Next morning Larry got up so late that he had to Order a special breakfast for himself, the dining-room being closed. He found one guest there, however, just beginning her oatmeal, and he invited himself to eat at her table.
“Good mawnin', Miss Kinney. You don't look like you had been lying awake worrying about me,” he began by way of opening the conversation.
Nor did she. Youth recuperates quickly, and after a night's sound sleep she was glowing with health and sweet vitality. He could see a flush beat into the fresh softness of her flesh, but she lifted her dark lashes promptly to meet him, and came to the sex duel gaily.
“I suppose you think I had to take a sleeping-powder to keep me from it?” she flashed back.
“Oh, well, a person can dream,” he suggested.
“How did you know? But you are right. I did dream of you.”
To the waiter he gave his order before answering her. “Some oatmeal and bacon and eggs. Yes, coffee. And some hot cakes, Charlie. Did you honest dream about me?” This last not to the Chinese waiter who had padded soft-footed to the kitchen.
“Yes.”
She smiled shyly at him with sweet innocence, and he drew his chair a trifle closer.
“Tell me.”
“I don't like to.”
“But you must. Go on.”
“Well,” very reluctantly. “I dreamed I was visiting the penitentiary and you were there in stripes. You were in for stealing a sheep, I think. Yes, that was it, for stealing a sheep.”
“Couldn't you make it something more classy if you're bound to have me in?” he begged, enjoying immensely the rise she was taking out of him.
“I have to tell it the way it was,” she insisted, her eyes bubbling with fun. “And it seems you were the prison cook. First thing I knew you were standing in front of a wall and two hundred of the prisoners were shooting at you. They were using your biscuits as bullets.”
“That was a terrible revenge to take on me for baking them.”
“It seems you had your sheep with you—the one you stole, and you and it were being pelted all over.”
“Did you see a lady hold-up among those shooting at me?” he inquired anxiously.
She shook her head. “And just when the biscuits were flying thickest the wall opened and Mr. Fraser appeared. He caught you and the sheep by the back of your necks, and flung you in. Then the wall closed, and I awoke.”
“That's about as near the facts as dreams usually get.”
He was very much pleased, for it would have been a great disappointment to him if she had admitted dreaming about him for any reason except to make fun of him. The thing about her that touched his imagination most was something wild and untamed, some quality of silken strength in her slim supple youth that scoffed at all men and knew none as master. He meant to wrest from her if he could an interest that would set him apart in her mind from all others, but he wanted the price of victory to cost him something. Thus the value of it would be enhanced.
“But tell me about your escape—all about it and what became of Lieutenant Fraser. And first of all, who the lady was that opened the door for you,” she demanded.
“She was his sister.”
“Oh! His sister.” Her voice was colorless. She observed him without appearing to do so. “Very pretty, I thought her. Didn't you?”
“Right nice looking. Had a sort of an expression made a man want to look at her again.”
“Yes.”
Innocently unaware that he was being pumped, he contributed more information. “And that game.”
“She was splendid. I can see her now opening the door in the face of the bullets.”
“Never a scream out of her either. Just as cool.”
“That is the quality men admire most, isn't it—courage?”
“I don't reckon that would come first. Course it wouldn't make a hit with a man to have a woman puling around all the time.”
“My kind, you mean.”
Though she was smiling at him with her lips, it came to him that his words were being warped to a wrong meaning.
“No, I don't,” he retorted bluntly.
“As I remember it, I was bawling every chance I got yesterday and the day before,” she recalled, with fine contempt of herself.
“Oh, well! You had reason a-plenty. And sometimes a woman cries just like a man cusses. It don't mean anything. I once knew a woman wet her handkerchief to a sop crying because her husband forgot one mo'ning to kiss her good-by. She quit irrigating to run into a burning house after a neighbor's kids.”
“I accept your apology for my behavior if you'll promise I won't do it again,” she laughed. “But tell me more about Miss Fraser. Does she live here?”
For a moment he was puzzled. “Miss Fraser! Oh! She gave up that name several years ago. Mrs. Collins they call her. And say, you ought to see her kiddies. You'd fall in love with them sure.”
