The Lost Mine Murders Read online

  Their client had handed his mount over to Scott and headed straight for the red light, answering the question of why he’d chosen to overnight here.

  A snuffling sound had him turning his head to see Trent’s tousled head. Their assistant had buried his face in a pillow he’d made of his shirt and sweater, and seemed to be having some difficulty breathing. Granville grinned, and tossed a wool glove at the boy.

  Trent woke with a start and reared up, aiming his shotgun. The sound of a round being chambered echoed in the stillness.

  The grin faded from Granville’s lips. He kept underestimating the boy’s survival skills. He held up his hands. “Easy there, Trent.”

  “Sorry.” The boy lowered the shotgun. “Something hit me.”

  “You have excellent reflexes,” he said, holding up the offending glove. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Trent gave him an insulted look. “Out here I’m an adult.”

  Granville nodded in recognition. “Let’s get some food into us, then break camp.”

  Trent grinned at him. “I get to cook, right?”

  “Why do I think I’m going to regret that decision?

  Two hours later they were picking their way along the rocky, uneven lakeshore. Mist clung thickly to the water, limiting visibility to a few feet. Granville pulled the brim of his hat lower against the moisture that dripped from the branches of the huge cedar and pine trees.

  Gradually a snowcapped range emerged, dark and intimidating against the bleak greenish gray of the lake and the white-gray sky. He nudged Trent.

  “I’d expected something similar to Mount Seymour, but these are mountains.”

  “Told you. Folks round here call ‘em death traps. Supposed to be as bad as anything on the continent.”

  He looked again at the forbidding crags. “Why?”

  “It’s not just that they’re steep. They’re unpredictable—fog, blizzards, even ice storms coming off the glaciers. And that’s in fall; this time of year it’s even worse.”

  “Perhaps this year the weather will cooperate.”

  Cole, who’d obviously been listening, snorted loudly. “Only thing you can count on in those mountains is that it’ll be worse than you expected.”

  Granville glanced over at their client. He seemed tense this morning, jumping at every sound, and deep lines bracketed his mouth. Had something happened in Port Hammond?

  He’d known all along that Cole was hiding something, but it had seemed less important in mostly-civilized Vancouver. His hand fell to his gun, and he cast a wary eye around him. Picking their way along the lakeshore, they were easy targets. He’d have to keep a closer eye on the old man.

  Granville turned back to Trent. “If it’s so bad in winter, why did you and your father trap here?”

  “The worse the weather, the better the pelts. The better the pelts, the more money we made.”

  “Hmmm. And yet you turned to a life of crime.”

  Trent flushed and glared at him. “I wish you wouldn’t keep bringing that up.”

  Scott rode up on the other side of Trent. Leaning over, he said in a loud whisper, “The man has a strange sense of humor, but he has some tales he’d rather were not told. Ask him sometime about his dealings with Gipson, up in the Klondike.”

  Trent looked at Granville, eyes wide but a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “This is the Gipson we dealt with before Christmas? The one kept trying to kill you?”

  “Yup. The one just got himself out of a jail term,” Scott added.

  “More like bought himself out of it,” Granville said.

  Trent’s smile widened. “So, what did he do to you?”

  “None of your business.” He looked at Scott across the boy’s head. “Thanks, partner.”

  “Don’t mention it. Always happy to clear up any misunderstandings.”

  “You have dealings with Gipson?” the old miner’s voice cut across their banter, hard-edged and suspicious.

  “Not willingly. Why?”

  “He’s as crooked as they come.”

  “On that we agree.”

  Scott had been watching their client with narrowed eyes. “Mayhap he’s the reason we’re going to be freezing our tail feathers off braving those mountains in January?”

  The old miner just spat a chaw of tobacco into a nearby clump of reeds and quickened his pace.

  Granville nodded to himself. Was George Gipson another piece of this puzzle? He didn’t want any part of a scheme involving that weasel, but he was happy to be part of an enterprise that foiled the fellow’s plans. With an inward smile, he whistled a few notes.

  Trent gave him an odd look. “Pop goes the weasel?” he said. “Why ever are you whistling a nursery rhyme?”

  Scott, knowing Granville’s favorite term for Gipson, gave a bellow of laughter. “You think that’s it?” he asked.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Trent was looking from one to the other. “I don’t think it’s fair you’re keeping secrets.”

  Granville winked at him.

  As they climbed, bare rock gave way to a cushioning layer of pine needles. It was warmer here; the trees sheltered them from the wind, though the treetops bent and swayed as the wind moaned through them. There was little undergrowth to hinder their passage, but huge roots ran everywhere, and the occasional deadfall probably sheltered the white weasels Trent talked about hunting.

  Granville was awed by the size of the huge trunks surrounding them. This was virgin forest, and there was the same weight of age and long history here that he’d found in the Alaskan coastal forests. Oddly, it reminded him of parts of London, where whole districts dated back five hundred years or more.

  He smiled at the thought—if England’s history was in her buildings, Canada’s seemed to be in her untouched land. There wasn’t a structure in Vancouver built more than thirty years ago, yet these trees could easily be five hundred or more years old.

