A thin rut of road followed the edge of the narrow barranca leading to the Galena Mine. A hot wind blew over the riders, stirring up clouds of dust that coated leaves and horses in a fine red powder.
Paco rode at the head of the snaking line of mounted men, garbed in a uniform taken from one of the Rurales. It was rugged landscape, cratered and stark in places, with sheer cliffs plunging down to twisted knots of river that looped through rock.
As the small force of men moved carefully down the steep mountainside, Paco glanced at Steve, his dark eyes a little strained at their deception, but glittering with excitement.
“Dios mío! You are crazy to try this, Steve!”
“It won’t be the first time I’ve done it,” Steve said flatly, and it was the truth. Only then, he had gone back to the same prison where he had suffered such degradation of his soul. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about, or to tell. It still haunted him at times, worse than his days here at the Galena, where conditions were harsh but not degrading.
Hooves clattered on rock and saddle leather creaked in air that was thick with shimmering heat. Overhead, the cry of a hawk drifted down, absorbed by rock and twisted limbs of pine trees formed into grotesque shapes by the hot wind.
“But it is such a risk. What if something goes wrong?”
Steve squinted against the sun’s glare; he wore no hat, a shapeless serape slung over his shoulders. “Then shoot the foreman first. Make sure I have a rifle as soon as possible after the shooting starts.”
When they had drawn close Steve’s wrists were manacled, and he rode a horse in the midst of the others, as if he were again a prisoner. Butch Casey—a blue scarf around his neck to hide the raw, red line of his healing wound—rode on one side, Paco on the other. Tige and Charley were to hide and wait, along with a few other men; they’d never pass as Mexicans, not even as reformed bandits.
The men left outside the perimeters of the mine hid in stunted brush and stands of pine that stubbled the red shale and granite rock. A dozen rode forward, boldly approaching the metal gates that blocked the entrance to the mine. A guard stepped out of the shade to confront them.
“¡Alto!”
Paco made a convincing Rurale, arrogantly announcing that they had brought a prisoner to the mine.
A brief argument ensued, with the first man delaying until finally Paco threatened to send the prisoner back. “The governor will not like that, but I will tell him that you, Sergeant Ruiz, refused to open the gates.”
The sergeant’s eyes flicked to Steve, who sat on his horse with his head down, swaying slightly as if weak. Paco shrugged and started to turn the horses, but the guard stopped him, a scowl creasing his forehead.
“¡Ay di mi! Bring him in. I will allow Capitán Delgado to deal with him.”
Paco said slyly, “He has been here before, but this time, you should keep him chained, eh?”
Another guard came up behind the first one, and keys jangled in the lock. “We chain all our prisoners! After the last one escaped, we learned to—Dios! It is him. It is the blue-eyed devil who killed four guards! What is he doing here? He is friends with el presidente, we were told, and there was much trouble after the owner left last time!”
With a careless shrug, Paco said, “He made the mistake of killing the Adjutant General of Spain, and for his crime he has been sent back to prison. It is fitting that he be brought here, eh, where he caused so much trouble before?”
Laughing, the guards said, “El capitán will be most glad to see this one. He was very angry that this prisoner caused so much trouble. Of course, he is too far above himself at times, but it would be foolish to tell him that.”
As Steve was led inside, the manacles around his wrists clanking heavily, he slid his gaze around the high rock walls, the armed guards and the ragged men that strained under the lash of whips to drag up heavy ore cars. Wooden staircases crisscrossed the rock face of the mines, rising as high as a three-story building. Chutes and tracks gleamed in the searing sunlight, metal reflecting bright rays of heat.
“There are so many men,” Paco commented casually as they rode into the open area below the captain’s quarters.
“They are like mules, only cheaper. It is not so big a loss when they die,” one of the guards replied with a shrug.
Delgado met them at the foot of the wooden stairs leading to the offices, his black eyes glittering with angry satisfaction when he saw Steve pulled from his horse.
“So, he has been brought back. This time, he will not find his accommodations quite so comfortable.”
Steve did not look up as Delgado spoke to Paco; he had begun to sweat beneath the heavy wool serape. Below that he wore a loose shirt that covered the .45 stuck into his belt next to his belly. Suddenly it seemed far too small a weapon for what he planned. He wished grimly he’d brought a cannon, something to annihilate the mines as well as the brutal guards.
He was pushed forward a step, his boots scraping on rock.
Delgado stepped close; he stank of sweat and the potent pulque that was brewed by so many Mexicans. Dark patches discolored his brown shirt, and spread under his arms and down the sides. Using the handle of his whip, he shoved it under Steve’s jaw to snap his head back.
“Filth, did you think to escape? You have no protector here now. It is only I, Victor Delgado, who has the power of light and darkness over you. Ah, I see you do not like that! You will like even less what I have planned for you, I can promise you that.”
Hate gleamed in the man’s eyes, the irrational hatred of a sadistic enemy. Delgado. Steve broke out in a cold sweat. The metallic taste of fear filled his mouth and throat, though he had no intention of being left at the mercy of Delgado or the guards again.
