The rescued men were in much better condition than the ones who had fought the fire to save them. They had reached the precarious safety of the crosscut in time to avail themselves of its comparatively fresh air. The volunteers were worn out, fagged, and burned to a toast. Some of them had inhaled gases and smoke that would enfeeble their lungs for months. They moved like automatons, their energy gone, their strength exhausted. The cage came down and the men began to pile in. Hugh was standing close behind a huge man whom his eyes never left. He pushed into the lower level of the cage after him. The car shot upward. Hugh drew something from his pocket. In the darkness his hand moved gently to and fro. It found what it was seeking. There was a click, a second click, a furious, raucous oath of rage like the bellow of a maddened bull elephant. Hugh had slipped handcuffs on the thick wrists of Dutch and locked them. His thumb jammed hard into the spine of the desperado. “Steady in the boat,” he murmured. “This gun’s liable to spill sudden.” The car rose into the fresh daylight of the young morning. CHAPTER XXVIII “AS GOOD AS THE WHEAT” Through the crowd at the mouth of the mine word flashed that the cage was coming up. All night they had waited there, the wives and children of the imprisoned miners, the residents of Piodie who knew one or another of the men caught in the raging inferno below. The women and the little ones had wept themselves dry of tears long since. They stood now with taut nerves, eyes glued to the cage as it swept into sight. Someone started a cheer as the first of the rescued men stepped out to the platform. A wail of anguish rose above it and killed the cheer. It came from a young wife with a shawl over her head. She had asked a question of one of the men and learned that her husband was dead. The crowd pressed close to those who had come up from the fire. A woman gave a sob of joy and fell into the arms of a grimy Cousin Jack. Another caught a glimpse of her husband’s face and fainted. In the excitement two men pushed through the crowd toward a pile of lumber. The one in front moved with sullen reluctance. Only the pressure against his back kept him going. Nobody noticed that he was handcuffed. From underneath the lumber pile the second man drew a sawed-off shotgun. “We’ll be movin’ down to town,” he told his captive. Dutch shouted one word, “Dodson.” The mine owner swung round, and at the first glance understood the situation. He turned pale and stepped behind Carstairs. Not for a moment did he doubt that McClintock had come to kill Dutch. Would he make a clean sweep of it and shoot him, too? Convicted of guilt, he crouched behind his superintendent shaking like an aspen. “Don’t let him kill me,” he begged.