20
Yesidro sat on a rock at the edge of the canyon in what little shade the greasewood shrub would allow. He mopped his brow slowly and returned the soiled rag to his shirt pocket. It was cooler in the mine opening but the men stirred up the dust, making the air taste and smell like rock. He took a deep breath and coughed his exhale.
“Not much longer,” he spoke to the burro who stood with his head lowered in the same shade swishing his tail at the flies. The burro didn’t hear the weight of the comment. Y was sure his death was imminent.
He looked out over the site. Don Juaquin paced at the now yawning mouth in the canyon wall. Y had found the silver door with little trouble, much as he had years ago.
The door itself was a prize find. Thick oak planks banded together with bands of silve
