The check hatch of Tanker Three came open with a wet, sucking gasp that released a foul gust of warm, stale air.
Tomas climbed the two iron rungs welded to the wagon blade collar and peered down into the dark cedar metal tube. The morning sunlight struck the surface of the water. It showed a slick of oily yellow scum floating over a dark, turbid pool. At the bottom of the vat, clearly visible through five feet of murky liquid, lay a thick, waving bed of reddish-brown mud, mixed with flakes of rusted iron scale and chips of fresh gray shale.
Nessa dipped a long glass sampling tube through the open bung, placed her thumb over the upper orifice. Then she drew out a six-inch column of the bottom settled mud. She released the suction onto a clean fine china saucer from her instrument case.
“Look at the fine dust,” she said. She leaned over the plate with her pocket magnifying glass. “This isn’t natural cave sand. The grains are angular, freshly fractured with zero river-bed water-wear. These are tailings from a heavy-duty stamp mill. Someone is crushing silver-lead ore upstream and using the discharge from their washing tables to fill these transport vats.”
