The mine foreman came to greet him, his manner polite but brusque, as if he were too busy to give the norteamericano owner his time.
“The labor force is larger than I thought,” Brandon observed with a frown when he saw the straining men hauling ore. “I prefer to keep costs down.”
“Ah, many of these men are on loan from the government, most of them rebel prisoners, Senator. They cost us next to nothing. Some food, perhaps, and blankets. When they have served their sentences, there are always more to take their place.”
“Does Lerdo’s successor have the same attitude toward these rebels?” Brandon asked dryly. “I would think he would feel some sort of obligation to men who risked lives and liberty for him.”
“President Díaz is, above all else, a practical man. And many of these rebels were nothing more than outlaws before they were apprehended.” A shrug lifted his shoulders. “That will not change. Cheap labor supports the country—and you, Senator.”
It was said slyly, with a sidelong glance at him, and Brandon understood. If he expected to continue making profit from the Galena, then he could not question the method.
But it was more unsettling than he expected, to see the ragged condition of the men forced to work in the mine. Their heads were bent and they were covered with soot. A few of them wore little more than the most essential of garments, loose, tattered pants that did nothing to protect them against the cold or heat. He was sure it was even worse below the earth’s surface. At least these men had fresh air.
Victor Delgado escorted him on an inspection of the rough cars of ore ready to go to the smelter. The tour took them down into the mines and into the tunnels lit by lamplight that was thin and wavering. The eerie light against corbeled black walls and the moaning sounds of men punctuated by snarling commands from armed guards was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. A cold chill shivered down Brandon’s spine, and he moved stiffly, carefully picking his way across the rough rock passage hewn into the mountain. A misstep may well put him flat on his back—or cripple him for life.
The blunted end of his black, lacquered cane provided a steadier footing, but the dense air and lack of light made him clumsy. The sharp crack of a whip split the air, and was followed by a string of curses and a pained cry. Brandon put a hand against the wall to steady himself, suddenly sick.
“Take me back outside,” he ordered abruptly, and turned back toward the front of the mine shaft. His gaze swept over a line of men with eyes gleaming in the fitful light of glass lanterns. Like animals in the night, he thought, the same waiting, feral gaze….
Delgado escorted him to the offices where the ledgers were kept. Here, it was private. Here they could speak more frankly, he was assured.
Away from prying eyes that might report the exchange of money and collusion, he thought wryly, and took a seat behind the desk in the only comfortable chair. It left Delgado standing as if he were only a peón—which, in all truth, he was, whether he would admit it to himself or not. There was never a dearth of men ready to sell souls and country for personal gain.
“So,” the senator said, “show me the ledgers.”
Delgado’s mouth tightened slightly, but he produced the ledgers. These were the second set of books that were kept in a hidden compartment behind a heavy set of shelves, and he spread them out on the desktop.
After an hour of perusal, William Brandon sat back in the chair with a grunt of satisfaction. It always paid to do your own investigations.
Locking his fingers together over his chest, he smiled. “This is much better than I expected. You have done well.”
“Sí, we have been careful. What of Díaz?” he asked. “Do you intend to maintain the same…standards?”
“I intend to do what I must, as always. Your reward is well-earned. Do you wish to share with Díaz? Ah, I thought not. Neither do I. We will, as I said, do only what we must to ensure that the silver gets safely to the United States.”
It was, he thought, a perfect, profitable arrangement. Cheap labor provided by the Mexican government, and a high grade quality of ore. Just perfect.
A sudden loud noise outside jerked him upright. As he lurched from the chair, he heard Delgado begin to swear furiously in Spanish as he leaped for the door.
He understood only a few words, but enough to know that an insurrection of the prisoners was creating havoc—and it had begun with a blue-eyed gringo.
Uneasily, Brandon limped to the door Delgado had left flung wide open, and stepped out into utter pandemonium.
28
It had all happened so quickly. One moment Juan was working beside him while Steve stood staring with frozen disbelief at the tall, dignified form of his father-in-law, the next a guard had brought down his whip to prod the prisoners back to work. Brutally, he slashed down again and again, the whip a fiery tongue against the bare chests and backs of the prisoners.
Straightening, Steve met the guard’s angry gaze with a brief glance of utter contempt. His hands tightened on the handle of the shovel he’d been using to scoop ore into the heavy buckets for the smelter.
Beside him, Juan stumbled slightly, the chains making a metallic rattle as he tried to regain his balance. Another guard stepped in swiftly, coming from behind to curse at them.
“Filth! Move! Back to work…what do you dare to stare at, pendejo!” This last obscenity was accompanied by a clip of his rifle butt that caught Juan on the cheek, laying it open.
When Juan staggered and went to one knee, his weight pulled
