Kaelen held the damp parchment strip between two fingers, letting out a slow, measured breath.
“Derrick always had terrible taste in hired help,” Kaelen said, setting the slip on the tea table beside a half-eaten bean bun. “First Iron-Hound Briggs, now a flock of mountain vultures.”
Barnaby Holt slammed his wooden ladle against the veranda railing.
“Crimson Vulture Cliff cutthroats don’t take prisoners, Kaelen!” the old man barked, his face red with fury. “Those fifty riders are mountain wolves. If they breach the lower tunnels, they will slaughter every miner in the shaft.”
Sera Thorne adjusted the strap of her leather cuirass. “I can saddle two fleet horses. If we ride through the western valley pass, we can reach the canyon rim before sunset.”
“Why would we ride through a dusty canyon before lunch?” Kaelen asked, sinking deeper into his hammock. “It is six hours until the afternoon shadows touch the canyon floor. Derrick isn’t going anywhere.”
Sera stared at him, her gray eyes narrowing in frustration. “Fifty mounted killers have seized our watchtower. What do you mean he isn’t going anywhere?”
“Derrick is a pompous coward,” Kaelen said mildly. “He wants to capture the cinnabar vein intact so he can sell it to Orson. If he charges into dark drainage tunnels blind, my mine guards will collapse the timber roof on his head.”
