The entrance of the mine was a square patch of blackness in the side of the bluff. Simon picked his way over to it, and reached for the flashlight in the hip pocket of his Levis. He was still a few steps from the opening when a voice that was not at all western spoke out of the darkness.
It said, “Reach for some stars, buddy, and keep coming.”
7
The Saint raised his hands slowly, and walked the last four paces to the mouth of the mine.
The voice said, “Drop the flashlight.”
Simon dropped it.
He stood in front of the pitch-black gap, trying uselessly to penetrate its inky opacity.
“Take out your rod,” ordered the voice. “Put it on the ground. Then turn around and go back six steps.”
The Saint obeyed. There was nothing else for it. Out there in the open, bathed in the moonlight, he was a perfect target while the Voice was only cold words out of utter emptiness. He could have been dropped where he stood before he even knew what to shoot at.
He stood where he had been told to stop, feeling cold ripples inching up his spine, not knowing when the tearing smash of a bullet would blast through his chest and hurl him forward into eternal nothingness. Behind him he heard crunching steps — it sounded like two men. They paused momentarily, picking up the Magnum, and came on. Something hard and blunt prodded his back.