The woman pulled her hand away and walked inside. The crowd was still quiet, but started to come awake. This time Hart stepped forward and raised his voice.
“This has gone too far,” he said. “You’ve stepped over the line.”
“I don’t have any idea what you mean,” Jordan said.
“You’ve tried every other means to get my claims. You even brought in some guns. But now you’ve brought in the likes of Caphorn.”
“Hart, my man, you’ve gone over the edge . . .”
But Hart had stepped out of the crowd, fists swinging. Suddenly the fight was taking place on the street.
It was dark in Jordan’s mine shaft. There was surprisingly little activity going on in the digs, though Parrish could hear a few of Jordan’s men talking deep in the hole. They would probably die when the mine caved in, but that would be alright. It would stir things up even more.
Parrish didn’t realize that Malinda had already been found and brought back to town. Even had he known, he would have been satisfied with his work. Even if some doubts existed, the idea had been set that one of Jordan’s men had taken potshots at Bodine. The rumor had also taken hold that it was Bodine or some other of Hart’s men who had taken Malinda. The shooting would have to start soon. This destruction of Jordan’s mine would surely be the final straw!
Parrish had never done any real work in his life, and certainly not with explosive or in a mine. He had seen it done, and heard miners talk about it, however. So he thought, How hard could it be?
He fumbled in the darkness, trying to determine the best place to put the explosives. He wasn’t even sure how much to use. He had stolen plenty—more than he could easily carry and sneak into town and into the mine. Parrish figured he had enough to do the job.
He placed some in various crevices, and then at the mine entrance.
And what about the fuses? He had tried to arrange it so that they could all feed off of one main line. And that would be a long one, since he wanted to be a safe distance away when the explosion occurred. What if one fizzled out? He decided to have two lines coming out of the mine entrance. He would set them both off. Surely at least one would work!
Parrish placed the fuse, started to feed it out as he went toward the fading daylight outside the entrance. He suddenly heard a movement. Parrish froze, his back to the cool wall of the mine.
The sounds were coming from the mine entrance. It was a faint sound of footsteps on gravel, though it sounded louder to Parrish. He waited, hoping that no other miner would enter. Or maybe the gunfighter was hid well enough? He could shoot, though that would give him away.
The footsteps moved slowly, quietly, as if the person also didn’t want to be seen or heard.
A shadow crossed the mine shaft opening. The man then stepped to the entrance, stuck his head in to look around.
It was Shannahan.
Parrish cursed to himself. He should have killed that crazy Irishman when he had the chance! Shannahan had been trying to dog Parrish’s every move. He had so far managed to avoid Shannahan, but it was getting damned tiring! Why couldn’t he just stick to his mining, like he was supposed to? Well, Parrish thought, he’d take care of the Irishman sooner or later.
Shannahan knew he was on dangerous ground—one of Hart’s men on Jordan ground. That was why he was moving so quietly. Parrish thought this might even work in his favor. As far as he knew, nobody had seen him enter the mine. Maybe somebody would see Shannahan sneaking around, and think he had set the explosion. What could be better?
Shannahan was at the mine entrance for only a few moments. He acted as if he might investigate further, but stopped before he had set one foot in the mine. He tipped his head as if he heard something, uttered a few words that Parrish couldn’t understand, then started to run back toward the center of town.
Parrish relaxed. Nobody else seemed to be around. He bent down and continued to feed out the fuse.
He paused at the mine entrance, looked all around to make sure he was alone, then stepped outside. Now that he was in the open, he worked quickly now to finish the job.
Parrish ran the end of the fuse to behind a pile of rubble near the mine. His horse was tied and waiting for him to get away. From town came sounds of fighting. Maybe the war had already started, even without this latest addition? No matter, this would guarantee the results.
The men inside the mine would soon be leaving, if they hadn’t started out already.
Now was the time.
Parrish struck a match, touched the flaming head to the fuses.
They started to sputter and spark.
Parrish mounted his horses and fled the scene so he would not be caught in the explosion.
Hart wasn’t sure what had come over him. He hadn’t planned to fight with Jordan that evening. When Sam and Matt had brought in Malinda, basically unharmed, it looked as if another potentially dangerous confrontation might be defused.
Still, feelings on both sides were running high. The bodies that the two blood-brothers brought back didn’t help matters any, since some of them had friends in town.
But then, when he saw the new gun that Jordan had brought in, Hart could stand it no longer. He knew that Phil Caphorn was in a league apart from the usual run-of-the-mill gunslingers. He was ruthless, and he was expensive. In itself it was probably no better or worse than other tricks that Jordan had played, but it was enough to push Hart over the edge. His raging temper, which he had kept in check, now boiled over.
He was not swinging wildly. He had some professional training, had sometimes sparred with Shannahan, but had also learned in some tough saloons. He had a lifetime of hard work in his muscles. His first punch was flawless. It moved through the air as quickly and silently as a bird through the air, but landed against Jordan’s chin with a loud whump. Jordan took a step back and would have fallen to the ground if not for the hotel wall.
The punch seemed to unleash trapped energy on both sides, as the groups fell into a free-for-all.
