 
### Value Received

### By

### John J. Beach

### Smashwords Edition

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### Published By

### John J. Beach on Smashwords

### Value Received

### Copyright © 2008, 2012, 2015

### by John J. Beach

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### **License Notes** :

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase a copy of your own. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This book is a work of historical fiction, and, as such, it contains both factual and fictional information. References to real people, events, accounts, places, and locales are done to provide a sense of authenticity to the story I have created and to prove anecdotal evidence for the world I have envisioned. All other characters, locations, dialogue, etc., are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Many thanks to P. Maria Galloway, Tamara Mayer, and friends at IMWAN.com who read earlier drafts of this work and encouraged its completion and its later revision. This story began originally as a single-chapter short story, and it sat for nearly three years until I felt a driving need to save the main characters somehow. This novella is that somehow.

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### Contents

Value Received

Chapter 1: Value Received

Chapter 2: Spirit Brothers

Chapter 3: Bar Maid

Chapter 4: Dark Dancing

Chapter 5: The Coming Flood

Chapter 6: Horse Sense

Chapter 7: Thrown Back Into Your Face

Chapter 8: Poison Extraction

Chapter 9: Food and Water

Chapter 10: Queen of the Hive

Chapter 11: Time for a New Character

Chapter 12: Weak Hand

Chapter 13: El Canal de Oro

Chapter 14: Settling Up Later

Chapter 15: Local 19, Almont Chapter

Chapter 16: Title Pending

Chapter 17: Dead Man's Hand

Chapter 18: The Escape

Chapter 19: Like We Own It

The After Words

About the Author
Value Received  
Chapter 1: Value Received

Covering their tracks had been the hardest. Even a small, wooden farm wagon, laden to overflowing with limestone, carves deep ruts into lonely trails. Such furrows were not the work of the tired, old farmer that the two different men pretended to be. And discovery of their true work would mean imprisonment (or worse).

One of these men, Tedford "Teddy" Theodore, did not view himself as a criminal, nor would many others not intimate with The Devil's Own Mining Company or the inner workings of the American legal system. Besides, Teddy was good at justifying things whenever his broader, horizontal sensibilities conflicted with his vertical aspirations. For instance, he had once gambled regularly at cards, taking money from others without returning "value." Teddy's departure here from the Mormon teaching was that he believed the excitement of playing Five-Card Stud _was_ a "value received," even if a man should lose everything else.

His companion was Tanjakwunu, a Southern Paiute Indian. Raised to accept the simplest names for things, Teddy had always called the Indian "TenJack." Three decades earlier (and 90 miles to the east), he had won TenJack while gambling near what would later become known as _Cripple Creek_. During that particular poker hand, Teddy had been dealt the Ten of Hearts face down, the Ten of Spades up. At that point, he merely bet the table's one-dollar _bring-in_ price. His was the lowest of the four cards facing up. His second up card then flopped down—the Ten of Diamonds. Teddy pressed down on one of his Morgan silver dollars with two fingers and scraped it slowly to the center of the table. " _Pair of tens_ needs another dollar from you boys if you want to stay in." One of the other men—annoyed—folded and took this opportunity to get up for a piss.

The Two of Hearts came up next for Teddy. And, with no other deuces showing, he now tried to make it look as if he were "buying the pot." He pushed three more of his Morgans forward. The remaining players were having none of that, and they matched his three dollars. Teddy's final up card had been the Seven of Diamonds, and, while that hadn't mathematically improved his hand in any way, getting a low card like that had been a blessing: both of the remaining men now thought they had him beat, and neither of them suspected his three-of-kind.

Betting grew fierce, tense. The man to Teddy's right, convinced he had the strongest two-pair hand at the table (what looked to Teddy to be _Aces over Nines_ ), a man who wanted to raise the pot further but who was short on cash, offered up—for their consideration—the ownership of TenJack: "I bought him from the Navajos for $20."

Teddy took immediate issue. "How is _he_ possibly worth $20? And why, if I win him, would I ever want a slave?" Teddy made a show of it (wanting the pot to grow as large as possible): he got up from the table and gave the teenaged Indian a once over, asked him to demonstrate his physical strength, his general health, and prove his ability to understand English. Finally, Teddy sat down, squirmed a bit but relented. "Okay. If that's all you got."

Teddy and the remaining man at the table had both called the twenty "Indian" dollars.

Now, considerably later into his life and skulking within the dead of a southeastern night, Tedford and TenJack strained together to heft an ironbound wooden-staved barrel off their small wagon. This, and many more like it, they had carried down to a stagnant watering hole. From the barrels, they had emptied hundreds of pounds of dirt and shattered crystalline limestone and dolomite—the worthless shards, the remnants of Teddy's labor, what he had been able to remove by working nights (without the aid of explosives) from the ever-deepening mine shaft hidden beneath their shack.

On the return trip, TenJack followed closely on foot behind the wagon. His job was to smooth over the wheel tracks with a wooden rake. Teddy, exhausted from another week of difficult mining, sat half asleep on the buckboard steering _Magic Dog_ , their small, shaggy horse. They had had him now for nine years, but TenJack still felt awkward around Magic Dog—and around all horses. He couldn't get used to them. His own people (primarily food collectors and small game hunters) had never had enough resources to support large animals.

The sun still was hours from breaking as their wagon neared the shack nestled against a hill in a remote, rugged gorge. Their current homestead was just a salmon red, soft sagebrush and prickly pear cactus-covered speck of the Colorado Plateau. They lived in a _weather beater_ , just enough house to protect them from hot, vivid blue days and cold, emery black nights. Adjoining the shack leaned a small wooden shed for Magic Dog and Lulu, a brown-and-white Alpine milk goat. And, behind this, built into a natural terrace cracked within the hill, they had structured a chicken coop for more than a dozen hens and one red rooster named Roscoe.

TenJack tended the goat, the chickens, and "the farm"—several small vegetable gardens he had planted in fertile locations with unblocked exposure to the southern sky. He did well here with "cold season" crops: asparagus, carrots, beets, turnips, potatoes, radishes, leaf lettuce, and green onions. He pan-fried their meals along with basil, sage, parsley, horseradish—whatever he could find or grow to liven up the taste. TenJack did the farming, the washing up, and the smoothing over of the water hole during the days. Teddy worked the mine in the evenings. The two men had become good friends during their thirty years of tramping trails together, working at odd jobs and prospecting, but it was rare these days that they had spent time together—just for meals and their weekly, secretive dumping of mine diggings.

Both men dressed alike: tough jeans, gray woolen shirts, rabbit-skinned jackets or charcoal-grey vests, wide-brimmed hats to cover their faces from the sun and potential onlookers. Lately, since they had seen no one else for a spell, Teddy had gone without shaving for a day or two at a time. His beard had come in gray. His skin was pallid. Only TenJack normally would go outside during the daylight. But, if Tanjakwunu had ever seen someone coming from off in the distance, he would go inside to wake Tedford. (Then, TenJack would hide in the mineshaft hidden beneath their home until the guest had left.) Teddy was their community face, not their daily body. People knew Tedford, knew that he owned the shack and had leased the land, and they believed him a widower, a man wanting to live out his meager existence on his own.

What they hadn't realized is that after years of having searched, Teddy, finally, had struck gold. But, Tedford had discovered his deposit at the same time that The Devil's Own Mining Company had discovered gold of their own. And, despite having a legal claim to his land and to the mineral rights beneath it, Teddy did not possess the "apex" of the vein. His golden lode, he estimated, trended back and upward to where his neighbors had made a surface strike. Teddy's strike had come deep underground, after he and TenJack had found, then deepened, a natural crack at the base of one of their hills. Once Teddy had squirmed into the narrow, twisting space slanting into the earth, he had found promising signs in "the character of the quartz." Three weeks later, after having spent days at a time axing and hammering out crawl spaces large enough (and finding more and more yellow-and-green-stained quartz pebbles as he descended), he had reached the fissure's bottom. There, he found the gold—gold that backed further into the stone, snaking northerly and, he determined, ever so slowly upwards towards his neighbor's strike.

Realization sometimes feels like a pickaxe a man gouges into his own head.

Tedford was on the wrong end of this gold shoot. The Federal Apex Law of 1866 and 1872 gave claim owners—like The Devil's Own—the right to pursue all veins from the apex of their claim "throughout their entire depth." This meant even if that vein passed the surface limits of their claim and continued horizontally under someone else's claim or property.

Teddy knew—but did not agree with—this law. And, had his position and The Devil's Own had been reversed, Tedford still wouldn't have agreed with this law. _Boundaries ran right and left and straight up and down._ Anything else was politically-approved (and purchased) thievery. That was his thinking.

So, he and TenJack became lawbreakers, relocated and rebuilt their shack against the hill to conceal this hole into the earth, this hole into their otherwise honest lives, and they built up a false, removable flooring on top of it all. And then, Teddy had started to chip away during the night, slowly, covertly, separating out the glittering from the black. Gold in this telluride form typically yielded $8 to $640 of gold per ton of ore excavated. Teddy's yield, he knew, would be closer to $800. However, he and TenJack also knew in order to ever be able to cash in on this gold would require discretion, risk. And, the mining around Almont, Colorado had gotten riskier than normal lately. Just a week before they had started their operation, one prospector had been found hung from a tree. Another one they knew personally had been left in a gully with the top of his head blown off.

Eventually, after 18 months, what had started off as two men exploring a promising natural cavern was now a productive, though illegal, mineshaft. A portion of the tunnel also served to warehouse the best of their gold concentrate in rough bags. Once panned (far away from here), the separated gold would allow them a fresh start, someplace else completely honest, with money enough for real equipment and a crew of young workers.

That was their goal: _just enough_ gold. And, tonight, while the two men were down in the shaft deciding whether or not they had just enough, TenJack stopped short. He gestured to Teddy then pressed a finger to his own lips. A bark, or a whinny, Lulu or Magic Dog above, had expressed something as "being out of place." And, with both men listening intently toward the surface, an explosion of nearby dynamite knocked them numbly to the floor of the shaft. Shocked, half buried in loosened rock and gravel, their eardrums resounding, Teddy and TenJack knew they were finished.

And yet, they fought on, pulled and bent themselves free of the rubble, moved aside splintered beams and loose wedge supports, and, best as they could, made room for themselves in the newly-formed burial vault that had, moments before, been their gold mine.

One of the coal-oil glass lanterns had somehow survived lit and unbroken. So, they could see their fate clearly: the shaft had sealed at the mouth of the adit, their oxygen soon to be exhausted. They forced some of the broken lumber in between the fallen stones at the base of the shaft, hoping to lever them apart, open up something, anything. A few rocks gave way, but the gaps immediately filled with more debris from above. In frustration, they moved to the deepest end of the mineshaft and smashed fist-sized rocks against the bottom where it had seemed to have given away a little during the explosion. They hoped against hope that some further gap or fissure might be located below them.

Already worn, Teddy's arms and hands were failing. The stones fell from his fingers. His whole body crumpled to the floor. Then, he slipped out a metal flask from his inside vest pocket. He immediately passed this over to TenJack, who sat down cross-legged near him. TenJack drank half of the remaining water from it before passing back the flask. Teddy swallowed what was left. Another couple of minutes elapsed while the two of them caught their breaths. It was also about then that they, finally, were able hear their own voices again. During the twenty minutes preceding, they had heard nothing but a ringing echo in their ears. Their failed escape efforts had been coordinated through hand gestures and by widely mouthing and enunciating their unheard words.

They could not agree now upon what had given them away: the roadwork on the trail (too good or not good enough), a passerby noticing something amiss, some tell-tale evidence left at the watering hole that Tanjakwunu hadn't been able to disguise, or, maybe that they owned just too many chickens to feed a single man? Ultimately, they agreed it hardly mattered... _now_.

Tedford wished to leave this world without regret. His Mormon church had had no official doctrine against slaveholding—its leaders were mostly ambivalent about it. However, Teddy was an admirer of Jacob Hamblin (the _Buckskin Apostle_ ), a Mormon leader who had promoted friendship between his people and the natives. And, as such, after having won TenJack in that card game, Teddy had immediately set him free.

Having little prospects, though, TenJack had asked to travel with Tedford, "for a time." This led to them moving north for a few years and then further west, settling most recently here at their mining operation close to TenJack's homeland.

There was little the two men could do now but wait for asphyxiation. They stopped talking, resigned to it all, until Teddy spoke up at last, with almost a chuckle: "Should, umm, we put out the lamp? Buy ourselves a few more minutes of breathing?"

TenJack shrugged.

Teddy then worked hard to correctly pronounce his friend's full name, "Tanjakwunu...? That card game, years ago at Cripple Creek, remember? I wanted them to believe I was nervous—about your value—that I wasn't sitting on a solid hand. Even then, I knew you were worth far more than twenty dollars."

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Chapter 2: Spirit Brothers

The _Sacred_ _Datura_ , a nightshade witch weed, grows low to the ground along the trails and pathways of southwestern North America. Its funnel-shaped white flower opens for sex at night welcoming in and sticking to a steady clientele of moths and nocturnal insects. They brush eagerly, full against it. Its seeds and spiny pods are poisonous, but, when ingested, instead of death may bring on a delirious and/or spiritual state. Once swallowing them, a man often will find it impossible differentiating natural from supernatural. And, when combined in a very specific (but closely-guarded secret) quantity, with the powder-strike liver of a puffer fish, and then injected directly into the jugular vein of a healthy man, well... that man's reality alters forever. After such an alteration, these men could be controlled easily by a _Bokú_ specialist.

Harold Brokholc wasn't controlled by any combination of plant neurotoxin, fish tetrodoxin, or Haitian voodoo. Harold was dominated by money, and, as the well-paid, lead foremen of The Devil's Own Mining Company in Almont, he would give the company his soul and his loyalty—for as long as they kept paying him. And, if that meant using a mind-controlled zombi work force, well, so be it. Harold was never much one anyway for chitchatting with his workers, and he had never _took much to the engelsk_. He was a squat, powerful Swede, almost dwarven in his characteristics, especially in how he would descend regularly into the underground to escape the sun. His job here for the last 18 months had been to examine the gold concentrate being excavated, to plan the best directions to continue mining, and then to bark these orders to Agwe, a fat Bokú priest who controlled zombi labor with rhythmic dancing and spiritual cants.

Harold had no love for Catholicism nor for the unusual Creole combination of it with the Vodooism practiced by Fat Agwe. And Harold didn't hate the fat man, nor did he fear him in any way. Harold actually enjoyed talking with Agwa—in French—mainly about spirits, either the kind they liked best (and would share from the bottle) or Fat Agwe's _loua_ , the black voodoo man's guardian angels. Harold believed in guardian spirits, believed that he and his own family were accompanied by _fylgjur_ , who (in powerful animal forms) would protect him during the worst of times, and (as a beautiful woman) would lead him, seductively, into the land beyond death when his time on this earth was done.

Families with fylgjur were privileged by the gods to have them— _better_ than the families who did not. As such, Harold felt no remorse for his zombi mining workers, who both were and were not dead, and who were toiling still, trapped in this world, led into the tight corridors of the underworld not by a beautiful woman, but by a sweaty, naked fat man who liked to grease himself silvery white and gray with lithium soap. Nor did Harold care how The Devil's Own recruited these zombi. These men, he knew, were the worst of humanity: criminals, ne'er-do-wells, and vagrants, just passersby who needed a purpose, a purpose Harold was happy to help bring to them— _forever_. Nor did Harold have much love for the other, non-Voodoo-related workers employed by The Devil's Own. _Necessary evils_ , he thought them. He had a few favorites among them, sure, but all of them were just the _above-ground_ logistics, the façade. The Devil's Own paid two-dozen normal men to pretend that they were _sixty overworked miners_. They served as the company's face for this particular mine, and their main job was to spend just enough money locally to help keep the county surrounding the mine viable, financially-strong enough to support the continuing operation of the cyanide processing plant. These above-ground men normally were outside of Harold's actual authority, and they answered to him, more or less, when they felt like it, or when the monthly payday was drawing close. Some of these men had ideas of their own, though, about how daily operations should be handled. And, since none of the above-ground men had ever seen the real owners of The Devil's Own Mining Company, and since Harold preferred to live beneath the earth like a fungus, one very observant above-grounder (one to whom which appearance in life was everything) had noticed something out of place. And this particular above-grounder had decided he might earn a sizable bonus by removing this potential threat to the company's profits. He carry through on this plan using a single match and less than one dollar's worth of stick dynamite.

