The man looked at Chantry, his black eyes no longer flat and dull. "You Chantry?"
"I am. Are you Boone Silva?"
The eyes flickered, ever so slightly.
"Uh-huh." Then a hand gestured toward the badge. "Quittin'? Why you got it off?"
"No, not quitin'. It doesn't count for much out here. I'm the town marshal."
"See you in town?"
"I'll be around."
Silva raised a negligent hand, and cantered away. Borden Chantry watched him go, then took up the rifle from beside the door.
With his left hand he lifted the cup. The coffee was cold. He threw it out, took the cup to the sink and spilled water from a bucket to rinse it out, then walked back to the door. Dust lingered in the air. All was still, the sun was very hot. His Appaloosa stood, head dropping, standing three-legged in the sunshine.
The dog whined and he put a hand on his head.
"What's the matter, old fellow? Where's Ed?"
He went to the spring with an old bucket and dipped up water for his horse. While the Appaloosa drank, he looked around. He'd better have a look at the mine tunnel ... It had been more than a year since he'd been out this way, but Ed worked on it by fits and starts, and Ed might be up there.
When the horse had drunk its fill, he refilled the bucket for the dog, poured a little in the dog's dish and put the rest of it in the shade.
Then, rifle in hand, he walked up the slight slope to the opening.
There were tools about, and an empty can that had held black powder. He saw the circles on the earth where at least two other cans had stood.
He stepped into the mouth of the tunnel and called out, "Ed?"
No sound, no response. He took a step further and called out again. "Ed? Are you there? This is Chantry."
Nothing ... Suddenly, just beyond the reach of his eyes, in the darkness where little light fell ... Was that a boot?
He started forward, his ankle hooked on a wire or string and he fell forward knowing even as he fell what had happened. The blast of the explosion knocked him flat on the floor of the tunnel. The tremendous blast, augmented by the close confines of the tunnel, seemed to split the mountain apart, and then there was a rending of mine timbers, a crashing of rocks, a trickle of gravel and sand. Then silence and the dust.
He lay perfectly still, perfectly conscious.
His every sense was alert, yet he did not move, letting the dust settle slowly, the last trickle of gravel come to an end.
A trap had been set and he had blundered into it. And now he was entombed ... buried alive.
Unless he could do something, he was dead.
He pushed himself up to his knees. There were broken rocks all about him, and some splintered timbers. Rocks and dirt fell away from his legs as he got up. He stooped, felt around, and found his rifle.
The mine was completely black, for closed off as it was there was a total absence of light. With no light at all, he would see no better no matter how long he remained here.
He needed light desperately, and felt in his pocket for matches. Ed Pearson would have some candles, somewhere ... But where?
Would he bring a fresh one to the mine each time?
Or would he ... it seemed more logical ... keep a store of them in the tunnel itself?
But where? And how deep was the tunnel?
He found matches, and taking one out, struck it, shielding it carefully with his hand against any puff of wind caused by a further fall.
In the dim light of its glow, he looked around.
He saw only the rocks, the dark tunnel ahead ... and on the floor of the tunnel the body of Ed Pearson. He had been shot through the head.
Suddenly, on a shelf of rock, Chantry saw a faint sheen of white ... The candles!
He took down one of the candles and lighted it, then looked around. There was no comfort in what his eyes told him.
The pile of broken rock and timber had fallen back toward him. And judging by the distance he had advanced into the opening, and the position of Pearson's body, he was at least fifty feet into the opening now. And fifty feet or more of deep rock lay between him and the entrance.
Digging out would not be impossible--if there was no further caving. But what if he spent all that time, and used what air remained, only to have a sudden slide cover the mine entrance? True, the slide might not be great, coming off that hill, yet it could be many tons. And the roof of the tunnel looked none too secure as it was.
Was there another opening? From time to time Chantry seemed to feel a faint movement of air, although that might be his imagination, for the candle flame stood straight and still.
Would not Pearson have made another entrance?
An opening for ventilation? Or for escape if need be?
There was a shovel there, and a pick, several drills and a double jack. He recalled seeing a single jack just outside the mine entrance, where Pearson must have been using it for a hammer.
Rifle in one hand, candle in the other, Borden Chantry went off down the tunnel. There were several crosscuts, none of them very deep, but he saw few signs that indicated ore.
Pearson had been a man who lived much to himself, and had never welcomed visitors. And western people being what they were, they left him to his own devices. For every man was free to choose his own life-style as long as he did not encroach.
Borden Chantry had no illusions. He was trapped. Buried alive. Nobody was going to find him and dig him out in the time he had left, and whatever was done, he must do. And quickly.
He turned his mind sharply away from thoughts of death, and tried to see clearly just what his position was and what he had to work with.
He doubted that the murderer had known Pearson any better than he did, if as well.
Therefore, the murderer could not have known the layout of this tunnel or mine, or whatever it was. He could only have known the usual gossip that was talked.
Furthermore, there was small chance that the man had the time to explore. Once he had guessed the direction in which Chantry was riding, he must have come straight here, killed Pearson, and set his trap. The ruthlessness of the man, and his willingness to kill, was appalling.
