Chapter Twelve
Utah Territory
Batchwell Bottoms Silver Mine
December 1873
“When’s the new doc getting in?”
Jonah Ramsey looked up from the ore reports he’d been handed and sighed. “He was supposed to arrive on the U an’ P passenger train last week. So...”
He took a gold watch from his vest pocket—a watch that had once belonged to his father. Absentmindedly, he brushed his thumb over the dents and scratches that proclaimed the timepiece had been through a battle or two—quite literally—then depressed the plunger so that the cover opened. It was already past noon.
“You think the doc’ll be on the fool thing today?” Gus Creakle looked up from his scribbling to squint against the brilliant December sun streaming through the office windows. “Because I got me a toe that’s plum mortified, I’m tellin’ you. I done dropped that idiot filin’ cabinet on it, an’ I’m afeard it’s gonna have t’ be cut off if’n it don’t get no doctorin’.”
Although there were daily locomotives that came through Batchwell Bottoms, a passenger train was more of a rarity. Once a week, it brought fresh miners to the valley, or took away those who were injured or who’d had enough. But even those were more infrequent now that winter was settling into the Rockies. It wouldn’t be long before the pass would become completely sealed off, and the miners would have to wait until spring for any contact with the outside world.
He worried what would happen if the doctor didn’t arrive before they reached that point.
Creakle scratched his chin with a stubby finger. “So what do y’ think, boss? Think the man will be on this week’s train?”
As if on cue, a faint whistle broke through the usual din of the mining camp, followed by the distant pant of the locomotive as it struggled to pull its cargo the last few yards of an uphill grade.
“You should have your answer within the next fifteen minutes, Creakle. Think you can hang on until then?”
Creakle considered the idea, his eyelids blinking, the tufts of hair on his balding pate poking out at odd angles until he gave the appearance of a ruminating owl. “Maybe. If’n I ain’t got no other—”
Creakle’s words died the same instant that a muffled boom echoed through the valley. Jonah felt a jolt through the soles of his boots. He threw the files onto the desk, snatched up his hat and coat and ran outside toward the yawning entrance to the mine.
From the corner of his eye, Jonah noticed he wasn’t the only person racing to find the source of the shudder. But even as he did, an uneasiness slid through his veins. Any man worth his salt knew what to expect when there was a “bump” in the mine. But somehow, the vibration that had sent him running hadn’t been quite right.
The other miners had come to the same conclusion. One by one, they stopped in their tracks, their breaths hovering in the frigid winter air.
From his spot a few yards ahead of them, Jonah turned in a slow circle, his eyes narrowed to near slits against the uncomfortable sheen of sunlight bouncing over newly fallen snow. From far away came the eerie whistle of the Union Pacific passenger train. Jonah could see the puffs of steam and soot as the stack of the locomotive emerged from the canyon, a pair of brightly painted passenger cars snaking along behind it.
“What’s going on, boss?” one of the men called out.
Jonah shook his head. “I don’t—”
But his words were drowned out by a loud crack. Then a rumble swelled up through the soles of his feet, vibrating his whole body.
“Would you look at—”
Jonah’s eyes skipped from the mine entrance to the two-story office, the Miners’ Hall, the livery, the company store and beyond to the row houses that were scattered like children’s blocks in front of the steep mountainside, then up, up, past the snowy cornice of Seesaw Point. At that moment, an entire wall of ice separated from the precipice and snow roiled down the slopes like a tidal wave, building up steam as it raced toward the valley.
“Avalanche!” someone shouted just beyond Jonah’s shoulder.
The men dived toward the shelter of the mine, the Miners’ Hall, the main offices.
Jonah instinctively leaped for the cover offered by one of the ore cars. Ignoring the stab of pain in his back, he hunkered low as a cloud of snow and vapor swallowed him whole. Gasping for air, he covered his head and his face while an icy blast of wind swirled around him, kicking up dirt and sleet and pine needles that pelted his cheeks and hands with such force they drew blood.
Then, just as quickly, the noise stopped.
Jonah waited, dragging cold, wet air into his lungs. His senses, keener than they’d been only a few moments earlier, picked out the slightest sounds: a plop of snow, the crack of a branch. A whimper.
For a moment, Jonah found himself lost in a wave of memories.
Thundering cannon.
Distant drums.
And pain, so much pain...
Opening his eyes, he took quick, shallow breaths, forcing the images away and ignoring the searing pain that traced down his spine—an injury forged in battle. Then he grabbed the rim of the ore car and hauled himself to his feet.
Around him, the mining camp looked as if it had come through the back end of a blizzard. The air was heavy with a gray mist, and several inches of ice and snow covered every surface. If it weren’t for the glitter of rocks and the dark green bits of broken evergreens, Jonah could have believed that they’d emerged from a storm.
Whirling, he blinked against the moisture and dust. Mine offices...fine. Mine opening...fine. Miners’ Hall, row houses, blacksmith shop, cook shack...check, check and check. They’d be digging themselves out of a few drifts, but there didn’t appear to be any permanent damage. As long as the timbers had held underground...
From far away, Jonah heard a plaintive, bleating whistle. It wavered, then trailed off completely.
“The train!” Jonah called out, already running toward the livery. “The snow must have pushed it off the tracks! Grab anything you can find—pickaxes,
