Chapter 1
“Twenty five men went into the mine that day. I was only a child, but I can remember all too well the last time I saw their faces. Husbands, brothers, sons, they all did as they always had. I cannot tell you what they found at the bottom of that mine; some say it was water that flooded the tunnel, yet others say it must have been poisonous gas. The owner, he wanted to be sure. He sent a team of men down into that pit with everything they could need. To a man, they claimed to him that the mines were haunted. They spoke of dark shapes and Aztec writing.”
“And you know where this mine is? You know how I can find it?”
“No, no, señorita. I will not bring you to that place,” the shopkeeper said with decided finality, retreating into a back room. His voice carried, even if somewhat fainter. “It is not a place fit for women, even if that woman is you, Miss Masters.”
He was too far away to see me bristling at the insinuation, but could probably hear the side of my boot impacting against the wooden slats of the counter. This was always how a hunt began: the locals all too willing to rant and rave about their native legends and ghost stories. But when you tried to convince them to show you the actual location? They buckled down and refused, until you could track down the one of them mercenary enough to lose some morals.
There were benefits to my increasing reputation. My escapades in Europe, during and after the Great War, had made the front page of a few high profile newspapers: Intrepid Adventurer Eve ’Chance’ Masters Discovers Legendary Aegis, Lightning Strikes Twice! ’Chance’ Masters Seeks Out Tower of Babel. Of course, for every good headline, I’d find something insulting. One reporter had the gall to run Pint-sized Pixie Purloins Precious Palladium! I found that one, and made sure he wouldn’t be publishing any more of that trash. Reputation can be fickle; you get the people who are star struck, but you may also get people who challenge you, just to test the stories. It doesn’t help that I am not the most imposing individual. At just over five and a half feet tall, and a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet, I have somewhat delicate features and a small frame. I’d spent the better part of the past five years convincing everyone around me that I was someone to be taken seriously.
This far out into the boondocks, it was watered down enough; they’d only vaguely heard of me. That meant my presence only translated to ‘Big City, has money,’ and explained the grungy fellow who ducked out from the nearby alleyway.
“Ey chica, you want to go to the mines?” I frowned, turning toward the man and his decrepit surroundings. This sort of situation inevitably went one of two ways: the first and more unlikely being a guide to my target. The second, and far more common occurrence, was an attempted mugging and a bandit nursing a gut shot. But it was the only lead I had, so I went for it.
“You know the way?”
“Si, I used to work at the mine, before it happened, before they died.” I felt my eyebrow rise of its own accord, as a sickening cough wracked the man’s emaciated frame. He was dressed in tattered rags that had once approximated clothing. Light cotton that had protected him from the sun, but little else.
“How much?” I asked.
“You are looking for the breach, the deepest tunnel?” He countered.
“I’m headed as deep as I can get, yes.” I said slowly, confused by the man’s indirect response. As a rule, bandits and money grubbers aren’t the most patient lot.
“My brother was there, the day it happened. He always carried a medallion, a family heirloom. If you can find it, bring it back to me. It has nothing but sentimental value, but it would mean so much to me.” His face darkened, as if his thoughts were trapped briefly in the past. That was certainly a surprise, and I said as much, to which the man responded with:
“You aren’t the first to go down, but you can still be the first to come back up with your wits intact.” I rolled my eyes at the melodrama.
“I need to grab my partner and supplies. Where should I meet you?”
“The southern gate. The mine is a few hours away by foot.” He paused, wringing his filthy hands, eyes darting from my officer’s cap to my well-worn boots. “You have guns?” I flipped my poncho up and over my shoulder in response, exposing the butt of my Colt 1911 in the holster beneath my left arm.
“I can handle myself.” I responded in a measured voice, daring him to suggest otherwise. He seemed placated, shuffling back toward the alleyway.
“Good, you’ll need them.” His voice was barely a murmur, and I paid him no more attention, turning to the dusty stretch that served as the town’s main street. The inn was only a few blocks away, and despite the early hour, conversations drifted from the tavern. The scent of fresh bread and stale beer assaulted my nose the instant I came through the door. I made a mental note to buy more of the bread on the way out of the town, when we returned. I could hear the clanking of tools and cookware, and looking up at the balcony above, I could see my sidekick was struggling with an oversized pack. He did his best to manhandle it down the narrow stairs. I darted up to catch the side as it pitched forward, nearly spilling across the floor.
“In a hurry?” I asked, seeing the bespectacled and overly long face of Wesley Hartley peer over the top end of the pack.
“Oh, Chance, just in time... apparently.” He said in a distinctly upper-crust British accent. Wes wore a tweed suit, even in the Mexican heat, and a bowler. A light five o’clock shadow softened his facial features, and made him look a few years older than he actually was. “Did the fact-finding mission go well?”
“Not at first, but we have a lead. We’re headed out. Think you’ve packed enough?” The man was notorious for bringing everything we could conceivably need, rather than anything we would realistically use. “You can’t possibly think I’ll help you carry that.”
“I’ve bought a burro!”
