by Jo Goodman
Brooklyn worked on the Porter mining accounts, and because she was finally able to understand the scope of what she was doing, she answered Ryland's seemingly endless questions about the mining expenditures. She began to comprehend that the silver was not simply lining the walls of the tunnels sunk deep into the mountainside. Rather it was embedded in quartz, and a miner with only a pick and shovel had little hope of either reaching a silver vein or extracting it. What silver had lain near the surface had been reclaimed long ago, and if it hadn't been for the financial backing of San Franciscan speculators, the mountain would never have revealed her true worth.
Ryland was satisfied with the Porter mines' yield, but he was not satisfied with the cost in terms of lives lost when tunnels collapsed, fires blazed out of control, or mining cars upended on shabbily maintained tracks. Reading through the foreman's log, Ryland discovered that C mine had been the site of three fires in the last year. It was a danger the miners were prepared to face in order to earn their wage, but not one which Ry was prepared to let continue unchecked. Using the tunnel the miners had blasted out for him, Ryland was able to leave the valley and enter A mine with relative ease. From there he could walk to the other mines, meet with the men, inspect the shafts, and carry on his business as if the valley were not buried in snow.
His first order of business was to direct the construction of an escape route for the workers in C mine. Digging for the silver-laden quartz virtually stopped as the new tunnels were being blasted and constructed. The miners themselves thought Ryland's plans were extravagant and ill-conceived, but if he was willing to pay them for building the tunnels, then they would humor him.
Ryland did not share his plans with Brooklyn, fearing that if she knew the freedom he enjoyed she would find his route out of the valley. He told her he was hunting or fishing when he went to the mines, and then paid one of the men to catch his game while he went about his business. He disliked the deception but he disliked the alternative more. Though Brooklyn had confessed to liking the valley, Ryland was not so certain of her that he would risk her leaving. He tried not to think about spring. Still, January inexorably rolled on and became February.
Brooklyn picked up the note Ryland left for her on the kitchen table. "Gone hunting," she read aloud. "I'll be back before noon." She put the note down. "A likely story." She laughed, shaking her head from side to side as a muffled explosion from the mines echoed into the valley. Brook was tempted to confront him just to prove that she wasn't as stupid as she would have him believe. No doubt he would hide the new receipts and accounts in the smokehouse until she was busy elsewhere, and then they would magically appear on the desk for her to enter in the books. It would have been easier to pretend ignorance if she couldn't read the dated receipts. As it was, she simply immersed herself in the work and bit back a smile.
The lunch she prepared for him turned cold on the table waiting for Ryland's return. Brooklyn didn't think anything of it, assuming that whatever he was doing at the mines kept him so occupied that he had forgotten the time. Or perhaps he really had gone hunting. She put away the food and continued with her own work.
She was reading a terribly edifying work, something by an English philosopher which numbered more words that she didn't know than she did, when she heard Ryland stamp his feet on the front porch. Smiling to herself, eager for his company, Brook set the book aside and went to the front door to greet him.
But it wasn't Ryland.
The man who stood on the threshold was near Brook's height, his gaunt face filled out by a heavy, rust-colored beard and drooping mustache. Both were flaked by snow. His complexion was ruddy from the cold and he was hatless, though the thick collar of his sheepskin coat was lifted around his ears and the back of his neck.
Brooklyn hovered in the doorway, prepared to slam it if the man made a single threatening move toward her. For a long time he simply stared at her, clearing his throat uncomfortably.
"My name's Davis," he said gruffly. "Harry Davis. Ain't no cause to be afraid of me, Miz North. Mr. Greer says I'm supposed to fetch you to C mine. There's been an accident."
Greer was the name of the Porter Mining foreman. Brooklyn opened the door wider, ushering the man inside, too shocked to take notice of his assumption that she was Ryland's wife. "You're one of the miners??" she asked, striving for calm. Her palms were damp and her heart was thudding heavily against her chest. An accident. It was what he hadn't said yet that made her dizzy with fear.
