After a while,
from not being bothered none, I got thinking I wasn't worth while
with them.
Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the old Virginia mine
then. We'd got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was
thinking of cross-cutting. One day Johnny went to town, and that
same day I got in a hurry and left my gun at camp.
I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and
when I see by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in
three good shots, tamped 'em down, lit the fusees, and started to
climb out.
It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then
have to climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind
you. I never did get used to it. You keep thinking, "Now
suppose there's a flaw in that fuse, or something, and she goes
off in six seconds instead of two minutes? where'll you be
then?" It would give you a good boost towards your home on high,
anyway.
So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without
looking--and then I froze solid enough. There, about
fifty feet away, climbing up the hill on mighty tired hosses, was
a dozen of the ugliest Chiricahuas you ever don't want to meet,
and in addition a Mexican renegade named Maria, who was worse
than any of 'em.
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