by Tim Champlin
“Yes. It saved us,” she replied quietly. There was no tremor in her voice. Apparently, she felt safer in the presence of Charvein and Sandoval. He must always act as if he had supreme confidence they’d come out of this alive.
“We must sit very still and not talk,” Sandoval whispered. “Sounds can be heard very far on a night like this.”
Charvein felt his way to an open side window. “Anybody comes up this side street gets a bullet,” Charvein said, going to one knee. “Lucy, you guard the back door to the alley. Sandoval will watch the main street,” he added at the scuffing of a chair being moved to the front window.
Lucy stepped around the counter toward the back room, her feet crunching on broken glass.
They sat silently at their posts, Charvein recalling the lucky escape when he and Lucy had fled down the tunnel that led to the bank. The man who’d fired blindly at them in the dark was long gone, but Boyd had been with them and knew about the tunnel. He wondered why Sandoval had chosen this particular building to make their stand. Was it because of the tunnel? Not likely. Probably because the assay office stood in the middle of the long street, increasing the likelihood Boyd and Rankin would pass nearby, regardless from which direction they came.
They heard and saw nothing for a long time. Probably really only ten or fifteen minutes, Charvein guessed. But patience was more in Sandoval’s line.
“I hope they haven’t found those animals,” Charvein whispered. “Or they could ride right out of here. Probably not a bad thing,” he added, thinking of avoiding any violent conflict while Lucy was here.
“They will not leave,” Sandoval replied, shifting his position slightly. “Rankin still wants to kill me. Even if they find the mules, they will not ride out until I am dead.”
“And Boyd won’t be satisfied until he finds the gold,” Charvein said.
“One is a rapist and murderer, and the other a convicted robber. Either of them will kill. Boyd ambushed you on your ride to Lodestar,” Sandoval reminded him.
“That’s so,” Charvein murmured. “We are dealing with two dangerous men who will stop at nothing to get what they want—gold and revenge.” He spoke only to hear the whispered sound of his own voice beating back the suffocating silence. Except for the taste of dust, he almost preferred the roar of the night wind to this deafening stillness.
He looked out the window at the flicker of heat lightning. It seemed no closer than before. Maybe the cloud mass was passing off to the north. Another flash from the heavens. This time, instead of just blinking off and on behind the clouds, it branched out in a crazy pattern like ice cracking, spiking across the distant horizon. It was an entertaining, silent light show without thunder or threat of rain.
He thrust his head out the open window to smell air fresher than the musty odor in the room. Even the gentle breeze had died. What a contrast to the roaring winds of other nights. He’d never experienced a night as dark or silent. He could almost hear his own heart beat. His breathing seemed loud in his ears, as if it could be heard thirty yards away. He found himself wanting to hold his breath for fear of being heard. He knew that no living creature the size of a man could be anywhere close and be so silent. Yet, he’d been told Apaches had that ability. But these were two white men. He guessed they were some distance away, possibly searching the town, systematically, from one end to the other.
He heard Sandoval stir and slide out of his chair. Charvein crept to his side.
“Something out there,” Sandoval whispered, close to his ear.
Charvein strained his eyes and ears but could detect nothing. He held his breath, the deathly silence unbearable. Yet he knew Sandoval had the senses of a cougar. He wondered if the man’s nose was as keen as his hearing or sight. Somehow, he’d been able to find Charvein on the edge of town that terrible night when he’d nearly died in the dust storm.
Suddenly, about forty yards away, he saw a point of light wink on, then disappear. “There!” But he knew Sandoval had seen it before he did. A match? A candle being snuffed?
Sandoval yanked the Henry to his shoulder, worked the lever, and fired. Before the roar died away, he was pumping another round into the chamber, and Charvein was blasting away in the general direction of the vanished speck of light.
They paused, and there was no sound. The night seemed as empty as before.
“Reckon we hit anything?” Charvein whispered. He sensed Lucy’s excited breathing at his shoulder. “Stay down,” he said. “They might shoot back.”
