Beth Norvell

That was five hours before. At the very edge of the black, concealing

chaparral, within easy rifle range of the "Independence" shaft-house,

Hicks and Brown lay flat on their faces, waiting and watching for some

occasion to take a hand. Back behind the little cabin old Mike sat

calmly smoking his black dudheen, apparently utterly oblivious to all

the world save the bound and cursing Swede he was vigilantly guarding,

and whose spirits he occasionally refreshed with some choice bit of

Hibernian philosophy. Beneath the flaring gleam of numerous gasoline

torches, half a dozen men constantly passed and repassed between

shaft-house and dump heap, casting weird shadows along the rough

planking, and occasionally calling to each other, their gruff voices

clear in the still night. Every now and then those two silent watchers

could hear the dismal clank of the windlass chain, and a rattle of ore

on the dump, when the huge buckets were hoisted to the surface and

emptied of their spoil. Once--it must have been after three

o'clock--other men seemed suddenly to mingle among those perspiring

surface workers and the unmistakable neigh of a horse came faintly from

out the blackness of a distant thicket. The two lying in the chaparral

rose to their knees, bending anxiously forward. Brown drew back the

hammer of his rifle, while Hicks swore savagely under his breath. But

those new figures vanished in some mysterious way before either could

decide who they might be--into the shaft-house, or else beyond, where

denser shadows intervened. The two watchers sank back again into their

cover, silently waiting, ever wondering what was happening beyond their

ken, down below in the heart of the hill.

Some of this even Winston never knew, although he was a portion of it.

He had gone down with the descending cage, standing silent among the

grimy workmen crowding it, and quickly discerning from their speech

that they were largely Swedes and Poles, of a class inclined to ask few

questions, provided their wages were promptly paid. There was a

deserted gallery opening from the shaft-hole some forty feet below the

surface; he saw the glimmer of light reflected along its wall as they

passed, but the cage dropped to a considerably lower level before it

stopped, and the men stepped forth into the black entry. Winston went

with them, keeping carefully away from the fellow he supposed to be

foreman of the gang, and hanging back, under pretence of having

difficulty in lighting his lamp, until the others had preceded him some

distance along the echoing gallery. The yellow flaring of their lights

through the intense darkness proved both guidance and warning, so he

moved cautiously forward, counting his steps, his hand feeling the

trend of the side wall, his lamp unlit. The floor was rough and

uneven, but dry, the tunnel apparently having been blasted through

solid rock, for no props supporting the roof were discernible. For

quite an extended distance this entry ran straight away from the foot

of the shaft--directly south he made it--into the heart of the

mountain; then those twinkling lights far in advance suddenly winked

out, and Winston groped blindly forward until he discovered a sharp

turn in the tunnel.