extensive, productive shaft mines had been worked for nearly forty years before Hans Berg had arrived to add his shoulder to the load—here, the Red Earth Mine was only two years old, still a fresh burrow inside the heart of Flannery Peak. The mountain had not yet had time to fully understand that it had been invaded, that men had appeared in this remote part of the world bent on plundering its core, yet Hans could tell it was unhappy nonetheless, like a lion with a thorn in its paw.
So, when the newly blasted chamber’s ceiling split apart ten feet ahead of him, Hans Berg fully expected the entire mountain to collapse upon his trespasser’s head and crush him where he stood, exacting a swift and furious revenge. Instead, it merely dumped a fresh pile of rock along the tracks, scaring the water out of him. “Jaspers,” Hans whispered, lifting his candle to better view the pile of rock and scree. A cloud rose above the fallen rock, thick with dirt, and the familiar smell of smoke filled the air.
Hans blinked from the dust and examined the hole in the tunnel’s roof. The light of his candle only reached so far—he could make out nothing except a patch of black overhead, though he might have felt a faint gust of air, coming from somewhere. He turned his attention back to the pile of newly fallen rock, which looked about the same as all the other turquoise-spotted rubble they’d extracted from the room so far.
Except….
Something was buried under this rubble.
Something big.
“Sweet Mary,” Hans whispered, setting down his candle to free his hands. He dug off the loose rock and flung the larger stones behind him. The rocks fell away and gave up the shape below—it was a man with skin so badly charred it encased him like a mummy’s wrap, as if he’d been dipped in a volcano and left out to cool. But it was a man, all right—some poor son-of-a-bitch who might have been buried inside the mountain for the past thousand years.
A burnt man, who still smelled like smoke and had curled, claw-like fingers. Hans Berg wiped his brow, his eyes wide from the sight before him. The smell of roasted flesh filled the chamber, thickening. Hans laughed aloud, imagining the reception he’d get back in town—the many drinks the other men would buy him, the fawning attention of the Runoff’s whores—and leaned over to get a closer look at his prize.
The burnt man’s eyelids parted, showing eyes with no light to them. Then, quick as that, the burnt man was sitting up and reaching out with his spindly arms, his clawed fingers squeezing Hans’ windpipe with a grip so crushing and fierce it felt like an ache. The miner’s vision filled with floating spots as he thrashed about, trying to free himself.
The spots spread into dark and widening pools, then into darkness all around.
Hans barely had time to wonder about any of it.
part two
Death Above, Death Below
7
When Elwood Hayes envisioned robbing the Dennison Mining Company, he’d figured something might go wrong, some unexpected devilry that might cost them a bullet or two. Hayes had been on the wrong side of law for three years, ever since he’d struck a man too square in an alley fight and sent the dumb bastard to an early grave. He’d learned to expect nasty surprises when you tried to part a man from his money—some chicken-headed local who appeared out of nowhere to gape and blink, a farmer’s kid who favored himself a hero and yearned to see his picture in the paper. Any time you tried to conduct yourself in some profitable yet illegal business, trouble was bound to show its ugly, bucktoothed head.
But Lord, this was a new one, even to him.
“Hell, Johnny.”
“You saw him, Mr. Hayes. You saw him provocate me.”
“He spilt some beer.”
“Right on my knee, he spilt it. Right after that smart mouth talk about us being rock moles.”
The whores on the saloon’s front porch had stuck their heads
So, when the newly blasted chamber’s ceiling split apart ten feet ahead of him, Hans Berg fully expected the entire mountain to collapse upon his trespasser’s head and crush him where he stood, exacting a swift and furious revenge. Instead, it merely dumped a fresh pile of rock along the tracks, scaring the water out of him. “Jaspers,” Hans whispered, lifting his candle to better view the pile of rock and scree. A cloud rose above the fallen rock, thick with dirt, and the familiar smell of smoke filled the air.
Hans blinked from the dust and examined the hole in the tunnel’s roof. The light of his candle only reached so far—he could make out nothing except a patch of black overhead, though he might have felt a faint gust of air, coming from somewhere. He turned his attention back to the pile of newly fallen rock, which looked about the same as all the other turquoise-spotted rubble they’d extracted from the room so far.
Except….
Something was buried under this rubble.
Something big.
“Sweet Mary,” Hans whispered, setting down his candle to free his hands. He dug off the loose rock and flung the larger stones behind him. The rocks fell away and gave up the shape below—it was a man with skin so badly charred it encased him like a mummy’s wrap, as if he’d been dipped in a volcano and left out to cool. But it was a man, all right—some poor son-of-a-bitch who might have been buried inside the mountain for the past thousand years.
A burnt man, who still smelled like smoke and had curled, claw-like fingers. Hans Berg wiped his brow, his eyes wide from the sight before him. The smell of roasted flesh filled the chamber, thickening. Hans laughed aloud, imagining the reception he’d get back in town—the many drinks the other men would buy him, the fawning attention of the Runoff’s whores—and leaned over to get a closer look at his prize.
The burnt man’s eyelids parted, showing eyes with no light to them. Then, quick as that, the burnt man was sitting up and reaching out with his spindly arms, his clawed fingers squeezing Hans’ windpipe with a grip so crushing and fierce it felt like an ache. The miner’s vision filled with floating spots as he thrashed about, trying to free himself.
The spots spread into dark and widening pools, then into darkness all around.
Hans barely had time to wonder about any of it.
part two
Death Above, Death Below
7
When Elwood Hayes envisioned robbing the Dennison Mining Company, he’d figured something might go wrong, some unexpected devilry that might cost them a bullet or two. Hayes had been on the wrong side of law for three years, ever since he’d struck a man too square in an alley fight and sent the dumb bastard to an early grave. He’d learned to expect nasty surprises when you tried to part a man from his money—some chicken-headed local who appeared out of nowhere to gape and blink, a farmer’s kid who favored himself a hero and yearned to see his picture in the paper. Any time you tried to conduct yourself in some profitable yet illegal business, trouble was bound to show its ugly, bucktoothed head.
But Lord, this was a new one, even to him.
“Hell, Johnny.”
“You saw him, Mr. Hayes. You saw him provocate me.”
“He spilt some beer.”
“Right on my knee, he spilt it. Right after that smart mouth talk about us being rock moles.”
The whores on the saloon’s front porch had stuck their heads
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