A cold wind carrying crushed snow swept across the mountain col, making a dozen crooked thatched sheds at the edge of the mining site shiver. Dozens of bailiffs squatted with their necks pulled in near the mouth of the mine shaft, their pickaxes lying scattered on the ground. Occasionally, someone lazily struck the rock face twice, sending pebbles rattling down to mix with ice pellets in the mud pit. Old Wu, the foreman, sat with his legs crossed by the campfire. The cheap liquor in his gourd had long since run out, and he was now chewing absentmindedly on half of a frozen, hardened steamed bun.
"Old Wu, are we still digging today?" asked Liu San the lame, stepping closer and rubbing his cracked palms against his tattered padded jacket.
"Dig my foot!" Old Wu spat out a crumb, casting a sidelong glance at the mine shaft. "In this ghost of a weather, the stones are harder than iron, and the grain allocated by the yamen was embezzled long ago. Only a fool would risk his life for this!" He nudged a dozing colleague near the fire with his foot. "Wang Ermazi, open your eyes! Don't let those bumpkins actually sleep the day away!"
Chapter 115