“All right, we unload pony,” he said tersely, suiting the action to the word. “Sandy, you, Dick stand by ready with guns.”
The task took but a moment. They were off again at a dead run, while the pack-horse stood gazing reproachfully after them.
CHAPTER XV
WITHIN THE BARRICADE
Toma poked out his head from behind a gray pile of rocks and looked down. Far below him, at the bottom of the ravine, he beheld a sight which caused his hands to clinch involuntarily and his heart to quicken a beat or two in righteous indignation.
In the Indian encampment, there was a very noticeable flurry and bustle of excitement as a small party, headed by an exceedingly atrocious individual, made its way into camp. With the exception of the leader, Toma had never seen any of them before. Also, with the exception of the leader, every man was weighted down with a load of what—even at that distance—Toma recognized immediately as being the supplies he, Dick and Sandy had discarded at the beginning of their hasty retreat.
Even the pony, which brought up the procession, was the self same pack-horse he had ridden into the river that morning. Their supplies and their horse were gone, but it was not this loss alone which had been the direct cause of Toma’s anger.
The young guide flashed one more look of resentment in the direction of the encampment, then turned quickly and made his way back to Dick and Sandy, who were crouched within a natural rock barricade, about one hundred yards distant.
“What did you find out?” Sandy demanded as Toma rejoined them.
“Indians get our supply an’ pony,” came the prompt answer.
“Well, that was to be expected,” said Dick. “It can’t be helped now. Did you find out anything else?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“Toma see scar-face Indian.”
“What!” exclaimed Dick and Sandy in one voice.
“Scar-face Indian him there all right. Make himself big fellow. What you think about that?”
“It’s an outrage!” stormed Dick. “No wonder we’re having trouble. So Henderson is at the bottom of this after all.”
“If scar-face Indian here, Henderson not very far away,” speculated Toma.
“Old Scar-Face must have discovered the mine before this if it’s located in the ravine,” Sandy suddenly spoke up.
“It doesn’t matter much now where the mine is,” Dick stated despondently. “We can’t do anything anyway. Our cause is pretty nearly hopeless.”
“Uncle Walter is coming,” Sandy reminded him. “Don’t forget that.”
“Two or three weeks from now. We may all be dead before then.”
“We can defend ourselves here for a day or two,” said Sandy. “In the meantime maybe something will turn up.”
“What about food and water?”
“Dick!” exclaimed Sandy, moving over and placing one arm affectionately about his chum, “You’re not your usual self. It’s not like you to give up so easily.”
Dick received the gentle rebuke with calm indifference. He stared soberly out across the desolate, sun-filled space without speaking.
“Indians make night attack mebbe,” Toma suddenly broke the silence.
“Let ’em come,” growled Dick. “We’ll be ready. All I hope is that Scar-Face leads the attacking party and that I can get a shot at him.”
“They’ll probably be in no hurry about that attack,” Sandy sagely remarked. “They know we’re up here somewhere and practically helpless. It would be a whole lot simpler and easier to starve us out.”
“That sounds reasonable,” said Dick. “We’re trapped and they know it.”
“I tell you something,” Toma rose and began pacing back and forth across the narrow, confining space within the barricade. “We have good chance now to make ’em Indians all look foolish. Place over there”—pointing—“where look down camp. You, me, Sandy go over there an’ start shoot rifles. Kill ’em plenty men in very few minutes. We drive ’em all bad fellows out of ravine.”
Dick and Sandy stared at each other aghast.
“What you say?” inquired Toma.
“Never!” shuddered Dick.
“Murder!” shivered Sandy.
“Why not?” the tone was plaintive. “Toma not understand.”
“You poor devil,” Sandy commenced grimly, but checked himself. “What quarrel have we with those people down there, Toma? It’s not their fault—it’s Henderson’s and the scar-face Indian’s.”
“All right, I go shoot him—that fellow.”
Dick’s sudden laugh relieved the tension.
“We didn’t come out here to kill anyone,” Sandy attempted to explain. “We came out here to find the mine. It’s wrong to take any human life.”
