Part 14

At the first dot he paused.

Through the open window came a whistle, strong and clear.

The chief threw up his hands. Alex himself sank back in his chair, helplessly.

Suddenly he again started forward.

"I have it!"

With the sharp words he again grasped the key, and while those about him listened with bated breath he sent like a flash, "Jack, there's a barrel of oil in the shed at the rear. Knock the head in, spill it, and set a match to it.

_"Burn the station!"_

The chief and the operators gasped, then with one accord set up a shout and darted back for the windows. The superintendent, told of the message, rushed after.

In absolute silence all fixed their eyes on the spot a mile up the river where lay the little summer depot.

Once more came the long-drawn "Too--oo, too--oo, oo, oo!" for a crossing.

"The next'll tell," said the chief tensely--"for the crossing this side of the station, or--"

It came. It was the crossing.

But the next instant from the mist shot up a lurid flare. From the windows rose a cry. Higher leaped the flames. And suddenly across the quiet morning air came a long series of quick sharp toots. Again they came--then the short, sharp note for brakes.

[Illustration: WITH THE SHARP WORDS HE AGAIN GRASPED THE KEY.]

And the boys and the flames had won!

The superintendent turned and held out his hand. "Ward, thank you," he said huskily. "Thank you. You are a genuine railroader."

"And--about the station?" queried Alex, a sudden apprehension in his face and voice. For the moment the crisis was past he had realized with dismay that he had issued the unprecedented order for the burning of the station entirely on his own responsibility.

"The station?" The superintendent laughed. "My boy, that was the best part of it. That was the generalship of it. There was no time to ask, only act. The fraction of a second might have lost the train.

"No; that is just why I say you are a genuine railroader--the burning of the station was a piece of the finest kind of railroading!

"And this reminds me," added the superintendent some minutes later, leading Alex aside and speaking in a lower voice. "We expect to start construction on the Yellow Creek branch in six weeks, and will be wanting an 'advance guard' of three or four heady, resourceful operators with the construction train, or on ahead. Would you like to go? and your friend Orr? There'll be plenty of excitement before we are through."

"I'd like nothing better, sir, or Orr either, I know," declared Alex with immediate interest. "But where will the excitement come in, sir?"

"You have heard the talk of the K. & Z. also running a line to the new gold field from Red Deer? And that they were held up by right-of-way trouble? Well, we have just learned that that was all a bluff; that they have been quietly making preparations, and are about to start construction almost immediately. And you see what that means?"

"A race for the Yellow pass?"

"A race--and more than that. Did you ever read of the great war between the Santa Fe and the Rio Grande for the Grand Canyon of Colorado? Regularly organized bands of fighting men on either side, and pitched battles? Well, I don't anticipate matters coming to that point between us and the K. & Z., but I wouldn't be surprised if it came near it before we are through. The lines traverse wild country, and the K. & Z. people have men in their construction department who would pull up track or cut wires as soon as light a pipe. In the latter case they would cut at critical times. There is where an operator with a head for difficulties might prove invaluable."

"I would be more than glad to tackle it, sir," agreed Alex enthusiastically.

"Very well then. You may consider yourself, and your friend Orr, appointed. And if you know of anyone else of the same brand, you might suggest him," the superintendent concluded.

"I don't think I do, sir--at the moment," Alex responded.

The week succeeding brought Alex a suggestion.

XVII

WILSON AGAIN DISTINGUISHES HIMSELF

It was decidedly warm the following Monday noon at Bonepile, and Wilson Jennings, his coat off, but wearing the fancy Mexican sombrero that the Bar-O cowmen had given him, sat in the open window to catch the breeze that blew through from the rear. From the window Wilson could not see the wagon-trail toward the hills to the west. Thus was it that the low thud of hoofs first told him of someone's hurried approach.

Starting to his feet, he stepped to the end of the platform. At sight of a horseman coming toward him at full speed, and leading a second horse, saddled, but riderless, Wilson gazed in surprise. Wonder increased when as the rider drew nearer he recognized Muskoka Jones, the big Bar-O cowman.

"What is it, Muskoka?" he shouted as the ponies approached.

The cow-puncher pulled up all-standing within a foot of the platform.

"There's been an explosion at the Pine Lode, kid, and ten men are bottled up somewhere in the lower level. Two men got in through a small hole--the mouth of the mine is blocked--and one of them is tapping on the iron pump-pipe. Bartlett, the mine boss, thinks it may be telegraph ticking--that maybe Young knows something about that. Will you come up and listen?

"You see, if they knew what was what inside, they'd know what they could do. They are afraid to blast the big rock that's blocking the mouth for fear of bringing loosened stuff down on the men who have been caught."

Wilson was running for the station door. "I'll explain to the despatcher," he shouted over his shoulder.

