The Lower Workings
Calder read the warning twice before he straightened.
“Could mean they didn’t listen.”
Eddie kept his fingers on the corners of the paper.
The sheet wanted to fold along its old creases. Dirt had settled into them, and the stain obscured part of the list above the warning. He could read a price, half a measurement, the beginning of a word.
He remembered writing none of it.
“They knew,” he said.
Calder looked at him.
“That’s different.”
“He tore it out of my coat.”
“We know somebody did.”
Eddie lifted his eyes.
The farmer held his gaze.
“I believe you about the grave. I believe you about the gun. But we need to keep hold of what you remember and what you’re figuring. Otherwise, we’ll have a story built before we know whether it stands.”
Ruth drew out the chair beside Eddie.
“Sit down before you put your knees through my floor.”
He sat.
She placed a saucer over one corner of the paper to keep it flat.
For a moment, the three of them studied the warning.
A fly moved against the window. Somewhere outside, the mule struck the side of the trough.
“Bennett said they were blaming a missing mechanic,” Eddie said. “He looked at me when I asked.”
“He did,” Calder answered.
“He’ll tell somebody.”
“Likely.”
Eddie rubbed his thumb against a loose thread on the bandage.
The house had felt safe that morning. He had helped mend a pump. Ruth had set a place for him. He had begun to imagine that he might spend another night there without waking beneath the earth.
Now every sound from the road seemed worth hearing.
Ruth watched him.
“You’ve started packing in your head.”
“I shouldn’t stay.”
“You can leave when you’re able to ride.”
“If someone comes here—”
“We’ll hear them.”
“And then what?”
She leaned back.
For the first time since he had met her, she looked tired.
“Then we’ll know more than we do now.”
***
They made a copy.
Calder brought an old account book from the shelf and tore out two unused leaves. Ruth found a pen, trimmed its point, and put a bottle of ink beside Eddie’s elbow.
He stared at it.
“Is that yours?” she asked, pointing to the handwriting.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s see what else comes.”
The pen settled between his fingers with a familiarity that almost hurt.
He copied the warning first.
The letters came closely enough to those on the scrap that Calder bent to compare them. Eddie saw the same narrow turn in the *p*, the same habit of joining the final two letters of *repairs*.
His hand knew him.
He wished the rest of him would catch up.
Above the warning, he copied each legible word and figure, leaving spaces where the damage had taken the rest.
A leather cup.
A length of pipe.
Packing.
The prices gave him no help. The quantities did.
He put the pen down.
“What?” Calder asked.
Eddie touched a half-obscured figure.
“Too much for a repair.”
“Thought that was a repair list.”
“So did I.”
He leaned closer.
There should have been another heading. Another column.
Something on the missing half of the page.
Eddie closed his eyes.
He saw the desk again.
This time, Rusk was not standing behind it.
He was beside Eddie, one hand flat on the open ledger.
*That’s what came in.*
Eddie could hear himself answering.
*Then show me where you put it.*
He opened his eyes.
Ruth had stopped moving.
“Supplies,” he said. “I was asking about supplies.”
“For the pump?”
“I think so.”
Calder looked at the prices.
“Paid for and never fitted?”
Eddie waited for the answer to arrive.
Nothing came.
“Maybe.”
He hated the uncertainty, but he left the word as it was.
***
They had almost finished when Jack lifted his head.
Eddie saw the movement through the window.
The horse had been standing in the strip of shade beside the corral. Now his ears pointed toward the road.
A moment later came the sound of wheels.
Calder rose.
Ruth took the original scrap from beneath the saucer, folded it along the existing creases, and slipped it into the account book.
Eddie watched her put the book back on the shelf.
“Coat,” Calder said quietly.
It hung beside the small room.
Eddie reached it as the wagon entered the yard.
He pulled it on carefully, keeping his bandaged hands inside the sleeves.
From the window, he could see a light freight wagon and a man holding the reins. Another sat beside him.
The passenger climbed down before the wheels had fully stopped.
He wore a pale shirt beneath a dusty waistcoat. His hat sat low, and a strip of clean bandage crossed the back of his right hand.
He looked toward the corral.
Then the house.
Calder stepped outside.
“Afternoon.”
The man took off his hat.
“Mr. Wynn?”
“That’s right.”
“Name’s Mercer. We’re looking for a hand from the Ash Springs mine.”
Eddie stood just inside the kitchen, where the wall hid him from the doorway.
Ruth remained at the table.
“Been a few people on the road,” Calder said.
“This one might’ve needed help.”
Mercer spoke pleasantly.
That was what Eddie noticed first.
No raised voice. No demand. The sort of tone a man used when asking after a missing mule.
“He hurt?” Calder asked.
“Could be. We’ve had trouble at the workings. Some confusion afterward.”
The driver stayed in the wagon.
Eddie could see one of his boots resting against the dashboard.
“His name?”
“Edward Bone.”
The kitchen seemed to contract around the sound.
Calder took a moment before answering.
“What’s he look like?”
Mercer described him.
Dark hair. Young. A scar near the brow.
He omitted the hole in the shirt.
