The Young Railroaders Part 39

"Now, Mr. Bartlett, will you please explain the plan of things inside; just how the tunnel runs?" requested Wilson.

"Have a seat and I'll draw it," said the boss, setting the example. He turned the board bearing the fragmentary message, and Wilson dropped down beside him.

"The main gallery, the old lead, runs straight in, at about this dip down," he said, drawing as he spoke. "Runs back 550 feet, and ends. That was where the old lead petered out.

"Here, about 200 feet from the entrance, is a vertical shaft, 90 feet, that we put down to pick up the old Pine-Knot lead. It's from the foot of that the new gallery, the lower level, starts. It slopes off just under the old lead--so--330 feet, there's a fault, and it cants up 12 feet--so--then on down again at a bit sharper dip, nearly 600 feet; then another fault and a drop, and about 50 feet more.

"It's down there at the end we think most of the men have been caught, but some may have been near the shaft. The pumping-pipe where Hoover and Young must have been tapping is here, half way between the first and second faults, where it comes down through a boring from the old gallery.

It must have been at that point, because we had disconnected two leaking sections just below there only this morning."

"How do you get down the shaft to the lower level?" Wilson asked.

"There was a ladder, but it was smashed by the explosion. Hoover, the first man in, came out for a rope, so I suppose that's there now. Young must have gone down by it.

"Hoover also reported that the roof of the old gallery was in bad shape just over the shaft. That's the particular reason we are afraid to blast the rock here until we know whether any of the men were caught at the bottom of the pit."

Wilson arose and began removing his collar. "How about water, Mr.

Bartlett, since the pump is not working?" he inquired.

"Unless the explosion tapped new water, there'll be no danger for twenty-four hours at least. But if the drain channel of the lower gallery has been filled the floor will be very slippery," the mine boss added.

"It's slate, and we left it smooth, as a runway for the ore boxes."

As the young operator removed his spotless collar--one similar to that which had so aroused the cowmen's derision on his first day at Bonepile--without a smile one of the very men who had formed the "welcoming committee" that day rubbed his hands on his s.h.i.+rt, took it carefully, and placed it on a clean plank.

"You'll want a lamp. Somebody give the boy a cap and lamp," the boss directed. A dozen of the miners whipped off caps with attached lamps, and trying several, Wilson found one to fit. Then, b.u.t.toning his coat and turning up the collar, he made his way to the rock-sealed entrance, and climbed up to the narrow opening.

"I'll tap as soon as I reach the pipe," he said. "So long!" and without more ado crawled head first within and disappeared.

The lamp on his cap lighting up the narrow trough-like tunnel, Wilson easily wormed his way forward ten or twelve feet. Then the pa.s.sage contracted and became broken and twisted. However, given confidence by the knowledge that others had pa.s.sed through, Wilson squeezed on, there presently came a widening of the hole, then a black opening, and with a final effort he found himself projecting into the black depths of the empty gallery.

Below him the debris sloped to the floor. Pulling himself free, he slid and scrambled down, and quickly was on his feet, breathing with relief.

Only pausing to brush some of the dust from his clothes, Wilson hastened forward.

Two hundred feet distant a windla.s.s took shape in the obscurity. He reached it, and the black opening of the shaft to the lower level was at his feet. Looking, he found the rope the mine boss had spoken of. It was secured to one of the windla.s.s supports, and disappeared into the depths on the opposite side of the pit. Directly below was the shattered wreck of the ladder.

Leaning over, Wilson shouted, "h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!" The words crashed and echoed in the shaft and about him, but there was no reply. Once more he shouted, then resolutely suppressing his instinctive shrinking, he made his way about to the rope, carefully lowered himself, and began descending hand under hand.

Wilson had not gone far when with apprehension he found the rope becoming wet and slippery with drip from the rocks above. Despite a tightened grip his hands began to slip. In alarm he wound his feet about the rope. Still he slipped. To dry a hand on his sleeve, he freed it. Instantly with a cry he found himself shooting downward. He clutched with hands, feet and knees, but onward he plunged. In the light of his lamp the jagged broken timbers of the shoring shot up by him. He would be dashed to pieces.

But desperately he fought, and at last got the rope clamped against the corner of a heel, and the speed was r.e.t.a.r.ded. A moment after he landed with an impact that broke his hold on the rope and sent him in a heap on his back.

Rising, Wilson thankfully discovered he had escaped injury other than a few bruises, and gazed about him. At first sight he appeared to be in the bottom of a well filled with broken water-soaked timbers and gray, dripping rock. He knew there must be an exit, however, and set about looking for it, at the same time listening and watching shrinkingly for signs of anyone buried in the heap of stone and timber. Not a sound save the monotonous drip of seeping water was to be heard, however, and presently behind a s.h.i.+eld of planking he located the black mouth of a small opening.