Somebody grabbed Hart from behind. He didn’t bother to even look who had made such a dumb move. Hart simply shrugged his massive shoulders, loosening the grip on his arms. He then elbowed the man behind him. The punch knocked the breath out of the other man. Hart followed up with an upward thrust of his elbow, knocking the other man to the ground.
Shannahan came running. He picked up one of Jordan’s men and slammed him bodily to the ground. Shannahan stepped on him and used him as a jump-off point to pull down a third man.
Sam and Matt looked at each other, then both ducked some punches thrown their way. They grabbed the arms of their two attackers and threw them into the middle of the mob scene.
The horses pawed the ground nervously. Somebody loosened the ropes that held the dead men on the horses, and the bodies fell to the ground. One of Jordan’s men didn’t see the bodies in time, and tripped over them. He was kicked in the head as he went down, and didn’t get back up.
“How come we always find ourselves in the middle of this kind of thing?” Matt asked Sam, as he dodged the punches of another attacker.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Sam answered. “You’d think a couple of smart fellows like ourselves would learn sooner or later.”
“Well, it was your idea to stay,” Matt said, ducking and weaving.
“My idea! You were the one who got sweet on that singer . . .”
Matt found the opening he had been looking for, and snaked out with a left that felled his opponent.
“Yeah, but you agreed to it!”
“True. That was a good punch, though.”
“Thank you.”
Jordan, though he had received a solid punch, was young and in good physical condition. Though dazed at first, he quickly recovered and came back at Hart. He did not have the power that Hart had, but he was persistent. His blows seemed to come at Hart from all directions at once. At first one blow, then another, pounded the older man.
Like an old bull, Hart just kept c
oming. He clenched his fists together and swung. They connected with Jordan’s chest. Their combined force again sent him reeling.
Strep had barely moved from the spot where he was standing before the fight had started. He was sore from his fight earlier with Matt. He was tired from his search for Malinda. He was still angry from Jordan’s less-than-kind words for his part in bringing Malinda safely home. So he contented himself with protecting himself with an occasional well-placed jab and checking to make sure that Jordan was not in any potentially fatal danger. He still worked for Jordan, but he was wondering just how far his loyalty would stretch.
Caphorn had stopped down the street, outside of the area where the fighting was taking place, and watched the action with amusement. His only concern was that Jordan might get killed before Caphorn could receive his payment. On the other hand, if that were to happen, Caphorn wouldn’t have to face Bodine. It was not that Cap-horn was scared. He had been the top dog for so long that he couldn’t even conceive of not winning. Still, there was something in Bodine’s eyes that caused Caphorn to have a slight twinge of doubt, for the first time in many years. And he didn’t like that feeling.
Jordan was now very angry. He grabbed Hart’s arms and growled, “I’ve been nice up to now. Now you’ve really asked for it. And I’m going to give it to you.”
In answer, Hart forced Jordan back to the ground.
Suddenly a shot, rang out.
“Who the hell is stupid enough to start shooting in this kind of close quarters?” Sam asked.
“Who knows. Who cares.”
Both men knew that in this kind of close quarters, a stray bullet was more dangerous than a well-aimed one. Each hit the ground to avoid any loose lead that might be flying around. Somebody else returned the fire, and the rest of the group also scurried for cover. Even Strep abandoned his place.
Shots started to blast from what seemed like all directions at once. Their whine could be clearly heard as they passed. But whoever was shooting were apparently had bad aim, for none of the bullets hit anything but the hotel wall.
All the shooting was suddenly overwhelmed by a larger blast.
The explosion filled the evening air, drowning out the sharper sounds of gunfire.
When the roar of the explosion died down, the gunshots had also stopped. Somebody shouted, “The mine!”
Hart clenched his teeth and was ready to go after Jordan again. He said, “So you had to destroy my mine. Alright. Now I will have to kill you. If you’ve hurt any of my men, you’ll die a slow death . . .”
Matt glanced up and down the street. He hollered, “Hey!” The smoke’s coming from Jordan’s mine!”
Hart had Jordan’s shirt collar in his fist as he prepared to pummel him with his other fist. At the sound of Matt’s words, his fist released its grip and Jordan slumped back against the wall.
Almost as one, the crowd temporarily forgot its fight and moved toward Jordan’s mine.
Chapter Fifteen
Matt and Sam were toward the front of the crowd, followed by Hart. Jordan and Strep were not far behind. Only minutes had passed from the time of the explosion to the arrival of the crowd at the mine site. Dust was still drifting from the sky, covering the rocks and pieces of timber that now littered the ground. A wide area around the mine entrance had collapsed, leaving a shallow depression.
Sam was watching Jordan out of the corner of his eye. He was surprised to see him so calm. At first, Jordan acted almost indifferent, as if he had joined the crowd out of idle curiosity. As he started to survey the wreckage, he became agitated and turned to Hart.
“Damn you, Hart! You accuse me of all kinds of crimes, and here you are, destroying my mine! This really means war, now . . .”
Hart had his back to Jordan. Sam was prepared to intervene if Jordan tried to shoot the other man in the back. Hart seemed to not realize the danger he had put himself in.
Hart said, “Just shut up, Jordan.”
