LAYING THE “GHOST.”
“Waugh!” chattered Nomad. “I been er layin’ hyar in mortil agony fer
two long hours, hyerin’ thet sound. Ther Forty Thieves Mine is bad
medicine; thar’s been crooked bizness o’ some kind hyar, an’ et’s
ha’nted. Let’s skin out, Buffler! Br-r-r, but I got er bad attack o’
ther shakes.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed the scout impatiently. “I don’t believe in
ghosts. That sound, whatever it is, has a very human note, it seems
to me.”
“Human?” whooped Nomad; “_human_? Et’s a whiskizoo, warnin’ us ter
make ourselves plumb absent, er take ther consequences.”
“Listen!” commanded the scout.
The groaning noise was repeated, and there was certainly something
unearthly about it, there in that ill-omened place. This time,
however, it was followed by a tapping as of one stone against another.
“Ain’t this orful, Buffler?” muttered the old trapper, brushing his
sleeve across his dripping forehead. “I don’t reckon we’re ever goin’
ter live ter git out o’ hyar.”
The scout gave no further attention to Nomad, but took the candle
down from the wall and started slowly along the level in the
direction of the shaft.
“Hello!” he shouted, at the top of his voice.
The voice answered with another groan--less a groan, perhaps, than
spoken words, jumbled together by distance and a muffling barrier.
The scout called again, and again; apparently, he was answered.
Groping along, the wall, calling and trying to locate the place from
which the answers came, he halted suddenly at what seemed to be a
break in the side of the level.
The break was of broken rocks and not, like the rest of the walls, of
a single mass of stone. Picking up a splintered fragment, the scout
tapped with it on the débris. The tapping was returned, clearly from
the opposite side.
Nomad’s fears had been giving way to curiosity, and he followed the
scout’s movements with deep interest.
“Is that you, Wild Bill?” yelled the scout, his lips close to the
break in the wall.
Something was returned--a single monosyllable, which sounded very
much like “Yes.”
“Snarlin’ catermounts!” exclaimed old Nomad. “Ye don’t mean ter say,
pard, thet Wild Bill has been makin’ them noises?”
“It seems likely,” replied the scout, starting for the shaft.
“Whar is he? An’ what’s he doin’ in er solid wall?”
“It isn’t a solid wall. He’s somewhere back of that broken stone, and
it’s up to us to get him out as quick as possible.”
Reaching the shaft, Buffalo Bill lifted his face. “Wah-coo-tah!” he
called.
The girl’s head appeared over the opening.
“Haul up the rope,” instructed the scout, “and then tie the pick to
it and let it down.”
The girl obeyed the order. While she was doing it, the scout told
Nomad to take the candle and go through the drift hunting for any
tools he could find.
By the time Buffalo Bill had returned to the break in the wall
with the pick, Nomad was waiting for him with two more half-burned
candles, and with a shovel.
“Ther shovel is all I could find, Buffler,” said the trapper.
“That’s enough, Nick. We have a pick and shovel, and there are only
two of us to work. Light all the candles, and wedge them into the
wall in places where they will give us the most light. We’ve got
to hurry. There’s no telling how much air Wild Bill has in there,
nor how long he can hold out. What’s more, Lawless and his gang may
return at any moment and interrupt our work.”
While he was talking, the scout began driving the pick into the mass
of débris, throwing the broken stones to right and left.
After lighting and placing the candles where they would best serve
the scout’s purpose, Nomad fell to with the shovel.
The efforts of the two pards were concentrated upon a limited space,
well toward the top of the barrier. It was only necessary to make a
hole large enough for Wild Bill to crawl through, and that is what
they strove to do. As they continued digging, however, the loosened
stones fell from above, so that it was necessary to force an opening
from about the middle of the barrier upward to the roof of the level.
The scout and the trapper worked like galley-slaves. By degrees the
voice on the other side of the wall became clearer as the barrier
diminished; then, suddenly, the voice ceased altogether.
“What does thet mean?” panted Nomad, pausing a second to peer at his
pard.
“Hickok!” shouted the scout, likewise pausing.
No answer came back.
“It means,” went on Buffalo Bill, “that we’ve got to work faster than
ever. Wild Bill has succumbed to the foul air, and he’ll die if we
don’t get him out before many minutes.”
They jumped at the barrier like madmen, and to such good purpose did
they ply pick and shovel, that, a few moments after Wild Bill had
ceased to call to them, the scout’s pick went through the wall, and a
mass of broken stones tumbled outward, leaving a good-sized opening.
Without waiting an instant, Buffalo Bill seized a candle and forced
himself through the breach.
When he let himself down on the other side, he found that he was in
a chamber, about as wide as the main level and twice as deep. On the
floor Wild Bill lay sprawled, a heap of knotted rope beside him.
“Is he thar, Buffler?” called Nomad from the level.
“Yes.”
“Alive?”
“I think so. The foul air got the best of him. Stand by to take him
as I push him through.”
“Send him erlong,” answered the old trapper. “I’m blamed ef this
ain’t ther strangest thing We, Us an’ Comp’ny ever went up ag’inst.”
