The closer Slocum rode to Wilson’s Creek, the edgier he got. The town might have been a thing alive, a malevolent beast waiting for him to enter and be devoured. The smell from the burned wood had new odors added to it. Some weren’t unpleasant. The fire he had set using the whiskey gave a heady tang to the evening breeze, but another odor turned his stomach. During the war he had come across too many fallen soldiers burned to death to ever forget that stench. Whether the citizens of Wilson’s Creek burned dead bodies or added to the funeral pyres with live ones gave a speculation Slocum became increasingly reluctant to discover.
He fervently hoped the Sioux war party had tracked Mackenzie and killed him for offending their gods. As cunning as Mackenzie had proven in the past, Slocum had to believe he had returned to the town. If so, the death blowing on the night wind might be laid entirely at his feet.
At his talons.
Slocum touched the ebony handle of his Colt, wanting Mackenzie squarely in the sights. If the Sioux had failed to kill him, Slocum wanted that pleasure.
The road he had found came from the north into town. He headed directly around the edges of what passed for civilization in Wilson’s Creek and rode to the mines. Erika hid out somewhere. He wished her nothing but a safe escape. Rawlins, if he was anywhere, might be in the mines or at the mystery project north of town. Linc Watson definitely was in the mine—had been. Slocum had promised Alicia he would rescue her pa, if “rescue” fit what had happened between them. She’d extorted his cooperation with a promise of directing him to Rawhide Rawlins. Not for the first time Slocum wondered if she’d lied to him about even seeing his onetime partner.
He finally decided it didn’t matter. Freeing Watson and as many others as he could was worthwhile all by its lonesome. Anything that upset Mackenzie and enraged him made Slocum happier. Rubbing his still sore wrists and aching from the deep cuts on his body every time he moved gave Slocum a constant reminder of Mackenzie and his thunderbird disguise.
The ore-crushing plant worked to reduce the ore to dust. Shackled prisoners turned cranks and moved conveyor belts of the crushed gold ore into the amalgam plant. Huge pillars of steam rose from the boilers where the mercury-gold amalgam was reduced, separating out the gold and returning the mercury to a liquid state to be captured and reused. No matter the destruction in the town, the plant never closed, the ore conveyors never slackened their pace—and that meant the mines were once more disgorging ore.
The dynamited shaft looked the worse for its collapse, but hard work had reopened the tunnel into the side of the mountain. The narrow rails disappeared into the hillside and two empty ore carts had dumped their load at the end, almost ten yards from the mine’s mouth.
He dismounted and led his horse to a spot where it wouldn’t be seen. Only then did he return and examine the carts. He put one foot on a rail and felt vibration from deep in the mine. Another cart rumbled and rattled its way out with a heavy load of rock.
Waltzing into the mine held no appeal for him. Trying to kill the guards one by one was a fool’s errand. From what he suspected about Wilson’s Creek, everyone was nervier than a rotted tooth. The slightest hint of anything wrong would bring down the wrath of a small army on his head.
Slocum hiked to the guard shack where he had seen those off duty sleeping earlier. The tiny bunkhouse was empty. He slipped in and lit a lamp to get a better look around. A big key ring hung on a nail near the door. He took it down and examined the half-dozen keys. All looked identical.
He worked one off and tucked it into his coat pocket. As he went to return the key ring, he stopped. On impulse he took a second key and slid it into the top of his boot. Only then did he replace the ring.
He blew out the lamp and returned to where the two ore carts rested at the end of the track. Snatching up a tarp, he crawled into the cart nearest the mine and pulled the cloth over him. Hunkered down in the dark, rough metal cutting at his already lacerated body, he waited.
The vibrations coming up from the wheels grew stronger. He almost cried out when a sudden impact against the side of the ore cart jostled him around.
“Dump that ore. The crusher crew will pick it up. Get all three of the empty carts back into the mine. There’s a lot of debris that needs to be moved out right now.”
Muffled complaints were met with the sound of a fist hitting flesh.
“You shut that pie hole of yours. The boss wanted double the production this week, and we’re behind. Ain’t even one shift and we’re behind.”
A second blow and then Slocum’s cart rocked. For a moment he thought it was going to topple off the tracks, but then new grating sounds told him the third cart already retraced its way into the mine. Seconds later, he was tossed about as his ore cart clanked after the other one.
He chanced a quick look out and saw only the intense blackness of the mine’s belly. He was being pushed into the mine where he wanted, but a sense of helplessness hit him hard. At any instant a guard might pull back the tarp and find him. Or the shackled miner might see the chance to curry favor with his captors and turn him over. Clutching his pistol, Slocum endured the long trip into the mountainside. When the cart stopped, he had to be ready to act.
The cart stopped sooner than he’d anticipated. He waited a moment, then pushed back the tarp and sat up, his six-shooter swinging about as he sought a target. He was alone. Faint yellow light flickered a few yards back along the tracks. A guard beat at a miner with his fists, then added a kick to the man’s midriff as he sank to the floor.
“You don’t work, you don’t get fed.” The guard stalked away, leaving the miner doubled over, clutching his belly.
Before Slocum’s finger curled back far enough on the trigger to end the guard’s life, he disappeared in the darkness. Getting out of the ore cart proved more difficult than it should have. Slocum ached all over and some of his fresh wounds still oozed blood, plastering his shirt to his body. More than this, the roof was so low he had only a couple feet of room between the cart edge and overhanging rock.
He snaked his way over, lost some skin as he went, then fell hard to the ground. The miner moaned and looked in his direction, then held up a miner’s candle to better illuminate Slocum.
“You’re not a guard. You got a number on your forehead. I think.”
Slocum involuntarily touched the spot where he had written the number. He had forgotten about it until now.
“I’m looking for Linc Watson. Where is he?”
