The Girl Of Ghost Mountain/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XVI
LA CAPILLA BLANCA
There were six. in the treasure salvage expedition that started for the City of Silence; Sheridan, Jackson, Quong and three of the cowboys. Circle S was left in temporary charge of Stoney, who was forced, much to his disgust, to be at once foreman and cook. Sheridan said nothing of the purpose of the trip. The three men he took with him regarded it in the nature of a lark, well content not to ask questions so long as there was something new in the wind. As for the rest, Sheridan believed the time for talking was after, not before the thing was attempted.
The west was still west in the neighborhood of Chico Mesa. With such trove to uncover, the rule of "findings keepings" would hold good. Quong's knowledge of the secret would be no protection. There were plenty who would consider their claim as good as any white man's, much better than a Chink's. And there were men clever and unscrupulous enough, where such a sum was concerned, to tie up the whole expedition, to suggest or invent holding rights in the property, to throw the matter into the courts.
Sheridan rode Goldie, the sorrel mare, quite recovered from her lameness, Jackson the horse that once was Hollister's, a dark bay that was beginning to respond to Red's gentling; a proceeding that at first had startled it by sheer novelty. Quong rode in the wagon that carried the tools behind a lusty team, destined to haul back the gold—if they found it—in two or more trips. One of the cowboys drove, the two others had their mounts.
A ton of gold would be hard hauling over the soft desert soil. Sheridan did not want to discount success by building too heavily upon it, but he had planned to divide the spoils, cacheing part of it anew and leaving a guard over it until he could come back and get it. He had only one wagon on the ranch and he did not want to buy a new one, or borrow, to make any move that might start inquiry or arouse curiosity.
Stoney gleaned a suggestion that they were out looking for a water supply for future irrigation. That he would pass on to any visitors to the Circle S. They left the ranch while the stars were bright, long before the sun was up, and they had crossed the highroad before dawn and were skirting the range westward—towards their goal—when the sun rose. Quong had his camp-cooking outfit and provisions in the wagon with the tools. Sheridan planned to set up headquarters in Bonanza Canyon, where there was water and feed, and he had come prepared to stay a week, if necessary. Quong was still to act in his capacity as cook but there was a change manifest in his manner. Always sustaining dignity, he now emanated something more, not arrogance, but an unpushed assertion of rank or power. With it was a supreme confidence that communicated itself to Sheridan.
Sheridan, stung by the piercing of his self-conceit concerning Mary Burrows, concentrated all his energies upon the work in hand. He became the crisp executive, laying out the little camp and impressing the cowboys with the fact that they were on an important mission where work and time counted. Quong was well established by noon and a lunch served, of cold food, except for coffee. The horses were picketed and one man was chosen to stay in camp. Sheridan gave his three men a little talk.
"We are after a cache of gold, boys," he said. "The secret of it is Quong's. I am his partner in the deal. It is going to be a hard job to tackle. Very likely pick and shovel work. But each of you have got a share in it. So has every one on the ranch. I am going to use mine, if we get what we are after, to start the irrigation for Chico Mesa that you all know has been my plan for a long time. Now, I don't expect any interrruption, but it may come. This cache does not now belong to any one, but Quong's possession of its secret, which he shares with me as a partner with him, gives us first right of discovery. However, others who might happen to be on the ground might put in claims, whether they would be held legitimate or not, which might tie up matters.
"Quong is the only man who knows how to find it. He gives me a half interest, mainly because I aided him against Hollister at Metzal Depot and at Coyote Springs. And also because he is interested in the plan to make Chico Mesa a top-notch cow country, from feed to beef. All of my share goes into that project, except what you boys are to get out of it. You can do as you like with that. But, back in the main canyon, under a slide of dirt, there is water for Chico Mesa, electricity, thorough-bred cattle, alfalfa, improvements of all kinds. I want you to help me dig it out. It's going to be harder work than digging postholes, but the pay is special and the object is worthwhile. What do you say?"
