Slocum and the High-graders, page 13
“We’ve wasted enough time,” Slocum said to his team, but he hesitated when he saw another wagon kicking up a dust cloud on its way to the mill. Slocum pulled down his hat to shade his eyes and waited for the dust to settle. A slow smile came to his lips. His time hadn’t been wasted after all.
Slouched over in the driver’s seat of the other wagon was Singer. And the wagon he drove wasn’t the one stolen from Slocum on his way back from Cripple Creek. There hadn’t been a third wagon in the Low Down camp, yet one of Miles’s cronies drove this one. And from the mound of ore in the rear, it was loaded to within a few ounces of breaking an axle.
Singer walked around the wagon, keeping away from the men unloading. When the foreman came out with a handful of papers, Singer scribbled something on the bottom that might have been nothing more than an X, then jumped back into the wagon and took off when the wagon was empty. Slocum watched him depart in a hurry, knowing this was what the foreman had meant when he said the Low Down might deliver four wagonloads in a day.
Only the wagon Singer drove wasn’t carrying Low Down ore. Not exactly.
Slocum figured out the mechanics of the situation. High-graded ore from the Low Down was dumped into the other wagon and brought for crushing and smelting. When the payoff for the gold came, Singer would accept delivery of the gold and take it back to his boss—Lucas Miles. If Singer happened to receive the payoff for all the gold delivered,both by himself and the driver from the Low Down, Miles would separate it and deliver to Morgan Haining only that which had been freighted down by a Low Down driver.
“The son of a bitch is making Haining pay for all the smelting. They steal his ore, make him pay for the smelting, and keep what would be a tidy profit.”
Slocum knew following Singer wasn’t going to be easy. Tracking a man in a wagon while driving another wagon was downright stupid. All Singer had to do was glance back and spot Slocum and the fur would fly. The one thing Slocum had going for him were the other mines bringing their loads to the mill. Singer might ignore anyone behind him, thinking the wagon belonged to the Molly Magee or some other concern.
But sooner or later Slocum would have to pass Singer. When he did, he was sure to be spotted. Hanging back as far as he could, hoping to see where Singer turned off the road, availed him little. The other man kicked up quite a dust cloud in his hurry to get back to wherever it was he had loaded the ore.
Then Slocum figured it all out.
The meandering mine tunnels Evangeline Haining had found went under the Low Down’s most valuable vein. He had seen two men in the mine itself checking the content. From that point they high-graded the ore and just dumped it down the side of the mountain to the road, where Singer loaded it into the wagon. The tailings from that mine had vanished because the high-graders loaded everything that came out of the mine, possibly through carelessness or more likely because Miles didn’t want any evidence of new work at that mine.
Slocum almost let out a whoop of glee when he saw Singer pull up beneath the mouth of the mine and wave to someone inside. Herk came out, wiped sweat off his forehead, and waved back. The huge man disappeared into the mine, then returned pushing an ore cart, which he tipped over. The contents tumbled down the mountainside, glittering in the afternoon sunlight.
“What should I do?” Slocum mused. He sucked on his teeth as he thought. Getting Marshal Young out here wasn’t much of an answer. He had locked horns with the marshal’s deputy and remembered the way he had been steered toward the county sheriff for any real law enforcement. Young might not be interested. Or he might be paid off by Miles and the others.
Slocum could tell Haining and drag him out here by force, if necessary, to convince him that his wife was wrong and that the Low Down had big problems with high-graders. Or he could round up a dozen miners and do a little law enforcing of his own. The Randolphs would join him. He knew others would, too, when he explained that not only their pay but future bonuses were being siphoned off by Miles and his henchmen.
That looked to be the best way of dealing with the problem. Slocum tugged down the brim of his hat and looked to one side as he drove past the pullout where Singer worked like a fiend to load the ore tossed down from above.
Slocum hit a rock in the road and felt the wagon slew under him. He slowed, chanced a look backward, and saw Singer staring at him. Slocum turned away, kept driving, and let out a sigh of relief when no alarm was raised.