The girl covered her mistake promptly with a little laugh. It would never do for him to know she had been yielding to incipient jealousy. “Why can't I know them? I want to meet her too.”
The door opened and a curly head was thrust in. “Dining-room closes for breakfast at nine. My clock says it's ten-thirty now. Pretty near work to keep eating that long, ain't it? And this Sunday, too! I'll have you put in the calaboose for breaking the Sabbath.”
“We're only bending it,” grinned Neill. “Good mo'ning, Lieutenant. How is Mrs. Collins, and the pickaninnies?”
“First rate. Waiting in the parlor to be introduced to Miss Kinney.”
“We're through,” announced Margaret, rising.
“You too, Tennessee? The proprietor will be grateful.”
The young women took to each other at once. Margaret was very fond of children, and the little boy won her heart immediately. Both he and his baby sister were well-trained, healthy, and lovable little folks, and they adopted “Aunt Peggy” enthusiastically.
Presently the ranger proposed to Neill an adjournment.
“I got to take some breakfast down the Jackrabbit shaft to my prisoner. Wanter take a stroll that way?” he asked.
“If the ladies will excuse us.”
“Glad to get rid of you,” Miss Kinney assured him promptly, but with a bright smile that neutralized the effect of her sauciness. “Mrs. Collins and I want to have a talk.”
The way to the Jackrabbit lay up a gulch behind the town. Up one incline was a shaft-house with a great gray dump at the foot of it. This they left behind them, climbing the hill till they came to the summit.
The ranger pointed to another shaft-house and dump on the next hillside.
“That's the Mal Pais, from which the district is named. Dunke owns it and most of the others round here. His workings and ours come together in several places, but we have boarded up the tunnels at those points and locked the doors we put in. Wonder where Brown is? I told him to meet me here to let us down.”
At this moment they caught sight of him coming up a timbered draw. He lowered them into the shaft, which was about six hundred feet deep. From the foot of the shaft went a tunnel into the heart of the mountain. Steve led the way, flashing an electric searchlight as he went.
“We aren't working this part of the mine any more,” he explained. “It connects with the newer workings by a tunnel. We'll go back that way to the shaft.”
“You've got quite a safe prison,” commented the other.
“It's commodious, anyhow; and I reckon it's safe. If a man was to get loose he couldn't reach the surface without taking somebody into partner-ship with him. There ain't but three ways to daylight; one by the shaft we came down, another by way of our shaft-house, and the third by Dunke's, assuming he could break through into the Mal Pais. He'd better not break loose and go to wandering around. There are seventeen miles of workings down here in the Jackrabbit, let alone the Mal Pais. He might easily get lost and starve to death. Here he is at the end of this tunnel.”
Steve flashed the light twice before he could believe his eyes. There was no sign of Struve except the handcuffs depending from an iron chain connected by a heavy staple with the granite wall. Apparently he had somehow managed to slip from the gyves by working at them constantly.
The officer turned to his friend and laughed. “I reckon I'm holding the sack this time. See. There's blood on these cuffs. He rasped his hands some before he got them out.”
“Well, you've still got him safe down here somewhere.”
“Yes, I have or Dunke has. The trouble is both the mines are shut down just now. He's got about forty miles of tunnel to play hide-and-go-seek in. He's in luck if he doesn't starve to death.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“I'll have to get some of my men out on search-parties—just tell them there's a man lost down here without telling them who. I reckon we better say nothing about it to the ladies. You know how tender-hearted they are. Nellie wouldn't sleep a wink to-night for worrying.”
“All right. We'd better get to it at once then.”
Fraser nodded. “We'll go up and rustle a few of the boys that know the mine well. I expect before we find him Mr. Wolf Struve will be a lamb and right anxious for the shepherd to arrive.”
All day the search proceeded without results, and all of the next day. The evening of this second day found Struve still not accounted for.