Or was it Boone Silva who had done this?
In either case the result was the same ... Yet from what he knew of Silva this was not his style.
Chantry stopped short. Suddenly the tunnel had ended.
He stood in a somewhat circular area where Pearson had stoped out a space. On three sides there was broken rock in huge chunks, a few leaning slabs, and much debris. Holding his candle high, Chantry could see the stope was a death trap, for great slabs still hung, half broken free, ready for a shock to drop them.
Even where such slabs did not exist, there was plenty of stuff that needed barring down before a man could work there.
Turning, he walked back up the drift.
Putting his candle on a small ledge in the wall, he put down his rifle, took off his coat, and went to work.
The air was not too bad yet. How long he could hope to survive he could not guess, but Chantry was not a man to give up. He worked with his hands at first, rolling back huge chunks of rock or tilting slabs out of the way. When he could he started with the shovel, but it was slow work.
He glanced at his watch, then worked on. At the end of an hour, he tried to gauge his progress, and it was so small that it sent a shiver of dread through him.
Of course, he would not need a large hole, and even a small one would permit fresh air to come in. Again he went to work, crawling up toward the place where the pile of debris met the roof.
No longer did he permit himself to think of or judge the time. He simply worked.
Time consumed meant nothing to him now, for he was working against death.
Rock after rock he pulled back and rolled away. He could not use a shovel on much of it, although a pick was of use at times. He stopped finally, mopping the salty sweat from around his eyes and trying to catch his breath.
The space where he sat was close and hot.
He crawled down off the muck pile and sat on a slab of rock, mopping his face. If only his Appaloosa would go home! Lang Adams or Kim Baca might track him back to the Pearson place and see what had happened. Then he'd have a chance ... a small chance, but a chance.
The Appaloosa was used to standing, groundhitched.
It might be some time before he moved off, and Pearson was unlikely to have visitors.
After a few minutes Chantry got up and went back to work. He had no gloves and his hands had soon been brutally torn and scraped, but he tried not to worry or hurry, just to work steadily and methodically. He knew that therein lay his only chance ... a slim one at that.
Soon he had burrowed out a hole twice his own length. Maybe he had moved twelve feet of earth ... Nearly forty feet to go, if his estimate was right.
Forty feet! It was too much. He worked on and on. Twice the earth caved in and he had the job to go over, but he continued at the same pace, closing his mind to all but what he had to do.
After awhile he crawled out again. And when he was close to the candle, he peered at his watch.
Four hours ... and he had done so little. He lighted a second candle from the stub of the first. The flame was eating up air but mentally, he needed it. The darkness was like a tomb, and the flickering candlelight was some measure of hope.
He returned to work. In a few more minutes, he was totally halted. A huge slab, its dimensions unknown, had fallen like a door across his tunnel, blocking all advance. It had fallen flat-side toward him, and there it was, a giant barrier. Working toward the right side of the slab, which was where the open tunnel should be had it not been full of muck, Chantry uncovered three feet of the slab before he came to an edge. Behind it a heavy chunk of rock that must weigh all of two hundred pounds had fallen and was wedged tightly.
Slowly, he backed out of his hole. He mopped the sweat from his face.
His mouth and throat were dry, and he had no water. He sat down on the slab again and rested, trying to think clearly. He felt dull and heavy. Perhaps the air was almost used up. He glanced at the candle ... a still, clear flame.
But a while ago he had remembered it as flickering ... That was a trick the mind could play, for folks usually spoke of a flickering candle. He got up and crawled back in his hole to stare at the boulder, and then to begin digging with the pick, working smaller rocks from under it.
He worked and worked, and after a long time, the boulder sagged forward into the hollow he had dug out.
There was a clear space above it now--but not enough.
Not over six inches ... and no air was coming through.
Returning for the candle, he crawled back and held the candle high to see better. There was a sort of hollow behind the boulder and the slab, a good two feet of empty space where he would not have to dig ... if he could get that boulder out.
He worked at its base until his shoulders ached, and at last it gave and dropped a few inches further. Now he could at least reach beyond it.
He did not then begin, though. He backed out of his hole, taking the candle with him, and sat down on the slab.
He was tired, desperately tired. He lighted another candle and looked at his watch ... nine hours.
He had been imprisoned here for nine hours.
It must be the middle of the night. His lids felt heavy and he wanted to rest ... Well, just a few minutes.
Stretching out on the floor of the tunnel he cradled his head on his hat and was almost instantly asleep.
Something cold and wet touched his cheek, and he fought himself out of a heavy sleep, struggling up.
Reaching out, his hand struck something hairy and wet.
He gasped, jerking back his hand. And then, in the feeble light of the burned-down candle, he saw a glistening, cringing shape. It whined and dropped to the floor, head on its paws.
Pearson's dog!
But how ...? He got up so quickly he staggered, and the dog sprang back in dismay, but when he put out a hand to it the dog came eagerly forward. "It's all right, fellow," he said gently. "But how the devil did you get here?"
