UNDERGROUND
It was a daring ruse that had taken Ned Winston down the shaft of the
"Independence" mine with the midnight shift. Not even the professional
enthusiasm of a young engineer could serve to justify so vast a risk,
but somehow this battle of right and wrong had become a personal
struggle between himself and Farnham; he felt, without understanding
clearly why, that the real stake involved was well worth the venture,
and would prove in the end of infinitely more value to him than any
settlement of the mere mining claims at issue. For several hours he
had been below in the tunnel of the "Little Yankee," measuring
distances, and sampling the grade of ore. All the afternoon and much
of the early night had been utilized in a careful exploration of the
surface ledges; creeping in, under protection of the low-growing
cedars, as closely as a vigilant rifle-guard would permit, to the great
ore dump of the busy "Independence"; diligently studying their system
of labor, and slowly crystallizing into shape his later plan of action.
He was already morally convinced that the Farnham people were actively
engaged in stealing the "Little Yankee" ore; that they were running
their tunnel along the lead of the latter; that they were doing this
systematically, and fully conscious of the danger of discovery. His
lines of survey, the nature of the ore bodies, the muffled sound of
picks, plainly discernible in the silent breast of the "Little Yankee"
while he lay listening with ear to the rock, as well as the close
secrecy, all combined to convince him fully of the fact. Yet such
vague suspicions were perfectly useless. He must have absolute,
convincing proof, and such proof could be obtained nowhere excepting at
the bottom of the "Independence" shaft.
He talked over the situation frankly with the two partners in the
little single-roomed cabin perched on the cliff edge, while the
obedient though grumbling Mike, rifle in hand, sat solemnly on the dump
pile without. Little by little the three conspirators worked out a
fairly feasible plan. There were numerous chances for failure in it,
yet the very recklessness of the conception was an advantage. Winston,
his face darkened as a slight disguise, and dressed in the rough
garments of a typical miner, was to hide beside the footpath leading
between the "Independence" bunk-house and the shaft. Should one of the
men chance to loiter behind the others when the working shift changed
at midnight, Brown was to attend to him silently, relying entirely upon
his giant strength to prevent alarm, while Winston was promptly to take
the vacated place among the descending workmen. By some grim fate this
crudely devised scheme worked like a well-oiled piece of machinery. A
sleepy-headed lout, endeavoring to draw on his coat as he ran blindly
after the others, stumbled in the rocky path and fell heavily. Almost
at the instant Stutter Brown had the fellow by the throat, dragging him
back into the security of the cedars, and Winston, lamp and dinner-pail
in hand, was edging his way into the crowded cage, his face turned to
the black wall.
That was five hours before. At the very edge of the black, concealing
chaparral, within easy rifle range of the "Independence" shaft-house,
Hicks and Brown lay flat on their faces, waiting and watching for some
occasion to take a hand. Back behind the little cabin old Mike sat
calmly smoking his black dudheen, apparently utterly oblivious to all
the world save the bound and cursing Swede he was vigilantly guarding,
and whose spirits he occasionally refreshed with some choice bit of
Hibernian philosophy. Beneath the flaring gleam of numerous gasoline
torches, half a dozen men constantly passed and repassed between
shaft-house and dump heap, casting weird shadows along the rough
planking, and occasionally calling to each other, their gruff voices
clear in the still night. Every now and then those two silent watchers
could hear the dismal clank of the windlass chain, and a rattle of ore
on the dump, when the huge buckets were hoisted to the surface and
emptied of their spoil. Once--it must have been after three
o'clock--other men seemed suddenly to mingle among those perspiring
surface workers and the unmistakable neigh of a horse came faintly from
out the blackness of a distant thicket. The two lying in the chaparral
rose to their knees, bending anxiously forward. Brown drew back the
hammer of his rifle, while Hicks swore savagely under his breath. But
those new figures vanished in some mysterious way before either could
decide who they might be--into the shaft-house, or else beyond, where
denser shadows intervened. The two watchers sank back again into their
cover, silently waiting, ever wondering what was happening beyond their
ken, down below in the heart of the hill.
Some of this even Winston never knew, although he was a portion of it.
