"Yes."
"And you say he 's disappeared?"
"I think you heard me!" Fairchild spoke with some asperity. "I said
that he had disappeared, and I want some help in hunting for him. He
may be injured, for all I know, and if he 's out here in the mountains
anywhere, it's almost sure death for him unless he can get some aid
soon. I--"
But the sheriff's eyes still remained suspiciously narrow.
"When does his trial come up?"
"A week from to-morrow."
"And he 's disappeared." A slow smile came over the other man's lips.
"I don't think it will help much to start any relief expedition for
him. The thing to do is to get a picture and a general description and
send it around to the police in the various parts of the country! That
'll be the best way to find him!"
Fairchild's teeth gritted, but he could not escape the force of the
argument, from the sheriff's standpoint. For a moment there was
silence, then the miner came closer to the desk.
"Sheriff," he said as calmly as possible, "you have a perfect right to
give that sort of view. That's your business--to suspect people.
However, I happen to feel sure that my partner would stand trial, no
matter what the charge, and that he would not seek to evade it in any
way. Some sort of an accident happened at the mine this afternoon--a
cave-in or an explosion that tore out the roof of the tunnel--and I am
sure that my partner is injured, has made his way out of the mine, and
is wandering among the hills. Will you help me to find him?"
The sheriff wheeled about in his chair and studied a moment. Then he
rose.
"Guess I will," he announced. "It can't do any harm to look for him,
anyway."
Half an hour later, aided by two deputies who had been summoned from
their homes, Fairchild and the sheriff left for the hills to begin the
search for the missing Harry. Late the next afternoon, they returned
to town, tired, their horses almost crawling in their dragging pace
after sixteen hours of travel through the drifts of the hills and
gullies. Harry had not been found, and so Fairchild reported when,
with drooping shoulders, he returned to the boarding house and to the
waiting Mother Howard. And both knew that this time Harry's
disappearance was no joke, as it had been before. They realized that
back of it all was some sinister reason, some mystery which they could
not solve,--for the present at least. That night, Fairchild faced the
future and made his resolve.
There was only a week now until Harry's case should come to trial.
Only a week until the failure of the defendant to appear should throw
the deeds of the Blue Poppy mine into the hands of the court, to be
sold for the amount of the bail. And in spite of the fact that
Fairchild now felt his mine to be a bonanza, unless some sort of a
miracle could happen before that time, the mine was the same as lost.
True, it would go to the highest bidder at a public sale and any money
brought in above the amount of bail would be returned to him. But who
would be that bidder? Who would get the mine--perhaps for twenty or
twenty-five thousand dollars, when it now was worth millions?
Certainly not he. Already he and Harry had borrowed from Mother Howard
all that she could lend them. True she had friends; but none could
produce from twenty to two hundred thousand dollars for a mine, simply
on his word. And unless something should happen to intervene, unless
Harry should return, or in some way Fairchild could raise the necessary
five thousand dollars to furnish a cash bond and again recover the
deeds of the Blue Poppy, he was no better off than before the strike
was made. Long he thought, finally to come to his conclusion, and
then, with the air of a gambler who has placed his last bet to win or
lose, he went to bed.
But morning found him awake long before the rest of the house was
stirring. Downtown he hurried, to eat a hasty breakfast in the
all-night restaurant, then to start on a search for men. The first
workers on the street that morning found Fairchild offering them six
dollars a day. And by eight o'clock, ten of them were at work in the
drift of the Blue Poppy mine, working against time that they might
repair the damage which had been caused by the cave-in.
It was not an easy task. That day and the next and the next after
that, they labored. Then Fairchild glanced at the progress that was
being made and sought out the pseudo-foreman.
"Will it be finished by night?" he asked.
"Easily."
"Very well. I may need these men to work on a day and night shift, I
'm not sure. I 'll be back in an hour."
Away he went and up the shaft, to travel as swiftly as possible through
the drift-piled road down Kentucky Gulch and to the Sampler. There he
sought out old Undertaker Chastine, and with him went to the proprietor.
"My name is Fairchild, and I 'm in trouble," he said candidly. "I 've
brought Mr. Chastine in with me because he assayed some of my ore a few
days ago and believes he knows what it's worth. I 'm working against
time to get five thousand dollars. If I can produce ore that runs two
hundred dollars to the ton, and if I 'll sell it to you for one hundred
seventy-five dollars a ton until I can get the money I need, provided I
can get the permission of the court,--will you put it through for me?"
The Sampler owner smiled.
"If you 'll let me see where you 're getting the ore." Then he figured
a moment. "That 'd be thirty or forty ton," came at last. "We could
handle that as fast as you could bring it in here."
But a new thought had struck Fairchild,--a new necessity for money.
"I 'll give it to you for one hundred fifty dollars a ton, providing
you do the hauling and lend me enough after the first day or so to pay
my men."