Sheridan knew that in talking to the three riders he had brought with him he was ultimately addressing all the outfit at Circle S. He knew that his project had been one of the chief topics of conversation at the ranch and he fancied that it was generally approved of. Now he could see that he had quickened the imagination of the men, made them see something beyond the mere uncovering of gold, promised them an actual share in the development of the mesa that appealed to them, demolished the idea that they were only laborers and that the bulk of the treasure was not to pass through their hands. It was, in a way, an acid test of his men's belief and friendship in him, and they responded, after their own fashion.
"It goes," said one of the cowboys for the rest. "Lead us to it, Boss."
"One man will stay in camp here at the mouth of the ravine," he said. "The rest of us will be in plain sight, working, unless we have to tunnel in. You three will take it in turns to stay here and let us know if any one happens along. All right, let's make a start."
He said nothing of Hollister, buried beneath slabs of rock, halfway up the cliffs of Bonanza Canyon. It was not necessary. One man was picked to look after the horses and, later, to start a fire for supper. Sheridan, with Quong beside him, led the way to the main canyon.
The White Chapel was readily placed, a look at the magazine illustration confirming the location. Fifty feet to the west, the little ravine; the open tunnel, as Quong had described it, that had led to the bandits' stronghold, could be traced by the rim rock and that portion of it at the entrance that had not been entirely filled by the earth avalanche. Part of the dump overflowed into the main canyon in a tongue of crumbly clay. It was in this, Sheridan fancied, that Juan Mendoza had been caught.
He scaled the cliffs above the White Chapel and traced the width and depth of the ravine. The slide had sagged, with its looser formation, and the dimensions were plain enough. It ran back almost at right angles from the canyon for nearly eighty yards and was originally some thirty feet wide and about sixty deep. If the floor had been level, which was probable, his rough estimate of the amount of dirt they had to displace or mine was a staggering one. Jackson had been pecking at the edge of the mass and his face was dubious as Sheridan rejoined him and Quong. They three made up the engineering board, the two riders standing wondering and ready.
"Dynamite ain't no use here," said Jackson. "Too loose. A blast 'ud just bust it up a bit but it wouldn't make much clearance. You got to have hard resistance to git a real kick out of the stuff. I've got a brother thinks he's a miner becos he's allus diggin' tunnels an' sluicin' sandbars. I've helped him some, offtimes. More'n that, we'd likely bring down a sight more'n we displaced. There's a heap of it ready to shift."
His conclusions were only too logical, Sheridan thought, glancing at the mass of clay and at the cliffs back of it where the ledges were piled with similar stuff, weathered, crumbled, ready to be launched.
"Couldn't tunnel in without shorin'," went on Red. "An' where's yore timber?"
Sheridan glanced at Quong and found no encouragement. If they had been in China he supposed Quong would have set a thousand coolies to work and basketed the dirt away. But they were not in China. The nature of the friable dump demanded a gang of men and a lot of time, short of a steam shovel or a hydraulic Long Tom; both out of the question.
"We've got to sink a shaft," he said, still revolving the problem for a better solution. They might riddle the mass like a Swiss cheese with shafts without hitting a wagon or knowing they were near one. And a shaft, eighty feet deep, would be a herculean task.
"It depends upon how far those wagons got in before they were covered up. How about that, Quong? What's your judgment?"
"Juan's horse was lame," said the Chinaman. "He had fallen a good way behind in that last rush. Yet he saw the wagons in the gap. They may have slowed up a bit, but they must have been well in towards the cave."
"Ah!" Sheridan's eyes lit up. "Juan said there was a network of communicating caves. Suppose we tackle the inside of the White Chapel? It may lead in the right direction. If it does we may be able to use the dynamite. Worth trying, at any rate."
"It's a hunch!" cried Red enthusiastically catching up a pick. "Bring the rest of the stuff along, hombres."
The entrance to the White Chapel was a fissure crack, leading back as a narrow passage some twenty feet to a great cave, its floor covered with silt, its walls convoluted but smoothed by floods, the ceiling higher than the rays of the electric torches could determine.
Half pillars bossed out from the sides, there were vaulted openings that seemed to lead to inner chambers. Sheridan directed his efforts to the western wall and to the rounded corner where that curved off against the back of the cave. Three torches sprayed white light while they searched, entering the side recesses, some high enough for upright entrance, others that had to be crawled into. But none of them was deeper than a dozen feet and all ended in rock that sounded solid.
