But then they were outside, where the air smelled of something besides musty air and creosote, and he dragged in a deep breath to fill his lungs. God! He was almost drunk with the feel of the sun on his face, warming his skin, burning his eyes. They stumbled along, still manacled at the legs, the chains a weighted constant clanking as they bent to the tasks of moving the ore cars along the gleaming lines of track.
It didn’t matter that they were forced to work from sunup to sundown as long as there was fresh, clean air to breathe, nor did it matter so much about the brutality of the guards. That could be borne.
He began, surreptitiously, to gauge the odds of escape.
Guards were posted on the rock walls that ringed the mine, others roved the work area. All were heavily armed, as if expecting trouble. Escape would be difficult, at best. Christ, it would be damn near impossible. While he worked, he scanned the area, marked the routine of the guards. It would take a miracle.
But the idea had taken root, and it sprouted and began to grow. All he needed was a diversion, something to distract the guards long enough for him to grab a weapon.
By now, if his grandfather or Ginny knew where he was, he would have been freed. No one knew. If he didn’t take the steps to freedom, he could end up spending years here, lost in the nameless, faceless mass of men forced to work.
There were so many of them, political prisoners some, others innocent of anything but the ill fortune to be taken by soldiers or Rurales. It hadn’t changed since he had been a political prisoner, a revolutionary spared from death and given a living hell instead.
Hate had kept him alive then, and a need for vengeance.
This time, it was thoughts of Ginny, his copper-haired wife who drove him to distraction so much of the time, but who was in his blood. It was a luxury to think of her, to recall the soft feel of her skin beneath his hand, the gypsy slant of her green eyes and the provocative pout of her sensual little mouth.
When he lay on the cold floor of his cell at night, he thought of their time at the waterfall, remembered Ginny’s delight at going naked, the way her body gleamed beneath the sun and glistened with rivulets of water streaming over her breasts, belly and thighs. She embodied passion, life and love. She represented his past and his future. Without her, he had only gone through the motions of living.
The other women—Francesca, Concepciόn, Beth—had never sparked a tenth of what he felt for Ginny.
When he escaped from here, he would tell her that. Now that he had time to think, he knew that until he took the risk of telling her everything he felt, there would always be barriers between them.
I’ll tell her…I’ll tell her everything….
27
Senator Brandon stared out the windows of the carriage that narrowly missed scraping against high stone walls rising on each side of the trail. When had he become an old man? It seemed to have happened suddenly, yet here he was, having to ride in a carriage instead of astride a horse like a man. The bullet in his back still crippled him at times, but the doctors had shaken their heads and informed him it would be there forever.
“To remove it would be to kill you. Or leave you unable to sit up or walk again.”
So he endured it as best he could, riding when once he could have walked, taking trains instead of carriages wherever possible.
His fingers drummed impatiently against the velvet-padded side of the carriage. There was enormous need for a railroad out here in this godforsaken country that was good for nothing but mesquite and the purest ore he had ever been privileged to see.
It was the last that would make his fortune, would give him a legacy to pass on to his grandchildren.
He frowned. In his later years he had come to the realization that such a legacy would be all he would leave. How had it happened? He’d struggled so hard during the disastrous Civil War to keep the Virginia estates that his father and his grandfather had left him. There were times it looked as if all would be swept away by the fortunes of war. So he had compromised. He had compromised his principles and compromised his promises, and had managed to hold on to them when others lost everything.
Such a dear price to pay.
At first, he’d wrestled with his conscience about the decisions he’d made, before consoling himself with the thought that it wasn’t just for his own use, his own pride that he had lied, cheated, even stolen. It was for his only child, his beautiful daughter Virginia. One day he would be able to tell himself that he had founded a dynasty, not ended it.
Yet it had all begun to unravel. The tapestry of deception and power he had woven during the years after the war was fraying rapidly. Virginia wasn’t his flesh and blood but the child of another man. The wife he had loved so much loved another man, and his second wife had slept with Steve Morgan. Even the grandchildren he claimed were not really his, but another man’s blood.
There were times it all seemed so futile, a pissing contest in the wind.
The analogy made him smile.
As the carriage slowed, he heard the unmistakable sound of money being made, the raw ore dug from the bowels of the earth rattling up on ore cars that would be conveyed to the smelter. Some of the purest damn ore he’d ever seen lay in the Galena mine—named after the high quality lead-silver ore.
The carriage’s well-oiled springs dipped gently as he emerged to stand in a canyon ringed by high rock and guards. If nothing else ever went right in his life, he was going to make certain that this mine made him wealthier than any man in America.
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 Steve off balance as well so that he also fell to one knee. The guards reacted as if they had been attacked, viciously using the whips on not only Juan and Steve, but randomly striking other men manacled in the line.
“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 hands; they ached, the skin callused from wielding pickaxes and shovels. He felt suddenly weary, and disgusted. Blue eyes hardened, and he said softly, “You have no scruples when it comes to making a profit, why would it bother you to get rid of a man who gets in your way?”
“It wouldn’t.” Brandon’s flinty gaze held his. “But you have influential friends and contacts, men who could ruin me. I have worked too hard to take the chance of losing it all now. This mine promises to be the most profitable venture yet. With a railroad to get the ore out more efficiently, we stand to be the richest men in America. You could profit as well.”
“I don’t think I could stand the stench of the blood on my hands.” Steve stood abruptly, saw Brandon brace himself, and said softly, “These men are treated as little more than animals. If you insist upon using prisoners, at least treat them as men instead of beasts.”
“Until I arrived today, I had no idea they were being ill used. For the love of God, Morgan, I’m not uncivilized!”
“I’d like to believe that. Recent events, however, make it a bit difficult. What are you doing here?”
Brandon gave him a sour look. “I came to investigate my interests. A man cannot always trust subordinates to take care of his business as well as he would.”
“I suppose you learned that from Hearst.”
Savage Desire Page 24