He had gone down with the descending cage, standing silent among the
grimy workmen crowding it, and quickly discerning from their speech
that they were largely Swedes and Poles, of a class inclined to ask few
questions, provided their wages were promptly paid. There was a
deserted gallery opening from the shaft-hole some forty feet below the
surface; he saw the glimmer of light reflected along its wall as they
passed, but the cage dropped to a considerably lower level before it
stopped, and the men stepped forth into the black entry. Winston went
with them, keeping carefully away from the fellow he supposed to be
foreman of the gang, and hanging back, under pretence of having
difficulty in lighting his lamp, until the others had preceded him some
distance along the echoing gallery. The yellow flaring of their lights
through the intense darkness proved both guidance and warning, so he
moved cautiously forward, counting his steps, his hand feeling the
trend of the side wall, his lamp unlit. The floor was rough and
uneven, but dry, the tunnel apparently having been blasted through
solid rock, for no props supporting the roof were discernible. For
quite an extended distance this entry ran straight away from the foot
of the shaft--directly south he made it--into the heart of the
mountain; then those twinkling lights far in advance suddenly winked
out, and Winston groped blindly forward until he discovered a sharp
turn in the tunnel.
He lingered for a moment behind the protection of that angle of rock
wall, struck a safety match, and held the tiny flame down close against
the face of his pocket compass. Exactly; this new advance extended
southeast by east. He snuffed out the glowing splinter between his
fingers, crossed over to the opposite side, and watchfully rounded the
corner to where he could again perceive the twinkling lights ahead.
His foot met some obstacle along the floor, and he bent down, feeling
for it with his fingers in the dark; it proved to be a rude scrap-iron
rail, evidence that they carried out their ore by means of mules and a
tram-car. A few yards farther this new tunnel began to ascend
slightly, and he again mysteriously lost his view of the miners' lamps,
and was compelled to grope his way more slowly, yet ever carefully
counting his steps. The roof sank with the advance until it became so
low he was compelled to stoop. The sound of picks smiting the rock was
borne to him, made faint by distance, but constantly growing clearer.
There he came to another curve in the tunnel.
He crouched upon one knee, peering cautiously around the edge in an
effort to discover what was taking place in front. The scattered
lights on the hats of the miners rendered the whole weird scene fairly
visible. There were two narrow entries branching off from the main
gallery not more than thirty feet from where he lay. One ran, as
nearly as he could judge, considerably to the east of south, but the
second had its trend directly to the eastward. Along the first of
these tunnels there was no attempt at concealment, a revealing twinkle
of light showing where numerous miners were already at work. But the
second was dark, and would have remained unnoticed entirely had not
several men been grouped before the entrance, their flaring lamps
reflected over the rock wall. Winston's eyes sparkled, his pulse
leaped, as he marked the nature of their task--they were laboriously
removing a heavy mask, built of wood and canvas, which had been snugly
fitted over the hole, making it resemble a portion of the solid rock
wall.
There were four workmen employed at this task, while the foreman, a
broad-jawed, profane-spoken Irishman, his moustache a bristling red
stubble, stood a little back, noisily directing operations, the yellow
light flickering over him. The remainder of the fellows composing the
party had largely disappeared farther down, although the sound of their
busy picks was clearly audible.
"Where the hell is Swanson?" blurted out the foreman suddenly. "He
belongs in this gang. Here you, Ole, what 's become o' Nelse Swanson?"
The fellow thus directly addressed drew his hand across his mouth,
straightening up slightly to answer.
"Eet iss not sumtings dot I know, Meester Burke. He seems not here."
"Not here; no, I should say not, ye cross-oied Swade. But Oi 'm dommed
if he did n't come down in the cage wid' us, for Oi counted the lot o'
yez. Don't any o' you lads know whut 's become o' the drunken lout?"
There was a universal shaking of heads, causing the lights to dance
dizzily, forming weird shadows in the gloom, and the irritated foreman
swore aloud, his eyes wandering back down the tunnel.
"No doubt he's dhrunk yet, an' laid down to slape back beyant in the
passage," he growled savagely. "Be all the powers, but Oi 'll tache
that humpin' fool a lesson this day he 'll not be apt to fergit fer a
while. I will that, or me name 's not Jack Burke. Here you, Peterson,
hand me over that pick-helve." He struck the tough hickory handle
sharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustache
bristling. "Lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till I git back,"
he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers go
in beyant, an' help out on Number Wan till Oi call ye. Dom me sowl,
but Oi'll make that Swanson think the whole dom mounting has slid down
on top o' him--the lazy, dhrunken Swade."
The heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowing
angrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, the
irate Burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, muttering
gruffly.