So this explained, after a fashion, Harry's disappearance. This revealed why the search through the mountains had failed. This—
But Fairchild suddenly realized that now was not a time for conjecturing upon the past. The man on the bed was unconscious, incapable of helping himself. Far below, a white-haired woman, her toothless jaws uttering one weird chant after another, was digging for him a quicklime grave, in the insane belief that she was aiding in accomplishing some miracle of immortality. In time—and Fairchild did not know how long—an evil-visaged, scar-faced man would return to help her carry the inert frame of the unconscious man below and bury it. Nor could Fairchild tell from the conversation whether he even intended to perform the merciful act of killing the poor, broken being before he covered it with acids and quick-eating lime in a grave that soon would remove all vestige of human identity forever. Certainly now was not a time for thought; it was one for action!
And for caution. Instinct told Fairchild that for the present, at least, Rodaine must believe that Harry had escaped unaided. There were too many other things in which Robert felt sure Rodaine had played a part, too many other mysterious happenings which must be met and coped with, before the man of the blue-white scar could know that finally the underling was beginning to show fight, that at last the crushed had begun to rise. Fairchild bent and unlaced his shoes, taking off also the heavy woolen socks which protected his feet from the biting cold. Steeling himself to the ordeal which he must undergo, he tied the laces together and slung the footgear over a shoulder. Then he went to the bed.
As carefully as possible, he wrapped Harry in the blankets, seeking to protect him in every way against the cold. With a great effort, he lifted him, the sick man's frame huddled in his arms like some gigantic baby, and started out of the eerie, darkened house.
The stairs—the landing—the hall! Then a query from below:
"Is that you, Roady?"
The breath pulled sharp into Fairchild's lungs. He answered in the best imitation he could give of the voice of Squint Rodaine:
"Yes. Go on with your digging, Honey. I 'll be there soon."
"And you'll kiss me?"
"Yes. Just like I kissed you the night our boy was born."
It was sufficient. The chanting began again, accompanied by the swish of the spade as it sank into the earth and the cludding roll of the clods as they were thrown to one side. Fairchild gained the door. A moment more and he staggered with his burden into the protecting darkness of the night.
The snow crept about his ankles, seeming to freeze them at every touch, but Fairchild did not desist. His original purpose must be carried out if Rodaine were not to know,—the appearance that Harry had aroused himself sufficiently to wrap the blankets about him and wander off by himself. And this could be accomplished only by the pain and cold and torture of a barefoot trip.
Some way, by shifting the big frame of his unconscious partner now and then, Fairchild made the trip to the main road and veered toward the pumphouse of the Diamond J. mine, running as it often did without attendance while the engineer made a trip with the electric motor into the hill. Cautiously he peered through the windows. No one was there. Beyond lay warmth and comfort—and a telephone. Fairchild went within and placed Harry on the floor. Then he reached for the 'phone and called the hospital.
"Hello!" he announced in a husky, disguised voice. "This is Jeb Gresham of Georgeville. I 've just found a man lying by the side of the Diamond J. pumphouse, unconscious, with a big cut in his head. I 've brought him inside. You 'll find him there; I 've got to go on. Looks like he 's liable to die unless you can send the ambulance for him."
"We 'll make it a rush trip," came the answer, and Fairchild hung up the 'phone, to rub his half-frozen, aching feet a moment, then to reclothe them in the socks and shoes, watching the entrance of the Diamond J. tunnel as he did so. A long minute—then he left the pumphouse, made a few tracks in the snow around the entrance, and walked swiftly down the road. Fifteen minutes later, from a hiding place at the side of the Clear Creek bridge, he saw the lights of the ambulance as it swerved to the pumphouse. Out came the stretcher. The attendants went in search of the injured man. When they came forth again, they bore the form of Harry Harkins, and the heart of Fairchild began to beat once more with something resembling regularity. His partner—at least such was his hope and his prayer—was on the way to aid and to recovery, while Squint Rodaine would know nothing other than that he had wandered away! Grateful, lighter in heart than he had been for days. Fairchild plodded along the road in the tracks of the ambulance, as it headed back for town.
The news already had spread by the time he reached there; news travels fast in a small mining camp. Fairchild went to the hospital, and to the side of the cot where Harry had been taken, to find the doctor there before him, already bandaging the wound on Harry's head and looking with concern now and then at the pupils of the unconscious man's eyes.
"Are you going to stay here with him?" the physician asked, after he had finished the dressing of the laceration.
"Yes," Fairchild said, in spite of aching fatigue and heavy eyes. The doctor nodded.
"Good. I don't know whether he 's going to pull through or not. Of course, I can't say—but it looks to me from his breathing and his heart action that he 's not suffering as much from this wound as he is from some sort of poisoning.
"We 've given him apomorphine and it should begin to take effect soon. We 're using the batteries too. You say that you 're going to be here? That's a help. They 're shy a nurse on this floor to-night, and I 'm having a pretty busy time of it. I 'm very much afraid that poor old Judge Richmond 's going to lay down his cross before morning."
"He 's dying?" Fairchild said it with a clutching sensation at his throat. The physician nodded.
"There 's hardly a chance for him."
"You 're going there?"
"Yes."
"Will you please give—?"
The physician waited. Finally Fairchild shook his head.
"Never mind," he finished. "I thought I would ask you something—but it would be too much of a favor. Thank you just the same. Is there anything I can do here?"
"Nothing except to keep watch on his general condition. If he seems to be getting worse, call the interne. I 've left instructions with him."
