Weariness from swinging the pick most of the day settled in with her loneliness and a kind of shock from the bear attack to create a depression she could no longer fight. Sometimes it seemed everything was against her. She had tried so hard back in Guthrie, and had lost. Now it seemed her gold mine was another fruitless venture. She didn’t have the money to mine it correctly, or the strength to do it properly on her own. She had never been more lonely, and the grizzly had shown her how easily she could get hurt or die up here without anyone ever knowing.
Her tears came in a torrent, a mixture of terror and loneliness. It hit her harder than ever that she missed Ethan much more than she ever thought she could after such a long time. She had thought she had stopped loving him, but at moments like this, all she could think about was how wonderful it would be if he were here helping her, protecting her. She hated admitting she needed those things, but right now it was the truth and there was no getting around it.
“Oh, Ethan,” she wept into her pillow. “Ethan.”
The processing mill was the noisiest place Ethan had ever been. At the upper level were giant crushers that broke the ore into small pieces, and from there it was sent to a second level and put in water. Half-ton stamps smashed the ore even more, into a gravelly liquid that was passed through screens, then, according to Wayne Trapp, dropped into what was called vanners. The vanners were wide belts that mechanically shook the ore, winnowing out lead and part of the silver. What was left contained all the gold and more silver. It went into amalgamating pans and was cooked for eight hours with mercury and chemicals, then put into settling tanks. Huge boilers produced the steam to run the equipment, and the noise inside was a lot for a man to take eight to twelve hours a day.
Ethan was beginning to sympathize with the miners as far as wages were concerned. Any man who did what they had to do, risking their lives deep in the bowels of the earth day after day, or working in noisy mills like this one, deserved good pay. Men like Roy Holliday were making a fortune off the back-breaking work of men for whom he cared nothing about.
He’d been down in the Golden Holliday Number One long enough to know he could never bear going down there every day. It was hot and smelly and terribly dangerous, and in most of the shafts he had not even been able to stand up straight. It was not difficult to understand how easily men could get disgruntled doing that kind of work, and he had been glad to get out of there. He was accustomed to fresh air and the open skies, not to living like a mole.
He exited the mill, where everything seemed to be in order as far as the workers were concerned. His ears rang from the noise, and he longed to ride farther into the mountains just for the quiet. He mounted Blackfoot and headed up the mountain to the trestle that supported the tracks along which cars full of ore were pushed into the mill by men from the mine. The mill itself sat into the side of a mountain, which had been hacked into tiers to accommodate the various levels of the mill. The Indian in him felt sick at the way these mountains were being cut up. He could almost feel the pain of Mother Earth, screaming to be left alone.
This job went against his grain more than he had thought it would, but for now he figured he’d stay. He had noplace else to go, and he was earning good money. He had decided that after a year or so he would take that money and his reward money and maybe go to Wyoming, or even eastern Colorado, and build himself a ranch. That was the kind of thing he’d really like, something of his own where he could work out in the open air, work with horses, live on wide-open land. He didn’t really believe a man could “own” land, but he had to accept the fact that that was how it was done now, thanks to white settlement out here. He couldn’t live like an Indian anymore, and if he wanted a ranch, he’d have to buy the land.
He had always had his doubts that the land agent in Guthrie was telling the truth when he said Ethan couldn’t be the owner of Ally’s lots because he was a registered Cheyenne. If not for the hurt of realizing why Ally had married him, he might have stayed and fought the decision, considering the fact that he was half white. But knowing Ally had used him had taken the fight out of him. He saw no reason now why he couldn’t own land in Wyoming if he had the cash money to pay for it.
He headed toward the mine entrance, nodding to a supervisor standing near the elevator shafts that hauled men and ore in and out of the mines far below. In the distance the noise of the stamping mill was joined by the roar of motors in the shaft house, where steel cables on huge cylinders were used to raise and lower the elevators. The entire mining operation had been fascinating to learn about, but Ethan already knew he didn’t want to be around it for too long at a time. There was great tension among the miners over the dangers of their job, their wages, and against the Chinese.