But Sheridan was not through. He set them to sounding the wall everywhere as high as they could reach. There might be some water-worn cavern not reaching to the Chapel, connecting with the maze of inner chambers once inhabited by the bandits. It was cool enough in the big cave, but this testing out was hard and tiring work—discouraging.
At last a cowboy, in disgust, flung his pick to the gritty floor. The handle rapped smartly and gave out the dull sound that suggested a cavity. One claw of the tool had sunk deeply into the sand that was thickest along the walls. Sheridan stooped and released the pick, probing with his fingers, then his hand. He lay full length on the floor of the cave, his arm lost to sight.
"There's a rock curtain here," he said excitedly. "Water action both sides, leaving a hanging ledge of hard rock. Big space back here. Look at the draught." As he withdrew arm and hand, and Quong bent with a torch, they could see the grains of sand blowing away where floor and wall came close together.
"If that leads in the right direction?" cried Sheridan."
"It does," cried Red. "It's a hunch! Let's play it. Where's those drills?"
They attacked the rock under Sheridan's directions, bringing in water from the camp for the drillings. The two riders acted as muckers, holding the steel drills, spooning out the muck that accumulated as they turned the sharpened ends. Quong held a torch in each hand while Sheridan and Jackson pounded mightily and the clamor of steel on steel went booming away into the hollow vaults of the high roof. While the rock was hard, it was sandstone, and they made good progress. They made eight holes in the face, packed in their capped dynamite, lit short measures of the fuses and left them sputtering in the dark as they retreated outside, out of breath with their efforts, expectant.
The hollow reports sounded in the interior. A cloud of bats came out of the passage in a black cloud, whirling bewildered in the sunshine, dazed by the gases, seeking other caves. One shot hung fire as they counted off. Just as it sounded there came a rush of disintegrated clay from high up the cliff, rushing down in a cloud of dust, flinging fragments far and wide as they dodged back, piling up a little in front of the entrance.
They rushed back, torches probing the gloom, to find a pile of shattered rock and the black gap of a tunnel. Sheridan had brought in some tufts of dried grass which he lit and tossed into the hollow. They blazed freely and he leaped ahead, exultant, the brilliant pencil of light from his torch stabbing far ahead of him. The tunnel, twisting like a snake, its floor wavily irregular, but in the main, level, led northwest, towards the end of the little ravine. It seemed as if it must join the bandits' caves. It was evidently a conduit for flood waters that had gouged it out of the heart of the cliff.
Suddenly it ended, progress blocked in a steep back slope impossible to climb, the stairway of a now dry cascade. At its top they could just make out the lips of a narrow cleft. Down this the torrents had poured, seeping from the outer slopes. But it was too narrow to explore, even if they could have reached it, and led apparently directly upwards.
Sheridan sent back for the tools, left behind in their rush. Once more they sounded and once again found a spot that promised other caves beyond. The place was honeycombed.
The new obstacle was tough. They had blunted their drills, they had no forge, they were too impetuous to resort to slower methods of sharpening. They rigged up two of the kerosene flares and attacked the stubborn rock, placing the explosives and retreating back along the tunnel. These fuses were better timed and went off almost simultaneously with a great blast of compressed air that almost flung them from their feet. After the re-echoing thunder died away they could faintly hear, far above them, the rush of the loosened clay on the cliff. A V-shaped opening had been made, partly choked by the break-up. They scrambled over the barricade in a wild charge, checked by a drift of air, foul with a sickly odor, the channel scent of a long unopened tomb. The truth flashed over them as they hung back waiting for the testing dried grass to burn, instead of merely glow.
Then, bearing the flaming kerosene flares that went streaming out behind them, they raced ahead, jamming elbows, without precedence.
The way widened suddenly with the feel of big space, above and about, the air still tainted with the cloying reek of decay. The lights fought the dark, their pupils adjusted themselves and they stared about them. The cavern was lower than that of the White Chapel, but almost as big, and again there were indications of tunnels leading from it. But their gaze focussed, upon a cry from Red, on a hideous sight. Little groups of dead women, identified by their clothing, sitting, lying, tilted grotesquely against the wall, mummified by the dry cool air of the cave into which water had long since ceased to penetrate. Shrunken faces, glints of teeth between shriveled lips, bodies shapeless in dust-coated covered serapes and rebozos. There was another group, close to the heaped ashes of afire,—men these. On the dried skulls sombreros still rested, or lay close by.