She groaned an inarticulate reply.
Suddenly he heard a metallic clatter. The light appeared again, this time stronger, or closer. It was moving fast. Both men fired, but the light swung in a wide arc and came hurtling toward them like a shooting star.
“Down!” He threw Lucy down, while Sandoval jerked away to the other side. The window shattered and the lantern crashed against the wooden counter behind them, spewing flaming coal oil on the floor.
“Oh, my God!” she screamed.
Flames had splashed Sandoval’s poncho, and Charvein tackled him, smothering the fire before the flames could burn him through the woven cloth.
“I’m okay,” Sandoval gasped, pulling the smoking poncho off over his head.
Lucy was cowering in the corner, pistol in one hand, eyes wide in the light of the flames that were licking up the counter and spreading across the floor.
“Stay down!” Charvein yelled. “Don’t make a target.” The sudden brightness had blinded him, and he fired through the window with little hope of hitting anyone. He saw muzzle flashes from outside, and bullets smashed the remaining shards of glass that clung to the sash. By the time he and Sandoval returned fire, the flashes had moved, coming closer.
The fire was spreading rapidly, flames hungrily licking up the walls, consuming the dry wood.
A bullet smashed the side window where Charvein had kept watch.
“They’re on two sides.”
“They’ll gun us down as soon as we run out,” Charvein said, firing two shots out the front as he moved Lucy back behind the counter into the next room.
“We can’t stay here and burn!” Lucy’s voice was shrill.
Sandoval was already at work tugging at the iron ring recessed into the floor.
Dry wood crackled in the flames.
Sandoval heaved up the trapdoor and laid it back on the floor.
“Oh, no! Not again!” Lucy wailed softly, her eyes on the yawning black hole. “Do we have to?”
“Unless we want to run out, night-blind, and shoot it out,” Charvein said. “You two go down first.” He knew he was the best shot. “I’ll be rear guard. Hurry!” he added as the heat became intense.
Whoosh! The flames rushed across the ceiling, invading the back room. The tinder-dry building was nearly engulfed. Oxygen was being sucked out of the air.
Sandoval descended the ladder, then helped Lucy down. Crouching with his Colt at hip level, Charvein fired a shot out of each window. He tried once more, but the hammer clicked on a spent shell. He grabbed the trapdoor and tilted it up, stepping into the hole and letting the heavy door down overhead, suddenly shutting out the roar and heat and light. Even if the town had been full of people, there was no means of fighting this fire, what with the town pumps rusted. Luckily, there was absolutely no breeze tonight.
The tunnel was musty, hot, and black as the inside of a boot.
“Got any matches?” Marc asked.
“Sí.”
“Strike one and let’s get moving.”
The match flared in a sharp smell of sulfur. Sandoval led the way. The air was stuffy but cooler.
The match burned out in a matter of seconds. “No need for light,” Sandoval said. “I know this tunnel. There is a candle stashed at the far end.”
This time Charvein traversed the tunnel with no uncertainty about where it would lead. He knew it terminated beneath the bank. He thought of the men behind them who’d fired the assay office in a vain attempt to smoke t
hem out. Boyd knew of the tunnel, but he and Rankin had cut themselves off from it until the embers cooled the next day. By then, Lodestar might be no more—the old mining town reduced to a smoking ruin. Could the blaze become hot enough, Charvein wondered, to roast them underground, as in a fire pit?
They reached the end, and Sandoval struck another match to light their steps over and around the pile of lumber that was the collapsed stairs. He located his thick candle and lighted it. The steady, warm glow that suffused their faces was a relief from the dark.
“I have put in many hours over the past year extending this tunnel,” Sandoval said, holding up the candle. See those wood planks? I stood them on end to block the tunnel I have dug beyond this point.”
“Why dig farther?” Charvein asked.
“I was looking for ways to fill many lonely hours,” Sandoval said and shrugged. “I wanted to see if I could bring it up under San Juan church.”
“How far does it go?” Lucy asked.