Although Miss Kinney had assured Neill that she was glad to be rid of him it occurred to her more than once in the course of the day that he was taking her a little too literally. On Sunday she did not see a glimpse of him after he left. At lunch he did not appear, nor was he in evidence at dinner. Next morning she learned that he had been to breakfast and had gone before she got down. She withheld judgment till lunch, being almost certain that he would be on hand to that meal. His absence roused her resentment and her independence. If he didn't care to see her she certainly did not want to see him. She was not going to sit around and wait for him to take her down into the mine he had promised she should see. Let him forget his appointment if he liked. He would wait a long time before she made any more engagements with him.
About this time Dunke began to flatter himself that he had made an impression. Miss Kinney was all smiles. She was graciously pleased to take a horseback ride over the camp with him, nor did he know that her roving eye was constantly on the lookout for a certain spare, clean-built figure she could recognize at a considerable distance by the easy, elastic tread. Monday evening the mine-owner called upon her and Mrs. Collins, whose brother also was among the missing, and she was delighted to accept his invitation to go through the Mal Pais workings with him.
“That is, if Mrs. Collins will go, too,” she added as an afterthought.
That young woman hesitated. Though this man had led his miners against her brother, she was ready to believe the attack not caused by personal enmity. The best of feeling did not exist between the owners of the Jackrabbit and those of the Mal Pais. Dunke was suspected of boldly crossing into the territory of his neighbor where his veins did not lead. But there had been no open rupture. For the very reason that an undertow of feeling existed Nellie consented to join the party. She did not want by a refusal to put into words a hostility that he had always carefully veiled. She was in the position of not wanting to go at all, yet wanting still less to decline to do so.
“I shall be glad to go,” she said.
“Fine. We'll start about nine, or nine-thirty say. I'll drive up in a surrey.”
“And we'll have lunch for the party put up at the hotel here. I'll get some fruit to take along,” said Margaret.
“We'll make a regular picnic of it,” added Dunke heartily. “You'll enjoy eating out of a dinner-pail for once just like one of my miners, Miss Kinney.”
After he had gone Margaret mentioned to Mrs. Collins her feeling concerning him. “I don't really like him. Or rather I don't give him my full confidence. He seems pleasant enough, too.” She laughed a little as she added: “You know he does me the honor to admire me.”
“Yes, I know that. I was wondering how you felt about it.”
“How ought one to feel about one of the great mining kings of the West?”
“Has that anything to do with it, my dear? I mean his being a mining king?” asked Mrs. Collins gently.
Margaret went up to her and kissed her. “You're a romantic little thing. That's because you probably married a heaven-sent man. We can't all be fortunate.”
“We none of us need to marry where we don't love.”
“Goodness me! I'm not thinking of marrying Mr. Dunke's millions. The only thing is that I don't have a Croesus to exhibit every day at my chariot wheels. It's horrid of course, but I have a natural feminine reluctance to surrendering him all at once. I don't object in the least to trampling on him, but somehow I don't feel ready for his declaration of independence.”
“Oh, if that's all!” her friend smiled.
“That's quite all.”
“Perhaps you prefer Texans who come from the Panhandle.”
Mrs. Collins happened to be looking straight at her out of her big brown eyes. Wherefore she could not help observing the pink glow that deepened in the soft cheeks.
“He hasn't preferred me much lately.”
Nellie knitted her brow in perplexity. “I don't understand. Steve's been away, too, nearly all the time. Something is going on that we don't know about.”
“Not that I care. Mr. Neill is welcome to stay away.”
Her new friend shot a swift slant look at her. “I don't suppose you trample on him much.”
Margaret flushed. “No, I don't. It's the other way. I never saw anybody so rude. He does not seem to have any saving sense of the proper thing.”
“He's a man, dearie, and a good one. He may be untrammeled by convention, but he is clean and brave. He has eyes that look through cowardice and treachery, fine strong eyes that are honest and unafraid.”
“Dear me, you must have studied them a good deal to see all that in them,” said Miss Peggy lightly, yet pleased withal.
“My dear,” reproached her friend, so seriously that Peggy repented.
“I didn't really mean it,” she laughed. “I've heard already on good authority that you see no man's eyes except the handsome ones in the face of Mr. Tim Collins.”