Near were yellow bones, others partly covered, the skulls and scattered skeletons of horses that had furnished the last meals to the band shut up in the cave. Perhaps the mounts of the women. Full realization of the end of this wretched folk came to them. Not all had been smothered by the landslide but had died slowly, not of suffocation, but of thirst. The avalanche had been more merciful.
Sheridan turned from the sight to find the blocked entrance. A rubble of the clay had tongued into the cave beneath the rocky arch and, partly in it, there loomed a bulky mass that made his heart leap.
It was a wagon! Thick with fine dust, its tires rotted, sagging to one side where the wheels had collapsed. Traces and harness, withered and rotten, showed on each side of the pole where the horses had been taken out. This must be one of the treasure wagons; the horses must have bolted in their frenzy and under the lashing of frantic drivers, through the sliding earth, into the false safety of the cave.
His shout brought the rest to him. A blow from a pick proved the whole fabric rotten. Under their efforts it went crumbling down in a cloud of dust and the smell of decayed wood. And, in the middle of it all, something surged heavily to the floor with a dull thud.
They leaped for it, spurning aside the brittle fragments of dry rot, tugging at what they had found. Fifty bars of heavy metal, each weighing between thirty and forty pounds, about nine inches long, four in width, tapering, and two in thickness. The five of them staggered to the flares, hugging each a bar in their arms, eyes shining, uttering inarticulate cries of triumph.
The bars were dull, seeming more like lead than iron, until Sheridan slashed one with a drill and the soft metal shone yellow. Half of the trove was theirs. The second wagon could not be very far away. Jackson and the two riders jumped for the picks with a shout. Quong stood under a flare, his face sphinxlike as ever, his eyes like balls of jet.
"It must be nearly dark outside," he said. Sheridan stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. The flush of success flooded him and he tingled with excitement. Then he reacted to Quong's calm and looked at his watch. They had been in the caves for more than five hours. They were all streaked with sweat and grime. His own muscles began to assert their ache. The engine of his body clamored for fuel and water.
"Never mind that until later, boys," he said. "We can tackle it better after we eat and rest up a bit. We'll transfer what we've got to the Chapel. It will take ten trips."
As they toted the heavy bars back through the passages and piled them in the White Chapel, near the entrance, their fever slowly died down. Need of a drink and of supper took precedence with Red and the two riders. What Quong, carrying his bar as the rest, might be considering, could not be judged. Sheridan's brain was charged with broken pictures of canals, a power-house, spreading patches of alfalfa, herds of fine cattle. And, ever in the background, though constantly dismissed, the vision of Mary Burrows.
The men grunted and straightened up after every trip. The labor was leavened by the knowledge that they carried a small fortune with each bar. Sheridan roughly estimated them as being worth between seven and eight thousand dollars apiece. After the third trip he went to the entrance of the White Chapel, through the little passageway, to where he could look out and across to the head of Bonanza Canyon. The sun was well down, flushing the rainbow-painted canyon with a last flood of color, the air was already growing cooler, deep shadows were gathering. He called over to the cowboy watcher who started towards him across the main canyon.
"Got half of what we went after, Bill," said Sheridan. "You'll be in on the rest of the job. Anything stirring?"
"Quiet as an empty cowbarn. Fire's goin' an' the water's bilin'. Quong goin' to cook them steaks we brought along?"
"No hurry about them for a bit, Bill. We're not quite through. I'll give you a call later." Sheridan was doubtful whether Quong, in his restoration to wealth, would care to resume his job as chef. He rather fancied he would, until they returned to the Circle S. But he did not feel inclined to suggest it to him. On the fifth trip Quong himself suggested that Bill could peel potatoes as his contribution to getting supper prepared. Sheridan went again to the cave mouth, to find the stars out, the air keen, the fight of the campfire reflected in the throat of Bonanza Canyon. He shouted Quong's instructions over and Bill acknowledged them with a hail.
