“Christ, leave him alone!” Steve said to the guard as Juan moaned under the savage beating. “Can’t you see he’s nearly unconscious?”
"!'Cierra el hocico!" The guard’s swarthy features grew dark red with fury at the insolence of the blue-eyed gringo prisoner who dared to address him. The rifle butt came down in a swift, sharp chopping motion as if to hit Steve, but at the last moment, descended with a crushing blow on Juan’s skull.
Steve heard it crack, heard Juan’s soft, almost gentle sigh as he collapsed in a lifeless heap. For an instant, a rational reminder that there were too many guards kept him from reacting, but when the guard laughed, any logic was replaced by gut instinct, and a fury born of deep hate.
The shovel in his hands sliced out and upward, the edge of the heavy metal scoop catching the guard by surprise as it slammed into his throat. Blood spurted out in a geyser; it spattered on his grime-streaked clothes, warm and sticky.
Steve Morgan, goaded by fury and frustration, now moved with reckless efficiency to snatch up the guard’s rifle even as it fell from abruptly limp hands. Whirling in the same fluid circle, he swung it around and fired from the hip just as the other guard began to comprehend what had happened.
The sharp report ignited instant chaos. Prisoners rioted, leaping for their guards with murderous cries of pent-up pain, rage and hate, overpowering many despite the overwhelming odds. Shovels, pickaxes and wooden staves were used as weapons. The canyon resounded with the echoes of gunfire and screams of wounded and dying men.
Somehow, Steve managed to grab a ring of keys from a fallen guard, and unlocked his manacles before tossing them to the next man. He paused only for an instant to ascertain that Juan was truly dead before moving on with grim purpose.
It will soon be a bloodbath if I don’t get to the senator and make him rein in the guards.
Bullets smacked into rock, spraying him with hot, sharp shards that stung as badly as the lash of the whips as he crossed the narrow, rock-rimmed ravine at a run, bent over to provide a less stable target, bare feet tearing on sharp rock.
Brandon was only halfway down the steps, his face ashen in the chaos, when Steve took the steps two at a time to meet him. The wooden staircase vibrated from the force of his ascent and he paused a few feet from the senator.
He’s got nerve, Steve thought cynically when Brandon leveled a pistol at him with cool aplomb. The hand holding the weapon shook only slightly.
“Damn murdering swine—Stop!” He repeated it in Spanish that no Mexican would have recognized, and Steve laughed.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Senator.”
“Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot you where you stand. Tell the others to halt this riot before the guards kill them all!”
Gunfire was sporadic but loud, filling the canyon with thunder. Brandon looked grimly determined, white lines carved beside his mouth, the pistol steadier now. Steve saw the resolve in his eyes.
“You’ll have to stop it, Senator. You’re responsible for this, but for the love of God, do it quickly before even more men are killed. Isn’t it enough that you’re getting rich off the slave labor of these poor wretches?”
Balanced on the balls of his feet, he calculated that he could reach the senator with the butt of his empty rifle if necessary, but it would probably knock him off the steps and over the railing. It was a good twenty feet to the ground below.
Brandon sucked in a sharp breath, and his eyes narrowed into thin slits as he stared at Steve, then blurted, “My God! It’s—Steve Morgan?”
The last was said with disbelief. Steve ignored that, snapping, “Call off the guards! Now!”
“If you think I have any influence, you’re mistaken.” The barrel of the pistol wavered slightly. Brandon looked uncertain. “Delgado is in charge here.”
“Then for chrissake, tell him to put a stop to it! He’ll listen to you. It’s not likely he’ll be in any mood to listen to me.”
The senator gave him a swift, frowning glance before he moved down one step. “I’ll tell him, and when this is under control, you had better come up with a damn good explanation for why you’re here, Morgan. My daughter has been worried sick about you.”
“If she was that damn worried, I wouldn’t still be here.”
Steve had the impression that Brandon was genuinely surprised to see him. But then, the man was a consummate politician and capable of disguising his real intent extremely well.
When the brief rebellion was subdued and the few prisoners that were left once more secure, Steve sat across from the senator in the mining office. His voice was hard.
“I’ll accept that you had nothing to do with me being here. For now. If I find out differently, you know I’ll come back to you for an explanation.”
Brandon paled. His hands clasped atop the silver head of his cane trembled slightly, but he nodded, his mouth set into a harsh line. “As I just told you, I had nothing to do with it. I may be a lot of things, Morgan, but I’m not a fool.”
“And I had the little idea that you wanted to be rid of me lately, that you’ve been unhappy with some of my actions. Guess I was wrong.”
“No, you’re right about that.” Brandon grimaced. “I will admit I haven’t been pleased by your efforts to ruin my plans. And I have tried to stop you. But not this. Not what amounts to kidnapping and slavery. I leave the abductions to you.”
“Ah, yes, you’re referring to Ginny, of course. That was a long time ago, Senator.” He flexed his
