Part 2

In the swift twist of straining bodies there in the pitch black, each man felt for a sure hold. Together they writhed sideways.

Their heads were over the bridge now. With one hand Clark gripped the rail. With his knee he pushed against his enemy. But Sturdivant’s grip held. Then both men slipped, swung over the bridge side and hung there.

* * * * *

Clark was suspending himself by one hand. Hard Sturdivant was hanging to him. As Clark reached with the other hand to grip the rail, Hard made a heaving effort to pull himself up by Clark’s body. The strain was terrible. They swung and thrashed the thick air.

Above them, at either end of the sump, men gathered, listening. But the fighters had no breath to shout.

Using Clark’s body, Hard Sturdivant was pulling himself up to safety.

Clark felt beneath the bridge with his feet, searching for a crossbeam of the supporting truss. He found it. His foot lodged in the angle made by two beams. With this to help sustain his weight he let go of the rail with one hand, struck fiercely at Hard’s face, seized the throat of the Elkhorn’s owner and tore downward with all the strength he could command.

Hard Sturdivant choked and his hands gave. He uttered a shrill gasp; then swung out, and down into the yawning black pit below.

Men of both sides heard the yell; they swore with the tension of uncertainty.

Clark Henderson drew himself to the bridge. He was gasping for air and his arms ached, but he could not stop now. If either side made the mistake of flashing a single torch, there would be a hell of gunfire.

“Hard Sturdivant is dead,” Clark choked, still prostrate on the bridge. “For God’s sake, don’t you men go on murdering each other.”

There was a moment of awed silence. Clark raised himself and faced the gunmen.

“Listen, my men have dynamite,” he added. “One stick thrown into this drift will bury you all under tons of rock. Hard’s dead. What have you to gain now?”

There was a pause. The silence lay like lead upon them all. The heat was burning their fevered skins.

“All right,” a thick voice spoke from the drift head, “we won’t fire. Give us light.”

“Light!” Clark ordered, and a score of matches flickered. A score of lamps were lit. The groups at either end of the sump blinked like men suddenly shocked awake. They stared at Clark, then drew to the sump and looked down.

The yellow surface of that mud-thick water was like a hideous fester.

“Well,” one of Hard Sturdivant’s gunmen spoke, “I guess you win, young fella. We told old Hard not to tackle you that way, but he’d settled other scores like that over a sump. He ’lowed he could again. Here’s to you!”

“All right, men,” Clark said slowly, “we’ll get above ground now. We need fresh air.”

They moved to the two cages silently. Clark signaled. And as the cages started upward he spoke to himself.

“Well, dad--I guess we’ll mine Globe Mountain after all. Too bad we can’t be doing it together.”

The cages broke into the open air. Men stared to see who would step out of them and who be carried. The story was told swiftly. A silence followed, then Steve Conley spoke.

“Well, Clark,” he said, “you done a good job. Let’s get to minin’ gold.”

The miners burst into a cheer.

“We have to,” Clark said grinning; “I got a lot of bills to pay. Let’s dig!”

[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the September 10, 1930 issue of _Short Stories_ magazine.]