He took up his rifle and the candle, and the dog, knowing that he meant to go, started back down the tunnel, running. Fearing he would lose it, he ran also. The dog reached the round stope at the end of the tunnel, and turned swiftly up among the rocks and disappeared behind a slab.
Chantry felt the excitement go out of him. The dog had probably found some wet hole that only it could get through, but if the dog could get in, then air could also. He clambered up the rocks and looked behind the slab, which had seemed to lie almost flat against the wall.
It did nothing of the kind. There was an opening there, dark and dripping, but an opening.
He lowered himself down and peered into the four-foot hole. Water dripped from some hidden spring in the rocks, but not twenty feet away he could see the gray of the outer night.
The dog had run on ahead, and now stood waiting for him, and he crawled after. It was dirty, muddy, and wet, but he got through, crawled outside and stood up.
He was alive and free.
It was night ... almost morning by the look of the stars ... and he just stood still and breathed in the cool night air. Nothing in all his life had ever tasted better.
Turning, he knelt, bathed off his bloody hands, and shook the water from them. Then taking up his rifle, he walked around the hill, following the dog, to Pearson's shack.
All was dark and still. Yet as he approached the house, something moved and his horse whinnied softly.
Taking up the reins, he led the horse to the cabin door, which he pushed shut. Then he stepped into the saddle.
"Come on, boy," he said to the dog. "You'd better come with me."
It would be good to get home.
Chapter XVI
When Borden Chantry awakened in the cool dawn, he had slept no more than three hours, but what awakened him he did not know. Yet he awoke with an awareness of danger.
He swung his feet to the floor and dressed quietly, not to awaken Bess. Then he went to the kitchen. To his surprise, Billy McCoy was there, and he already had coffee on.
"Used to make it for Pa," he said. He looked down at Chantry's hands, which were swollen and raw. "Boy! What did you do to yourself?"
Chantry explained quietly and the boy stared at him, awed. "It was the same man who killed your pa, Billy. Now he's killed Ed Pearson. I guess I'm not much of a marshal, to let him run loose so long."
"I'm huntin' him, too," Billy said, quietly.
"You?" Chantry was startled. "You leave that to me, Billy."
"He killed my pa."
"I know, and I know how you feel. But leave it to me. That sort of feeling was all right in the days when there was no law. But there is law now, and we've got to let the law do its work."
He paused. "I'm closer than I think, Billy, that's why he's scared. He's trying hard to kill me before I catch up with him. I expected him to follow me out of town and try to kill me, but I thought he'd try to dry-gulch me." Borden paused, watching Billy pour coffee. "He might use that same old fifty-two he's used a few times."
"No, he won't," Billy said grimly.
"He won't use no fifty-two no more. Because I got it."
"What?"
Billy flushed. "Marshal, I maybe shouldn't ha' done it, but I swiped his rifle.
That night in the barn? He'd hidden his rifle in that ol' barrel, an' I got it before he could get back. That was me in the barn that night when he slugged you. He never seen me, on'y we nearly run together in the barn. But I got that rifle and got out."
Borden Chantry had felt like swearing only a few times in his life. But this was one of the times when he wanted to do a really first-rate job of cussing.
"Damn it, Billy, you're concealing evidence!
You could go to jail for that!"
"I know it," Billy said glumly. "I was sore. I wanted I should shoot him with
his own gun, so I cached it."
"Billy, that rifle may be an important clue. I must have it. But above all, I don't want anyone, and I mean anyone, to know you had it or that you were in the barn that night. Do you understand?"
"You think he'd try to kill me, Marshal?"
"He most certainly would, Billy, and we've had enough killing. Now where is the rifle?"
"Right there in the barn. I never taken it out.
It's a-layin' atop one o' them rafters, the third one from the door. I got up on the manger and laid her right there so's he wouldn't catch me with it."
"Billy ... who is he?"
"Durned if I know! I never did git to see him! It was all dark in there, an' then I heard something stirrin' an' I was just a-waitin' for a chancet to run. When it come, I taken out."
"Billy, I want you to think. I want you to try to remember. There just might be something ...
Billy, did you know Pin Dover?"
"Sure! He punched cows with Pa. When he come to town, they used to talk over the old times.
Pin was down to Mora when the land grant fights were on, an' Pa knowed a lot of the folks who were in on that fight."
"Did they ever mention anybody here in town who had been in Mora?"
"No ... nobody I can recall. I did hear Pa say one time that Hyatt Johnson had been down there. He was some sort of friend to the man who brought in all those folks to squat on the land."
Chantry finished his coffee and got to his feet. "I'll eat breakfast at the Bon-Ton. You can tell Bess when she gets up. I've got to see a man."
"You going to get that rifle?"
"You ain't just a-whoofin'. I'm going to get it right off."
He started walking. The town was waking up. A couple of men were on the boardwalk, sweeping it off. Hurley was sweeping in front of the Corral Saloon, and Ed was in front of the Bon-Ton.
"Can you fix me some eggs?" Chantry let his eyes run along the street toward the bank. It was early. Hyatt would not be in yet. Which meant he would be at home where he could see anybody at the freighter's barn ... but so could others.
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