"But why all the excitement--and the rush?"
"My partner 's Harry Harkins. He 's due for trial Friday, and he 's
disappeared. The mine is up as security. You can see what will happen
unless I can substitute a cash bond for the amount due before that
time. Is n't that sufficient?"
"It ought to be. But as I said, I want to see where the ore comes
from."
"You 'll see in the morning--if I 've got it," answered Fairchild with
a new hope thrilling in his voice. "All that I have so far is an assay
of some drill scrapings. I don't know how thick the vein is or whether
it's going to pinch out in ten minutes after we strike it. But I 'll
know mighty soon."
Every cent that Robert Fairchild possessed in the world was in his
pockets,--two hundred dollars. After he had paid his men for their
three days of labor, there would be exactly twenty dollars left. But
Fairchild did not hesitate. To Farrell's office he went and with him
to an interview, in chambers, with the judge. Then, the necessary
permission having been granted, he hurried back to the mine and into
the drift, there to find the last of the muck being scraped away from
beneath the site of the cave-in. Fairchild paid off. Then he turned
to the foreman.
"How many of these men are game to take a chance?"
"Pretty near all of 'em--if there 's any kind of a gamble to it."
"There 's a lot of gamble. I 've got just twenty dollars in my
pocket--enough to pay each man one dollar apiece for a night's work if
my hunch doesn't pan out. If it does pan, the wages are twenty dollars
a day for three days, with everybody, including myself, working like
hell! Who's game?"
The answer came in unison. Fairchild led the way to the chamber,
seized a hammer and took his place.
"There 's two-hundred-dollar ore back of this foot wall if we can break
in and start a new stope," he announced. "It takes a six-foot hole to
reach it, and we can have the whole story by morning. Let's go!"
Along the great length of the foot wall, extending all the distance of
the big chamber, the men began their work, five men to the drills and
as many to the sledges, as they started their double-jacking. Hour
after hour the clanging of steel against steel sounded in the big
underground room, as the drills bit deeper and deeper into the hard
formation of the foot wall, driving steadily forward until their
contact should have a different sound, and the muggy scrapings bear a
darker hue than that of mere wall-rock. Hour after hour passed, while
the drill-turners took their places with the sledges, and the sledgers
went to the drills--the turnabout system of "double-jacking"--with
Fairchild, the eleventh man, filling in along the line as an extra
sledger, that the miners might be the more relieved in their strenuous,
frenzied work. Midnight came. The first of the six-foot drills sank
to its ultimate depth. Then the second and third and fourth: finally
the fifth. They moved on. Hours more of work, and the operation had
been repeated. The workmen hurried for the powder house, far down the
drift, by the shaft, lugging back in their pockets the yellow,
candle-like sticks of dynamite, with their waxy wrappers and their
gelatinous contents together with fuses and caps. Crimping
nippers--the inevitable accompaniment of a miner--came forth from the
pockets of the men. Careful tamping, then the men took their places at
the fuses.
"Give the word!" one of them announced crisply as he turned to
Fairchild. "Each of us 'll light one of these things, and then I say
we 'll run! Because this is going to be some explosion!"
Fairchild smiled the smile of a man whose heart is thumping at its
maximum speed. Before him in the long line of the foot wall were ten
holes, "up-holes", "downs" and "swimmers", attacking the hidden ore in
every direction. Ten holes drilled six feet into the rock and tamped
with double charges of dynamite. He straightened.
"All right, men! Ready?"
"Ready!"
"Touch 'em off!"
The carbide lamps were held close to the fuses for a second. Soon they
were all going, spitting like so many venomous, angry serpents--but
neither Fairchild nor the miners had stopped to watch. They were
running as hard as possible for the shaft and for the protection that
distance might give. A wait that seemed ages. Then:
"One!"
"And two--and three!"
"There goes four and five--they went together!"
"Six--seven--eight--nine--"
Again a wait, while they looked at one another with vacuous eyes. A
long interval until the tenth.
"Two went together then! I thought we 'd counted nine?" The foreman
stared, and Fairchild studied. Then his face lighted.
"Eleven 's right. One of them must have set off the charge that Harry
left in there. All the better--it gives us just that much more of a
chance."
Back they went along the drift tunnel now, coughing slightly as the
sharp smoke of the dynamite cut their lungs. A long journey that
seemed as many miles instead of feet. Then with a shout, Fairchild
sprang forward, and went to his hands and knees.
It was there before him--all about him--the black, heavy masses of
lead-silver ore, a great, heaping, five-ton pile of it where it had
been thrown out by the tremendous force of the explosion. It seemed
that the whole great floor of the cavern was covered with it, and the
workmen shouted with Fairchild as they seized bits of the precious
black stuff and held it to the light for closer examination.
