UNEASINESS, A GROWING feeling that something was wrong, the conviction that she had acted foolishly as well as impulsively, began to plague Melissa as the miles fell behind. Darkness and increasing storm did nothing to banish her worries.
More than once she was tempted to turn back, deterred only by a feeling of foolishness and almost equally of helplessness. She, and Serene even more so, would be hopelessly lost under these conditions. They had to trust to their guide, and he seemed to know what he was doing. Nor did he lack in courtesy or consideration, and that was reassuring.
“Too bad it’s storming so hard,” he sighed. “I sure hadn’t counted on nothin’ like this. But it’ll only make things worse for Aladdin—”
“Aladdin?” Melissa exclaimed sharply. “Don’t you mean Achilles?”
Link was confused at his slip, but he had the abilities of an actor.
“I sure do,” he agreed. “Only I got them names twisted in my mind, and my tongue sort of gets tangled over which is which. They ain’t good English names like I’m used to.”
He halted as the night waned and displayed an ability which reminded Melissa of Montana, finding wood dry enough to burn, coaxing it to a blaze, boiling coffee and enabling them to make a good breakfast. The storm showed no sign of breaking; if anything, it was increasing. But with daylight, it seemed no more foolish to go on than to turn back.
And, if anything was wrong, they had already gone too far. Melissa found herself listening, hoping for sounds of pursuit. Montana would get her note—
“Once should have been enough,” she told herself dismally. “I’m as much a tenderfoot as ever, and behaving like one. And even if he does follow, he’ll be so far behind that the trail will be covered—”
Thought was a torment, yet it was impossible not to speculate. A few times she had the feeling that someone was behind, following, and her pulses quickened. But nothing happened, other than a tiredness which became exhaustion. That Serene was no better off was apparent, but she voiced no complaint.
“Not much farther,” their guide said reassuringly, and then Melissa was certain that her senses were not playing her false. Someone was coming, catching up from behind. A ghostly figure in the storm, mounted on a big horse—
A scream tore in her throat as he overtook them, with a sardonic greeting which confirmed her worst fears.
“Sure nice to see you ladies. You been doing a good job, Link. It ain’t far, now—and it’s workin’ out just the way the boss planned it. I been watchin’ my back trail, and Abbott’s burnin’ daylight to catch up. He’s near as big a fool as you wimmin. And if you want to yell or scream for him to hear, go right ahead. It couldn’t be better.”
Climbing was difficult. Montana scrambled sharply, all but losing his footing in the trampled, slippery snow of the last several feet. Then he gained the tunnel mouth and peered down, unable to see in the heavier gloom of the cavern-like interior, straining his ears for sound.
There was something, perhaps the suck and gurgle of water. He called, and there seemed to be a confused thumping.
Instinct rather than sound gave a warning, and he tried to turn, sensing that someone had crouched, concealed in the snow. A hurtling form hit from behind. Leaning in and down as he was, off-balance, Montana was catapulted into the void below.
Falling, muscles tensing against the fear of what might lie below, Montana was still bewildered at the attack. There had been no time or chance for anyone to climb behind him, and he had pretty well accounted for everyone in his mind. This could only mean that they had reached a pre-determined rendezvous, where an extra hand had been waiting, with everything in readiness.
Melissa had been fooled, used to lure him to this remote hiding place. He had suspected that increasingly, and still been tricked and trapped.
He landed, sprawling, having tumbled only a short distance. At that moment, the faint light from above was blotted away, as by the shutting of a door.
With it closed, the darkness was almost total. Abbott lay, regaining his breath, taking stock. Beneath him was a rocky, fairly smooth surface. That did not surprise him. Someone had dug this hole, years before, seeking gold or silver, perhaps both. Not enough riches had been found to keep him at work, or else some other reason had caused abandonment of the project, after months of sweat and toil.
