Relief gleamed in the lustrous green eyes and a smile curved her mouth as she nodded understanding.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Burneson. And thank you.”
41
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,
