The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
Mike it was sure enough, and I don't know which was sweating most—he or his horse. He flung himself off his saddle as he reached us, and his breath was coming in great gasps.
"Pete Cornish and Yellow Sam left Bull Mine Creek at ten this morning," he gasped out. "Riding all out. Said they were going up north...Started that way...But a kid at the house they was in told me she heard 'em talking last night. And they mentioned Prospect Mine. Prospect Mine is here— we're close to it—not a mile on. Their going north was a blind— they're after you. Get in your trap again, Jim—and gallop. Gallop like hell—even if you kill the mare." We got into the trap as he was speaking.
"They'll have to make a big round to get here, and maybe you'll get through before them."
And at that moment two shots rang out. The shooters were nowhere to be seen, but they could shoot. I saw Mike's horse crumple up quite slowly and lie still, and the next instant I pitched forward out of my seat. Our own gallant little mare had taken the second bullet, and in falling had broken both shafts. We scrambled out of the useless buggy a little bewildered by the suddenness of it all. But it wasn't in Jim's nature to remain undecided for long.
"Run like hares," he cried. "Don't run straight—dodge. Get into the scrub if you can."
And had we been able to do it all might have been well. Once amongst those rocks and bushes the advantage of a rifle over a revolver would have disappeared. But as luck would have it, at the particular spot where we had halted there was a stretch of about seventy yards of open ground to be covered before the protection of the low foothills could be reached. And we hadn't gone ten yards before another shot rang out and Mike gave' a cry of pain. He had been plugged through the shoulder and instinctively we stopped to help him.
It was then that we saw Cornish. He had risen from behind a boulder about eighty yards away, and his rifle was still up to his shoulder.
"Put up your hands, or I shall fire again."
His voice was perfectly quiet, without a trace of excitement or anger, and for a moment we hesitated. There was another sharp crack and once again Mike groaned and staggered. This time it was the other shoulder, and it became increasingly obvious that Pete Cornish with a gun was not a man to be played with. Our hands went up, Jim's and mine—while Mike stood beside us helpless. And there we waited in a row while he leisurely approached us. He had been joined by Yellow Sam, and they both were holding their rifles ready for an immediate shot.
"Take their guns," ordered Cornish as he came up, and his companion disarmed us. "And now," he continued almost gently, but with his unwinking eyes fixed on Jim, "we will go for a little walk. And then, Mr. Maitland—I believe that is your name—we will have a little talk. And after that—who knows? You will keep your hands above your heads, and Sam and I will be behind you. Will you lead the way, Mr. Maitland?"
"Where do you propose that we should go to?" said Jim indifferently.
"To that old mine shaft you see there," answered Cornish, and we started off, Jim leading. A rough disused track marked the way up the hill, and after a few minutes' walking we reached a rotting wooden palisade erected in days gone by around the crushers and stamps and offices generally.
"Straight on, Mr. Maitland," came the quiet voice from behind us. "Through the gate, and then to the left. That's right, and now we will stop and have a little talk. Kindly stand there in a row and I will endeavour to entertain you."
His blue eyes, with a strange, almost filmy, look in them, never left Jim's face.
"Possibly you are unacquainted with deep placer mining," he began gently. "You are now standing at the top of probably one of the deepest shafts in the world. Not the main shaft, but a ventilation shaft. As you will see, there is no lift. But you will also note that this shaft has been used for lowering stores or something of that kind: timber perhaps—but the point is a small one. That pulley attached to the overhead beam, which I have carefully oiled this afternoon, Mr. Maitland, is, you will perceive, immediately over the centre of the shaft. Moreover, this very long coil of rope, which with some difficulty I passed over the pulley, is clearly intended to lower things to the bottom of the shaft. Considering how long it is since this mine was used, it seems in astonishingly good condition."
Fascinated, I stared at the rope as the whole plot became clear. Coil after coil of it lay on one side of the shaft, but one end passed over the central pulley and was loosely tied to a stake beside Cornish.
"I hope my intentions are clear," he continued gently. "I shall request you to take hold of this end that you see attached to this post, and then walk to the edge of the shaft. You will then step over the edge, and I shall lower you to the bottom. Shortly afterwards your friend will repeat the performance, after which the rope will be thrown down to keep you company. Of course," his voice was almost regretful, "should the rope prove unequal to the strain, or should it be too short, you will drop. And the length of the fall will decide whether you do it successfully or not. Oh! and while I think of it, lest you should doubt my words as to the depth." His eyes came round to Mike, who shivered. "We have met before, I think. Just step forward a little. I don't quite know why you have intruded yourself, but since you have-—"
It was over in a second. As calmly as if he was eating his dinner Cornish shot Mike through the heart. He had been standing near the edge of the shaft, and he spun round and toppled over backwards.
"You cold-blooded murderer," howled Jim, springing forward, to stop as Cornish's revolver covered him.
"Just listen," said Cornish gently, and with a sick feeling of helpless rage we stood there waiting. And at last it came—a dreadful noise, which echoed faintly, and then died away.
"I should say nearly a quarter of a minute to reach the bottom," he said mildly. "I always believe, you know, in removing all traces of these little affairs, and he's not much loss. So now if you're ready, Mr. Maitland..."
"And what if I refuse?" said Jim steadily.
"Then your hands will be lashed behind you, and your feet will be attached to the rope, and you will be lowered head first. Or, failing that—you will be shot here and now. I give you five seconds to decide."
For a second or two Jim hesitated. Then he stepped forward and took the rope in his hands. He knew as well as I did that Cornish would do what he said, and it seemed the only possibility. If he did reach the bottom in safety there might still be a bare chance of getting out somewhere. At any rate it was the only hope.
"Sorry, Dick, old man," he said, as he passed me. "It's my fault."
He grinned at me, that wonderful careless grin of his, and without another word, he crossed to the edge of the shaft. And there he stared at Cornish. "Now, you chickenhearted coward!" he said contemptuously; "carry on."
But Cornish showed no sign of resenting the insult; his face was quite expressionless.
"I am quite ready, Mr. Maitland," he remarked, picking up the rope.
And Jim swung off into space. Not a vestige of hesitation— not a trace of fear, though he told me after that he fully expected Cornish to leave go the rope and let him drop. And what was really in Cornish's mind must remain an unsolved enigma. Whether he actually did intend to do exactly what he said, or whether he intended to let the rope slip when Jim was half-way down, will never be known.
Certain it is that quietly and steadily he went on paying out the rope—coil after coil, leaning back to take the weight with his feet braced against the shoring at the edge of the shaft—while I watched fascinated and Yellow Sam covered me with his gun.
And then suddenly came the idea. Old memories of mathematics, perhaps, problems on pulleys done in days gone by—but like a flash it came. The coils beside Cornish were getting fewer and fewer, and it had to be done at once.
"Good Lord! Look there!" I shouted, and Yellow Sam turned for a second. There was an iron bar at my feet, and by the mercy of Allah I hit him in the right place. And now came the second awful risk—would Cornish let go? His blue eyes were staring at me over his shoulder, but for just that fraction of time which meant life or death