"Yes, ma'am." He nodded toward the hooks that held her coat and scarves. "Better take your coat. Gloves if you have them. We've a fer piece to walk to get to A mine."
"Yes, of course. I'll get my coat." Her fingers were trembling as she fastened the buttons on her coat. She shoved her hands into a pair of woolen mittens to hide her nervousness. "Is there something I should bring? Bandages? Medicines?"
"No." He watched her closely, wondering if she was going to faint. Her eyes were huge in her pale face, but she spoke calmly, as if she still had her head about her. That was good, he decided. She was going to need her wits when she saw the mine. He pointed to his feet. "Do you have a pair of snowshoes?"
Brooklyn shook her head. "No, Ry... Ryland has the only pair."
"It's all right." A reassuring smile lighted his solemn green eyes briefly. "We'll manage."
"Perhaps I can ride one of the animals?"
"Nope. Won't do. They'll sink same as you in the powder. At least you'll be able to walk on the crust. I'll make sure you get through the rest." He opened the door. "We'd better go. We need to get to A mine before dusk. I didn't bring a lantern."
Brooklyn followed unhesitatingly. Her curiosity about Ryland's route out of the valley was going to be answered. At this moment she wished she could remain in ignorance forever. Her feet sank a few inches in the crusty snow, but she managed to navigate the frozen crests of the drifts without too much difficulty. Where the snow was lighter, Harry supported or lifted her. He was gentle, unfailingly polite, and Brooklyn found his manners contradicted his rough appearance. At any other time the anomaly might have amused or intrigued her; now her thoughts were narrowed to what she would find at C mine.
"This way, Miz North," Davis said, pointing to a small opening in the hillside.
Brooklyn knew she would have missed the tunnel entrance even if she had been looking for it. On either side of the opening was a mound of snow, which she realized Ryland would have packed against the entrance once he was inside the tunnel. "How do we go through?" she asked, brushing back a wayward strand of hair. The wind was bitter on her face. She held her mittened hands to her cheeks.
Harry Davis knelt in front of the entrance and bid her come closer. "This here's like a sled, ma'am," he said, pointing to the flatbed car on iron wheels. "It's fixed to the track that runs through the tunnel. You have to lay belly down—'scuse me, Miz North—and push yourself through. The slope is downward from here, just a gentle grade but you'll have to use your hands to brake. Do you want me to go first?"
When Brooklyn looked down the long, dark tunnel it didn't seem wide enough for either of them. She didn't let her skepticism show. "Please. I'll follow."
"All right, ma'am. When I'm through I'll give a little tug on this here rope." He gave her the knotted end. "When you feel that then you pull the sled back. It's a short journey. 'Bout fifty yards or so, but darker than Hades—if you'll pardon the expression. When you get close to the other end you'll see the torches from the A mine tunnel. I'll be waiting for you. We'll go up top together. Mr. Greer will want to talk to you then."
Brooklyn nodded. "Be careful," she called as an afterthought as Harry disappeared on the sled. The waiting was interminable, and the tight rein she held on her imagination was loosed. She was shivering so hard from a mixture of fear and cold that she almost missed Harry's tug on the rope. Brook drew back on the rope, hand over hand, until the sled was in front of her. She knelt and then stretched out on it cautiously. The dark walls closed in as she pushed he
rself forward. It was the longest fifty yards she had ever traveled, and most of it was done with her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"I told you she'd do it." Brook heard Harry's voice, laced with pride, announce her journey's end to another miner. She opened her eyes, blinking rapidly, as she was lifted to her feet. "They don't come any better than Miz North." He inserted his arm beneath hers when the anxious man at his side made a motion to do the same. "I brung her this far," he told the other miner possessively.
"I want to see Ryland," Brook said evenly, but with a certain forcefulness.
"This way, ma'am," said Harry. The neck of the A mine entrance was large enough for the trio to walk side by side. When they emerged from the mine it was dusk, but a dozen or more torches blazed in front of them.