“I do think Tim has fine eyes,” blushed the accused.
“No doubt of it. Since you have been admiring my young man I must praise yours,” teased Miss Kinney.
“Am I to wish you joy? I didn't know he was your young man,” flashed back the other.
“I understand that you have been trying to put him off on me.”
“You'll find he does not need any 'putting off' on anybody.”
“At least, he has a good friend in you. I think I'll tell him, so that when he does condescend to become interested in a young woman he may refer her to you for a recommendation.”
The young wife borrowed for the occasion some of Miss Peggy's audacity. “I'm recommending him to that young woman now, my dear,” she made answer.
Dunke's party left for the mine on schedule time, Water-proof coats and high lace-boots had been borrowed for the ladies as a protection against the moisture they were sure to meet in the tunnels one thousand feet below the ground. The mine-owner had had the hoisting-engine started for the occasion, and the cage took them down as swiftly and as smoothly as a metropolitan elevator. Nevertheless Margaret clung tightly to her friend, for if was her first experience of the kind. She had never before dropped nearly a quarter of a mile straight down into the heart of the earth and she felt a smothered sensation, a sense of danger induced by her unaccustomed surroundings. It is the unknown that awes, and when she first stepped from the cage and peered down the long, low tunnel through which a tramway ran she caught her breath rather quickly. She had an active imagination, and she conjured cave-ins, explosions, and all the other mine horrors she had read about.
Their host had spared no expense to make the occasion a gala one. Electric lights were twinkling at intervals down the tunnel, and an electric ore-car with a man in charge was waiting to run them into the workings nearly a mile distant. Dunke dealt out candles and assisted his guests into the car, which presently carried them deep into the mine. Margaret observed that the timbered sides of the tunnel leaned inward slightly and that the roof was heavily cross-timbered.
“It looks safe,” she thought aloud.
“It's safe enough,” returned Dunke carelessly. “The place for cave-ins is at the head of the workings, before we get drifts timbered.”
“Are we going into any of those places?”
“I wouldn't take you into any place that wasn't safe, Miss Margaret.”
“Is it always so dreadfully warm down here?” she asked.
“You must remember we're somewhere around a thousand feet in the heart of the earth. Yes, it's always warm.”
“I don't see how the men stand it and work.”
“Oh, they get used to it.”
They left the car and followed a drift which took them into a region of perpetual darkness, into which the electric lights did not penetrate. Margaret noticed that her host carried his candle with ease, holding it at an angle that gave the best light and most resistance to the air, while she on her part had much ado to keep hers from going out. Frequently she had to stop and let the tiny flame renew its hold on the base of supplies. So, without his knowing it, she fell behind gradually, and his explanations of stopes, drifts, air-drills, and pay-streaks fell only upon the already enlightened ears of Mrs. Collins.
The girl had been picking her way through some puddles of water that had settled on the floor, and when she looked up the lights of those ahead had disappeared. She called to them faintly and hurried on, appalled at the thought of possibly losing them in these dreadful underground catacombs where Stygian night forever reigned. But her very hurry delayed her, for in her haste the gust of her motion swept out the flame. She felt her way forward along the wall, in a darkness such as she had never conceived before. Nor could she know that by chance she was following the wrong wall. Had she chosen the other her hand must have come to a break in it which showed that a passage at that point deflected from the drift toward the left. Unconsciously she passed this, already frightened but resolutely repressing her fear.
“I'll not let them know what an idiot I am. I'll not! I'll not!” she told herself.
Therefore she did not call yet, thinking she must come on them at any moment, unaware that every step was taking her farther from the gallery into which they had turned. When at last she cried out it was too late. The walls hemmed in her cry and flung it back tauntingly to her—the damp walls against which she crouched in terror of the subterranean vault in which she was buried. She was alone with the powers of darkness, with the imprisoned spirits of the underworld that fought inarticulately against the audacity of the puny humans who dared venture here. So her vivid imagination conceived it, terrorizing her against both will and reason.