The explosion in the southernmost tunnel had jarred Harold Brokholc fully awake (at close to four o'clock in the morning, three hours into his normal sleep). Harold had taken the train back from Cripple Creek just the day before, had met with the owners, and had discussed the year's results. Those sessions always exhausted him, and he never could get to sleep afterwards on a moving train.

Harold rubbed his powerful fists into his eye sockets hoping to clear away the thin layer of gunk and tunnel dust that had formed there as he slept. He flexed his short spine and stretched his arms, trying to get life back into his flesh. Then, he swung his legs off his bunk to the cavern floor. He stooped over and began groping for his work boots. Miners, miners like Harold Brokholc especially, didn't really care what time of the day they worked (it was always under artificial lighting), but they wanted the work regularly. Harold knew there was no blasting scheduled until the early afternoon— _the afternoon_ , he thought, _when sensible men were awake._

He found an empty boot and a full bottle of 90-proof rye whiskey. He spit something dry from his throat then swigged back a mouthful. Then, able to freely gulp down air again, and, having regained his sight at last, he found his other boot and quickly shod himself. His bedroom was a natural cul-de-sac tarped off from the rest of the tunnels by a curtain of serge twill. Harold moved deftly in the almost-dark, pulled aside the portal covering, and grabbed a low-burning lantern he kept just outside the tarp. (It was a beacon he used to mark the location of his office, and it provided just enough light trickling beneath the curtain to suit his life style.) Raising the lantern's flame as he moved quickly to the south, Harold spotted Johan Harkens (sometimes his second-in-command, otherwise a cart pusher and ore loader). Harkens stood in a haze of dust dusting his pants off with flapping palms.

"What's happened, Harkens?"

Harkens, who had been too close to the southern cavern when the explosion had occurred, turned back and, judging by the ringing in his own ears, felt he needed to shout his responses, "Blast in the south tunnel, Sir! It's caused a cave in on the voodi."

Harold felt his stomach sink deep as he stepped forward to assess the collapsed tunnel, the fallen timber, the rubble. "Where's Fat Agwa?" he asked.

Harkens shook his head. "He was there at the front diggings. Might be trapped in a pocket. Might... not be. We'll get an actual crew down here. Start digging. There's a chance—"

"Good Gods," Harold cried as he then spotted crated food containers in Harkens' trolley cart. "Agwa's in there _with them_ , and they haven't eaten tonight!"

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Chapter 3: Bar Maid

Jacob Clambers was asleep, and, having _that dream_. He was ten years old again, seated on the rough floor of a rough cabin he shared with Mother and his rough brother, Ethan. Mother was out on the front stoop hand-pumping water into a one-handled ceramic pitcher. It was her favorite dish, large and creamery white, with delicate, rose petals brushstroked onto the surface. A small bowl of blackberry syrup and a chipped white platter with the last flapjack sat between Jacob and his brother. Just as Jacob was stretching over for the jack, his brother's fork stabbed it, and Ethan dragged it across the floor and onto his own plate resting in front of his crossed legs. Jacob glared. His 14-minute-older brother hadn't yet finished with his other flapjacks.

Probably isn't even hungry. Wants to keep me hungry, smaller than him.

Then, the dream shifted. Jacob and Ethan were crawled under the cabin, huddled beneath the floorboards, their small bodies pressed into the dirt. Mother had begged them to go down there, said she knew, "Bad men were coming." And, she had been right. Bad men had forced their way through the barred cabin door. Bad men were hurting her. Bad men made her screamed like a captured pig—at first—and then Mother sobbed, whimpering the longer it went on. At first, the boys took turns watching through a gap between the floorboards, but then they couldn't bear to see her anymore, to see her so helpless. They lowered their faces hard against the ground until they tasted dirt. They covered their ears with their hands, jamming fingers in deeply. Despite this, they heard the gunshot. And Mother had stopped sobbing then, had stopped everything.

Then his dream deviated a third time. Jacob was much older now, in his mid thirties, seated at a table with other men that he didn't know too well.

Dirty men. A saloon table.

It seemed like a saloon to Jacob, but it still tasted like dirt. This particular saloon was cool, dark, and unfamiliar, but his dreaming supplied it with the normal bar-room trappings: colored bottles high on the shelves, the big mirrors, the wall hangings, a hovering of smoke. He was seated in a straight-back, wooden chair, although, at times, it felt like he was crouched again on the floor in front of the last flapjack. The other men with him were reaching for it, and Jacob started cursing his brother's name.

Damn it, Ethan! Stop it!

It was then that he noticed _her_. The others hadn't yet. They were still obsessed, grabbing at that lard-filled flapjack between them. Jacob's _her_ was a saloon girl, in her mid twenties, with coffee-colored skin, _heavy on the milk_ , and wearing a dress as thin as a man's late-night promises to such women. From a bar stool, she was smiling at Jacob, winked. Her face glistened, lit up and seemed to center the entire room upon her.

How are... others not seeing her?

She smelled of hibiscus, had flowers pinned into a short bob of glossy, raven hair. As she moved her slender arms, bracelet hoops clinked together at her wrists, sounded like piano keys being tickled by an expert.

Jacob got to his feet, his eyes fixed on the gorgeous young woman. He needed her, hungered to taste her lips. His hands wanted to feel how warm she was, how her thin waist rounded out behind her and smoothed back again into firm thighs. He took one, uneasy step forward, trying not to be obvious, nor desperate, trying not to alert the others. But, they sensed her now as well and were just as captivated as he. The men shambled to their feet, smoothed back tangled hair behind their ears, ran fingers through unkempt beards and moustaches, primmed themselves proper.

She was new here, but she knew her way around. She drifted to the back antechamber, her dress flowing gently behind. She twirled liked a wind gust in late April, then she backed slowly through an archway, ducking as she glided under striped, tieback curtains the color of marbled bacon. She disappeared, momentarily, then, catlike, she rolled just her head back under and against the striped fabric. She smiled, and it was an obvious smile, a smile that wanted the rest of her body to be followed, kissed, caressed. And she had followers lining up behind her—behind him—as she rose three steps and passed through a bedroom door.

Jacob stumbled up after her, could feel the passionate heat rising from within his pants, within his brain. He fumbled at the door, his hands unable to work the stone-like knob. He pounded. He pounded, and he came close to breaking his fists on the unyielding door. Then he grabbed something hard nearby to use instead of fists. He cried out for her, cried out, pounded, and wanted everything at the end of this dream to be real, except... this locked door.

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Chapter 4: Dark Dancing

When Fat Agwa was just a thin boy mucking his way through a valley swamp on the western end of _Île à Vache_ (Cow Island), he knew very little of the physical world, even less of the spiritual. His father had died 19 months earlier, or he had been taken away in the night, or both (stories varied). Agwa's mother had died during childbirth—but not during _his_ —during a younger sister's. The girl child had lived just three hours and hadn't been given a name. "Nathaly" is what Agwa had decided upon later. That name he knew meant "birthday," and that's all she had ever been. Agwa's old Grannie, his father's mother, was a _mambo_ , a priestess. She loved singing but was too old now to dance anymore, but she could talk all right, talked the boy night and day into being her feet, her shambolic rhythm. She would dance him for hours at a time and, all the while, it felt to the boy as if she were not only moving his legs but also looking through his eyes.

The deepest swamps were his escape, from her at least. Other boys were in there, too, crawling naked through the muddy waters trying to grab up fish, tiny crab, shrimp, anything at all that they could eat or bring back to families waiting to eat in small shacks tittering on the edges of the swamps. Agwa felt good when deep down in the mud, and, when above it, he loved the tall reeds blading against his skin in the wind. Even the constant competition for food had brought him satisfaction (and success). He had the knack and the dedication. He would come early and stay much later than most, when the stars and partial moon were the only things around him not black. He trained himself to notice things in the dark.

It was on one of these late nights, just before the sun had gone into the earth to sleep, when Agwa had found Nathaly. Mostly alive, she appeared in that brief instant before the dying sunlight had left him. She had grown, was nearly four years old now. But it was _her_. He knew her face. And she knew Agwa, and she reached out to him, embraced his leg, and clung to him in that way only small children can. She demanded attention, to be cradled in his arms, caressed, loved. He did so, readily, and nothing felt weird about it except his later thoughts that something should have.

He carried her home that night. It was slow going, difficult to find secure footing in the dark, but he knew his own feet and the wet paths well enough. The proud joy inside was giving him additional strength. Nathaly grew lighter in his loving arms as they went, or so it seemed. Before long, Agwa saw the torch, the small, flickering torch Grannie always kept burning throughout the night in case she were ever called upon, to remove the ills, the maladies, the curses that one acquires, sometimes, through accident. Grannie stayed awake every night, rarely was seen ever sleeping at all _. Strange dark woman, that one_.

Even before he got close enough to the torch to be certain, Agwa knew that Nathaly was gone. Whatever he held in his hands now was no longer her. It was now a black-neck _grebe_ , a diving bird with narrow wings and dense, brown-and-white waterproof feathers. This one had been larger than most of its kind, quite the prize, big enough to be two, maybe three meals for he and Grannie. Except (for maybe the first time ever), Agwa wasn't hungry, didn't feel he ought to eat this bird. Grannie assured him that it wasn't Nathaly, had never been so. What Agwa had encountered in the swamp that night was the family's _loua_ , and, Grannie convinced him, it had been a good sign.

The next morning, they had to reward the guardian for her help, offer up special food and a drink (which Grannie had concocted throughout the rest of the night) to present to their family spirit. Then, Agwa must dance for her, of course. Grannie danced him for a very long time.

Fat Agwa could barely breath. For some time now, he had been suffering from cardiomyopathy. And he did his heart no favors through excessive drinking and the overeating of meat. Well over a hundred pounds of dirt and rock crushed upon him now, pressing down his lungs into his fat back and side. These same lungs had been inhaling mine silica for over a year. His abdomen and legs were trapped under stone. At least one of the legs was broken. Agwa could feel his calves and ankles swelling, pooling blood.

With one arm free, he had used it to unearth his face from the cave-in rubble. He struggled for breath. It was dark around him, but, he was used to that, had an extra sense where things were (even if he couldn't see them). And there was something moving, crawling its way toward him, unearthing itself, something _mostly dead_ , yet something also hungry. Agwa commanded it to stop, and it did—for now. Agwa was a _houngan sur pwen_ , junior priest, and also a bit of a sorcerer. This was a right-hand, left-hand sort of arrangement he had with the universe. Grannie had taught him herbalism and healing, but also the medicines of _vodum_ , and Agwa kept her rituals (her dances with the spirits), and he courted the delicate relationship between life and _afterwards_. And, in this, Agwa felt himself a passionate lover.

Surmising, summing, speculating, he finally recalled where he must be. Someone had set off dynamite and had brought the ceiling down upon him, behind him, and in front of him. Perhaps, he thought, The Devil's Own Mining Company was done with him, done with the mind-controlled zombi workforce and its choreographer. _No_. This seemed unlikely to him. The gold was still giving strong. And the blast had come from... _the south?_ This had been an accident, he concluded, not a curse levied directly against him.

Fat Agwa had been careful never to offend; he barely interacted at all with any of the other "living" employees except for Harold Brokholc and then mainly for drink or poker. A drink would be good now. With chicken. The thought of food was troubling to him. If he were hungry, he thought, then his possessed man would be hungry, too. Luckily for the priest, though, it appeared that all of his zombi had been crushed or trapped in some other section underground. Except for one of them, and this one could reach him, reach him quite easily. This one needed to be kept busy, kept _not_ thinking about food. This one also needed to be set at digging Agwa out as soon as possible. Then, if it became prudent, Agwa would release the man from his unlife, and, if need be, to eat him.

_No_. That was hungry, wrongful thinking. Everything happens for a reason, he knew. And what you do to others, you do to yourself. There is connection in all things, every prologue leads to a larger, unified tale. Fat Agwa enslaved men, used their bodies for his own profit. In turn, he was a slave as well—of the company. And, he knew his life brought to them greater profits than would his death. Agwa accepted his situation in a general way, _general_ being the best way. If he began thinking too specifically about this particular zombi with him, began personifying it, he would be giving it strength (while it would be taking from his own).

" _Fouye m 'deyò_ ," he commanded. " _Fouye m 'deyò!"_ At these words, the man trapped between worlds clawed his way closer to the man trapped within this one, and the zombi began to dig, dig steadily with pale, callused hands. All the while, Fat Agwa labored to breathe, to breathe deeply within this dust-filled prison. And, he prayed to Christ for release. He prayed to Nathaly for salvation. He prayed to everything at once.

That's when the screaming started.

### ~~~~
Chapter 5: The Coming Flood

In the final breaths of life, just moments before his brain cells began extinguishing, Tedford Theodore's mind danced in and out of consciousness. The lantern flame had gone out one minute (maybe _five minutes_ ) ago, and Jacob Hamblin (seen by Teddy in the wick's dying ember) had been there with him, briefly. The Mormon leader had been laughing at Tedford, laughing at him for never having married even _one_ wife. Teddy had yelled something hurtful back in response, but he had already forgotten what it could have been. _No...._ No, he remembered: it was about Hamblin having brought a dirty, misfiring gun to a Indian battle. Teddy was mocking Jacob Hamblin: "So, Jacob, only then, staring helpless in the face of a superior force, did your thoughts finally turn to peace?"

Tedford was making his own peace now, though it felt more like a biting at the back of his neck— _or was that an echo in his ear?_ It was difficult telling the difference between his individual body parts when he was leaving the whole of it behind. Then, something happened. A man need only hear the preaching once in his life—clearly—to become, himself, a man of the message. And, if that preaching had come to Jacob Hamblin in the form of a silent rifle, its message still resounded clearly enough _: salvation is not within your own hands. You have to work and trust and live with others—for others. The whole of the world is a harsh desert otherwise, and you will always be thirsty when alone, even when the flood comes to drown you, comes to tear down everything you have ever built._

And came, the flood did as God hammered and clawed, pulled free a heavy rock from within the floor. Teddy could breath again. Even the lantern had somehow rekindled itself, which, might, someday, serve as Teddy's own inspirational metaphor. _Or not_ : the hole in the floor brought breath to Teddy but also zombi hands reaching up through it from below, zombi hands wielding hammers. They tore away at the rocks in the floor, creating a new entrance into Teddy and TenJack's burial vault. A miracle, it seemed to him, momentarily, until Teddy perceived the hungry visage of his rescuers.

There _had been_ a natural underground cavern between Teddy's illegal mineshaft and the southernmost shaft of The Devil's Own. Each entrance had been lost in the explosion, but this yawning gap within the rock remained. All Teddy could see now, though, was the portal, which led—seemingly—straight into the darkness of hell, a hungry gap, ever-widening, above the tireless workings of the Sons of Perdition.

Teddy could not help himself. He shook with fear, and, as he did so, he heard the audible gasp of TenJack behind him. Tedford's initial fear, that moment of surprise that had taken him completely, was falling away, forgotten, and was being replaced by words of reassurance, words and feelings coming to Tedford, from somewhere and passing through him: "Be strong, Tanjakwunu!" Teddy shouted. "Do not willingly lend them your ears should they speak."

"Are they men?"

Tedford spoke, forcefully, continued speaking, but he was no longer groping for a voice, he was commanding: "Consigned to darkness, the dead shall weep, wail, gnash their teeth." Tedford grabbed for the lantern then held it blazing to the gap. "Down, angels of Satan! You must remain therein until you have suffered in accordance, until the last, when you have received the Christ." The _once-men_ beneath him hunkered back away from the lantern's flame, but their unfocused, glassy eyes continued to stare up, longingly. Their doughy faces betrayed no emotion, reflected no thought behind them whatever, but their noses twitched, their mouths hung open. Inarticulate words pooled, oozing out off of their tongues.