Eddie pressed his palm against the wall.
A broken nail caught on the plaster.
“Who sent you?” Calder asked.
“Foreman.”
“Rusk?”
There was a pause.
Ruth looked toward the door.
Mercer put his hat back on.
“You know him?”
“Heard the name.”
“Well, he’s anxious to have the matter settled.”
“What matter?”
“The accident.”
Eddie felt something cold move beneath his breastbone.
The driver shifted on the seat.
Mercer looked past Calder toward the kitchen.
“Mind if we have a word inside?”
“My wife’s got work spread across the table.”
“Won’t take long.”
Calder did not move from the step.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Eddie left the wall.
***
Mercer saw him before he reached the doorway.
The change in the man’s face was slight, but Eddie had been watching for it.
His mouth opened.
The pleasant expression remained everywhere except his eyes.
Eddie stopped beside Calder.
“You were looking for me.”
The driver took his foot off the dashboard.
Mercer looked Eddie over, slowly now. His gaze caught at the collar of the coat, then moved to the sleeves hiding his hands.
“Bone.”
Eddie said nothing.
“We’ve had men out since yesterday.”
“Looking?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Mercer glanced at Calder.
“Perhaps we should talk privately.”
“You can talk here,” Eddie said.
A little wind moved dust around the wagon wheels.
Mercer rubbed his bandaged hand with his thumb.
“There’s been an accident at the mine.”
“How many men?”
“We don’t have a proper count yet.”
“How many were down?”
“That’s being sorted.”
Eddie stepped onto the yard.
Calder remained close.
“Was the lower pump running?”
Mercer’s eyes narrowed.
“You know the condition of it.”
“Did you keep men below?”
The driver turned slightly on the seat. Beneath the wagon’s edge, Eddie saw the wooden stock of a long gun.
Mercer saw him see it.
“Careful,” he said softly.
Eddie looked back at him.
The word had opened another fragment.
A hand around his upper arm.
The smell of leather dampened by sweat.
Someone telling him to be careful in a voice almost too quiet to hear.
His attention dropped to Mercer’s bandage.
A memory struck with such force that the yard vanished.
He was bent against the desk.
Rusk stood in front of him.
Another man held his left arm behind his back, pulling until the shoulder burned.
Eddie twisted.
His hand found the desk. A metal edge. A tool he could not see.
He drove it backward.
Someone shouted.
The grip loosened.
Then the room returned, and Mercer was standing six feet away with his injured hand against his waistcoat.
Eddie could smell the stove through the open door.
“You were there,” he said.
Mercer did not answer.
Calder looked between them.
“Where?”
Eddie kept his eyes on the bandage.
“When he shot me.”
***
The driver reached down.
“Leave it,” Calder said.
His voice had changed.
Eddie had never heard it carry that way.
The driver froze with his hand below the seat.
Behind them, a chair scraped inside the kitchen.
Ruth appeared in the doorway holding a shotgun.
She kept the barrels lowered, though there was nothing casual in the way she stood.
“Bring your hand back up,” she told the driver.
He looked at Mercer.
“Do it,” Mercer said.
The hand returned empty.
Eddie could hear his own breathing.
It had begun to come too quickly.
Mercer raised both palms, showing the bandage.
“Whatever he’s told you, he’s confused.”
Calder did not look away from the wagon.
“Seems to recognize you.”
“He was in a bad way when he left. Had been for some time.”
Eddie took a step forward.
Calder caught his sleeve.
Mercer saw the movement and backed toward the wagon.
“Mr. Rusk wants him brought in. There are questions he needs to answer.”
“Then Rusk can ask them before a lawman,” Calder said.
“That can be arranged.”
“Arrange it.”
Mercer’s pleasant expression had gone.
He looked at Ruth’s shotgun, then at Eddie.
There was fear in him now.
Eddie had wanted to see that fear.
He had imagined it would steady something.
Instead, it left him with a terrible urge to close the distance between them.
To seize the bandaged hand.
To make the man say what he remembered.
His fingers curled inside his sleeves.
Mercer watched them.
“What did you do with the paper?” Eddie asked.
For the first time, the man looked surprised for a different reason.
Eddie felt Calder’s grip tighten.
“What paper?”
“The one you cut out of my coat.”
Mercer’s eyes dropped.
Only for a moment.
It was enough.
Eddie started toward him.
Calder pulled him back so sharply that pain shot through his shoulder.
The driver stood.
Ruth lifted the shotgun.
“Sit down.”
The man sat.
Everything became still.
Eddie could feel Calder’s hand locked around his arm.
The grip was hard.
Human.
He made himself attend to it.
The yard returned in pieces: the mule’s harness, a fly on Mercer’s collar, the little rattle of the wagon chain.
“Go,” Calder said.
Mercer took one more backward step.
Then another.
He climbed onto the wagon without turning his back until he had to.
The driver gathered the reins.
As the team swung toward the gate, Mercer looked at Eddie.
Whatever he had intended to say seemed to fail him.
He faced forward.
The wagon left at a walk.
Only after it reached the road did the driver urge the horses faster.
***
Ruth lowered the gun.