Buffalo Bill put down his candle and lifted the limp form from
the rocky floor. Nomad reached through and caught the form by the
shoulders, dragging it to the other side and laying it down on the
bottom of the level.
The next moment the scout had clambered clear of the breach and
rejoined his pard.
“Hadn’t we better take him ter ther surface, Buffler?” asked Nomad.
“Mebbyso a leetle water ’u’d help ter bring him ’round.”
“Pure air is all he needs,” the scout replied, “although, I suppose,
if he has been shut up there long, both water and food would be
acceptable.”
“This hyar must be ther work o’ thet skunk, Lawless,” growled Nomad.
“No doubt of it.”
“But whyever did he treat Wild Bill like thet?”
“We’ll know in a few minutes. Ah!” the scout added, noticing Wild
Bill’s breast expand convulsively, “he’s coming to himself.”
The scout took off his hat and fanned the air in front of Wild Bill’s
face. Then, presently, Wild Bill’s eyelids flickered open, and his
dazed eyes stared upward at the scout.
“By gorry!” were Wild Bill’s first words, “you were a deuce of a long
time getting to Sun Dance, Cody.”
“We were, that,” answered the scout, considerably relieved, “but we
got here at last.”
“And right in the nick,” added Wild Bill, floundering to a sitting
posture; “another ten minutes and it would have been all day with me.
Got anything to eat or drink?”
“Nick,” said the scout, “go to the shaft and tell Wah-coo-tah that we
have found Wild Bill, and that he is hungry and thirsty. See what she
can do.”
“On ther jump,” returned Nomad, taking one of the candles and
scrambling for the shaft.
“You’ve evidently had a rough time of it, Hickok,” observed the scout.
“Rough? That’s too mild a word. What day is this?”
“Wednesday afternoon.”
“And I was walled up in that stub-end of a crosscut Monday night.
It seemed like a year instead of two nights and going on two days.
Woosh! Of all the tortures that have ever been tried on me, that was
the worst.”
“Are you hurt any?”
“Not to speak of. Limp as a rag, that’s all. The air wasn’t any too
good, and, of course, it kept getting worse and worse.”
Just then Nomad came back from the shaft. He had a piece of jerked
beef and a square cloth, soaked in water.
Wild Bill took the cloth and wrung it out against his lips, then ate
a little of the jerked beef.
“I’m not as hungry or thirsty as I thought I was,” said he. “I’m used
to going without water or food for days at a stretch.”
“Who holed you up in that way?” asked the scout.
“A man in a linen duster. He blew into Sun Dance Tuesday afternoon,
on the Montegordo stage, and said his name was J. Algernon Smith, of
Chicago. That tinhorn, pards, is sure the original two-tongue man.
His right name is Lawless, and he’s a thirty-second degree confidence
man and desperado.”
“We have already had dealings with J. Algernon,” said the scout
grimly. “We walked into his trap, I reckon, about as easily as you
did. But go on, Hickok. If you feel able, give us the whole of it.”
“I’m able, all right--getting stronger every minute. Pure air was the
main thing, and I’m making the most of it.”
Then, at considerable length, Wild Bill set forth his experiences,
beginning with his ride to Sun Dance with Crawling Bear, and his
investigation of the shooting in the mine.
“A job of salt!” muttered Buffalo Bill. “The atmosphere is beginning
to clear.”
“Lawless,” proceeded Wild Bill, “is expecting a man here to take
ore-samples from the mine. If the mine pans out, according to
schedule, a hundred thousand is to change hands. That would be quite
a plum to fall into the hands of a squawman like Lawless.”
“It will never fall into the hands of Lawless _now_.”
“I should say not,” said Hickok; “and let us emphasize the ‘now.’
Seeing the stranger get off the Montegordo stage, I thought he was
the come-on, and, always being ready to stretch out a helping hand
to the unfortunate, I stretched out a hand to Lawless--and Lawless
played me to a fare-you-well. He acted the part of the Eastern
come-on to the life.”
“The Easterner’s name is Bingham, not Smith,” said the scout.
“It was all one to me, at that stage of the game,” and Wild Bill
proceeded with his account.
The way he had been lured to the slope, ostensibly to meet Clancy,
and the way Clancy had unexpectedly met him from behind with a club,
was told; then followed a description of what took place in the mine,
the setting off of the three blasts, and the retreat of Lawless and
his men.
“I closed my eyes,” said Wild Bill, “when the charges went off.
Lawless had told me that Clancy was a master hand at setting off
giant powder, and that he had drilled the holes in such a way that I
wouldn’t be touched by flying rock, but would be neatly and securely
walled into a rocky chamber. I wasn’t taking Lawless’ word for
anything, and expected as much as could be that I would be hit by a
splinter of rock, and wiped out. I wasn’t much caring, between the
three of us. Death seemed certain, anyway, and I was rather hoping it
would be quick, rather than long-drawn out.
“But Clancy must have known his business. After my ears had recovered
from the jar, I opened my eyes, and discovered several things. But
I didn’t discover them by sight, for I was in the blackest kind of
night.