From outside, the rush and gurgle of water had been audible from the pool at the foot of the slope, and the same sounds pervaded this hole. Montana made a quick guess. The pool outside, fed by a strong spring, must have been there when the prospector had commenced his exploration. What he would not have counted on was breaking through a rocky wall and into that same stream, trapped but coursing in an underground channel a hundred and fifty feet higher up. That might well have been what had happened, the sudden surge of water flooding him out after a charge of dynamite. Loosed like a genie from a bottle, to rampage wildly before sucking back into its own tunnel, it would have forced the abandonment of the project.
Now, this almost made-to-order hide-away was being put to use. Prowling these hills and canyons, Eggers or Hoag had come upon the old tunnel and realized its possibilities. As a prison it was all but invisible, remote and long forgotten. Stocked with food, automatically provided with running water, it could be a perfect hideout.
And he had encountered Eggers riding not many miles from here. The man had tried to hide his face and conceal his identity, just as he had done in the stagecoach, where the nut on a wheel had been tampered with—
The sign was freshening much as the trail had done through the snow. The road over the pass, the incipient mining camp, a toll gate to levy tribute from other men’s toil—it all fitted. The key to riches was a legal right to levy such toll, and the impasse between a Republican governor and Democratic legislators had loomed as a barrier. Then he had come along, straying into political thickets as innocently as a fawn on to a grassy meadow—
The conspirators had sought to guard against eventualities, so now he and the ladies were to be hostages, to insure against a slip-up with the bill at the last step. The magnitude of the scheme was uncomfortably apparent.
Shaking off momentary dizziness, he got to his feet, calling.
“Melissa! Are you in here?”
The response, though only what he expected, showed how accurate was his guess.
“Montana? Is that you?” The whole gamut of emotions, from joy to incredulity and sharpening dismay was in her voice. “We’re here. But be careful!”
It was a little late for that, he reflected grimly. Spurred by anxiety, working against the fast-coming night, he had blundered. But he had to give credit to the conspirators. This had been carefully planned, smoothly executed.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m not hurt, only tied,” Melissa returned. “So is Serene. She is with me.”
Moving in an unfamiliar blackness was a chancy affair, especially with the warning sounds of an underground stream close at hand. Montana tested each step, arms outstretched. His foot encountered something soft and yielding, and he stooped, holding his breath, then relaxed as he made out that it was a bundle of blankets. Again his hunch was confirmed. Provision for their necessities had been made in advance.
He reached a wall, and felt carefully along it. A few steps brought him to a rocky shelf, and on that was an object familiar to the touch. A lantern, which gurgled as he shook it, filled with oil and ready for use.
Alongside, as he suspected, were matches. He scratched one, opened the lantern and drew the flame across the wick. A gasp of relief sounded as he adjusted the light.
Melissa was seated on the rocky floor, watching him, great-eyed. It required only a glance to see that she was tied hand and foot, her hair disheveled. Doubled up beside her, also tied and with a gag in her mouth, was Serene Chase. Clearly they had put up a struggle.
Both were tied loosely rather than tightly, their bonds intended only as a temporary restraint for the concluding part of their journey. That had given their captors time for more urgent matters, making sure of Montana.
They talked, half-hysterically, as he untied them. Melissa’s suspicion that she had acted foolishly had increased with each passing mile, but there had been no change in their guide’s patient courtesy until the last quarter-mile. Then Lefty Hoag had come up from behind, and they had been tied, brought to this cavern-like place, and quickly lowered into it.
“I should have known better,” Melissa wailed. “But it sounded as though my husband was sick and in need of help, and I had to find out. The worst part is getting you into such a mess, too.”
“But why would anyone do such a thing?” Serene asked. “The other made sense. Or if they wanted just the—the two of us, that might. But they were scheming to get you too, Montana. I don’t understand.”
“My guess is that we’re all hostages for a political scheme,” he explained. “To insure that Governor Ashley will do as they want.”
