chill as he thought of the man’s hands on Elaina’s high, full breasts.
“Then we’ll just have to use a little more persuasion.” Dawson mounted his horse. “We’re meeting my father and Dolph Redmond out at the mine.”
Morgan nodded, and the two men headed out of town just as the meeting hall began to empty. The surly looks on the miners’ faces clearly spoke of the outcome of the meeting.
“You better watch your back, gunman!” a voice in the milling crowd threatened as Morgan rode past.
“Git outta town and leave decent folks alone!” another voice called out.
Morgan wished there were some other way to handle the situation. He hated to go against the very men he wanted to help. If there were any other way . . . but there wasn’t. In the long run, this would be best for all concerned.
Riding in silence, they continued down the street and into the countryside, while familiar landmarks—a shabby old miner’s shack, a covered bridge he used to play beneath— brought memories of his early years. But the memory he couldn’t forget was the night before he left Keyserville: October 1, 1869.
He and Tommy had been trapped in the darkness for more than four days. The candle atop Ren’s cap had gone out in the blast, and Tommy’s had lasted through only the first eight hours. After that they’d existed in total darkness. Ren’s overalls and shirt were soaked clear through from the water dripping off the ceilings; his skin had become soft and loose, chafing constantly against the rough material of his clothes; and the dampness from the earth beneath him seeped into every bone in his body. He was stiff and sore, and the bruises he’d received from falling timbers throbbed unbearably.
“Ren? Do you think we’re going to die?” Tommy’s small voice sliced through the blackness like a knife.
“Don’t be foolish,” Ren answered, wanting desperately to keep up his younger brother’s spirits. “Just keep tapping. I’ll start again when you get tired.”
“I’m so cold . . . and I’m scared.” Tommy groped in the darkness until he finally found Ren’s hand.
Ren held it tightly. “They’ll find us soon, Tommy. I’m sure of it. You just have to be brave a little longer.”
“I’ll be brave, Ren, I promise.”
The despair in his brother’s voice tore at Ren’s heart. “I know how hard this is, Tommy—Papa would have been proud of you—but we can’t give up.”
“I won’t give up, Ren.”
“Good boy. Now just keep tap—What was that?” Ren stiffened, straining to hear the sound.
“What?” Tommy listened, too.
Tap, tap, tap .
“That!” Ren felt his way blindly across the narrow chamber to the opposite wall of the cavern.
Tap, tap, tap .
“There it is again. And it’s close!” Ren remembered how his heart had leapt. “Tap back a few times,” he’d instructed. “Then help me dig.”
Tommy had tapped a rapid staccato. Even in the dark, Ren had felt his brother’s smile.
As the men rounded a bend in the road, Blue Mountain came into view, a quick reminder that Ren was now Dan Morgan. Redmond and the elder Dawson waited near the front gate.
The mine looked much the same as he remembered: a huge mountain of earth, scarred and debauched. Deep holes penetrated the sides of the mountain as if it had been endlessly violated, and rusting mine cars stood forlornly beside the main entrance. Narrow iron tracks ran into the hillside awaiting the heavy, rumbling burden of the loaded coal cars.
It all seemed just as forbidding as he remembered, only now, as they moved inside the main shaft, he could see that the timbers needed replacing and the equipment clearly showed a lack of maintenance. Morgan’s mind again filled with grisly images of the past—days buried in the dank, cold depths of the mine, men dead and dying, screaming in agony beneath the fallen timbers. He had trouble concentrating on the conversation.
“Well, whaddaya think of ’er?” Henry Dawson wanted to
“Then we’ll just have to use a little more persuasion.” Dawson mounted his horse. “We’re meeting my father and Dolph Redmond out at the mine.”
Morgan nodded, and the two men headed out of town just as the meeting hall began to empty. The surly looks on the miners’ faces clearly spoke of the outcome of the meeting.
“You better watch your back, gunman!” a voice in the milling crowd threatened as Morgan rode past.
“Git outta town and leave decent folks alone!” another voice called out.
Morgan wished there were some other way to handle the situation. He hated to go against the very men he wanted to help. If there were any other way . . . but there wasn’t. In the long run, this would be best for all concerned.
Riding in silence, they continued down the street and into the countryside, while familiar landmarks—a shabby old miner’s shack, a covered bridge he used to play beneath— brought memories of his early years. But the memory he couldn’t forget was the night before he left Keyserville: October 1, 1869.
He and Tommy had been trapped in the darkness for more than four days. The candle atop Ren’s cap had gone out in the blast, and Tommy’s had lasted through only the first eight hours. After that they’d existed in total darkness. Ren’s overalls and shirt were soaked clear through from the water dripping off the ceilings; his skin had become soft and loose, chafing constantly against the rough material of his clothes; and the dampness from the earth beneath him seeped into every bone in his body. He was stiff and sore, and the bruises he’d received from falling timbers throbbed unbearably.
“Ren? Do you think we’re going to die?” Tommy’s small voice sliced through the blackness like a knife.
“Don’t be foolish,” Ren answered, wanting desperately to keep up his younger brother’s spirits. “Just keep tapping. I’ll start again when you get tired.”
“I’m so cold . . . and I’m scared.” Tommy groped in the darkness until he finally found Ren’s hand.
Ren held it tightly. “They’ll find us soon, Tommy. I’m sure of it. You just have to be brave a little longer.”
“I’ll be brave, Ren, I promise.”
The despair in his brother’s voice tore at Ren’s heart. “I know how hard this is, Tommy—Papa would have been proud of you—but we can’t give up.”
“I won’t give up, Ren.”
“Good boy. Now just keep tap—What was that?” Ren stiffened, straining to hear the sound.
“What?” Tommy listened, too.
Tap, tap, tap .
“That!” Ren felt his way blindly across the narrow chamber to the opposite wall of the cavern.
Tap, tap, tap .
“There it is again. And it’s close!” Ren remembered how his heart had leapt. “Tap back a few times,” he’d instructed. “Then help me dig.”
Tommy had tapped a rapid staccato. Even in the dark, Ren had felt his brother’s smile.
As the men rounded a bend in the road, Blue Mountain came into view, a quick reminder that Ren was now Dan Morgan. Redmond and the elder Dawson waited near the front gate.
The mine looked much the same as he remembered: a huge mountain of earth, scarred and debauched. Deep holes penetrated the sides of the mountain as if it had been endlessly violated, and rusting mine cars stood forlornly beside the main entrance. Narrow iron tracks ran into the hillside awaiting the heavy, rumbling burden of the loaded coal cars.
It all seemed just as forbidding as he remembered, only now, as they moved inside the main shaft, he could see that the timbers needed replacing and the equipment clearly showed a lack of maintenance. Morgan’s mind again filled with grisly images of the past—days buried in the dank, cold depths of the mine, men dead and dying, screaming in agony beneath the fallen timbers. He had trouble concentrating on the conversation.
“Well, whaddaya think of ’er?” Henry Dawson wanted to
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