How long she wandered, a prey to terror, calling helplessly in the blackness, she did not know. It seemed to her that she must always wander so, a perpetual prisoner condemned to this living grave. So that it was with a distinct shock of glad surprise she heard a voice answer faintly her calls. Calling and listening alternately, she groped her way in the direction of the sounds, and so at last came plump against the figure of the approaching rescuer.
“Who is it?” a hoarse voice demanded.
But before she could answer a match flared and was held close to her face. The same light that revealed her to him told the girl who this man was that had met her alone a million miles from human aid. The haggard, drawn countenance with the lifted upper lip and the sunken eyes that glared into hers belonged to the convict Nick Struve.
The match went out before either of them spoke.
“You—you here!” she exclaimed, and was oddly conscious that her relief at meeting even him had wiped out for the present her fear of the man.
“For God's sake, have you got anything to eat?” he breathed thickly.
It had been part of the play that each member of their little party should carry a dinner-pail just like an ordinary miner. Wherefore she had hers still in her hand.
“Yes, and I have a candle here. Have you another match?”
He lit the candle with a shaking hand.
“Gimme that bucket,” he ordered gruffly, and began to devour ravenously the food he found in it, tearing at sandwiches and gulping them down like a hungry dog.
“What day is this?” he stopped to ask after he had stayed the first pangs.
She told him Tuesday.
“I ain't eaten since Saturday,” he told her. “I figured it was a week. There ain't any days in this place—nothin' but night. Can't tell one from another.”
“It's terrible,” she agreed.
His appetite was wolfish. She could see that he was spent, so weak with hunger that he had reeled against the wall as she handed him the dinner-pail. Pallor was on the sunken face, and exhaustion in the trembling hands and unsteady gait.
“I'm about all in, what with hunger and all I been through. I thought I was out of my head when I heard you holler.” He snatched up the candle from the place where he had set it and searched her face by its flame. “How come you down here? You didn't come alone. What you doin' here?” he demanded suspiciously.
“I came down with Mr. Dunke and a friend to look over his mine. I had never been in one before.”
“Dunke!” A spasm of rage swept the man's face. “You're a friend of his, are you? Where is he? If you came with him how come you to be roaming around alone?”
“I got lost. Then my light went out.”
“So you're a friend of Dunke, that damned double-crosser! He's a millionaire, you think, a big man in this Western country. That's what he claims, eh?” Struve shook a fist into the air in a mad burst of passion. “Just watch me blow him higher'n a kite. I know what he is, and I got proof. The Judas! I keep my mug shut and do time while he gets off scot-free and makes his pile. But you listen to me, ma'am. Your friend ain't nothin' but an outlaw. If he got his like I got mine he'd be at Yuma to-day. Your brother could a-told you. Dunke was at the head of the gang that held up that train. We got nabbed, me and Jim. Burch got shot in the Catalinas by one of the rangers, and Smith died of fever in Sonora. But Dunke, curse him, he sneaks out and buys the officers off with our plunder. That's what he done—let his partners get railroaded through while he sails out slick and easy. But he made one mistake, Mr. Dunke did. He wrote me a letter and told me to keep mum and he would fix it for me to get out in a few months. I believed him, kept my mouth padlocked, and served seven years without him lifting a hand for me. Then, when I make my getaway he tries first off to shut my mouth by putting me out of business. That's what your friend done, ma'am.”
“Is this true?” asked the girl whitely.
“So help me God, every word of it.”
“He let my brother go to prison without trying to help him?”
“Worse than that. He sent him to prison. Jim was all right when he first met up with Dunke. It was Dunke that got him into his wild ways and led him into trouble. It was Dunke took him into the hold-up business. Hadn't been for him Jim never would have gone wrong.”
She made no answer. Her mind was busy piecing out the facts of her brother's misspent life. As a little girl she remembered her big brother before he went away, good-natured, friendly, always ready to play with her. She was sure he had not been bad, only fatally weak. Even this man who had slain him was ready to testify to that.
She came back from her absorption to find Struve outlining what he meant to do.
“We'll go back this passage along the way you came. I want to find Mr. Dunke. I allow I've got something to tell him he will be right interested in hearing.”
