Guardians of the Sage (22 page)

“I feel like crawlin' into a hole and draggin' my tail in after me,” Jubal said. “I been a fool and a skunk! Montana was right from the first. I can see it now. Quantrell burned me out. He raised all this hell so he could rustle our cattle. If we'd had a drop of real faith in Jim Montana most of this misery could have been avoided.”

“I'll say amen to that,” Gault muttered. “He did for us what we didn't have the brains nor courage to do ourselves. He's in there somewhere, burnin' to death, and I'm goin' in ter get him! Don't ferget Quantrell's in there, too!”

“I'll go with you!” Jubal exclaimed. “I'm prayin' to God we'll find Montana. As fer that coyote Quantrell—I'm a sayin': Let him stay there. It'll save us spoilin' a good rope on him!”

P
LENTY EAGLES had ridden to the mine with the valley men. The dust had not yet settled behind the stampeding steers when he slid down the wall and rushed for the entrance. Gault called to him, but the young Indian did not stop.

In a few moments all were at the mouth of the tunnel. Even there the smoke was bad.

“Don't believe we can git in,” young Lance declared doubtfully.

“No? If thet young buck's got guts enough to risk her, I hev!” Jubal exclaimed. “I'm agoin' in!”

Before he had taken a step Plenty Eagles staggered out, coughing violently. His eyebrows and hair were badly singed.

“Too much smoke,” he gasped. “Not getting in there——”

Jubal insisted on trying to get in. It was only a minute or two he tottered out, lungs bursting. It was a few seconds before he was able to speak.

“Both on 'em is trapped in there,” he said, still trying to catch his breath.

“My God, do we have to stand here unable to do any thin'?” Gault exclaimed miserably. “Ain't there somethin' we can do? Didn't they drive one of the tunnels through on t'other side of the mountain?”

“Yeh, I knowing the place!” Plenty Eagles spoke up. “I show you where!”

He ran to his horse and leaped into the saddle. Fanning the pony with his quirt, he was away before the others had even started.

The animal floundered in the loose rock, sending tons of it rolling down hill. The Piute kept his horse on its feet, however, and raced on, to bring the pony to a slithering stop when he reached the tunnel.

There was very little smoke there now. Encouraged, he rushed in.

He had not gone over twenty yards when a groan of despair was wrung from him. The ceiling of the old tunnel had caved in. . . . Tons of rocks sealed the passage.

Gault and Jubal found him trying to worm his way through.

“You'll have the rest of it down on us if you keep that up,” Gault warned. “We couldn't clean enough of that rock away to git through in a week.”

“No other chance,” Plenty Eagles ground out as he continued to tug at the huge blocks of quartz. His fingers were bleeding. Suddenly a booming sound warned him that Gault had been right. They ran back in time to escape being crushed.

“No chance now,” the young Indian muttered stonily.

There was nothing for them to do but go back to the mouth of the mine and wait, hoping against hope, that some miracle might save Montana.

When the tunnel that they had found blocked had first caved in, Jim was only a short distance away. A beam had burned through. As it snapped in two a deafening roar warned him in time and he leaped clear.

With that avenue of escape blocked, he tried to rush out through the main tunnel. The heat and smoke were terrific. Bursting lungs soon convinced him that he could never make it. Hands and face burned, he crawled back toward the cave-in, knowing he must soon suffocate unless he found a cross-cut or managed to get on another level.

With a burning brand for a torch, he found a drift that took him out of the main tunnel. The air was better. His shirt was burning. He yanked it off. His back was a torture. Every nerve seemed to be in agony. He knew he had to go on. The fire would work in there before long.

In a few moments his improvised torch flickered out, leaving him in inky darkness. He had to feel every inch of the way, afraid lest he plunge headlong into one of the deep shafts.

The drift seemed to be pitching downward. He wondered if it was only a ramp leading to the flooded lower level. He had cut himself off completely if that were so.