Tanjakwunu's words were clear, purposeful: "There is air beyond this point, Tedford. And I hear the drippings of water."

"Perhaps," Teddy pondered aloud, his voice weakening, "we have joined them in death, at the well of waiting souls, here to teach them the Word."

TenJack put his hand on his friend's shoulder. "I am too thirsty to be dead, Tedford. They have water. I would like some. Let us retreat far back as we can. They can widen the hole while we prepare an offense."

### ~~~~
Chapter 6: Horse Sense

It is said that horses have come from a long line of dog-like creatures (North American dogs), 60 million years ago. And, once they took on their long-legged horse shape, they chose to use that increased stride of theirs to wander the world thereafter, crossing over the Ice Age land bridges into Asia. Then, as these evolutionary experiments often do, the horses died out in their native America homelands (and in most everyplace else in the world). They tripped up and surrendered to a wave of extinction that happened 15,000 years ago. A few, smaller herds managed to escape that wave of annihilation, losing themselves into the cold steppes of the Ukraine and Central Asia, waiting there until they strengthened, until they became wanderers once again.

Some of them then went further north (the ones longing for unsettled places wherein they could run and think freely). Quite a few more had gone west. The male horses, who eventually had found their way to Spain, were called " _caballo_ ," and the gentlemen riders who had named them that and who had come to master them over time, the " _caballeros_." Christopher Columbus knew some caballeros in his day, and he decided to bring with him a few of their caballo (along with their mares) on his journey to the Indies. That is how the horse, by navigational accident, had come home again to America (That is, if you ignore the Icelandic horse's arrival nearly 500 years earlier, and overlook a certain transaction made between the Norse settlers and a chief of the dogless Dorset Eskimos, a deal that took place before the relationship between the Viking homesteaders and a few milk-drunk " _skraelings_ " had soured into lactose-intolerant bloodshed).

Magic Dog was a smaller horse than most, just over 13 hands high. But, if physical size were his disadvantage, he made up for it with his tall personality and unusually high intelligence. The horse was strong, broad in the withers with a deep chest and short, muscular legs. Magic Dog had been trained for pack and draft work in northern Minnesota.

Tedford thought he could make a pit pony out of him, so he freighted the horse out west to use in the mines. That worked out fairly well because the rest of the west was too warm for Magic Dog. He took readily to caves, liked the dark and the cooler temperatures inside. He liked working at nights and in the early mornings, too. The days, he felt, were meant for sleeping.

From a distance, Magic Dog appeared ghostly white, but, technically, he was considered _gray_. His skin underneath was a deep black. Not that anyone much ever saw his skin since he was, by far, the hairiest horse in Colorado, with a long, floppy mane and coarse bangs that covered his chestnut eyes. He also had a thick bush of a tail, which often brushed the ground or got caught on buffalo burs. Those were a pain to pull out because of their spiky brown seedpods.

Right now, Magic Dog was annoyed. He had been stolen, and he knew it. Plus, Tedford hadn't fed him at the scheduled time or brushed him out as expected. And there had been this prowler who had come 'round the shed in the night, then the loud explosion, and then the prowler came back, saddled Magic Dog up, and took him. Plus, he had left Lulu behind—after whipping her because she wouldn't stop barking at him.

_And where was this man taking him anyway?_ The prowler already had a horse, a very nice, patient, confident red mare— _and large_. Magic Dog liked them large. Well, once upon a time he did, when he was still in his early twenties. Still, his reins were tied to her saddle horn, so it was difficult not to notice her scent, the way she gaited, their brief touches, and the pleasurable nickers she emitted the nearer Magic Dog came to her hind legs.

The prowler smelled funny, too. _Lemony_. Pieces of small metal attached to his jacket jingled as he moved. _And what was this man saying—and to whom?_ He wasn't talking to Magic Dog, didn't seem to be conversing with his own horse either, and it wasn't in a language that Magic Dog had heard often before, if ever. This man's sounds did not betray purpose, they seemed just noise for the sake of noise. _Whatever_. _It wasn't quite morning yet, nearly though, just moments away._ Other noises nearby made more sense, were calming, were worth the horse's attention.

The courtship cooing of a nearby crow rattled the air, and, near the end of his garbled " _coi-ous_ ," a nested female, hungry for him, sounded a " _car-car_ " in reply to his lonely whisper song. Below her, under cover of a serviceberry bush, two raccoons bickered, _probably over some meager food_. The larger of them growled and yipped defiantly. The smaller barked contumaciously. Further away, a mule deer listened to eight horseshoes clopping, didn't like what her nose made of their smell, or of the man with them, so she darted west into a steep scrub canyon.

Magic Dog also had excellent low-light vision, and, finally, he saw what he had been waiting for up alongside the trail. He had always been a premeditating sort of animal. And, when they drew closer, he deliberately stepped poorly. He feigned a stumble, and pulled wide to the right and into a dense patch of skin-puncturing horse nettle. He jerked hard on his reins to stop the leading mare, came up "lame," and, in real pain, began to whine his fool head off. And he refused to move back out to safety.

Now it was the prowler's turn to be annoyed. But, not quite able to see what the problem was, he had to climb off his mare to examine Magic Dog. He hoped to settle him down, quickly. And, while coming around (and jingling as he stepped), he found the buffalo burs, accidentally brushed his left hand right into the thick of them: _"Maldita sea!_ " He jumped back yelling, " _Caballo estúpido."_ Then, yanking on Magic Dog's reigns, he began pulling him, hoping to guide him free out of the patch. The horse complied, still whining, and strongly favoring the left hind leg.

The sun was just creeping over the mountainous horizon then, enough to begin illuminating the edges of the highest trees, warming the cool, spring air. The prowler bent down low to judge the condition of the shoe on the stolen horse's rear hoof. " _Oh, lo que es, idiota?"_

And, with the positioning to his liking, Magic Dog, as hard as he could, back-kicked the prowler in the forehead.

### ~~~~
Chapter 7: Thrown Back Into Your Face

The reflection of a man can be seen in what he carries within himself, his recollection, the shaping moments when he has chosen his life or has had life splattered upon him. In his dream, Jacob Clambers was staring into a full-length mirror, a mirror edged in dark chestnut details, a handcrafted frame of French Victorian flowers, acanthus leaves, and vines all wreathed and tangled. And, in this particular mirror, in a memory within a dream, Jacob saw his own face but couldn't understand the name he was associating with it.

Virgil? Virgil... Lloyd? Virgil Lloyd.

Virgil Lloyd had always been a struggle. He had been an attempt to be something that Jacob Clambers wasn't. And now, Virgil Lloyd was a confusing rediscovery, part of the anamnesis of a man lost, a man who'd been staring too longly inward.

Virgil Lloyd. Shop keeper. Early thirties. Not... underly handsome.

Jacob smiled.

"Lloyd the Lucky." Yes. They called me that. A decent man. Hard worker.

Lloyd's Market in Almont, Colorado had survived, even prospered, at a time when many other businesses had failed. His location, though, had been ideal (first on the main road coming from the city of Gunnison). That had helped considerably. He had also been within walking distance of most every home in the Almont community.

Was a good store.

Lloyd's Market had always had a nice selection of General-store staples and the hardest-to-manufacture-at-home grocery items: flour, sugar, dried fruit, and sweet syrups. Best of all, Virgil Lloyd had extended credit, a lot of credit. He also had cut a deal with the Almont City Council.

Each morning (except on Sundays), Lloyd had rented out tables, stalls, and the open space surrounding his market to butchers, farmers, and home bakers. For this, he charged only a small percentage of whatever was earned each day from the sales (if anything). The City Council, in turn, for a small percentage of that, had passed a local ordinance that prohibited anyone else in town from selling perishables during those peak, post-breakfast hours. This had helped to ensure that customers would come to the one central location, and that the fresh food sales would be brisk before anything had had time to spoil. It really had been a win-win for everyone.

And, as such, Lloyd's Market had become a popular gathering post, the social highlight of the day for many. There had always been free, freshly-brewed coffee, soda crackers, and an occasional pickle pull allowed from a briny barrel. Pickles were a nickel apiece if you weren't a regular shopper, or if you were one of those customers wanting second pulls. The store's planked flooring covered only 200 square feet, but shelving held merchandise stacked to the ceiling, tables overflowed (and underflowed) with several items collected in crates (and smaller goods in buckets underneath). Customers could spend hours there.

Becky.

Beccalynn Richards, a local spinster, had loitered frequently at Lloyd's.

Becky.

Jacob could see her now. Saw her... and Virgil Lloyd. He saw Virgil. Jacob saw himself—as Virgil. Saw himself pretending never to notice Becky.

Butter Lips.

On that particular day, Beccalynn Richards had loitered in the store longer than normal. She had examined two small books, all of the bolts of cloth (twice), and the tiny tools on the table, and whatever else seemed like it should interest a single woman still living with her father and her teenaged brothers. This had included working the rifles.

In the walnut case... in back.

Jacob was remembering. Business had been steady that morning, and, as Virgil, he had been playing the cash register like a happy church organist. Very little money had exchanged hands, though. The register was stuffed instead with settle-up-later slips, which, as Virgil, he would append using a small pencil that he kept at the ready behind his right ear. He had enjoyed touching the pencil lead against his tongue just before making his mark.

During the busiest moments in Lloyd's Market, people sometimes had to squeeze by, almost walk over each other.

Becky liked that. Smiled when it was... us.

In those closest moments, as if to hide an embarrassed giggle, Beccalynn would move her fingers to her mouth. She did this deliberately to direct attention to her lips, which she kept shiny, dabbed with churned butter. She also would tug gently at tufts of strawberry-blonde hair protruding from her bonnet. (She had read once in a dime novel about these kinds of womanly flirtations.) Inevitably, though, like most days, she found Virgil Lloyd had been too busy to notice her.

"Nothing today, I guess, Mr. Lloyd. Tomorrow, though, after I sell my eggs and butter cakes." She had turned to leave. And, in his dream, Jacob felt uneasy, felt he should look away now. Instead, like he had done many times before, he tried to pull Beccalynn back with his eyes. She paused, circled around slowly, her blue eyes wide, bright. "Oh, Mr. Lloyd," she said, "Mrs. MacGowen mentioned yesterday that the council members had approached you about becoming Mayor. You'd be wonderful, do wonderful things for our community."

Can't do it. Too much doings here, Becky. The shop.

Beccalynn had rounded her buttered lips. "Nonsense. You just need someone, take on someone here who can help you out."

Someone, then, a man in a black leather hat and duster jacket, had stepped up from behind her. He had flapped open the jacket, pulled out a short-barreled rifle, raised it toward Virgil's head. And the shopkeeper had surrendered completely, had raised his hands above his chest, his palms forward.

I give.

The rifle had sung horrifically, a close-range blast of powder and shot. Virgil—Jacob—had squeezed every part of himself, expecting he had closed down early for the day. But... it had been—

Becky.

Beccalynn had moved—in front of Virgil.

Me.

Her Easter bonnet, pinned with red and white climatis, had exploded, her brain and fragmented skull splattering onto Virgil.

Me.

And the rifleman—

Ethan.

The rifleman had staggered backwards, stumbling over his own feet. He turned.

He ran. Down the street. Horse. Saddled for getaway.

Jacob dropped his face into his hands, pressed and clawed with aching, torn fingers. When he finally leaned upward, he saw the blood on his hands, a dark, chestnut brown... framework, and the space between his stretching fingers had become a full-length mirror. He saw Virgil Lloyd in that mirror, a Virgil Lloyd who had been concealed (for his own protection), squirreled away in the guest bedroom of Gladys MacGowen, the wealthiest woman in Almont, Colorado.

And in this fourth dream, Virgil Lloyd was wearing Jacob Clambers' guns, his leather holsters strapped to his hips. They were not the newest firearms on the market and far from the best. (They were somewhat weak in their overall makeup and delivery.) But the twin, rear-loading Richards-Mason conversion revolvers felt cold, comfortable, could still do the job required of them. "Virgil" had never shot them. They were—

Jacob's.

Virgil had liked the weight of Jacob's guns. The man who had been pretending he was a shopkeeper would take them out at night, oil them, heft them, put cartridges in, take cartridges out. He did this particularly after those long, fruitless days working at Lloyd's Market, days when there had been no real wages. The guns were the piece of him that would never be Virgil Lloyd, would never know peace, the history a man hopes to keep eclipsed and forgotten in his ever-elongating shadow.

And, really, that should've been easier than it had been. Jacob had already spent much of his life in the shadow of his bigger brother, Ethan. Ethan Clambers was 14 minutes older than his twin, a slight advantage he held—in the younger brother's eyes—over the younger brother. Ethan would laud it over Jacob at all times, used those 14 minutes to justify who got the biggest steak, the odd numbered coin from a mutual heist, or the same woman they both had wanted.

Whether it had been Leah, or Rachel (those first teenage girls) or the dozen or so who had come afterwards, women had always managed to come between them. Beccalynn Richards was just the first to have done so during actual gunfire. And she was the first woman they actually had killed. In fact, they had had a rule against that; it was significant: No. Killing. Women. It was the line they said that they would never cross, the one, only thing they had always agreed upon.

Their mother had been raped, then shot, then, raped again when she may or may not already have been dead. This happened when the brothers were barely ten, happened two feet right above them. It had changed the boys, stifling compassion within, made them slow to trust others (or even to take serious notice of them). A hungry-vengeance burned within their hearts thereafter, and it was one which could never know satisfaction, could never see enough justice done, one which no longer believed in the laws of men or God.

The twin brothers had taken to thieving because that was just the way of things. People take. Mother had never mentioned their father. They guessed he had been some horny devil who had taken her in the night, probably at gunpoint.

Their own guns had become their symbols, and tools, a means of lashing out against society, against complacency, against the weak helplessness they so hated in themselves. Jacob had symbolized himself as a pistol, Ethan, a sawed-off rifle.

After the symbolism, killing was next to come. It had become a way for them to steal pleasure back from life. It mainly had been Ethan's idea. He started it: murder the murders. Jacob just rode along. He took a little time to saddle up before getting sucked into the competition of who was better at finding those "worthy" to feed their vengeance. Eventually, it didn't even matter if the men they gunned down were guilty of crimes or not. The brothers just told each other that they were. They would come up with, on the spot, tremendous tales of these men's criminal activities and... injustice, a litany of sins each more horrible than the last. Then, the brothers would rob the corpses.

Ethan and... Jacob.

Jacob Clambers looked into the full-length mirror in the middle of the dark bedroom, in the middle of a dream, and he looked deeply at the make-believe man in front of him. In a rusty, but still very quick motion, he pulled the conversion revolvers on Virgil Lloyd, squinted at his own reflected features, then added 14 minutes to them. He also added weeks of Nevada sun and desert toil, roughened the man's edges, put himself into a black hat and long jacket. He fired twice, and his brother shattered before him.

That will bring someone to check on me.

Then Jacob coughed up a grumble. He wasn't at his home, wasn't in the small apartment above the Market. Wasn't surrounded by his familiar smells, his inventory, his attempt at creating something good for a change. No, Jacob was at a neighbor's, staying at a ranch house just outside the Almont city limits. The sheriff had thought it best since someone had been gunning for him, someone with complete disregard for the innocent.

"I was nervous," Jacob had say, when his friend and her husband came, knocked, asked through the door if Virgil were all right. They ventured inside the room only after Jacob had assured them that he was indeed.

"Was keeping my guns with me, you know, and... saw someone moving in through the dark. Turns out, was me. I'm so sorry, Gladys. I'll pay for the mirror, probably with years of bad luck." He had let loose a small laugh while he had said that last part, then added, solemnly, "If I'm lucky." He had set the revolvers down on the nightstand, then he had sat himself down into a wooden chair with a taut rawhide seat. "I'll clean up everything in the morning."