They had brought one of the kerosene flares into the Chapel, leaving the other in the treasure cave, using the electric torches for the transportation process. The sheer toil, the growing familiarity with their find, had brought about a certain reaction. For the time the gold, as gold, had lost its magnetism; it was reduced to mere heavy metal. But they stuck doggedly to the job.
On the sixth trip Jackson suggested a bucket of water.
"I strike," he declared. "I'm drier than a horn-toad in a museum. No more moisture in me than a burned stick. I vote Bill brings over a pail of water. He's bin havin' it soft all afternoon. I'll go tell him."
He disappeared in the entrance shadows beyond the fight of the flare. The others stood about waiting for the cold water. At the moment it would be nectar to their dusty, parched throats.
They heard a shout from Jackson, the crack of a shot, followed by another and another. The cowboy Bill came reeling back into the cave, one hand clapped to his forearm just below the elbow, blood dripping through his fingers. Behind him, more slowly, came Red, gun in hand. Beyond the opening, tremulous light played curiously. It strengthened to brilliant, well-defined radiance that seemed to be projected from lenses.
"They come all of a sudden," Bill announced. "Me, I was peelin' spuds when they come sneakin' up, silent over the sand, two cars of 'em. Had their lights way down. I catches the sound of the engines an' I starts to pussy-foot it over here. Struck me thet organization looked too bisnesslike. I was half-way over, sneakin' through the brush when they spots me an' throws up the lights full. Me, I was like a vodivil actor in the spotlight. One of 'em fires an' fires damn straight. Red, he jumps out of the cave here an' takes a crack back. He yells for me to run for it. An' covers me with another shot at the Chinks."
"Chinese?" As Sheridan spoke he glanced down the passage towards the entrance. Plain in the light that shone on the portal, a head and neck was thrust, peering into the cave. It vanished as Sheridan flung a bullet humming for the mark. For a split-second it had shown clear to all of them: a flattened nose, high cheekbones, cruel mouth. The glitter of slanting eyes, the face of a Chinaman of the lower type, piratical, murderous! A hatchet-man, a Tong-killer!
"I suppose I give the whole show away, boltin' in here like a rabbit," said the wounded rider, baring his wounded arm for Sheridan's inspection. "But I figgered I c'ud warn you. Did you git one of 'em, Red?"
"Busted a windshield, fur as I know, an' that's all," replied Jackson. "You're bored plumb through your arm. Nothin' busted, is they, Sheridan?"
"No. It'll heal all right." Sheridan spoke confidently. The wound ought to be bathed before bandaging and they had not a drop of water. The suggestion that it was going to be a long while before Bill could get proper attention was beginning to impress itself upon him.
"Did you say two machines?" he asked. Jackson answered.
"Two big ones, filled up. A dozen or more in 'em. They sure got us herded."
Sheridan nodded in grim silence. They were in little better case than had been the bandits in the inner cave. In place of the landslide, the exit was blocked by murderous Chinamen. These were, doubtless, the enemies of Quong, whom he thought he had shaken off in San Francisco. They had come in relentless pursuit. Their presence in the City of Silence was doubly ominous. And there was no food, no water. He turned to Quong, who stood with his arms folded. His face was still placid, but his eyes now gleamed in the flare of the torch like black opals.
"I made a mistake," he said. "We are all likely to pay for it. I left Juan Mendoza behind in San Francisco. I was forced to. Some one else has given him opium, has taken my place as his god. And he has babbled his secret to them in gratitude. He had lost his soul, he was only a shell and he would grovel for the drug after a day without it. I should have passed him out after I got his secret. He would have been better dead. Now he has jeopardized the lives of six of us. I fancy he is dead by now. Hsu Fu would see to that.
"Now they have scented the gold. I told you I had many enemies. The score was not always on their side. I almost wrecked one of their societies. Hsu Fu was its head—of the Chu Chi'en. I have no doubt he is outside. I may be able to deal with him—if you want to give up part of the gold. Hsu Fu won't be over anxious to kill white men. He knows he would have to pay toll, one way or another. He wants me, primarily."
"Offering to give yourself up?"
"With enough of the gold to satisfy them."
"That isn't the way we play the game," said Sheridan. "If we get out of here, we'll do it together. And take the gold with us. They've got us in check, herded, as Red says. It's our move."
