rattled through the branches above our heads, and on going to inspect the result we found that the rock had been so shattered that it was an easy matter to pry out the pieces with pick and crowbar – a task of which Joe and I did our share.
At length, the hole being now about three feet deep, Joe, who was working with a crowbar, gave a mighty prod at a loose piece of rock, when, to the astonishment of himself and everybody else, the bottom of the hole fell through, and rock, crowbar and all, disappeared into the cavity beneath.
“Well, what kind of a vein is it, anyhow?” cried Tom, going down upon his knees and peering into the darkness. “Blest if there isn’t a sort of cave down here. Knock out some more, boys, and let me get down. This is the queerest thing I’ve struck in a long time.”
We soon had the hole sufficiently enlarged, when, by means of a rope attached to a tree, Tom slid down into it, and lighting a candle, peered about.
Poor old Tom! The change on his face would have been ludicrous had we not felt so sorry for him, when, looking up at us he said in lugubrious tones: “Done again, boys! Come down and see for yourselves.”
We quickly slid down the rope, when, our eyes having become accustomed to the light, Tom pointed out to us the extraordinary accident that had caused him to believe he had struck a three-foot vein of galena.
Though there was no sign of such a thing on the surface, it was evident that the place in which we stood had at one time been a narrow, water-worn gully in the mountain-side. Ages ago there had been a landslide, filling the little gully with enormous boulders. That these rocks came from the vein of the Samson higher up the mountain was also pretty certain, for among them was one pear-shaped boulder of galena ore, standing upright, upon the apex of which rested the immense four-foot slab of stone through which Tom had bored his drill-hole. By a chance that was truly marvelous, the drill, after piercing the great slab, had struck the very point of the galena boulder and had gone through it from end to end, so that when the core came up it was no wonder that even Tom, experienced miner though he was, should have been deceived into the belief that he had discovered a three-foot vein of lead-ore.
As a matter of fact, there was no vein at all – just one single chunk of galena, not worth the trouble of getting it out. Connor’s lead-mine after all had turned out to be only a “pocket edition.”
Tom’s disappointment was naturally extreme, but, as usual, his low spirits were only momentary. We had hardly climbed up out of the hole again when he suddenly burst out laughing.
“Ho, ho, ho!” he went, slapping his leg. “What will Yetmore say? I’m sorry, Phil, that I couldn’t keep my promise to your father, but I’ll own up that as far as Yetmore is concerned I’m rather glad. I don’t like the Honorable Simon, and that’s a fact. What’s he doing down at the cabin all this time, I wonder. Come! Let’s gather up the tools and go down there: there’s nothing more to be done here.”
On arriving at the cabin, Yetmore’s non-appearance was at once explained. Fastened to the table with a fork was a piece of paper, upon which was written in pencil, “Gone to look for the horses.”
Of course, Joe and I at once ran over to the stable. It was empty; all three of the horses were gone.
“Queer,” remarked Joe. “I feel sure I tied mine securely, but you see halters and all are gone.”
“Yes,” I replied. “And I should have relied upon our ponies’ staying even if they had not been tied up; you know what good camp horses they are. Let’s go out and see which way they went.”
We made a cast all round the stable, and presently Joe called out, “Here they are, all three of them.” I thought he had found the horses, but it was only their tracks he had discovered, which with much difficulty we followed over the stony ground, until, after half an hour of careful trailing, they led us to the dusty road some distance below camp, where they were plainly visible.
“Our ponies have followed Yetmore’s horse,” said Joe, after a brief inspection. “Do you see, Phil, they tread in his tracks all the time?”
For the tracks left by our own ponies were easily distinguishable from those of Yetmore’s big horse, our animals being unshod.
“What puzzles me though, Joe,” said I, “is that there are no marks of the halter-ropes trailing in the dust; and yet they went off with their halters.”
“That’s true. I don’t understand it. And there’s another thing, Phil: Yetmore hasn’t got on their trail yet, apparently; see, the marks of his boots don’t show anywhere. He must be wandering in the woods still.”
“I suppose so. Well, let us go on and see if they haven’t stopped to feed somewhere.”
We went on for half a mile when we came to a spot where the tracks puzzled us still more. For the first time a man’s footmarks appeared. That they were Yetmore’s I knew, for I had noticed the pattern of the nails in the soles of his boots as he had sat with his feet resting on a chair the night before. But where had he dropped from so suddenly? We could find no tracks on either side of the road – though certainly the ground was stony and would not take an impression easily – yet here they were all at once right on top of the horses’ hoof-prints.
Moreover, his appearance seemed to have been the signal for a new arrangement in the position of the horses, for our ponies had here taken the lead, while Yetmore’s horse came treading in their tracks. Moreover, again, twenty yards farther on, the horses had all broken into a gallop. What did it mean?
“Well, this is a puzzler!” exclaimed Joe, taking off his hat and rumpling his hair, as his habit was in such circumstances. “How do you figure it out, Phil?”
“Why,” said I. “I’ll tell you what I think. Yetmore has caught sight of the horses strolling down the road and has followed them, keeping away from the road himself for fear they should see him and take alarm. Dodging through the scrub-oak and cutting across corners, he has come near enough to them to speak to his own horse; the horse has stopped and Yetmore has caught him. That was where his tracks first showed in the road. Then he has jumped upon his horse and galloped after our ponies, which appear to have bolted.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Joe assented; “and in that case he’ll head them and drive them back; so we may as well walk up to the cabin again and wait for him.”
To this I agreed, and we therefore turned round and retraced our steps.
“There’s only one thing about this that I can’t understand,” remarked Joe, as we trudged up the hill, “and that is about the halters – why they leave no trail. That does beat me.”
“Yes, that is certainly a queer thing; unless they managed to scrape them off against the trees before they took to the road. In that case, though, we ought to have found them; and anyhow it is hard to believe that all three horses should have done the same thing.”
We found Tom very busy packing up when we reached the cabin, and on our telling him the result of our horse-hunt he merely nodded, saying, “Well, they’ll be back soon, I suppose, and then I’ll ride down with you.”
“Why, are you going to quit, Tom?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Your father limited me to one more hole, you remember, and if I know him he’ll stick to it; and as to working any longer for Yetmore, no thank you; I’ve had enough of it.”
So saying, Tom, who had already cleaned and put away the tools, began tumbling his scanty wardrobe into a gunny-sack, and this being done, he turned to us and said:
“I’ve got a pony out at pasture about a mile up the valley. I’ll go and bring him down; and while I’m gone you might as well pitch in and get dinner ready. You needn’t provide for Sandy Yates: he’s gone off already to see if he can get a job up at the Samson.”
Sandy Yates was the helper.
In an hour or less Tom was back and we were seated at dinner, without Yetmore, who had not yet turned up, when the conversation naturally fell upon the subject of the runaway horses. We related to Tom how we had trailed them through the woods down to the