"There are no odds," Johnson responded. "We all know they can't get to us by blasting, because of the water, and we're in too far to dig. We're dead men."
"You think that way and you're dead already!" McBain shot back. "Other men have got out of this particular suburb of hell. As for me, I'd rather die of diggin' than of bellyachin'. "
"He's right," said Kowalski. "We ain't got much to lose, let's hear him out."
"The first shaft we ever dug wasn't fifteen feet from here. A couple of pick-and-shovel men worth their salt could get that far in a few days. We got four teams here by my count. I say we burrow our way outta this mole hole."
"Workin's better'n thinkin', " Johnson agreed, picking up a sledge and motioning to his partner to grab a drill. They had extricated what tools they could from the rubble right after the explosion and there were at least enough to make an attempt. Long into the afternoon, which was neither night nor day to them in their tomb, the eight trapped men worked the rock.
The sluicing rain had changed to a relentless drizzle when Chance, Jason, and the others reached the original shaft, but the water still ran off their slickers as they loaded themselves and their equipment onto the old platform that was lowered by windlass into the pit below.
"We'll head for the winze above their drift," Chance instructed without hesitation, knowing the value of appearing confident. "Get close enough to find out the depth of the water in their direction. If it's too deep to blast our way in, we'll tunnel in from above them." Madigan nodded agreement.
"How well-timbered was this section?" he asked.
"Badly. But they wouldn't have been working in the old drift... the newer areas were square-set."
The small team made its way gingerly to the winze, then unfurled the rope ladder carried by Monahan, and lowered it into the tunnel below.
"I'll check it out, sir," offered the smaller Irishman, named Shaughnessy. "I'm the size you need for this job."
Chance nodded and the little man scrambled down the ladder and was back within fifteen minutes. Dripping wet and grimy, he stood panting before them, sweat pouring from his face, water draining from his clothes.
"Hot as the hammers of hell, sir," he said, panting. "And wet as the Boyne. Hot and cold water must be mixing somewheres in there. You can stand in it, if you ignore the blisters, but if we burst the seam to that hot spring with a blast, we'll boil 'em like spuds."
"And us."
"We don't even know if they're alive," said Madigan reasonably.
"Oh, they're alive, all right," said the little man, looking up with startled eyes, as if to say "Didn't I tell you?" "I heard 'em with me own ears. They're hammerin' away in there like a bloody symphony, not ten feet from where I stood." The men smiled grimly in the darkness.
"Where are they now? Exactly."
"Under the fault, sir," the little man replied with regret.
Chance's dark brows tightened into a frown.
"We could go in from above."
"Not without blasting."
Chance couldn't waste time on indecision. Madigan watched his mind work, with grudging admiration. McAllister was directing things as he would himself. "Murphy, you and Monahan go back for explosives," Chance was saying. "Madigan and I will sound out the rocks and determine where to set the charges, but first let's see if we can get to them by digging."
Chance looked at Jason questioningly, wondering again why this stranger would risk his life for men he didn't know. "Unless you want out, Madigan," he said. "This isn't really your problem."
The irony of the situation almost amused Jason, risking his own life in a mine he'd booby-trapped was not exactly what he'd anticipated. He'd set out to kill Chance, but failing that, perhaps something equally deadly might be achieved by his helping the man. If he left the scene at this point, his cowardice would be long talked of in Leadville; if he stayed, he'd have Chance's confidence and friendship.
"In for a penny, in for a pound," he answered.
"Mind if I ask why?"
"My reasons are my own."
The muscles in Chance's jaw set, but this was no time for argument. "Fair enough. The help is appreciated, whatever the reason for it."
Madigan nodded. They could hear the scraping sound of boots in the tunnel coming toward them as the two Irishmen returned with their burden of dynamite and tools.
The two adversaries stood for a moment in the gloom of the carbide lamps, sizing each other up—a man had to trust another to let him swing an eight-pound sledge above his head and hands. Jason smiled sardonically.