Sandoval turned toward them, hooded eyes looking sinister in the candlelight. “I measured above, and then measured below as I dug, using a compass to maintain direction. I’m certain the end of the tunnel is directly beneath the sacristy.”
“You haven’t dug upward to find out?”
He shook his head. “I was planning to, but suddenly, I had many visitors in town and had to stop.”
“I wonder if Boyd knows this tunnel comes up in the bank,” Charvein said to Lucy.
“I’m sure they know. They searched all the buildings, and we left many marks in the dust near the vault,” she replied.
“Let’s take a look at the rest of your tunnel,” Charvein said. “Maybe we can find a safer way out.”
Sandoval handed the candle to Lucy and thrust the upright planks aside far enough for them to squeeze through.
The smell of fresh, dry dirt assailed them as they entered. Their feet trod the softer, unpacked dirt. The tunnel was narrower and not shored up. Charvein began to feel a prickly claustrophobia.
The tunnel was only thirty paces long. A shovel was thrust into the face of the drift, and a wheelbarrow half-full of dirt rested just below where Sandoval had interrupted his labor.
The candle was beginning to burn low with lack of oxygen.
“How far below ground are we?” Charvein asked.
“No more than three feet.”
“And you say the church is just overhead?”
“I believe it is.”
“How did you plan to break through the floor of the church?” Charvein was perspiring heavily from the closeness of the air.
“I was going to rip up the floor from above and see if I could break through into this tunnel.”
“We should probably go back and climb out through the bank,” Lucy said hesitantly, passing a delicate, grimy hand over her forehead.
“Too much chance Boyd and Rankin are waiting to gun us down,” Charvein said. “The more I think about it, the more I can see that was their plan all along—drive us down into the tunnel and wait for us to come out the other end, like prairie dogs.”
Lucy gave a slight shiver. Even in the soft, yellow light, her face had taken on a pallid hue.
Charvein made a quick decision. “Let’s see what’s right up above. Are we agreed?” He glanced at them. “Can’t hurt anything. We might still have to wind up going back.”
“Then, let me do it,” Sandoval said. “I know what this soil will take. If you hit it wrong with the shovel, it could cave in and bury us.”
This was not what Charvein wanted to hear. He took Lucy’s arm and retreated about ten steps, leaving the candle with Sandoval.
Sandoval took the long-handled shovel and gently probed overhead. Dry dirt pattered down, and he stopped to move the candle out of the way. Slowly, gently, he cut with the point of the shovel, standing back to let the ceiling crumble, a little at a time, filling the wheelbarrow.
Charvein stood in the dark, holding Lucy’s hand.
Sandoval paused, breathing heavily, and took the candle, holding it high to inspect his work.
Charvein felt Lucy’s free hand touch his arm. “Whatever happens,” she said softly, “I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“De nada,” he said, taking refuge in Spanish from his slight embarrassment.
“I feel very safe when I’m with you.”
“Good.” It was a feeling he’d gone out of his way to engender. He wondered if he’d have treated her the same if she’d been an ugly, sharp-tongued shrew. Probably not. As a forty-year-old bachelor, he’d lived most of his life in a male world and realized he was seriously lacking in social skills.
“Lucy, I…”
“Ahh! That’s it!” came a low cry from Sandoval, who stepped back, spitting the dirt out of his mouth. “Busted through.”
Charvein and Lucy came forward and looked at the ceiling where Sandoval was holding up the thick candle.
“I don’t see the floor of the church.”
“I did not measure it right,” Sandoval said.
“Ain’t nothing up there but sky,” Charvein said. “I just saw a flicker of lightning. He could smell the rush of fresh air that came down the hole. “Hell, that’s even better. Now we can get out without being seen. Stand on that pile of dirt in the wheelbarrow, and I’ll boost you up,” he said to Sandoval.
“One moment, señor. There is something I must take with me.”
“What’s that?”
“You will see. It’s stored in the bigger tunnel. Come and help me carry it.” He took the candle, squeezed past them, and headed back the way they’d come.
