RenegadeHeart (26 page)

Tyree had recovered from his ordeal in the desert when Montoya
handed him over to Pedro Diaz, the mine boss.

Diaz was a grossly fat, ugly man with a bald pate, wide-set
black eyes, and a mouth full of rotten teeth. He examined Tyree thoroughly.

“Not bad,” Diaz muttered. “Not bad. I will give you two
hundred for him.”

Montoya looked hurt. “Two hundred? Really, Pedro, I think
even a blind man could see he is worth more than that.”

“No.
Look,
he has a bad right hand.”

“Two seventy-five,” Montoya argued. “He is worth at least
that much.”

“Let us say two fifty and part friends,” Diaz countered.

“You drive a hard bargain,
amigo
,” Montoya said with
a wry smile.

The fat man’s paunch shook like jelly as he laughingly
reached into his pocket and withdrew a roll of bills. “You wanted two fifty all
the time,” Diaz remarked as he counted out the correct amount, “and we both
know it. Come, let us drink to a bargain well made.”

It was then that Tyree’s nightmare began. He was issued a
pair of worn white cotton breeches, a threadbare cotton shirt, and a pair of
thick leather sandals. When he was dressed, a beetle-browed guard shoved a
rifle barrel in his spine and marched him down a dirt path that led to a row of
square cages constructed of tin and thick wire mesh.

It took three burly men to wrestle Tyree into the cage; he
shuddered as the door was locked behind him.

Like an animal, he paced the small cage. Three short strides
took him from one end of the cage to the other. There was nothing to block his
way, no bed, no chair, not even a chamber pot. Back and forth, back and forth, he
paced, the tension growing in him all the while. The sun beat down on the tin
roof and sweat poured down Tyree’s face and neck and back. And still he prowled
restlessly to and fro, driven by his anger, and by a virulent hatred for
Annabelle Walsh that grew and thrived like a malignant tumor feeding upon
itself.

It was just after sunset when the other prisoners emerged
from the dark bowels of the mine. They walked with heavy steps and downcast
eyes, faces devoid of all expression. The long line of men drew to a halt, and
each man stepped into one of the cages. The doors closed. The locks were
secured. The work day was over.

Tyree did not sleep that night. The cage was too small to
allow for much movement and its sides seemed to close in on him, growing even
smaller and more confining.

Worse things were waiting for him the next day. His hands
and feet were fitted with shackles, and he was herded into one of the shafts
along with a dozen other slaves. The shaft was long and narrow, dimly lit by
lanterns strung from the sagging beams that shored up the tunnel. One of the
guards ordered him toward a narrow vein of silver and told him to dig until the
vein ran out. It was back-breaking work. The air was stale. His hands
blistered. His hatred for Annabelle grew with each stroke of the axe.

In a week, his life had settled into a dreary routine far
worse than anything he had ever imagined. He rose with the dawn. Ate a bowl of
cornmeal mush. Relieved himself. And then it was time to go into the mine. Four
hours later, a skinny Indian boy brought him a hunk of black bread and a cup of
lukewarm water. At dusk, he was back in his cage. An hour later, a fat Mexican
woman brought him his dinner. It was the highlight of his day, the only meal
fit to eat. At dawn, the whole routine began again.

Tyree had thought life behind the dreary walls of Yuma was
surely the worst thing that a man could endure. But he had been wrong. His cell
in prison had been a mansion compared to the tiny mesh cage. The dusty prison
yard looked like the Garden of Eden when compared to the mine shaft. And the
guards at Yuma, hell, they had been saints compared to the guards in the mine.

Tyree had endured two weeks of hell when the guard known as
Lobo stopped at his cage.

“
Gringo
,” the guard called softly. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Luis tells me you are a famous gunfighter.
Es verdad
?”

“Yeah,
es verdad
.”

Lobo thumped his chest proudly. “I, too, have the desire to
be a gunfighter.”

“Congratulations,” Tyree muttered sarcastically.

“Tomorrow, you will teach me.”

“Get lost, Lobo.”

“You will teach me,
gringo
pig,” Lobo said
confidently. “Because it is the only way to avoid the mine. Tomorrow, you will
work in the barn. I will meet you there.”

