chapter 23

Muzo

It had been a fortnight since the duel.

The British officer’s bullet had gone straight through Nate’s shoulder. At first, Nate had felt nothing and had heard nothing, just the ringing in his ears. But then a strange creeping weakness had invaded his legs and his vision had blurred, he became light-headed, and blackness overcame him.

Luckily, the Englishman’s ball had passed through his shoulder. The wound had now healed to the point where his complaining was starting to annoy his comrades. They felt he should be more thankful he wasn’t badly hurt and for Bolívar allowing him to stay with the llaneros while he recovered.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a horse and rider approaching.

Only when the rider dismounted and began to walk toward him did Nate recognize Daniel O’Leary.

“The doctor says you’re quite well healed, Bidwell. It’s time you left us.”

“I suppose I should thank Bolívar, but all I’m getting out of this in the end is a sore shoulder.”

“You’re lucky to be alive, but I think you know that,” O’Leary said. “The quartermaster will see to provisioning you. So where to next, Yank?”

“Back to the second oldest profession in the world.”

“Let me guess. Trading gems?”

“I always said if I ever found myself this far south, I’d have to visit the Muzo mines.”

“Santander’s aide used to live in Maripi, not far from Muzo. All he can talk about are the emeralds of Muzo. From what he says, it’s just about a week or so journey northeast of here.”

“The most sought-after gems in the world, Daniel. Back home around the docks when I was a boy, I’d hear sailors speak of the emeralds of Muzo with the same awe as the rubies of Ceylon. I reckoned they were fairy stories, like the Arabian Nights or something.”

“I’ve heard that the Spaniards guard the mine quite closely. The Indian laborers aren’t even allowed to leave the site—they live and work there, a couple hundred of them.”

When Nate looked surprised, O’Leary added, “No one leaving the mine means no smuggling, right?” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll find El Jefe.”

“The lost emerald?”

O’Leary asked, “Isn’t it supposed to be the most valuable gem in the world?”

“Right,” Nate replied derisively, “a perfect emerald larger than a grown man’s fist. Worth a king’s ransom. It’s a lot of nonsense, Captain—it doesn’t exist, except in people’s imagination. Like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

“Now that’s real, Yank—every Irishman knows that,” O’Leary said, enjoying himself.

“El Jefe sounds more like an Irish fairy tale than anything else,” Nate said, not taken in by O’Leary’s wit. “All I hope to do is pick up a few quality stones and make enough money trading them up north to buy my way back home.”

“So that’s the long-term plan?”

“Been a while since I found anything to commit to,” Nate replied. “And it never was my idea to come down here in the first place—despite the rumors. I was dragooned out of the States onto a ship bound for Cartagena. Seems I was expendable to some people, but luckily it didn’t work out that way.”

“I understand Muzo can be a dangerous place,” the Irish officer said, mounting his horse. “Especially if anyone finds out you fought for Bolívar.”

After ten days in the rain, tramping over mountains, across freezing páramos, and through steaming tropical valleys, Nate was relieved to finally be approaching the town of Muzo.

Native Colombians were typically very friendly and welcoming. But as the American approached the emerald country, a noticeable sullenness entered into his interactions with not only the people but the land itself. Perhaps the threadbare rope bridges on the trail to Muzo contributed to the peevish nature of the population. But it was more than that. An indefinable heaviness sat over the area.

“At least I still have you, Jenny.” He found himself talking to the mule and laughed. He realized he was in serious need of company.

Dealing in precious gems elsewhere was straightforward. In any sizable town in Colombia and Venezuela, there would be a store or plaza where stones could be traded at a particular time of the day. If you knew your business and had some capital, there were always deals to be made.

But this was the first time Nate had tried to acquire gems at an actual mine. His plan had been to bargain with the mestizos who worked the tailings. If nothing turned up, it might be possible to approach a friendly guard.

He hesitated at the edge of the town, under a cloudy sky. He was unsure of the direction to the mine and decided a hot breakfast at a café with the locals wouldn’t go astray. He set off down the main street, hoping to find a place in the village.

The street was deserted at that early hour. A breeze descended from the surrounding hills, swirling about the lone stranger and his mule. A skeletal pig rooted through some trash and a couple of mangy dogs wandered aimlessly nearby.

Muzo might be the most miserable place on this continent, with its ramshackle huts and single mucky lane serving as the town’s main thoroughfare. Located in the center of the fabled gem-producing district for nearly two hundred years, Muzo nonetheless looked as though it had been thrown together the week before. The prospects of a refreshing bath and decent meal were fading rapidly.

A few hardy folks emerged from their homes. A man leaving his shack gave one of the dogs in the road a hard kick for no apparent reason. A silent glare met Nate’s polite request for directions to the mine.

He passed a couple of small open-air cantinas, deserted at this hour, their thatched roofs looking ready to disintegrate with the slightest gust. About halfway to the end of the small town, Nate had almost completely lost hope, when he detected the aroma of coffee wafting from what looked like a log shack that opened onto the street. Supported by sturdy wooden corner posts, it was one of the few structures with a tiled roof. A ribbon of blue smoke drifted upward from a chimney.