"Look!" The voice of one of them was high and excited. "You can see
the fine streaks of silver sticking out! It's high-grade and plenty of
it!"
But Fairchild paid little attention. He was playing in the stuff,
throwing it in the air and letting it fall to the floor of the cavern
again, like a boy with a new sack of marbles, or a child with its
building blocks. Five tons and the night was not yet over! Five tons,
and the vein had not yet shown its other side!
Back to work they went now, six of the men drilling, Fairchild and the
other four mucking out the refuse, hauling it up the shaft, and then
turning to the ore that they might get it to the old, rotting bins and
into position for loading as soon as the owner of the Sampler could be
notified in the morning and the trucks could fight their way through
the snowdrifts of Kentucky Gulch to the mine for loading. Again
through the hours the drills bit into the rock walls, while the ore car
clattered along the tram line and while the creaking of the block and
tackle at the shaft seemed endless. In three days, approximately forty
tons of ore must come out of that mine,--and work must not cease.
Morning, and in spite of the sleep-laden eyes, the heavy aching in his
head, the tired drooping of the shoulders, Fairchild tramped to the
boarding house to notify Mother Howard and ask for news of Harry.
There had been none. Then he went on, to wait by the door of the
Sampler until Bittson, the owner, should appear, and drag him away up
the hill, even before he could open up for the morning.
"There it is!" he exclaimed, as he led him to the entrance of the
chamber. "There it is; take all you want of it and assay it!"
Bittson went forward into the cross-cut, where the men were drilling
even at new holes, and examined the vein. Already it was three feet
thick, and there was still ore ahead. One of the miners looked up.
"Just finishing up on the cross-cut," he announced, as he nodded toward
his drill. "I 've just bitten into the foot wall on the other side.
Looks to me like the vein 's about five feet thick--as near as I can
measure it."
"And--" Bittson picked up a few samples, examined them by the light of
the carbides and tossed them away--"you can see the silver sticking
out. I caught sight of a couple of pencil threads of it in one or two
of those samples. All right, Boy!" he turned to Fairchild. "What was
that bargain we made?"
"It was based on two hundred dollars a ton ore. This may run above--or
below. But whatever it is, I 'll sell you all you can handle for the
next three days at fifty dollars a ton under the assay price."
"You 've said the word. The trucks will be here in an hour if we have
to shovel a path all the way up Kentucky Gulch."
He hurried away then, while Fairchild and the men followed him into
town and to their breakfast. Then, recruiting a new gang on the
promise of payment at the end of their three-day shift, Fairchild went
back to the mine. But the word had spread, and others were there
before him.
Already a wide path showed up Kentucky Gulch. Already fifteen or
twenty miners were assembled about the opening of the Blue Poppy
tunnel, awaiting permission to enter, the usual rush upon a lucky mine
to view its riches. Behind him, Fairchild could see others coming from
Ohadi to take a look at the new strike, and his heart bounded with
happiness tinged with sorrow. Harry was not there to enjoy it all;
Harry was gone, and in spite of his every effort, Fairchild had failed
to find him.
All that morning they thronged down the shaft of the Blue Poppy. The
old method of locomotion grew too slow; willing hands repaired the
hoist and sent volunteers for a gasoline engine to run it, while in the
meantime officials of curiosity labored on the broken old ladder that
once had encompassed the distance from the bottom of the shaft to the
top, rehabilitating it to such an extent that it might be used again.
The drift was crowded with persons bearing candles and carbides. The
big chamber was filled, leaving barely room for the men to work with
their drills at the final holes that would be needed to clear the vein
to the foot wall on the other side and enable the miners to start
upward on their new stope. Fairchild looked about him proudly,
happily; it was his, his and Harry's--if Harry ever should come back
again--the thing he had worked for, the thing he had dreamed of,
planned for.
Some one brushed against him, and there came a slight tug at his coat.
Fairchild looked downward to see passing the form of Anita Richmond. A
moment later she looked toward him, but in her eyes there was no light
of recognition, nothing to indicate that she had just given him a
signal of greeting and congratulation. And yet Fairchild felt that she
had. Uneasily he walked away, following her with his eyes as she made
her way into the blackness of the tunnel and toward the shaft. Then,
absently, he put his hand into his pocket.
Something there caused his heart to halt momentarily,--a piece of
paper. He crumpled it in his hand, he rubbed his fingers over it
wonderingly; it had not been in his pocket before she had passed him.
Hurriedly he walked to the far side of the chamber and there,
pretending to examine a bit of ore, brought the missive from its place
of secretion, to unfold it with trembling fingers, then to stare at the
words which showed before him:
"Squint Rodaine is terribly worried about something. Has been on an
awful rampage all morning. Something critical is brewing, but I don't
know what. Suggest you keep watch on him. Please destroy this."
That was all. There was no signature. But Robert Fairchild had seen
the writing of Anita Richmond once before!