A RETURN TO THE DAY
Burke knew better than to attempt running; three steps in the midst of
such blinding darkness would have dashed him against unyielding rock.
Instantly, his teeth gripped like those of a bulldog, he clutched at
Winston's throat, trusting to his great strength for victory.
Instinctively, as one without knowing why closes the eyes to avoid
injury, the engineer dodged sideways, Burke's gripping fingers missed
their chosen mark, and the two men went crashing down together in
desperate struggle.
His revolver knocked from his grasp in the first impetus of assault,
his cheek bleeding from forcible contact with a rock edge, Winston
fought in silent ferocity, one hand holding back the Irishman's
searching fingers, the other firmly twisting itself into the soft
collar of his antagonist's shirt. Twice Burke struck out heavily,
driving his clinched fist into the other's body, unable to reach the
protected face; then Winston succeeded in getting one groping foot
braced firmly against a surface of rock, and whirled the surprised
miner over upon his back with a degree of violence that caused his
breath to burst forth in a great sob. A desperate struggle ensued, mad
and merciless--arms gripping, bodies straining, feet rasping along the
loose stones, muttered curses, the dull impact of blows. Neither could
see the other, neither could feel assured his antagonist possessed no
weapon; yet both fought furiously,--Burke enraged and merciless,
Winston intoxicated with the lust of fight. Twice they reversed
positions, the quickness of the one fairly offsetting the burly
strength of the other, their sinews straining, the hot breath hissing
between set teeth. Pain was unfelt, mercy unknown.
In the midst of the blind _mêlée_, following some savage instinct,
Winston clinched his fingers desperately in the Irishman's hair, and
began jamming him back against the irregularities of the rock floor.
Suddenly Burke went limp, and the engineer, panting painfully, lay
outstretched upon him, his whole body quivering, barely conscious that
he had gained the victory. The miner did not move, apparently he had
ceased breathing, and Winston, shrinking away from contact with the
motionless body, grasped a rock support and hauled himself to his feet.
The intense blackness all about dazed him; he retained no sense of
direction, scarcely any memory of where he was. His body, bruised and
strained, pained him severely; his head throbbed as from fever. Little
by little the exhausted breath came back, and with it a slow
realization of his situation. Had he killed Burke? He stared down
toward the spot where he knew the body lay, but could perceive nothing.
The mystery of the dark suddenly unnerved him; he could feel his hands
tremble violently as he groped cautiously along the smooth surface of
the rock. He experienced a shrinking, nervous dread of coming into
contact with that man lying there beneath the black mantle, that
hideous, silent form, perhaps done to death by his hands. It was a
revolt of the soul. A moment he actually thought he was losing his
mind, feverish fancies playing grim tricks before his strained,
agonized vision, imagination peopling the black void with a riot of
grotesque figures.
He gripped himself slowly and sternly, his jaws set, his tingling
nerves mastered by the resolute dominance of an aroused will.
Compelling himself to the act, he bent down, feeling along the ground
for the foreman's hat having the extinguished lamp fixed on it. He was
a long time discovering his object, yet the continued effort brought
back a large measure of self-control, and gave birth to a certain
clearness of perception. He held the recovered lamp in his hands,
leaning against the side of the tunnel, listening. The very intensity
of silence seemed to press against him from every direction as though
it had weight. He was still breathing heavily, but his strained ears
could not distinguish the slightest sound where he knew Burke lay
shrouded In the darkness. Nothing reached him to break the dread,
horrible silence, excepting that far-off, lonely trickle of dripping
water. He hesitated, match in hand, shrinking childishly from the
coming revealment of his victim. Yet why should he? Fierce as the
struggle had proved, on his part the fight had been entirely one of
defence. He had been attacked, and had fought back only in
self-preservation. Winston harbored no animosity; the fierceness of
actual combat past, he dreaded now beyond expression the thought that
through his savagery a human life might have been sacrificed. The tiny
flame of the ignited match played across his white face, caught the
wick of the lamp, and flared up in faint radiance through the gloom.
Burke, huddled into the rock shadow, never stirred, and the anxious
engineer bent over his motionless form in a horrid agony of fear. The
man rested partially upon one side, his hands still gripped as in
struggle, an ugly wound, made by a jagged edge of rock, showing plainly
in the side of his head. Blood had flowed freely, crimsoning the stone
beneath, but was already congealing amid the thick mass of hair,
serving somewhat to conceal the nature of the injury.
Winston, his head lowered upon the other's breast, felt confident he
detected breath, even a slight, spasmodic twitching of muscles, and
hastily arose to his feet, his mind already aflame with expedients.