Toma shrugged his shoulders.
“You mean you sit here an’ no shoot if attack come?” he asked in amazement. “You sit here an’ let bad fellow kill you without so much raise up your rifle?”
“If I’m cornered, I’ll fight, of course. But not until then.”
The guide shook his head and subsided into a puzzled silence.
“What we do then?” he asked presently.
“What I’d like to do,” Dick cut in sharply, “is to run away—get out of this mess somehow.”
“How we swim river?” Toma wanted to know. “No chance build raft.”
“What about our own raft?” Sandy wondered. “Do you suppose they’ve overlooked that?”
“I’ll give them more credit for brains than that,” was Dick’s opinion. “I don’t think we ought to consider it.”
He paused for a moment, his brow wrinkling in thought.
“The only other way of escape is across the ravine, and I’m willing to bet they have sentries posted every hundred yards.”
“Very probably,” Sandy agreed, “but even at that there’s a possibility that we could make it. After dark there might be a chance. It’s better than staying here.”
“In our present hopeless position,” said Dick calmly, “I’ll try anything.”
“What about you, Toma?”
The young Indian drew himself up proudly.
“I go too,” he stated simply.
“Well, then, it’s decided.” Sandy arose and gazed out across the rough, broken strip of land to the south, conscious of a sinking feeling within.
To attempt to escape by way of the ravine was, as he well knew, a desperate hazard. Their chance of getting through safely was slim indeed—with every advantage in favor of their ruthless enemy.
“It’s the only thing we can do,” he declared, turning again toward his two companions and speaking in a low, trembling voice.
Dick evaded Sandy’s direct gaze and he, too, looked out upon that weird, desolate view. The afternoon sun was very bright and the rocks, gray and white and brown, were like blinding mirrors to his eyes. Somewhere, deep down within his breast, he could feel the beginning of a sob—a choking, helpless feeling difficult to express.
“My throat’s dry,” said Sandy, “and I’d like to have a drink.”
“I go for water,” volunteered Toma.
Dick wheeled about quickly.
“No! No! Don’t be a fool, Toma. We’ll have to stand it. You can’t risk your life now.”
In dull, aching monotony, the afternoon passed. The sun slipped down through a bank of clouds to a flaming northwestern sky. Innumerable shadows, spreading grotesquely about them, grew dark, then velvet-black, merging finally into one complete inky blot.
“There aren’t a hundred stars out tonight,” Dick whispered to his two delighted companions. “Conditions couldn’t be better.”
“It has clouded over,” said Sandy. “Thank God for that.”
Out of the west had come a cool, moist breeze. If it rained, so much the better. Since their departure from Fort Good Faith, three weeks previous, the days and nights had succeeded each other with no hint of rain, a seemingly endless procession of sunlit and starlit hours.
“We ought to start pretty soon,” said Dick, as he paced uneasily, restlessly about.
“I’m ready any time you fellows are,” Sandy replied.
Ten minutes passed. The wind seemed stronger now and was blowing more from the south. Unable longer to endure the suspense, Toma plucked at Dick’s arm.
“Come,” he whispered.
Slowly, cautiously, three figures worked their way up and over the rough barricade of rocks and headed for the ravine.
“Keep close together,” cautioned Dick in a low voice. “Whatever happens, we mustn’t become separated.”
In a few minutes they had reached the edge of the ravine and prepared for the perilous descent. They had to feel their way now. Every step forward was tedious, conscious effort. The moisture-laden wind, breathing over the warm rocks, had produced a wet, slippery surface under foot. Careful as the three boys were, one of them slipped or fell occasionally, producing a sound which caused them to pause in consternation in the belief that the noise must have carried to the sentries below.
About half way down, a most disconcerting thing occurred. In attempting to recover his balance, Sandy dropped his rifle. It slid out of reach as he made a wild lunge for it, and a moment latter dropped twenty feet to the ledge below. The loud metallic clatter resulting, broke across the silence—so it seemed to Sandy—with a force and noise as terrifying as that made by a derailed express train dropping over a cliff.