"Very good."
The physician went on, and Fairchild took his place beside the bed of the unconscious Harry, his mind divided between concern for his faithful partner and the girl who, some time in the night, must say good-by forever to the father she loved. It had been on Fairchild's tongue to send her some sort of message by the physician, some word that would show her he was thinking of her and hoping for her. But he had reconsidered. Among those in the house of death might be Maurice Rodaine, and Fairchild did not care again to be the cause of such a scene as had happened on the night of the Old Times dance.
Judge Richmond was dying. What would that mean? What effect would it have upon the engagement of Anita and the man Fairchild hoped that she detested? What—then he turned at the entrance of the interne with the batteries.
"If you 're going to be here all night," said the white-coated individual, "it 'll help me out a lot if you 'll use these batteries for me. Put them on at their full force and apply them to his cheeks, his hands, his wrists and the soles of his feet alternately. From the way he acts, there 's some sort of morphinic poisoning. We can't tell what it is—except that it acts like a narcotic. And about the only way we can pull him out is with these applications."
The interne turned over the batteries and went on about his work, while Fairchild, hoping within his heart that he had not placed an impediment in the way of Harry's recovery by not telling what he knew of Crazy Laura and her concoctions, began his task. Yet he was relieved by the knowledge that such information could aid but little. Nothing but a chemical analysis could show the contents of the strange brews which the insane woman made from her graveyard herbiage, and long before that could come, Harry might be dead. And so he pressed the batteries against the unconscious man's cheeks, holding them there tightly, that the full shock of the electricity might permeate the skin and arouse the sluggish blood once more to action. Then to the hands, the wrists, the feet and back again; it was the beginning of a routine that was to last for hours.
Midnight came and early morning. With dawn, the figure on the bed stirred slightly and groaned. Fairchild looked up, to see the doctor just entering.
"I think he 's regaining consciousness."
"Good." The physician brought forth his hypodermic. "That means a bit of rest for me. A little shot in the arm, and he ought to be out of danger in a few hours."
Fairchild watched him as he boiled the needle over the little gas jet at the head of the cot, then dissolved a white pellet preparatory to sending a resuscitory fluid into Harry's arm.
"You 've been to Judge Richmond's?" he asked at last.
"Yes." Then the doctor stepped close to the bed. "I 've just closed his eyes—forever."
Ten minutes later, after another examination of Harry's pupils, he was gone, a weary, tired figure, stumbling home to his rest—rest that might be disturbed at any moment—the reward of the physician. As for Fairchild, he sat a long time in thought, striving to find some way to send consolation to the girl who was grieving now, struggling to figure a means of telling her that he cared, that he was sorry, and that his heart hurt too. But there was none.
Again a moan from the man on the bed, and at last a slight resistance to the sting of the batteries. An hour passed, two; gradually Harry came to himself, to stare about him in a wondering, vacant manner and then to fasten his eyes upon Fairchild. He seemed to be struggling for speech, for coördination of ideas. Finally, after many minutes—
"That's you, Boy?"
"Yes, Harry."
"But where are we?"
Fairchild laughed softly.
"We 're in a hospital, and you 're knocked out. Don't you know where you 've been?"
"I don't know anything, since I slid down the wall."
"Since you what?"
But Harry had lapsed back into semi-consciousness again, to lie for hours a mumbling, dazed thing, incapable of thought or action. And it was not until late in the night after the rescue, following a few hours of rest forced upon him by the interne, that Fairchild once more could converse with his stricken partner.
"It's something I 'll 'ave to show you to explain," said Harry. "I can't tell you about it. You know where that little fissure is in the 'anging wall, away back in the stope?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's it. That's where I got out."
"But what happened before that?"
"What didn't 'appen?" asked Harry, with a painful grin. "Everything in the world 'appened. I—but what did the assay show?"
Fairchild reached forth and laid a hand on the brawny one of his partner.
"We 're rich, Harry," he said, "richer than I ever dreamed we could be. The ore's as good as that of the Silver Queen!"
"The bloody 'ell it is!" Then Harry dropped back on his pillow for a long time and simply grinned at the ceiling. Somewhat anxious. Fairchild leaned forward, but his partner's eyes were open and smiling. "I 'm just letting it sink in!" he announced, and Fairchild was silent, saving his questions until "it" had sunk. Then:
"You were saying something about that fissure?"
"But there is other things first. After you went to the assayers, I fooled around there in the chamber, and I thought I 'd just take a flyer and blow up them 'oles that I 'd drilled in the 'anging wall at the same time that I shot the other. So I put in the powder and fuses, tamped 'em down and then I thinks thinks I, that there's somebody moving around in the drift. But I did n't pay any attention to it—you know. I was busy and all that, and you often 'ear noises that sound funny. So I set 'em off—that is, I lit the fuses and I started to run. Well, I 'ad n't any more 'n started when bloeyy-y-y-y, right in front of me, the whole world turned upside down, and I felt myself knocked back into the chamber. And there was them fuses. All of 'em burning. Well, I managed to pull out the one from the foot wall and stamp it out, but I didn't 'ave time to get at the others. And the only place where there was a chance for me was clear at the end of the chamber. Already I was bleeding like a stuck hog where a whole 'arf the mountain 'ad 'it me on the 'ead, and I did n't know much what I was doing. I just wanted to get be'ind something—that's all I could think of. So I shied for that fissure in the rocks and crawled back in there, trying to squeeze as far along as I could. And 'ere 's the funny part of it—I kept on going!"
