Free Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

room, and as they breathed deeply, it slowly died away to nothing.
    “It will help,” Joe said. “Even if it was a little, it will help.”
    “Damned little,” Rody said, “but you’re right, Joe. It’ll help.”
    “How deep are you?” Frank asked. He started to shift his body and caught himself with a sharp gasp.
    “Four feet—maybe five. She’s tough going.”
    Joe lay with his face close to the ground. The air was close and hot, every breath a struggle. When he breathed, he seemed to get nothing. It left him gasping, struggling for air. The others were the same. Light and air were only a memory now, a memory of some lost paradise.
    How long had they been here? Only Frank had a watch, but it was broken, so there was no way of calculating the time. It seemed hours since that crash. Somehow it had been so different from what he had expected. He had believed it would come with a thundering roar, but there was just a splintering sound, a slide of muck, a puff of wind that put their lights out, then a long slide, a trickling of sand, a falling stone. They had lacked even the consolation of drama.
    Whatever was to come of it would not be far off now. Whatever happened must be soon. There came no sound, no breath of moving air, only the thick, sticky air and the heat. They were all panting now, gasping for each breath.
    Rody sat down suddenly, the pick slipping from his fingers.
    “Let me,” Joe said.
    He swung the pick, then swung it again.
    When he stopped, Bert said, “Did you hear something?”
    They listened, but there was no sound.
    “Maybe they ain’t tryin’,” Rody said. “Maybe they think we’re dead.
    “Can you imagine Tom Chambers spendin’ his good money to get us out of here?” Rody said. “He don’t care. He can get a lot of miners.”
    Joe thought of those huge, weighted timbers in the Big Stope. Nothing could have held that mass when it started to move. Probably the roof of the Big Stope had collapsed. Up on top there would be a small crowd of waiting people now. Men, women, and children. Still, there wouldn’t be so many as in Nevada that time. After all, Bert was the only one down here with children.
    But suppose others had been trapped? Why were they thinking they were the only ones?
    The dull thud of the pick sounded again. That was Rody back at work. He could tell by the power. He listened, his mind lulled into a sort of hypnotic twilight where there was only darkness and the sound of the pick. He heard the blows, but he knew he was dying. It was no use. He couldn’t fight it any longer.
    Suddenly the dull blows ceased. Rody said, “Hey! Listen!” He struck again, and it was a dull sound, a hollow sound.
    “Hell!” Rody said. “That ain’t no ten feet!”
    “Let’s have some light over here,” Rody said, “Frank—?”
    He took the light from Frank’s hand. The light was down to a feeble flicker now, no longer the proud blade of light that had initially stabbed at the darkness.
    Rody peered, then passed the lamp back to Frank.
    “There should be a staging down there,” Frank’s voice was clear. “They were running a stopper off it to put in the overhead rounds.”
    Rody swung, then swung again, and the pick went through. It caught him off balance, and he fell forward, then caught himself. Cool air was rushing into the drift end, and he took the pick and enlarged the hole.
    Joe sat up. “God!” he said. “Thank God!”
    “Take it easy, you guys, when you go down,” Frank said. “That ladder may have been shaken loose by blasting or the cave-in. The top of the ladder is on the left-hand side of the raise. You’ll have to drop down to the staging, though, and take the ladder from there. It’ll be about an eight- or nine-foot drop.”
    He tossed a small stone into the hole, and they heard it strike against the boards down below. The flame of the light was bright now as more air came up through the opening. Frank stared at them, sucking air into his