Chapter 38
Conn woke groggily to darkness and pain.
He coughed.
His head hurt, his ears rang, and his memory was wiped out.
He only knew that he was alive and hurting and largely unable to move, trapped beneath something heavy covering him from his feet to his chest.
Patting around, he determined that a heavy wooden beam had fallen onto him. But not just a beam. He lay trapped beneath a huge load of dirt and stone, too.
All at once, everything came rushing back, killing the second or two of blissful amnesia he had experienced upon waking.
Now, he understood the pain and debris and remembered everything that led to it.
An explosion.
He was in the mine, hunting Toole, and there had been a sound back toward the entrance, a sound like running feet, and then that other sound, the soft thump.
Dynamite?
Had Toole been waiting for him? Hiding back there with dynamite?
Sheffield, back out in the main tunnel, had turned to face the noise and had whispered a warning to Conn…
“Sheffield?” Conn called.
There was no response. Everything was darkness and dust and pain.
He started pawing at the rocks and dirt piled on top of him.
He moved slowly at first then built speed, wanting to get out from under this crushing force, wanting to escape this trap, wanting to move and take a full breath, wanting to go back into the main hall and find his friend.
Soon, he was tearing wildly at the debris, pushing it left and right then pushing even more frantically as dislodged stones triggered small avalanches onto his chest and face, threatening to smother him.
He growled, pushing and digging, fighting against what seemed like a steady pouring down of grit and rock, laboring for breath in the dusty air, hoping against hope that his legs still worked. He couldn’t move them, couldn’t feel them.
Thus he struggled for what seemed like hours, shoving and grabbing and pitching away stones and sand and splintered wood, heart pounding, struggling to breathe, knowing the explosion had collapsed the mine and nearly killed him.
Eventually, fresh rocks and dirt stopped sliding down on top of him.
Encouraged, he attacked the rest of the debris with fury, tossing it this way and that with bleeding hands until, having uncovered his upper body, he was finally able to sit up.
He just sat that way for a time, letting the dust settle.
When it did, he concentrated on his breathing. The dusty air made him cough, but eventually, he could breathe fully again. Doing so hurt his ribs, which had clearly been bruised by the collapse.
Once he got control of his breathing, his heart rate slowed, and his head cleared.
He realized that he could feel his legs. They were just numbed by the weight of everything on top of them.
He patted his shirt pocket and found his matches and struck one and was horrified by what he beheld.
A massive pile pinned his lower body to the ground. Beyond that, there was nothing. Just a wall of debris. It packed the passage from floor to ceiling.
“Sheffield?” he called.
His own voice echoed back at him from the impenetrable wall of rubble.
He knew what that meant but would not allow himself to look it in the face.
He needed to move, needed to free his legs.
The match died.
He remembered what it had shown him and set to work, moving dirt and debris. He moved methodically, resisting panic and ignoring pain, and concentrated on his breathing, moving slowly and steadily, and after an unknown period of time, he freed his legs.
Blood flowed back into them, chased by pins and needles and pain.
But he could move. He could move his legs, his back, everything. Somehow, miraculously, he believed he had escaped without any broken bones.
But Sheffield…
He came shakily to his feet, waited until he felt stable again, and struck another match. He turned in the opposite direction, scanning the ground, and found his shotgun and lantern.
As he reached them, the match went out.
He fiddled with the lantern, which was cracked but felt intact, then struck another match and lit the thing.
He dusted off the shotgun and checked it. The weapon looked fine, but before firing it, he would need to pull out both the unfired shells and make sure both barrels were clear.
Unfortunately, most of the cartridges in his bandolier had been destroyed in the cave-in. Rocks had ripped open the paper and spilled the gunpowder.
He had a few left. Maybe several. It was hard to tell in the dusty mine. If he managed to get out of there, he would clean out the shotgun and take stock.
In the meantime, he checked his Remington, which seemed to be fine, too.
Then he turned back to the cave-in, knowing what he had to do.
Judging he had maybe a few hours of fuel left in his lantern, he let it burn, which made it much easier to move debris.
He knew there was a chance he might dislodge the wrong stone and bring the whole hill down on top of himself, but he had to take the risk, had to make sure…
Twenty minutes of hard work later, he uncovered Bill Sheffield’s cold, dead hand still gripping his rifle.
Conn grabbed hold of that hand and held for a long second. “I’m sorry, my friend. I’m so sorry.”
Sheffield was dead.
This whole thing had been a trap.
Toole had been waiting on them. He’d hidden somewhere close by, seen them enter the mine, then thrown dynamite after them.
He’d outfoxed them.
And he’d killed Sheffield.
He would’ve killed Conn, too, if Conn hadn’t come around the corner.
He was hurt, he was bitter at his defeat, and he was gutted by the loss of his friend, but he was still alive.
For now, anyhow.
But there was no way he could possibly dig all the way out to the front again.
He was angry at himself for letting Toole win. For letting him kill Sheffield and put Conn in this situation.
Because Conn was almost certainly dead, too.
So stupid. So very stupid, falling for Toole’s trap.
He didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but certainly, Toole had escaped. He’d probably found Conn and Sheffield’s horses, too, and ridden off with them, not to mention Conn’s rifle and supplies and most of his money.
Even if Conn managed to dig his way out of here, what could he do?
Toole and his friends would be long gone, and he wouldn’t even have a horse to chase them.
Not that escape was likely. This dusty passage was probably his tomb.
All was lost.
And if he did die here, he would fail to keep his promise to Mary, Cole, and his father.
He would not avenge his brother.
And that was a bitter notion, worse even than death, made worse still by Sheffield’s tragic death, which, if Conn died here, would count for nothing.
Meanwhile, Toole would go on his merry way, killing more folks and maybe even using Conn’s rifle to do the killing.
That notion was salt in the wound for Conn.
Well, don’t just stand here feeling sorry for yourself, he thought, suddenly angry at himself in a new way. Do what you have to do. Get yourself out of this.
He picked up the lantern and started in the opposite direction, hurrying along the rough corridor, ignoring the pain and hoping against hope that he could find a way out of this death trap.
“Please, Lord,” he prayed aloud, knowing he was incapable of extricating himself from this situation on his own.
“I never pray. You know that. But You know my heart, Lord. You know what I was fixing to try to do. Please deliver me from this pit. Honor my thirst for a righteous vengeance, Lord. Please let me have my vengeance.”