"I wouldn't be in this hole if I didn't mean to help," he prompted, reading Chance's expression, and the wary younger man nodded grudging acceptance.
"We'll spell each other with the sledge, then," he replied.
"As you wish," Madigan said equably as he picked up the heavy tool and flexed his hands around it. It was some time since his hands had labored over other than balance sheets, there would be no protective calluses, but he was no neophyte and had never feared hard labor.
All four men started to dig... tunneling down, stopping to listen for digging sounds on the other side, each man stripped to his trousers, bodies glistening with sweat. Chance was surprised to see the latent power in Madigan's stocky body; he was obviously no stranger to physical stress; the muscle was strong and confident, if twenty years older than Chance's. McAllister repressed the vision of Fancy in the man's arms... Madigan did the same with Chance.
"Somebody's out there!" Hart shouted, trying to keep the excitement in his voice within bounds. The trapped men had had to cut back on their own hammering because of bad air. Far, far away, in the belly of the rock, they could hear the tapping sounds.
"Unless they got a magician with 'em, they cain't get here by diggin'," Bandana replied grimly. "Have to blast her open." He looked down pointedly at the dark water that had risen to their ankles, making life even more unbearable than it had been before. There was now nowhere to sit except in hot water, and nowhere to sleep unless sitting up. The air made every breath an effort.
Bandana settled back against the sodden rock face and squinted toward the overhanging timbers. He rose and waded to the farthest point; standing below the sagging beams, he measured them with his eye against his own height. Lower. Definitely lower than before. Pushing inward, buckling with the weight of whatever was above them, rock or water or both.
"Got a wife, McBain?" asked Kowalski, squatted near him.
Bandana smiled a little. "Never had. I expect cleanliness was never close enough to my cuticle for any woman to want me. Fulltime, anyways."
"I got one. A real good one, too. And seven kids. I been tryin' to figure what she'll do without my pay if we don't get outta here."
"Got five kids myself," Johnson broke in. "Hard to think of not ever seein' 'em again."
"Cain't think like that," Bandana said; the words had sharp edges. "Got to believe you'll get out... despair makes dead men out of live ones." He looked around the soggy and bedraggled group. I'm probably the only man down here with nobody up there to mourn me, he thought, then angry at his own maudlin turn of mind, he spoke again.
"We're gettin' outta here, boys—you can damn well count on it." He looked once more at the sagging timber barrier and waded back to Hart. Was it his imagination or had the water gotten hotter in the last few hours? He wiped the sweat from his face where it had dripped past his bandana and sucked the sodden, filthy air into his lungs.
"You rigger Chance is still out there, Hart?" he asked, knowing the answer.
"If he's alive, he's still out there," was the sure reply.
"What're you up to?" Hart asked curiously. He'd been watching Bandana collecting clothing and debris and stuffing it into a makeshift cushion inside his own discarded shirt. Without the shirt, the man's shoulder wound was laid bare; ugly and jagged, it was far worse than Hart had imagined it could be, considering the strength with which McBain had wielded his pick and shovel since the accident. Yellow matter
caked the wound and the skin around the edge was angry, red, and puckered.
"Stuffing," Bandana replied enigmatically. "When they blast, those timbers are gonna cave. My hunch is the water's coming from that direction."
"So you're planning to hold back an underground hot spring with an old shirt?" Hart whispered, incredulous.
"Listen to me, laddie buck." Bandana's tone left no room for argument. "There'll be no time for jawin' when that seam busts— maybe only seconds to scramble six men outta here. Every man here's got family but you and me. If there's anythin' left a' me to bury, you tuck me in beside ol' Bessie. I been missin' her sorely since she went on without me."
"Dammit, Bandana. We're getting out of here together."
Bandana didn't reply, but pulled a money belt from under his shirt. "There's a paper in here goes to Fancy," he said, and Hart knew it was the one Bandana had been working over so laboriously for the past hour. "The belt's oilcloth inside and watertight. This is real important to me, Hart, so don't fail me in what I'm askin' you to do."