The foreman yet lived; perhaps would not prove even seriously injured,
if assistance only reached him promptly. Yet what could he do? What
ought he to attempt doing? In his present physical condition Winston
realized the utter impossibility of transporting that burly body;
water, indeed, might serve to revive him, yet that faint trickle of
falling drops probably came from some distant fault in the rock which
would require much patient search to locate. The engineer had assumed
grave chances in this venture underground; in this moment of victory he
felt little inclination to surrender his information, or to sacrifice
himself in any quixotic devotion to his assailant. Yet he must give
the fellow a fair chance. There seemed only one course practicable,
the despatching to the helpless man's assistance of some among that
gang of workmen down in Number One. But could this be accomplished
without danger of his own discovery? Without any immediate revealment
of his part in the tragedy? First of all, he must make sure regarding
his own safety; he must reach the surface before the truth became known.
Almost mechanically he picked up his revolver where it lay glittering
upon the floor, and stood staring at that recumbent form, slowly
maturing a plan of action. Little by little it assumed shape within
his mind. Swanson was the name of the missing miner, the one Burke had
gone back to seek,--a Swede beyond doubt, and, from what slight glimpse
he had of the fellow before Brown grappled with him in the path above,
a sturdily built fellow, awkwardly galled. In all probability such a
person would have a deep voice, gruff from the dampness of long working
hours below. Well, he might not succeed in duplicating that exactly,
but he could imitate Swedish dialect, and, amid the excitement and
darkness, trust to luck. Let us see; Burke had surely called one of
those miners yonder Ole, another Peterson; it would probably help in
throwing the fellows off their guard to hear their own names spoken,
and they most naturally would expect Swanson to be with the foreman.
It appeared feasible enough, and assuredly was the only plan possible;
it must be risked, the earlier the better. The thought never once
occurred to him of thus doing injury to a perfectly innocent man.
He looked once more anxiously at the limp figure of the prostrate
Burke, and then, holding the lamp out before him, moved cautiously down
the passage toward the main tunnel. Partially concealing himself amid
the denser shadows behind the displaced falsework, he was enabled to
look safely down the opening of Number One, and could perceive numerous
dark figures moving about under flickering rays of light, while his
ears distinguished a sound of voices between the strokes of the picks.
He crept still closer, shadowing his lamp between his hands, and
crouching uneasily in the shadows. The group of men nearest him were
undoubtedly Swedes, as they were conversing in that language, working
with much deliberation in the absence of the boss. Winston rose up,
his shadow becoming plainly visible on the rock wall, one hand held
before his mouth to better muffle the sound of his voice. The hollow
echoing along those underground caverns tended to make all noise
unrecognizable.
"Yust two of you fellars bettar come by me, an' gif a leeft," he
ventured, doubtfully.
Those nearer faces down the tunnel were turned toward the voice in
sudden, bewildered surprise, the lights flickering as the heads
uplifted.
"Vas it you, Nels Swanson?"
"Yas, I tank so; I yust want Peterson an' Ole. Meester Burke vas got
hurt in the new level, an' I couldn't leeft him alone."
He saw the two start promptly, dropping their picks, their heavy boots
crunching along the floor, the flapping hat-brims hiding their eyes and
shadowing their faces. For a moment he lingered beside the falsework,
permitting the light from his lamp to flicker before them as a beacon;
then he hid the tiny flame within his cap, and ran swiftly down the
main tunnel. Confident now of Burke's early rescue, he must grasp this
opportunity for an immediate escape from the mine. A hundred feet from
the foot of the shaft he suddenly came upon the advancing tram-car, a
diminutive mule pulling lazily in the rope traces, the humping figure
of a boy hanging on behind. The two gazed at each other through the
smoke of a sputtering wick.
"Hurry up," spoke Winston, sharply. "Burke's hurt, and they'll need
your car to carry him out in. What's the signal for the cage?"
The boy stood silent, his mouth wide open, staring at him stupidly.
"Do you hear, you lunk-head? I 'm after a doctor; how do you signal
the cage?"
"Twa yanks on the cord, meester," was the grudging reply. "Wha was ye,
onyhow?" But Winston, unheeding the question, was already off, his
only thought the necessity of immediately attaining the surface in
safety, ahead of the spreading of an alarm.
The cage shot speedily upward through the intense darkness, past the
deserted forty-foot gallery, and emerged into the gray light of dawn
flooding the shafthouse. Blinking from those long hours passed in the
darkness below, Winston distinguished dimly a number of strange figures
grouped before him. An instant he paused in uncertainty, his hand
shading his eyes; then, as he stepped almost blindly forward he came
suddenly face to face with Biff Farnham. A second their glances met,
both alike startled, bewildered, doubtful--then the jaw of the gambler
set firm, his hand dropped like lightning toward his hip, and Winston,
every ounce of strength thrown into the swift blow, struck him squarely
between the eyes. The man went over as though shot, yet before he even
hit the floor, the other had leaped across the reeling body, and
dashed, stumbling and falling, down the steep slope of the dump-pile,
crashing head first into the thick underbrush below.