Frank could see the barrier now that he had only felt earlier. It was a tumbled mess formed mostly of rock. With the practiced swings of men who had been using picks for years, several of the miners chipped away at the barricade, loosening chunks of rock so that other men could pick them up and carry them out or pile them in the wheelbarrows to be hauled out later. The foreman didn’t have to issue orders. The miners were already doing what needed to be done.
The men worked in silence for the most part, the only noise being grunts of effort and the chinking impact of picks against stone. But after a while, Red Mike Fowler began to curse bitterly and said, “This never would’ve happened if Woodford had listened to us. We told him this mine wasn’t safe! Now my brother’s trapped in there, or maybe dead already!”
Some of the other men muttered agreement with Fowler’s complaints. The foreman spoke up, saying, “Damn it, that’s not true! There was no reason for this shaft to collapse. The timbers were in fine shape, and the rock was stable!”
Fowler swung his pick with savage strength and drove it into a crack between two pieces of rock. “Yeah,” he said, “we can all see for ourselves just how safe it is!”
Time didn’t mean much underground like this. Frank had no idea how long they had been working at clearing the blocked area. He knew he wouldn’t be much good with a pick, so he took over the job of using one of the wheelbarrows, rolling it toward the mouth of the shaft when it was full. His muscles strained against the weight of the rocks, and after several trips he was drenched with sweat.
At last, an excited shout went up, filling the tunnel, and Frank knew that meant the rescuers had broken through the barrier. Everyone crowded forward to see as the air moving through the shaft from inside the mine picked up. The irregular opening that had been created was a small one, no more than a foot square, but that was enough for Mike Fowler to put his face up to it and shout, “Gib! Gib, can you hear me?”
A voice answered faintly from the other side. “Mike! Is that you?”
A triumphant cheer went up from the miners as they heard the proof that someone was still alive on the other side of the cave-in.
“Yeah, it’s me!” Fowler called back. “Is everybody all right over there?”
“Most of us,” Gib Fowler replied. “A couple of men were caught when the ceiling came down, but the rest of us weren’t hurt!” His voice cracked a little from the strain as he went on. “Are you gonna get us out of here?”
“Hang on!” his brother told him. “We’ll have you out of there in no time!”
Actually it took another hour of hard, backbreaking labor before the hole was enlarged enough for Gib Fowler and the nine other miners with him to crawl through to safety. They were taken out into the sunlight and open air, which they greeted with gratitude.
As Frank came out of the mine, he saw that Tip Woodford had arrived at the Lucky Lizard, summoned from the settlement along with his daughter Diana. They wore expressions of great concern that eased a bit when they saw the men who had been rescued. Woodford’s frown returned, though, as he counted the miners and said, “We’re two men short, aren’t we?”
Mike Fowler turned toward him and said, “Damn right we are, Woodford! There are still two men in that mine, buried under tons of rock because of you!”
Tip looked shocked at the accusation. Diana was surprised, too, but also angry. “What are you talking about?” she demanded. “My father didn’t have anything to do with that cave-in!”
“He had everything to do with it, little missy,” Fowler snapped. “All of those timbers that shored up the ceiling should have been replaced when the mine was opened up again, not just some of them.”
“I inspected every one of those timbers myself. Most of ’em were fine,” Tip insisted. “We replaced all the ones that needed replacin’.”
“That’s what you say now,” Fowler responded with a sneer. “You didn’t care if the shaft fell in on the poor miners you pay slave wages to! A couple of men get killed, you’ll just replace ’em with some other unlucky devils!”
The miners’ mood was starting to turn ugly. From the edge of the crowd, Frank heard a lot of angry muttering. Tip looked confused and hurt and unsure of himself, and he moved closer to Diana and gripped her arm.
“Go on in the office,” he told her. “You don’t need to be out here.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not leaving. Somebody’s got to talk some sense into these men.”
It wouldn’t be her, Frank thought. Tip was right—Diana needed to get inside one of the buildings where she would be safe in case trouble broke out. Three of Tip’s foremen were on hand, and Frank figured they would back their boss, but there were a couple of dozen angry, resentful miners crowding around them.
It was time for him to step in.
Raising his voice so he could be heard over the hubbub, Frank called in a powerful, commanding tone, “Everybody just settle down!”
That brought a moment of surprised silence, but the respite didn’t last long. Mike Fowler said, “This is none of your business, Marshal. We ain’t in town! You’ve got no right to interfere.”
“I’m making it my right,” Frank snapped. His right hand rested on the butt of his Colt. Men eyed him warily and began to move back. Everybody here knew that before pinning on the badge as marshal of Buckskin, Frank had been the famous gunfighter known as The Drifter.
“This don’t have anything to do with you,” Red Mike insisted.
“Tip Woodford’s my friend, and so is Miss Diana. If you think I’m going to stand by while they’re threatened, mister, you’re dead wrong.”
“What are you gonna do, Morgan? Shoot all of us?”
“No,” Frank said, “but I can damn sure shoot you if I need to.”
Fowler’s face tensed and turned pale at the cold menace in Frank’s voice.
“Tip,” Frank went on, “you and Diana both get out of here. Go on back to town.”
“The Lucky Lizard is mine, blast it,” Tip said. “I’m as upset about what happened as anybody, but I still don’t think it was my fault.”
“You just don’t give a damn about the people who work for you,” Fowler accused. “Well, we won’t work for you anymore, will we, boys? We’re on strike!”
“Strike! Strike!” the other miners began chanting.
Tip looked sick. “You can’t strike,” he said. “That’ll shut the mine down!”
“That’s right,” Fowler said with an ugly grin. “We’re shuttin’ you down, Woodford. We won’t work for you again until you agree to meet all our demands!”
“I…I’ll hire more men!” Tip shot back. Frank wished that he hadn’t. Under the circumstances, that was one of the worst things he could have said.
“You try it and you’ll be sorry,” Fowler threatened. “So will anybody who tries to work for you.”
One of the supervisors said, “We need to finish getting that shaft cleaned out….”
“Clean it out yourself!” Fowler said. “Come on, boys. Back to the barracks!”
With angry scowls and muttered, defiant curses, the miners tramped off toward the barracks building. “God,” Tip Woodford said. “What am I gonna do now?”
Frank nodded toward the mine entrance. “I’m no expert, but I’d say you need to finish getting that shaft cleaned out, like this fella said, so you can see how bad the damage is.” Frank’s voice grew more solemn as he added, “And there are a couple of bodies in there that need to be gotten out too.”
Tip sighed and nodded, then said, “You’re right. With only a handful of us, it ain’t gonna be an easy job. I won’t blame you fellas if you don’t want to stick.”
The foremen looked at each other, then one of them said, “We signed on to do a job. We’ll do it.”