Page 27 of New Storm Rising
“Condition?” I blinked. “What condition?”
His arm, which had only just loosened, slid around me again, hands coming to rest protectively on my belly. “Your, ehem…landsickness.”
Why did his voice suddenly sound so strained?
“Ehem. Well, you have wasted enough of our time, Mr Linton! Let’s get a move on.”
Then, quickly, he started descending once again. The whole way down, though, he didn’t let go of me even once.
By the time we reached the bottom, it was so dark I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. Trust Mr Rikkard Ambrose to save money on light in a pitch-black cellar.
“Cover your eyes.”
I was just opening my mouth to ask why, when light flooded the space around me, blinding me. Quickly, I covered my eyes with one hand and muttered a few choice curses from my favourite foreign languages. Slowly, I lowered my hand, blinking in the light and…
“Holy Mother of Moly!” Stunned, I stared at the walls around us. Not cellar walls, as I had thought. No, we were in some kind of narrow cave, almost a tunnel, leading ahead endlessly into the darkness. And on the walls… “Blimey! Is…is that…”
Mr Ambrose’s answer was just a single word. “Yes.”
I swallowed.
Gold.
Everywhere, from down by my feet to ten yards above me, where the walls of the cave tunnel disappeared into the darkness, gold. And gold. And more gold.
Did I mention gold?
Maybe I should ask for a raise.
“Let me tell you a little story, Mr Linton,” Mr Ambrose’s cool voice echoed from the walls. “There has been a political debate going on for quite some time in the American Congress, about a proposed law called the Homestead Act. The Republicans want to distribute public land to farmers and their families. However, the Democrats have been stubbornly blocking it for years, because they’re firmly convinced all land is better off in the hands of the plantation owners and slave masters who pay for their election campaigns. This issue has been stewing for years. So you can imagine my surprise when this particular state suddenly decided to pass a local version of the Homestead Act, just days after I staked my claim in this little town.”
Something clicked in my head. “Let me guess. A day or two later, lots of ‘farmers’ applied for land grants in this area. Especially right around the mine.”
“Indeed they did, Mr Linton.”
“And these farmers just so happened to be of Spanish origin?”
“Unfortunately, the Spanish nobles are much less stupid than they are ruthless. The enforcers come from Spain all right. But the others? The people at the top simply ‘convinced’ a number of the locals that they suddenly wanted to give up whatever they were doing with their lives and start ‘farming the land’. And if they didn’t want to be convinced…”
With his usual lack of verbosity Mr Ambrose sliced a finger across his throat.
“Court cases were filed, trying to claim ownership of the mine. The local law enforcement was bought off, the mine workers, management staff and some stubborn locals thrown in prison, and any land they couldn’t get their hands on legally was simply stolen or occupied. Then they sent the owner of the mine a letter, suggesting it might be beneficial to sell the operation for ten cents. They did pretty much everything—except for one thing.”
“And what was that?” I asked, although I already had a feeling I knew the answer.
“Find out,” Mr Ambrose told me, gold reflecting in his dark eyes as he turned to face me, “exactly who it is they were messing with.”
Oh dear.
Suddenly, I felt very, very glad not to be in the Spaniards’ shiny black shoes.
“So…” I enquired. “What now?”
In answer, Mr Ambrose swept aside his tailcoat, revealing the place where, at his side, a revolver had been fastened. Pulling out the weapon, he opened the chamber, checking for bullets.
“For now, why don’t we enjoy the local culture?”
“The local…culture?” I blinked. Whatever I had expected, that definitely wasn’t it.