He picked up the candle and led the way along the tunnel. Margaret followed him in silence.
The convict shambled forward through the tunnel till he came to a drift which ran into it at a right angle.
“Which way now?” he demanded.
“I don't know.”
“Don't know,” he screamed. “Didn't you just come along here? Do you want me to get lost again in this hell-hole?”
The stricken fear leaped into his face. He had forgotten her danger, forgotten everything but the craven terror that engulfed him. Looking at him, she was struck for the first time with the thought that he might be on the verge of madness.
His cry still rang through the tunnel when Margaret saw a gleam of distant light. She pointed it out to Struve, who wheeled and fastened his eyes upon it. Slowly the faint yellow candle-rays wavered toward them. A man was approaching through the gloom, a large man whom she presently recognized as Dunke. A quick gasp from the one beside her showed that he too knew the man. He took a dozen running steps forward, so that in his haste the candle flickered out.
“That you, Miss Margaret?” the mine-owner called.
Neither she nor Struve answered. The latter had stopped and was waiting tensely his enemy's approach. When he was within a few yards of the other Dunke raised his candle and peered into the blackness ahead of him.
“What's the matter? Isn't it you, Miss Peggy?”
“No, it ain't. It's your old pal, Nick Struve. Ain't you glad to see him, Joe?”
Dunke looked him over without a word. His thin lips set and his gaze grew wall-eyed. The candle passed from right to left hand.
Struve laughed evilly. “No, I'm not going to pay you that way—not yet; nor you ain't going to rid yourself of me either. Want to know why, Mr. Millionaire Dunke, what used to be my old pal? Want to know why it ain't going to do you any good to drop that right hand any closeter to your hip pocket?”
Still Dunke said nothing, but the candle-glow that lit his face showed an ugly expression.
“Don't you whip that gun out, Joe Dunke. Don't you! 'Cause why? If you do you're a goner.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I kept the letter you wrote me seven years ago, and have put it where it will do you no good if anything happens to me. That's why you won't draw that gun, Joe Dunke. If you do it will send you to Yuma. Millionaire you may be, but that won't keep you from wearing stripes.”
Struve's voice rang exultantly. From the look in the face of his old comrade in crime who had prospered at his expense, as he chose to think, he saw that for the time being he had got the whip-hand.
There was a long silence before Dunke asked hoarsely:
“What do you want?”
“I want you to hide me. I want you to get me out of this country. I want you to divvy up with me. Didn't we grub-stake you with the haul from the Overland? Don't we go share and share alike, the two of us that's left? Ain't that fair and square? You wouldn't want to do less than right by an old pal, cap, you that are so respectable and proper now. You ain't forgot the man that lay in the ditch with you the night we held up the flyer, the man that rode beside you when you shot—”
“For God's sake don't rake up forgotten scrapes. We were all young together then. I'll do what's right by you, but you got to keep your mouth shut and let me manage this.”
“The way you managed it before when you let me rot at Yuma seven years,” jeered Struve.
“I couldn't help it. They were on my trail and I had to lie low. I tell you I'll pull you through if you do as I say.”
“And I tell you I don't believe a word you say. You double-crossed me before and you will again if you get a chance. I'll not let you out of my sight.”
“Don't be a fool, Nick. How can I help you if I can't move around to make the arrangements for running you across the line?”
“And what guarantee have I got you ain't making arrangements to have me scragged? Think I'm forgetting Saturday night?”
The girl in the blackness without the candle-shine moved slightly.
“What's that?” asked Dunke, startled.
“What's what?”
“That noise. Some one moved.”
Dunke's revolver came swiftly from his pocket.
“I reckon it must a-been the girl.”
“What girl? Miss Kinney?”
Dunke's hard eyes fastened on the other like steel augers.
Margaret came forward and took wraithlike shape.
“I want you to take me to Mrs. Collins, Mr. Dunke,” she said.
The steel probes shifted from Struve to her.
“What did you hear, Miss Kinney? This man is a storehouse of lies. I let him run on to see how far he would go.”
Struve's harsh laugh filled the tunnel.