The three boys stood huddled together in speechless dismay. Had they been heard? Would the sentries know now for a certainty that an effort was being made to escape?
Sandy recovered his rifle and, following a whispered consultation, it was decided to make their way along the slope of the ravine before descending further. They had succeeded in covering a distance of perhaps three hundred yards, when they paused again—this time in absolute terror.
Up along the ridge, not far from their previous barricade, there arose a medley of demoniacal shrieks and yells that would easily have struck fear in the bravest heart. So suddenly and unexpectedly had it come, that the three boys, white-faced and trembling, shrank back against the side of the ledge too frightened even to move.
CHAPTER XVI
A PATH THROUGH THE ROCKS
Following the first shock of surprise and terror, Dick reached out and clutched Sandy’s arm.
“Now is the time to cross the ravine,” he whispered tersely. “Our best chance. Come!”
The remainder of the descent to the floor of the ravine was made at the cost of bruised bodies and torn garments, but with a speed and dispatch that made caution utterly impossible. Dick’s shins and knuckles were bleeding as he helped Sandy to his feet and spoke again in a low voice.
“Are you there, Toma?”
“Yes.”
“All right, we’ll make a bee-line for it. Ready!”
Three shadowy forms moved out to the level floor of the ravine, hesitated a split-second, then bolted for the opposite side.
Crash!
The report thundered in Dick’s ears. His own gun flamed into the night with a loud, reverberating roar. Four or five wavering figures, who had attempted to check their flight, fell back suddenly, making a path for them. First Sandy, then Dick, then Toma—each in turn fired his rifle into the air as he sprinted for the safety of the rocks.
They were clambering up presently, side by side, in the first flurry of a drenching Spring rain. The wind whipped about them, tearing fitfully at their soiled and rent clothing. Somewhere, miles up the river valley, a crooked flare of light lit up the sky.
It was a smothering downpour long before they had reached the top. It seemed now as if the earth was slipping under their feet. Water and gravel! Curious little patches of sliding wet clay! In places, thick mud, ankle deep, oozing out of crevices in the rocks! Yet they went on somehow through a breath-taking torture of exhaustion, contriving finally to pull themselves up over the edge of the canyon wall to the firm, grass-grown space beyond.
They had struggled to safety and were, for the present, at least, beyond the fear of immediate pursuit. Something very much like a prayer breathed from Dick’s lips. Sandy had thrown himself to the ground, his body shaking with sobs. With the exception of Toma, who, even in this extremity, possessed the untamed, unbeaten spirit of the wild, the little party had spent its last ounce of endurance and its last spark of courage.
Yet, they had made good their escape. They had come through the Indian lines, less than a quarter of a mile from the main encampment. It was an achievement worth while. Dick, recovering his breath, sat perfectly still, thrilled and happy as he looked out into the storm.
He was recalled from his abstraction by Toma’s voice, almost at his ear.
“We go pretty soon an’ find dry place to sleep. What you think?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but let Sandy rest for a while. This warm rain won’t hurt us.”
The youngest member of the trio rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow.
“I’m all right now. I’m ready to go on. I’m so happy I can’t think. If there was ever a time to feel glad for the sparing of three no-account lives, it’s tonight.”
Not long afterward, they crawled into a dense thicket which, though far from dry, afforded some protection from the steadily falling rain.
“Wake me up early,” Sandy muttered sleepily, as he snuggled down like a young lynx and closed his eyes.
Dick had started to follow his example, when he noticed that Toma still sat like the graven statue of a Hindu god.
“Aren’t you going to lie down?” he asked.
“No,” came the rather startling answer, “Toma no sleepy tonight.”
Dick stared his unbelief.
“How can that be?” he asked incredulously. “Toma, if it wasn’t so blamed dark, I could look into your face and convince myself you’re lying.”
“No dare go sleep tonight.”
“Why?”
