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.
24
Don Porfirio remembered her well, of course, and Ginny was glad that Lerdo had so graciously presented her with new clothes for the meeting. It would have been too embarrassing to meet the man who was to be the next president wearing the rags that Luna had abducted her in, and she had told the Spanish emissary so in no uncertain terms.
“You are a boor, Señor Luna, and I do not care to be associated with you on any level but in the capacity of envoy for el presidente.”
Luna had merely smiled, eyes appraising her with a steady confidence that made her want to slap him for his insolence. The man was disgusting!
But now that she was here to speak to Díaz, who was preparing for his triumphant return to Mexico City since the defeat of Lerdo’s army, she realized that she was nervous. If he did not grant Lerdo safe conduct, would he consider her part of the rebellion? An enemy?
After eleven months of fighting, the revolt had succeeded despite initial reverses, just as Steve predicted. It was time for the victor to claim his prize.
Once in the presence at last of Porfirio Díaz, Ginny lost some of her nervousness, remembering the man she had met years before. They spoke congenially about their work together after the last revolution, and she was careful to avoid mention of Juarez and his renunciation of Díaz.
“But you have changed hardly at all, Señora Alvarado, except, of course, to grow more beautiful.”
He swept her a gallant bow, his eyes frankly admiring as he stared at her elegant, stylish gown, a shot silk of emerald green to match her eyes, with full skirts pulled up and draped at the rear over a wire cage. The gown’s bustline was accentuated by white lace edging that fringed
