The Lost Mine Murders Page 5

  “Shall we see if we can find Mr. O’Hearn at the newsroom?”

  Emily was too busy calculating how she would get word to Granville to wonder about Clara’s new decisiveness.

  The Daily World newsroom seemed even more crowded and noisy than usual. Brash voices and shouts of laughter echoed over the relentless clatter of typewriter keyboards. Every desk was filled, and a group of men stood over an old stove in the far corner, deep in conversation. Emily didn’t see a single woman anywhere.

  As they neared Tim O’Hearn’s desk, Emily watched Clara’s face.

  The reporter obviously did mean more to her friend than she had originally guessed. She wondered for a moment if her face was that easy to read when Granville was around, and rather hoped it wasn’t.

  O’Hearn looked up, saw Clara and beamed. Then he scrambled to his feet. “You’ll never guess what I’ve uncovered.”

  Clara’s dimples showed. “Mr. Riggs is in partnership with Mr. Gipson.”

  “How the blazes did you know that? I just found out myself because I checked the land titles and articles of incorporation, and that’s da—darned tedious reading, let me tell you.”

  “We have our ways,” Clara said in an airy tone.

  Emily smiled at the baffled look on O’Hearn’s face.

  “Tell us about the articles of incorporation,” Clara said. “Are these for the livery? Whatever made you think to look for them?”

  He gazed into Clara’s wide blue eyes, then looked down at the papers strewn across his desk with a visible effort. “Yes, they’re for the livery. And it seemed the place to start—it’s always interesting to know where the financing comes from.”

  “But I thought Mr. Gipson had been in town less than a year,” Emily said. “How could he be a partner in the stables?”

  O’Hearn laughed. “He isn’t exactly a partner,” he said. “Word is that Riggs is rather fond of the cards, and lost pretty heavily to Gipson. Now Gipson holds the mortgage.”

  “Hmmm,” said Clara. “So Mr. Riggs would have an incentive to participate in any business Mr. Gipson wanted him to.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We don’t yet know that he did so,” Emily said. “But if he did, how did he know there really is gold? And what are they planning?”

  “You’d make a good reporter,” said O’Hearn with a broad grin, tipping his cap to her. “I’ll see what else I can find out.”

  “Thank you. If you need to reach me, we’re on the telephone. It’s 3079. Just tell them you’re calling about my classes.”

  “Right.” O’Hearn scribbled down the number.

  Emily and Clara linked arms and strolled out.

  Clara’s hand tightened on her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Emily said.

  “You’ll call me if you hear anything about Mr. Granville?”

  “Yes, I will. Or when I hear he’s returned.” And let that be soon, Emily thought. Please, let it be soon.

  But it wasn’t enough to sit and hope.

  As she rode home on the streetcar, Emily mentally composed the note she would send to Granville.

  Caught up in her thoughts, she rode past her stop, and had to hurry back the extra two blocks to her family’s home.

  Dashing up the stairs to change for dinner, Emily stopped dead and stared at the dark shape lurking outside her room. “Bertie? Whatever are you doing here?”

  “A telegram comes for Master Granville.”

  Emily’s heart began to race. “For Mr. Granville? Where is it?”

  Silently their houseboy handed her a folded yellow paper. Emily quickly opened it and scanned the terse message. “Have lead. Come at once. Harris.”

  Harris was the detective Granville had met in Denver, so this was about little Sarah. Had they found her?

  She took a deep breath to steady herself. “I must get word to Mr. Granville as soon as possible. Bertie, Trent said you know a way?”

  Bertie nodded, his long pigtail bobbing against the gray tunic he wore. “The cousin of my cousin is ancestor hunter. He leave soon for Hope, but for me he stop in Port Hammond.”

  “And Katzie, just in case.”

  “Yes.”

  Despite the urgency she felt, she was intrigued his words. “What is an ancestor hunter?”

