The rope jerked on the third night, and Jack Morrison hung in the mine wondering how a story about a golden serpent had led him to hanging three feet above black water behind Mount Wilson.
Three days. He had been suspended in that darkness for three days, listening to the distant hum of Los Angeles traffic that sounded like ocean surf to a man who had never been to the ocean. The mine smelled like rust and old timber and something else—something that had been dead a long time and did not mind being forgotten. The brothers had lowered him at dusk. They had waited through the...
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