"You what?"
"Kept on going. I 'd always thought it was just a place where the 'anging wall 'ad slipped, and that it stopped a few feet back. But it don't—it goes on. I crawled along it as fast as I could—I was about woozy, anyway—and by and by I 'eard the shots go off be'ind me. But there was n't any use in going back—the tunnel was caved in. So I kept on.
"I don't know 'ow long I went or where I went at. It was all dark—and I was about knocked out. After while, I ran into a stream of water that came out of the inside of the 'ill somewhere, and I took a drink. It gave me a bit of strength. And then I kept on some more—until all of a sudden, I slipped and fell, just when I was beginning to see dyelight. And that's all I know. 'Ow long 'ave I been gone?"
"Long enough to make me gray-headed," Fairchild answered with a little laugh. Then his brow furrowed. "You say you slipped and fell just as you were beginning to see daylight?"
"Yes. It looked like it was reflected from below, somewyes."
Fairchild nodded.
"Is n't there quite a spring right by Crazy Laura's house?"
"Yes; it keeps going all year; there 's a current and it don't freeze up. It comes out like it was a waterfall—and there 's a roaring noise be'ind it."
"Then that's the explanation. You followed the fissure until it joined the natural tunnel that the spring has made through the hills. And when you reached the waterfall—well, you fell with it."
"But 'ow did I get 'ere?"
Briefly Fairchild told him, while Harry pawed at his still magnificent mustache. Robert continued:
"But the time 's not ripe yet, Harry, to spring it. We 've got to find out more about Rodaine first and what other tricks he 's been up to. And we 've got to get other evidence than merely our own word. For instance, in this case, you can't remember anything. All the testimony I could give would be unsupported. They 'd run me out of town if I even tried to start any such accusation. But one thing 's certain: We 're on the open road at last, we know who we 're fighting and the weapons he fights with. And if we 're only given enough time, we 'll whip him. I 'm going home to bed now; I 've got to be up early in the morning and get hold of Farrell. Your case comes up at court."
"And I 'm up in a 'ospital!"
Which fact the court the next morning recognized, on the testimony of the interne, the physician and the day nurses of the hospital, to the extent of a continuance until the January term in the trial of the case. A thing which the court further recognized was the substitution of five thousand dollars in cash for the deeds of the Blue Poppy mine as security for the bailee. And with this done, the deeds to his mine safe in his pocket, Fairchild went to the bank, placed the papers behind the great steel gates of the safety deposit vault, and then crossed the street to the telegraph office. A long message was the result, and a money order to Denver that ran beyond a hundred dollars. The instructions that went with it to the biggest florist in town were for the most elaborate floral design possible to be sent by express for Judge Richmond's funeral—minus a card denoting the sender. Following this, Fairchild returned to the hospital, only to find Mother Howard taking his place beside the bed of Harry. One more place called for his attention,—the mine.
The feverish work was over now. The day and night shifts no longer were needed until Harry and Fairchild could actively assume control of operations and themselves dig out the wealth to put in the improvements necessary to procure the compressed air and machine drills, and organize the working of the mine upon the scale which its value demanded. But there was one thing essential, and Fairchild procured it,—guards. Then he turned his attention to his giant partner.
Health returned slowly to the big Cornishman. The effects of nearly a week of slow poisoning left his system grudgingly; it would be a matter of weeks before he could be the genial, strong giant that he once had represented. And in those weeks Fairchild was constantly beside him.
Not that there were no other things which were represented in Robert's desires,—far from it. Stronger than ever was Anita Richmond in Fairchild's thoughts now, and it was with avidity that he learned every scrap of news regarding her, as brought to him by Mother Howard. Hungrily he listened for the details of how she had weathered the shock of her father's death; anxiously he inquired for her return in the days following the information—via Mother Howard—that she had gone on a short trip to Denver to look after matters pertaining to her father's estate. Dully he heard that she had come back, and that Maurice Rodaine had told friends that the passing of the Judge had caused only a slight postponement in their marital plans. And perhaps it was this which held Fairchild in check, which caused him to wonder at the vagaries of the girl—a girl who had thwarted the murderous plans of a future father-in-law—and to cause him to fight down a desire to see her, an attempt to talk to her and to learn directly from her lips her position toward him,—and toward the Rodaines.
Finally, back to his normal strength once more, Harry rose from the armchair by the window of the boarding house and turned to Fairchild.
"We 're going to work to-night," he announced calmly.
"When?" Fairchild did not believe he understood. Harry grinned. "To-night. I 've taken a notion. Rodaine 'll expect us to work in the daytime. We 'll fool 'im. We 'll leave the guards on in the daytime and work at night. And what's more, we 'll keep a guard on at the mouth of the shaft while we 're inside, not to let nobody down. See?"
Fairchild agreed. He knew Squint Rodaine was not through. And he knew also that the fight against the man with the blue-white scar had only begun. The cross-cut had brought wealth and the promise of riches to Fairchild and Harry for the rest of their lives. But it had not freed them from the danger of one man,—a man who was willing to kill, willing to maim, willing to do anything in the world, it seemed, to achieve his purpose. Harry's suggestion was a good one.