  “He search for the bones of Chinese who die while working on the iron road. The—remains?” He stumbled over the ‘R’s.

  He was looking for the bodies of the men who had died building the railroad.

  Emily felt a shiver at the thought, but kept her voice steady. “Yes, remains is correct. But why?”

  “To send home. Bones then given proper burial in the home of ancestors.”

  It seemed to Emily a gruesome thing to do, but obviously it was important to Bertie. She inclined her head, which could be taken as agreement or homage to the dead, then asked, “Can your cousin take the message tomorrow?”

  “I ask.”

  “Thank you, Bertie. I’ll write two copies of a note for Mr. Granville now, and give them to you after dinner.”

  Bertie bowed. Emily smiled her thanks then raced back downstairs to search for paper, ink and a working pen.

  SEVEN

  Sunday, January 7, 1900

  Granville’s day started early, leading the heavily laden mules down the steep slope. His pack was heavy with gold, as was Scott’s. It was an odd feeling to carry such a fortune. He’d known men’s lives destroyed by half of what they’d brought out.

  When he’d seen the glittering hoard in the firelight, little Sarah’s rescue had been his first thought, the opportunity to really build a new life in this new land his second. Their fledgling business had possibilities, but no new enterprise succeeds without capital. Gentry or not, he’d seen enough fail to know that.

  More snow had fallen overnight, and the limbs of every tree they passed hung low and heavy. The dry powder packed easily, crunching underfoot. Every now and then a fir would drop its burden of snow with a whump, leaving fine particles drifting and sparkling in the crisp air.

  Knowing how much gold they carried, his every sense was tuned high.

  The light was already failing and his shoulders screaming from the weight of the gold when the back of his neck began to prickle.

  Granville scanned the wall of trunks stretching off in every direction. The underbrush was too thin to hide much.

  Nothing moved except the boughs overhead as the wind sighed through them. Even the whiskey jacks that had been following them earlier had vanished. He sniffed the air. Only the clean freshness of cedar and snow.

  Quickening his pace, he moved into step with Scott and touched his arm. Gesturing towards the trees ahead, he raised an eyebrow.

  His partner’s eyes met his, then scanned the forest around them. Scott nodded once, his hand falling to his rifle. His partner was as uneasy as he was, and Scott’s woodcraft skills were better developed than his own.

  Glancing over his shoulder at Trent, Granville was relieved to see the boy was also alert, rifle at hand and eyes scanning the area ahead of them. Whatever was out there, the boy sensed it too.

  Granville’s eyes sought out their client. Cole looked tense, and his eyes darted back and forth.

  They pressed on, moving as quickly as the deep snow, their heavy packs and the mules would allow. The track ahead widened and the trees grew further apart, with denser undergrowth and clear patches between.

  Granville didn’t like the look of it. Too much potential for ambushes.

  He slowed his pace, fell into step with Trent, who was still leading the mules. “Is there another route when we get to the lake?”

  Trent didn’t take his eyes off the trail ahead. “No. Or at least, not one that makes sense. It’s too steep, and if someone’s following us, we’d be targets.”

  “I’ve a feeling we may be targets in any case.”

  Trent slung his rifle forward, a look of determination on his face. “There’s four of us, armed.
”

  “We can’t shoot what we can’t see.”

  “Then maybe they can’t see us, either.”

  The boy could be right, though Granville doubted either of them believed it. It depended on how wily an attacker was, and how familiar with the terrain. “Wonder who Cole’s told about his map?”

  “You think it’s the map they’re after?”

  “I think any hint of gold brings out the worst in my fellow man.”

  Granville’s eyes sought out their client.

  He and Trent were too far ahead of them.

  Before he could shout a warning, he heard a high whining sound above the sound of the wind, then a second.

  “Get down,” he yelled, pulling Trent down with him.

  Ahead of him he saw the old miner stagger, then fall, with Scott right behind him.

  Were they hit?