### ~~~~
Chapter 8: Poisoned Extraction

In 1704, Hydrogen cyanide was first isolated from Prussian blue dye, but it took nearly 50 years until this process, and the volatile component (isolated through this process), was readily understood. It took an additional 30 years before Carl Scheele, a mostly German-speaking, Swedish chemist, wrote up a clear description of it, how that component reacted when aquafied. This led to it being called _Blausäure_ (blue acid), and, eventually, in the rugged West by a few as _Prussian acid_.

Scheele further discovered that this combination of water and cyanide could be used to convert gold into what chemist refer to as _a water-soluble coordination complex._ The citizens around Gunnison County had a different name for it, called it "gold slurry."

It was just one part of a new gold-leeching process. And, whether the people understood the process well enough or not, they understood the results: gold could be extracted, easily, from low-grade ore into large, leeching tanks where the sludge and sand could be pumped out. The liquid cyanide-gold slurry then could be passed through zinc shavings to help recover it. Through a process none of them really cared enough to learn, the precious gold would be expelled from the slurry while the less-precious zinc went into the solution.

The majority of these citizens, not being miners themselves, still hoped to profit directly from local mining operations. The idea that appealed to them most was pooling their savings together to invest in the construction of a cyanide mill, a mill that could help them help the miners to extract the gold. It wasn't too hard to sell the idea of the plant (based upon profit sharing) with the common man. In theory, this kind of mill would be far more efficient than a traditional stamp mill. Plus, an experimental cyanide plant already had been built successfully not too far away in Brodie near Colorado Springs.

Those arguing in favor of the mill had included Virgil Lloyd, trade-store owner in Almont, who had previously proven the profitability of joint community enterprise. It was Virgil who had brought it to everyone's attention that the _Fergus County Argus_ , a prominent newspaper in central Montana, had spoken praises about the new cyanide process. Their June 15, 1893 article discussed how it had been applied successfully to silver and gold production on the east side of the Judith Mountains. Their exact words: "produced gold instantly, in abundance!"

"Now," Virgil had also warned, "there have been some rich, placer deposits of gold found here. _That_ isn't what this is about. This isn't Cripple Creek, and it won't ever be. Most of what Gunnison County has for gold will be coming from silver-lead ore. The cyanide mill will be ideal for getting the gold and lead outta that. Even silver will be worth getting again once this mill is up in production."

It was the well-thought-out outbursts like this from the otherwise quiet, hardworking Lloyd, which got the Almont residents (and those around Gunnison) wanting Virgil to enter local politics. And, no doubt, they thought, they would have convinced the reluctant man to do so, eventually, if he hadn't disappeared from the county shortly after making this speech. He'd been scared off after a murder attempt on his life. Seemed a great waste of potential, most agreed, but, it was for the best: " _Best_ we learned that that man had no backbone now before electing him later."

That's what they had said publicly. Most everyone in town thought it best Lloyd had disappeared for a completely different reason: they owed Virgil Lloyd a considerable amount of money, an unbelievable amount if it had ever been totaled. None of them spoke of this. None of them knew the shared extent of the borrowing. None of them knew either the relief they all shared.

And, as it turned out, all they really needed from Virgil Lloyd was his initial spark. They went on with the mill idea without him in July of 1893. They had partnered to do so with _The Devil's Own_ , a small mining company, which, at the time, owned just a single mine locally, although that claim had been a very rich strike. The Company was based out of Cripple Creek, but they were interested in expanding their operations in Almont. ("Where it was peaceful, civilized.") That is, they were interested _providing_ the county would help share in financing the endeavor. It helped matters that the legal representation of The Devil's Own had included first-rate showmen. But, more importantly, their financial men had offered Gunnison County a _settle-up-later_ , no-money-down, profit-sharing deal.

So, the plant had been built on The Devil's Own newest properties in the Gold Brick-Quartz Creek district. This plant served to process the whole county's lower-grade ores, but mainly it was used by The Devil's Own. Other mining companies and individuals were encouraged to use the facilities, and at similar rates. It just wasn't as profitable for them since they had to do more hauling. Still, transport of bulky, heavy ore to the mill wasn't as hard as all that. Initial gold strikes in the area in 1879 and 1880 had fueled a gold fever, and that, in turn, had brought the Denver and Rio Grand Railroad tracking through Gunnison.

Around the plant and near The Devil's Own most profitable mines, canvas tent cities had arisen to house the migrant miners. The nicest of these, surrounding the Company's original gold claim, was known as "The Easy Way." That mine had become so good that the men there were said to be able to throw down a pick just about anywhere and come up with visible gold. In reality, the miners had called it "The Easy Way" because those men weren't miners much at all. They were a façade, The Devil's Own's "front men," who were fronting for what was really happening beneath the earth at night.

As such, these above-ground men were well rested, and they had time and money to make their tent city more than just livable, downright conformable. Except... for today. Today they were none-to-happy, had been bothered by Johan Harkens and Harold Brokholc, rounded up like cattle, told they had to actually work for a living. "Pick up a shovel and dig now for a couple of hard hours, or learn to work _for real_ for a lower salary—someplace else." Brokholc's warnings, carried to the men by Johan Harkens, served to motivate them well enough, rounded them up. And they began to hate the tomb-dwelling foreman even more than ever.

"How many men did we find, Harkens?" asked Harold Brokholc.

Johan unfolded a well-wrinkled sheet of paper. He already knew the correct answer. He had learned to be cautious, though, not to make careless mistakes around the foremen. "All of them, except Simmons, Torres, one of the Richards, Owensson, and Smith. Word should reach them soon enough. We've got trouble, likewise. Some of locals have volunteered to help in the rescue. Couldn't keep it quiet. Our guys were loudmouthed in the saloon."

Harold shook his head, "Can't have _them_ coming in here. Send them back. Say it's too dangerous, something."

Harkens flapped the paper and held his other hand open palmed. "Told 'em that, told 'em the rest of the tunnel might come down at any time. They're insisting anyway. I couldn't exactly tell 'em that we're just trying to dig up dead men."

The doughy Swede rubbed grime from his face, then Brokholc rested his cheek right back into that same grime on his hand, contemplating. "Do-gooders." He went to spit, but Harold decided to suck it down instead. "We only need Fat Agwa out. Spread the word it's just a couple of guys down there, from an exploratory dig. Use the locals, if you have to, but just to help move rock away to the surface. Make it real heavy and they'll leave soon enough. Just make sure there's no one but our front men are up front."

"Right." Harkens turned and started back up the tunnels to the surface and to the men awaiting orders in the cleanest of all tent cities.

"Wait."

Harkens turned. "And...?"

"Find some of those guys who haven't shown up yet. Sneak them back here, dirty them up. We're going to _rescue_ them—along with Agwa. We need someone alive to show the do-gooders."

"How 'bout the rest of the voodi?"

"Close off _The Hall_. Post a fresh guard so no one wanders down to them. Keep them quiet for now. But they're worthless if we can't get that fat man back. And, good Gods, feed them something!"

### ~~~~
Chapter 9: Food and Water

The Southern Paiute, like many native North American tribes, had a word for themselves that meant "The People." The People had moved into the central part of the Colorado Plateau Province at least 700 years before white settlers had arrived. Mostly hunters of mule deer, rabbits, and mountain sheep; and gatherers of roots, nuts, and berries; The People congregated around the Virgin and Muddy Rivers in what would later be called southeastern Nevada and southwestern Utah. They practice a limited agriculture there but did quite well for themselves for hundreds of years.

When settlers began making more frequent use of the so-called "California Trail," which cut a westward path through The People's land, The People weren't exactly happy to see these other people and their _praire schooners_. Guests and travelers were one thing, but, beginning in the 1840s and well into the 1850s, the passersby began gobbling up The People's hunting grounds for themselves and taking strategic control of their precious waters. These particular passersby called themselves "Mormons," and they weren't passing by. They had settled, and, furthermore, they meant to convert The People either into Mormons or into passersby. Tempers had flared. The brashest young men on both sides had had their lives taken from them, and, all-in-all, things grew hostile. It didn't help matters that other tribes of The People were also fighting amongst themselves, capturing each other, and selling the captives as slaves to the white settlers.

This went on for a while, but, eventually, the United States had gone to war with itself, had come to abolish slavery of all sorts. And, certain Mormons, like Jacob Hamblin, decided it best that they should have peace with the Southern Paiute (and the rest of The People in the West). Peace was their purpose, peace between individuals and God. The Mormons also knew they were not particularly well liked by the rest of the white settlers (nor their own government). Hamblin knew that it would prove mutually beneficial to Mormons and The People to be partners, friends, and family.

Other settlers weren't always as amiable, and they took huge liberties of The People, imprisoned them without trial, and molested their women. When two white brothers kidnapped a pair of 12-year-old Paiute girls, raped them, and kept them hidden (for later _use_ ) at a Pony Express station along the Carson River, The People could bear no more. They fought back, captured the station. Five European Americans had been slain in the conflict, and The People were called "butchers" and "savages" because of it. The People's side of the story was ignored, buried. The outraged settlers fought back, and The People beat down this white rabble once again.

In 1860, when Tanjakwunu was nearly eleven, his father had lost his life during the Second Battle of Pyramid Lake. Texas Ranger, Colonel John C. Hayes, led 13 well-organized companies of trained men and volunteers, plus a detachment of infantry and artillery from Fort Alcatraz, California, and they decimated the victors of the First Battle (and anyone else there who looked funny at them, or who had looked "like" The People).

Tanjakwunu's relatives on his father's side had tried to shape the boy after that, shape him into being an instrument of vengeance, a weapon they could use to direct their own hatred. They might have succeeded, too, had the boy not been captured a year later by raiding Navajos, Navajos who had sold him into slavery.

Tanjakwunu now was considering the options. What he knew of successful warfare revolved around the stories he had heard of the First Battle of Pyramid Lake. That conflict had been won by using a small, initial force to press their opponents back into another, waiting force. Then, flanked on both sides, the white man's overzealous militia had been massacred in short order, cut down by Paiute ranged hunting weapons.

That seemed to him as sound-enough strategy. He and Tedford must flank the ever-widening portal in the floor, and attack these _Sons of Perdition_ as each emerged. They looked human enough, but, despite their pallid appearance, were obviously strong, tireless. They might not go down easily. The tired men above had to wait until the tunnel was wide enough for just one of the Sons to crawl up through at a time. If their numbers were endless, as Tedford had feared, then the two men were finished. But, if the two stayed up here instead and did nothing, they were finished for certain. They needed water. It always comes down to precious water. They could worry about food later—given the chance.

The men rooted up, gathered what they could: sharp rocks; jagged, broken lumber; a handle from a shovel Teddy had broken a few weeks earlier; one intact coal-oil lantern; two smashed lanterns, one with some salvageable oil; and a loose railroad spike that had been used before to hold together some wooden bracing (now splintered). They piled their weapon reserves on opposite sides of the hole. Tanjakwunu tore his vest into strips, sloshed these strips in coal oil, then he wrapped them around a makeshift torch handle.

"If only we had one of the pickaxes," Tedford wished aloud. But, both of their picks had been lost beneath the fallen ceiling (along with their bags of gold concentrate). "Still... this is a good stick." Tedford whacked the shovel handle a few times against the wall to test its sturdiness. Satisfied, he then twisted the end one last time against a stone to help sharpen its tip.

Tanjakwunu's mood brightened. Whatever had come over his friend earlier, the uncharacteristic, preaching words he had been using seemed to have subsided now that Tedford's body was breathing normally again. Teddy was a religious man, he knew, but he rarely gave it voice. He kept poker-faced about it. Feeling somewhat relieved and renewed at the return to normalcy, TenJack tested one of the rocks, flinging it as hard as he could into the skull of the topmost zombi. With a sickly thud it struck the target, and the man it struck (who seemed to have been busy contemplating his own hands) had made no move to protect himself, and the man fell backward into the depths. Another hungry, pale face quickly took his place. "They can be hurt!" Tanjakwunu was shouting now. He flashed Tedford a toothy grin. "I'm naming that water down there, _Pyramid Lake_. Third time's lucky!"

Tedford understood the significance of the numeric reference, and he was glad that he and Tanjakwunu were facing this final battle together. Teddy sucked back hard—then started howling as loudly as he could. He thrust the spear tearing into the right shoulder of the lead creature. As Teddy yanked the spear back to set for another strike, Tanjakwunu screamed—from the other side of the zombi—and slammed a fist-sized rock into the back of its head.

"And again!" Teddy yelled and jabbed—

A voice from far below coughed out weakly, _"Kite yo genyen! Tounen isit la! Tounen isit la!_ "

### ~~~~
Chapter 10: Queen of the Hive

Beccalynn Louise Richards had been a remarkable woman, and she had been so during a time when her surroundings were not exactly propitious to women. Of course, the men of Colorado had encouraged the arrival of women such as Beccalynn (single white women) to the territory (and they had done so vigorously even before 1859 when over two thousand male settlers had voted for Colorado to become a territory). And, yes, women certainly were encouraged to come to Colorado, to marry these men, to increase the population, to help transform rugged wilderness into a shining example of independence and democracy. But the men weren't exactly encouraging these women to be independent, nor to have an equal voice in government. In fact, most believed that a man should give up as little as possible. That was partially why only 1,649 of them had voted for statehood in 1859: for with _statehood_ would have come a costly bill for administration and government, whereas becoming a _territory_ meant Federal funding would be provided for that sort of book keeping and management.

Even five years later, when John Evans, their Territorial Governor, had pushed for Colorado statehood (so that the people would gain Senators, electoral votes, and influence that could help convince the Federal government to pass pro-Colorado legislation), the voters still said no.

The fate of statehood after that, for a time, seemed more important outside of the Colorado Territory than within it. Colorado was just another cog, and a fringe one at that, in the politics of reconstruction. The Republicans in Congress wished Colorado to become a state to help increase the Republican numbers across the country. After Abraham Lincoln's assassination, his Democratic Vice President, Andrew Johnson (chosen by Lincoln as a running mate as a gesture of country unity), fought against Colorado statehood and the increased Republican control that would come because of it.

Colorado Republicans then—supposedly—rigged a local 1865 election, which resulted in the Colorado Territory applying for statehood and adopting their own constitution. A Republican-heavy U.S. Congress admitted them readily, and President Johnson vetoed it on the grounds that the vote a year earlier _somehow_ invalidated this new 1865 count. Not backing down, the Republican Congress struck back with the Civil Rights Act of 1866. This Act granted freedom to every male citizen in the United States. It denied the states the power to restrict a man's right to hold property, contract out his labor, and testify in court. This move was meant to help "liberate" the South _again_ , this time from the repressive "Black Codes" that had quickly passed through the reinstated southern legislation.

Through these codes, the South had hoped to preserve slavery as much as possible, just under a new name, using new rules. Trying to appease these Southern Democrats, Johnson struck down the Civil Rights Act.

By now, finding their President quite intolerable, both houses of Congress rallied to overturn his veto, which they did easily. Then they worked their political might and magic to help ensure that the freedom of every man in this country would continue unabated (even if the South should rise again politically). To this end, they drafted the 14th Amendment. And, just to guarantee they'd have enough Republican votes to pass this Constitutional Amendment, they fought again for Colorado's statehood. This effort failed, but they did manage to win statehood for Nebraska at that time. Nebraska had helped ensure there were votes enough.

These had been exciting times, and Beccalynn was born into it. Statehood was a popular debate topic on everyone's lips as the young child listened and learned her own language. Shortly after her birth in 1870, her father, Rick Albert Richards, a strong Republican supporter, was working railroad construction near Colorado Springs. After those initial tracks had been laid, "'Bert" was never home much, being required to move to "wherever tracks needed laying." When he _was_ at home, he was exhausted and growing increasingly angry with Republicans who, in his words, "didn't need us any more, now that they've won back the presidency."

