CHAPTER XIV
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 professionalenthusiasm of a young engineer could serve to justify so vast a risk,but somehow this battle of right and wrong had become a personalstruggle between himself and Farnham; he felt, without understandingclearly why, that the real stake involved was well worth the venture,and would prove in the end of infinitely more value to him than anysettlement of the mere mining claims at issue. For several hours hehad been below in the tunnel of the "Little Yankee," measuringdistances, and sampling the grade of ore. All the afternoon and muchof the early night had been utilized in a careful exploration of thesurface ledges; creeping in, under protection of the low-growingcedars, as closely as a vigilant rifle-guard would permit, to the greatore dump of the busy "Independence"; diligently studying their systemof labor, and slowly crystallizing into shape his later plan of action.He was already morally convinced that the Farnham people were activelyengaged in stealing the "Little Yankee" ore; that they were runningtheir tunnel along the lead of the latter; that they were doing thissystematically, and fully conscious of the danger of discovery. Hislines of survey, the nature of the ore bodies, the muffled sound ofpicks, plainly discernible in the silent breast of the "Little Yankee"while he lay listening with ear to the rock, as well as the closesecrecy, all combined to convince him fully of the fact. Yet suchvague suspicions were perfectly useless. He must have absolute,convincing proof, and such proof could be obtained nowhere excepting atthe bottom of the "Independence" shaft.
He talked over the situation frankly with the two partners in thelittle single-roomed cabin perched on the cliff edge, while theobedient though grumbling Mike, rifle in hand, sat solemnly on the dumppile without. Little by little the three conspirators worked out afairly 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 roughgarments of a typical miner, was to hide beside the footpath leadingbetween the "Independence" bunk-house and the shaft. Should one of themen chance to loiter behind the others when the working shift changedat midnight, Brown was to attend to him silently, relying entirely uponhis giant strength to prevent alarm, while Winston was promptly to takethe vacated place among the descending workmen. By some grim fate thiscrudely devised scheme worked like a well-oiled piece of machinery. Asleepy-headed lout, endeavoring to draw on his coat as he ran blindlyafter the others, stumbled in the rocky path and fell heavily. Almostat the instant Stutter Brown had the fellow by the throat, dragging himback into the security of the cedars, and Winston, lamp and dinner-pailin hand, was edging his way into the crowded cage, his face turned tothe black wall.
That was five hours before. At the very edge of the black, concealingchaparral, within easy rifle range of the "Independence" shaft-house,Hicks and Brown lay flat on their faces, waiting and watching for someoccasion to take a hand. Back behind the little cabin old Mike satcalmly smoking his black dudheen, apparently utterly oblivious to allthe world save the bound and cursing Swede he was vigilantly guarding,and whose spirits he occasionally refreshed with some choice bit ofHibernian philosophy. Beneath the flaring gleam of numerous gasolinetorches, half a dozen men constantly passed and repassed betweenshaft-house and dump heap, casting weird shadows along the roughplanking, and occasionally calling to each other, their gruff voicesclear in the still night. Every now and then those two silent watcherscould hear the dismal clank of the windlass chain, and a rattle of oreon the dump, when the huge buckets were hoisted to the surface andemptied of their spoil. Once--it must have been after threeo'clock--other men seemed suddenly to mingle among those perspiringsurface workers and the unmistakable neigh of a horse came faintly fromout the blackness of a distant thicket. The two lying in the chaparralrose to their knees, bending anxiously forward. Brown drew back thehammer of his rifle, while Hicks swore savagely under his breath. Butthose new figures vanished in some mysterious way before either coulddecide who they might be--into the shaft-house, or else beyond, wheredenser shadows intervened. The two watchers sank back again into theircover, silently waiting, ever wondering what was happening beyond theirken, 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 thegrimy workmen crowding it, and quickly discerning from their speechthat they were largely Swedes and Poles, of a class inclined to ask fewquestions, provided their wages were promptly paid. There was adeserted gallery opening from the shaft-hole some forty feet below thesurface; he saw the glimmer of light reflected along its wall as theypassed, but the cage dropped to a considerably lower level before itstopped, and the men stepped forth into the black entry. Winston wentwith them, keeping carefully away from the fellow he supposed to beforeman of the gang, and hanging back, under pretence of havingdifficulty in lighting his lamp, until the others had preceded him somedistance along the echoing gallery. The yellow flaring of their lightsthrough the intense darkness proved both guidance and warning, so hemoved cautiously forward, counting his steps, his hand feeling thetrend of the side wall, his lamp unlit. The floor was rough anduneven, but dry, the tunnel apparently having been blasted throughsolid rock, for no props supporting the roof were discernible. Forquite an extended distance this entry ran straight away from the footof the shaft--directly south he made it--into the heart of themountain; then those twinkling lights far in advance suddenly winkedout, and Winston groped blindly forward until he discovered a sharpturn in the tunnel.