Together, when night came, they bundled their greatcoats about them and pulled their caps low over their ears. Winter had come in earnest, winter with a blizzard raging through the town on the breast of a fifty-mile gale. Out into it the two men went, to fight their way though the swirling, frigid fleece to Kentucky Gulch and upward. At last they passed the guard, huddled just within the tunnel, and clambered down the ladder which had been put in place by the sight-seers on the day of the strike. Then—
Well, then Harry ran, to do much as Fairchild had done, to chuckle and laugh and toss the heavy bits of ore about, to stare at them in the light of his carbide torch, and finally to hurry into the new stope which had been fashioned by the hired miners in Fairchild's employ and stare upward at the heavy vein of riches above him.
"Wouldn't it knock your eyes out?" he exclaimed, beaming. "That vein 's certainly five feet wide."
"And two hundred dollars to the ton," added Fairchild, laughing. "No wonder Rodaine wanted it."
"I 'll sye so!" exclaimed Harry, again to stand and stare, his mouth open, his mustache spraying about on his upper lip in more directions than ever. A long time of congratulatory celebration, then Harry led the way to the far end of the great cavern. "'Ere it is!" he announced, as he pointed to what had seemed to both of them never to be anything more than a fissure in the rocks. "It's the thing that saved my life."
Fairchild stared into the darkness of the hole in the earth, a narrow crack in the rocks barely large enough to allow a human form to squeeze within. He laughed.
"You must have made yourself pretty small, Harry."
"What? When I went through there? Sye, I could 'ave gone through the eye of a needle. There were six charges of dynamite just about to go off be'ind me!"
Again the men chuckled as they looked at the fissure, a natural, usual thing in a mine, and often leading, as this one did, by subterranean breaks and slips to the underground bed of some tumbling spring. Suddenly, however, Fairchild whirled with a thought.
"Harry! I wonder—couldn't it have been possible for my father to have escaped from this mine in the same way?"
"'E must 'ave."
"And that there might not have been any killing connected with Larsen at all? Why couldn't Larsen have been knocked out by a flying stone—just like you were? And why—?"
"'E might of, Boy." But Harry's voice was negative. "The only thing about it was the fact that your father 'ad a bullet 'ole in 'is 'ead." Harry leaned forward and pointed to his own scar. "It 'it right about 'ere, and glanced. It did n't 'urt 'im much, and I bandaged it and then covered it with 'is 'at, so nobody could see."
"But the gun? We did n't find any."
"'E 'ad it with 'im. It was Sissie Larsen's. No, Boy, there must 'ave been a fight—but don't think that I mean your father murdered anybody. If Sissie Larsen attacked 'im with a gun, then 'e 'ad a right to kill. But as I 've told you before—there would n't 'ave been a chance for 'im to prove 'is story with Squint working against 'im. And that's one reason why I did n't ask any questions. And neither did Mother 'Oward. We were willing to take your father's word that 'e 'ad n't done anything wrong—and we were willing to 'elp 'im to the limit."
"You did it, Harry."
"We tried to—" He ceased and perked his head toward the bottom of the shaft, listening intently. "Did n't you 'ear something?"
"I thought so. Like a woman's voice."
"Listen—there it is again!"
They were both silent, waiting for a repetition of the sound. Faintly it came, for the third time:
"Mr. Fairchild!"
They ran to the foot of the shaft, and Fairchild stared upward. But he could see no one. He cupped his hands and called:
"Who wants me?"
"It's me." The voice was plainer now—a voice that Fairchild recognized immediately.
"I 'm—I 'm under arrest or something up here," was added with a laugh. "The guard won't let me come down."
"Wait, and I 'll raise the bucket for you. All right, guard!" Then, blinking with surprise, he turned to the staring Harry. "It's Anita Richmond," he whispered. Harry pawed for his mustache.
"On a night like this? And what the bloody 'ell is she doing 'ere, any'ow?"
"Search me!" The bucket was at the top now.
A signal from above, and Fairchild lowered it, to extend a hand and to aid the girl to the ground, looking at her with wondering, eager eyes. In the light of the carbide torch, she was the same boyish appearing little person he had met on the Denver road, except that snow had taken the place of dust now upon the whipcord riding habit, and the brown hair which caressed the corners of her eyes was moist with the breath of the blizzard. Some way Fairchild found his voice, lost for a moment.
"Are—are you in trouble?"
"No." She smiled at him.
"But out on a night like this—in a blizzard. How did you get up here?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I walked. Oh," she added, with a smile, "it did n't hurt me any. The wind was pretty stiff—but then I 'm fairly strong. I rather enjoyed it."
"But what's happened—what's gone wrong? Can I help you with anything—or—"
Then it was that Harry, with a roll of his blue eyes and a funny waggle of his big shoulders, moved down the drift toward the stope, leaving them alone together. Anita Richmond watched after him with a smile, waiting until he was out of hearing distance. Then she turned seriously.
"Mother Howard told me where you were," came quietly. "It was the only chance I had to see you. I—I—maybe I was a little lonely or—or something. But, anyway, I wanted to see you and thank you and—"
"Thank me? For what?"
"For everything. For that day on the Denver road, and for the night after the Old Times dance when you came to help me. I—I have n't had an easy time. And I 've been in rather an unusual position. Most of the people I know are afraid and—some of them are n't to be trusted. I—I could n't go to them and confide in them. And—you—well, I knew the Rodaines were your enemies—and I 've rather liked you for it."
"Thank you. But—" and Fairchild's voice became a bit frigid—"I have n't been able to understand everything. You are engaged to Maurice Rodaine."
"I was, you mean."
"Then—"
"My engagement ended with my father's death," came slowly—and there was a catch in her voice. "He wanted it—it was the one thing that held the Rodaines off him. And he was dying slowly—it was all I could do to help him, and I promised. But—when he went—I felt that my—my duty was over. I don't consider myself bound to him any longer."
