Chapter 5

Sheriff Tom Warner peered intently through the expensive Trijicon scope. He dialed in the distance and centered the crosshairs on a mountain goat scampering down the side of an impossibly steep cliff. "Always better tenderized," he muttered as he pulled the trigger on the custom made, .30-06 caliber hunting rifle.

The small bullet flew true. The goat stumbled and plummeted more than a hundred feet to the bottom of the cliff, bouncing off protruding rocks the entire way down. Tom chuckled and thanked god he was Sheriff of a small Colorado town where no legitimate business required his full attention. The two young deputies under his command were more than capable of watching over Eagles Landing, leaving him to pursue the finer things in life.

Sheriff Warner took a deep breath of chilled mountain air. He packed the rifle carefully into its case in the back seat of his pride and joy, a yellow H2 Hummer. Tom plopped himself into the driver's seat, fired up the big V-8, shifted into drive, pressed the button for four-wheel drive low, and headed toward the goat's carcass.

"Oh man, this is gonna look good on the old trophy wall," he said aloud to no one in particular as the Hummer bounced over the rocky terrain. "Well as long as the fall didn't mess that poor critter up too bad," he chuckled.

The trophy wall in his oversized living room was a source of pride for Sheriff Warner. The log cabin walls were filled with mounted animals of every size and shape. It was impossible to miss when visitors walked through the front door. A massive chandelier made of elk antlers hung over three leather couches, giving the room the appearance of an expensive hunting lodge.

Neither the house nor the Hummer were affordable on an honest police officer's salary, which was why Sheriff Warner was no honest police officer. The finer things in life were worth getting your hands dirty for.

Under the less than watchful eye of two bored guards, the miner known as "The Mole" reached into the bottom of the rickety mine cart he had pushed to the surface. He stuffed a small, golden nugget into a sealable, yellow plastic container. Peering out of the corner of his eye to make sure none of the guards were looking his way, he sealed the vial then quickly swallowed it. The Mole ran his grubby fingers through his stringy brown hair, then turned and emptied the cart into the mine dump that stained the tundra yellow.

The Mole received his nickname after miraculously escaping a collapsed mine shaft that killed three other miners. What nobody knew was that The Mole had set the dynamite charges that collapsed the ceiling on his partners. It was just plain bad luck that the timer malfunctioned and went off before he was clear of the shaft.

The Mole was trapped underground for five days before he managed to claw his way back to the surface. A thin stream of water kept him from dehydrating during his escape. The ordeal had been worth it. With his partners gone, he was the only one who knew of the deep vein of silver buried in the Montana wilderness.