He lingered for a moment behind the protection of that angle of rockwall, struck a safety match, and held the tiny flame down close againstthe face of his pocket compass. Exactly; this new advance extendedsoutheast by east. He snuffed out the glowing splinter between hisfingers, crossed over to the opposite side, and watchfully rounded thecorner to where he could again perceive the twinkling lights ahead.His foot met some obstacle along the floor, and he bent down, feelingfor it with his fingers in the dark; it proved to be a rude scrap-ironrail, evidence that they carried out their ore by means of mules and atram-car. A few yards farther this new tunnel began to ascendslightly, and he again mysteriously lost his view of the miners' lamps,and was compelled to grope his way more slowly, yet ever carefullycounting his steps. The roof sank with the advance until it became solow he was compelled to stoop. The sound of picks smiting the rock wasborne 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 aneffort to discover what was taking place in front. The scatteredlights on the hats of the miners rendered the whole weird scene fairlyvisible. There were two narrow entries branching off from the maingallery not more than thirty feet from where he lay. One ran, asnearly as he could judge, considerably to the east of south, but thesecond had its trend directly to the eastward. Along the first ofthese tunnels there was no attempt at concealment, a revealing twinkleof light showing where numerous miners were already at work. But thesecond was dark, and would have remained unnoticed entirely had notseveral men been grouped before the entrance, their flaring lampsreflected over the rock wall. Winston's eyes sparkled, his pulseleaped, as he marked the nature of their task--they were laboriouslyremoving a heavy mask, built of wood and canvas, which had been snuglyfitted over the hole, making it resemble a portion of the solid rockwall.
There were four workmen employed at this task, while the foreman, abroad-jawed, profane-spoken Irishman, his moustache a bristling redstubble, stood a little back, noisily directing operations, the yellowlight flickering over him. The remainder of the fellows composing theparty had largely disappeared farther down, although the sound of theirbusy 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 dommedif 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 dancedizzily, forming weird shadows in the gloom, and the irritated foremanswore aloud, his eyes wandering back down the tunnel.
"No doubt he's dhrunk yet, an' laid down to slape back beyant in thepassage," he growled savagely. "Be all the powers, but Oi 'll tachethat humpin' fool a lesson this day he 'll not be apt to fergit fer awhile. I will that, or me name 's not Jack Burke. Here you, Peterson,hand me over that pick-helve." He struck the tough hickory handlesharply against the wall to test its strength, his ugly red moustachebristling. "Lave the falsework sthandin' where it is till I git back,"he ordered, with an authoritative wave of the hand; "an' you fellers goin 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 downon top o' him--the lazy, dhrunken Swade."
The heavy pick-handle swinging in his hand his grim, red face glowingangrily beneath the sputtering flame of the lamp stuck in his hat, theirate Burke strode swiftly back into the gloomy passage, mutteringgruffly.
Beth Norvell: A Romance of the West Page 14
