“Ready, Dog?” he said after his would-be killers disappeared into the mine.
The idiot nodded.
Seeing the man’s stupid face, Henry was tempted to run down there and do the job himself, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Because dynamite didn’t give second chances.
“Run down there and toss it in nice and deep,” Henry said.
Duncan and Turpin just sat there with their guns drawn, looking almost as stupid as Dog.
When Henry’s plan succeeded, and Sullivan and Sheffield were dead, it would buy him some time to figure out what to do with his so-called gang. This would remind them that he was the brains of the outfit, the leader. He would have their respect again. At least for a while, long enough to figure out what to do with them.
He struck the match and lit the fuse then handed it to Dog.
Dog just stood there, gripping the dynamite and gaping at the sparking fuses, mesmerized.
Henry kicked him in the butt and shook him out of it. “Go, dummy!”
Dog seemed to realize what was going on. He gave a little jump then ran out from behind the pile, holding the dynamite out in front of him with straight arms, like he was afraid of the sparks.
He ran awkwardly, hitching one leg a little and giving a little hop every time he pushed off the other foot. He looked ridiculous, especially with the dynamite stuck out in front of him like it was.
Meanwhile, he was taking too long. Those were short fuses.
Henry watched with amusement, wondering if Dog would make it in time.
He hoped the trap worked. Otherwise, they would have to shoot it out. At the same time, it sure would be funny to see Dog get blown to bits.
But as amusing as that would have been, it didn’t happen, because Dog tossed the dynamite into the mouth of the mine and threw himself to one side.
36
No one was waiting for Conn around the corner.
So much for the foreboding he’d felt.
He took a few steps, stopped, and listened. It was utterly silent and pitch black here.
Where were Toole and the others?
Then, suddenly, he did hear something.
There was a faint tapping like footfalls from behind them. Then a soft thump, as if a piece of the roof had dropped to the floor.
He heard Sheffield, who was still around the corner in the main passageway, shift rapidly and hiss, “Behind us, Conn.”
Then, abruptly, everything was light and noise—impossibly loud noise—and concussion and pain.
In that same instant, Conn was thrown forward. He hit the ground hard and felt the mine collapse on top of him, burying him and pitching him into an even deeper darkness and silence.
37
Two hours later, Marshal Mayfield climbed down off his horse and took a close look at the caved-in mine.
The sharp, acrid smell of dynamite hung in the air. Fresh dirt had been blown from the side of the hill, along with cracked-open rocks showing their light interiors. The mouth of the mine was half closed, one thick timber busted open to reveal raw wood inside. Within that half-closed space, dust still hung in the air.
This had just happened.
Someone had blown the mine with dynamite.