Jackson came forward carrying five sticks of dynamite.
"We got this much left over," he said. "How about cuttin' them in ha'f, like this"—he worked as he spoke, trimming a short fuse and attaching it to the capped and primered ends and ruffling up the material.
"Ten li'l hand grenades, all in a row," he declared. "All-same we used to chuck across to Heinie in the trenches." He left nine of the improvised bombs on the floor of the cave and advanced with the tenth to the passage, stealing half way down it. Only the unvarying radiance of the headlights, trained on the entrance to make a first-class target of it, showed the confident vigilance of the Chinese, waiting for the defenders to make their move. Sheridan's bullet, whistling sharp to the scalp of the one peeper had made them chary of exposure.
"Keep talkin," Jackson called back. "If you shut off they'll think we're up to something." He lit a match, applied it to the teased-out braids of the fuse. At the same instant Sheridan shouted to him.
"Hold on a minute. Red." His first swift endorsement of Jackson's plan had cooled. They had not brought in all their dynamite. There was enough left in the little camp to blast down the entrance. It was foolish to suggest such a weapon to the invaders. Undoubtedly they had raided the camp already.
But it was too late. Red had swung back his arm, with the fuse sparking like a firework, and hurled the bomb, whirling down the passage in a sputtering are to explode just outside with an air-rending detonation. Immediate damage showed in the dimming of the light, then came the shrill jabbering of startled Chinamen, the sound of a starting engine and the disappearance of the rays. But they reappeared promptly, half their previous strength. Sheridan figured they had backed off one machine to a safer place beyond damage from other bombs, but where the headlights could still play upon the Chapel entrance. The second machine he hoped had been put out of commission.
Red came back to the main cave exultant.
"Made scrap iron of one car," he said.
"We can only play that trick once, Red," answered Sheridan. "And we may have to blast our way out at the last. I hope they don't return the compliment in kind and fill in the entrance."
"I hardly think so," said Quong. *'They would have to take too much time to tunnel in for the gold. They hold all the cards. They can afford to wait, but not too long."
It was bitterly cold. Hunger gnawed and thirst attacked them savagely, intensifying the frosty temperature. Hard labor had lowered their vitality. They held council, discussed a rush and abandoned it in face of the steady lit and the narrowness of the entrance fissure. They would be shot down one by one as they emerged. Yet to remain inactive became a condition hard to bear.
Then a hissing missile came rocketing down the tunnel. Sheridan, watching for something of the kind, fired at the arm that had been exposed and then dodged back behind the cave wall, shouting warning to the rest, who broke for the cover of the tunnel back of the blasted rock curtain. Hsu Fu had tried hoisting them with their own petards. In the cavern the exploding gases of the nitro-glycerine broke loose in yellow flame, filling the place with choking, acrid odors, torment to their throats, compressing the air to battering rams, roaring up to roof and walls, turning the space into a miniature hell. While they were still half dazed, the passage was filled with charging men. Pistols barked, the red spit of the shots breaking the blur of the dynamite haze.
Sheridan, nearer the passage, got one man as he leaped by. Then he ran swiftly back along the wall to get out of the range of the bullets of his own men. Another Chinaman sprawled. The kerosene flare asserted itself and the firing of the men from the Circle S became too accurate for the liking of the yellow invaders. They retreated, leaving their dead behind.
"Reduces the odds a bit," said Sheridan, coolly enough, though his fighting blood was up, pounding through his veins, tingling at his fingertips.
Quong was examining the two corpses. Sheridan's bullet had gone through one from temple to temple. The other was shot through the heart.
"Sing Li and another rascal named Chang," he announced. "I thought so. They are hired bravos of Hsu Fu. Highbinders, you call them."
"Where do you suppose they got the cars and who guided them here?" asked Sheridan. The questions had been troubling them. There promised to be a respite after this attack that had ended in their favor.
"I think they bought the cars in Los Angeles," said Quong. "They would come through Imperial Valley and Yuma and Prescott. It would be the simplest way. Hsu Fu would not risk trying to hire cars in Arizona for his men. Even if he could get them, the publicity would be dangerous. They would travel by night and take cover in the daytime. As for a guide, he would leave the cars outside Pioche or Metzal and go in himself to ask for a Chinaman of my description and the way to this place. Hsu Fu speaks Spanish fluently. I imagine he would talk to Mexicans. He could almost pass for a Mexican himself in the proper clothes. He is clever enough to think of all that."
