As the echo of the whistle died away, Loring raised himself, and staggered to his feet. Not realizing what he did, he groped his way onward up the hill. As he passed the men hurrying home from the last shift, he noticed, as in a dream, the way in which the wet clothes clung to their skins, the heavy folds accentuated by the glare of the occasional electric light. Hughson, in the hoist shed, was cursing volubly at his delay in coming. As soon as he saw Loring he grabbed his coat, and calling out a hurried imprecation, started down the hill.
Stephen had scarcely stepped to his place by the drum, when the indicator clanged sharply one bell. Mechanically he threw his weight against the lever, and shot the first bucket of ore mined by the shift high into the dim light, almost into the tripod framework upon which the cable hung.
[130]
Uncomprehendingly, he watched the figures outside bang down the iron coverings over the shaft, and wheel the clanking ore car onto the tracks beneath the suspended bucket. The men seemed to Loring to be possessed of magical deftness as they unshackled the full bucket, and clamped the swinging hook through the bar of the empty one. The loaded ore car bumped groaningly off on its journey down to the cribs, the iron coverings opened, and a voice called: “Lower!”
At times Stephen’s head cleared somewhat, and he noticed every detail in the hoist shed. He stared at the way the shadows from the one electric light fell on the rough boards. The water jug in the corner, the disordered tool box, the little pile of oily waste by the boiler, all photographed themselves on his eye. He noticed the great pile of beams in the back of the shed, the timbering for the new shaft, lettered with huge blue stencils, and watched with interest the flare in the furnace when the Mexican stoker threw fresh armfuls of mesquite wood upon the fire.
Then again all was whirl, and he was obliged to grip his stool to keep from falling. His hand[131] clung to the control lever with damp, clinging pressure.
Every few minutes the gong would sound, telling that another load of ore was waiting to be raised. Once he ran the “skip” so high above the shaft, that it crashed into the framework. It seemed to be some one entirely disconnected with himself who fumbled with the winch, and lowered the bucket again, until the shrill: “O. K.! ’Sta ’ueno!” from the darkness outside told of the proper level. Between the striking of the bells, Stephen puzzled over the meaning of the white painted bands on the cable, which should have told him at what level the bucket was.
The time seemed to drag endlessly. Still the buckets continued to come. Just outside the door of the shed he could see the peg board that indicated the tally of buckets raised. He swore at it bitterly. “Why can’t the checker put in two pegs at a time, until the board is full, and the shift finished?” he thought.
Whenever the winch was in motion, the grating roar of the cable winding in or out seemed to be inside his own head. Steadily he became more and more bewildered. His will was rapidly[132] losing the desperate fight for control. Once he fell off his stool.
There was a slight delay in the work. The next bucket was slow in being signaled.
“What lazy men—what lazy men!” he murmured.
Then clear and sharp rang the signal: “Clang—Clang—Clang——Clang!” Loring was too dazed to remember that three bells before the one to hoist was the signal for “man on the bucket.” The one bell telling to raise, or two to lower, had conveyed their meaning automatically to him. The sudden change was incomprehensible.
“Clang—Clang—Clang——Clang!” again the indicator rang. This time with a sharp, insistent sound.
“Perhaps they want it to come up fast. Oh, very, very fast,” was the thought that came to him, and he threw the lever all the way over. Fascinated, he watched the cable tearing past him on the drum.
“Funny—they—should—signal—that—way,” he spoke aloud. “Perhaps—they—are—drunk—too.”
Faster and faster whirled the reel. The mark for the four hundred level flashed by. Almost[133] in an instant the marking for the three hundred followed. The blur of white upon the cable, telling that the bucket was only two hundred feet below the surface seemed to come within a second. He did not see the marking for the last hundred feet.
Suddenly, out of the bowels of the earth shot the bucket. For a sixtieth of a second two figures, standing on the edge, were outlined. Loring heard a shriek, half drowned in a crash and roar, as the bucket, with its human freight, was hurled against the overhead supports.
He smiled foolishly, and hopelessly fingered the lever.
Outside, by the shaft mouth, all was in wild confusion. Shouts, curses, hoarse whispers, all were intermingled. Then came the sound of feet, tramping in unison, and men entered the shed carrying a—thing—its head driven into its shoulders. Loring looked—stared—then he knew.
Like a knife cutting into the mist of dizziness came realization. The truth burned its way into his mind, and sobered him.
“My God!” he sobbed. “The signal was for men on the bucket.” It flashed upon him[134] what had happened. The men, standing upon the edge of the bucket, holding onto the cable, had been dashed into the tripod framework, which overhung the shaft mouth, a scant ten feet above the ground.
Shaking, as with ague, he stepped outside to the shaft.
A crowd of Mexicans were jabbering. The voices of several Americans carried above the soft slur of the Spanish. Some one was holding lantern over the mouth of the shaft, and cautiously peering down. Up the hill came the sound of running feet.
“Here’s the Doc, now!” called some one.
They showed Dr. Kline the body on the floor of the hoist box. He merely glanced at it, then picking up a burlap sack laid it over the head.
“Where is the other man?” he asked curtly.
Some one, with a quick gesture, pointed towards the shaft. “Down there.”
A small, close set ladder, for use in case of emergency, ran down the shaft. Down this two of the Americans started to climb. The group by the edge watched breathlessly, while the light of their lantern dropped—dropped—dropped.
[135]
For the first twenty feet the lantern illuminated the greasy sides of the shaft, bringing out clearly the knots and chinks in the boards. Then the light shrank into the darkness, became a mere dot. After a long minute the dot began to sway back and forth. But so far down was it that it seemed to have a radius only of inches.
“They have found him,” breathed McKay, who had reached the scene. On the iron piping of the shaft pump tapped dully the signal to lower slowly. Loring started for his place at the engine.
“Get to hell out of here! You’ve done enough harm for one night.”
Hughson, with his white night-shirt half out of his trousers, his boots unlaced, and his eyes still heavy from sleep, shoved him aside and took hold of the lever. Slowly he lowered the “skip.” It seemed to Loring an hour before it reached the bottom.
Then again on the pipe, for the bellrope was broken, was rapped the signal. “One—one—one——one.” In the night air the clank of the taps on the metal sounded ghostly.
[136]
Slowly the bucket came to the surface. The two men who had descended were holding in it a swaying figure. Many hands lifted the figure gently to the ground. The doctor bent over it, then shook his head.
“Nothing doing,” he said dryly, and they laid the body beside the other.
A commanding voice echoed through the group. It was Mr. Cameron’s.
“Where is Loring?” he asked decisively.
Stephen, in the background, turned away, and, with a face like ch............