And, to Bert's dismay, President Ulysses S. Grant had appointed one corrupt person after the other. Bert didn't like that, started to hate all politics because of it. Then Congress went ahead and passed their fourth Coinage Act. This time, they embraced a gold-only standard, causing silver prices to plummet, which massively hurt the Colorado mining and the railroad industries. Interest rates increased overnight, banks failed, and farmers with any sizable debt lost everything. The failing economy allowed the Democrats to regain the House of Representatives in 1874, and Burt had voted for them, voted hoping for relief.

The next five years were as tight as they had ever been, and Bert Richards took whatever job he could win for himself. He barely noticed in 1876 that Colorado had become a state. Although, it had been a huge event for his six-year-old daughter.

Having gained mastery of her language, Beccalynn began using her mastery to read and to question everything aloud. Beccalynn had an impertinence that brushed her ol' man like buffalo bur, but one, which her mother, Raegan Louise, had helped to nourish. By the autumn of 1881, Bert had moved his young family along with him as he helped to bring the railroad to Gunnison County. Beccalynn was eleven, and she had two younger brothers by then, Wyatt, 7, and Everett, 6. Bert Richards decided they'd all stay at Almont, try their hand at gold mining and farming. It was all the same to him, just more digging.

During one of her first days at the Almont School, Beccalynn had been assigned to read Colorado's new state constitution. After which, she had been soundly squelched when she had asked her school teacher, Mr. Terrance, "Why is it that former slaves can vote, and now Indians, but not women? Are we to be less than slaves and _root diggers_?" Beccalynn had been sent home early that day, with a note encouraging her parents to "discipline her mouth."

This wasn't a note her father had ever seen. His wife had used it to light the wood store. And, instead of administering a thrashing to her daughter, Raegan made Beccalynn tea and taught her how to better coax sweetness out of wild strawberries. She did this while also trying to coax out of her daughter some of her father's attitude towards the natives.

What happened instead is that later that night, Beccalynn had sneaked downstairs, and, by candle light, had written a letter to the _Colorado Antelope_ , asking that newspaper's female publisher, "What must we women do to have the vote? We are expected to be the wombs of the hive, but we are treated as less than the least of the worker bees!"

When a printed copy of the paper arrived in Almont from Denver three weeks later, those two lines had caused quite the stir. The newspaper's founder had replied back in the column space beneath Beccalynn's inquiry: "We have the right to vote now, Dear, but only in things deemed 'womanly.' I dare to say _everything is_. And everything good in life has come from women such as you, Beccalynn. Our challenge is this: we must convince more than 50% of the men to give us what already is ours. Forward, Coloradans. Women want the ballot. We certainly can't do any worse with it than what the men have already done."

Raegan Richards died suddenly from tuberculosis that winter. Beccalynn had grieved hard, but all at once, as she had needed to do. Then she picked up herself. Now queen of the Richards' hive, she had two boys to raise and a tired old man who, overnight, had become helpless without his wife.

With no time now to attend school, Beccalynn continued to self-educate herself whenever and however she might. She would have the boys bring to her textbooks from school, newspapers, anything at all with words on it. She readily took to economics, studied fluctuations in the Stock Market (made imaginary investments and tracked her results), predicted the Panic of 1883 (and, beforehand, had gotten her father to stop digging for silver and to focus exclusively on gold, even the lowest grade ore). She had learned to bake the best cake and tarts in the county. It was only once her brothers had become men that she began to think of her own happiness, that she might still have time enough to build a hive of her own. That coincided with Virgil Lloyd's arrival to Almont, and that man fascinated Beccalynn. Like herself, Lloyd seemed able to create success through determination alone, and, he had brought Almont along with him for that ride.

While she had been doing all of this, Beccalynn had followed politics, had supported the Populist Party (Colorado People's Party), and she had continued writing letters. Her last had been addressed to the governor of Colorado. It read:

Davis Hanson Waite, Governor:

I thank you, Good Sir, for your help in promoting the cause of Women's Suffrage, as well as your working tirelessly to help improve the working conditions of all, especially for women and children.

As you know, we were not well prepared in 1877 in convincing the male population to pass the referendum needed to secure the vote for women. I was only seven years old at the time, so I was not able to carry much more than my full weight. Now I, and many more like me, going door-to-door, have marshaled our forces, and have made convincing arguments that women can be as good as men.

I am pleased that you, a man, have proven that the opposite "sometimes" can also be true. I look forward to voting for you in your 1894 re-election.

Still missing your weekly newspaper columns,

Beccalynn Louise Richards

### ~~~~
Chapter 11: Time for a New Character

Everett Nicholas Richards celebrated the morning of his 18th birthday by sobering up. He had determined that his last day of being seventeen also would be his last day of drinking alcohol— _ever_! So, he went _on the wagon_ , hard, emptied every bottle he had stashed away in his tent, and drank brother Wyatt's bottles as well. Then Everett had gone out into the night to find whatever more drink his few silver coins and The Devil's Own _I.O.U._ s could buy him. The last two years had been tough on Everett, tough on a lot of people in Colorado.

The family farm had suffered consecutive summer droughts. The crops had barely started sprouting before they had withered away. Everett's spirit had gone the same route after his sister Beccalynn had been murdered. That had been 18 months ago. Everett's father had died shortly afterwards, a rifle shot through his mouth up into his brain. If it had been suicide, as many believed, including Sheriff Wilson, then someone had come by later, stolen the rifle, and had turned Bert's pockets inside out. "These days will turn anyone into a scavenger, boys," Wilson had said to the remaining Richards. "A found rifle can feed a man in many ways."

Everett and Wyatt went through their remaining money fast: funerals and monuments, whisky, and a couple of nights with the saloon girls in Gunnison (even with those two girls working discount rates on account of the boys were in mourning and were new customers). That was everything the Richards had left, except the house and the failed farm, and they had to sell those to meet back taxes and to clear what was left of the family debt. Their father had sold a small silver mine just two years after Congress had passed the Sherman Silver Purchase Act in 1890. Bert's neighbors had called him "senile." His silver mine had just started producing well, and the government, by this law, was now required to purchase millions of ounces of silver annually.

Bert had said he was tired of digging, and he had never forgotten how the government had screwed with silver prices twenty years earlier. And, as if to prove his neighbor's right, crazy ol' Bert had gone right back to prospecting after that sale. And his boys never knew what had happened to the rest of their father's money. Bert had left that sort of thing to Beccalynn. She had a head for it. Course, she once had a head for talking and breathing, too.

Everett's head was no longer pounding from the inside, but he was dehydrated and lying in late morning grass about twenty feet from Beccalynn's grave. He looked around, whispered to himself, "Must have come to pay my respects." Then he felt bad at the thought of that, how Beccalynn's heart would have broken to see him drunk, wasting himself, and the fool things he must have said to her last night, the nasal outbursts of a red-headed anserine.

He got to his feet slowly, had to steady himself while doing it. A quick check revealed he was fully clothed (his "off-work" set of clothes). He had his holster and Colt double-action .38-caliber revolver with him. His hat was on the ground underneath the narrowleaf cottonwood near Beccalynn's stone. "At least I took that off," he said, "while conversing with her." The property no longer belonged to the Richards, but the new owner wouldn't have called this _trespassing_. Everett walked a few more feet back to a doublewide monument. "Well, _Richard Albert Richards, Beloved Father and Husband, 1841–1893,_ we boys have let you down, haven't we?" He glanced to the left. "And you, too, Mother." He kicked a small stone back towards Bert's half of the monument, missed it by at least six inches. "Stupid money."

With no other prospects, and a very depressed local economy, Wyatt and Everett had signed on with The Devil's Own Mining Company (at discount rates on account of the boys were obviously desperate and needed to keep eating). The management appreciated desperation in its workers. The boys also were good at the work, were strong, flexible, and knew their way around mines. Plus, there was a quality about those two that most of the other employees lacked.

The Richards were quiet spoken, and they followed directions, showed a lot of respect to management. The lead foreman, Harold Brokholc, had learned of the boys somehow, and he had promoted them, had them come join him up at the Easy Way. And, after having taking an oath of secret loyalty, the brothers had become "front men," fake miners, told that they would be fed well and provided for assuming that they mined _some of the time_. But, mostly, they had been hired to keep up the appearance of a well-run mining operation. And, yeah, it had been easy for the boys to look the other way, and for them to not ask too many questions, especially when everything else came along so freely.

Still, Everett was having reservations now about the whole thing. Didn't feel right to be using dead men to dig for him. _That would change soon_ , he thought. He had stopped drinking. That's the first step in rebuilding his character. The second was to start saving up his money. Then, just before winter, he figured he'd have to sneak off, alone if Wyatt couldn't be convinced to join him. Get some distance between themselves and the owners. They would never believe the boys would keep quiet, so they'd have to become scarce, change their names. But, he thought, for right now, it's best to hoof it back to the Easy Way. Plenty of walking needed to be done between here and there.

As he made it to the edge of his old property, near the Riddle-back Creek, he sighted two horses tied together, grazing near the bank in the deepest shade of a small grove of Lodgepole Pine Spruce. He recognized the red mare, noting especially the garish, studded saddle. She belonged to that Spaniard, Erasmo Torres, a wretched brute who liked to think of himself as "Don" Torres, a caballero. Everett snorted, laughing and scolding the man aloud, "As if a real Don would carry himself on a mare." Still... Everett quieted up quickly, glancing about into the evergreens for Erasmo. The Don's got to be nearby, he thought, and that other white pony there might be available for a fellow miner to ride.

### ~~~~
Chapter 12: Weak Hand

Tedford leaned low, thrusting the lantern into the hole. The space immediately beneath him was stream-carved Carboniferous limestone, about the height of two stacked men ceiling-to-floor. Large, breakdown blocks from the collapsed ceiling (the floor of his mine-turned-burial vault) had fallen, stacked under the hole. There, they created an awkward, three-step staircase. He breathed hard at the air below, excited for the oxygen and also because he could no longer see any of the pallid men, not even the two they had wounded. He withdrew the lantern and handed it to TenJack. "Light your torch. We'll drop it down first."

Tanjakwunu did as his friend had suggested, although the torch took longer to ignite than expected. Once it had taken to blazing, he lowered it down as far as he could stretch his arm, then let it loose dropping from his hand to the stone slabs. It skidded and flopped until finally coming to rest about twelve feet below them. Nothing else betrayed movement. Tanjakwunu looked up. "Let me go first, though." He straightened, reached over to his weapons pile, grabbed the railroad spike and slipped it under his belt. "You ready your spear, get set to follow."

Tedford nodded, not afraid to go first, but acknowledging the younger man's better athleticism. Tanjakwunu grasped the edge of the far side of the hole and used it to swing himself down below. He landed on the first big step, making little sound, and unsheathed the spike. He held it firm with the point facing down like the beak of an iron bird. Raising his left hand up and back, he wiggled his fingers. "Lantern, then spear." The other man followed that ordering, and then he swung himself down afterwards once TenJack had stepped further down the steps. Very quickly the two of them regrouped at the bottom, rearming themselves: Tanjakwunu with torch and spike, Teddy with lantern and shovel-handle spear.

With the added light, and now being right in the thick of things, they could better gauge the cavern beyond. The passage led away in just one direction. Teddy pointed to the flames of their torch and lantern, the way they flickered ever so slightly away from the shaft in front of them. He then whispered, " _That_. Slight breeze. Very good, that."

The passage had variable height, ceilings as high as twenty feet in a places, but also as low as a lying dog near the edges. The width was also quite variable, but it was wide enough to provide some very welcomed freedom to move. Much of the walls were dry limestone. In places, the roof had dripped down slowly as moist stalactites and reached upward again as stalagmites from the floor. These speleotherms were primarily white, but iron and other minerals had drizzled down over time and appeared as orangish-red streaks within the otherwise ice-like, crystallized limestone. Teddy scraped his spear against the stone sidewall, knocked off a bit off of the wall's surface. His lantern light reflected back against the exposed calcite crystals beneath.

Ahead, the left wall turned into more uniformed sheets of flowstone, and the passageway narrowed as the ceiling sank into a rippled drapery formation banded like bacon. Teddy continued speaking softly, "They must have retreated this way, on hands and knees part of the way. There're some skids and sliding tracks." Then Teddy shouted out to the voice that they had heard earlier, "Who are you? Where are those wretched men?"

From the dark beyond, the Haitian Priest answered, "They call me Agwa. _Fat Agwa_ , actually." He belly laughed at the reputation of his belly. It hurt him to laugh, and it caused him to cough up something dark into his mouth. He spit it out onto his left shoulder and chest. "You've nothing to fear. And, I'd be grateful for your help."

Tanjakwunu took the lead again, tossed the torch on ahead. He began crawling forward towards it once he felt safe from ambush. The floor was moist here, pockets of water could be found pooling in basins worn into the otherwise, chalky calcium carbonate floor. As he crawled, he bent his head to one of the small pools, licked a taste, and, finding it better than being dehydrated, sucked up the entirety of the puddle.

The passage angled sharply to the right, sloped, then opened back up again. The floor now was gravel and sand, somewhat damp and creamy in depressed patches. Much of the ceiling had broken free here and along a straight line up ahead. He could hear water off on his right, a low lapping sound, and drippings. He held his torch that way and saw a large, but low, expanse of marble. Tanjakwunu assumed that chamber either had been thrust up or crunch down all at once by some terrific tectonic pressure. Tedford would know better. He turned forward again.

Ahead of him and to the left, about twenty-five feet away, he heard feet shuffling, and a fat man exclaiming between labored breaths, "Here! Here! They won't harm you."

Tanjakwunu got to his feet, held the torch and spike aloft for protection. He waited for his friend before stepping any further. As the two approached Agwa, they found him pinned to the floor sprawled partially on his back and somewhat twisted on his side. He must have spun at the last second as the ceiling came down. One zombi had dug away much of the gravel and smaller stones, but the largest stones remained on the fat man's abdomen and legs, pinning him down. Agwa's eyes squinted from their lights, but he was smiling. Small bits of gravel and ceiling dust clung to the gray grease on his face. He leaned his chin to his chest. He sang-shouted towards his feet, _"Tounen, tounen nan arbr la!_ " And his hungry work force still obeyed him, moving as far back as they could into what was now a cul-de-sac, all that was left of The Devil's Own collapsed southern shaft.

Eight of the zombi crew were left with him, one visibly bloodied at the shoulder. Another seven had been completely crushed under rubble, stones, and fallen wooden braces. Agwa rolled his head back to the two men. "I think," he said, in his clearest English yet, "there is at least one pickaxe there, seven feet to your right behind me."

He was correct.

Tedford stepped over slowly to the pick. He kept one eye on the huddled zombi while bending down for the tool, then he hurried back to Agwa. "This, ummm... I guess, we.... are you hurt too much, you think, for us to be moving these stones?"

"I would very much appreciate their removal. I believe all I've broken is a leg, _thank God_."

Teddy warmed a little at those last two words, sat down the pick and the lantern between TenJack and Agwa, and said, "Let's see what we can do here." Tanjakwunu sheathed his spike and balanced his torch between two chunks of fallen limestone. Working together, the two of them began lifting one of the slabs, then tipped it aside letting it crash to the floor once they had gotten it clear of the fat man's chest. Agwa's short, rapid breathing grew a little stronger, more regular. Teddy took a moment to catch his own breath. What he had imagined earlier to be a shirtless, dusty man, was actually a greased-up, dusty, completely nude man. He grunted in disgust. "Uhhg. Where are your pants, man?"

Agwa coughed, then smiled. "It's hot work, mining."

Teddy almost laughed, but this new development just added to his concerns. "Mining while naked is _not_ practical. And it's not hot down here." He and TenJack then put their hands around the stone near Agwa's waist. "This next one's larger, Agwa. Can you help us?"

"I can call over one of the workers."

" _Workers_ , are they?" Teddy asked, a smile widened his lips, and he closely began studying Agwa's brown eyes and facial movements.

"Yes. The _soma_ of former men," Agwa continued, his face now frozen on Tedford's face, " _criminals_ , removed from their psyches and all but untouched now by their own spirits."

"How came them to this?" Tedford challenged.