  Brushing snow out of his eyes, Granville squinted towards where he’d last seen Scott and Cole.

  Two forms lay dark and still against the white snow.

  No!

  He hadn’t saved Scott from hanging just to see him killed by some petty thief.

  “Anyone hit?” Trent asked, raising his head to look.

  “Stay down,” Granville snarled, pushing his head back down. “No point you getting shot too.”

  “Too?” Trent said. “You mean…?” His head was rising again as he spoke.

  “Down, I said.”

  As if to emphasize his words, another bullet whirred just over their heads and vanished into the cedar boughs behind them.

  A part of Granville’s mind seemed to be standing to one side, watching calmly. He drew his revolver, took aim, fired. “I hope whiskey jacks know how to duck.”

  “Is Mr. Scott okay?”

  Granville had seen no sign of movement from either man. “Just stay down. I’m going to find out.”

  Trent gave him a quick look, but said nothing.

  Keeping close to the little cover available, Granville started towards the two still figures.

  He inched his way forward, braced for the whine of another bullet.

  It didn’t come.

  What were they waiting for?

  Glancing back, he saw Trent calmly aim his rifle and fire.

  Good thing they’d brought the boy along, after all. He grinned and kept crawling.

  As he got closer, he saw Scott’s head move slightly. Brown eyes met his. One closed in a wink.

  A slight dip kept Scott and Cole out of his sight for a moment. When he could see them again, Scott was moving, taking advantage of the cover Trent had provided to drag their client behind a large boulder.

  Granville released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

  If his partner was injured, it wasn’t badly.

  A bullet whined by and he ducked.

  That one had been too close.

  An answering shot from Trent followed by a yelp had him grinning fiercely. “Good for you, boy,” he said, resuming his slow progress towards Scott and Cole.

  As he got closer, he could see Scott was holding his red bandanna against their client’s shoulder. Granville hoped the old man had been winged rather than something more serious.

  Then it dawned on him that Scott didn’t own a red bandana, just the large white one he used as a handkerchief.

  “Not good,” he muttered, moving faster. “How is he?” he asked when he was close enough.

  Scott just shook his head.

  Taking in their client’s pallor, Granville could see that. He reached for a wrist.

  There was a pulse, but it was thready. Shock. “Can you stop the bleeding?”

  “Not so far,” Scott said, pressing even harder against the old miner’s shoulder. “The bullet may have nicked something.”

  An artery? Granville hoped not.

  If that was arterial blood, Cole was a goner. “Were they aiming for him?”

  “Think so. I’m bigger’n he is, and he’s the one got hit, so it’s a good bet.”

  “The map?”

  “It figures, doesn’t it?”

  Granville couldn’t argue with that. It did figure. “Problem is, what do they do now? They can’t get to the map without going through the three of us. Do you think they know about the gold?”

  “Two heavily laden pack mules coming down where two lightly laden ones went up have to tell them something.”

  “Assuming they’ve been behind us all along. We’ll be better off if they don’t know about the gold. If they know, they’ll never give up.”

  Scott nodded, his hand still pressed firmly against the old man’s wound. “Yeah.”

  Two shots from above quickly followed by one from Trent suggested their attackers were growing bolder. “Can you tell how many there are?”

  “Muzzle flashes from at least three locations,” Scott said.

  Which meant the bastards had them pinned, because they had the higher ground. In a fair fight, he’d be willing to bet on the three of them against any three villains, but…

  “Make that four,” Scott said as another bullet whined past.

  “Damn.” Out-numbered and out-maneuvered.

  “Doesn’t look good. Can you take over here?”

  They switched places, Granville pressing the soaked pad against their client’s shoulder while Scott unslung his rifle. A gurgling sound had him looking down. Cole was staring at him.

  “I’m—still your client,” he said in a voice so weak Granville had to lean closer to hear him.

  “You are.”

  A bullet ricocheted off the boulder that sheltered them and missed him by less than a foot.