Once before, when he had gone back to the prison where he’d been forced to slave, Steve had not been able to free the men chained together. This time he would not leave until every last man bound to servitude in this living hell was set free. There were too many like Juan Rodriguez who had died for no reason, like Juan Rodriguez, who never saw his wife again, never knew if his child had lived.
Stripped to the basics of survival, denied their humanity, the hell of virtual slavery in these mines would be stopped for a while at least, forever if he could manage it.
“I will put him in our manacles,” Delgado was saying. Paco swiftly objected.
“Not until the papers are all signed, Jefe, for I have my orders. He is my responsibility, you see, and I will not take the risk of his escaping you again until he is in your custody.”
Delgado sounded displeased, but agreed. “All these rules are unnecessary, Lieutenant, but if it will hasten the process, I will do it. Come with me. You, Perez! Come and watch the prisoner!”
“My men will watch him,” Paco said coolly, “until the papers are signed. Then he will be yours to do with as you wish.”
Delgado swore softly, but spun on his heel to mount the short flight of stairs that led to the offices, Paco close on his heels.
When the door shut behind them, Steve shifted position, his muscles tense and aching with strain. The sun beat down on his bare head and sweat stuck his cotton shirt to his sides as he waited. The wool serape was heavy, weighing him down. The reassuring press of the pistol cut into his rib cage.
At last Paco appeared in the doorway above them. He held up a small ring of keys and nodded.
It was the signal. Steve twisted his hands inside the loose coil of iron manacles, sliding them free, reaching under his wool serape for his gun at the same time as those with him leaped upon the unsuspecting guards.
The struggle was brief and decisive, the guards brutally overwhelmed. It was done so swiftly that none of the guards across the compound even noticed. Steve bent and took the huge ring of keys from one of the dead guards.
By the time the other guards saw their fallen comrades, they were surrounded; only two resisted, and were quickly defeated. Paco ran to open the gates for Tige and Charley, swinging them wide in a loud shriek of rusty metal.
The prisoners, still manacled, ceased to work, and stared in confusion at the men in Rurales uniform as they went coolly about their business.
Shrugging free of the confining serape, Steve gestured with his pistol to the yawning mouth of a tunnel blasted into the rock.
“The silver is down there.” It was all too familiar, the walk down a narrow tunnel illuminated by the hot, smoky light of creosote torches set into brackets in the rock walls. The walls closed around them like jaws, swallowing them up as they descended into murky air that smelled of raw earth and desperation.
The iron door set into a wall had a double bolt and lock on it, formidable resistance without the key. Hollow clanks sounded loud in the shadows as the door swung open.
Haunted by memories of the days he’d spent in this dank prison, Steve began to sweat despite thin cotton garments and his breath was shallow.
“Are you all right, amigo?”
He didn’t look at Paco, just nodded tightly. “Get the silver loaded as quickly as you can. Use their wagons. We’ll get it out of here before the second shift of guards arrives from the village. We don’t have long.”
“I have the feeling that Senator Brandon is going to be mighty upset,” Butch Casey observed laconically. In the turbid light, his grin flashed white.
“Yeah.” Steve’s belly knotted at the unmistakable sound of a muffled, despairing cry of a prisoner locked into one of the cells. “Finish here, Paco. I’ve got some work to do.”
Using the ring of keys he’d taken from the guard, Steve began to unlock doors, flinging them wide. He went from iron door to iron door, and the men too weak to move were helped by their comrades.
“Go back and help him,” he ordered one man who tried to push past, leaving his cellmate. “If he doesn’t go, you don’t go.”
In the faint, flickering light, the man gave him a wide stare of resentment, but went back, helping the other man to his feet. Freed of manacles and prison, the men poured out of the mine like ants scurrying from a sandy hill, streaming to freedom.
None were left behind. Not one man remained.
“You probably set free some of Cortina’s men or worse,” Paco observed, but Steve only shrugged.
“Better than leaving innocent men down here to suffer the torments of hell. Lock the guards in the cells. Too bad we can’t stay long enough to give them some of the same kind of treatment they like giving to others.”
It wasn’t until they were on the way back, the silver weighing down a wagon and their saddlebags, that he felt as if he could breathe easily again, the stink of the mine finally behind him.
This wouldn’t stop Brandon—there was more silver in the mines—but it would certainly cost him.
The trek to El Paso del Norte was arduous, long enough that he had time to think, to reflect on Ginny and their past. Their future.
He had done all he could do about Brandon and the mines. There was nothing else to do now except wait and see what Díaz did with the country, to give the new president a chance to bring Mexico to prosperity and her people to peace.
Railroads would come, fortunes would be made, and there would always be men like Shanghai Pierce, Jay Gould and Senator Brandon who would profit from the sweat of others. Steve couldn’t change that. He could only do his best to see that his own family was safe.
Maybe it was time he refused Bishop’s efforts to draw him into more intrigue and focused on ranching and the pursuit of his own business ventures. He had done enough for both governments.
Now it was time to do his best for Ginny. For himself. And for their children.
When they got this silver to El Paso del Norte, he would wire her to meet him. It was time they told each other everything. It was time for complete honesty.