One of the men stepped forward, carrying his torch to light his face. His expression was gravely remote. There were smudges of dirt on his sunken cheeks and high forehead. The hand that held the torch sported bloody knuckles. "I'm Joe Greer," he said. "I thought you would want to be with the others."
Brooklyn forced words past the solid lump at the back of her throat. "The others?" she asked.
"The other wives are waiting at C mine," he explained. "One of the tunnels collapsed."
"Ryland?" But she knew the answer. She had always known.
Greer's face became even bleaker. "Your husband's trapped with the others."
"How many?"
"Fifteen."
Brooklyn's knees felt weak. "Dear God," she breathed softly, leaning a little heavily on Harry's arm. "Yes, take me there."
A parade of torches followed their progress the half-mile to C mine. The camp was brightly lit and eerily silent except for the occasional sobbing of one of the grief-stricken women huddled together at the mine entrance. The snow was a mere dusting beneath Brooklyn's feet, and the landscape was as barren as the eyes that were turned on her when she stepped close to the entrance.
"This here's Mrs. North," Greer explained to the women. "And it's no good blaming her for what's happened. Ain't none of it can be laid on her shoulders. Her husband's trapped the same as yours are."
It was small comfort to the women, and Brooklyn saw that immediately. In their anguish they needed a target, and she would serve in Ryland's place. Perhaps Greer had brought her for just that purpose, to take the burden from his own shoulders. Her spine stiffened, and she addressed Greer. "What is being done for the men in the mine?"
"We're digging, ma'am. But it's forty feet of tunnel that we've got to clear. The second crew's just been replaced."
"Show me."
"I can't do that," he objected. "You don't want to go into the mine. It's too dangerous. I just thought you'd want to help with the women." His voice lowered. "You know, comfort them and such."
"Show me," she repeated steadily, giving Greer the benefit of her iciest glance. "And bring Ryland's plans. I want to know exactly where the collapse took place."
Greer hesitated for all of three seconds before he bounded away from the huddle of women to one of the tents. He returned quickly with Ryland's plans rolled under his arm. "Harry? You coming with us?"
"Couldn't do otherwise," he said certainly.
Greer exchanged his torch for a lantern, and Harry did the same. The women and gathering miners watched in stupefied silence as the foreman, Harry, and Brooklyn disappeared into the mine's yawning mouth.
Brooklyn closed her ears to Greer's entreaties that they return to the surface, that the mine was no place for a lady, especially not Ryland North's wife. She was almost tempted to spit in his eye and tell him exactly what she was to Ry North and let him make what he wanted of that. Instead, Brook held her temper and sought answers to what had happened in the mine.
"When did the collapse occur?" she asked.
"Shortly after noon," Greer said. He held out his hand to assist her stepping onto the open bed of the mineshaft elevator.
Brooklyn didn't bother finding out why she hadn't been sent for sooner. It made no difference now. She took off her mittens, stuffed them in her pockets, and held onto one of the elevator's iron supports. As Harry told the miner manning the elevator to lower them, it gave a great shudder that hid Brook's own. The pulleys creaked and groaned, and Brook tried not to look anywhere but at Greer. "How did it happen?"
"Don't rightly know. They were blasting one of the escape routes. I expect they packed too much powder and the supports just gave way."
"Aren't there telegraphic communications between the levels and the surface?" she asked.
"There are," he said eyeing her with new interest. He was somewhat relieved that she understood a little about the mining operation. "But none where Mr. North was working with the men. The 'graph is the last piece of equipment to go in."
"Then you don't know how many are still alive."
"No, ma'am. We've no way of knowing."
The elevator shuddered again, stopping some one thousand feet below the surface. Brooklyn could hear the sound of pneumatic drilling, the hoarse shouts of men, and the keening of a mule set stubbornly on its way along the narrow-gauge track that lined the tunnel. The air was hot and close and breathing deeply hurt her lungs.
Harry cleared his throat, helping Brooklyn off the elevator. "You mustn't take no notice of the men, Miz North. They don't wear much down here on account of it being so hot and all."