He tied the mule to a post that would be visible from inside. Before he entered, the American frontiersman checked his powder, slipped the dragon back into its holster, and loosed his facón in its sheath.

Careful not to hit his head on the low roof beam, Nate entered. The air was dry and warm. The room was lit by one small window. In the semidarkness, the floor and tables appeared clean. There were three people inside—not bad for this early hour. One of them should be a talker.

A sad-looking man with greasy black hair, mostly hidden under a dirty white bandana, and wearing a sort of apron, which might have been red at one time but was now stained dark brown, poked a bed of glowing coals in the corner fireplace, throwing up small yellow flames as the sticks on top ignited. He went back to preparing breakfast for the regulars.

A short man in a flannel shirt standing close to the fire conversed with the cook while another man sat at a table, perched on the flat side of a cut log. The man at the table scooped food into a mouth framed by a bushy black mustache.

A pot of steaming hot coffee sat invitingly next to a jug of chicha on a high table across from the fireplace. The cook placed cornbread on the table, along with a pot of eggs in boiling water.

He went back to frying something that looked like capybara.

Nate said firmly, “Coffee and eggs.”

The cook looked up from the fire, surprised that another customer had come in. “Help yourself,” he said gruffly and nodded toward a narrow shelf holding several cracked and chipped ceramic mugs, “and there is bread, some butter. Not much else. Too early.”

“I won’t require anything else—except perhaps some advice.” Nate kept one eye on his mule as he got his breakfast.

“I’d like to buy some emeralds,” Nate said loudly, “I hear this is the place.”

At his table, a spoonful of eggs briefly hesitated on its way to Bushy Mustache’s mouth.

The cook sighed loudly. “There’s no trading here—it’s not allowed in town. It only encourages smuggling.”

Without turning to look at Nate, Bushy Mustache belched out, “Which is punishable by death.” He took a large swallow of weak liquor and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He stood, wiped his hands on the front of his trousers, and walked over. “I can help you. Maybe you like El Jefe, huh? Big as your fist and green as death.”

Nate hid his amusement. What a horse’s ass. He’d met more men like Mustache in his father’s orbit than he would care to recollect. Over by the fire, the man in the flannel shirt put on his hat and walked out.

Nate asked, “How much?”

The man picked at his teeth. “Two silver reales for directions to the mine; I’ll even draw you a map.”

Nate was not inclined to stay in Muzo any longer than necessary. “Let me think about it while I eat.”

Mustache grinned, his smile blemished by several burnished silver teeth. “Of course, you cannot leave without some of José’s chigüiro. It would hurt his feelings.” Nate didn’t like his smile.

Nate rode out of town in the early afternoon. He didn’t pay for a map; the way to the mine would naturally carry the most traffic, and the road should be well tracked. He did learn from a smithy, who overcharged him for a bridle bit, that the mine was about ten kilometers to the west. He was determined to get there well before dark.

Leaving town, the main street strayed to the southwest though cultivated fields. After a half hour’s travel, the road entered a thick forest.

“Bit quiet in here, isn’t it, Jenny?” he mused. The shadows ahead swallowed the brown sweep of track. “Be a lot more settling if we could see further down this road.”

He led the mule along for another quarter of an hour or so. In that time only one wagon passed, going back toward town; the driver cast his eyes down and didn’t speak. Nate wasn’t surprised at the lack of traffic but did wonder where the ambush would take place.

He knew that men like Mustache didn’t make a living without getting their hands dirty. He also knew his leaving Muzo had been watched. There wasn’t much he could do, though, beyond having his weapons primed and ready. A man couldn’t do more than weigh the risks and take every precaution. It was up to fate after that.

He came to a fork in the road. The left branch was the smaller of the two and wound quickly away to the south; the right fork was wider and turned directly north.

In the dense woods and tropical mist, it was difficult to see. A light rain began to fall. He was told the road to the left eventually met the Río Itoco and, from there, followed the river upstream to the mine. He strained, trying to see into the gloom ahead.

But that road looked less traveled. The smooth surface was pitted with sprouting weeds. No one had gone that way in a while.

The route to the right, however, had multiple wagon ruts worn into the path, which made sense if this were the road to the mine. He dismounted and led the mule down the rutted path. Wide enough for wagons to pass, the trail was firm underfoot, as though from constant traffic—a good sign. Several horsemen had passed recently.

Giant ferns rose overhead, and the dense banks of vegetation enclosing both sides of the road fashioned a dark-green tunnel.

Something was not quite right—it was much too silent. The noisy chatter of birds and tree-dwelling animals ceased. Jenny showed a sudden, unusual reluctance to continue. He had a bad feeling about this.

He coaxed the mule down the track and drew back the blanket covering the animal, revealing the pistol and blunderbuss. Whoever was out there was in for a nasty surprise. This was not his first encounter with thieves.

Through the haze, he could just make out the downed tree blocking the road.

He’d expected this from the moment he entered that dismal town. It was always the same, with the same result. Where would they come from this time? The vegetation was too thick on either side of the road.

He nonchalantly turned around, calm and deliberate, keeping Jenny by his side. The mule kept pace with him.

He came around the turn and saw them waiting at the crossroad. Five of them. With machetes.