He drove steadily, going higher into the hills, but his team tired quickly. Slocum reluctantly pulled to the side of the road to give his horses a brief rest. He rubbed his arms and stretched, trying to get his muscles to stop throbbing.
But as he sat in the wagon, he grew increasingly uneasy. During the war, he had relied on this sense to stay alive. As he turned, he saw a blur. Then the barrel of a six-shooter crashed into the side of his head. He tumbled out of the driver’s seat, hitting the ground hard. He tried to rise, then collapsed, unconscious.
14
Slocum groaned and rolled onto his side. It took a few seconds to realize his hands were bound behind his back and that he lay with his head slightly downslope. Blinking his eyes, he tried to see around him. Panic surged when he thought he was blind. Then he realized he was in a very dark place, all light cut off.
“A mine,” he muttered. Sucking in a deep breath, he recognized the usual smell of a mine shaft far underground. Scooting around scraped his shoulder but let him find a wall. Digging in his toes, he forced himself against the rocky wall and slowly sat up until his back was pressing into cold stone and his legs stretched in front of him.
He still couldn’t see the tiniest glimmer of light anywhere. Slocum blinked a few more times to be sure his eyelids were working and that he wasn’t caught in some horrible nightmare. Everything but sight told him he was alive and prisoner in a mine. The musty smell, the cold that made him shiver, the rough rock, the silence complete except for his own harsh breathing, all told him he had been knocked out and dumped into a mine.
His thoughts turned back to what had happened. He remembered watching Singer and was pretty sure he had seen Herk in the mouth of the mine where he and Evangelinehad been earlier. But someone had sneaked up on him and swung a mean pistol. He had been buffaloed and unconscious before he could identify his assailant. Not that it mattered. He was in a jam and had to get out somehow.
Slocum twisted about, but getting his bound hands in front of him wasn’t going to happen unless he dislocated his shoulders. He settled down, found a sharp outjut of rock, and began the tedious chore of sawing through the rope around his wrists. He nicked himself in the process, and his hands were slick with his own blood by the time the last strand parted.
He heaved a sigh of relief, rubbed his wrists, and felt the abrasions there. Nothing serious. His left forearm still hurt more than his other injuries. Slocum worked his fingers into his vest pocket and found the small tin holding his lucifers. He counted the matches. Only three.
Slocum struck one and held it high over his head, squinting to keep from being totally blinded. Even so, his eyes watered at the sudden flare. He got a good look around and saw that he was in the bottom of a shaft. Slocum’s heart skipped a beat when he saw a corpse on the far side. The clothing had turned to dust and the flesh mummified, a testament to the pit having been used to get rid of other unwanted snoops.
Slocum moved his fingers down to the very end of the match as it burned. Two more and then he would be plunged into utter darkness again and have no chance of escaping unless he could do it by feel. He doubted that was possible. The dead body was mute testimony to that.
As the match burned to an end, Slocum dived forward and dropped it onto the dried sleeve of the corpse. It flared brilliantly and dazzled him for a moment, then settled down to a more manageable fire.
“A hell of a cooking fire,” Slocum said, edging away. The mummified hand had caught fire, and ghoulish flames danced off each fingertip. Seeing that even this source of fuel wasn’t going to last long, Slocum turned his attention to the walls. He was truly caught in the bottom of a pit. Slocum peered up and realized the full horror of his situation. The sides of the pit were jagged, but there was no way his injuries would allow him to climb out, even if he could find handholds and spots to use as steps.
Slocum paced the bottom of the pit, skirting the burning body, hunting for something to use to get out. There was a pile of rope at one side, but it was hardly long enough to be of much use from this deep in the pit. The surface flaked off when he ran his hand over it, but the core of the rope had remained intact against the elements all this time. A few rusted pulley wheels showed that a hoist had once stretched across the top of the pit. But even if the timber was still there, he had no way of reaching it and only fifteen feet of rope to throw over it.