“Whatever you say,” Tyree remarked indifferently. But he
felt a quick flutter of hope. Anything would be better than the mine.

Lobo was as good as his word, and the next morning Tyree
found himself shoveling horseshit. It was hot, smelly work, but it was better
than working in the dark bowels of the earth. He filled his nostrils with the
scent of hay and leather and horseflesh. The barn reminded him of the Lazy H,
and he thought briefly of Rachel.

He was wondering what she was doing, and what she thought of
his disappearance from jail, when Lobo called him outside.

“Now,
gringo
,” the guard ordered cockily. “Teach me.”

“Can you use that hogleg?” Tyree asked, gesturing at the
Colt’s Dragoon holstered on the guard’s right hip.

For his answer, Lobo drew and fired at a bottle he had
earlier placed on a fence post.

Tyree shook his head in disgust. “Is that the best you can
do?”

“I hit it, did I not?” Lobo boasted, thumping his chest.

“You hit it all right, but I could have put six slugs in
your gut while you drew your piece. Your draw has to be all one motion. You
can’t draw your weapon, cock it, raise it to fire, aim, and pull the trigger.
It should all be one continuous move.”

Lobo looked skeptical. “Show me,” he demanded, handing Tyree
an unloaded pistol and a holster.

Tyree strapped the holster in place, then held up his bound
wrists. “You’ll have to remove these chains.”

Lobo hesitated for a moment, then removed the shackles from
Tyree’s wrists. “Show me,” the guard said. “And if you are thinking of trying
anything foolish, remember, I did hit the bottle. I will not miss anything so
big as you.”

Tyree grinned as he slid the gun into the holster. “Like
this,” Tyree said. “You’ve got to thumb back the hammer as the gun comes out of
your holster. Know where you want your shot to go before you draw your gun and
then put it there.”

Lobo watched carefully as Tyree drew his gun, thumbing back
the hammer as the old .44 cleared leather, coming up smooth and fast, the
barrel aimed at a bird perched on a bush some ten yards away. There was a soft
click as Tyree squeezed the trigger.

With a nod, Lobo bolstered his gun, drew and fired a second
time. This time his speed was better, but he missed his target.

An hour went by before Lobo called it quits. “Tomorrow,
gringo
,”
he called over his shoulder. “Same time.”

“You’re the boss,” Tyree muttered laconically, and returned
to the stable.

It was rather pleasant there, with just the horses for
company. Lobo came in to check on him once in a while; other than that, he was
left pretty much on his own. He cleaned the stalls, curried the horses, and
thought about escape.

A week slid by. For Tyree, it was seven days of relatively
easy work. Lobo grew more and more cocky as his draw improved. Tyree could tell
the man spent long hours practicing, for his speed and accuracy seemed to
increase daily.

“I heard you were the best,” Lobo remarked one afternoon.
“Even here, we have heard of your reputation.”

“You heard right,” Tyree admitted. “Give me a loaded gun,
and I’ll show you.”

“You have given me an idea!” Lobo exclaimed, hitting his
forehead with his flat palm. “El Patron has a bodyguard who is rumored to be
the fastest gun in all of Mexico. I think it would amuse El Patron to see you
and Paulo face each other.”

“I think you’re out of your mind.”

“No, no. It is a great idea. I will give you a week to
practice.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I think maybe you will meet with a little accident in the
mine. Maybe tomorrow. You
comprende
?”

“Yeah,” Tyree drawled. “I
comprende
.”

The shootout between Paulo and Logan Tyree was a big
success. El Patron and his guards turned out in force to cheer the Mexican
gunman. Bets were made, tequila was passed around, and there was much laughing
and joking as the two gunmen stood face to face across six feet of sun-bleached
ground.

Paulo was a slight young man with a dark olive complexion,
straight black hair, and the cold, unblinking eyes of a born killer. He was
dressed in tight black pants and a white linen shirt. His gunbelt was
hand-tooled leather, all done in fancy scrollwork. His gun was a new,
ivory-handled Colt .45.

Tyree looked ridiculous in contrast to the Mexican. His
pants and shirt were coarse and ill-fitting. His gunbelt was scarred and worn,
his gun an ill-cared for Smith & Wesson.

