Once secure in the gloom of the old shaft, the man, with a little sigh of relief, rose to his full height, drew from his coat a slender tube of steel, and from his pocket a delicate frame shaped like the stock of a gun, deftly fitted the two together, pulled back the spring, carefully inserted the bullet, and stood armed with a weapon, at close range absolutely to be relied upon, precise, noiseless, deadly. Silently the man nodded his head, and then, slowly, cautiously, with every nerve in his body on the alert, began his dangerous descent.
Down on the fifth level old Jim Mason, his miner's lamp casting its glimmering light on the high walls of rock, plied his heavy pick, not with the fiery enthusiasm of eager, determined, hot-blooded youth, but with the slower, steadier poise of equally determined, and far more patient, age. Rhythmical, effective, machine-like, he bent to his work. Swing—crash; swing—crash; swing—crash; his vigorous old body sent the steel biting into the rock; never a glance to right or left, never a glance behind, on and on he pressed, well satisfied, with an honest content, every stroke bringing him an infinitesimal fraction nearer his heart's desire.
Never a glance to right or left, never a glance behind, or he might have noticed one shadow darker than the rest creeping steadily forward out of the gloom, stopping momentarily only to advance again, until at last it paused but a few yards away and stood rigid and motionless, blending again with the other shadows among the jagged walls, waiting—waiting—
And now the old man tired a trifle. The rock was hard. Rhythmically he had been counting the strokes to himself—eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven—when he should reach one hundred he would stop—stop and rest a while. On and on crashed the pick; ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six—the tired muscles cried out for a respite, however brief, but grimly the old man set his teeth and kept on; ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred—with a long sigh of relief he slowly straightened, and stood for an instant, motionless as a statue, in the sheer physical enjoyment of rest well-earned. The best that was in him he had given for so many long years, the best that was in him of muscle and brain, and now the end—the consummation of all his dreams—was near, so near—
From the darkness behind him came the faintest vibrant twang, as of a spring released. Swift, sinister, relentless as fate, the bullet sped to its mark. Just for an instant of time the old man still stood, motionless; then, the pick slipping from his nerveless fingers went crashing to the floor, and old Jim Mason of Seneca, shot through the head, pitched forward headlong, and lay stone-dead amid the faintly gleaming ore of the mine he had loved so well.
Again silence, seemingly for minutes, in reality but for seconds, and then the dark shadow crept again forward, picked up the miner's lamp, and stole silently to the old man's side. Only for a moment it waited there, and then crept back until it paused at the opening of the shaft which led again downward to the sixth level. Very faintly a sound came up from the blackness below—the sound of a girl's voice singing. Amid the darkness no eye could see the expression on the shadow's face. For an instant it stood poised at the mouth of the shaft; then, quickly and yet with caution, began its descent.
CHAPTER VIII
[THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION]
As the judge rose from his desk he sighed. His face was troubled, his whole manner vaguely dissatisfied. It was the last day of the trial, and from the evidence, from the district attorney's all but completed argument, from the whole manner in which the case had been tried, he felt certain that the jury could come but to one conclusion, and that their verdict would condemn to death the sodden, miserable wretch who now for three days had sat in the prisoner's box, listening, seemingly without comprehension, to what was being said, acting throughout as if he scarcely realized that in all this dramatic spectacle he was the central figure, to watch whose chance for life or death all these people had come day after day to crowd the little court room, sitting enthralled with a terrible fascination as the lawyers for prosecution and defense fought their fight of thrust and parry—with a man's life for the prize. "Guilty" would be the verdict, and doubtless a verdict well justified by the evidence, and yet—and the judge, half unconsciously, sighed again.
The court officer, blue coated, gold buttoned, portly, imposing, threw open the door leading into the court room. "Court!" he cried in resounding tones, and the crowd, rising as the judge entered, with a little flutter of expectancy sank back again into their places as he took his seat on the bench, gazing down through his gold-bowed spectacles at the familiar scene.