"Ill bet a month's wages he ran across Pedro," exclaimed Jackson.
Quong shrugged. The fact accomplished, he was indifferent to the means.
"I sure hate to stick here like a prairie dawg at the bottom of his hole, with a rattlesnake snoopin' round the door," said Red. "How about sneakin' to the openin' an' tossin' a couple of bombs for divertin' their attention while we make a bolt for it? We could hunt cover an' throw lead into 'em till they vamosed." Sherixlan shook his head.
"We'd have to look first to see where to throw," he said. "They'll be behind cover themselves with their guns trained on the entrance. But we might try to find some other way out. That fissure where the water came down, or some other weak place. I imagine there's mare than one. We may strike it and we've got to tackle it before our strength gives out."
He took Red with him and, using the electric torches and ticking along a pick, they searched the tunnels vainly. The fissure was impractical. Nowhere, though they explored all the cavities opening from the Chapel, could they find a place that held any hope of exit. The little stock of dynamite was pitifully inadequate. Explosion might bring down a slide. To use pick and drill would direct attention. And there was no starting point. At ten o'clock the kerosene flare began to burn out. Sheridan had extinguished the one in the treasure trove and brought it in to the Chapel. Now he lit it and they sat in its light, silent. Speech was difficult, there was nothing to say. They were trapped, with the gold that lay in its heap, mocking their eyes whenever they glanced at it. Only Quong, squatting cross-legged on the silt beside the bars, his pose placid as that of a statue of Buddha, seemed indifferent, or reconciled to fate.
"Rats in a trap!" said Jackson at last. "Let's make a break for it. I'd ruther be shot down than die the way they did in the other cave. An' I'll git one or two before I cash in."
There was a murmur of assent.
"Odds ain't more than two to one," went on Red. "We stand to lose, ennyway. We can't take the gold along. If they git the best of us, they win. But we can give 'em one hell of a scrap."
Sheridan hesitated. There came a rustling sound in the passage. Tho light was blocked by a mass of something that dangled from the end of a rope, settled down into the passage, half filling it. It had been swung in from above. More was added swiftly, blocking the exit. A torch beam revealed a mat of cactus and desert growths, pushed back foot by foot into the passage as more was added to the barrier.
"Looks like checkmate this time," said Sheridan.
They might attempt to blast out the stuff, but it was doubtful what effect the dynamite would have on the squashy mass, certain that there was plenty more to replace it. The idea of a last rush was destroyed.
"Hsu Fu has got a brain that works quickly," said Quong.
"I'd like to put a bullet into it," snarled Red. "I'd sure muss up the works."
"I trust that will be my privilege," rejoined Quong quietly. They stared at him, savagely resentful in their despair. And he smiled back at them, the author of their misfortune.
"We have many proverbs in China," he said. "You have a few. One of them is excellent. 'While there is life there is hope.'"
"Hope? Hell!" exploded Red. "I s'pose a jackrabbit hopes, with a coyote ha'f a junp behind him, but so does the coyote. We got as much chance as a snowball has of not meltin' in the place I jest mentioned. We're plumb euchred."
The rest appeared glumly to agree with him. Sheridan felt the numbing sense of despair settling down about them all like a pall. But he did not intend to allow a Chinaman to outgame a white man. After a minute he saw Red's chin come up with a jerk as he started to roll a cigarette. The riders followed his example. Bill using his one hand dexterously. Sheridan took out his pipe and Quong produced a silver box from which he took a tiny pellet of brown and swallowed it. The smoke wreaths mounted and Quong brooded over his opium. Red finished his cigarette and began to chant softly:
An' looked at the stars in the sky;
I wondered if ever a cowboy,
Could drift to that sweet by an' bye.
The three riders joined him in the chorus, chiming in a crude harmony:
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on.
Roll on, roll on;
Roll on, little dogies; roll on
Sheridan glanced across at Quong and thought he saw a gleam of approval in his eyes. Outside Hsu Fu and his henchmen watched and waited.