“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dillinger said calmly.
Through the stillness they could hear the rattle of the steam engine that operated the conveyor belt up at the mine and the thin, high voices of the Indians calling to each other. The mestizo with the whip fidgeted nervously, avoiding Dillinger’s eye. Rojas turned without a word, scrambled into the saddle, and lashed his horse into a gallop.
Dillinger turned to Father Tomas and Rose. “I think it’s time I took a closer look at this mine.”
Rose climbed into the saddle of the horse. “I’m returning to Hermosa now. Will you be coming in this evening?”
“You sure you want to keep company with a desperate character like me?”
“Perhaps I can make you see the error of your ways.”
“I doubt it, but I tell you what you can do.”
“What’s that?”
“You can buy the champagne this time.”
She smiled and he slapped the horse on the rump and it galloped away.
He drove out of the village, following the track up to a small plateau that was like a shelf in the face of the mountain. Water, splashing in a dozen threads from the snow-capped peak, had been channeled to run through a stoutly constructed shed, open at both ends.
It was a scene of great activity. An old steam engine puffed smoke near the mouth of the mine, drawing in a steel cable that hauled ore-laden trucks along a narrow track.
Dillinger got out of the Chevrolet and headed toward the ore shed. Fallon emerged to beckon him in. “Come see this,” the old man said.
Inside the ore shed the only piece of machinery was a steam-operated crusher. Two Indians fed its flames with wood. The heat was unbearable. The water ran into a great tank lined against leakage with clay, and there were several cradles and two puddling troughs. The Indians who worked at them were stripped to the waist, their bodies shining with sweat.
“Why doesn’t he bring in more machinery? If the mine’s producing anything like a return, it would pay him.”
“I told you they closed it in 1893 after the rock came down on more than fifty Indians. Since I’ve been here we’ve had so many cave-ins I’ve lost count. Men get killed all the time.”
“Then the timbering must be at fault. Don’t tell me Rivera’s trying to save money there, too?”
Fallon shook his head. “The mountain’s just waiting to come down on all of us. Every time you cough in the tunnel, a rock comes down.
That’s why we daren’t use any more machinery. The vibration might be all that’s needed.”
They paused beside three wooden cabins, and Fallon opened the door of the first one. “This is where we live.”
It was plainly furnished with table and chairs, two bunks, and an iron stove in one corner.
“Who uses the other two cabins?” Dillinger asked.
“One of them is the powder store. Rojas lives in the end one.”
“Where is he now?”
“Went into the mine about five minutes ago, looking like murder. I pity any poor devil in there who gets in his way.”
They walked beside the rails past the steam engine and entered the mouth of the tunnel. Dillinger had expected it to be cooler in the tunnel. Instead, the heat was worse.
“What’s wrong with the ventilation in here?”
“The air shaft was blocked by a rockfall a couple of months ago,” Fallon replied. “Rivera gave orders to leave it alone and concentrate on bringing the ore out.”
“Hell, that sounds dangerous to me. Didn’t you tell him that?”
Fallon shrugged. “He said we didn’t have the time to waste.”
They turned a comer and the sunlight died, leaving them in a place of shadows illuminated by lanterns and guttering candles. When they reached a fork, Fallon hesitated. “There are two faces, north and south. Rojas could be at either.”
“They stood to one side as a truck pushed by half a dozen weary, dust-coated Indians moved past them. Fallon lifted a lantern from a hook in the wall and led the way into the darkness.
Gradually, Dillinger was conscious of faint sounds, and a light appeared. The tunnel narrowed until they had to stoop, and then it opened into a low-roofed cavern, badly illuminated by several candles.