"I, I, X," responded the despatcher.

"There has been an explosion at the Pine Lode mine," sent Wilson rapidly, "and a man has been sent to take me there to try and read some tapping from the men inside. Can you give 144 and the Mail clearance from Q and let me go up?"

"Some tapping? What--Oh, I understand. OK! Go ahead," ticked the despatcher. "Get back as soon as possible."

"I will."

"All right, Muskoke," cried Wilson, hastening forth, struggling into his coat as he ran.

"Get round thar," shouted the cowboy, swinging the spare pony to the platform. Wilson went into the saddle with a neat bound.

"Say, you've seen a hoss before, kid," observed Muskoka with surprise as he threw over the reins.

"Sure I have. Used to spend my summer vacations on a farm. Can ride a bit standing up," said Wilson, with pride.

They swung their animals about together, and were off on the jump. As the two ponies stretched out to their full stride the cowboy eyed Wilson's easy seat with approval. "Well, kid," he observed after a moment's silence, "next time I come across a dude I'll git him to do his tricks before I brand him. I don't see but what you sit about as good as I do."

Wilson's pleased smile gave place to gravity as he returned to the subject of the explosion. "When did it happen?" he asked.

"Early this morning. Just after the men went in. They're not sure, but think it was powder stored at the foot of the shaft down to the lower level. The main lead of the Pine Lode, you know, runs straight into the mountain, not down; and the shaft to the lower level is a ways in. We heard the noise at the Bar-O.

"There's nothing much to see, or do, though," the cowman added as they raced along neck and neck. "A big rock just over the entrance came down, and when they got the dirt away they found it had bottled the thing up like a cork. It's that they are afraid to blast until they know how the men are fixed inside. Hoover and Young got in through a small hole at the top, Hoover about half an hour before Young. He started tapping on the pipe too, then stopped. They don't know what happened to him."

Twenty minutes' hard riding brought them to the foothills. Still at the gallop the ponies were urged up a winding rocky trail, and finally a tall black chimney and a group of rough buildings came into view.

"There it is," said the cowboy, indicating a ledge just above.

As they went forward, still at full speed, Wilson gazed toward the mine entrance with some astonishment. Mine disasters he had always thought of as scenes of great excitement--people running to and fro, wringing their hands, excited crowds held back by ropes, and men calling and shouting. Here, about a spot but little distinguished from the rest of the rocky, sparsely-treed mountain side, was gathered a group of perhaps fifty men, some sitting on beams and rocks, others moving quietly about, all smoking.

On their being discovered, however, there was a stir, and as Muskoka and the boy dismounted at the foot of a rough path and ascended there was a general movement of the miners and cowmen to meet them.

"I got him," Muskoka announced briefly to a grizzle-haired man who met them at the top. "This is Bartlett, the mine boss," he said to Wilson by way of introduction. The boss nodded.

"The tapping's going on yet, is it, Joe?"

"No. It's stopped, just like Hoover's did," was the gloomy response. "And just when we were getting onto it ourselves."

The speaker held up a small board pencilled with figures and letters. "Redding there hit on the idea that maybe Young was knocking out the numbers of letters in the alphabet, and we made this table, and just found out we had it right when the tapping stopped. That was twenty minutes ago, and we haven't had another knock since."

"Let's see it. What did you get?"

"There--'20, 7, 5, 20, 21, 16'--'T G E T U P.' Something about 'can't get up,' we figured it. But it's not enough to be of any use.

"And there's not another man here can wriggle in through the hole," went on the boss, turning toward the great rock which sealed the mouth of the mine. "A dozen of 'em tried it, and Redding got stuck so we had to get a rope on him. Nearly pulled his legs off."

Wilson made his way forward and examined the strangely blocked entrance. The small hole referred to was a triangular-shaped opening about a foot in height and some sixteen inches in width, apparently just at the roof of the gallery. Some minutes Wilson stood studying it, pondering. Finally he turned about with an air of decision and returned to Muskoka and the mine boss.

"I have a plan," he announced. "If you will go back to the station again, Muskoke, I'll send for another operator, and go in the mine myself. Two operators could talk backwards and forwards easily on the piping. And--"

"But whar's the other operator?" interrupted the cowboy.

"There is a freight due at the station in about twenty-five minutes. I can give you a message to hand the engineer for the operator at Ledges, the next station--a message asking the despatcher to send the Ledges operator down on the Mail. Someone could wait for him, and if there is no hitch he'd be here inside of an hour and a half."

"That'll work!" exclaimed the boss. "That's it! You'll go, Muskoke?"

"Sartenly. I'll get a fresh hoss, and wait fer him myself." Wilson, finding an envelope in his pocket, dropped to a boulder and began writing.

