The silver mines were rough passages cut deep into the heart of a mountain, with tiny cells hacked into dank corridors off the main artery. Rickety wooden frames were built into the sides, clinging like vines to the rock walls that rose a hundred feet high.
It was Steve’s worst nightmare come true, an endless litany of labor and wretched conditions. Before, when he had been sent to the mines by Devereaux, he had resisted the guards’ attempts to force him to work. This time, he was a model laborer, blending seamlessly into the anonymous file of men.
But he waited.
The right time would present itself, and he would grab it. Then he’d be free again.
The man who had befriended him upon his arrival was manacled to him, their leg shackles tearing flesh but not their fierce desire to escape.
“When you go,” he said softly one day, waiting until the armed guard had passed them, “take me with you.”
Steve slid him a wary glance. “What makes you think I intend to escape?”
“You have that look about you. But you, I think, are much smarter than the others who have tried and failed.”
Juan Rodriguez was a political prisoner, a man who had spoken out too boldly and found himself arrested and sentenced to twenty years hard labor.
“I miss my family most,” he said bitterly. “My wife was pregnant when I was arrested. I do not even know if I have a son or a daughter. Or a wife any longer.”
Steve thought of Ginny, and he thought of their children. What would happen if he didn’t manage to escape? But Ginny must be looking for him; she was resourceful. She would find him, or at least go to his grandfather.
Ah, Christ, I hope she doesn’t think I have just gone off on business for Bishop again! Where the devil is Paco?
He was supposed to have met him there in that tiny cantina, but all hell had broken loose when the soldiers had come in “looking for escaped rebel prisoners,” though the men they had taken were only honest civilians.
It was war. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time could get a man killed if he wasn’t careful.
Or earn him freedom if he was bold enough to take a chance….
Steve had been in this exact same situation before. He’d seized his chance then, and he would do it again. This time, at least, there was no doctor with unnatural desires to drive him to the brink of surrender. No, this time he knew how to survive what must be tolerated, and just wait for his chance. It would come. Sooner or later, it would come.
Days blended seamlessly, night no different than day save for the thin edge of light beyond the dank, dark walls that smothered them. Leg and wrist irons were not welded this time, but fastened with locks and keys, dragging in heavy metallic thuds as they worked. There were three men to a cell, all shackled together, sharing space and scant food that was little better than fare fed to livestock. Water was provided in a small bucket with a battered dipper, and more often than not, fetid.
Work was a blur of darkness barely broken by flickering torches and the orange-yellow glow of lanterns that illuminated sweating, straining bodies streaked with soot. Tunnels stank of rank sweat, creosote and urine, almost overpowering at times.
And always, as before, there were the sadistic guards who enjoyed meting out punishment or reminders of who was in charge.
Steve plodded on, forcing his mind to think of more pleasant days, anything but the reality of his situation. It was the only way he could survive at times, the only way he kept from doing something careless or stupid.
One of the guards paused behind him, and the hiss of the lash was a brief warning before it struck.
“You! Get back to work. El jefe tolerates no idle gringos!”
Head bent, he ignored the fiery bite of the lash into his back and kept working, refusing to be provoked. Chains rattled as he toiled, dragging at his wrists and ankles in a cruel reminder that he had been careless enough to repeat a lesson he should have learned well the first time.
But this time, there was the certainty that Ginny would do whatever it took to find him.
“Where are we?” he asked one day when they had been taken back to the tunnel from their tiny cell. Juan gave him a strange look.
“You do not know?”
A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I wasn’t exactly awake when they brought me here. It’s hard to keep up with where you are when a dozen soldiers have managed to bash your skull in for you.”
Juan nodded understanding, a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. The steady smack of steam machines filled the black passageway with a racketing sound that muffled their conversation.
“We are in Chihuahua. This is the Galena, a silver mine owned by el jefe, the rich norteamericano who promises to pay el presidente but gives most to himself and the men in his employ. Greedy bastards!” He spat to show his contempt.
“El presidente will soon find himself needing silver if Díaz succeeds, and I think he will,” Steve replied, and when he saw a guard approaching, bent again to his work. Head down, he endured the brief stinging bite of the lash as the guard passed by.
The Galena. It struck him like a heavy fist that he was no doubt working in the mine owned by William Brandon—U.S. senator and Lerdo’s supporter. God! If it wasn’t so damned infuriating, it would be ironic. Did Brandon know that his son-in-law was a prisoner in his mine? Hell, it may very well be at his instigation. After all, Brandon wasn’t exactly a stickler when it came to eliminating obstacles, and lately Steve had proven to be a most irritating block to getting what he wanted—Mexican silver.
Just how rich did a man have to get to be satisfied? And how low did a man have to sink to justify using these methods of getting cheap labor?
By God, he would pin the senator to the wall for it this time! Ginny would just have to understand.