“Forget to wake up. First thing we know Indian come. Just so soon get light, Scar-Face send out party look everywhere. He try find us. We too close encampment yet.”
“Why, you deceiving old rascal——” Dick choked, deeply impressed by the other’s unselfishness. “Do you mean to tell me you’d sit here all night and keep watch alone?”
“Yes,” answered Toma, “I sit here so I wake you and Sandy before it get light. Then we travel fast. When Indian start look for us we be many miles away.”
“So you intend to sacrifice your own comfort for us?”
“Toma no understand.”
Dick crawled over and put his arms about the statuesque figure.
“Lie down, you miserable deceiver,” he purred. “Lie down before I pull out my hunting knife and scalp you. No wonder we hate you—Sandy and I.”
“Stinging rattlesnakes!” gasped a sleepy voice. “Have you gone suddenly mad, Dick? What was that you just said to Toma?”
Dick laughed.
“Listen, Sandy, do you know what this lump of uselessness purposes to do?”
“No.”
“Stay up all night so he’ll be sure to wake us before dawn.”
“But what’s the big idea?”
“He doesn’t think we’re safe here, so close to the Indian encampment. He thinks Scar-Face’ll send out a scouting party at daybreak.”
“I never thought of that. Of course, he will,” Sandy had become genuinely alarmed.
“So Toma is going to watch while we two lazybones sleep,” Dick concluded.
“Like fun he is.”
“I’ve come to the conclusion,” Dick commented dryly, “that Toma is taking too much responsibility upon himself. He’s not satisfied with doing most of the work; he must do most of the thinking too.”
“It’s a terrible state of affairs,” Sandy growled. “What will we do with him?”
“As duly appointed judge sitting on this case, I propose to make an example of you, John Toma. Prisoner before the bar, with malice aforethought, I do hereby sentence you to four hours of solitary slumber.”
“Without benefit of clergy,” supplemented Sandy.
“Without benefit of clergy and with his boots on.”
“Moccasins, your honor,” corrected the prosecuting attorney.
“All right,” Dick laughed, “without clergy and with moccasins tightly strapped about his ankles. Take him to his cell, sheriff.”
“I no understand what you try say me,” said the prisoner, a little bewildered.
“You’re to sleep four hours without stopping while Dick and I keep watch,” Sandy explained.
It was exactly three o’clock by Dick’s watch when the three boys emerged from the thicket to continue their interrupted flight. The rain had ceased falling and a few stars peeped out from between dark clouds, scudding before the wind.
“We’ll make a nice wet trail through the wet grass,” Sandy grumbled sleepily. “Almost anybody could follow us.”
“It may be more difficult than you think,” Dick was of the opinion. “The sun will be up in an hour, and it won’t take long to dry things off.”
Their course away from the river—almost due west—led them across a rolling plain in the direction of a high range of hills, beyond which were the mountains. With the coming of daylight, they discerned the gray outline of the nearest hill, not more than two miles away.
The hill was steep and wide, more like a lofty plateau than a hill. Trees and vegetation covered its lower portion, but towards its summit the earth and rocks were perfectly bare.
“We’re going to have a good, stiff climb,” Dick remarked. “Do you feel equal to it, Sandy?”
The person addressed shifted his pack over chafed and burning shoulders.
“If I had something to eat, I could make it better.”
“No eat ’till we get to top,” said Toma. “We hide better up there. Indians see where we are if stop here.”
It took an hour of exhausting effort to make the ascent. Very much out of breath, limbs shaking with weariness, they stumbled forward a few paces, then threw off their shoulder-packs and proceeded to bring forth the meagre store of food that remained to them. Dick divided a bannock and a small chunk of bacon.
“We’ll have to eat the bacon raw,” he declared, a slight quaver in his voice. “There’s no firewood here.”
“Or water either that I can see,” added Sandy. “It’s a good thing we filled our water bottles on the way over.”
Towards the close of the inadequate, barely satisfying meal, Dick, who had been gazing curiously about him, pointed to an opening in the rocks a few yards away.