* * * * *

"W. B. J., Exeter," he scribbled. "Am at the mine. The tapping has stopped. No one else can go in, so I am going myself. Please send down operator from Ledges to read my tapping if I am unable to return.

"Jennings."

* * * * *

"Redding! Whar's Red?" shouted Muskoka as he folded the message.

"Here. What?"

"I'm going back to the station for another operator. I'm going to take your Johnny hoss. Mine's blowed."

"Sure yes," agreed the owner, and with a "Good luck, kid," Muskoka was clattering down the path.

"Now, Mr. Bartlett, will you please explain the plan of things inside; just how the tunnel runs?" requested Wilson.

"Have a seat and I'll draw it," said the boss, setting the example. He turned the board bearing the fragmentary message, and Wilson dropped down beside him.

"The main gallery, the old lead, runs straight in, at about this dip down," he said, drawing as he spoke. "Runs back 550 feet, and ends. That was where the old lead petered out.

"Here, about 200 feet from the entrance, is a vertical shaft, 90 feet, that we put down to pick up the old Pine-Knot lead. It's from the foot of that the new gallery, the lower level, starts. It slopes off just under the old lead--so--330 feet, there's a fault, and it cants up 12 feet--so--then on down again at a bit sharper dip, nearly 600 feet; then another fault and a drop, and about 50 feet more.

"It's down there at the end we think most of the men have been caught, but some may have been near the shaft. The pumping-pipe where Hoover and Young must have been tapping is here, half way between the first and second faults, where it comes down through a boring from the old gallery. It must have been at that point, because we had disconnected two leaking sections just below there only this morning."

"How do you get down the shaft to the lower level?" Wilson asked.

"There was a ladder, but it was smashed by the explosion. Hoover, the first man in, came out for a rope, so I suppose that's there now. Young must have gone down by it.

"Hoover also reported that the roof of the old gallery was in bad shape just over the shaft. That's the particular reason we are afraid to blast the rock here until we know whether any of the men were caught at the bottom of the pit."

Wilson arose and began removing his collar. "How about water, Mr. Bartlett, since the pump is not working?" he inquired.

"Unless the explosion tapped new water, there'll be no danger for twenty-four hours at least. But if the drain channel of the lower gallery has been filled the floor will be very slippery," the mine boss added. "It's slate, and we left it smooth, as a runway for the ore boxes."

As the young operator removed his spotless collar--one similar to that which had so aroused the cowmen's derision on his first day at Bonepile--without a smile one of the very men who had formed the "welcoming committee" that day rubbed his hands on his shirt, took it carefully, and placed it on a clean plank.

"You'll want a lamp. Somebody give the boy a cap and lamp," the boss directed. A dozen of the miners whipped off caps with attached lamps, and trying several, Wilson found one to fit. Then, buttoning his coat and turning up the collar, he made his way to the rock-sealed entrance, and climbed up to the narrow opening.

"I'll tap as soon as I reach the pipe," he said. "So long!" and without more ado crawled head first within and disappeared.

The lamp on his cap lighting up the narrow trough-like tunnel, Wilson easily wormed his way forward ten or twelve feet. Then the passage contracted and became broken and twisted. However, given confidence by the knowledge that others had passed through, Wilson squeezed on, there presently came a widening of the hole, then a black opening, and with a final effort he found himself projecting into the black depths of the empty gallery.

Below him the debris sloped to the floor. Pulling himself free, he slid and scrambled down, and quickly was on his feet, breathing with relief. Only pausing to brush some of the dust from his clothes, Wilson hastened forward.

Two hundred feet distant a windlass took shape in the obscurity. He reached it, and the black opening of the shaft to the lower level was at his feet. Looking, he found the rope the mine boss had spoken of. It was secured to one of the windlass supports, and disappeared into the depths on the opposite side of the pit. Directly below was the shattered wreck of the ladder.

Leaning over, Wilson shouted, "Hello! Hello!" The words crashed and echoed in the shaft and about him, but there was no reply. Once more he shouted, then resolutely suppressing his instinctive shrinking, he made his way about to the rope, carefully lowered himself, and began descending hand under hand.

Wilson had not gone far when with apprehension he found the rope becoming wet and slippery with drip from the rocks above. Despite a tightened grip his hands began to slip. In alarm he wound his feet about the rope. Still he slipped. To dry a hand on his sleeve, he freed it. Instantly with a cry he found himself shooting downward. He clutched with hands, feet and knees, but onward he plunged. In the light of his lamp the jagged broken timbers of the shoring shot up by him. He would be dashed to pieces.

But desperately he fought, and at last got the rope clamped against the corner of a heel, and the speed was retarded. A moment after he landed with an impact that broke his hold on the rope and sent him in a heap on his back.

