Chapter 8 - The Copper Mine Stand
The old copper mine at the middle fork of Red Creek was little more than a jagged black gash carved into the side of a sheer cliff face, abandoned years ago when the vein pinched out into worthless slate. A rusted ore cart sat half-sunken in the weeds near the entrance, and the rotting timbers of the loading chute leaned precariously over a fifty-foot drop into the dry wash below.
Cole pulled his horse to a halt in the deep shadow of the overhang, swinging down from the saddle with easy, practiced grace. He checked the load in his Colt, then handed Tomas his spare Winchester rifle before securing the horses behind a screen of thick mountain mahogany.
"Can you handle a long gun, Tomas?" Cole asked, his eyes scanning the winding trail below.
"I spent four years clerking in supply depots during the war, Captain," Tomas muttered, hefting the Winchester with trembling hands but a steady eye. "I know which end the lead comes out of."
"Good. Stay behind the stone pillar by the cart. Don't shoot unless they cross the ridge line into the clearing. We aren't here to start a war today; we're here to force a reckoning."
Within twenty minutes, the sound of horses struggling against the loose shale rose from the trail below. A moment later, four riders burst into the clearing in front of the mine entrance. Leading them was a man wearing a silver star pinned crookedly to a dusty canvas vest—Marshal Vance—though not Marcus Vance himself, but his cousin, Roy Vance, a man known throughout the territory as a badge-toting enforcer with a hair-trigger temper and no regard for due process.
Roy Vance reined his roan horse back hard, spraying gravel across the rocks. He hauled the animal to a stop just thirty feet from where Cole stood leaning casually against the rusted ore cart, his right hand resting near his holster.
"Well, now," Roy drawled, a nasty grin cutting across his sun-baked, bearded face as he rested a hand on his shotgun. "Look what crawled out of the ashes. You made a long ride for a dead man, Cole."
"The only thing dead around here, Roy, is your cousin's legal standing once these papers reach the territorial governor," Cole said calmly, his voice carrying clearly across the clearing.
Roy’s grin vanished, replaced by a dark, ugly scowl. "Hand over the satchel, Cole. And the old man. The warrant says you're being brought in dead or alive for the destruction of private property and theft of livestock records."
"That's funny," Cole replied, his eyes narrowing. "The warrant in your pocket was signed by a judge in Silver City three days after our office burned down. Kind of hard for a judge to issue papers on a crime before it was reported, unless your cousin already knew the building was going up in smoke."
May you like
Roy’s hand twitched toward his holster, his face flushing dark red. "You're talking too much, Captain. And you're holding stolen goods."
"I'm holding the truth, Roy," Cole said, stepping away from the ore cart into the full light of the canyon. "And if you reach for that iron, everyone in this valley is going to find out whose name is at the bottom of the ledger."
