The Lost Mine of Rio Rondo
You say ‘relic hunter’, I say ‘grave robber’.
Marsh snaked along the cramped, narrow passage on his belly, his heart racing. His breath rasped in his throat.
Tiny shards of rock snagged his jeans. His good hand left bloody palm-prints in the dust. His broken wrist throbbed — the cast on his forearm was cracked where he’d clobbered that grave-robbing jerk over…