“It looks as if a sort of path runs through there,” he remarked.
“Deer-run,” suggested Sandy.
“What would deer be doing up here?” Dick wanted to know.
“Mebbe salt-lick somewhere,” Toma bore out Sandy’s conjecture.
Investigation proved that there was a path, clearly defined and well-beaten, a path which wound away towards the center of the plateau. Following it for a while, the three weary explorers passed through a narrow, broken defile and emerged at length to an opening amongst the rocks. They paused in wonder.
Immediately ahead sparkling like a jewel under the bright rays of the morning sun, was a pool or small lake. A perpendicular wall of sandstone rose sheer on one side, but on the other, a little to the right of where the boys were standing, the shoreline was practically unbroken and level, sloping slightly upward over a grass- and tree-grown space to another wall of sandstone. The whole effect was that of a huge hole or depression sunk into the earth: The small lake occupied one-half of this depression and the green slope the remaining half.
The boys stood for several minutes, struck with the beauty and novelty of the scene.
“I don’t care whether that pond’s a thousand feet deep and cold as a cake of ice,” Sandy suddenly decided. “I’m going to have a swim in it. A cool plunge right now would make me feel like a million dollars.”
He laughed as he spoke, but a surprised grunt from Toma quickly drew his attention to another quarter. As the guide pointed out the cause of his startled ejaculation, both Dick and Sandy gasped in wonder.
Twenty feet to their right, a heavy wooded cross reared its awesome shape above a mound of earth and rocks.
“A grave!” whispered Sandy.
“I’m not sure it is a grave,” said Dick a moment later, as they approached to examine the cross.
“Why not?” asked Sandy.
“Because,” Dick looked about carefully, “there’s no indication of one. The mound and pile of rocks support the cross.”
“If that’s the case,” argued Sandy, “what was it put here for? People don’t build crosses just for the fun they get out of it.”
“I realize that. But where’s the grave?”
“It’s here somewhere. I feel sure of it.”
“There’s no name carved on the cross,” Dick pointed out. “And it isn’t a regular cross either. Look here,” he indicated one of the arms. “The end of this is pointed; the other isn’t. It looks like a marker or sign of some sort.”
Sandy stood perfectly still, head on one side, and examined the cross speculatively.
“Do you suppose——” he began.
Dick jumped.
“A marker for the mine! Good heavens! I never thought of that!”
“It might be,” said Sandy in an awed, breathless tone.
“Yes, it might.”
“It points over there at that perpendicular wall on the other side of the lake.”
“The mine couldn’t be under water,” protested Dick.
“No, of course not. But it could easily be off somewhere in that general direction.”
“Over on the other side of the cliff, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Tell you what,” Dick had become heir to a strange excitement, “let’s continue following the path up out of this hole and see what we can see. We’ll skirt around to the back of the lake.”
“It certainly wouldn’t do any harm.”
The path led away across the slope, swerved sharply to the left and came to an abrupt stop at the foot of a wall of solid sandstone, more than forty feet in height. Cut into the sandstone, to the boys’ utter amazement, was a rough flight of steps.
“May wonders never cease!” gasped Sandy. “Who do you suppose did this?”
“A path leading down to the water,” cried Dick. “Sandy, we’re closer now. I’m convinced of it.”
“Dick, I’m shaking like a leaf.”
They went up the steps slowly, Sandy in the lead. Reaching the top, they paused again, looking carefully about them.
With a wildly beating heart, Dick noticed that the path still threaded its way through a veritable graveyard of broken rocks and tomb-shaped ridges of sandstone.
CHAPTER XVII
SANDY EXPLORES THE MINE
Sandy’s whoop of joy was the first intimation Dick had of the actual discovery of the mine. Unable to suppress his excitement and eagerness, the young Scotchman had loped down the path well in advance of his two friends, and had reached the coveted goal at least five minutes before Toma and Dick put in their belated appearance.