  Scott returned fire, then ducked and ran to take cover behind another boulder with a better angle.

  Cole was still trying to talk. “Want to hire you—Five percent,” he began, then stopped on a gasp.

  The man’s wits were wandering, Granville thought with pity. “You already did that.”

  “No—no, another ass—assignment. The map—the gold. You have to find…”

  “We found the gold. Yesterday.”

  Cole somehow found the strength to glare at him. “I’m a goner—not an idiot.” He gasped, choked a little. “The map—I’m hiring you—to find the rightful heir.”

  “You want us to find your heir?”

  That earned him another glare. “Not my—heir. Rightful heir. Hire you and your—partner. For another five—percent of the mine. D’you—agree?”

  He’d known their client was hiding something. Who had he stolen the map from, anyway?

  But Cole was dying.

  “You want to hire Scott and myself to find the rightful heir to your map. And you’ll pay us another five percent of the mine if we do. Right?”

  “Yes.” It was a sigh. Then Cole seemed to gather his strength. Meeting Granville’s eyes, he said clearly. “Swear you’ll do this. Swear—on your honor—as a gentleman.”

  Granville hesitated, caught.

  If he swore such an oath, then he would follow through, no matter how difficult or dangerous the task became.

  He trusted their client even less than before. But the man was dying.

  “Swear,” Cole said.

  He needed more information before he committed to what could well be an impossible task. “Who is the heir?”

  “James’s daughter—Mary.”

  A woman? “How did James die?”

  “My—fault. Please. Mary. She needs—the money. Swear.”

  A woman in need? How could he deny that request?

  But Cole could have killed his former partner for the map and the gold. How could he be sure he wasn’t lying now?

  He met the old man’s eyes; saw the truth and the plea in them. “I swear.”

  “On—honor.”

  “I swear on my honor to find the rightful heir to the map. What was James’s name? Mary’s last name?”

  A gurgling breath was his only answer.

  Cole’s face had gone gray and his breathing
was shallow. He took the gnarled fingers in his own. “I need a name,” he said urgently.

  Blue-tinged lips tried to frame a word, then the hand fell limp. The light died out of the old man’s eyes.

  “Damn. Now we have to find a nameless woman,” Granville said, closing the staring eyes. “Rest in peace, old-timer.”

  Scott fired off a shot, turned. “He’s gone?” he asked, just loud enough for Granville to hear.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s get out of here. What’d he say to you, anyway?”

  “You could say we have ongoing employment.”

  “Uh huh. That like the time you agreed to us digging the top part of Rabbit Creek, ‘stead of the segment we were already working?”

  A bullet whined overhead and both men ducked down behind the sheltering rocks. “Probably. But I think we should have this discussion later, don’t you?”

  Scott rolled his eyes, fired again, then glanced at their former client. “Do we leave him here?”

  “He lied to us, and he killed his partner. Still, in the end he tried to do the right thing. And he was our client.”

  “Can’t just leave clients lyin’ about.”

  Granville ignored that. “We’ll need somewhere to hide the body and the gold.”

  “You thinking a false trail?”

  Granville nodded.

  Reaching over, he removed the map pouch from around the dead man’s neck and slipped it over his own head and down inside his flannel shirt. “I’ll talk with Trent about hiding spots, you think of a distraction for these bounders. Cover me?”

  “Done. Left.”

  Granville broke from behind the boulder, firing towards the shooters on the right.

  Behind him he could hear Scott firing at the shooters on the left and Trent, bless him, shooting at everything that moved.

  Head down, body low to the ground, Granville sprinted back to where he’d left the boy. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “About time. Is Scott all right?”

  “Yes, but Cole’s dead.”

  “Thought that fall looked pretty limp. So what’s next?”

  Trent didn’t waste any time on sympathy for their departed client, Granville noted, once again aware of how different life had been for this boy than it had for him.