Dropping to his knees, he crawled through, and stood upright in a downward sloping gallery similar to that above--the "lower level."

Once more he shouted. "h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!" The clas.h.i.+ng echoes died away without response, and he started forward.

Scarcely had he taken a half dozen steps when without warning his feet shot from under him and he went down on his back with a crash, barely saving his head with his hands. The smooth hard rock was as slippery as ice from the water flowing over it. Wondering if this icy declivity had anything to do with the failure of Hoover and Young to return, Wilson arose and went on more cautiously.

As he proceeded the walking became more and more treacherous. Several times he again went down, saving himself by sinking onto his outstretched hands.

On rising from one of these falls Wilson discovered something which sent him ahead with new concern. A few yards farther he halted with an exclamation on the brink of a yellow stretch of water that met the gallery roof twenty feet beyond him.

Blankly he gazed at it. Then he recalled the "fault" the mine boss had spoken of--an abrupt rise of the gallery twelve feet. This must be it.

Its drain had choked, and filled it with water.

But both Hoover and Young had pa.s.sed it! The pipe they had tapped upon was beyond. They must have waded boldly in, dove or ducked down, and come up on the other side. At the thought of following them in this Wilson drew back. Had he not better return?

Could he, though? Could he ascend a rope down which he had been unable to prevent himself sliding? The answer was obvious.

Desperately Wilson decided to venture the water, to reach those he now knew were on the other side, and the pumping-pipe. In preparation he first securely wrapped the matches he carried in notepaper taken from an envelope, and placed them in the top of the miner's hat. Then removing his shoes, to give him firmer footing, he stepped into the yellow pool and carefully made his way forward. Six feet from the point at which the water met the top of the gallery the water was up to his chin, and he saw he must swim for it, and dive. Without pause, lest he should lose his nerve, he struck out, reached the roof, took a deep breath, and ducked down.

Three quick, hard strokes, and he arose, and with a gasp found himself at the surface again. A few strokes onward in the darkness, and his hands met a rough wall, over which the water was draining as over the brink of a dam.

At the same moment a sound of dull blows reached his ears. Spluttering and blinking, Wilson drew himself up. A shout broke from him. Far distant and below was a point of light.

"h.e.l.lo!" he cried. Immediately came a chorus of response, as though many were excitedly shouting at once. Unable to distinguish anything from the jangle of echoes, Wilson cried back, "Are you all safe?"

Again came the clas.h.i.+ng, incomprehensible shout.

"I'm coming down," he called, though not sure that they heard him.

Producing the matches from the crown of the hat, he found they had come through dry, and after some difficulty lighting one against the side of another, he re-lit the lamp. While at this, voices continued to come up to him, evidently shouting something. But try as he could he was unable to make out what was said. It was all a reverberating clamor, as though a hundred people were talking at once.

As the lamp spluttered up, after the ducking which had extinguished it, Wilson gazed down the gallery before him with a touch of new dismay. The water was flowing over it in a thin, glossy coat, and it was considerably steeper than on the outer side of the fault. Apparently the only thing to do was to slide.

Working about into a sitting position, facing down the slope, with feet spread out, as though steering a sleigh, Wilson allowed himself to go.

The rapidity with which he gained momentum startled him. Soon the gray damp walls were pa.s.sing upward like a glistening mist. With difficulty he kept his feet foremost.

Meantime the voices from below had continued shouting. Onward he slid, and the sounds became clearer. At last the words came to him. They were, "The pipe! The pipe! Catch the pump-pipe!" Then Wilson suddenly recollected that the pipe was but half way down the slope.

Digging with his heels he sought to slow up, gazing first at one flitting wall, then the other. On the right a vertical streak of black appeared.

He clutched with heels and hands, and sought to steer toward it. He swept nearer, and reached with outstretched hand. The effort swung him sideways, his fingers just grazed the iron, and twisting about, he shot downward head first at greater speed than ever. A moment after there was a chorus of shouts, a sharp cry in his ears, an impact, a rolling and tumbling, a second crash, and Wilson felt himself dragged to his feet.

About him, in a single flickering light, was a group of strange faces.

While he gazed, dazed, rubbing a bruised head, all talked excitedly, even angrily.

"Why didn't you hang on, you idiot?" demanded a voice.

"Who is it, anyway? It's a stranger!"

"And a boy!" said another.

Wilson recovered his scattered wits, and quickly explained who he was and what he had come for. Immediately there was a joyful shout. "We'll be out inside of an hour!" cried one.

"But how am I going to get up to the pipe?" demanded Wilson.

"We are cutting footholds up the incline.