He had lost all sense of direction. At times he thought he was moving toward the mouth of the mine, and then again, that he was circling away from it. Once his hand touched water. His heart sank. But it was only a spring, seeping down the side of the tunnel. He found a pool where the water had gathered, and he bathed his blistered face and hands.

As he waited there, a distant muffled booming told him there had been another cave-in. He estimated that he had been in the mine almost an hour. His matches were exhausted; his watch was of no use. With a sickening dread, he realized that a man could wander about in those old workings for days without ever finding a way out.

Certainly Gault and Stark must have come to their senses by now. They would make some effort to find him.

“If they don't, Plenty Eagles will,” he thought. It gave him courage.

The drift was not pitching downward any longer. Moving forward on hands and knees, his progress was slow. Without warning he put out a hand and could not find the floor of the drift. He drew back hurriedly and began to explore with his fingers. A shaft yawned in front of him. He picked up a rock and dropped it into the hole. He heard it splash far below.

It was possible that the drift ended there, but it was more likely that two or three tunnels came into the shaft, radiating in several directions. He found the latter surmise correct as he got around the shaft safely. It was a question which tunnel he should take.

“I'll go straight ahead,” he decided. “I can find my way back here if I have to.”

As he rested there he heard a man cough. It was a startling interruption. He was about to call out when a light appeared in the tunnel he was following. A man was holding a torch aloft. The man was Quantrell! Montana's cry froze on his lips before he could utter it.

Quantrell walked unsteadily. He was naked from the waist up, his body scorched and blackened. Jim could only surmise how he came to be there. The big fellow did not glance back over his shoulder as he would have done if he feared pursuit. No trace of his surly defiance remained.

“He's trapped with me,” Jim thought. “That's rich—the two of us alone down here together!” Montana got to his feet noiselessly. Quantrell was sure to see him in another second.

“That's far enough!” he called out.

It stopped the big fellow in his tracks. His body stiffened as he balanced on his toes, his eyes narrowing with hatred as surprise passed. With a cry of rage as fierce as the snarl of a grizzly, he hurled his torch at Montana.

It fell harmlessly to the floor of the tunnel, casting weird shadows over them as it burned fitfully. Quantrell slapped his hand to his holster. He sucked in his breath sharply, his eyes bulging horribly. His gun was not there!

Montana caught the movement of his hand.

“Go ahead—and I'll bust you where you stand!” he warned. “My finger's itching to let you have it!”

Quantrell's arm dropped limply to his side. “You get pretty damn gabby when you got the heel of a six-gun in your fist and the other fellow ain't got nothin' in the leather!” he snarled. “Put your gun away and I'll make you eat what I've had on the fire so long for you!”

“That's okay with me!” Montana flung back at him. He jammed his gun into the holster. “And there won't be any running out this time,” he advised. “You're going to stand up and take it. You've been handing it out to me for a long time—and its backing up on you right now!”

In weight and size the advantage was all with Quantrell. The narrow tunnel was to his liking, too. He ached to get his long arms around Montana and throttle the life out him. With an animal-like grunt, he lowered his head and charged.

Jim stepped aside and gave him a stinging blow that straightened him up. Once more the big fellow cursed and came at him, and again Montana drove his fist into his face. He had put everything he had into the blow, and it amazed him to see Quantrell weather it. He knew he couldn't hit harder.

They fought on, Quantrell lowering his head and rushing him repeatedly, trying to drag him into his embrace. Hit and get away—that was Montana's chance.

In the course of fifteen minutes he had cut Quantrell's face to ribbons, but the big fellow came on for more. Jim was tiring. He had to hurt him soon—stop those mad rushes. All his long-stored-up hatred of the man was unleashed.

Suddenly Quantrell brought his long right up. It caught Jim as he was backing away, but it split his lip. He could taste the blood as it trickled into his mouth.

Quantrell seemed to sense that Jim was tiring. He wasn't getting away so fast any more. He managed to clip him again. A hoarse, insensate cry rumbled up out of his throat.