"You 've told Rodaine so?"
"Not yet. I—I think that maybe that was one reason I wanted to see some one whom I believed to be a friend. He 's coming after me at midnight. We 're to go away somewhere."
"Rodaine? Impossible!"
"They 've made all their plans. I—I wondered if you—if you 'd be somewhere around the house—if you 'd—"
"I 'll be there. I understand." Fairchild had reached out and touched her arm. "I—want to thank you for the opportunity. I—yes, I 'll be there," came with a short laugh. "And Harry too. There'll be no trouble—from the Rodaines!"
She came a little closer to him then and looked up at him with trustful eyes, all the brighter in the spluttering light of the carbide.
"Thank you—it seems that I 'm always thanking you. I was afraid—I did n't know where to go—to whom to turn. I thought of you. I knew you 'd help me—women can guess those things."
"Can they?" Fairchild asked it eagerly. "Then you 've guessed all along that—"
But she smiled and cut in.
"I want to thank you for those flowers. They were beautiful."
"You knew that too? I didn't send a card."
"They told me at the telegraph office that you had wired for them. They—meant a great deal to me."
"It meant more to me to be able to send them." Then Fairchild stared with a sudden idea. "Maurice 's coming for you at midnight. Why is it necessary that you be there?"
"Why—" the idea had struck her too—"it is n't. I—I just had n't thought of it. I was too badly scared, I guess. Everything 's been happening so swiftly since—since you made the strike up here."
"With them?"
"Yes, they 've been simply crazy about something. You got my note?"
"Yes."
"That was the beginning. The minute Squint Rodaine heard of the strike, I thought he would go out of his head. I was in the office—I 'm vice-president of the firm, you know," she added with a sarcastic laugh. "They had to do something to make up for the fact that every cent of father's money was in it."
"How much?" Fairchild asked the question with no thought of being rude—and she answered in the same vein.
"A quarter of a million. They 'd been getting their hands on it more and more ever since father became ill. But they could n't entirely get it into their own power until the Silver Queen strike—and then they persuaded him to sign it all over in my name into the company. That's why I 'm vice-president."
"And is that why you arranged things to buy this mine?" Fairchild knew the answer before it was given.
"I? I arrange—I never thought of such a thing."
"I felt that from the beginning. An effort was made through a lawyer in Denver who hinted you were behind it. Some way, I felt differently. I refused. But you said they were going away?"
"Yes. They 've been holding conferences—father and son—one after another. I 've had more peace since the strike here than at any time in months. They 're both excited about something. Last night Maurice came to me and told me that it was necessary for them all to go to Chicago where the head offices would be established, and that I must go with him. I did n't have the strength to fight him then—there was n't anybody near by who could help me. So I—I told him I 'd go. Then I lay awake all night, trying to think out a plan—and I thought of you."
"I 'm glad." Fairchild touched her small gloved hand then, and she did not draw it away. His fingers moved slowly under hers. There was no resistance. At last his hand closed with a tender pressure,—only to release her again. For there had come a laugh—shy, embarrassed, almost fearful—and the plea:
"Can we go back where Harry is? Can I see the strike again?"
Obediently Fairchild led the way, beyond the big cavern, through the cross-cut and into the new stope, where Harry was picking about with a gad, striving to find a soft spot in which to sink a drill. He looked over his shoulder as they entered and grinned broadly.
"Oh," he exclaimed, "a new miner!"
"I wish I were," she answered. "I wish I could help you."
"You 've done that, all right, all right." Harry waved his gad. "'E told me—about the note!"
"Did it do any good?" she asked the question eagerly. Harry chuckled.
"I 'd 'ave been a dead mackerel if it 'ad n't," came his hearty explanation. "Where you going at all dressed up like that?"
"I 'm supposed," she answered with a smile toward Fairchild, "to go to Center City at midnight. Squint Rodaine 's there and Maurice and I are supposed to join him. But—but Mr. Fairchild 's promised that you and he will arrange it otherwise."
"Center City? What's Squint doing there?"
"He does n't want to take the train from Ohadi for some reason. We 're all going East and—"
But Harry had turned and was staring upward, apparently oblivious of their presence. His eyes had become wide, his head had shot forward, his whole being had become one of strained attention. Once he cocked his head, then, with a sudden exclamation, he leaped backward.
"Look out!" he exclaimed. "'Urry, look out!"
"But what is it?"
"It's coming down! I 'eard it!" Excitedly he pointed above, toward the black vein of lead and silver. "'Urry for that 'ole in the wall—'urry, I tell you!" He ran past them toward the fissure, yelling at Fairchild. "Pick 'er up and come on! I tell you I 'eard the wall moving—it's coming down, and if it does, it 'll bust in the 'ole tunnel!"
Hardly realizing what he was doing or why he was doing it, Fairchild seized Anita in his arms, and raising her to his breast as though she were a child, rushed out through the cross-cut and along the cavern to the fissure, there to find Harry awaiting them.
"Put 'er in first!" said the Cornishman anxiously. "The farther the safer. Did you 'ear anything more?"
Fairchild obeyed, shaking his head in a negative to Harry's question, then squeezed into the fissure, edging along beside Anita, while Harry followed.
"What is it?" she asked anxiously.
"Harry heard some sort of noise from above, as if the earth was crumbling. He 's afraid the whole mine 's going to cave in again."