In the ten days he had been on the job, Ethan had seen what a firm hold Roy Holliday had on his workers. If a man didn’t give his all, he was promptly fired and replaced. Ethan suspected it was Holliday’s way of keeping the help rotated so they didn’t have much of a chance to get to know each other too well, which could lead to forming labor groups. Even so, Ethan did not doubt that some of them had found ways to meet after hours. Their work called for aching labor in eight- to ten-hour shifts down in hot tunnels that dripped constantly with water. There was always danger of cave-ins, deadly fumes, and accidents from explosives, and none of the men felt they were being paid enough for the risks they took to make men like Roy Holliday richer. Ethan tended to agree with them, but he had a job to do, and he would do it.
There came a whirring sound then, and Ethan knew that the cable operator in the shaft house was hauling up a load of men. More were waiting nearby to ride back down on a new shift. The supervisor at the elevator waited and watched. The two-thousand-foot journey from the bowels of the mine to the surface took several minutes.
“Another stinkin’ day of work and another million for Roy Holliday,” one of the waiting workers grumbled. “Hey, Indian, how much does Mr. Gold Britches pay you? We don’t need no Indian babysittin’ us, you know.”
Ethan just glanced at the man. It was a worker named Trevor Gale. Wayne Trapp had told Ethan that Gale was one of their biggest troublemakers, not one just to complain about wages, but about everything else. Holliday was on the verge of firing the man, and if he were not better than the other regular miners, he would have by now, but Trevor was one of the best at the use of explosives. Not every man could place a charge of dynamite perfectly the way Trevor could. Trouble was, he was a big Irish loudmouth who considered everyone whose skin was not lily-white beneath him. Two of his brothers also worked for the Golden Holliday mines, and both were nearly as troublesome as Trevor. Ethan did not answer the Irishman, figuring trouble could be better avoided if he ignored the man.
“Look at the Indian,” Trevor told the others. “New man. I wonder why Holliday hired him. He don’t seem to have much in the way of guts, and who the hell is going to take orders from a red man? That’s almost as bad as taking orders from a goddamn Chinaman.”
Several of the other men laughed, and the supervisor standing near the shaft glanced their way. “Shut your mouth, Trevor, or you can find work at some other mine.”
Ethan rode Blackfoot near the shaft, then dismounted and tied the animal. He noticed most of the other men backed off a little, even though Trevor kept making crude remarks about Indians and Chinamen, moving himself closer to two Chinese men standing in line. “Looks like he’s been drinking,” Ethan told the shaft supervisor. “I don’t think he should be down there working with dynamite today.”
The supervisor, Ed Humble, scowled. “The bastard needs to be fired. He knows he’s valuable. That’s why he gets away with so much.”
Ethan moved closer to the man, keeping his voice low. “If he ends up blowing up half the mine and costing Holliday men’s lives and lost time in having to re-dig, he won’t seem so valuable then. I say we don’t let him go down today.”
Humble sighed. He didn’t like taking orders from a new man, let alone an Indian, but in
this situation he figured Ethan was probably right. “You figure to be the one to pull him out of line?”
Ethan smiled sarcastically. “Unless you want to do it.”
“No, thanks. He’s twice as big as I am.”
“Is there somebody else who can handle the dynamite?”
“Stu Cowans can. He’s second man with explosives.”
Ethan nodded, then took off his leather hat and hung it over his saddlehorn. He turned and walked toward the waiting men. He wore his six-gun on his hip, and a big hunting knife on a belt at his waist. He stood as tall as Trevor Gale, both men built roughly the same. “Let’s go, Trevor. You’re not going down today.”
Trevor had been insulting the Chinese, making them cower. He turned at Ethan’s words, his blue eyes changing from contempt to deep anger. His face reddened, making his black hair seem even blacker. “What’s that, Indian?”
“You heard me. You’ve been drinking. You’re not going down today.”
The Chinese men stared in fright, and most of the others backed away even more. Normally they would stand up for another miner, but today they had to agree that Trevor Gale had no business down in the mine handling dynamite.