Jordan started to reach for a gun he wore under his coat. Sam stepped forward and put a solid hand on Jordan’s arm. He didn’t say a word. Strep looked to Jordan for instructions.
“I’ll find you one of these days without your bodyguards,” Jordan said. “When I do, I’ll show you what happens when you push me too hard.”
“Just stop shooting off that mouth for a second, will you?” Hart asked. “You can’t possibly think I caused this explosion?”
Hart’s tone of voice also surprised Sam. The miner was now talking as some of his eastern college professors had done when discussing a problem. It was a mixture of matter-of-fact with a touch of discovery.
“Of course you set it, you bastard.”
Hart continued, “If you were a professional mining engineer—or even a half-baked one, for that matter—instead of an empty-head, big-city lawyer, you’d know I couldn’t possibly have done this job. It’s just too shoddy.”
“You son-of-a-bitch . . .”
Sam tightened his hand around Jordan’s arm in a vicelike grip. “I agree with hart. Shut up for a minute. I want to hear this.”
Strep took a step toward Sam, then seemed to change his mind. He stepped into the crowd and started questioning some of the men who had worked in the mine.
“I’ve been in and around mines since I was old enough to walk,” Hart said. “I can set an explosion that would bring down a mountain or blow a fly from a cow turd and not get any shit on me. You understand? If I had wanted to destroy your mine, I would have destroyed it.” He stood, walked to the mine entrance, picked up a piece of the rubble. “Look at the damage. Some of the explosive went out from the mine, hurting little except the surrounding dirt. Oh, it caved in the entrance, and probably some of your tunnel. But no serious damage with lasting consequences.”
Matt stepped forward. “All that’s well and good, but a more important question is whether or not any men were in the mine at the time.”
Sam watched Jordan’s expression with interest. Jordan, still acting as if he were angry, paused and said more calmly, “Fortunately, as you might know, I’ve been moving my major operations to a different site. That means there were probably no men in the mine at the time of the explosion.”
Strep yelled to Jordan, “There are at least two men unaccounted for, maybe three. They may still be in the mine!”
“I hardly think so . . .”
Sam wondered. His keen ears seemed to pick up some kind of sound, as if from a great distance. It could have been voices. He stepped forward, placed his head on the ground at the mine entrance.
It was definitely voices he had heard. Men yelling in terror at being pinned under the ground. A cold chill went up Sam’s spine. He knew his own feelings about being underground. He could only imagine what it would be like to be trapped.
He bent over, picked up a huge rock. He strained, then with a mighty push hurled it out of the way. He followed with a second rock, then a third one.
Hart looked up from his studies. “Sam! What are you doing?”
“There’s men trapped in there. We’ve got to get them out.”
“Jordan’s men?”
“They’re men. Just because they work for Jordan doesn’t mean they automatically deserve to die. Are you going to help me, or not?”
Hart looked at Shannahan and his other men. He sighed, then suddenly he was the take-charge, hard-minded miner again. He barked orders to his men. “Get your shovels. Get your other tools. Let’s get at least an air shaft to the men. If they’re still alive, as Sam thinks, they’ll run out of air in hours . . . if they’re lucky.”
Jordan started to protest. “Nobody’s going to believe it. You set this explosion not just to destroy me but to make you look like some kind of hero . . .”
Sam said to Matt, “You watch my back. If any of these jokers try anything, please shoot them.”
“Hell, Sam, you gave me the fun job.”
“At least you can’t I’m never nice to you.”
“This’ll make up for le
aving the camp for me to clean up!” Matt laughed. This time his laugh covered genuine concern, because he knew of Sam’s feelings, and how courageous he was by leading the rescue effort.
Strep came forward, leading some of Jordan’s other men. Matt said, “Hold it. You come any closer, and I’ll kill you.”
Strep reached down and picked up a shovel. “Hell, we’re going to help, too.”
As Jordan’s men and other miners from the town temporarily forgot their arguments with Hart and his men and started to dig as well, Jordan saw that public opinion had turned against him, at least in this instance. Jordan also then half-heartedly joined in the effort. Matt also helped in the work, though he kept a vigilant eye on Strep and Jordan.
The rock and soil worked its way into Sam’s clothes. It caked his neck, back, and arms. It seemed to fill his nose and scratched his eyes. He tossed his hat to Matt, and tied a bandanna around his head to keep the sweat from his eyes.
The larger rocks that were loose he moved to one side using only the strength of his hands and arms. Others he had to pry out. Slowly a hole was again being sunk into the mine. But was it enough? Would he be able to make it in time?
He listened closer, but he had dug himself into a hole. He could now only hear his own heavy breathing, his heart beating, and the sounds of the others working around him.
Sam had not been sure he believed in the old Cheyenne gods since he had witnessed the slaughter of his own people as well as the slaughter at the Little Big Horn. He was not sure he even accepted the white man’s God. But as he worked to save people he didn’t even know, who might in other circumstances hate him and want to kill him, he gave a few unspoken requests for help. He had never been sure why he had done some of the things he had done, though he had always done what he believed to be right. No matter how crazy the actions seems to outsiders.
Blood Bond 7 Page 11
