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Page 2
It was not until his inattentive ears caught the name of Dick Gordon
that he found interest in the conversation.
"Pardon, sir! Are you acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon?" he asked, a
touch of the gentle Spanish accent in his voice.
The man to whom he had spoken, a grizzled, weather-beaten little fellow
in a corduroy suit and white, broad-brimmed felt hat, turned his steady
blue eyes on his questioner a moment before he answered:
"I ought to know him, seeing as I'm his partner."
"Then you can tell me where I may find him?"
"Yes, sir, I can do that. See that streak of red there on the hill--the
one above the big dump. That's the shafthouse of the Last Dollar. Drop
down it about nine hundred feet and strike an airline west by north for
about a quarter of a mile, and you'd be right close to him. He's down
there, tackling a mighty uncertain proposition. The shaft and the
workings of the Last Dollar are full of water. He's running a crosscut
from an upraise in the Radley drift, so as to tap the west tunnel of the
Last Dollar."
"It is dangerous, you inform me?"
"Dangerous ain't the word. It's suicide, the way I look at it. See here,
my friend. His drill goes through and lets loose about 'steen million
gallons of water. How is he going to get in out of the rain about that
time?"
The New Mexican showed a double row of pearly teeth in a bland smile.
"Pardon, sir. If you would explain a leetle more fully I would then
comprehend."
"Sure. Here's the way it is. Dick and his three men are plugging away at
the breast of the drift with air-drills. Every day he gits closeter to
that lake dammed up there. Right now there can't be more'n a few feet of
granite 'twixt him and it. He don't know how many any more'n a rabbit,
because he's going by old maps that ain't any too reliable. The question
is whether the wall will hold till he dynamites it through, or whether
the weight of water will crumple up that granite and come pouring out in
a flood."
"Your friend, then, is in peril, is it not so?"
"You've said it. He's shooting dice with death. That's the way I size it
up. If the wall holds till it's blown up, Dick has got to get back along
the crosscut, lower himself down the upraise, and travel nearly a mile
through tunnelings before he reaches a shaft to git out. That don't
leave them any too much time at the best. But if the water breaks
through on them, it's Heaven help Dick, and good-by to this world."
"Then Mr. Gordon is what you call brave?"
"He's the gamest man that ever walked into this camp. There ain't an
inch of him that ain't clear grit through and through. Get into a tight
place, and he's your one best bet to tie to."
"Mr. Gordon is fortunate in his friend," bowed the New Mexican politely.
The little miner looked at him with shining eyes.
"Nothing like that. Me, I figure the luck's all on my side. Onct you
meet Dick you'll see why we boost for him. Hello, here's where we get
off at. If you're looking for Dick, stranger, you better follow me. I'm
going right up to the mine. Dick had ought to be coming up from below
any minute now."
Pesquiera checked his suitcase at the depot newsstand and walked up a
steep hill trail with his guide. The miner asked no questions of the New
Mexican as to his business with Gordon, nor did the latter volunteer any
information. They discussed instead the output of the camp for the
preceding year, comparing it with that of the other famous gold
districts of the world.
Just as they entered the shafthouse the cage shot to the surface. From
it stepped two men.
Several miners crowded toward them with eager greetings, but they moved
aside at sight of Pesquiera's companion, who made straight for those
from below.
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