Trevor removed his hardhat and set down his bucket of tools. “I’ll go wherever I damn well please, Indian! You haven’t been around here long enough to be giving orders to me or anybody else! I don’t know why in hell Holliday hired a damn Indian to do his dirty work, but I’m not taking orders from any Breed!”
Ethan stepped forward. “You’ll take orders from this one! Pick up your things and get on back home.”
Trevor backed up a little, but he just grinned. “I’m not going anyplace, Indian.” Without warning, he reached over and grabbed one of the Chinese men by his long pigtail, yanking the man in front of him and pulling out a knife of his own. “Either I go down, or I cut off the Chinaman’s tail. You know how important a Chinaman’s pigtail is to him, Indian? Probably about as important as your own long hair. Pagan, that’s what it is! But you think it has something to do with your manhood.”
He held the knife against the Chinaman’s tail, and the little Chinese covered his face. “No! No!” he protested. “You no cut off hair! I die of shame!”
Trevor glared at Ethan. “If I cut this off, there will be trouble from the rest of the Chinese, and then all the miners will be going at it, and it will be all your fault, Indian. You’re a new man. You want that on your shoulders?”
“Let him go,” Ethan demanded. He could feel the Chinaman’s pain, knew that the long hair was important to him. He felt sorry for the Chinese and the way they were treated by the others. He well knew the pain of being different.
Two cages full of miners changing shifts finally reached the top of the shaft. Ed Humble signalled the cable operator in the shaft house to hold up, and he left the gates that released the men locked. “Just stay there a minute,” he told them, deciding it would be dangerous to release even more miners.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” one of them demanded. “Let us out of here.”
“I’m walking this Chinaman to the cages and we’re getting on, Indian,” Trevor warned Ethan. He started forcing the trembling, weeping Chinaman toward the cages. Ethan knew he had to do something quickly, before the miners being held up in the cages broke loose and made even more trouble. All it took was for a couple more men to join Trevor’s side, and a riot would take place.
“What’s wrong, Trevor? You afraid of me?” Ethan goaded. “Is that why you’re hiding behind the Chinaman? You can cut his tail off if you want, but it won’t stop me from keeping you from going down today!”
Trevor hesitated, his face reddening more at being called afraid. The men in the cages were growing louder and more restless, and one of those in line waiting to go down called out to Trevor. “Let the Chinaman go, Trev. The Indian’s right. You’ve been drinkin’. It’s best you don’t go down today.”
Trevor literally flung the poor Chinaman out of the way, yanking his pigtail to the left and tossing his body with it. He moved closer to Ethan then, waving his pocket knife. “No Breed accuses me of being a coward!” he sneered. “And no Breed gives me orders! If I don’t work today, I don’t get paid! You’re not keeping me from that, Indian!”
“You should have thought of that before you had something to drink. You know the rules, Gale.”
“I’m going down, and you can’t stop me!” Gale started to back himself into line. Ethan headed for him, and Gale jabbed at Ethan with the knife. Ethan grabbed his wrist and pushed the knife hand away, while with his right arm he took hold of the Irishman around the neck and yanked him around and to the ground.
The crowd of miners looking on broke into a roar of hooting and howling, all of them enjoying the fight. Gale kept trying to stab at Ethan, who grasped his wrist with both hands, banging it against the ground. Trevor used his free hand to punch at Ethan’s face, then managed to rear up and haul Ethan over onto his back. He kept his knee in Ethan’s stomach, and all the while Ethan kept hold of the man’s right wrist, managing to grab hold of the knife hand itself and bend it backward. The tip of the knife cut into Ethan’s left forearm, but he held on until Trevor cried out with pain and dropped the knife.
Then Ethan slammed a big fist into the Irishman’s face, sending him sprawling. Ethan got to his knees, grabbed the man by the shirt front, and yanked him up with him as he got to his feet. He landed a fist into Trevor’s middle, then another blow to his face. The man went sprawling and seemed to be unconscious. Ethan turned to pick up the pocket knife, but before he could stand up straight again, Trevor landed into him, and both men rolled in the gravel, punching and wrestling. Trevor tried to get Ethan’s gun from its holster, but in a split second Ethan had the man on his back and had his own knife out, its seven-inch blade posing a much greater threat than Trevor’s pocket knife had. Ethan pressed the blade against Trevor’s face, the tip of it just under his eye.