Sandy was gibbering inanely as Dick stepped up and clapped him on the back. They shook hands all around, and then even Toma so far forgot his dignity and reserve as to join in an impromptu dance that would have shamed a drink-crazed party of South Sea Islanders. Presently Dick held up one hand.
“Enough of this, Sandy. Let’s cool off. We’re actually here at last. But we musn’t take leave of our senses altogether, or play the part of fools. I propose that we make a careful inspection of the mine.”
The mine proper consisted of a single shallow shaft cut down into the rock and shale to a depth of about eight feet. Over the top of the shaft stood a windlass, a huge cumbersome affair made out of spruce logs.
“Our mine is more than half full of water,” laughed Dick, looking down into the shaft. “It’ll take us a day or more to bail the thing out.”
Following a cursory look around, Dick led the way to a small log cabin, which stood a short distance back from the mine. It was old and considerably out of repair. The door had been nailed shut and the windows sealed from the inside. A mud chimney, projecting through the roof, had crumbled to decay; and a good deal of the chinking between the logs of the house had dropped out, leaving gaping holes behind.
“It’s very nearly useless now,” Sandy observed, shaking his head, “but I have no doubt we could make it habitable.”
Dick and Toma attempted to pry open the door. They had no tools at their disposal except a small hatchet, the guide always carried with him. By using the blade as a wedge and then hammering upon it with a rock, they contrived finally to force their way into the dark, musty interior.
Even with the light streaming in from the open doorway, it was at first very difficult to see very clearly to every part of the cabin. A mud fire-place, a rough bench and table comprised the furnishings of the room. Propped against the wall on one side were a few mining tools, including a small pick, a coil of rope and a shovel. A large bucket which, judging from its shape and general appearance, had been carved out of a pine log, stood in one corner.
Further examination on the part of the three boys proved unavailing. Little more of interest was found until Toma, prowling about, discovered a trap door, which had been cut through the scored logs in the floor.
The trap was ponderous and heavy, stubbornly refusing to come up. It was raised, at length, through the combined efforts of the excited trio, who peered down into the dark hole, faces alight with interest.
“Looks very much like a deep cellar,” said Sandy, with a sharp intake of breath. “But what was it used for?”
Dick lit a match in an effort to see below. The tiny flame flared up for a moment, then went out. A second, third and fourth match——
“No use!” impatiently Dick threw the box to the floor and sat down with his feet dangling through the trap. “There’s a draft coming up out of here. Wish I had my old pocket light.”
“Move aside,” ordered Sandy. “I’m going down.”
“It may be deep,” objected Dick. “Let’s get a pole and find out.”
He had risen to go outside for the pole, when Sandy pushed quickly forward, swung out over the trap and let himself down to his full length, holding on by his hands.
“Don’t let go!” warned Dick, swinging around abruptly. “You don’t know what’s down there. Be careful, Sandy!”
Sandy grinned up provokingly, like a young ape bent on mischief, released his grip on the floor and disappeared forthwith. A low thud, coming up from below, attested to the fact that he had reached bottom. Toma’s annoyed grunt and Dick’s terrified exclamation, preceded a short but oppressive silence.
Was Sandy hurt? Pale and trembling, Dick stared into the black pit beneath and attempted to call out. His breath seemed to rattle in his throat.
“Are you hurt?” he finally contrived to squeak.
No answer.
“Are you there, Sandy?”
“Heigh ho up there!” came a firm and confident voice. “Throw down that box of matches.”
Toma and Dick breathed a sigh of relief. The matches were dropped down. In an incredibly short space, a small flame partially lit up the dank interior and soon after began flickering and bobbing about like a large firefly.
“What luck?” Dick called out.
Sandy, bent on exploration, was too busy to reply. Match after match flared brightly, burned down to a stub, and was swallowed up in the inky maw of the hole.
“Can you pull me out of this?” Sandy asked finally, when Dick’s patience had been worn to a shred. “I figure I’m about fourteen feet down. Didn’t I see a coil of rope up there?”