Worse, he couldn’t climb up a rope to the top with his arms still weak from cuts and burns.
Heaving a deep sigh, Slocum continued his examination and came to the conclusion he was truly trapped. Nothing else on the floor of the pit would aid him, and he couldn’t climb the sides. The greasy black smoke from the burning body began to choke him. Not sure what else to do, he took the rope and fastened one end around his chest. That left about twelve feet free. And he still came up short, even if he could have seen somewhere above him to lasso.
“Thirst,” Slocum said. He swung about so fast that the cloying smoke followed him like a slow-witted dog chasing its master. He saw the seepage on the wall and remembered the underground river that had carried him into the lower mine—the mine shaft where the high-graders stole Haining’s ore.
He used a rusted pulley to chip at the rock and get a sliver removed. A flow of water about the size of his little finger poured from the wall. The leakage slowed and finally stopped. Gasping for breath, Slocum doubled his effort with the rusty pulley wheel, finding a sharp edge and using it on the same spot he had attacked before until he got a steady flow back. Then he hammered as hard as he could until the rock shattered. Slocum was knocked backward by a geyser jetting from the wall.
Sputtering, he fought to keep his head above water. In spite of the gushing water, the corpse continued to burn, floating on the surface and following him upward. The thick black smoke continued to burn his eyes and lungs, but the light from the burning hand was enough to show him the way out. He floated up within six feet of the lip of the pit. Arched over it stretched the hoist support that had once held both rope and pulleys. Slocum let out a cheer. He could get out. The water would carry him up and over the top any instant now.
But it didn’t. The water had stopped rising. He thrashed around and tried to reach the lip of the pit some feet above, but his wet hands failed to give him purchase. His fingers slid off repeatedly. And then Slocum felt the water level going back down. The water was somehow draining from the pit.
The pit had been dry when he had been tossed into it. Any water that had seeped into it had drained faster than it accumulated, leaving the corpse dry enough to burn. Slocum flopped over in the water and saw only one finger of the mummified hand continuing to burn.
It was the middle finger.
This made him furious. He surged upward again and clawed at the edge of the pit, only to flop back into the water. He got tangled in the rope he had fastened around himself.
“Rope!”
He had worked more than one range in his day. Roping cattle was always challenging but was something he was expert at. As the light from the burning hand faded, he judged the distance to the timber above the pit and let fly with the rope. He had only one chance before he was once more plunged into stygian dark.
The rope sailed upward and looped over the beam. The free end came back toward him as the light snuffed out. Slocum grabbed where the rope must be hanging and missed it, but heard it swishing in the air. He caught it as it swung back toward him. Hauling hard, he felt the bite of the rope under his armpits. Arms burning like those of the ignited corpse, he pulled hard and heaved himself out of the water. Panting, he paused to recover strength and felt the water draining faster under him. This was his only chance. The desperation born of that thought gave him more strength.
In darkness blacker than any midnight, Slocum climbed. The rope began to abrade and yield. He felt it slipping as strand after strand of the old decayed rope parted under his weight. He became more determined than ever. He would not end up at the bottom of the pit, waiting to die and become a torch for some other son of a bitch thrown down there to die.
He banged his head hard enough to jar him. In his frantic, dazed state he didn’t immediately understand what had happened. Then he did. He had pulled himself up so far that his head hit the beam over the pit. Reaching up with a shaking left hand, he felt the splintery timber. He reached around it, got his upper arm over the beam, and then heaved with what strength remained in him. He got both arms over the beam, then pulled up and locked his feet around it.
Slocum thought he could stay like that forever, but the way the wood began creaking and yielding under his weight told him he had to move. Fast. Not knowing which way to go was no problem. Either side of the pit would be safer than dangling under the beam if it broke. Splinters cutting into his flesh, he went hand over hand until he found a support. Awkwardly looping his rope around the top beam as if he were tethering a horse, he relied on this safety line to hold his weight for a few seconds as he grasped the vertical support.