To reveal all that he feared would not add to their peace of mind. The certainty that Lefty Hoag was involved, and his increasing certainty that Eggers must be the boss, made the situation unpleasantly grim. Hoag was a killer, but Eggers, though he moved more openly, was probably the more dangerous and at least as coldblooded. His scheme for sending the stagecoach and his fellow-passengers plunging to destruction was too grim a reminder to overlook.
Back at Virginia City, the absence of all three of them would create wonder and an increasing suspicion of foul play. The Governor and others would certainly institute a search, prolonging it while any hope remained. But he could see little chance for a rescue from outside.
He had been too anxious, fearing that they might need help, too confident of his own ability to deal with the situation. The hook had been well baited, and he’d swallowed it, along with line and sinker.
Searchers would have only a general notion of where to look, with all sign covered by the storm. Even should any of them, by chance, pass this old mine, there would be nothing to suggest its presence or rouse their interest. Even without the snow, the door now fitted over the opening of the tunnel was probably so well camouflaged as to be all but invisible.
With his companions untied, he looked around, using the lantern. The original opening had clearly been on a level with the floor, yet he had fallen for half a dozen feet. He saw that the doorway had been recently built up, walled with heavy stones, so that the opening would be smaller and easier to close.
The inner side of the door was of heavy planking, and it fitted tightly into the opening. Outside it would be locked or barred.
Apparently there was no other entrance, or exit.
The original prospector had dug, spilling out rock and dirt, falling down the slope, the raw pile covered in time by weeds and grass, then shrubbery, so that now it appeared almost to be a part of the original hill.
The room was roughly a score of feet wide and almost as deep. The formation was more rock than dirt, requiring a lot of blasting, but that had saved any need for shoring up the ceiling. The tunnel extended back for nearly a hundred feet.
From knocking around a lot of mining camps, Montana was sufficiently educated to see the evidences of possible richness in gold or silver. It had been promising enough to encourage the finder to do a lot of work.
Eventually he had abandoned the project, probably when an explosive charge had cracked away solid rock, allowing a sudden gush of water, an underground stream closely confined until its exit at the foot of the hill. Suddenly released, it must have gushed out terrifyingly.
It still came with a wild swirl, a surge of water a couple of feet wide and deep, spilling on to the rocky floor, spreading to a depth of several feet across half the room, which was lower toward the back than at the front. In his search for riches, the prospector had cleared a looser formation of dirt and rock from a solid floor of stone.
At one side, the original channel through which the stream had run absorbed it again, sucking in a miniature whirlpool. It was carried down and away, apparently to its original spring-like exit into the deep pool at the foot of the hill.
The trouble, for the miner, had been too much water. It was shoulder-deep across half the room, and its coldness and velocity had been an effective barrier to further work.
At least it was pure as well as cold, fine for drinking. The light revealed a supply of food near the wall, as well as the blankets. There was a big roast of meat, already cooked, along with a pan of biscuits, cold but quite fresh. There were tin plates, knives and forks, and, to every one’s astonishment, a pie.
“They don’t intend that we shall starve, anyhow,” Serene observed. “Though as of now I feel close to that.”
In addition to the ready-cooked grub there was bacon, flour, salt and soda, a Dutch oven. A pile of firewood Would provide necessary fuel.
Though his first guess was confirmed, Montana was not reassured. His hunch was proving only too accurate. Plans had been made well in advance, and this old mine had been chosen not only because it seemed escape-proof, but as a hiding place it was as unlikely to be found as a particular flea on a large dog.
Since the walls were thick, the big room was reasonably warm. To Montana’s surprise, voices sounded, from somewhere outside. Apparently the speakers were below the doorway, the sounds perhaps amplified by some freakish air current or trick of the terrain. Two men were talking, both voices recognizable.
“You want I should parley with him now?” That was Lefty Hoag.
“Might as well. But when you open that door, don’t take any chances.”
“I’d just like for him to take a chance with me! Just once!” Hoag was venomously eager. “I been waitin’ a long time!”
“I know, but don’t kill him—yet,” Eggers cautioned sharply. “There’s been too much trouble in snarin’ him to have it wasted.”