AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Back... Back there," the figure whispered, pointing with a trembling hand toward a tent sequestered in the shadows. The gesture held a weight of resignation, a silent admission that even among the forgotten, some things could not remain hidden.
Just then, a low murmur broke out. Eyes disappeared, figures vanishing back into hiding. Something had stirred in the dark, and Rachel glanced around, tense, attempting to discern what had changed.
The shadows stirred, a dark mass slowly undulating as it broke free from the tunnel's embrace. The form solidified into men, their outlines distorted by the jagged light. They reeked of alcohol, its sharp tang mingling with the mold and damp of the underground.
The men were streaked in dirt and grime. A couple of them carried pickaxes and pans, along with a small scale in one man's hand. They were coming from deeper down the tunnels and glaring towards the two rangers.
"Who you?" One grumbled, his voice coarse, like gravel tumbling down a slope.
Ethan stepped forward, a barrier between Rachel and the approaching threat. "Just looking for someone," he said, his tone even, his words measured pellets of calm. "Texas Rangers," he said.
"Nobody here wants to be found," another rumbled, stepping closer, his eyes narrowed to slits of suspicion.
Muscles tensed beneath Ethan's jacket. He kept his demeanor friendly, an olive branch extended in a fist clenched world.
"Understood," Ethan replied, nodding. "But perhaps we can help each other."
A mocking laugh bounced off the tunnel walls, the sound brittle and sharp.
"Help?" the biggest of the men spat, his mouth twisting around the word as if it were foreign. "And when was you law types helping when you chased my family off the reservation, huh?"
"You're native?" Rachel said, hesitantly. he didn't look it, but she didn't say it.
"Nah. Free country, though. We was panning."
"Is that what you're doing here?" she said slowly. "Panning for gold?" Her eyes slipped to the silver markings on his boots. They matched the ones on Silas'. The same markings on the boots of the man who'd stolen the ATV.
But as she glanced around, she noticed the other two men also had identical markings. What was it Silas had said? A symbol of those who were in search of the Bride's Bounty?
These men were voluntarily homeless. Their families with them--all in search of lost gold. She frowned at this realization.
Ethan's eyes never left the burly men, their faces etched with life's hard lessons. He cleared his throat, a sound minute yet audible in the tense silence. "Chey Whitehorse," he started, each syllable deliberate, "does the name ring any bells?"
The question hung heavy, like the dust motes dancing in the sparse rays of sunlight.
"Chey?" The word was repeated, bounced between them, a pinball of recognition.
"Important to find anyone who might've known her," Ethan added, his tone insistent yet controlled. "Might clear up some nasty business."
A man shuffled on his feet, his gaze skittering away from Ethan's steady look. The others watched him, a silent urging in their shared glances.
"Back there," the man finally muttered, reluctance coating his voice thick as tar, "end of the line."
A gnarled finger emerged from his coat sleeve, trembling as it pointed towards a tent sequestered in the shadows. Its canvas flapped weakly, a flag of forlorn hope. The same tent the woman had indicated earlier.
"Appreciate it," Ethan said, the words almost a whisper.
The tension didn't dissipate; it merely shifted, a living thing that crawled back into the dark recesses, watching, always watching. But for now, they had a direction—a path to follow—towards the tent and whatever secrets it might hold within its frayed embrace.
The gap between clenched fists and threats widened. Ethan's presence, a calm force, seeped into the stale air of the tunnel. The men's eyes, flint-hard, flickered with indecision before their bodies uncoiled, granting passage.
"Thanks," Ethan murmured, his voice barely above the sound of disturbed debris underfoot.
Rachel followed, her steps measured, flashlight beam steady on the path ahead. Each crunch of gravel beneath their boots punctuated the silence, a metronome to their path. They reached the tent, its canvas sagging like a deflated lung.
"Hello?" Ethan's call was deliberate, slicing through the hush. No reply came, just the echo of his own voice rebounding off the tunnel’s damp walls.
"Did you know Chey Whitehorse?" Rachel tried, her tone louder, more insistent. Again, nothing but their echoes for company.
