Chapter 15

THE PROOF OF CRIME

Winston sprang to his feet and ran back along the deserted tunnel, bending low to avoid collision with the sloping roof, striving to move rapidly, yet in silence. The intense darkness blinded him, but one hand touching the wall acted as safeguard. For a moment the bewildering surprise of this new situation left his brain in a whirl of uncertainty. He could remember no spot in which he might hope to secrete himself safely; the rock wall of that narrow passageway afforded no possible concealment against the reflection of the foreman's glaring lamp. But he must get beyond sight and sound of those others before the inevitable meeting and the probable struggle occurred. This became the one insistent thought which sent him scurrying back into the gloom, recklessly accepting every chance of encountering obstacles in his haste. At the second curve he paused, panting heavily from the excitement of his hard run, and leaned against the face of the rock, peering anxiously back toward that fast approaching flicker of light. The angry foreman came crunching savagely along, his heavy boots resounding upon the hard floor, the hickory club in his hand occasionally striking against the wall as though he imagined himself already belaboring the recreant Swanson. About him, causing his figure to appear gigantic, his shadow grotesque, the yellow gleam of the light shone in spectral coloring. Winston set his teeth determinedly, and noiselessly cocked his revolver. The man was already almost upon him, a black, shapeless bulk, like some unreal shadow. Then the younger stepped suddenly forth into the open, the two meeting face to face. The startled foreman stared incredulous, bending forward as though a ghost confronted him, his teeth showing between parted lips.

"Drop that club!" commanded Winston coldly, the gleam of an uplifted steel barrel in the other's eyes. "Lively, my man; this is a hair-trigger."

"What the hell--"

"Drop that club! We 'll discuss this case later. There--no, up with your hands; both of them. Turn around slowly; ah, I see you don 't tote a gun down here. So much the better, for now we can get along to business with fewer preliminaries."

He kicked the released pick-helve to one side out of sight in the darkness, his watchful eyes never straying from the Irishman's face. Burke stood sputtering curses, his hands held high, his fighting face red from impotent passion. The trembling light gave to the scene a fantastic effect, grimly humorous.

"Who--who the divil be ye?" The surprised man thrust his head yet farther forward in an effort to make the flame more clearly reveal the other's features. Winston drew the peak of his miner's cap lower.

"That will make very little difference to you, Jack Burke," he said quietly, "if I have any occasion to turn loose this arsenal. However, stand quiet, and it will afford me pleasure to give you all necessary information. Let us suppose, for instance, that I am a person to whom Biff Farnham desires to sell some stock in this mine; becoming interested, I seek to discover its real value for myself, and come down with the night shift. Quite a natural proceeding on my part, is n't it? Now, under such circumstances, I presume you, as foreman, would be perfectly willing to show me exactly what is being accomplished down here?"

He paused, his lips smiling pleasantly, and Burke stared at him, with mouth wide open, his eyes mere black slits in the gloom. It was a full minute before he regained control of his voice.

"Ye think Oi 'm a dommed fool?" he ejaculated, hoarsely.

"No; that is exactly what I do not think, Burke," and Winston smiled again beneath his stern gray eyes. "That is precisely why I know you will show me all I desire to see. A damn fool might possibly be tempted to take chances with this gun, and get hurt, but you are smart enough to understand that I 've got the drop all right, and that I mean business--I mean business." These words were uttered slowly, deliberately, and the foreman involuntarily dropped his lids as though feeling them physically, the fingers of his uplifted hands clinching.

"What--what is it ye want to see?"

"That tunnel you 've got concealed by falsework."

Burke spat against the rock wall, the perspiration standing forth on his forehead. But Irish pugnacity made him stubborn.

"Who tould ye that loie? Shure, an' it's not here ye 'll be apt to foind the loikes o' that, me man."

Winston eyed him scornfully.

"You lie, Burke; I saw it with my own eyes just beyond that second turn yonder. You cannot play with me, and the sooner you master that fact the better. Now, you can take your choice--lead on as I order, and keep your men away, or eat lead. It's one or the other within the next sixty seconds. Turn around!"

No man in his senses would ever doubt the determined purpose lying behind those few low-spoken, earnest words. Whoever this man might be, whatever his purpose, he was assuredly not there in sport, and Burke wheeled about as though some concealed spring controlled his action.

"Good," commented Winston, briefly. "You can lower your hands. Now, walk straight forward, speaking only when I tell you, and never forget there is a gun-barrel within two feet of your back. The slightest movement of treachery, and, God helping me, Burke, I 'll turn loose every cartridge into your body. I don 't want to do it, but I will."