Wonderingly, Hart tucked the pouch into his own money belt next to his skin; like most such repositories, it had a watertight lining and would serve as doubled protection for whatever it was that meant so much to his friend.
"I figure it'll take them out there another hour or two of hammerin' to decide dynamite's the only option," Bandana said before curling up again to sleep. "Meantime, I'm gonna catch me some shut-eye. You hear 'em stop diggin', you wake me up, understand?"
"Whatever it is you've got in mind, Bandana, count on me to help you when the time comes."
"You'll get your ass outta here with the others if you can!" Bandana snapped. "Just do like I told you to do. Fancy's gonna need someone to take care of her, and your brother ain't the man for the job."
What was there to say to that? Hart wondered; there was nothing in Bandana's soul but iron and he obviously wasn't in the mood for false optimism.
He watched the little miner sleep, clutching his absurd stuffing-bulwark against what was to come, and wondered if Fancy knew how very much the old man loved her.
Chance leaned heavily on the upended pick and struggled for breath. All four men were physically spent; they weren't going to break through to the trapped miners without blasting.
"Two charges in the right position could free them," Madigan said, reading his expression.
Chance nodded. "Or bury them."
"Even so, they're better off dead quick than dying of hunger and thirst" was the pragmatic reply. "Face it, McAllister, we can't get to them in time with picks and shovels."
"The blast could kill us all," Chance said with a rising inflection, asking a consensus of the men around him.
Madigan scanned the other faces, then replied for the group. "We all accepted that risk when we volunteered." The bizarre irony of his own position struck Madigan once again; he might die here, in this disaster of his own making, or he might take something very valuable from the hole.
"I vote we blast," he said. Each man, in turn, nodded his assent.
"Got somethin' to tell you, Hart," Bandana said softly, conspiratorially. The heat had grown intolerable, and the men were sprawled in varying efforts to sleep. Hart turned his body to face his friend's; Bandana looked gaunt and hollow in the eerie light, his face shiny with unhealthy sweat.
"You're a real honorable feller, Hart. And what I'm fixin' to tell you is damned important to me, so you got to promise me you'll treat it sacred and only do exactly what I tell you to do." He squinted hard at Hart's face to see if he'd agree. Puzzled, the younger man nodded.
"I found her. Jes' like I knew I would." He stopped and drew breath. "The mother lode, Hart, Esmeralda." Hart opened his mouth to speak, but Bandana silenced him with a gesture. "I always called her Esmeralda, while I was on her trail, 'cause she seemed like some exotic woman. You know, always just out of reach... but the claim has another name now, it's all writ down on that paper in your pouch.
"Never said nothin' to nobody about findin' her, you understand, 'cause after we struck silver, it come clear to me that money ain't what I need in this life."
Bandana cleared his throat, more from emotion than the dank air.
"I got it in my head to give Esmeralda to Fancy. I got a hunch the day could come when old Fance might need somebody to look after her, and I might not be in the neighborhood." His voice was suspiciously husky. "I'm tellin' you about it, Hart, 'cause that paper I give you was my last will and testament."
Tears stung Hart's eyes and he quickly averted them. This strong man beside him intended to die; he didn't rail against it or waste his time on self-pity, but simply chose to order his affairs.
"If there's ever any confusion later on, about who I meant to have Esmeralda, you'll bear witness for Fancy."
"You know I will, Bandana," Hart answered him, much moved. "But you can tell her about all this yourself. Whatever happens down here, you and I are in it together."
"I've written a letter to Fancy," Bandana pressed on, ignoring Hart's statement. "It's meant for her eyes only, so you got to promise me you won't let nobody else get wind of it, especially not your brother."
Hart nodded, wondering if the strain had unhinged Bandana. "I'll see she gets it," he said.
"Chance ain't to see it, no matter what. I know you love yer brother, Hart, but yer not blind to his nature. He'd only squander it and what's there is for Fancy's safety." He paused, then grasped Hart's arm with fierce purpose.