“Watson? Oh, yeah, Watson. I remember the name now. He’s working the next drift.”
Slocum went to the man and pulled him to his feet.
“You want out of here?”
“You touched in the head? Of course I do!”
“Help me find Watson, and I’ll get you out of those irons.”
“You do it first.”
Slocum understood why the miner had no reason to trust anyone. Considering the man’s sad condition, Slocum knew he could keep him from bolting and running.
“We work together and the three of us will be drinking whiskey under the night sky,” Slocum promised.
“You have to shoot them off? The chains? Or you got a drift pin? You can pry the shackles off that way. Ain’t nobody can pick the lock. Too many have tried.”
Slocum fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the key. He shoved it into the keyhole and twisted hard. For a heart-stopping instant, he thought it hadn’t opened the lock. Then a dull click signaled the lock giving way.
“You done it. You got me out of the chains.”
Slocum was almost bowled over when the man hugged him and began to cry.
“We can’t stand here lollygagging,” Slocum said. “We don’t get out of this hellhole without Watson.”
The freed miner pointed back down the tunnel, his hand shaking with emotion. Tears ran down his cheeks. Slocum thought he was going to hug him again.
“I’ll hunt for him. You stay here,” Slocum ordered. The man nodded and wiped his nose with his dusty sleeve. “Get the ore cart and push it to the branch in the tracks.”
“It’s not full,” the man said.
“It will be when it leaves the mine,” Slocum said.
The miner wasn’t beyond understanding Slocum’s plan. His head bobbed up and down as he went to push the cart. Even empty, the ore cart was almost more than the man could handle. Mackenzie didn’t feed his slaves well and treated them worse.
Slocum reached the branch. The one he had been sent down was virtually empty with all the activity where he had to free Linc Watson. He rubbed his forehead, hoping to obliterate the numeral there. Visitors to Wilson’s Creek weren’t allowed in the mines. Only slaves and guards. However much of the white number he removed had to do. He pulled his hat low on his forehead and walked boldly down the tracks.
Four miners fitfully used their picks on a vein of quartz. A guard sat on a keg of Giant blasting powder picking his teeth with a long, slender-bladed knife. He didn’t even look up as Slocum swept past. And he didn’t make a sound as Slocum got a step behind him, whipped out his pistol, and swung it hard. The barrel connected with the back of the guard’s head.
Slocum pushed the man to one side and looked around. The miners didn’t even notice. Fights between guards might be common or perhaps the workers’ wills had been completely sapped and they no longer cared. It didn’t matter to Slocum. He used their lethargy to his advantage to go deeper into the mine.
In a small niche hacked out of the rock, he found more blasting powder. The temptation to lay a few feet of black miner’s fuse and blow it, completely destroying the mine, passed quickly. Trapping Mackenzie’s unwilling miners would be as savage as the guards trying to do the same rather than letting their slaves help put out the fire in town.
Farther into the darkness, Slocum saw a guttering candle.
“Watson?”
The light shifted. The miner turned and looked in his direction.
“You came back,” Watson said in amazement. “I didn’t think you would.”
“After the guards dynamited you inside the mine, I thought you might be dead.”
“But you came back for me, even thinking that.” The man’s pick clattered to the floor as he shuffled toward Slocum. “Alicia must be really persuasive.”
“Yeah, she is,” Slocum said, not bothering to mention how he had helped Erika escape before coming to the mines. “You see my partner? Name’s Rawhide Rawlins.”
“Not heard that name. There haven’t been new miners for a couple weeks, not that I’ve seen.”
“Come on,” Slocum said. “I cold-cocked a guard. If another finds him, all hell’s going to be out for lunch.”
“There are a half dozen now,” Watson said.
Slocum hesitated. He hadn’t seen but the one guard.
“Are there other shafts?”
“One branches off to the left. And this one. It’s the main source of the ore now.”
Slocum stopped beside the powder magazine. He used the butt of his six-gun to smash in the top of one wooden cask, then spilled the blasting powder all around. He picked up the small cask and backed toward where he had slugged the guard.
“You can’t blow everything up,” protested Watson. “There are innocent men in here, unless you’re fixing to save them, too. Are you?”
“No,” Slocum said. Then he dropped the almost empty cask, fumbled for a lucifer, and remembered he had given the tin to Erika. Sudden commotion made him look over his shoulder in the direction that would take them to freedom.
“There he is! See? I told you!”
Slocum recognized immediately the voice of the miner he had freed. Whether he had been caught by the guards or had run to them begging for his freedom didn’t matter. Four gunmen blocked his way out of the mine.
“You don’t want me to light this,” Slocum said, thrusting out his six-shooter. The muzzle blast would send out enough sparks and hot lead to ignite the powder.
“The powder. Look at what he’s done. A trail of it runs back to the magazine!” Linc Watson cried.
The effect was what Slocum had hoped for. The guards began backing away.
“Keep going,” Slocum called. He held up his pistol. He could never win a shoot-out, but he threatened mass death with a single shot.
Three of the guards continued to retreat but one showed some gumption.
“You ain’t gonna blow us all up. You’d die along with us.” He lifted his rifle and aimed at Slocum.
Slocum had to push the bluff even farther. He cocked his six-gun, made a dramatic move, and shoved the muzzle down as if to apply it to the gunpowder. The last thing in the world he expected was Watson rushing forward, driving a bony shoulder into his gut, and knocking him backward away from the powder trail. Slocum landed hard on the floor, the six-shooter discharging with an ear-shattering roar. He tried to aim it toward the blasting powder for a second shot.
A boot crushed down on his wrist until he dropped the gun. Then the guard kicked the pistol away. In the flickering light from a few miners’ candles, Slocum looked up into the muzzle of the rifle held in unwavering hands.