"It's all right, Mr. Davis. I'm certain I won't mind if they don't."
Greer muttered something under his breath and led the way to the blocked tunnel. Brooklyn drew off her coat and placed it over her arm. She counted six shirtless men slinging picks against a wall of rock, dirt, and debris. Two more struggled with drills while another half dozen shoveled what was loosened into a car. Their loose pants were rolled up to their knees, and they wore open-heeled slippers on their feet and white, close-fitting mining caps on their heads. But it was not the sight of the half-naked men that caused Brooklyn's breath to catch and her head to lighten. It was the enormity of the task they faced.
Brooklyn had no clear idea of what she expected to find, but it wasn't this sheer, immutable mountain of debris blocking her way. Greer had told her forty feet. How much could they have possibly carted away? She asked him, and the answer held her hands still with fright.
"About three feet now," he said, watching her colorless face closely. "Mrs. North," he sighed. "There was really no purpose in you coming here. There's nothing you can do."
She threw off the hand he placed on her forearm. "There must be." There was a stirring among the laborers as her clear voice sifted through the air to them. Brooklyn smiled weakly, unaware of the power of her smile. "Don't let me keep you from your work, gentlemen. I want to see my husband again. And there are fifteen women aboveground who echo my sentiment." She turned to Greer as the men went back to their work, picking and shoveling with more determination now. "Let me see Ryland's plans," she said. Ryland had always spoken of his sketches for the escape tunnels as if they were something he intended to do in the future. He never once let on that they were being completed while he was supposedly snowbound in the valley. Now Brooklyn was glad her curiosity had gotten the best of her and she had taken the time to study his work.
Greer unrolled the heavy paper and held it against one wall of the tunnel. Harry raised his lantern higher so Brooklyn could see the drawing.
"Where are we now?" she asked, studying the plans intently.
Greer set his own lantern down. The paper curled and Brooklyn grabbed it, holding down the bottom. "Right here," he said, pointing to the fifth level. "This is where the men were working. You can see the connecting tunnel."
Brooklyn nodded. "If they weren't buried in the tunnel itself, then they could be alive in the chamber." When Greer didn't answer Brook stamped her foot impatiently. "Well, couldn't they?"
"Depends," he said uneasily.
"On what?"
"On whether the explosion they set sucked out their air."
Tears stung her eyes b
ut she remained resolute. "Is this the first escape tunnel under construction?"
"No. There's one completed on level four. But it doesn't reach the surface yet."
"But if the men could have reached level four then they might be safe?"
"Can't say as to that. Don't know how they would have made it up the ladders to safety."
Brooklyn tried to keep her frustration in check. "How would we reach the men if they did make it that far? There must be a passage that connects to the main shaft, else how could they have built it?"
"There was one, ma'am, but it fell last week. No one was caught, but it ain't been cleared yet."
"None of it?"
"About twelve feet of it's been taken out."
Brooklyn looked at the plans again. "But this tunnel on the fourth level is shorter. It can't be more than thirty feet."
"Twenty-six," Harry put in helpfully.
"That means there's only fourteen feet left to clear. Why in God's name aren't you trying to reach the men from above?"
"It's not that simple. The rock strata is different on four. Softer, you understand? It's difficult to shore up."
"Difficult, but not impossible."
"Just difficult—and dangerous. Mr. North himself admitted it was a mistake to try to tunnel out from four."
"Perhaps it was," she agreed. "But it might also be the only way for the men to get out. Tell your crews to move to the fourth level and start digging. Have another crew sent to start putting up timber."
Greer simply gaped at her.
"Mr. Greer." Brooklyn’s voice was full of grit. "Unless you can give me a better reason than it's difficult or dangerous, you'd be wise to follow my instructions. I don't pretend to know anything about mining, but I do know the trapped men don't have a prayer of surviving if they have to wait for you to clear forty feet of rubble on this level. If the rock is softer above then perhaps the work will go more quickly; there's certainly less to clear."