"This is more important to me than anythin' in this world or the next! Understand me?"
"You can give the damned thing to her yourself, Bandana,"
Hart answered him sharply. "Because I'm not leaving here without you."
"Keep that belt where you cain't lose it, when the water flushes in," Bandana persisted, as if Hart hadn't spoken at all.
The old man's face was set, and Hart could see there was no point trying to make light of the mission he'd been entrusted with. He squeezed Bandana's uninjured shoulder reassuringly, and both men tried again to find a comfortable enough contortion in which to rest.
The rescue party finished placing the charges. "Fire in the hole!" shouted Chance as he lit the fuses and they ran for cover. As if any of them needed a reminder.
The explosion in the enclosed space deafened the rescue party and set so many forces in motion that no one later could say precisely what happened next.
Rock thundered and crumbled, water spouted in ten directions... a hole appeared where rock had been.
Inside the interior prison men scrambled for the newly gaping exit, as the world fell in on them, splintering timbers, jagged quartz, and water so hot welling up from somewhere within their prison, it shot them screaming toward the opening.
Bandana stood with his makeshift baffle behind him, his arms pushing upward on the falling timbers, and his own body wedged into the scalding seam that had burst with the blast. Men pushed past him toward the opening above, as Hart tried to reach his friend, against the crush of men and water. Hands from above grappled in toward hands reaching out of the steaming, swirling grave; strong men pulled strong men upward as the water rose below.
Hart fought his way through the agonizing torrent toward Bandana as hands reached down to drag him up.
"Bro!" Chance shouted against the deafening roar of water. "Bandana!"
"McBain's wedged himself in to plug the seam," Kowalski screamed as he was yanked upward by the rescuers.
"Mother of God!" yelled Shaughnessy, hanging his head and lantern over the side of the pit from which the men were scrambling. "Your brother's gone after McBain."
In the seething sea of boiling water, Bandana's head, teeth, and eyes clenched in agony could still be seen, with Hart struggling toward him; McBain was pinned helplessly beneath the fallen timbers, yet his hands still vied against the weight of a million pounds of fallen tunnel, as if by force of will he could hold it back.
Chance tugged off his boots and pushed through the ci
rcle of panting, gasping men laid out on the floor of the drift above the hole where they'd been buried.
A viselike grip closed around him from behind. "Don't be a fool!" Madigan yelled as he wrestled with Chance to keep him from diving into the steaming pit. "They're dead men! That's boiling water down there!"
"He's my brother, you son of a bitch!" Chance wrenched himself free of Madigan's grip and plunged into the blackened pool.
Hart grappled with Bandana's body, but the man was wedged too tightly—he was dead already, Hart knew it in his soul, but he had bought time for the others with his terrible sacrifice. Despairing, lungs bursting, Hart felt powerful arms reach around him in the swirling flood and knew they were his brother's. He let go of Bandana's body and allowed himself to be pulled chokingly upward toward the air.
Monahan's hands reached over the edge of the pit to pull them both to safety, with the help of other panting men.
A thunderous roar reverberated in the tunnel, shaking more rock and dust loose from the fragmented walls; the sound obliterated everything and each man looked up, eyes stark with fresh terror.
"Chain reaction!" shouted Schmidt. '
"Out!" Madigan screamed. "For God's sake, run for your lives!"
Chance struggled to lift the inert body of his brother, but he was weakened by the underwater battle and couldn't do it alone. Cursing, Madigan helped him hoist the unconscious Hart and, following the retreating miners as fast as they could, they struggled their way toward the lift ahead.
In back of them the boiling water, bubbling up from the hole they'd blasted, surged into the tunnel and began to fill the stope behind them as they ran.
The men scrambling onto the platform looked back and saw the water surging up behind the two who strained against the huge burden of Hart's body.
"Leave McAllister or you'll never make it!" someone shouted to the two, who dragged the body between them—the trip to the surface was dangerous enough for men who were alert, for an unconscious man it would be nearly impossible.
Paint the Wind Page 53