My hand rose instantly, striking against my forehead, thumb and forefinger rubbing my temples.
“A donkey. You’ve bought a donkey. Why don’t you just pack less, Wes?” I always prefer to improvise, and as a result, I pack light.
“Not everyone can live off of hardtack and salted meat, Chance.” He said coolly, settling the pack to the ground.
“That’s not true at all. Anyone can, some just won’t.” I responded, with an air of superiority, bending to lift the closer edge of the pack. Wes gave a nod of thanks, and we carried the equipment out of the inn, to the mangy creature that he had apparently purchased. “Don’t get attached to this one; we’re not keeping it.”
“Just don’t eat it. I still have nightmares about that goat in Greece.”
“If I recall correctly, you had no such issues once it was roasted.” We threw the pack up and over, onto the donkey’s back, drawing forth from it a sound of beastly annoyance that almost matched the disgusted sound Wes made in response to my comment. “Is my satchel still in the room?” I asked, already through the door and climbing the stairs. Wes held the door open and called across.
“It is, and the innkeeper has informed me that the Mexican government radioed ahead for supplies to be ready. A platoon is marching out with foreign explorers to Montezuma’s temple.” That made me pause, and I turned to face him.
“The army, here? Now?” I asked incredulously.
“Rumor has it the expedition is led by an old friend of yours, Cale Meijin, on behalf of an unknown investor.” I cursed softly under my breath, and vaulted up the stairs. Cale was one of very few treasure hunters that I would admit was a rival. His being in the area meant that we couldn’t move at a leisurely pace any longer. I called back down the stairs from the balcony above. “South gate, I’ll meet you there.”
Only my leather satchel and a long parcel, wrapped in canvas, remained in the room. The parcel contained everything I’d need: extra ammo, an electric torch, hardtack, a canteen, dried fruit and a bit of salted meat. I pack light, habitually. The canvas was wrapped around a Winchester repeating rifle. I’d grown fond of the firearm, for when my Colt couldn’t do the job. I threw the satchel up and around my chest, settling it against my hip before hooking the rifle over the opposite shoulder. My mind raced with potential reasons the Mexican army would get involved, but they all came back to money, and a lot of it. Whoever was financing this little adventure had deep pockets, and no qualms about using them. Cale didn’t come cheap, either. I hated to be beaten to a find under the best circumstances. I was even less inclined to let them reach the site before me, since I had legitimately arrived first.
There was a decent chance that the new expedition would try the front door, which hadn’t been a viable option for Wes and myself. Two people couldn’t map out the labyrinthine, branching tunnel system put in place to discourage grave robbers. It was only by sheer luck that I’d heard about the tragedy at the mine, and we’d have to go all in on that route of attack, if we wanted any chance at getting in before the others.
I closed and locked the inn’s room door, tossing the keys to the girl at the counter on my way out. The midmorning sun was angled perfectly parallel to the street, the early autumn climate making it oppressively hot, only just beginning to cool off as winter approached. I ducked between the post office and a carpenter’s shop, and came out against the city wall in the back alley. The shade offered some protection against the heat, and I could move just as easily to the southern gate.
I found Wes trying to drag his donkey away from a trough of water outside of the stables. The creature would take a drink, bellow at him, and return to the trough. Wes would tug at the reins, drag the donkey sideways for a moment, and then bellow back.
“You know, I’d always heard that the British are very convincing, but you have proven that dead wrong, time and again.” I shook my head, laughing at the sight.
“Well, I don’t seem to speak burro,” he said indignantly.
“Donkey. It’s a donkey. You don’t even speak Spanish.”
“Whatever it is, it doesn’t want to move.” He gave the reins another tug, gaining only a sideways glance from the animal.
“I guess you’ll have to pack less.” I turned away from the farcical tug of war and made my way out. The gates were left open during the day, and I found our guide hiding from the sun behind the western door. The annoyed bellows of the donkey were still audible through the wooden ramparts.
“Your friend calls a lot of attention to himself.” The man said, pulling on a wide-brimmed straw hat. “You’d do well to leave him behind.”
“Someone has to make base camp, and he’s a better shot than you’d expect. We were both in the war.” The man puzzled this through for a long moment, chewing thoughtfully on a thick chunk of chewing tobacco. He pursed his lips and spit to the side, nodding finally.
“I will only bring you there. Once we reach the mine entrance, you’re on your own.”
“That’s how I prefer it. you got a name?”
“You can just call me Martinez, chica. It works well enough.” The approaching sound of a struggle between man and beast signaled that Wes had forced the donkey into moving.
“And you can call me Chance or Miss Masters; enough of this ‘chica’ nonsense.” The man shrugged, circling around to take the reins from Wes. The donkey’s ears folded down and the fight seemed to leave the animal, led easily now. Wes threw his hands up in exasperation and shouldered his own pack pointedly.
“Lead the way, Martinez.” I brought the rifle across the back of both of my shoulders, laying one hand over the butt, and the other across the far reach of the barrel. The three of us, and the placated donkey, started toward the distant jungle.
