The boy’s shoulders shook once. “He worked like er horse—now it’s all gone an’ he’s in dere—” The face was contorted out of all humanity, but he held the tears back.
Bud leaped from his horse. “Never you mind, Chessy lad!” he cried, hugging up the little figure, “we’ll get him out of that, by God!—Could we haul him out the way you went?”
“No, dere ain’t room—an’ if you touch dat roof hard—” he shuddered.
Bud sucked in his breath. “If you weren’t the sandy little man to try it!” he said. He stood a moment in silence going over it all.
“Ches,” he said, “there ain’t any time to lose. If Jim’s cut like that he may bleed to death in there when we could save him all right if we had him outside.
“There’s a party of miners down the road eight mile. They was having their grub as I went by. Chances are they’ll be there yet. They’ve got four men and a team. I could ride back, but I ought to be here working. Do you think you could stick on old Buck and ride there?”
“I kin.”
“By God! I hate to do it—but there ain’t any other way!” The big man ground his teeth together. “I hate to do it—damned if I’ll do it!”
Ches caught his hand. “I kin make it, Bud,” he pleaded; “I cuddent do nothin’ if I stayed here, an’ you could do a heap. Put me up and let me try.”
“All right,” said Bud. “The good Lord kept you from getting hurt in the tunnel, perhaps He’ll see you through again. Shut your eyes and hold on tight when you strike the high places, and don’t touch a rein—leave it all to old Buck.”