“Take me to Mrs. Collins,” she reiterated wearily.
“Not till I know what you heard,” answered Dunke doggedly.
“I heard everything,” she avowed boldly. “The whole wretched, miserable truth.”
She would have pushed past him, but he caught her arm.
“Let me go!”
“I tell you it's all a mistake. I can explain it. Give me time.”
“I won't listen, I want never to see either of you again. What have I ever done that I should be mixed up with such men?” she cried, with bitter despair.
“Don't go off half-cocked. 'Course I'll take you to Mrs. Collins if you like. But you got to listen to what I say.”
Another candle glimmered dimly in the tunnel and came toward them. It presently stopped, and a voice rolled along the vault.
“Hello, there!”
Margaret would have known that voice anywhere among a thousand. Now it came to her sweet as water after a drought. She slipped past Dunke and ran stumbling through the darkness to its source.
“Mr. Neill! Mr. Neill!”
The pitiful note in her voice, which he recognized instantly, stirred him to the core. Astonished that she should be in the mine and in trouble, he dashed forward, and his candle went out in the rush. Groping in the darkness her hands encountered his. His arms closed round her, and in her need of protection that brushed aside conventions and non-essentials, the need that had spoken in her cry of relief, in her hurried flight to him, she lay panting and trembling in his arms. He held her tight, as one who would keep his own against the world.
“How did you get here—what has happened?” he demanded.
Hurriedly she explained.
“Oh, take me away, take me away!” she concluded, nestling to him with no thought now of seeking to disguise her helpless dependence upon him, of hiding from herself the realization that he was the man into whose keeping destiny had ordained that she was to give her heart.
“All right, honey. You're sure all safe now,” he said tenderly, and in the blackness his lips sought and met hers in a kiss that sealed the understanding their souls had reached.
At the sound of Neill's voice Dunke had extinguished the candle and vanished in the darkness with Struve, the latter holding him by the arm in a despairing grip. Neill shouted again and again, as he relighted his candle, but there came no answer to his calls.
“We had better make for the shaft,” he said.
They set out on the long walk to the opening that led up to the light and the pure air. For a while they walked on in silence. At last he took her hand and guided her fingers across the seam on his wrist.
“It don't seem only four days since you did that, honey,” he murmured.
“Did I do that?” Her voice was full of self-reproach, and before he could stop her she lifted his hand and kissed the welt.
“Don't, sweet. I deserved what I got and more. I'm ready with that apology you didn't want then, Peggy.”
“But I don't want it now, either. I won't have it. Didn't I tell you I wouldn't? Besides,” she added, with a little leap of laughter in her voice, “why should you ask pardon for kissing the girl you were meant to—to——”
He finished it for her.
“To marry, Peggy. I didn't know it then, but I knew it before you said good-by with your whip.”
“And I didn't know it till next morning,” she said.
“Did you know it then, when you were so mean to me?”
“That was why I was so mean to you. I had to punish myself and you because I—liked you so well.”
She buried her face shyly in his coat to cover this confession.
It seemed easy for both of them to laugh over nothing in the exuberance of their common happiness. His joy pealed now delightedly.
“I can't believe it—that four days ago you wasn't on the earth for me. Seems like you always belonged; seems like I always enjoyed your sassy ways.”
“That's just the way I feel about you. It's really scandalous that in less than a week—just a little more than half a week—we should be engaged. We are engaged, aren't we?”
“Very much.”
“Well, then—it sounds improper, but it isn't the least bit. It's right. Isn't it?”
“It ce'tainly is.”
“But you know I've always thought that people who got engaged so soon are the same kind of people that correspond through matrimonial papers. I didn't suppose it would ever happen to me.”
“Some right strange things happen while a person is alive, Peggy.”
“And I don't really know anything at all about you except that you say your name is Larry Neill. Maybe you are married already.”
She paused, startled at the impossible thought.
“It must have happened before I can remember, then,” he laughed.
“Or engaged. Very likely you have been engaged a dozen times. Southern people do, they say.”
“Then I'm an exception.”
“And me—you don't know anything about me.”
