TWICE DEAD.
They had not long to dig, as the soil was yielding, and the strong arms of the excited and determined men drove the spades deep into the hillside. Men clamored to relieve each other, and in their wild desire to force their way through, yelled and even pitched dirt away from the workmen with their hands. Never before had the hillock, in all its experience of murders, robberies and crime, looked upon such a wild, frenzied scene.
Furious were the blows showered upon the mold wall—strong the arms of the resolute, high-strung men that wielded them, and eager the hearts that beat for rescue. Indians, fatigue, hunger—all were forgotten; and as fast as a shovelful of dirt was cast from the blade it was thrown far back by the rapidly moving hands of those for whom there were no shovels.
At last the foremost man, Sam, uttered a sharp cry, and struck a furious blow at the wall; his shovel had gone through—there was a third chamber. At the same moment a loud report rung out inside, a woman’s voice shrieked, and Sam staggered back, clasping his left arm above the elbow with his right hand; some one from the inside had discharged a rifle at him.
Furious before, the excitement now had become frenzy. Several ferocious blows were struck at the hole; it widened; several more, and the men plunged headlong, found themselves in a third chamber, with a body under their feet—a soft, pliant body. Regardless of aught else, they drew it to the gap, and recognized the features—the face—the form of—Kissie.
They heard a noise, a clamor above, and ran eagerly outside, leaving Sam, pale and sick, yet wild with delight, and Mr. Wheeler, caressing the fair girl, who had fainted away. It is useless to describe the scene—pen can not do it; and knowing the reader’s imagination is far more powerful than any description, we leave him to fancy it; it was a meeting of intense joy.
Arriving outside, the men, headed by Cimarron Jack, found the guide and Burt engaged in a fierce struggle with a gigantic man in a serape, a conical hat and black plume. Knife in hand, backed up against the hill, with swarthy face glowing, and black eyes sparkling, he was lunging furiously at them in silence. Colossal in form, expert in the use of his knife, rendered desperate by his small chances of escape, the Trailer fought like a demon and kept his smaller opponents at bay.
“Don’t kill him!” shouted Jack; “we must take him alive. Let me in to him—stand back, boys. I know who he is—the Trailer.”
At the mention of his name, the latter turned and scowled at him, and hoarsely cried:
“Cimarron Jack—my old enemy—may you burn in ——!”