  Trent’s voice broke into his thoughts. “If you don’t like weasels, how do you feel about cougars?” he asked, pointing upwards and to the left.

  He scanned the clump of brush Trent indicated. At first he didn’t see anything, then he caught the twitch of a whisker, the gleam of a golden eye. The big cat crouched motionless, blending into the browns and gray tones around it.

  “Think he’s hungry enough we look like prey?”

  “Doubt it. But this late in the season, the mules might look like dinner,” Trent said, raising his rifle as he spoke. He sighted, then shot.

  “Ya missed him,” Cole said.

  “Nope. Just aimed to scare him. He’s not good eating anyway.”

  “Fool boy,” Cole muttered.

  His words were followed by a sharp whine and a dull crack. Rifle!

  All four pulled their weapons and hit the ground, tensed for the next shot.

  Nothing moved. The only sounds were their harsh breathing and the sighing of the wind through the trees.

  “Anyone hit?” Granville asked after a long, tense moment.

  “My hat,” Cole said, holding up that battered object, which now had a neat hole through the crown. “Damn hunters. If I hadn’t bent to spit, would’ve been my head.”

  It was too near a miss to be accidental. Especially when Trent’s shot had told them someone was here.

  “Think they’re after that cougar?” Scott asked, his face neutral but his eyes measuring their client.

  Cole shrugged, but he was pale under the weathering and the grime. “Prob’ly. Might as well move into denser forest anyways. Harder to get hit by a stray shot there.”

  Cole set a fast pace, clearly familiar with the area. There were no further shots, but Granville was uneasy, alert to every sound. He tapped Scott’s shoulder. “You think Cole’s trying to leave something behind?” he asked softly.

  “Yup.”

  “Think it’ll work?”

  Scott patted his rifle. “I think I’ll sleep with this beside me.”

  FI
VE

  Thursday, January 4, 1900

  Batting a cedar branch out of his way, Granville shifted the heavy pack on his back as he bent his body into the hill. The faint track they’d followed was lost under the snow, and icy patches made the footing treacherous. He drew in a breath and watched it puff out in little clouds.

  It was cold, a damp cold that seemed to have settled in his bones, still stiff from sleeping with nothing between him and the snow but the canvas of the tent and his bedroll. They’d been forced to camp when the light failed in the late afternoon, and had been underway since first light.

  He glanced behind to see Trent toiling up the slope, leading the two mules. Scott and Cole were ahead, the old miner keeping to a fast pace despite the deepening snow. For all his years, he seemed fit as a mountain goat, and as at home here.

  Granville was keeping an eye on him; there was a nervous alertness about their client he didn’t think was entirely due to their environment.

  There’d been no repeat of yesterday’s shooting, and they hadn’t caught sight of anyone since. Still, he was uneasy. Scott was, also. The alert angle of the big man’s head signaled his watchfulness.

  Cole stopped at a fairly level spot and raised his arm to signal a break.

  Good. That would give him a chance to check the map, see how far they’d come. He could see Scott rummaging in his pack for hazelnuts and dried fruit.

  A soft whoosh of displaced air from behind alerted him and he swung, gun drawn.

  And found himself staring into the beady black eyes of a small white and gray bird. Tufted head aslant, it was perched on a branch no more than two feet from him, eyeing him closely.

  Another landed a foot from the first. A quick glance showed him another half dozen birds forming a rough circle around the four of them.

  Scott was putting up his rifle with a sheepish look and Trent was laughing.

  He gave the boy a glare. “It’s not that funny.”

  “Your face, Granville, your face. If you could just see it,” Trent gasped out.

  “What are they, anyway?”

  “Whiskey Jacks. Seem to know when there’s grub to be had,” Cole said.

  “Were they following us?”

  “Yup.”

  Perhaps the birds explained the uneasy feeling of being watched he’d had all morning. “They expect us to feed them?”

  “Sure. Here, take this.” Trent handed Granville a half slice of dried apple. “Stretch out your arm with the apple on your palm and don’t move.”

  Granville just looked at him.

  Trent grinned widely. “Try it.”

  With a shrug, he did. For a moment nothing happened, then a Whiskey Jack appeared on his hand, tiny black claws gripping delicately. For a long moment man and bird eyed each other, then the small bird picked up the apple in one claw and was gone.

  Granville looked up, met the boy’s dancing eyes, and grinned back at him.

  “Let’s eat,” he said. Inside he was reliving that moment of connection with the wild thing that had perched so confidently on his hand a moment ago.

  He’d never felt anything like it.

  They ate quickly, then scattered a few crumbs for the birds. He sauntered over to where Cole stood scanning the path they’d just climbed. “See something?”

  Cole jumped. “Nope. Nothin’ at all.”

  So what was Cole expecting to see? Or should that be whom? “I’d like to have a look at the map.”

  Grimacing, Cole reached inside his layers of wool and pulled out the waxed oilcloth pouch he’d hung around his neck. He unfolded the map with care, bent over it.

  A stubby, black nailed finger traced a path to just over halfway around the west side of the lake. “We’re ‘bout here.”