Slocum swung around, untangled the rope, and felt his feet touch solid rock. He was out of the pit. Sudden weakness hit him like a sledgehammer blow. He sank to the floor and trembled from the strain and the knowledge that he was still alive. When he recovered, he sat up and pressed out his wet clothing. The only sounds he heard now were the slow drip-drip-drip off his clothing and the sloshing of the water as it drained from the pit. Slocum took out his tin once more and considered using his final two lucifers. Deciding he had no choice, hoping the water had been kept out of the usually airtight box, he took out a lucifer and scratched it against the mine wall.
Nothing. Water had ruined it.
The remaining match felt dry under his fingers, but he couldn’t be sure. He struck this one and was rewarded with a sputtering flame. But he knew the match wouldn’t burn very long since his wet fingers had dampened the match-stick. Slocum took a quick look around and jumped like a goosed toad when he saw a ledge above him lined with miner’s candles. He wasted no time getting to his feet and grabbing one. The wick sputtered and finally lit before the lucifer gasped its last and died amid a crackling shower of blue-and-yellow sparks. Slocum thrust the wicks of two more candles into the flame of the first and enjoyed a veritable flood of light. He walked back to the pit and looked in.
He realized how lucky he had been when he studied the timber. The beam that he had used to escape was almost broken in half after holding his weight for only a few seconds. As it was, the wood had lasted long enough to allow him to escape the pit. Holding one candle out cast wan light downward. The water below him was dark and sinking fast. He couldn’t even make out where the water had flowed into the pit.
And it no longer mattered. He had escaped.
“Thanks,” he said, quietly paying tribute to the unknown man whose mummified corpse had given him enough light to begin his escape.
Slocum filled his pockets with candles from the ledge and saw that he could not get around the pit and explore the mine in that direction. He turned and went in the opposite direction, that being as good as the other, since he had no idea where he was or how he might find the exit.
Holding the candle out, his hand shaking and still not recovered from the strain, Slocum tried to find any vagrant air current that would direct him out of the mine. He followed the drift around, trying to get a sense of how far underground he was and how long the mine had been abandoned.
From the look of them, no one had worked the tunnels in years. These might be some of the earliest diggings in the Cripple Creek district, exploited and abandoned. But there was no clue how to get out of the middle of the mountain.
Slocum trooped along for a while, then slowed and finally stopped. Other than his own harsh breathing and the crackle from the miner’s candle in his hand, there had been no sound at all. He pressed his ear against a rock wall and strained to hear what might have been an animal crying in pain. He came to a juncture and listened hard, taking a route away from where he “felt” the way out must be. The sound grew louder, and he finally recognized it.
A woman was crying. Sobbing. Trying to hold in her emotions and failing.
He advanced slowly, not sure what he was getting himself into. A sudden widening in the drift showed a large chamber like the ones bored into the Low Down Mine to provide a staging area for miners and equipment next to the elevator.
Crazy, dark shadows danced off the vaulted roof and curved walls. But Slocum saw the source of the sounds right away.
“Evie!”
“J-John? Is it really you? You found me! I never thought that you’d come. Th-that anyone would. Could. Oh!” Evangeline Haining broke out crying now. He hurried to her side and saw how she was tied. Her hands had been fastened behind her and a double loop of new rope circled her ankles, then ran over to a rusty ore cart. She was tied and secured to keep her from getting away.
“Who did this?”
“I . . . I don’t know. It must have been Miles, but I never saw. Somebody grabbed me last night before I went to bed. They put a sack over my head and bounced me all around. I passed out or they hit me. Oh, I don’t know what happened!”
“You woke up in the mine?”
“I figured it out. It was completely dark so I had to guess, but it wasn’t hard.” She craned her head around. “I thought that was an ore cart. I was right.”
He fumbled getting her bonds off. When he finished, she threw her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. Evangeline fought for control, sniffed, and pushed away from him.