Agwa did not blink. "Murderous ways." Then he added, " _Their's_. It is not for me to judge the workings of these men. The Law of Colorado sent their souls to God. I was given their bodies... to return them to the earth. And here we are." He smiled.

Tanjakwunu interjected, "This is ghastly!"

Tedford agreed.

Agwa deftly steered the conversation from himself, "Are you two men of God?"

"We are Mormons," Tedford answered, then he nodded, hoping to see Tanjakwunu do likewise, which he did, with a slight bob of his face.

"Ah, the Church of Christ. Good. We are all men of Christ here then." Agwa smiled. "How came you two into this mine?"

Teddy, now fully engaged in the poker game he perceived to be unfolding, turned over his next card: "Tedford Theodore." He looked up into the low light reflecting off the irregular ceiling, then arched his head to the right in a long backwards nod. "We have the land up above, a way back there, _patented land_. TenJack here and I were working a small shaft, extracting zinc and copper. Someone threw down some lit dynamite. Must have thought we needed help with the digging." His eyes widened and his forehead creased. "You wouldn't know anything about that?"

The fat man snorted and gave another good belly laugh. His eyes started moistening up, a combination of mirth and abdominal pains. "I think it's safe to say your friend TenJack _and I_ are the only two men you can know for certain who did not."

Teddy pulled back his right hand from the stone, put his scrubby, bearded chin into his palm. "I suppose. You are in an unusual position, my friend." Teddy mocked casual glances to either side. "This here doesn't appear to be a mine."

Agwa faced up his next card: "Not here. We just broke through back there." He again placed his chin to his chest using his face to indicate the collapsed roof in the direction of the collapsed men behind him. "They had just broken into this chamber. I got excited, forsook the normal precautions, ventured inside before having them sturdy up the new archways." He then started laughing again. "The rather weak ceiling is on top of me now. Still... _zinc and copper_ , you say?"

"Yes," Teddy answered quickly, "and seeing signs of yellow in the quartz."

"I see." Agwa betrayed a slight frown as he said that.

It was the first good read that Teddy had gotten from him, a _tell_ that told him the fat man was not exactly believing him. That was okay, for now. He wasn't believing Agwa much either. Still, the moment begged for a distraction. "Call one of your workers down here, Agwa. Let's lift these last two big rocks off of you and get you upright again." Tedford instinctually reached into his jacket and pulled out his metal "whisky" flask.

Agwa's spirit rose at the sight.

Teddy paused, momentarily confused by how little it weighed in his hand, then he remembered. "Oh, TenJack and I drank the last of the water hours ago."

When Agwa heard the word "water," the fat man's face deflated, pruned into a tight grimace.

Tanjakwunu put his hand to the flask. "There's water back there to the right, Tedford, a large pool I believe. We can go fill the flask." TenJack was giving his friend a chance to come with him to discuss their next move, if needed.

Tedford pushed the flask into TenJack's hands. "It's okay. You go. We'll be all right here. Let Agwa call back two of his workers first, to help me. Then, once the three of us have our hands full of stone, you scoot back there and get us a drink." Teddy directly eyed the fat man. "I'll let it drop if those workers try anything funny."

"They will not," Agwa assured him. Then he called back to them using his Creole song voice, and two workers came over. Teddy recognized one of them by the head wound where Tenjack had struck him with a rock. There was also something else about this man that looked familiar, something about his eyes.

_Whatever_ , Teddy thought, _concentrate on the task at hand_. And, with two more sets of hands aiding Tedford, the second large stone was lifted up. As this was happening, Tanjakwuno, who had already retrieved his torch, headed back for the water. The lifting trio hastily dropped the large rock to the side as soon as they could. Then, they moved to the largest one on Agwa's left leg. As they strained to move it, Teddy's hand brushed the hand of one of the zombi. Though it wasn't pleasant, neither was it the cold hand of the dead. There was more than just strength in that hand, there was also a touch of life. Teddy suddenly felt a little stronger himself, although he knew his poker hand was still very weak. "So," he began as the fat man rolled over to lie completely on his back now, "about these _dead_ _men_ —"

Just then, there began a clamoring from the north, the howling of men and the crashing of metal against stone.

### ~~~~
Chapter 13: _El Canal de Oro_

There have been countless legends of a terrible serpent god, a lake of gold, and _El Dorado_ ("The Gilded Man") for nearly as long as Europeans have known of the Americas. The Spanish had searched for this golden man, had searched for the lands where gold was so plentiful that, once a year, the chieftain, hoping to win favor for his tribe, would cover his entire body with a sticky ointment, adhere layers of grainy gold dust to his bare skin, and then dive repeatedly into the lake offering the gold that washed from him to the great serpent god.

In Colorado, gold could be found trapped in rock matrices but also as placer deposits in the riverbeds in the southwestern and northeastern parts of the state. The gold found in water always had been more appealing. For one, clear water helps to magnify the appearance of gold, giving it a larger-than-life, ready-made shine. And two, sometimes you can stumble into a patch of wet gold by accident and avoid all the effort that goes into separating thin, golden veins from tons and tons of the surrounding worthless stone. Rushing water does that work for you sometimes, carries everything away except the heaviest rock, the densest metal. Even slow dripping water, over centuries, can do the mining of hundreds of men.

In his mind, Tanjakwunu was no longer calling this cavern water "Pyramid Lake." The water was concentrated in a long, narrow trough, seven to nine feet across, and worn to three to four foot depths into white, small-grain marble. At first, he did not realize what he was looking at. TenJack had been in a hurry to return, and his torchlight glistened against the wet stone, reflected on the water's surface, and, then, beneath the water, fist- and finger-sized mountains of pure gold twinkled and winked at him. Between them, he could see how small crayfish had tracked in mud from the outside world, lived, loved, battled, and left fairy trails of dusted gold, yellow pebbles, and gilded flakes in their wake. He could reach in, scoop up more gold here in a dozen handfuls than would probably be in all of Teddy's 18 months' worth of gold-concentrate.

TenJack lowered the flask into the cool water. It belched up a bubble of air then quickly drank its fill. He pulled it out, capped it, and headed back as quickly as he could.

The noises from the north had grown stronger. The _above-ground_ men on the other side of the collapsed tunnel were working hard, had gotten into a rhythm of pickaxe striking, sledge hammering, and shovel scooping. An occasional yelp broke free, a command to "Lift all together now, boys, heave!" then, invariably, a curse could be heard, a good-natured laugh or two, and, finally, those men paused work to shout, "Ahhhggggwaaa! Fat Ahhhggggwaaa!"

At the first of it, Tedford had crouched down and wrapped his hands around Agwa's neck and mouth to keep him silent. But, after a few desperate seconds of grappling, Teddy raised his hands, sighed out loud, then plopped himself onto the seat of his pants. "Sorry. They won't be happy to find me," he said, " _with your_ _workers_ , knowing about your dead men, will they?"

Eyes that moments before had been on guard, while also expertly probing, now met each other, honestly. Beneath the dusty grease, Fat Agwa's face became doleful. His mud-cracked lips parted, "They... will not." He paused. "I am... _grateful_ you were."

"Yeah?" Teddy began smoothing the floor gravel with his fingertips.

TenJack returned, had heard the last few words, and was now hearing the tools and men working to the north.

The fat man continued, his gaze observing the zombi loitering about, oblivious to most everything else except a deep hunger. "They might have turned on me—as I slept—had you not been battling with them." He reached up to TenJack's outstretched hand, took the flask being offered him. Before he drank, Agwa asked, "And there is no way out, back the way you came?"

The Indian was laughing at the absurdity of the situation. "No, our entrance is collapsed... but... I just found a trough full of gold."

After Agwa had taken some small swallows, the two men helped him to his feet. Tedford gave Agwa his shovel spear to help him hold himself upright. Then they loaned him their arms as he hopped and stepped to the southeast where the northern cavern turned to marble and held the wet trough. Agwa's eyes were bulging, like a boy spotting a school of fat, golden fish. "Tedford, I'd say you were right about those signs of yellow in the quartz."

Teddy grunted, "Uh, huh," but he held his lantern out wide of the trough, clearly focused instead on the walls, ceiling, and floor. He followed the length of the trough to the east where it sank beneath the wall and disappeared into a thin hole. "Here's the breeze. A wet rat could get out this way, eventually." Then he looked back to the others, began to laugh, a deep throaty chuckle.

A little nervous, and not knowing why exactly, TenJack laughed with him.

Teddy stepped forward, feet squeaking on the wet stone, his lantern again held high. He bobbed it up and down as he came back, avoiding the low ceiling protrusions. "Look at it. Then back up towards where our tunnel is, beyond that expanse of limestone." His friend, TenJack still was not seeing it, so... Teddy said aloud what he was thinking, now holding both arms out, palms upward, "This marble, this metamorphic miracle, is from a completely different age."

"You mean...?"

Teddy drew an imaginary line with his right hand from the southwest then angled his fingers along the limestone ceiling south of the trough. "Our vein turns east back toward our own land." He then looked at the water trough and above it. This gold here is ours, too." He squared his gaze at Agwa. "I have a deed." Teddy fumbled beneath his sweaty, limestone-streaked shirt, pulled out a small leather booklet attached to a lanyard around his neck. "And I may have a deal for you."

### ~~~~
Chapter 14: Settling Up Later

"You're slipping, Ethan."

The man seated cross-legged in front of a small campfire did not look up from his wide-brimmed hat after he had heard those words. Nor did he move, nor did he seem the least bit startled when he replied, coldly, "I did not enjoy Nevada... _Virgil_." Ethan Clambers wore a black duster jacket. A short-barrel rifle rested on top of his duck-cotton jeans. A coffee pot percolated close-by, just starting to tremble with an angry steam inside. Ethan was barefoot even though the alpine air had settled in for the night and there was a heavy mist coming off the rapids from the nearby river.

Jacob Clambers, revolvers drawn, aimed at his brother's head from about twenty feet away, arched up his body, at the waist, off of the ground. He had crawled the last quarter mile, crawled slowly through wet sand down a steep slope around thin aspens. He thought he had been quiet. Apparently not, but he wasn't going to admit that he couldn't sneak up on a man. "Virgil's dead, Ethan. But I suppose some of him lingers on—the part of him that watched you kill a woman."

Ethan raised his head, his face now visible to the man lying on the ground. "That woman killed herself. For a no-good, damn grocer." He spit, then he added, "You killed her much as I."

Jacob threw one of his Richards-Mason conversion revolvers at Ethan. And, even though Ethan had tried to spring away, had set himself in motion at his brother's first movement, the gun still managed to hit him, bounced squarely off his left hip. On his feet now, rifle trained on his brother, Ethan shouted, incredulously, "Really? _Really_? I was waiting for a man come to kill me."

Jacob threw his other gun, and Ethan, completely baffled, nearly let it hit him, but he managed to twist aside at the last moment. Ethan just stood there a few seconds, then started walking over, rotated the rifle around in his hands, grasping the barrel. Jacob was just getting to his feet as Ethan swung the mahogany rifle-stock into his brother's left shoulder, clubbing him back down again. But Jacob had rolled with the impact, come up, and rushed headlong into brother, who had dropped the rifle, deliberately, and the two of them swung, wildly exchanging fists until Jacob went down to his knees and Ethan piled on top of him.

They wrestled liked that for minutes, squeezing, pushing, clawing each other, until Jacob said, "I give, I give."

"Ha!" Ethan rocked back off him onto his own ass, breathing hard. "Of course you do, _grocer_." He stood again so that he would be taller than his brother. He stepped over him. "Where's my money?"

Now it was Jacob's moment to laugh. "Ha! Two places. One you'll never get, and the other, _you might_ , if I decide you should."

Ethan stomped him in the groin. "Tell me."

Jacob moaned, cursed the Lord's name twice as he managed breath up enough to do so. Then, he made his confession, relieved to be telling someone: "Marty, Cooper, The Dover, they're all dead. We should've never been with men like that. They wanted you killed, by the way. I suggested the desert would do it, just take longer, that I wanted you to suffer _more_ —which weren't too far from the truth. Still, here you are, so you had a chance."

Ethan exhaled, "Shit. Even The Dover?"

Jacob nodded. "Especially. _His_ idea. Well, the _killing_ part. He knew we hated each other, played on that all the time. You didn't see it, because he never aimed it at you."

Ethan picked up his rifle then walked back to his campfire. He needed coffee.

His brother followed, continue talking, "Still, you knew The Dover was dead, right?"

"Yeah. I found him."

"Good. Desert's a big place, and you were kind of in the middle of it."

"Followed your tracks once I got loose. Tell me about the horse."

Jacob was grinning now. " _That_ , that was just emphasis. About a mile after we left you, I turned and shot The Dover right in the face. I then shot his horse three times. Twice more after it had gone down and stopped moving. Still had shots in both guns and held my revolvers, not aiming exactly, but close enough to Cooper and Marty, told them that no one should have made me kill my brother. I suggested they say only good things about you from then on." Jacob growled a bit as if the memory brought him anguish. "Weasels. I killed them later, once we had moved the money. Marty—he had it in his mind to rape a boy, an eight-year-old... _preacher's son_. Cooper would have helped him, too, you know that, held him down, cut the tongue out so he wouldn't talk later, then feed it to him."

"Yeah, I know. But that was a good horse."

"Left you some meat, and The Dover's gun and water."

"Thanks. I still hate you. Where's the money I _can't_ get?"

"Almont. Everyone there owes Virgil Lloyd money they can never pay. I fed the whole town during the depression. Let 'em take advantage of me, undercharged, never collected on debts."

"Why?"

"Figured I had taken enough from people."

Ethan shook his head in wonderment. Then he held out a tin cup to his brother, "Coffee?"

"Okay." Jacob reached his hand out for the cup.

His brother pulled it back. "Forget it. Where's the rest of my money?"

"I'll tell you when I get my coffee."

"Bastard."

"And so's your Ol' Man."

### ~~~~
Chapter 15: _Local 19, Almont Chapter_

Robert Womack's father had searched for gold in 1861 without much success. Like many others, he had moved his family to Colorado too late, arriving on the shank end of the Pikes Peak rush. Still, the family liked and had taken to the place. They decided to homestead between the mountains, ranch horses and cows, pursue a more normal lifestyle than that of mining. But mining had never left young Bob's head. He fevered for gold, eventually became known as "Crazy Bob." He prospected and left hundred of holes and thousands of empty liquor bottles around Cripple Creek.

Eventually, Crazy Bob had discovered some rich, river gold but couldn't convince anyone to invest in helping him find the source. It didn't help that some ne'er-do-wells recently had "salted" gold near Mount Pisgah trying to sucker investment in otherwise worthless land. Undeterred, Crazy Bob dug and drank onward. Eventually, in 1890, he found his elusive vein, and he triggered off the last great gold rush in Colorado history. But, as the story goes, Crazy Bob had sold his claim for $500 and one bottle of the saloon's finest. He died, 19 years later, broken and lonely, but happy he hadn't been crazy.

Others struck it bigger, better, and formed mining companies. Cripple Creek's population shot from 500 to 10,000 by 1893. Many, like Womacks before, had come too late, lured by the promise of steady gold or chased there because of the unsteadiness of the silver market. An economic depression had taken the country, especially the west, after the repeal of the Sherman Silver Purchase Act of 1890. Colorado at the time had been producing nearly three-fifths of the nation's silver.

And, with so many out-of-work miners flooding into Cripple Creek, and with only so many productive gold mines, the owners became brazen, said they were increasing worker hours, but keeping daily pay the same, $3. The work became more dangerous, too. Safety precautions became less and less a priority as able men became more abundant, more desperate.

The miners complained and fought for the recognition of their newly-formed union, the Western Federation of Miners. Small mine owners had caved right in to the Union's demands. Larger companies relented, but only somewhat. They cut the hours back but also lowered the day wages to $2.50. This prompted open warfare between workers and the mine owners, with the workers achieving one of the greatest victories ever for organized labor.