Sandy was pulled up through the trap a short time later, blinking as his eyes met the glare of light from the doorway. In spite of his effort to appear unconcerned, it was apparent that he was gripped in some strong emotion.
“What did you find, Sandy?”
The eyes of the young Scotchman gleamed queerly.
“There’s gold down there,” he exploded. “Loads of it! Sacks and sacks of gold, Dick, piled up down there in moose-hide sacks, waiting to be carried away!”
For a brief interval Dick was incapable of speech.
“Go-o-ld!” he stammered.
“Yes, gold!—thousands and thousands and thousands of dollars worth, I guess.”
Dick’s eyes were popping.
“So they hid it there.”
“Hid nothing!” Sandy was pacing back and forth in his excitement. “The real mine’s down there, I tell you. Right under our feet.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Go down and see for yourself,” shrieked Sandy. “It’s there,—it’s there, I tell you! Passages lead out three ways from that main hole or shaft. I could see them.”
“And those moose-hide sacks?”
“At one side of the shaft, directly under this room.”
“But where did they dump the rock and gravel that came out of those passages?” Dick asked incredulously. “It didn’t just disappear, did it? Tons and tons of earth and rock must have been moved in order to get the gold.”
“I can’t explain it,” Sandy admitted, somewhat defiantly. “All I know is that it was moved somewhere. The real mine is down there.”
“We’ll start exploring it at once,” Dick decided. “I’ll make some sort of miner’s lamp and we’ll all go down. What do you say?”
A fever of excitement had seized upon them. Hunger and weariness, the fear of pursuit—everything was forgotten in the obsession of the moment. Sandy moved about with an accustomed lightness in his step; Dick had become over-eager and impatient. Of the three, Toma alone remained unshaken and indifferent.
“Why you so hurry go see mine?” he demanded of Dick, during a lull in their preparations. “You think mine run away, eh?”
“Why, no.”
“How you feel if Indian come pretty soon an’ no ready for him?”
“What’s that?”
“Indian pretty sure come bye-’n’-bye.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Dick,” admonished the guide, “you, Sandy no think today. No think at all. Crazy like fool. What good is mine today if get killed tomorrow?”
“Look here, old Trouble-Face,” Sandy sang out, “you’re a joy killer. I don’t think there’s the least bit of danger.”
“Danger all time,” stubbornly persisted Toma.
Dick’s eyes wandered back to the trap in the floor. He visualized the moose-hide sacks, bulging with gold. He wondered if Sandy had not been mistaken about those three passages.
“The Indians won’t come today,” he decided.
“Don’t worry, Toma. Besides——”
He paused to watch Sandy throw the coil of rope into the shaft and then walk back and tie the end, still in his hands, to a large iron hook in the wall—a hook that had, apparently, been put there for that express purpose.
He turned again to Toma.
“Come on, let’s go down. It’ll take only a few minutes.”
To his surprise, the guide shrugged his shoulders and turned away. As Dick lowered himself through the trap, Toma strode to the doorway and stood looking out across the shimmering, sunlit vista of rocks and sandstone.
CHAPTER XVIII
IN THE TOILS OF HENDERSON
Returning to the main shaft, following a tour of exploration through the mine, Dick and Sandy were staggered by the discovery that during their absence some one had removed the rope and had closed the trap. Darkness enveloped them. The stream of light, which had poured through the wide opening in the floor of the cabin, had been cut off. The shock of the discovery for a moment unnerved the two young adventurers. The thing was incredible—almost past belief! Sandy raised his candle aloft and stared up through its flickering light. Dick smothered a cry, then stood mopping his perspiring face, too dumbfounded for words.
After the first shock of surprise, it occurred to Dick that Toma was playing a joke upon them. Piqued and resentful because of his and Sandy’s refusal to postpone the exploration of the mine, their guide had probably decided to teach them a lesson. No doubt, he wanted to frighten them a little in his effort to revenge his wounded feelings. Such an explanation seemed reasonable enough. It caused Dick to smile to himself and presently to chuckle aloud:
“Toma’s done this, Sandy. The old boy’s a little peeved because we wouldn’t listen to him. If we wait here a few minutes, he’ll relent and open the trap.”
