Days blended seamlessly, night no different than day save for the thin edge of light beyond the dank, dark walls that smothered them. Leg and wrist irons were not welded this time, but fastened with locks and keys, dragging in heavy metallic thuds as they worked. There were three men to a cell, all shackled together, sharing space and scant food that was little better than fare fed to livestock. Water was provided in a small bucket with a battered dipper, and more often than not, fetid.

Work was a blur of darkness barely broken by flickering torches and the orange-yellow glow of lanterns that illuminated sweating, straining bodies streaked with soot. Tunnels stank of rank sweat, creosote and urine, almost overpowering at times.

And always, as before, there were the sadistic guards who enjoyed meting out punishment or reminders of who was in charge.

Steve plodded on, forcing his mind to think of more pleasant days, anything but the reality of his situation. It was the only way he could survive at times, the only way he kept from doing something careless or stupid.

One of the guards paused behind him, and the hiss of the lash was a brief warning before it struck.

“You! Get back to work. El jefe tolerates no idle gringos!”

Head bent, he ignored the fiery bite of the lash into his back and kept working, refusing to be provoked. Chains rattled as he toiled, dragging at his wrists and ankles in a cruel reminder that he had been careless enough to repeat a lesson he should have learned well the first time.

But this time, there was the certainty that Ginny would do whatever it took to find him.

“Where are we?” he asked one day when they had been taken back to the tunnel from their tiny cell. Juan gave him a strange look.

“You do not know?”

A wry smile twisted his mouth. “I wasn’t exactly awake when they brought me here. It’s hard to keep up with where you are when a dozen soldiers have managed to bash your skull in for you.”

Juan nodded understanding, a sympathetic gleam in his eyes. The steady smack of steam machines filled the black passageway with a racketing sound that muffled their conversation.

“We are in Chihuahua. This is the Galena, a silver mine owned by el jefe, the rich norteamericano who promises to pay el presidente but gives most to himself and the men in his employ. Greedy bastards!” He spat to show his contempt.

“El presidente will soon find himself needing silver if Díaz succeeds, and I think he will,” Steve replied, and when he saw a guard approaching, bent again to his work. Head down, he endured the brief stinging bite of the lash as the guard passed by.