relief, although he wasn’t yet safely above ground.
About halfway up, the bail of the bucket to which the rope was attached snagged on a protruding piece of broken ladder. Ross was steadying himself with one hand on the overhead rope when he jolted to a stop. The rope began to stretch and grow thinner and harder under his touch as the hoist continued pulling. The bucket tilted and started to tip over.
Before he was dumped out, Ross instinctively leaped for the ladder and scrambled up as fast as he could climb.
The heavy bucket, relieved of his weight, swung free and banged from side to side in the narrow shaft. Rosspaused for a second and realized the bucket was now pursuing him, rising up through the blackness faster than he could climb.
His ordeal had left him weak, and he glanced upward at the lighted opening far above. He’d never make it before the bucket caught up. And the shaft was too narrow to allow the bucket to pass without crushing him against the ladder. With sudden inspiration, he grabbed the rope a few yards above the bucket and swung off the ladder, clinging like a monkey. He was carried up and up at a steady pace until he could hear the rope running through the sheave above. To save his hands from being caught, he slid down, dropping into the bucket again shortly before it reached the surface and was let down on a wooden platform.
Wonder of wonders! There was still sunlight in the world above. He sprang out and yanked his Colt. “Where’s Gunderson?” His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the sudden light. He could barely make out Jorge staring at him, one hand on the blind horse.
“Where’s Gunderson?” Ross yelled again.
“ Quién sabe? ” the Mexican replied. “No see him.”
From the fearful, dumbfounded look on the man’s face, Ross decided the Mexican was telling the truth. The superintendent had likely come out another way, or was still somewhere below.
Ross stumbled away down the hill, hatless, coatless, bootless, squinting in the bright daylight, gratefully sucking in the fresh air. He’d reached the road at the bottom and was striding toward town before he realized he still had his Colt gripped in one hand and that his socks and feet were picking up cactus needles.
He swore with feeling, and sat down on the ground to pluck out the barbed spines. He shoved his gun into its scabbard, and tucked his dangling watch and chainaway into a vest pocket. The lumps in his side pockets reminded him he still carried several ore samples.
Like some wild man, his clothes were ripped and dirt-streaked, hair full of dust, sweat plastering the shirt to his back. Miners trudging along the road, and horsemen cantering by, looked at him curiously. They probably considered him one of the many drunks who littered the streets day and night, he thought as he staggered upright on sore feet. But he didn’t care how he looked or that his muscles were strained and he was bruised and aching from head to foot. He was above ground and still breathing. Nothing else mattered—at the moment. This battle had now become personal.
Chapter Nine
Frank Fossett eased himself into the overstuffed chair, taking care not to bump his left arm that was supported by a sling. Even though he carried a small bottle of laudanum in his coat pocket, he took a spoonful of it only when the pain rose to the point of forcing everything else from his consciousness. He thought perhaps he had some nerve damage, although the doctor hadn’t mentioned the possibility.
He’d arrived early for this meeting at Avery Tuttle’s Carson City mansion. Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, was always a little late so the egotistical blowhard could make a grand entrance. Fossett was feeling out of his depth, and nervous. As junior member of this triumvirate, he took orders without question from the others. Even though Avery Tuttle had allowed him to buy into the Blue Hole Mine at a bargain price in exchange for unlimited space
About halfway up, the bail of the bucket to which the rope was attached snagged on a protruding piece of broken ladder. Ross was steadying himself with one hand on the overhead rope when he jolted to a stop. The rope began to stretch and grow thinner and harder under his touch as the hoist continued pulling. The bucket tilted and started to tip over.
Before he was dumped out, Ross instinctively leaped for the ladder and scrambled up as fast as he could climb.
The heavy bucket, relieved of his weight, swung free and banged from side to side in the narrow shaft. Rosspaused for a second and realized the bucket was now pursuing him, rising up through the blackness faster than he could climb.
His ordeal had left him weak, and he glanced upward at the lighted opening far above. He’d never make it before the bucket caught up. And the shaft was too narrow to allow the bucket to pass without crushing him against the ladder. With sudden inspiration, he grabbed the rope a few yards above the bucket and swung off the ladder, clinging like a monkey. He was carried up and up at a steady pace until he could hear the rope running through the sheave above. To save his hands from being caught, he slid down, dropping into the bucket again shortly before it reached the surface and was let down on a wooden platform.
Wonder of wonders! There was still sunlight in the world above. He sprang out and yanked his Colt. “Where’s Gunderson?” His eyes were having trouble adjusting to the sudden light. He could barely make out Jorge staring at him, one hand on the blind horse.
“Where’s Gunderson?” Ross yelled again.
“ Quién sabe? ” the Mexican replied. “No see him.”
From the fearful, dumbfounded look on the man’s face, Ross decided the Mexican was telling the truth. The superintendent had likely come out another way, or was still somewhere below.
Ross stumbled away down the hill, hatless, coatless, bootless, squinting in the bright daylight, gratefully sucking in the fresh air. He’d reached the road at the bottom and was striding toward town before he realized he still had his Colt gripped in one hand and that his socks and feet were picking up cactus needles.
He swore with feeling, and sat down on the ground to pluck out the barbed spines. He shoved his gun into its scabbard, and tucked his dangling watch and chainaway into a vest pocket. The lumps in his side pockets reminded him he still carried several ore samples.
Like some wild man, his clothes were ripped and dirt-streaked, hair full of dust, sweat plastering the shirt to his back. Miners trudging along the road, and horsemen cantering by, looked at him curiously. They probably considered him one of the many drunks who littered the streets day and night, he thought as he staggered upright on sore feet. But he didn’t care how he looked or that his muscles were strained and he was bruised and aching from head to foot. He was above ground and still breathing. Nothing else mattered—at the moment. This battle had now become personal.
Chapter Nine
Frank Fossett eased himself into the overstuffed chair, taking care not to bump his left arm that was supported by a sling. Even though he carried a small bottle of laudanum in his coat pocket, he took a spoonful of it only when the pain rose to the point of forcing everything else from his consciousness. He thought perhaps he had some nerve damage, although the doctor hadn’t mentioned the possibility.
He’d arrived early for this meeting at Avery Tuttle’s Carson City mansion. Ben Holladay, owner of the Overland Stage Line, was always a little late so the egotistical blowhard could make a grand entrance. Fossett was feeling out of his depth, and nervous. As junior member of this triumvirate, he took orders without question from the others. Even though Avery Tuttle had allowed him to buy into the Blue Hole Mine at a bargain price in exchange for unlimited space
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