They had been helped greatly by Governor Waite, who had ordered the state militia to protect striking miners from the owners' personal armies of bruisers and thugs. Eventually, the strike settled in June of 1894. Wages and hours returned to normal. Plus, the Colorado government had forbidden any kind of retaliation against those miners who had struck. This was not a government that owners were used to.

So, the men behind The Devil's Own Mining Company formulated a new tactic. Away from the flaring tempers and discord at their Cripple Creek mines, they acquired some potentially rich, but underdeveloped claims near Gunnison and up around Almont. Then, locally, they recruited very visible members of Colorado's Populist Party, welcoming them and the rest of the community to share in leadership of the mining operations, as well as production, risks, and profits. Knowing that money would be tight, they worked out a credit system, allowing these communities and citizens to "buy in" with promissory notes. And, in exchange, until the government bought the mined gold, or until the price of silver rose again to reasonable rates, The Devil's Own would pay workers in I.O.U.s, which local businesses would accept. This was all contingent, of course, upon a vote of the newly-formed Almont and Gunnison Chapter of the Western Federation of Miners.

Harold Brokholc was fumbling for fresh clothing. He had personally led the first wave of the rescue dig. Now that he had rested for two hours (yet hadn't slept), he was heading back for another go at it. The men on the first shift had been surprised by his strength. They knew he was a hard, tough man, but they had always seen his real strength as coming from the men who owned the company. But many of them had begun to think otherwise now, and he had earned their respect. Harold hadn't noticed, wouldn't have cared. He found a mostly-full whiskey bottle near his feet.

From behind his tarp curtain, he heard Johan Harkens approach and speak, "Sir."

"Any Progress?"

"Yes. Fat Agwa's alive. We've heard him. He's pinned under debris. Sounds hurt, but we're close to him."

Harold slowed his pace now, allowed himself a relaxing moment, breathed, and pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle. "Get him his robe and take it down there along with those particular men we've picked out. I'll join you once I've found a clean shirt."

Harold sat for a while longer on his bunk, pleased, and he took a few celebratory draughts. He timed it well, for, when Harold arrived at the southern-most shaft, Harkens was arriving with the three men that he had _dusted up_ : Simmons, Owensson, and Smith. Owensson had most of his head bandaged with some type of red dye staining one side next to his ear. Harold raised his lantern up close. "That looks pretty good."

"It's real," Harkens admitted. "Owensson got into a fight with young Richards."

"He began it," Owensson added, his English thick with Swedish.

Harold exhaled in disgust. "Was this in town? We can't have this if locals saw Owensson brawling tonight."

"No one saw it. It was in The Easy Way. I've got Richards cooling off."

"Okay." The foreman was annoyed, but he turned his attention to the rescue. He spotted Miles Crenshaw pushing an ore cart filled with rubble up the rail track toward him. "Have we got Agwa, yet?"

Miles stopped. "Nearly. Damned if we don't keep digging and it keeps filling in from above. And I have a dead voodi here in the cart. This is the forth one. We're dumping them in the dead end tunnel soon as we find them. Fat Agwa got real lucky looks like."

"We're through!" a voice bellowed up from below. The men raced down the rails to where another crew of men were digging carefully. Lantern lights and candles burning on the fronts of hard hats filled the cavern, caused shadows to creep and dance as heads bobbed and busy arms continued swinging. It took another twenty minutes to clear away a space large enough for a fat man to pass through.

On the other side of the rescue, Agwa was lying pretty much where Tedford and Tanjakwunu had originally found him. A couple of smaller stones had been placed back onto his legs and abdomen. Those weighed him down, looked convincing, but they were more comfortable than the original stones had been. His workers were no longer back-filling the rescue attempt—no more delays. Everything was in place now for their discovery.

The hardest thing had been covering up the hole in the ceiling leading to Tedford's mine shaft. That had required getting three of the workers up there with Teddy, locating a suitably large stone inside, and then positioning it on its edge. Then, after they all had climbed back down again, the stone was tipped over to seal the hole. That worked out better than they had been expecting. The workers then moved the fallen stairway stones away so that no one would think to look too closely at the ceiling above. Then, the largest stones were used to close up the antechamber crawl space beneath the bacon drapery (just to be doubly sure no one got to looking in that direction).

While this was happening, Tanjakwunu had been busy harvesting gold. He had selected large pieces, with purpose, and had been careful not to leave evidence that someone had been digging in the trough. It was slow and deliberate work, and he approached it as an artist, gently smoothing the thin mud as needed. They couldn't get all of the gold, nor reasonably expect to hide the rest of it from the men who soon would be exploring the cavern. Still, TenJack had done his best to do both. Ultimately, his and Tedford's goal remained the same as before: _just enough_. And, Tanjakwunu had gotten good at hiding things. That had always been his major contribution to the mining operation.

Harold Brokholc stepped through the hole and kneeled near Agwa's head, touching his friend's face. He swung his lantern in front of the closest zombi shambling aimlessly nearby. Harold stretched his head back. "Get over here, men. Get these slabs off Agwa." Then he brushed aside some dust and pebbles from the fat man's face. Agwa coughed, squinted in the light.

"Harold." He smiled then trailed off, "Good."

"Are you okay?"

"Now. Leg's broken, I think. I keep drifting off."

The men lifted the stones off him and helped Agwa to his feet. The fat man was a mess, dust and fallen ceiling clung to what was left of the greasy, lithium soap he had painted himself with earlier. He was swollen, cut, bruised, and blacker than normal in places. Harold noticed a booklet on a long lanyard dangling from Agwa's neck. He studied it for a moment in the low light, the stitching around the top edges, the cross design worked into the leather near the bottom. Harold kept glancing downward until... "Ahhg." He looked away. "Good Gods. Get that robe over here, Harkens."

Once Fat Agwa was up and covered, Harold supported him, one hand jammed under his left arm, the other arm wrapped around his back and flexing up under the right arm.

"Let's get you topside, give a little show to the locals, then you can rest, get you some food." Harold helped the Haitian through the opening.

As they stepped to the other side, Harkens asked, "Should we seal the voodi inside here for now?"

Harold stopped, "Agwa?"

The fat man responded, "I can sing 'em back to _The Hall_. Just hold me up, then get someone to feed them."

Harold laughed. "You're lucky you didn't feed them... _yourself_. You've got a guardian angel, all right, Aqwa. But what the hell were you using dynamite for?"

Agwa stopped. "Wasn't us. We just found that cavern beyond when the blast went off."

Harold chewed his teeth a bit, then he exhaled loudly. "Harkens! You and Simmons search the cavern, go easy, and find out where it leads." He paused. "Damnit. Get those voodi out first, then show off Simmons and the rest topside, then get your ass back here with a lot of lanterns and guns. No one else goes in there yet." Harold looked over at two of the men who just been digging. "You two stay here and guard the entrance."

Agwa began singing, and, one by one, ten workers climbed stiff-legged through the hole, and they walked numbly into the tunnel. Harold carried Agwa through the shafts until they reached another small cavern that had been walled off with strong timber. The man standing in front of a reinforced door in the wall, set his rifle down, pulled a large key from his pants, and unlocked a big padlock. With a heavy pull, he swung the door wide, then quickly grabbed up his rifle again. Fat Agwa sang one last command, and the workers filed through, joining dozens of other zombi inside.

Unnoticed by everyone except Agwa, one of the voodi glanced up before entering. Above the door, a wood-carved plaque read, "Union Hall, Local 19."

### ~~~~
Chapter 16: Title Pending

Hallucinations, visions, nightmares, delusions, and failed aspirations—the world had become surreal long before this moment, the moment when Jacob Clambers was tied to a straight-back wooden chair, his chin cupped within his brother's right hand. The room was dim, his eyes swollen and lips—beaten thick—tasted of blood. He still wasn't talking.

Ethan pulled Jacob's head up close to his own, squeezing him under the chin, pulling him up off the chair. Ethan's breath smelled of onions, the rest of him oozed a well-known frustration. "Come on, Jacob, tell us where the deeds are."

_Us_ included two other people: one was Harold Brokholc, a recent associate of his brother's. Harold was a smaller man, but one with arms and chest forged in the furnaces of Chicago. He had reshaped ingots into boilers, stoves, and, lately, railroad tracks. His grip was iron and his knuckles steely, and— _overly familiar_. They had crushed repeatedly against Jacob's face. The other person was Haitian, a rotund black man who Jacob hadn't seen before. He wasn't physical, wasn't here to work the outside of Jacob's body. He was a chef, apparently, a bad one, standing behind Jacob now, cooking something foul, acrid. As Agwa stirred, he was singing words unfamiliar to Jacob. They drifted over and carried along the heat, the smell.

"I ain't eating that, whatever he's cooking."

"Jacob, Jacob, Jacob." Ethan made clicking, suck-back noises with his tongue, a chastising sound. "No one's eating nothing." He paused. "Harold, hand the fat man that syringe. Last chance, Jacob. Tell us where you've got 'em."

"Ain't got nothing I'm giving you."

"See?" Ethan looked back at the others. "This is what I've had to deal with for 35 years. I've only ever had 14 minutes of peace. He's beaten, but he thinks he can _beat_ _me_ somehow." Ethan buried a hard fist into Jacob's breadbasket, then he let him gasp for air for a few moments before continuing his speech. "I'm not sure why I agreed to go back into partnership with you, boy. You keep coming up with great ideas, ways to expand the company's profits, but then you refuse to carry through. Won't let me do them, neither." Ethan looked up and behind his brother. "Now, Ackwa here—"

"Agwa," the fat man corrected.

"Agwa. Sure. _Agwa_ here is what we call a _sorcerer_. He's a mean chemist, Jake, got me to buy him medicine-man stuff: witch weed, puffer fish, what have ya. That's it cooking now. Ackwa says it'll make you more compliant, sing pretty like him, 'cepting afterwards you won't never talk no more. Now, I'd hate that. No more smart mouth. You doing everything I want first time I want it. That would be terrible."

Jacob scoffed. "That ain't a brother."

"That's what I'm thinking. It'll get rather unsatisfying, fast. Around Christmas time, who else will be leaving me in the desert to die? So..., save us all this injection, brother, this brain poisoning. The deeds, Jacob, where are they?"

"Remember when you killed that woman?"

"Shut up." Ethan punched him again.

Jacob wheezed. "Beccalynn Richards. _Butter lips_ , we called her. She weren't that pretty, but she was an industrious woman, kind, took care of three men, had a good head for numbers... _had a head_. She was a lot like Mother, only I didn't see it in time."

"You killed her, Jacob, not me."

Jacob ignored him. "Now, Becky, she educated herself at home, wrote letters, read everything, must have been thinking all the time when she wasn't reading. She used words like _disseminated_ and _constitutional liberties_. I hear she organized political rallies when she was just 16, led a temperance movement, worked every angle she could to get the previous Governor elected. You remember him, the one that made our mine workers so... _organized_? Anyway, Beccalynn had a word for a man like you, Ethan: _Pussy_."

Ethan punched him a third time. "Last chance is done." He smacked his palms together and wiped them one against the other, then he opened them wide in front of Jacob's face. He made a show of it. "I'll miss you, Jacob. I really will. Ackwa, put it in him."

An iron hand grabbed Jacob's skull to steady it. Another softer, black hand cradled the back of his neck. A needle entered into him. Moments afterwards he felt a gushing inward. Then his groin was warm, then his legs, arms, and the whole of him. The room got darker, although he knew his eyes were still open. All the while, he could hear Ethan asking, "Where are the deeds, Jacob? Where are the deeds?"

And Jacob refused to talk, never told him nothing. In fact, as the chemicals heated him on the inside, he suddenly felt empowered, and managed to snap his leather bindings like crispy bacon. He rocked backwards, tripped up the steel worker. The fat man was far too slow to stop Jacob from leaping free. And Ethan? Ethan was too stunned to move. And he never should have left Jacob's revolvers there where he could—

"They're... in... Gladys MacGowen's wall safe." Jacob slurred. He was still bound and seated. "Behind portrait... of... of the... lilly-white—"

Those had been Jacob's last words. And this had been months ago, when Jacob had first entered the eternal dreaming.

### ~~~~
Chapter 17: Dead Man's Hand

Tedford Theodore was nearly asleep, well beyond being tired. He was quite a ways past even that "second wind" people get sometimes once they've missed their regular sleep completely and have gotten far into their next day. He sat in the mostly-dark, on a crude bench against a wall of stone. TenJack was next to him. They dared not say anything, and, they tried not to breathe too deeply because of the smell of sweat and excrement that lingered in this hole.

Just a small taste of the light from two lanterns in the tunnel outside managed to find its way through gaps between and above the high-timbered gate of The Union Hall. Teddy knew he looked a fright: chalky white limestone rubbed onto his clothes and into his hair and thin beard. With some lithium grease borrowed off of Agwa's backside, and some well-placed mud from the trough, he had finger painted a pallid, ghoul-like face for Tanjakwunu. (TenJack had done the same for him.)

Teddy had been worried about TenJack's lack of facial hair, but Agwa had assured him that a few of the zombi workers never grew any. Still, Tedford had mudded his friend's cheek bones, chin, and around his mouth. They agreed TenJack should keep his gaze as low as possible. Any other exposed skin, they smeared by themselves with the lithium, then dug their hands into the gravel and dirt, dampened them, and made sure it caked up under their fingernails.

Every pocket they had was filled with gold, with at least twenty pounds of it in their boots (pounded as flat as possible and then inserted in on every side of their ankles. Any remaining gaps were gold pebble-filled after their feet were inside). Barefoot, their stockings had been stripped off and filled with the purest gold, tied to their belts, wrapped around and worn inside of their pants. They had found a few other places, too, including each man having held a large chunk of gold inside his mouth. A man can find a lot of places to hide gold on his body, especially if walking slowly and awkwardly helped to disguise him in a crowd of zombi.

Teddy spit a golden jawbreaker into his palm. He held it, wetly, by two fingers and a thumb. He shook it off, then he spoke softly to TenJack, "So far, so good. The rest is faith."

Tanjakwunu let his golden nugget likewise ooze out into his hand. "Yes, faith in a witch doctor, who has our deed in hand."

"He could have given us away already. Now he's in deep with us."

From down the hallway, three men approached the wooden wall and signaled the guard: "Soup's on."

Teddy and TenJack both mouthed their gold again and sat as far back as they could against the wall. They looked down at their feet, waited. The key sounded in the lock, then a bolt action, then the heavy door sighed as it opened quickly, apparently to where its weight balanced better and its iron hinges felt they naturally should be. Two of the men stepped in quickly, slid some open crates forward, then they backed off. The third came in next, two large buckets of water were dangling from a wooden yoke he wore on his shoulders. He did a neat little duck and pulled back under, leaving the whole of it behind without any spillage. After he was in the tunnel again, all four men closed the door together, and the key twisted in the lock.

Teddy expected a free-for-all next, a murderous rampage to get at the food. But, most of workers continued to sit or to shamble aimlessly. A few noticed the open crates. He couldn't be certain because of the low lighting, but he expected those who first noticed were the hungry ones who had just been trapped in the tunnel. Still, even for them, there seemed no urgency, no thought at all. They found the food when they found it as if by accident. Teddy looked elsewhere, remembering that Agwa had said, "Don't stare too long at them; you should be okay then." Luckily, it was mostly-dark, or it would have been near impossible not to watch, fascinated by what had become of these men.

Teddy spit gold again. He whispered, "I don't get it. Labor's as cheap as it's ever been. Why would they... do this?"

A voice in the dark, three or four men on their left and also on the bench, spoke, quite clearly, "Every one of them's _Union_."

Had his gold been a little smaller, Tanjakwunu might have swallowed it right there and then.

Teddy and TenJack fell silent, all but their hearts had stopped moving, and those hearts now were moving twice as fast.