"But if it does?"
"We can get out this way—somehow. This connects up with a spring-hole; it leads out by Crazy Laura's house."
"Ugh!" Anita shivered. "She gives me the creeps!"
"And every one else; what's doing, Harry?"
"Nothing. That's the funny part of it!"
The big Cornishman had crept to the edge of the fissure and had stared for a moment toward the cross-cut leading to the stope. "If it was coming, it ought to 'ave showed up by now. I 'm going back. You stay 'ere."
"But—"
"Stay 'ere, I said. And," he grinned in the darkness, "don't let 'im 'old your 'and, Miss Richmond."
"Oh, you go on!" But she laughed. And Harry laughed with her.
"I know 'im. 'E 's got a wye about 'im."
"That's what you said about Miss Richmond once!"
"Have you two been talking about me?"
"Often." Then there was silence—for Harry had left the fissure to go into the stope and make an investigation. A long moment and he was back, almost creeping, and whispering as he reached the end of the fissure.
"Come 'ere—both of you! Come 'ere!"
"What is it?"
"Sh-h-h-h-h-h. Don't talk too loud. We 've been blessed with luck already. Come 'ere."
He led the way, the man and woman following him. In the stope the Cornishman crawled carefully to the staging, and standing on tiptoes, pressed his ear against the vein above him. Then he withdrew and nodded sagely.
"That's what it is!" came his announcement at last. "You can 'ear it!"
"But what?"
"Get up there and lay your ear against that vein. See if you 'ear anything. And be quiet about it. I 'm scared to make a move, for fear somebody 'll 'ear me."
Fairchild obeyed. From far away, carried by the telegraphy of the earth—and there are few conductors that are better—was the steady pound, pound, pound of shock after shock as it traveled along the hanging wall. Now and then a rumble intervened, as of falling rock, and scrambling sounds, like a heavy wagon passing over a bridge.
Fairchild turned, wondering, then reached for Anita.
"You listen," he ordered, as he lifted her to where she could hear. "Do you get anything?"
The girl's eyes shone.
"I know what that is," she said quickly. "I 've heard that same sort of thing before—when you 're on another level and somebody 's working above. Is n't that it, Mr. Harkins?"
Harry nodded.
"That's it," came tersely. Then bending, he reached for a pick, and muffling the sound as best he could between his knees, knocked the head from the handle. Following this, he lifted the piece of hickory thoughtfully and turned to Fairchild. "Get yourself one," he ordered. "Miss Richmond, I guess you 'll 'ave to stay 'ere. I don't see 'ow we can do much else with you."
"But can't I go along—wherever you 're going?"
"There's going to be a fight," said Harry quietly. "And I 'm going to knock somebody's block off!"
"But—I 'd rather be there than here. I—I don't have to get in it. And—I 'd want to see how it comes out. Please—!" she turned to Fairchild—"won't you let me go?"
"If you 'll stay out of danger."
"It's less danger for me there than—than home. And I 'd be scared to death here. I wouldn't if I was along with you two, because I know—" and she said it with almost childish conviction—"that you can whip 'em."
Harry chuckled.
"Come along, then. I 've got a 'unch, and I can't sye it now. But it 'll come out in the wash. Come along."
He led the way out through the shaft and into the blizzard, giving the guard instructions to let no one pass in their absence. Then he suddenly kneeled.
"Up, Miss Richmond. Up on my back. I 'm 'efty—and we 've got snowdrifts to buck."
She laughed, looked at Fairchild as though for his consent, then crawled to the broad back of Harry, sitting on his shoulders like a child "playing horse."
They started up the mountain side, skirting the big gullies and edging about the highest drifts, taking advantage of the cover of the pines, and bending against the force of the blizzard, which seemed to threaten to blow them back, step for step. No one spoke; instinctively Fairchild and Anita had guessed Harry's conclusions. The nearest mine to the Blue Poppy was the Silver Queen, situated several hundred feet above it in altitude and less than a furlong away. And the metal of the Silver Queen and the Blue Poppy, now that the strike had been made, had assayed almost identically the same. It was easy to make conclusions.
They reached the mouth of the Silver Queen. Harry relieved Anita from her position on his shoulders, and then reconnoitered a moment before he gave the signal to proceed. Within the tunnel they went, to follow along its regular, rising course to the stope where, on that garish day when Taylor Bill and Blindeye Bozeman had led the enthusiastic parade through the streets, the vein had shown. It was dark there—no one was at work. Harry unhooked his carbide from his belt, lit it and looked around. The stope was deeper now than on the first day, but not enough to make up for the vast amount of ore which had been taken out of the mine in the meanwhile. On the floor were tons of the metal, ready for tramming. Harry looked at them, then at the stope again.
"It ain't coming from 'ere!" he announced. "It's—" then his voice dropped to a whisper—"what's that?"
Again a rumbling had come from the distance, as of an ore car traveling over the tram tracks. Harry extinguished his light, and drawing Anita and Fairchild far to the end of the stope, flattened them and himself on the ground. A long wait, while the rumbling came closer, still closer; then, in the distance, a light appeared, shining from a side of the tunnel. A clanging noise, followed by clattering sounds, as though of steel rails hitting against each other. Finally the tramming once more,—and the light approached.
Into view came an ore car, and behind it loomed the great form of Taylor Bill as he pushed it along. Straight to the pile of ore he came, unhooked the front of the tram, tripped it and piled the contents of the car on top of the dump which already rested there. With that, carbide pointing the way, he turned back, pushing the tram before him. Harry crept to his feet.