“The first of my discoveries was this, that I wasn’t hurt by the
explosion. The next discovery was that the powder-fumes had not
entered my chamber as thickly as I supposed they would do. Most of
the fumes must have passed into the level, from some cause that
I can’t exactly figure out. However that may be, the absence of
powder-smoke left the little air I had just that much clearer and
purer.
“I was bound hand and foot, and I made it my first business to get
loose. The sharp corner of a stone helped me, for I sat up and chafed
my bonds over it, and soon had my hands free. To get the rope off my
ankles, after that, was mere child’s play.
“As soon as I was able to move around, I sounded the barrier between
me and the drift. It seemed thick enough, and I reached for a new
knife I had bought in Sun Dance, with the idea of using it to dig
with. But Lawless had stripped me of knife and guns. Not having the
knife, I worked with my hands.
“It was a slow job, Cody, but I wonder if you’ve ever noticed how
a man will work when his life is at stake? Well, that was me, just
then. I sailed into that wall with my hands and finger-nails, and
I would have gone at it with my teeth if I hadn’t had the use of my
hands.
“After about fifty years--that’s what it seemed like, anyhow--I
noticed that I was getting weak, and that I wasn’t making much of a
hole in the barrier. The air was getting bad, too, and I thought I’d
better give up my plan as a bad job. If I got out, I thought, the
chances were I’d fall right back into the hands of Lawless and his
men again.
“So I quit work on the barrier and laid down and went to sleep. When
I woke up and realized where I was, the old hope of making my escape
took hold of me. I hadn’t the strength to work, so I began to yell,
and to tap on the wall.
“I hadn’t much of an idea that any one would hear me but Lawless and
his gang, but I was that desperate I felt I must do something.”
Wild Bill fell silent for a space, studying the flickering candles on
the wall of the level.
“I wonder,” he resumed finally, “if you fellows know what it means to
feel that you are in the last ditch, with a lot of buckaroos throwing
in the sand, when, all at once, something snakes you out of what
was meant to be your grave, and lands you in safety, with ground to
spare? Well, if you’ve ever experienced that, you’ll understand how I
felt when I heard an answer to one of my yells, and, a little later,
heard blows of a pick.
“I didn’t know who it was out here in the level, but a sneaking idea
took possession of me that it was Bingham, the fellow who had come to
the Forty Thieves to chip ore-samples. I had that idea when the foul
air became too much for me, and I dozed off. So it was something of
a surprise when I opened my eyes and saw Pard Cody.
“Well, when all’s said and done, here I am, alive and kicking, and
able to tote my guns and face trouble just as I’ve done in the past.
All that bothers me now is playing even with Lawless. I’d like mighty
well, though, to hear how you fellows came to be in the mine.”
“Nomad brought me here,” said the scout. “He was trapped by J.
Algernon Smith in a similar way to what you were, and he was brought
here and left in the level, bound and gagged. I came to find you, and
found him. He was in a sorry fix, Nick was, Hickok. He told me he had
heard ghosts, and he was for leaving the mine on the run.”
The old trapper wore a sheepish look.
“Waal,” he grunted, “them noises I heerd shore sounded like they mout
be ghosts. No human bein’ ever made sich sounds, accordin’ ter my
thinkin’.”
“It’s blamed lucky for me,” observed Wild Bill, “that Cody isn’t
superstitious. If he had been, Bill Hickok would have been company
front with his finish. But tell me everything. I’m like a man that
has been in solitary confinement for so long that the mere sound of
a human voice is refreshing. Talk to me, you fellows, and I’ll lean
back against the wall and listen.”
Hickok was fully informed of preceding events by the scout and the
trapper, Wah-coo-tah being brought into the recital, since she alone
had furnished the scout the tip that had led him to the mine.
“From what you say of the girl,” remarked Wild Bill, “she seems to be
of a different caliber from that of her tinhorn father.”
“She is,” averred the scout, “if I’m any judge of character.”
“It’s a good thing for her the Ponca slipped into the shaft. But for
that, he’d have caught her, sooner or later. An Injun isn’t giving up
five good ponies just to let himself be beaten out of his bargain.”
Wild Bill got to his feet and gave himself a shake.
“Feel like climbing fifty feet of rope, Hickok?” asked the scout.
“I feel like trying,” was the reply, “but whether I could get to the
top or not is a horse of another color.”
“We kin rig a tackle an’ snake ye up,” said Nomad; “all ye got ter do
is ter hang in er noose, an’----”
Nomad stopped short. From a distance came the reports of two
revolver-shots, fired in quick succession.
“Trouble!” shouted the scout, snatching a candle from the wall and
leaping away in the direction of the shaft. “That’s the signal
Wah-coo-tah was to give us if any of that gang of scoundrels came
this way.”
“I’m hopin’ ther trouble won’t reach ther gal afore we kin shin up
ther rope an’ jine her,” cried the trapper.
“We’ll not be of much account in a gun-fight, Nomad,” said Wild Bill.
“You’re not heeled, and neither am I.”
When Nomad and Wild Bill reached the bottom of the shaft, Buffalo
Bill was already on his way up the rope. A rattle of revolver-firing
came from the ore-dump, and the king of scouts climbed toward it with
frantic haste.