Beth Norvell

It was a daring ruse that had taken Ned Winston down the shaft of the

"Independence" mine with the midnight shift. Not even the professional

enthusiasm of a young engineer could serve to justify so vast a risk,

but somehow this battle of right and wrong had become a personal

struggle between himself and Farnham; he felt, without understanding

clearly why, that the real stake involved was well worth the venture,

and would prove in the end of infinitely more value to him than any

settlement of the mere mining claims at issue. For several hours he

had been below in the tunnel of the "Little Yankee," measuring

distances, and sampling the grade of ore. All the afternoon and much

of the early night had been utilized in a careful exploration of the

surface ledges; creeping in, under protection of the low-growing

cedars, as closely as a vigilant rifle-guard would permit, to the great

ore dump of the busy "Independence"; diligently studying their system

of labor, and slowly crystallizing into shape his later plan of action.

He was already morally convinced that the Farnham people were actively

engaged in stealing the "Little Yankee" ore; that they were running

their tunnel along the lead of the latter; that they were doing this

systematically, and fully conscious of the danger of discovery. His

lines of survey, the nature of the ore bodies, the muffled sound of

picks, plainly discernible in the silent breast of the "Little Yankee"

while he lay listening with ear to the rock, as well as the close

secrecy, all combined to convince him fully of the fact. Yet such

vague suspicions were perfectly useless. He must have absolute,

convincing proof, and such proof could be obtained nowhere excepting at

the bottom of the "Independence" shaft.

He talked over the situation frankly with the two partners in the

little single-roomed cabin perched on the cliff edge, while the

obedient though grumbling Mike, rifle in hand, sat solemnly on the dump

pile without. Little by little the three conspirators worked out a

fairly feasible plan. There were numerous chances for failure in it,

yet the very recklessness of the conception was an advantage. Winston,

his face darkened as a slight disguise, and dressed in the rough

garments of a typical miner, was to hide beside the footpath leading

between the "Independence" bunk-house and the shaft. Should one of the

men chance to loiter behind the others when the working shift changed

at midnight, Brown was to attend to him silently, relying entirely upon

his giant strength to prevent alarm, while Winston was promptly to take

the vacated place among the descending workmen. By some grim fate this

crudely devised scheme worked like a well-oiled piece of machinery. A

sleepy-headed lout, endeavoring to draw on his coat as he ran blindly

after the others, stumbled in the rocky path and fell heavily. Almost

at the instant Stutter Brown had the fellow by the throat, dragging him

back into the security of the cedars, and Winston, lamp and dinner-pail

in hand, was edging his way into the crowded cage, his face turned to

the black wall.