The Lone Ranche. Reid Mayne
mystified them – the rumbling followed by a crash. No accidental débâcle or falling of a portion of the cliff, as they had been half supposing; but a deed of atrocious design – a huge rock rolled by the united strength of the savages, until it rested over the orifice of the shaft, completely coping and closing it.
It may have been done without any certain knowledge of their being inside – only to make things sure. It mattered not to the two men thus cruelly enclosed, for they knew that in any case there was no hope of their being rescued from what they believed to be a living tomb.
That it was such neither could doubt. The guide, gifted with herculean strength, had tried to move the stone on discovering how it lay. With his feet firmly planted in the projections below, and his shoulder to the rock above, he had given a heave that would have lifted a loaded waggon from its wheels.
The stone did not budge with all this exertion. There was not so much as motion. He might as successfully have made trial to move a mountain from its base. He did not try again. He remembered the rock itself. He had noticed it while they were searching for a place to conceal themselves, and had been struck with its immense size. No one man could have stirred it from its place. It must have taken at least twenty Indians. No matter how many, they had succeeded in their design, and their victims were now helplessly enclosed in the dark catacomb – slowly, despairingly to perish.
“All up wi’ us, I reck’n,” said the guide, as he once more let himself down upon the ledge to communicate the particulars to his companion.
Hamersley ascended to see for himself. They could only go one at a time. He examined the edge of the orifice where the rock rested upon it. He could only do so by the touch. Not a ray of light came in on any side, and groping round and round he could detect neither crevice nor void. There were weeds and grass, still warm and smouldering, the débris of what had been set on fire for their fumigation. The rock rested on a bedding of these; hence the exact fit, closing every crack and crevice.
On completing his exploration Hamersley returned to his companion below.
“Hopeless!” murmured Wilder, despondingly.
“No, Walt; I don’t think so yet.”
The Kentuckian, though young, was a man of remarkable intelligence as well as courage. It needed these qualities to be a prairie merchant – one who commanded a caravan. Wilder knew him to be possessed of them – in the last of them equalling himself, in the first far exceeding him.
“You think thar’s a chance for us to get out o’ hyar?” he said, interrogatively.
“I think there is, and a likely one.”
“Good! What leads ye to think so, Frank?”
“Reach me my bowie. It’s behind you there in the cave.”
Wilder did as requested.
“It will depend a good deal upon what sort of rock this is around us. It isn’t flint, anyhow. I take it to be either lime or sandstone. If so, we needn’t stay here much longer than it would be safe to go out again among those bloodthirsty savages.”
“How do you mean, Frank? Darn me if I yet understan ye.”
“It’s very simple, Walt. If this cliff rock be only sandstone, or some other substance equally soft, we may cut our way out – under the big stone.”
“Ah! I didn’t think o’ thet. Thar’s good sense in what ye say.”
“It has a softish feel,” said the Kentuckian, as he drew his hand across one of the projecting points. “I wish I only had two inches of a candle. However, I think I can make my exploration in the dark.”
There was a short moment of silence, after which was heard a clinking sound, as of a knife blade being repeatedly struck against a stone. It was Hamersley, with his bowie, chipping off a piece from the rock that projected from the side of the shaft.
The sound was pleasant to the Kentuckian’s ear, for it was not the hard metallic ring given out by quartz or granite. On the contrary, the steel struck against it with a dull, dead echo, and he could feel that the point of the knife easily impinged upon it.
“Sandstone,” he said; “or something that’ll serve our purpose equally as well. Yes, Walt, there’s a good chance for us to get out of this ugly prison; so keep up your heart, comrade. It may cost us a couple of days’ quarrying. Perhaps all the better for that; the Indians are pretty sure to keep about the waggons for a day or so. They’ll find enough there to amuse them. Our work will depend a good deal on what sort of a stone they’ve rolled over the hole. You remember what size the boulder was?”
“’Twas a largish pebble; looked to me at least ten feet every way. It sort o’ serprised me how the skunks ked a budged it. I reck’n ’twar on a coggle, an’ rolled eezy. It must ha’ tuk the hul clanjamfry o’ them.”
“If we only knew the right edge to begin at. For that we must go by guess-work. Well, we mustn’t lose time, but set about our stone-cutting at once. Every hour will be taking the strength out of us. I only came down for the bowie to make a beginning. I’ll make trial at it first, and then we can take turn and turn about.”
Provided with his knife, the Kentuckian again climbed up; and soon after the guide heard a crinkling sound, succeeded by the rattling of pieces of rock, as they got detached and came showering down.
To save his crown, now uncovered by the loss of both kerchief and cap, he crept back into the alcove that had originally protected them from the stones cast in by the Indians. Along with the splinters something else came past Walt’s face, making a soft, rustling sound; it had a smell also that told what it was – the “cussed stink-weed.”
From the falling fragments, their size and number, he could tell that his comrade was making good way.
Walt longed to relieve him at his work, and called up a request to this end; but Hamersley returned a refusal, speaking in a cautious tone, lest his voice might be borne out to the ear of some savage still lingering near.
For over an hour Wilder waited below, now and then casting impatient glances upward. They were only mechanical; for, of course, he could see nothing. But they were anxious withal; for the success of his comrade’s scheme was yet problematical.
With sufficient food and drink to sustain them, they might in time accomplish what they had set about; but wanting these, their strength would soon give way, and then – ah! then —
The guide was still standing on the ledge, pursuing this or a similar train of reflection, when all at once a sight came, not under but above his eyes, which caused him to utter an exclamation of joy.
It was the sight of his comrade’s face – only that!
But this had in it a world of significance. He could hot have seen that face without light. Light had been let into their rock-bound abode, so late buried in the profoundest darkness.
It was but a feeble glimmer, that appeared to have found admission through a tiny crevice under the huge copestone; and Hamersley’s face, close to it, was seen only in faint shadow – fainter from the film of smoke yet struggling up the shaft.
Still was it light – beautiful, cheering light – like some shore-beacon seen by the storm-tossed mariner amid the dangers of a night-shrouded sea.
Hamersley had not yet spoken a word to explain what had occurred to cause it. He had suddenly left off chipping the rock, and was at rest, apparently in contemplation of the soft silvery ray that was playing so benignly upon his features.
Was it the pleasure of once more beholding what he lately thought he might never see again – the light of day? Was it this alone that was keeping him still and speechless?
No, something else; as he told his comrade when he rejoined him soon after on the ledge.
“Walt,” he said, “I’ve let daylight in, as you see; but I find it’ll take a long time to cut a passage out. It’s only the weeds I’ve been able to get clear of. The big rock runs over at least five feet, and the stone turns out harder than I thought of.”
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