“Don’t you know better than to get into a knife fight with an Indian?” he sneered. “You get up and go home, Gale. Stop this right now, or I’ll pop your eyeball right out of your head!”
The crowd around them quieted. Trevor’s eyes were wide, and he looked down toward the knife blade, which made his eyes cross when he did so. “You Indian bastard! If I get up and leave, that doesn’t mean it’s over between us!”
“Fine! But it’s over for today! You’re not going down there and risking the lives of all the other men just because you’re drunk!”
Trevor breathed deeply, his face filthy and covered with sweat. “You bastard!”
“I’ve been called every name in the book, Gale. I’m used to it.” Ethan got up, jerking Trevor up with him, keeping the knife pointed toward the man’s throat. “Get going!”
Trevor stood there panting, blood trickling down his cheek from where Ethan had nicked his skin. His embarrassment was evident. Trevor Gale took pride in being one of the few men who never lost a game of wrist-wrestling or a fistfight. He backed away, pointing a finger at Ethan. “Me and my brothers, we’ll get you for this!”
Ethan shoved his knife back into its sheath. “I’m shaking in my boots,” he answered.
Trevor looked around at the others, some of whom were laughing at him now. Even the little Chinaman was laughing. The Irishman turned and walked away, and Ethan worried about what all this could lead to. Trevor had been humiliated today, and even though these men had laughed at him and enjoyed the fight, Trevor Gale was also looked up to by many of them as a leader. If he decided to stir up more trouble over this, he might find men to back him, especially among those who had not seen the fight and did not know the real reason for it. He wasn’t sure what Roy Holliday would think of what had just taken place, but he felt he’d done the right thing.
He turned and picked up Trevor’s knife, noticing his arm was bleeding. He walked over to his horse to get some gauze out of his gear, and he heard a mixture of compliments and insults from the miners.
&n
bsp; “No more trouble now,” Ed Humble told those in the cages. He released them, and they walked past Ethan rather sullenly, none of them quite sure of the cause of the fight. The new shift began boarding the elevator cages, one of the men telling Ethan he’d done the right thing.
“Piss on the Indian,” one of the others grumbled. “He’s one of Holliday’s puppets. Trevor wasn’t all that drunk. The Indian probably had orders to stir up trouble and make Trevor look bad so Holliday would have an excuse to fire him. Everybody knows he’s the best, drunk or sober.”
“Just get on board and get to work,” Humble told them. Once the elevator was fully loaded, he signalled the cable operator, and the grumbling, arguing men disappeared into the mountain’s depths. “You did all right, Ethan,” Ed Humble told him. “It was the right thing. I’m just glad it was you and not me. I don’t think I could have handled him. I watched him beat the hell out of Wayne Trapp once in a bar fight, and you know how big Wayne is.”
Ethan finished wrapping the cut, saying nothing. Roy Holliday was due up here tomorrow—something about going higher up in the mountains to talk to some of the individual prospectors. Ethan figured the man was trying to buy up more claims. Whatever Roy’s reason for coming, he’d explain to him what had happened here today. He’d either be pleased or fire him, or maybe just fire Trevor Gale. Right now he didn’t care. One thing was damn sure—he’d earned his five dollars today and then some. He brushed dirt from his clothes and hair, hoping there wouldn’t be bigger trouble over this. He closed Trevor’s knife and shoved it into his pants pocket. “I’ll give him back his knife tomorrow, if he’s still employed and sober,” he told Humble.
“That arm all right?”
“It will be.” Ethan remounted Blackfoot. “I’ll be back when the shift is ready to come back up.” He rode off, heading his horse up a trail past the processing mill, up and beyond all the noise, until he reached a quieter place where he could look down at the mine shafts and the mill, Cripple Creek nestled in the mountain another half-mile below.
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