A crowd of Mexicans were jabbering. The voices of several Americans carried above the soft slur of the Spanish. Some one was holding lantern over the mouth of the shaft, and cautiously peering down. Up the hill came the sound of running feet.
“Here’s the Doc, now!” called some one.
They showed Dr. Kline the body on the floor of the hoist box. He merely glanced at it, then picking up a burlap sack laid it over the head.
“Where is the other man?” he asked curtly.
Some one, with a quick gesture, pointed towards the shaft. “Down there.”
A small, close set ladder, for use in case of emergency, ran down the shaft. Down this two of the Americans started to climb. The group by the edge watched breathlessly, while the light of their lantern dropped—dropped—dropped.
For the first twenty feet the lantern illuminated the greasy sides of the shaft, bringing out clearly the knots and chinks in the boards. Then the light shrank into the darkness, became a mere dot. After a long minute the dot began to sway back and forth. But so far down was it that it seemed to have a radius only of inches.
“They have found him,” breathed McKay, who had reached the scene. On the iron piping of the shaft pump tapped dully the signal to lower slowly. Loring started for his place at the engine.
“Get to hell out of here! You’ve done enough harm for one night.”