They waited in silence. Sandy nudged Dick and laughed. In order to pass the time quickly, they went over and commenced to examine the sacks of gold, piled against one side of the shaft.
Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes—and no sound from Toma! Dick sat down and began mopping his face again. Sandy blew out his candle, grumbling to himself.
“A joke has its limits,” he sputtered. “In about two more seconds——”
Footfalls sounded overhead. A low rumble of voices, a clatter of something on the floor—and the trap came open. Light streamed down, lighting up the shaft.
“Bear!” exclaimed an unfamiliar voice. “Better keep back. They’re armed!”
“No, I tell yuh, we got their rifles. Fink,” the tone was overbearing and threatening, “get a move on an’ throw down that rope.”
The rope came down with a dull thud. Then the voice:
“Get out o’ that. Scramble up that rope. You’re both down there—we know it.”
A string of blasphemous oaths accompanied the sharp command. Sandy shrank back close to Dick. They were both shaking with terror.
“Do yuh hear!” screamed Henderson, enraged at the delay. “Your game’s up, I tell yuh. I’m givin’ yuh just five minutes to come outta that hole.”
“I can’t,” moaned Sandy. “I can’t, Dick!”
With difficulty, Dick was gaining control of himself.
“We must, Sandy,” he quavered. “There’s no help for it. They have the upper hand now. Let me help you to your feet.”
Sandy could scarcely stand. He trembled, and raised a white, pathetic face to the opening.
“We’re coming, Henderson,” Dick called out, his voice ringing tragically.
Slowly, tremblingly, they went up. Dick’s head, then his shoulders projected through the opening. Strong, rough arms yanked him forward with a force so violent that his jaws snapped. He was lying on the floor now, Sandy beside him. The leering, uncouth faces above were faces without pity. A circle of eyes, like those of hungry wolves, glared down at them. Big, powerful—a tower of brute strength and wickedness—Bear Henderson stormed through the group of men, cursing roundly.
“Truss ’em up! Truss ’em up, you fools. Think we got all day to stand around in. Flick—bring that rope!”
The boys were bound hand and foot, then dragged across the floor and kicked into a corner. Through a smother of dust, Dick perceived that the party of outlaws were preparing to make a descent into the mine. Above the din and confusion, came the hoarse, bellowed orders of Henderson.
One by one, the moose-hide sacks, containing the gold stored in the shaft, were lifted up through the trap. A perfect bedlam of cries and shouts arose. Order was forgotten. Sweating men, their faces distorted with greed and passion, clawed over the precious metal, snarling like beasts.
For a time it looked as if Henderson might lose control of the outlaws. With one exception, every man cursed and fought around the moose-hide sacks, turning deaf ears to their leader. This rebellion against authority transformed Henderson from the brute he was to a glaring-eyed madman. Never before in all his life had Dick seen anything to equal the awful fury of the man, as he leaped here and there through that pack of human wolves and beat them into submission.
In less than five minutes, the man, called Flick, was the only one left of the cowering band who dared to dispute its leader’s authority. Flick had backed away, nursing a cut over his right eye, blood trickling down his face. His cheeks were livid. As Henderson rushed towards him, a knife gleamed and whirred through the air, missing the outlaw by a scant two inches. A short time later Baptiste La Lond, the only one of the party who had shown little interest in the sacks of gold, proceeded to remove the unconscious body of Flick. He accomplished this task by the simple expedient of dragging it out by the heels, yanking it brutally along the floor, through the doorway and thence outside.
Immediately the room became more quiet. With a jerk of his head, Henderson tossed back his mop of yellow hair and wiped his face with the back of one hairy hand.
“Any more o’ yuh devils lookin’ fer trouble—step out!”
No one moved. Sulky faces, many of them battered almost to a pulp, were cast down; shoulders drooped in dejection. Not even the breath of a murmur stirred through their broken ranks.