  Granville and Scott exchanged glances.

  “That’s all?” Granville said.

  The arduous progress they’d made took up less than three inches on the map. “How long do you think it’ll take us to get there?”

  “We can maybe camp there tonight,” Trent said from where he’d been peering over Granville’s shoulder.

  “Prob’ly. Less’n we run into an ice storm or somethin’,” Cole said.

  Or something. Granville cast a quick glance down the trail behind them.

  Nothing moved, but he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling of unseen eyes, evaluating every move they made.

  Emily stood one tiptoe in front of the bureau mirror and tugged at her long skirt, straightened the front of her white shirtwaist. There!

  She was ready, and as neat as she was ever going to be. Tucking a stray strand back into the tight bun at her nape she took a deep breath. It was time for her third day of learning stenographic skills. She just hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as the first two.

  “Emily? Oh, there you are, dear. And don’t you look—efficient.” Her mother’s eyes softened and she reached out to tuck that stray curl of hair back into place again.

  “I don’t know why you want to study business so much, dear, especially now you’re engaged to Mr. Granville, but you certainly look the part.” She stepped back and looked her youngest daughter up and down, nodding briskly. “Yes, very nice. I’m sure you’ll be the top of your class.”

  Emily gave her a smile that she hoped looked genuine and nodded.

  She doubted she could say anything without revealing the anxiety clenched in her stomach. And she needed to leave before her too astute mother noticed.

  On Tuesday, setting off for her first day at the Pitman Business College, Emily would have been thrilled with her mother’s belief in her. Today she had the memory of those awful moments when half a dozen of the little metal bars of the typewriter had stuck together while her fingers jammed between the keys.

  She hadn’t been prepared for it to be so difficult.

  Watching the typewriter in her father’s office, his fingers flying, the clackety-clack of the keys so rhythmic as to be almost musical, Emily had expected to do that herself before long. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  For one thing, the layout of the keyboard made no sense. When she looked at a word and tried to reproduce it on the typewriting machine, her brain seemed to scramble. What her mind wanted and what her fingers produced had no relation to each other.

  And her fingers still ached from striking each key with enough pressure to send the type bar flying against the ribbon, which transferred the ink to the paper.

  She wasn’t giving up, though.

  If men could learn to typewrite, so could she.

  “You have your fare?” her mother asked.

  Perhaps she had picked up on some of her worries. It wasn’t like her mother to hover so.

  “Yes, I’ll be off now,” Emily said, buttoning up her frieze jacket and holding up the coin with her brightest smile.

  Two hours later Emily was too frustrated even to pretend to smile.

  She sat in the midst of a sea of desks, each with a large black typewriting machine in the center of it. From all around her came the cheerful rattle of keys. Most of the students were men, all in dark business suits, but there was a scattering of women dressed exactly as she was. None of them seemed to have any difficulty in coaxing words out of the stupid machines.

  She gritted her teeth.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Emily jumped. She hadn’t realized that Miss Richards had come up behind her.

  Evelyn Richards owned the school, together with her father Frank, and Emily admired her calm efficiency. She hated to admit that she couldn’t get the infernal machine to work properly.

  “Ah, I see,” Miss Richards said as she bent closer. Was that a hint of laughter in her voice?

  Her deft fingers untangled the type bars, which plopped back into their rightful positions. “Start by typing more slowly. And keep your back very straight.”

  “But…” Emily began, looking at the flying fingers all around her.

  “Learning to typewrite is like any skill. You have to progress at your
own speed.”

  But Emily’s speed was a breakneck pace. She’d never had to slow down before. How could typewriting be so difficult? And why wouldn’t her fingers obey her?

  She let out a little sigh of sheer frustration.

  Miss Richards smiled. “Believe me, I know. I used to be the slowest typewriter in my class.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. But I persevered, and so must you.”

  Emily nodded.

  As soon as Miss Richards moved on, she glared at the round metal circles with their black letters stark against a white background. “All right, keys,” she muttered. “Let’s see who will be master here.”

  An hour later Emily was seriously reconsidering her plans for her future. The reality of spending nine or more hours every day trapped behind a typewriting machine just like this one bore no resemblance to her dream of a meaningful life.

  As if in emphasis, the keys jammed together. Again.

  “Darn,” she said under her breath. The highly improper exclamation helped release some of her frustration.

  She was peering into the depths of the stupid contraption, having tried and failed to pry up the stuck keys, when a soft voice from behind interrupted her. “Excuse me?”

  Emily half turned and smiled at the frail looking blond seated behind her. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you, but do you need help?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I do,” she said, studying the delicate features and determined jaw of her classmate. “It seems to be permanently jammed.”

  The blond got up and leaned over Emily’s typewriter. “I’m Laura Kent.”

  “Emily Turner. Forgive me, but you seem familiar. Have we met?”

  “No, but I served you champagne at the Howe’s ball.”

  Which meant they were from different social spheres. Not that anyone should care, in her opinion, but most did. She liked Laura’s directness in simply telling her. “I hope you were able to enjoy some of the festivities?”