Rising, Wilson thankfully discovered he had escaped injury other than a few bruises, and gazed about him. At first sight he appeared to be in the bottom of a well filled with broken water-soaked timbers and gray, dripping rock. He knew there must be an exit, however, and set about looking for it, at the same time listening and watching shrinkingly for signs of anyone buried in the heap of stone and timber. Not a sound save the monotonous drip of seeping water was to be heard, however, and presently behind a shield of planking he located the black mouth of a small opening.

Dropping to his knees, he crawled through, and stood upright in a downward sloping gallery similar to that above--the "lower level."

Once more he shouted. "Hello! Hello!" The clashing echoes died away without response, and he started forward.

Scarcely had he taken a half dozen steps when without warning his feet shot from under him and he went down on his back with a crash, barely saving his head with his hands. The smooth hard rock was as slippery as ice from the water flowing over it. Wondering if this icy declivity had anything to do with the failure of Hoover and Young to return, Wilson arose and went on more cautiously.

As he proceeded the walking became more and more treacherous. Several times he again went down, saving himself by sinking onto his outstretched hands.

On rising from one of these falls Wilson discovered something which sent him ahead with new concern. A few yards farther he halted with an exclamation on the brink of a yellow stretch of water that met the gallery roof twenty feet beyond him.

Blankly he gazed at it. Then he recalled the "fault" the mine boss had spoken of--an abrupt rise of the gallery twelve feet. This must be it. Its drain had choked, and filled it with water.

But both Hoover and Young had passed it! The pipe they had tapped upon was beyond. They must have waded boldly in, dove or ducked down, and come up on the other side. At the thought of following them in this Wilson drew back. Had he not better return?

Could he, though? Could he ascend a rope down which he had been unable to prevent himself sliding? The answer was obvious.

Desperately Wilson decided to venture the water, to reach those he now knew were on the other side, and the pumping-pipe. In preparation he first securely wrapped the matches he carried in notepaper taken from an envelope, and placed them in the top of the miner's hat. Then removing his shoes, to give him firmer footing, he stepped into the yellow pool and carefully made his way forward. Six feet from the point at which the water met the top of the gallery the water was up to his chin, and he saw he must swim for it, and dive. Without pause, lest he should lose his nerve, he struck out, reached the roof, took a deep breath, and ducked down.

Three quick, hard strokes, and he arose, and with a gasp found himself at the surface again. A few strokes onward in the darkness, and his hands met a rough wall, over which the water was draining as over the brink of a dam.

At the same moment a sound of dull blows reached his ears. Spluttering and blinking, Wilson drew himself up. A shout broke from him. Far distant and below was a point of light.

"Hello!" he cried. Immediately came a chorus of response, as though many were excitedly shouting at once. Unable to distinguish anything from the jangle of echoes, Wilson cried back, "Are you all safe?"

Again came the clashing, incomprehensible shout.

"I'm coming down," he called, though not sure that they heard him. Producing the matches from the crown of the hat, he found they had come through dry, and after some difficulty lighting one against the side of another, he re-lit the lamp. While at this, voices continued to come up to him, evidently shouting something. But try as he could he was unable to make out what was said. It was all a reverberating clamor, as though a hundred people were talking at once.

As the lamp spluttered up, after the ducking which had extinguished it, Wilson gazed down the gallery before him with a touch of new dismay. The water was flowing over it in a thin, glossy coat, and it was considerably steeper than on the outer side of the fault. Apparently the only thing to do was to slide.

Working about into a sitting position, facing down the slope, with feet spread out, as though steering a sleigh, Wilson allowed himself to go. The rapidity with which he gained momentum startled him. Soon the gray damp walls were passing upward like a glistening mist. With difficulty he kept his feet foremost.

Meantime the voices from below had continued shouting. Onward he slid, and the sounds became clearer. At last the words came to him. They were, "The pipe! The pipe! Catch the pump-pipe!" Then Wilson suddenly recollected that the pipe was but half way down the slope.

Digging with his heels he sought to slow up, gazing first at one flitting wall, then the other. On the right a vertical streak of black appeared. He clutched with heels and hands, and sought to steer toward it. He swept nearer, and reached with outstretched hand. The effort swung him sideways, his fingers just grazed the iron, and twisting about, he shot downward head first at greater speed than ever. A moment after there was a chorus of shouts, a sharp cry in his ears, an impact, a rolling and tumbling, a second crash, and Wilson felt himself dragged to his feet.

About him, in a single flickering light, was a group of strange faces. While he gazed, dazed, rubbing a bruised head, all talked excitedly, even angrily.

"Why didn't you hang on, you idiot?" demanded a voice.

"Who is it, anyway? It's a stranger!"

"And a boy!" said another.