They moved slowly forward along the deserted tunnel, not unlike two convicts in lock-step. Burke sullenly growling, a burly, shapeless figure under the light in his hat; Winston alert, silent, watchful for treachery, the glimmer of the lamp full on his stern face. Their shadows glided, ever changing in conformation, along the walls, their footfalls resounding hollow from the echoing passage. There were no words wasted in either command or explanation. Without doubt, the foreman understood fairly well the purpose of this unknown invader; but he realized, also, that the man had never lightly assumed such risk of discovery, and he had lived long enough among desperate men to comprehend all that a loaded gun meant when the eye behind was hard and cool. The persuasive eloquence of "the drop" was amply sufficient to enforce obedience. Farnham be hanged! He felt slight inclination at that moment to die for the sake of Farnham. Winston, accustomed to gauging men, easily comprehended this mental attitude of his prisoner, his eyes smiling in appreciation of the other's promptness, although his glance never once wavered, his guarding hand never fell. Burke was safe enough now, yet he was not to be trifled with, not to be trusted for an instant, in the playing out of so desperate a game. At the angle the two halted, while the engineer cautiously reconnoitred the dimly revealed regions in front. He could perceive but little evidence of life, excepting the faint radiance of constantly moving lights down Number One tunnel. Burke stood sullenly silent, venturing upon no movement except under command.

"Anybody down that other entry?"

The foreman shook his head, without glancing around, his jaws moving steadily on the tobacco that swelled his cheek.

"Then lead on down it."

Winston stretched forth his unused left hand as they proceeded, his fingers gliding along the wall, his observant eyes wandering slightly from off the broad back of his prisoner toward the sides and roof of the tunnel. To his experience it was at once plainly evident this preliminary cutting had been made through solid rock, not in the following of any seam, but crossways. Here alone was disclosed evidence in plenty of deliberate purpose, of skilfully planned depredation. He halted Burke, with one hand gripping his shoulder.

"Are you people following an ore-lead back yonder?" he asked sharply.

The Irishman squirmed, glancing back at his questioner. He saw nothing in that face to yield any encouragement to deceit.

"Sure," he returned gruffly, "we're follyin' it all down that Number Wan."

"What 's the nature of the ore body?"

"A bit low grade, wid a thrifle of copper, an' the vein is n't overly tick."

"How far have you had to cut across here before striking color?"

"'Bout thirty fate o' rock work."

"Hike on, you thief," commanded the engineer, his jaw setting threateningly.

It proved a decidedly crooked passage, the top uneven in height, clearly indicating numerous faults in the vein, although none of these were sufficiently serious to necessitate the solution of any difficult mining problem. In spite of the turns the general direction could be ascertained easily. The walls were apparently of some soft stone, somewhat disintegrated by the introduction of air, and the engineer quickly comprehended that pick and lever alone had been required to dislodge the interlying vein of ore. At the extreme end of this tunnel the pile of broken rock lying scattered about clearly proclaimed recent labor, although no discarded mining tools were visible. Winston examined the exposed ore-vein, now clearly revealed by Burke's flickering lamp, and dropped a few detached specimens into his pocket. Then he sat down on an outcropping stone, the revolver still gleaming within his fingers, and ordered the sullen foreman to a similar seat opposite. The yellow rays of the light sparkled brilliantly from off the outcropping mass, and flung its radiance across the faces of the two men. For a moment the silence was so intense they could hear water drip somewhere afar off.

"Burke," asked the engineer suddenly, "how long have you fellows been in here?"

The uneasy Irishman shifted his quid, apparently considering whether to speak the truth or take the chances of a lie. Something within Winston's face must have decided him against the suggested falsehood.

"Well, sorr, Oi 've only been boss over this gang for a matter o' three months," he said slowly, "an' they was well into this vein be then."

"How deep are we down?"

"Between sixty an' siventy fate, countin' it at the shaft."

"And this tunnel--how long do you make it?"

"Wan hundred an' forty-six fate, from the rock yonder."

Winston's gray eyes, grave with thought, were upon the man's face, but the other kept his own concealed, lowered to the rock floor.

"Who laid out this work, do you know? Who did the engineering?"

"Oi think ut was the ould man hisself. Annyhow, that 's how thim Swades tell ut."

Winston drew a deep breath.

"Well, he knew his business, all right; it's a neat job," he admitted, a sudden note of admiration in his voice. His glance wandered toward the dull sparkle of the exposed ore. "I suppose you know who all this rightly belongs to, don 't you, Burke?"

The foreman spat reflectively into the dark, a grim smile bristling his red moustache.

"Well, sorr, Oi 'm not mooch given up to thinkin'," he replied calmly. "If it's them ide's yer afther, maybe it wud be Farnham ye'd betther interview, sure, an he 's the lad whut 'tinds to that end o' it for this outfit. Oi 'm jist bossin' me gang durin' workin' hours, an' slapin' the rist o' the toime in the bunk-house. Oi 'm dommed if Oi care who owns the rock."

The two men sat in silence. Burke indifferently chewing on his quid. Winston shifted the revolver into his left hand, and began slowly tracing lines, and marking distances, on the back of an old envelope. The motionless foreman steadily watched him through cautiously lowered lashes, holding the lamp in his hat perfectly steady. Slowly, with no other muscle moving, both his hands stole upward along his body; inch by inch attaining to a higher position without awakening suspicion. His half-concealed eyes, as watchful as those of a cat, gleamed feverishly beneath his hat-brim, never deserting Winston's partially lowered face. Then suddenly his two palms came together, the sputtering flame of the lamp between them.