Page 47 of A Good Prospect

Tyke called back, “Why should I, when we are winning? I just wanted to let you know, we can keep you under siege for days. We’ll starve you out of these mines!”

A few more deep breaths. “Show yourself, McCarthy! I’m not accustomed to negotiating with someone so yellow they hide behind a rock.”

Tyke paused a few moments before responding. “I don’t want to be stabbed in the back when I’m not looking.”

Sal frowned. “Who has done that? I’ll holster my weapon, how’s that?” He didn’t move, however.

Again, Tyke paused. “How do I know you don’t have some greasers or ‘keskydee’ Frog sharpshooters ready to polish me off through one of them loopholes? Besides, I’m not here to negotiate. We’ll accept nothing else other than your total surrender and the abandonment of all of these foothills—”

Sal was stunned by a blast. It was either so sudden or so severe it shocked him into momentary unconsciousness—his eyes rolling into his skull, surrounded by a fuzzy blackness imbued with a million red pinpoints.

It was only when Henri rattled him by the arm and shouted, “They’re blasting the mine!” that Sal realized what had happened. Clinging to the outer mill, he clambered up the pathway and peered around the rear of the delivery floor wall. His nostrils flared at the rotten stench of powder, and when his eyes burned acridly, he knew the cloud had already reached the mill.

The League had set shallow charges so as to make the Hell Hollow Mine unusable. Sal tried to think, how long since Ophir and I parted? About fifteen minutes.

And more importantly. Is fifteen minutes long enough for him and the others to have escaped?

* * * *

After they heard the first powder explosion, Tamasin huddled in her parlor with Knut. He confirmed they were the explosions of gunpowder charges. She had heard those sounds when camped with Niall near some Mormons who were building an enormous highway across the Sierra. Knut said they were probably set to destroy the mining operations, run them out, and thus create the “unoccupied” state that was required to take possession.

About ten Hell Hollow miners had galloped down the mountain shortly thereafter, excitedly giving the news that Ophir had warned them away in the nick of time, although no one had seen Ophir since.

At the first blasts, many Sonorans milled about shouting angry slogans, such as the ever-popular “Mata los chingados Yanquis!” But Tamasin, knowing how easily a few irate words could flare into bloodshed, had tried to calm them, convince them not to ride down to the mine making the fur fly. She attempted to get them to wait for either Sal or Ophir or the Frenchmen to return, and in the meantime she and Knut snuck among them, stealing their aguardientebottles when their backs were turned. Tamasin felt awful, stealing, but drinking would only fire their dramatic outrage, and all would be war. Instead, she sent armed groups of them as pickets onto the Bear Valley Road and up onto lookout peaks using paths only goats could move on, to report back with League movements. She ordered them to shoot only if attacked, and of course all of her orders were commanded under the guise that they came from Knut, as the most senior mine employee at the moment.

Now, cowering on their couches in the parlor, Tamasin felt equally bad that she and Knut were drinking aguardiente. It was the only way she could think to calm her nerves while she shivered impotently.

“The pathways that line the gorge are so narrow, a fall down means death!” declared Knut for the dozenth time.

They both stared sightlessly out the window, where in daylight there would be a view past the stamp mill and also up the mountainside. Their concentration was focused on a sharp bend in the road that led to Hell Hollow Mine. Speckling the lawn immediately in front of their house, dozens of remaining prospectors milled anxiously about their campfires.

“Yes, Knut,” Tamasin said vaguely. “Would you please stop reminding me of that?” Waiting was the worst sort of agony, with a brain growing feverish.

After several more minutes of silence, Knut said dully, “Have you set a date for your wedding to my dear old compañero, Don Salvador?”

At last, Tamasin’s attention was diverted from her worry. “How did you know there was to be a wedding?”

Knut’s eyes were still on the darkened path. He tipped his head. “Doña Carmen. She was very angry Don Salvador had not told her, but you know her. She preferred to sit and stew instead of directly asking Don Salvador about it.”

“How did Doña Carmen know about it?”

He nodded his greasy blond head again. “Your necklace.”

Tamasin fingered the largest opal. Oh, Lordy. How did we not think to approach Doña Carmen in a traditional manner? For Catholics, if the father was dead, should one ask the mother for permission to wed? Then it occurred to Tamasin that Sal had not even brought up the necklace or a marriage since the day he’d given it to her during the rodeo. Suppose Sal had just been pulling the wool over her eyes? He had plenty of reasons to. First, he would obtain a maid, chef, and prostitute free of charge. Second, he had an obvious competition with Ophir and the need to best him in everything. Knowing Ophir also coveted Tamasin—as a maid, chef, and prostitute?—he had gained the upper hand by stamping her as his property by giving her the necklace. Sal could always take the necklace back later. There was nothing preventing that.

She had been pondering on this “love” thing for quite awhile now. What was the difference between the love she felt for her brother, and the love she felt for Sal and Ophir? Tamasin knew women were supposed to “love” their husbands, but she had never even felt a fondness for Niall. Had never been compelled to do anything for him out of the kindness of her heart. She simply performed her tasks for Niall because she knew it was expected of her, and he would beat her if she didn’t perform to his liking.

She’d recently realized that her love for Sal and Ophir actually dated quite far back, to the first day they’d appeared at her camp like beacons from another world, warning Niall not to beat her, promising a cow. Since that day she had thought about them every five minutes, and even as their images faded into the daily maelstrom of pain, wretchedness, chores, and numbing agony, she had remembered them as happy, glittering saviors. When they had finally taken her away and she had grown to know them, become familiar and comfortable with them, the love had taken on many different shades, like a prism. They were so much more now than saviors. Was this the romantic love a woman was supposed to have for her spouse? Tamasin imagined it was.

So, agitated beyond comprehension now, Tamasin began to pace with her aguardiente cup. She had opened her mouth to respond to Knut when the miners on her front lawn all rose as one body and rushed toward the form of a rider pounding down the mountain trail.

Setting her cup down and missing the table completely with it, Tamasin dashed through the front door. Sunrise was coming on, and she knew by the smooth dome of the close-shaved head that it was Ophir, seemingly in good health, handing his reins to someone before stepping toward the house in one fluid movement. In his rush he must not have seen her, for when he turned his body slammed directly into her. Air was expelled from her lungs but he caught her in his long arms, hugging her to his torso while walking to the house in long-legged strides.

“Oh, Ophir!” she whispered into his neck.

In addition, they banged into Knut as he wobbled uncertainly in the front doorway, so the three of them practically crashed into the parlor. Falling onto couches, they babbled at each other.

“Ophir, what were those explosions?”