Both guns were empty because this was a contest for speed
only.

Still, there was a decided air of tension between the two
gunmen. No blood would be shed, no life hung in the balance, but a man’s pride
was just as dear as life itself.

Tyree stood easy beneath the blazing sun, his hands loose at
his sides, a faint grin on his lips as he contemplated drawing against the
younger man. The gun on his left hip was a welcome, familiar weight. His hands,
temporarily freed of their restricting shackles, felt as light as air.

When all was ready, El Patron and his men fell silent. Lobo
stepped forward to give the signal. Tyree’s muscles tensed, though there was no
outward change in his expression or his stance.

The signal was given, and Paulo made his move. He was like a
snake, smooth and swift, all coiled energy and economy of movement. But Tyree
was faster, smoother, more sure of himself. His gun cleared leather and he
dry-fired the weapon as Paulo’s gun cleared leather.

There was an audible sigh of defeat from El Patron and his
cronies; a few quiet cheers from the handful of guards who had backed the
gringo
gunfighter.

Minutes after the match was over, Tyree’s shackles were back
in place and he was in his cage again. His vacation was over. The following
morning he was back in the mine, back into the bowels of the earth to toil from
dawn to dark. He saw men tortured to death, saw them starved and whipped and
abused in ways that made the Mescalero look like amateurs.

Sometimes, at night, he could hear the anguished screams of
the poor unfortunate wretches who had foolishly angered one of the guards, or
broken a rule. But Tyree felt nothing for the men who labored beside him in the
mine. They shared his pain. They shared his misery. They shared his dreams of
freedom, but he was a man alone. He did not join in on those rare occasions
when the prisoners were permitted to talk to each other, nor did he make any
effort to get acquainted with the man in the cage next to his. He had always
been a loner, and he felt no need to lament his fate with the other prisoners.

But one thing they all shared in common was a dream of
freedom. Tyree spent many hours in the dark of night dreaming of the time when
he would be free again, when his life would be his own. It was a hope that kept
him going, that made his life worth living.

Sometimes, at night, when the wind was right, the haunting strains
of a Spanish guitar drifted down to the cages, reminding Tyree of the night he
had danced with Rachel in the yard of the Lazy H. The music, always
bittersweet, filled Tyree with a deep sadness as he listened to the other
prisoners reminisce about their wives and sweethearts and children.

Lying on his back in the cramped cage, Tyree stared up at
the indigo sky and thought about Rachel. If his crude calendar was correct, it
was May the 24th. Tomorrow would have been his wedding day. Closing his eyes, he
envisioned Rachel clad in a gown of spotless white. Likely, she’d marry Wesley
now, he mused bitterly, but maybe it was for the best. The marshal would make a
fine husband, a good father… He mouthed an obscenity as he pictured Rachel
married to another man, and he put the thought out of his mind and instead
imagined Rachel moving about the sunlit kitchen back at the Lazy H, her golden
hair cascading down her back, a song on her lips. He remembered the taste and
the touch and the womanly scent of her, and the memory aroused such a fierce
longing in his heart he thought he would go mad.

But yearning for Rachel was not the worst torture because,
even worse than his yearning for a woman was the gradual realization that only
death would free him from the misery of the mine.

It was a fact he had always known, deep down. And yet, for
the first few months, there lingered a faint unacknowledged hope that he would
miraculously win his freedom, that he would once again be the master of his own
fate, free to follow the sun, to chase the wind across the prairie, to love a
woman with tawny hair and sky-blue eyes.

It was a hope that died hard, but in time it was crushed
beneath a burden of misery and despair that grew too heavy to bear as, seven
days a week, he toiled in the mine, never seeing the sun. His hair grew long
and matted, his body was layered with filth. He grew thin, thinner. His hands
blistered, bled, scabbed over, and blistered again, until they became hard and
calloused. His ruined right hand did not keep him from working in the mine or
affect his work in any way. Indeed, the constant hard work and the long hours
spent swinging a pick and shovel restored much of the strength to his right
hand. With grim-faced amusement, he thought that, if he ever managed to escape
from the mine, he would have to thank Annabelle for the increased dexterity of
his broken hand. Thank her, and then kill her.