"He might have a rifle," said Eli. "Might shoot you when you walk in there."
"If we all go in, one of you might get shot," said Raoul. "This is my property."
And fighting for it will make it more truly my property than any government grant could.
But that Indian in there—what was he armed with? Rifle, knife, bow, tomahawk? How strong was he, how fast, how skilled in fighting hand to hand?
I'm a fool to put myself through this.
"Could be more'n one in there," said Eli.
Raoul felt the blood run hot through his veins as he thought of Pierre's bastard son, of Black Salmon, of the Potawatomi who raped and murdered Helene. His men had killed two Indians today, but there was a third waiting in that mine, and Raoul de Marion meant to be the death of him.
Ignoring Eli's warnings, he moved toward the black square of the mine entrance.
He walked slowly, pistol at waist level. He needed his knife out, too, he decided. Even though he was right-handed, it would be better to have a second weapon ready than have his left hand empty. He drew his knife, taking heart from its well-balanced feel.
He stepped under the logs he'd set last fall to brace the entrance. Should he light a candle? No, that would make him an even better target. He tried to pierce the blackness with his eyes; it was thick as a wool curtain.