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.
