Chapter Three The Northern Waste

His father had not lied. The mine was real. He mounted and rode toward the red rocks. Near dusk, he reached the mouth of a canyon beneath Broken Hand Rock. The passage was narrow, its walls cut sharp as blades. Sunset poured into it until the entire canyon looked like a burning copper river. At the far end stood a collapsed mine entrance. Loose stone blocked the mouth. Beside it, someone had carved shallow letters. T.W. Thomas Walker. Jack dismounted, moved stones aside, lit an oil lamp, and entered. The mine was cold. The air carried dampness and metal. He followed old chisel marks his father had left. After twenty steps, lamplight touched a wall of stone. Inside the rock ran a thin golden line. Very thin.