"We 've got to follow!" he whispered. "It's a blind entrance to the tunnel som'eres."
They rose and trailed the light along the tracks, flattening themselves against the timbers of the tunnel as the form of Taylor Bill, faintly outlined in the distance, turned from the regular track, opened a great door in the side of the tunnel, which, to all appearances, was nothing more than the ordinary heavy timbering of a weak spot in the rocks, pulled it far back, then swerved the tram within. Then, he stopped and raised a portable switch, throwing it into the opening. A second later the door closed behind him, and the sound of the tram began to fade in the distance. Harry went forward, creeping along the side of the tunnel, feeling his way, stopping to listen now and then for the sound of the fading ore car. Behind him were Fairchild and Anita, following the same procedure. And all three stopped at once.
The hollow sound was coming directly to them now. Harry once more brought out his carbide to light it for a moment and to examine the timbering.
"It's a good job!" he commented. "You could n't tell it five feet off!"
"They 've made a cross-cut!" This time it was Anita's voice, plainly angry in spite of its whispering tones. "No wonder they had such a wonderful strike," came scathingly. "That other stope down there—"
"Ain't nothing but a salted proposition," said Harry. "They 've cemented up the top of it with the real stuff and every once in a while they blow a lot of it out and cement it up again to make it look like that's the real vein."
"And they 're working our mine!" Red spots of anger were flashing before Fairchild's eyes.
"You 've said it! That's why they were so anxious to buy us out. And that's why they started this two-million-dollar stock proposition, when they found they could n't do it. They knew if we ever 'it that vein that it would n't be any time until they 'd be caught on the job. That's why they 're ready to pull out—with somebody else 's million. They 're getting at the end of their rope. Another thing; that explains them working at night."
Anita gritted her teeth.
"I see it now—I can get the reason. They 've been telephoning Denver and holding conferences and all that sort of thing. And they planned to leave these two men behind here to take all the blame."
"They'll get enough of it!" added Harry grimly. "They 're miners. They could see that they were making a straight cross-cut tunnel on to our vein. They ain't no children, Blindeye and Taylor Bill. And 'ere 's where they start getting their trouble."
He pulled at the door and it yielded grudgingly. The three slipped past, following along the line of the tram track in the darkness, Harry's pick handle swinging beside him as they sneaked along. Rods that seemed miles; at last lights appeared in the distance. Harry stopped to peer ahead. Then he tossed aside his weapon.
"There 's only two of 'em—Blindeye and Taylor Bill. I could whip 'em both myself but I 'll take the big 'un. You—" he turned to Fairchild—"you get Blindeye."
"I 'll get him."
Anita stopped and groped about for a stone.
"I 'll be ready with something in case of accident," came with determination. "I 've got a quarter of a million in this myself!"
They went on, fifty yards, a hundred. Creeping now, they already were within the zone of light, but before them the two men, double-jacking at a "swimmer", had their backs turned. Onward—until Harry and Fairchild were within ten feet of the "high-jackers", while Anita waited, stone in hand, in the background. Came a yell, high-pitched, fiendish, racking, as Harry leaped forward. And before the two "high-jackers" could concentrate enough to use their sledge and drill as weapons, they were whirled about, battered against the hanging wall, and swirling in a daze of blows which seemed to come from everywhere at once. Wildly Harry yelled as he shot blow after blow into the face of an ancient enemy. High went Fairchild's voice as he knocked Blindeye Bozeman staggering for the third time against the hanging wall, only to see him rise and to knock him down once more. And from the edge of the zone of light came a feminine voice, almost hysterical with the excitement of it all, the voice of a girl who, in her tensity, had dropped the piece of stone she had carried, to stand there, hands clenched, figure doubled forward, eyes blazing, and crying:
"Hit him again! Hit him again! Hit him again—for me!"
And Fairchild hit, with the force of a sledge hammer. Dizzily the sandy-haired man swung about in his tracks, sagged, then fell, unconscious. Fairchild leaped upon him, calling at the same time to the girl:
"Find me a rope! I 'll truss his hands while he 's knocked out!"
Anita leaped into action, to kneel at Fairchild's side a moment later with a hempen strand, as he tied the man's hands behind his back. There was no need to worry about Harry. The yells which were coming from farther along the stope, the crackling blows, all told that Harry was getting along exceedingly well. Glancing out of a corner of his eye, Fairchild saw now that the big Cornishman had Taylor Bill flat on his back and was putting on the finishing touches. And then suddenly the exultant yells changed to ones of command.
"Talk English! Talk English, you bloody blighter! 'Ear me, talk English!"
"What's he mean?" Anita bent close to Fairchild.
"I don't know—I don't think Taylor Bill can talk anything else. Put your finger on this knot while I tighten it. Thanks."
Again the command had come from farther on:
"Talk English! 'Ear me—I'll knock the bloody 'ell out of you if you don't. Talk English—like this: 'Throw up your 'ands!' 'Ear me?"
Anita swerved swiftly and went to her feet. Harry looked up at her wildly, his mustache bristling like the spines of a porcupine.
"Did you 'ear 'im sye it?" he asked. "No? Sye it again!"
"Throw up your 'ands!" came the answer of the beaten man on the ground. Anita ran forward.
"It's a good deal like it," she answered. "But the tone was higher."
"Raise your tone!" commanded Harry, while Fairchild, finishing his job of tying his defeated opponent, rose, staring in wonderment. Then the answer came:
"That's it—that's it. It sounded just like it!"
