Spitting grit, he crawled out of his would-be grave and collapsed beside it. Groves brushed the dirt from his eyes and looked around. He saw what was left of the valley floor and suddenly started to remember everything—the cave, the gold, the Apaches, the earthquake. And the arrow. Groves forced his gaze to his torso. The arrow was there, it had run him through nearly to the fletching, entering his chest at an angle and exiting from his side. He twisted and looked at it in fearful anticipation of what he would find at the end of the shaft. But there was no arrowhead. It had broken off. Gripping the arrow protruding from his chest, he grimaced and yanked. The shaft tore free of his flesh. The arrow should have killed him. He inspected the hole in his chest. It was there but it wasn’t bleeding— What the hell is going on? The wound seemed to be already healing as he watched. Some kinda miracle? He’d been shot with an arrow and buried by an earthquake. And he just rose from the dead.
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