“Go on, slash away!” he thought. “I'll hammer the brains out of you before we're through. But for your damned meddlin' I'd never got in this fix!”

His makeshift torch began to sputter out. He turned to kick it out of the way and Montana caught him off balance. The blow drove his head against the wall with a thud that made his senses reel.

The torch was only a glowing ember now. Quantrell could just make out Montana's hunched figure. He threw caution to the winds and charged him like an infuriated bull.

Jim threw himself flat to avoid him. Quantrell grabbed at him frantically and missed as he tried to stay his mad rush. He had seen the yawning shaft. With flailing arms he tried to stop himself. His foot went out and found nothing under it. With a strangled scream of fear he tried to whirl, even then, to save himself.

He was falling . . . His fingers slipped over the edge——

Montana sat up and stared after him unseeingly. Heart standing still, he listened. Seconds passed before he heard the body strike the water below.

He picked up the red coal that had been the torch and tried to blow it into flame. Holding it before him, he peered down into the depths of the shaft.

“Quantrell!” he shouted. “Quantrell!”

There was no answer. Weak and exhausted, Montana crept back from the brink, his breath coming in gasps. It was good just to stretch out on the cold rocky floor and not think.

He never wanted to move again. He told himself the smoke was not any heavier than it had been. Maybe the fire in the main tunnel was burning out. Later on he'd try to retrace the way Quantrell had come. Maybe it would lead him out. Maybe he'd end up down some shaft, too. He was almost too weary to care.

He was still lying there when Plenty Eagles and the others found him, early that evening.

W
ITHOUT agreement of any sort, both sides seemed to have declared a truce. The steers Quantrell had rustled had been rounded up and the Bar S yearlings cut out. Old Slick-ear's men had been told to come down and get their stuff. They drove it off unmolested.

Montana had been carried to the Box C. Mother Crockett reported that he was resting easy. News of what he had done travelled north with Reb. Letty Stall got the story from him five minutes after he had reported to her father. It filled her with an anxiety she did not try to conceal.

“Reb—tell me the truth, is he dangerously injured?”

“Reckon not. Guess he's sufferin' plenty; but nothin' serious about it.”

She saw that Reb was none too happy over having to sing Jim's praises.

“Did you see him?” she asked.

“No. Reckon he ain't hankerin' to see any of us.”

Letty said no more, but she was determined to see Jim at once, and with that thought in mind, she marched into her father's presence.

Old Slick-ear's brow was creased in a puzzled frown. He was not surprised to see his daughter. He knew she would get the facts from Reb, and because he suspected her interest in Montana, lose no time in confronting him.

Now that she had come, he waited for her to speak. He was singularly ill at ease. The turn events had taken confounded him.

“Well, Father, you told Jim you wanted facts,” Letty declared. “You'll have to admit you have them.”

“So it would seem,” he admitted gruffly.

“I want to know what you are going to do?”

“Do? What do you expect me to do?” he demanded, bristling as usual. “Do you think I'm going to crawl to those people just because Montana has proved me wrong about one or two things? Not on your life! If the violence is over, I'm glad. But that doesn't end the matter.”

Letty pretended a great surprise.

“I wasn't intimating that it did,” she corrected him. “I've often heard you say you were in the cattle business to make money. You know by now you'll never make a profit here unless some compromise is effected. Those people can't lose with men like Jim to lead them.”

“No—?” He could have changed her mind about that. If he didn't, it was due principally to the fact—which he never would have admitted—that he no longer knew his own mind. “What's your idea?” he grunted sceptically.

“Well, I think you might talk things over with them. Jim did something for you as well as for his own people in rounding up Quantrell's gang. The decent thing for you to do would be to go and see him. I know I intend to go. If we can do anything for him, we should.”

“Hunh?” He loved her spunk. “Well, I'll think it over pretty carefully,” he announced.

“And while you're thinking it over, I'll be riding down there!” she informed him very positively. She started to leave the room.