Charvein followed. What could this be?
Sandoval shoved aside the upright planks that partially divided the tunnels. Being careful of rusty nails in the scrap lumber, he stooped and shifted several of the splintered boards and pieces of rotted stairs that lay piled here and there.
“Hold the candle.” He handed it back to Charvein, squatted by four small, wooden cases stacked on the floor next to the wall. Lifting the lid on the top one, he pulled back a layer of cotton padding. Candlelight reflected from red paper-wrapped cylinders—row upon row of dynamite sticks neatly packed to the top of the box.
TWENTY-THREE
“Whew!” Charvein gave a low whistle. “You’re full of surprises. Where did this come from?”
“I found it stored in a tool shed with drill bits and shovels, near one of the mines,” Sandoval replied. “These are my diablos rojos—my little red devils. I used them only to move boulders and old rusty machinery—until now.” His hooded eyes showed a hint of mirth. “I must store them out of the heat to keep them from becoming very nervous and sweating nitro. It’s not really cool down here, but better than up there.” He jerked a thumb upward. He picked out four sticks and handed them to Charvein. “They’re dry so they should be safe enough. But handle them con cuidado. Gently.
“I’ve already inserted a blasting cap into the end of each stick,” Sandoval said. “I crimp the cap around each fuse as I insert it.” He took up one of the sticks, shoved in the end of the fuse, then bit down on it.
Charvein grimaced, feeling sweat pop out on his forehead. “Careful!” he whispered. Crimping fulminate-of-mercury caps like this, with the teeth, was a very dangerous procedure. One bite too close to the dynamite and they could all be part of a large hole in the ground.
“Do not worry. I have done this many times, and I am very good at it.” Sandoval spoke with confidence.
They spent another ten minutes cutting and inserting fuses, Sandoval biting at a precise spot on each to crimp the cap around the fuse.
“I wish we had a punk or a cigar for a glowing fire to light these when we need them,” Charvein said.
“That would be best,” Sandoval agreed. “But we must use what we have—matches and candle. Thank God the wind is nearly calm.”
Charvein could never quite fathom the thinking of this recluse. But it was always logical and pr
actical, if not predictable.
“I hope the fire from the assay office hasn’t spread,” Charvein said, stuffing his pockets with several sticks.
“My poncho had extra pockets,” Sandoval said with regret. The smoldering garment had been left in the burning assay office.
“Did you leave anything in your poncho?” Charvein asked.
A strange look came over Sandoval’s face, and he paused in handing out the sticks. “Half a box of .44 rimfires for my Henry. I was in a hurry.”
“I’m sure the fire has set them off by now. We wouldn’t hear’em from down here, but I’ll bet Boyd and Rankin were ducking. Wish I’d seen their reaction. They must think we’re supernatural if we could stay inside that inferno and still keep shooting.”
“We are fireproof,” Sandoval said, a trace of smile on his thin lips. “And, with these little red devils, we will surely make them believe we are from the depths of hell.”
Charvein turned to Lucy. “You have only one pocket in that dress?”
“Yes, but it’s a deep one.”
“Here.” He slid eight dynamite sticks into the pocket. The fuses dangled out of the top like fringe. She avoided touching them, as if her pocket were full of scorpions.
“Bastante,” Sandoval said, closing the lid of the empty box. “There is another full case here, but if this won’t hold them at bay, then we are doomed anyway.”
“We’re now walking bombs,” Charvein said, a chill going up his spine at the thought of the sticks detonating. “Let’s go.” He was anxious to get above ground to see if the whole town was ablaze and to find their two antagonists.
They divided the wooden matches so each had eight. Sandoval took the candle and the empty dynamite box and led them back to the hole he’d knocked in the ceiling. The two men walked slightly bent over through the narrow, low portion of the tunnel he’d dug.
“Let me go first,” Charvein said, upending the dynamite box to serve as a stool. He drew his Colt and carefully stepped up, extending his arms over his head through the narrow hole, then straightened up. His eyes were just above ground level.
