Page 46 of A Good Prospect

Chapter Eighteen

Sal, Ophir, the brave frog-eaters Jules and Henri, and a few of the more ferocious miners all armed to the teeth galloped down the rocky ravine toward the Black Drift Mine. Sal was demented with fury to think The League was attempting to converge on the last bastion of prospecting left to him, his one quarry of riches out of what had once been eleven leagues of his land. How many thousands of dollars of gold had they already stolen from him and the faithful Sonorans who had first mined this country? Could not they even leave him in peace in this one enclave of civility? It appeared Tyke and his ilk were hell-bent on driving him to utter ruination—he, a son of the grandest gente de razon of Old Spain!

They hadn’t even reached the waterfall of mill tailings before several sulfuric bangs told them a fight was breaking out in the Black Drift mine, and everyone reined in their mounts to sniff the air and look about.

“Down there.” Ophir needlessly pointed, because already miners were frantically trotting toward them on their mules, waving their arms.

“The Hornitos League has jumped the Black Drift!” one man shrieked, and another added, “They have killed Emilio Castillo!”

It was evident the miners weren’t stopping for anything, their surefooted mules skittering around in the quicksilver and quartz tailings, and Sal managed to ask a fellow,

“Are there any of our men left alive down there?”

“No!”

“How many League pendejos?”

“About fifteen, twenty pendejos!”

Sal said to Ophir, “What about the miners in the Hell Hollow Mine?”

“The usual six men, and what about the night watchman posted on Ass Rock?”

Ophir meant the large promontory shaped like buttocks where Sal always staked a watchman—from Ass Rock one could see the entire road north to Coulterville, and a portion of the narrow canyon where the Hell Hollow Mine was situated. “You get the men out of Hell Hollow—I’ll take Henri and Jules to get the men out of the mill.”

The only option was to split up. Ophir took the ruthless Sonorans up the ravine path barely wide enough to accommodate a horse, and Sal and the Frogs raced toward the ore-crushing mill.

It appeared that The League hellions following them had paused to make up their minds which faction to follow. This gave Sal more moments to tear around the side of the mill down past the delivery floor where oxen dumped the carts of ore from the mines. The mill men who worked the stamping batteries were, at this time of night, probably on the plate floor shoveling crushed ore into bins.

Loosely tying up his mount to a steep railing—the Frenchmen stayed outside for a quicker retreat—in a flash Sal was stomping down the floorboards toward the stamp battery. Three men lounged at the foot of the battery where the iron shoes that pounded the ore now sat at rest—gracias a dios, for normally the awful roar of their hammering meant you had to scream to make yourself even remotely heard, and most inexperienced mill men learned their trade by watching.

“Get out!” Sal shouted. “The League is fast coming! Get up to my hacienda!”

It was now evident they weren’t lounging playing cards but rather cowering under a water pipe that ran downhill the length of the battery. They had evidently heard the shooting and were trying to make themselves as small as possible, so Sal squatted down and grabbed a fistful of someone’s tight-sleeved jumper—tight to prevent any piece of clothing being caught by machinery. He pulled out a corduroy-clad Irishman known as O’Callan, feeling the lad tremble beneath his fingertips.

“We heard the shots and figured we were doomed,” moaned O’Callan. “Especially after Rivera here came to tell us that Sepulveda up at Butt Rock was bribed into giving up his watch.”

Sal narrowed his eyes at the recoiling mill man. “¿Qué?” he said quietly. “Sepulveda left his watch?”

Creeping out from under the pipe, Rivera peered up at Sal from under a curtain of hair. “Sí,” he affirmed. “They gave him five cows to leave Butt Rock and go live in Hornitos.”

Sal seethed. “Five cows? Those were my cows!” He walked in a furious little circle, but could not spare a single second more in anger, for Jules was poking his head into the door of the plate floor and yelling,

“They are coming this way!”

Every man stilled for a fraction of a moment, listening to the clatter of approaching hooves, crashing first across boulders, then almost silently through the slurry of the tailings dump down below the mill.

Everyone leaped into action, all clamoring to the door. Two more mill men were apparently hiding three steps downhill under the amalgamation table. They joined in the action, with the result that five people were trying to squish through the door at the same time. The knot of arms and legs squirmed like a giant squalling spider, but someone must have been pushing from the other side, for on a sudden the knot gave way and the men fell back into the room in a jumble. Jules and Henri, the bravest Frenchmen that Sal had ever known, sprinted in across the pile of bodies with outstretched arms, as though they ran on ice. They dashed so fast they tumbled into some of the iron pulverizing shoes, and Jules in particular looked to have been knocked unconscious, his eyes rolling up into his head.

So these are the men who will be holding fast with me?Sal thought. Two unconscious Frogs, a trembling Irishman, and two mill men who thought it wise to hide under a table coated with crushed ore and poisonous quicksilver.

“Mr. Palomares!” Outside the mill, Tyke McCarthy’s annoying banter floated uphill.

Sal was so puffed with rage he didn’t trust himself to go to the door. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths. If he acted rashly, the first shot would bring out all the restrained evil on both sides. A murderous contest would ensue, one man picking off another until the side with the most men left won by default. Sal hadn’t killed that worthless thug Abel, and he would try not to kill anyone now.

“Dear Salvador,” Tyke cooed.

Stepping over the squiggling bodies of the mill men, Sal showed his silhouette in the doorway. Tyke sounded as though he hid behind a boulder about twenty yards down toward the river and was calling up to Sal through a cupped hand. “Call your men off, McCarthy,” he hollered back.