Eddie had not realized how far he had leaned against Calder’s grip until the farmer released him.
His arm dropped.
For a moment, he swayed.
Calder guided him onto the step.
“Head down.”
“I’m all right.”
“Do it anyway.”
Eddie bent forward.
Dust lay on the toes of his boots. A small smear of blood had appeared through one bandage.
From the road came the fading sound of the wagon.
Ruth stood over him.
“Was he there?”
“Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
Eddie nodded.
“He held me.”
Calder leaned against the doorframe.
Neither asked him to say more.
After a while, Ruth went inside and returned with water.
Eddie took the cup.
His hands were shaking.
He stared at them.
“I wanted to hurt him.”
Calder sat beside him with an effort.
“Looked that way.”
“I could have.”
“Maybe.”
Eddie looked up.
The farmer’s face was stern now.
“You could also have got yourself shot, or me, or Ruth. His friend was reaching for a rifle.”
“I saw.”
“Then remember it.”
The words landed harder than a rebuke.
Eddie lowered the cup.
“I’m sorry.”
Calder rubbed his knee.
“Next time you remember something, tell me before you go walking toward a man who helped bury you.”
Ruth took the shotgun inside.
When she returned, she stood with one hand on the doorframe.
“He knows now.”
Eddie looked toward the gate.
Rusk would know soon.
For the first time since the grave, Eddie wondered which of them would sleep worse.
***
They prepared to leave before dusk.
Calder insisted on going with him.
The argument lasted only a few minutes.
“You’ve got a house,” Eddie said. “Work.”
“And a wagon. And a better idea of these roads than you’ve shown.”
“He came here because of me.”
“He came here because somebody sent him.”
Eddie turned away.
Calder waited until he faced him again.
“If there’s a proper officer of the law willing to hear this, we ought to find him before Mercer finds one willing to hear his version.”
“And if they believe Rusk?”
“Then we’ll need to know that too.”
Ruth packed food while they spoke.
Bread. Cold potatoes. A small packet of salt. She wrapped the food in cloth and tied it with a length of string.
“We’ll go by the south road first,” Calder told her. “Find somebody who knows where to carry a complaint.”
She nodded.
“Take the good blanket.”
“That’s yours.”
“I know whose blanket it is.”
Eddie stood near the table, uncertain where to put himself.
Ruth set the parcel in front of him.
“You can carry that.”
He took it carefully.
“Thank you.”
She glanced at the coat hanging loose around him.
“Before you go, let’s finish what we started with that lining. You’ll lose whatever else is in there along the road.”
***
They emptied his coat onto the table.
There was little left to find.
A few grains of dirt.
A short length of thread.
A splinter caught near the torn pocket.
Ruth turned the coat inside out and laid it beneath the window. Eddie watched her hands move through the damaged lining.
When she reached the back, she paused.
“What’s this?”
Eddie leaned closer.
A short brown thread crossed the black cloth near the lower seam.
It was knotted twice.
He touched it.
The memory came quietly.
A workbench.
His coat spread across it.
A small object held between his teeth while he threaded a needle.
He had been in a hurry.
Someone had been waiting at the door.
“Don’t cut that,” he said.
Ruth withdrew the scissors.
Eddie slipped a finger beneath the lining.
There was something flat behind it, small enough to have rested unnoticed against his back.
Calder came to the table.
Eddie took the pocketknife and carefully opened the stitches around the brown thread.
A metal disk slid into his palm.
Brass.
Worn at the rim.
A number had been struck into one side.
On the other was a shallow stamped mark, nearly polished away.
Eddie turned it over.
The mine returned around him.
Not the office this time.
A landing wet beneath his boots.
Men crowded near a cage, their lamps moving in the dark.
A row of numbered brass checks hung from hooks beside the shaft.
Someone pressed one into his hand.
A woman’s hand.
Grease marked the side of her thumb.
*If he changes the lock, come get me.*
Eddie caught the edge of the table.
Ruth reached for his elbow, but he shook his head.
This memory held.
A woman in shirtsleeves stood beside the winding engine. Her hair was pinned roughly beneath a cap, and one cuff had been rolled higher than the other.
She looked toward the office before speaking again.
*I keep the spare.*
Eddie stared at the brass disk.
“Mary Jane.”
Calder bent closer.
“What?”
“A woman at the mine.”
Ruth looked at the number.
“Is that hers?”
“No.”
He could remember the row of hooks now.
The checks the men carried below.
The empty places that told the man at the shaft how many had yet to come up.
He turned the disk again.
The stamped number caught the lamplight.
“She gave it to me.”
“Why?” Calder asked.
Eddie closed his hand around it.
He remembered waiting by the cage.
Waiting for the lower signal.
Waiting while Rusk told the men at the landing to clear away.
There had been checks still missing from the board.
More than one.
The kitchen seemed very far from that wet, dark shaft.
Eddie looked at Calder.
“We need to find her.”
“The woman?”
He nodded.
Beyond the window, evening settled across the yard. Jack stood ready beside the wagon.
Eddie opened his hand once more and looked at the brass check.
“She knew there were men still below.”