“A fellow has to take some risk or quit living,” he told her gaily.
“When you think of my temper doesn't it make you afraid?”
“The samples I've had were surely right exhilarating,” he conceded. “I'm expecting enough difference of opinion to keep life interesting.”
“Well, then, if you won't be warned you'll just have to take me and risk it.”
And she slipped her arm into his and held up her lips for the kiss awaiting her.
Dunke plowed back through the tunnel in a blind whirl of passion. Rage, chagrin, offended vanity, acute disappointment, all blended with a dull heartache to which he was a stranger. He was a dangerous man in a dangerous mood, and so Wolf Struve was likely to discover. But the convict was not an observant man. His loose upper lip lifted in the ugly sneer to which it was accustomed.
“Got onto you, didn't she?”
Dunke stuck his candle in a niche of the ragged granite wall, strode across to his former partner in crime, and took the man by the throat.
“I'll learn you to keep that vile tongue of yours still,” he said between set teeth, and shook the hapless man till he was black in the face.
Struve hung, sputtering and coughing, against the wall where he had been thrown. It was long before he could do more than gasp.
“What—what did you do—that for?” His furtive ratlike face looked venomous in its impotent anger. “I'll pay you for this—and don't you—forget it, Joe Dunke!”
“You'd shoot me in the back the way you did Jim Kinney if you got a chance. I know that; but you see you won't get a chance.”
“I ain't looking for no such chance. I—”
“That's enough. I don't have to stand for your talk even if I do have to take care of you. Light your candle and move along this tunnel lively.”
Something in Dunke's eye quelled the rebellion the other contemplated. He shuffled along, whining as he went that he would never have looked for his old pal to treat him so. They climbed ladders to the next level, passed through an empty stope, and stopped at the end of a drift.
“I'll arrange to get you out of here to-night and have you run across the line. I'm going to give you three hundred dollars. That's the last cent you'll ever get out of me. If you ever come back to this country I'll see that you're hanged as you deserve.”
With that Dunke turned on his heel and was gone. But his contempt for the ruffian he had cowed was too fearless. He would have thought so if he could have known of the shadow that dogged his heels through the tunnel, if he could have seen the bare fangs that had gained Struve his name of “Wolf,” if he could have caught the flash of the knife that trembled in the eager hand. He did not know that, as he shot up in the cage to the sunlight, the other was filling the tunnel with imprecations and wild threats, that he was hugging himself with the promise of a revenge that should be sure and final.
Dunke went about the task of making the necessary arrangements personally. He had his surrey packed with food, and about eleven o'clock drove up to the mine and was lowered to the ninth level. An hour later he stepped out of the cage with a prisoner whom he kept covered with a revolver.
“It's that fellow Struve,” he explained to the astonished engineer in the shaft-house. “I found him down below. It seems that Fraser took him down the Jackrabbit and he broke loose and worked through to our ground.”
“Do you want any help in taking him downtown, sir? Shall I phone for the marshal?”
His boss laughed scornfully.
“When I can't handle one man after I've got him covered I'll let you know, Johnson.”
The two men went out into the starlit night and got into the surrey. The play with the revolver had hitherto been for the benefit of Johnson, but it now became very real. Dunke jammed the rim close to the other's temple.
“I want that letter I wrote you. Quick, by Heaven! No fairy-tales, but the letter!”
“I swear, Joe—”
“The letter, you villain! I know you never let it go out of your possession. Give it up! Quick!”
Struve's hand stole to his breast, came out slowly to the edge of his coat, then leaped with a flash of something bright toward the other's throat. Simultaneously the revolver rang out. A curse, the sound of a falling body, and the frightened horses leaped forward. The wheels slipped over the edge of the narrow mountain road, and surrey, horses, and driver plunged a hundred feet down to the sharp, broken rocks below.
Johnson, hearing the shot, ran out and stumbled over a body lying in the road. By the bright moonlight he could see that it was that of his employer. The surrey was nowhere in sight, but he could easily make out where it had slipped over the precipice. He ran back into the shaft-house and began telephoning wildly to town.