The voice continued, "Oh, _suddenly_ you _don't_ talk? I haven't been in here _that_ long. And I'm not staying. Soon as they sort it, I'm outta here." The source of the voice stood up, and he moved down their way. They could see him now, a younger man, the cleanest man in this hellhole. He pulled up the worker—sitting next to Tedford—from the bench and shoved him off towards the food. "Get over there with them." Then the man who had been talking sat down in the vacated spot. He peered closely, waiting. Tedford turned his face as much as he possible out of the light, set his expression as blank as he could manage. The young man next to him continued, sarcastically, " _Oh, that's convincing."_ Then he added, "I'm Everett Richards."

Teddy, tired of the cards he had been dealt lately, folded this particular hand. "Tedford," he said. "This here is Tanjakwunu."

Everett smiled. "There you go. What a story you two must be."

"Not really," Teddy whispered back, hoping Everett would lower his own voice to at least that same level. "Wrong place, wrong time. Saw too much and now trying not to be seen ourselves."

Everett laughed out, "Ha. Big locked gate there to get through, guards, a dozen workers." Everett quieted for a moment while his brain processed. Then he said, "Tedford Theodore? _That's it._ Farmer, south of here."

"And you're Bert's son."

"Yeah."

"A good man, Richard Albert. Played cards with him. Talked a lot of prospecting. No way he killed himself."

Everett began raising his hands, opening his fingers wide. "You _know that_ for certain?"

"I _feel_ _that_. That was right before The Devil's Own opened their second mine. Teddy had pondered before about the timing of Bert's death, and though he had no desire to bring up bad memories for the boy, these were the only cards Teddy had left to play. "I'm not saying _they're connected_ , but clearly they've no regard for life." There was silence, and, as an awkward pause often needs filling, Teddy asked, " _Union_ workers?"

"Every one of them." Everett snorted. "They always vote the company line, by proxy. But yeah, they're all registered."

"In all the mines?"

"Just this one. I think it was all the votes they needed, and this mine is just a test." Everett began rubbing his knees anxiously, as he made an important choice in his head. "I'll help you two get out best I can."

### ~~~~
Chapter 18: The Escape

Virgil Lloyd had had trouble sleeping. Bad men were coming, and the top of his skull was throbbing with fire.

But Beccalynn Richards had asked him to take authority, to lead the citizens of Almont into hiding, to wait out the storm underground. "I need you, Virgil," she said, holding him tightly in her arms. "And I need you to look after them."

So, here he was, in the dark root cellar of Lloyd's Market, his face pressed up against the wooden planks trying to see through a small opening. It seemed all too familiar.

The citizens with him were restless. Scared and huddled together, they talked incessantly throughout the night, had asked him the tough questions. Virgil wanted them to sleep, couldn't see why they should put voice to unspoken fears, especially when they all should be out there standing with her, the young Richards' girl. She was fighting the fight the men should be fighting.

And though he felt like that, Virgil had held back (it was his nature), hoping for preservation. He buried himself like last year's carrots in the cool, wet cellar sand. Even now, he could feel himself shriveling. Still, his job here was to show resolve, to keep everyone else from losing hope. With him was Tedford Theodore—an old miner who seemed surprised Virgil knew his name. "I know all my best customers," Virgil had told him, "even if they come in but twice a year." What he hadn't said is that Tedford was mostly memorable because he always had paid in cash, would never except credit (didn't believe in it). Plus, all he ever seemed to buy was animal feed. Tedford's Indian friend, Virgil hadn't seen him before. Looked a lot like him. He watched them both as they poured water into a small washbasin, freshened up. Just seeing them cleaning themselves reminded Virgil how filthy he had become himself.

Beccalynn had gone above and waited outside the root cellar door with the Deputy, hoping they could reason with the Bad men. Virgil heard them come into the store. His heart pounding, he pressed close between the timbers to see. He signaled to the others to stop moving.

Shut up for once, Ethan.

_Wait, who was this? That was Sheriff... Brokholc and Padre Agwa come in_.

Sheriff Brokholc looked annoyed as always, immediately began cursing at Beccalynn. The padre was hurt, walking with a crutch. Maybe that's why he was so slow to settle down the Sheriff and to preach the good, calming word. Never dismayed, Beccalynn faced down both men, began softening up the Sheriff.

Her words must be poetry. Elegant.

He pressed his ear to the gap, hoping to hear good news. Virgil's heart sank at what came next: his friend, Don Torres, the bold caballero, had been killed. Some no-good horse thief had done him in, busted his skull. And Beccalynn had known about this earlier, hadn't said anything.

Must have tried to spare me the grief.

The Sheriff now was talking about The Don's redheaded widow, and who would care for her and for the daughter with white hair. Some brute of a Swede had apparently tried to move in on them already, claim the Senora and the senorita for himself. But Beccalynn had defended them from the giant man, said it wasn't right, "The Don wasn't even buried yet, for God's sake." The Sheriff was agreeing with her, was leaving the responsibility all up to Beccalynn until the rest of The Don's family could be found.

Now as she and the Sheriff were leaving together, Beccalynn glanced back one last time, but now she—

Looks manish.

And the Sheriff was still agitated, said a great danger still lurked nearby. Before leaving, though, he patted the Padre on the back, and told Fat Agwa to take it easy tonight. The Padre said he would.

The Deputy had remained quiet until the Sheriff had left, and then he felt the need to interject himself into the Padre's business: "I don't see why you don't just teach them English. Wouldn't that be easier than learning them your language?"

The Padre just stared for a while, then he asked, "How easy are you to replace, Smith? Now how easy am I?"

"You got me there, fat man."

They both laughed. As the Deputy began unlocking the door, the Padre reached under his robes, removed a pint bottle. He held it out. "Smith, help me with the cork on this. I've got just the one hand free. And take a swig for yourself. I ain't telling no one."

Soon afterwards, the Deputy was on the ground, and the door swung open to where it liked to be. The Deputy must have slipped and fallen while trying to catch the Padre, who had lost his crutch and stumbled somehow. The fat man hopped on one leg to the entryway of the cellar, had asked Tedford to give him a hand, but the Indian had helped him instead. Then they stripped the Padre out of his robes.

_Nothing unusual. Padre prefers teaching au naturel. Likes to say it's as God made me. But... that's odd, though, Padre has another set of robes underneath. Must have been cold tonight. What's that Indian doing?  
_

TenJack put on Agwa's outer robes and picked up the Fat Agwa's dropped crutch. He and Tedford then headed off slowly down the cavern. Agwa noticed Virgil there, saw him diligently defending the rest of the zombi flock. "Ah, Jacob. Never quite asleep, are you? Well, it's time for you to run amuck." The fat man started chanting tonight's Creole vocabulary lesson, and Virgil (or was he Jacob?) heard the call to action. His manhood swelled, and Virgil led the townsfolk of Almont through the Market into the streets. And, as he marched forward, arms flailing, he found the perfect inspirational battle cry, but no audible words could leave his mouth.

A few moments later, he had gone about 20 yards, and Virgil forgot what he was supposed to be doing. Then he heard the Padre again behind him, in English, "Wake up, Smith." As Virgil staggered back, he saw the Padre was bent over the Deputy waving something under his nose. Then he splashed the other man's face from the bottle. "Wake up. We've drunk too much and the workers are loose. We have to get them back before Brokholc finds out."

### ~~~~
Chapter 19: Like We Own It

Teddy and TenJack, laden with trough gold, made their way slowly up the limestone tunnels of The Devil's Own towards The Easy Way. They moved along the darkest, least-likely-to-be-attended areas, using the directions Agwa had given them earlier this afternoon in the yawning cavern. As they had planned, it should be close to sunset now. The robes and the crutch had been a last minute idea. It gave them more pockets (which Tedford had used to transfer his most difficult-to-carry gold), and an excuse, if needed, as to why he and TenJack were moving so slowly. Teddy would take his chances about why he was there and TenJack would do his best to pretend to be Fat Agwa. The priest had left them some dark gloves and some greasy coal black in the pockets to darken Tanjakwunu's face. It was a desperate hand they'd rather not have to play, but then, all of the last 18 hours had been like that, too.

_They had caught an amazing break_ , Teddy thought (yet another one), having met up with Everett Richards in The Union Hall. He had brought them their escape. Magic Dog was tied up with Torres' red mare near Everett's tent. Everett had said the two of them should take the red mare as well as Magic Dog, but Teddy would have none of it: "I thank you, son. But we aren't horse thieves, not even from someone who apparently stole ours."

"The dead don't mind," Richards had countered. "But my brother might. I don't think he'll be there because I drank all his whisky last night. He'll probably be in town, but I don't know. I'll try to make sure if he isn't."

That _probably_ never came to happen. Once Everett had been released from The Union Hall, Brokholc had asked the boy to come immediately with him. Neither he nor TedJack had heard as to where they were going. _Perhaps_ , he speculated, _to explore the yawning cavern? No, probably not._ They had had a few hours to check that out while he and TenJack were waiting in The Union Hall. Although, it was possible that Brokholc might have spent most of that time marveling at what was left in the golden trough, or maybe he had bed sat with Fat Agwa. Those men were friends. Neither of those scenarios seemed likely, though. It was obvious to Teddy that the foreman wasn't going to let the mystery of the dynamite go unanswered.

It must have been Torres, though, working alone. Why he did it or how he had discovered them might have died with him. It wouldn't be their problem for long, he hoped—if Magic Dog were up there, and the other Richards' boy were not, and if no one saw them coming out of the hole, or on their way to Utah, which is where Teddy had decided they should head next. He was getting too old for mining. He realized that this all had been his last big poker game, and he had been justifying too much in his life lately. _Tanjakwunu still had a chance to settle down_ , he thought, _find a wife if he wanted, have children. They had enough gold now. Didn't have to start looking all over again._

As the two of them leaned around the last turn, they saw a lone man standing in the mouth of the entrance. A lantern blazed inside, and he was lighting another one just on the outside. The sun wasn't quite down yet. Teddy and Tenjack, at this point, were still safe in the dark of the tunnel. There had been a lonely lantern burning about thirty feet behind them, but they were well out of its range now. The man in front of them couldn't see them even if he had looked their way, which he didn't. He likely was following a routine, and he looked to be leaving soon.

Now they had a gamble: try to make it out while there was still light enough (easier for them to find their way and their horse, but they'd risk being seen) or wait another ten minutes for the sun to escape (and risk being found in the tunnel while they waited, or stepping gold-heavy and badly onto something noisy or someone they couldn't see). Teddy hoped that Tanjakwunu had been considering these same options because he didn't want to say too much when discussing it, and neither could they use their limited sign language because of the dark. Teddy chanced it. "Now or when it's dark?"

TenJack set the crutch against the wall, pulled off his robe and wadded it up under his arms. He whispered, "Walk out like we own it."

Teddy could feel his friend smiling, and he smiled back. They waited a moment longer, gave the man who had lit the lantern time to leave, and they crept up to the outside opening. A few men were moving in the near-dark, but not too closely to them. In addition to the the front lantern, half a dozen small fires were scattered before them in the camp, crackling with spring-moist wood and the early smells of roasting meat and beans. A few of the tents of The Easy Way were illuminated from the inside. Long shadows stretched across the fabric from within as their occupants meandered.

The two of them stopped looking at it all, then they boldly became a part of it, turned right and stepped as lively as they could, occasionally laughed out loud, spoke parts of conversations they weren't actually having, said "She" a lot, and "Fat Agwa," and "damn Brokholc." And it must have worked because no one gave them hardly a first look let alone a second, not even when they came to the Richards' tent. But Magic Dog saw them. He was tied to a post, his saddle off and on the ground next to him. The white horse nodded and shook the long hair from his eyes as if to say, "Let's get home."

TenJack spoke softly, "The red mare is gone."

"Yeah." Teddy bent down, hefted the saddle pad and blanket onto Magic Dog's back. There was no time to attach the girth here, so they would just lead the horse out of camp slowly, then tack him up, hopefully, once they were out of sight. Teddy slowly untied the reins, then he glanced up and into the face of the biggest Swede he had ever seen. Most of the man's head was bandaged, but the rest of his face was a piercing glare. "Ah..." Teddy said.

TenJack knelt quickly, swung a fist full of gold right into the big man's testicles, and, as Owensson was crumpling down, Teddy forced one hand over the big man's mouth while grabbing at his throat, trying to muffle him as best they could. TenJack punched him again, same place, and Teddy struggled to hold down whatever was rising up and out from the man's stomach. TenJack ripped apart his already torn shirt, bent the Swede's arms backwards, and began binding them behind his back. Teddy pulled at the man's bandages, freeing them up and stuffing them inside the mouth to stopper up the moaning. By then, TenJack, moving faster than Teddy had ever seen him move before, was wrapping more torn shirt around him and tying the Swede's mouth shut. Teddy looked up. No one had seen _. No one had seen!_

He stood, fumbled to remove the bridle from Magic Dog, then bent down again ready to use it to tie up the Swede further. "Wait," TenJack whispered. I was able to remove his belt and synch up his ankles. We have to drag him... into Richards' tent." And they did so with no small effort, still laden with a heavy fortune in gold. There was no one inside the large tent, but they found another belt inside and a sharp knife. They used the belt to better tie up the big man's arms.

Panting hard now, TenJack flapped open the tent, stuck his greased-black face out, then signaled to Tedford as best he could that it was clear. And then, the light nearly gone, they let Magic Dog lead them out of The Easy Way, trusting in his superior night senses and in his having come in that way six hours earlier. Turns out that this was a very smart play, as the horse, walking slowly between the two very slow-walking men, walked straight out of camp and right to the main road heading into town, a road that also led away from town in the other direction.

Once they felt that they were in the clear, they veered off into a small grove of aspen. Teddy needed a drink, and, when instinctively dropping his hand into his vest pocket, he found the spot the flask normally occupied filled instead with gold. He chuckled. The whisky flask had been a casualty, stashed behind in the burial vault along with their hats and a few other effects. He was going to miss that flask, had always considered it lucky, and had parted with it only after calculating the worth of the gold he could carry in its place.

Feet aching and muscles burning, full of lactic acid from the battle, the two men began shedding off the worst fitting of the gold from their bodies, and especially from out of their boots. They piled the treasure inside of Agwa's robe, which they had used the found knife to cut so as to make a bag of it. They then tied it shut and onto Magic Dog. After two solid days—with rest only under the worst of conditions—their bodies and brains were completely failing them. They needed the horse to save them now. They tacked him up right.

They would take turns riding. Magic Dog was strong, but they needed him to put in as many miles as they could. Tedford had done a full days' mining two days ago, so he rode first. They started off, and Magic Dog turned, headed for home. Teddy stopped him. "Whoa, Dog. I was thinking _Utah_. What do you say, TenJack?"

"I'm inclined to follow the horse. Get the wagon, supplies, and load up Lulu. She must be uncomfortably full of milk."

"The red mare was gone," Teddy reminded him. "Everett and Brokholc must have gone out searching for the dynamite spot, might be at our shack right now."

Tanjakwunu reached up and put his arm on Teddy's lower back. "The chickens have gone and come, Tedford, but Lulu's done her part from the beginning."

Teddy agreed. "Yes. Okay, Boy." He patted Magic Dog's hairy neck. "Head back home— _like we own it_."

### ###
The After Words

If you got this far and read through the story, then thank you. This was my first attempt at eBook publication and also the first time—in a very long time—that I delved into any kind of creative activity. I enjoyed writing it as well as rewriting it, tinkering, pruning, grafting, and sometimes hacking the hell out of it. I hope you received some value out of it as well, and, if you loved, liked, even hated it, I would appreciate hearing your thoughts about my work, either in the form of an online review or a message to me via FaceBook. Obviously, positive reviews will help me to gain a larger audience, but any type of feedback will encourage me to write more and to try harder. Once again, thank you for having read my story.
About the Author

John J. Beach is a recently-retired Assistant Professor of Information Technology, and he taught courses primarily in Linux, UNIX, and Macintosh systems. Along with Computer Science and Mathematics bachelor degrees, he also completed an MFA in English some great period ago in a time called _The Twentieth Century_. And although—while teaching for over 20 years—he wrote many technical workbooks and exercises for his students, he was not actively writing creative fiction, nonfiction, or poetry... until just now.

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