And Fairchild remembered too,—the English accent of the highwayman on the night of the Old Times Dance. Harry seemed to bounce on the prostrate form of his ancient enemy.
"Bill," he shouted, "I 've got you on your back. And I 've got a right to kill you. 'Onest I 'ave. And I 'll do it too—unless you start talking. I might as well kill you as not.—It's a penitentiary offense to 'it a man underground unless there 's a good reason. So I 'm ready to go the 'ole route. So tell it—tell it and be quick about it. Tell it—was n't you him?"
"Him—who?" the voice was weak, frightened.
"You know 'oo—the night of the Old Times dance! Didn't you pull that 'old-up?"
There was a long silence. Finally:
"Where's Rodaine?"
"In Center City." It was Anita who spoke. "He 's getting ready to run away and leave you two to stand the brunt of all this trouble."
Again a silence. And again Harry's voice:
"Tell it. Was n't you the man?"
Once more a long wait. Finally:
"What do I get out of it?"
Fairchild moved to the man's side.
"My promise and my partner's promise that if you tell the whole truth, we 'll do what we can to get you leniency. And you might as well do it; there 's little chance of you getting away otherwise. As soon as we can get to the sheriff's office, we 'll have Rodaine under arrest, anyway. And I don't think that he 's going to hurt himself to help you. So tell the truth; weren't you the man who held up the Old Times dance?"
Taylor Bill's breath traveled slowly past his bruised lips.
"Rodaine gave me a hundred dollars to pull it," came finally.
"And you stole the horse and everything—"
"And cached the stuff by the Blue Poppy, so 's I 'd get the blame?" Harry wiggled his mustache fiercely. "Tell it or I 'll pound your 'ead into a jelly!"
"That's about the size of it."
But Fairchild was fishing in his pockets for pencil and paper, finally to bring them forth.
"Not that we doubt your sincerity, Bill," he said sarcastically, "but I think things would be a bit easier if you'd just write it out. Let him up, Harry."
The big Cornishman obeyed grudgingly. But as he did so, he shook a fist at his bruised, battered enemy.
"It ain't against the law to 'it a man when 'e 's a criminal," came at last. The thing was weighing on Harry's mind. "I don't care anyway if it is—"
"Oh, there 's nothing to that," Anita cut in. "I know all about the law—father has explained it to me lots of times when there 've been cases before him. In a thing of this kind, you 've got a right to take any kind of steps necessary. Stop worrying about it."
"Well," and Harry stood watching a moment as Taylor Bill began the writing of his confession, "it's such a relief to get four charges off my mind, that I did n't want to worry about any more. Make hit fulsome, Bill—tell just 'ow you did it!"
And Taylor Bill, bloody, eyes black, lips bruised, obeyed. Fairchild took the bescrawled paper and wrote his name as a witness, then handed it to Harry and Anita for their signatures. At last, he placed it in his pocket and faced the dolorous high-jacker.
"What else do you know, Bill?"
"About what? Rodaine? Nothing—-except that we were in cahoots on this cross-cut. There is n't any use denying it"—there had come to the surface the inherent honor that is in every metal miner, a stalwartness that may lie dormant, but that, sooner or later, must rise. There is something about taking wealth from the earth that is clean. There is something about it which seems honest in its very nature, something that builds big men in stature and in ruggedness, and it builds an honor which fights against any attempt to thwart it. Taylor Bill was finding that honor now. He seemed to straighten. His teeth bit at his swollen, bruised lips. He turned and faced the three persons before him.
"Take me down to the sheriff's office," he commanded. "I 'll tell everything. I don't know so awful much—because I ain't tried to learn anything more than I could help. But I 'll give up everything I 've got."
"And how about him?" Fairchild pointed to Blindeye, just regaining consciousness. Taylor Bill nodded.
"He 'll tell—he 'll have to."
They trussed the big miner then, and dragging Bozeman to his feet, started out of the cross-cut with them. Harry's carbide pointing the way through the blind door and into the main tunnel. Then they halted to bundle themselves tighter against the cold blast that was coming from without. On—to the mouth of the mine. Then they stopped—short.
A figure showed in the darkness, on horseback. An electric flashlight suddenly flared against the gleam of the carbide. An exclamation, an excited command to the horse, and the rider wheeled, rushing down the mountain side, urging his mount to dangerous leaps, sending him plunging through drifts where a misstep might mean death, fleeing for the main road again. Anita Richmond screamed:
"That's Maurice! I got a glimpse of his face! He 's gotten away—go after him somebody—go after him!"
But it was useless. The horseman had made the road and was speeding down it. Rushing ahead of the others, Fairchild gained a point of vantage where he could watch the fading black smudge of the horse and rider as it went on and on along the rocky road, finally to reach the main thoroughfare and turn swiftly. Then he went back to join the others.
"He 's taken the Center City road!" came his announcement. "Is there a turn-off on it anywhere?"
"No." Anita gave the answer. "It goes straight through—but he 'll have a hard time making it there in this blizzard. If we only had horses!"
"They would n't do us much good now! Climb on my back as you did on Harry's. You can handle these two men alone?" This to his partner. The Cornishman grunted.
"Yes. They won't start anything. Why?"
"I 'm going to take Miss Richmond and hurry ahead to the sheriff's office. He might not believe me. But he 'll take her word—and that 'll be sufficient until you get there with the prisoners. I 've got to persuade him to telephone to Center City and head off the Rodaines!"