The Lost Mine Murders Read online

  At Trent’s age, he’d never seen violent death except on the hunting fields, and he’d hated watching the fox being torn to bits. The first death by gunshot he’d seen had been Edward, and that had sent him all the way to the Klondike goldfields.

  Three years later, the memory of his friend’s death was still raw.

  “We need a place to hide the body and the gold, and a distraction for our friends up the hill,” he said. “Right now they have the advantage. We need to change that.”

  “Without gettin’ shot.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good idea,” Trent said. “I’ve got a plan.”

  EIGHT

  As the shadows thickened under the trees, Granville led the heavily laden mules back along their original route. Trent and Scott provided covering fire until he was out of sight.

  Angling away from the path, he began to climb, knowing the mules would protest. Loudly. Which they did.

  Grimacing, he made his way further along the steep mountainside. The occasional whine of a bullet told him he’d successfully drawn off their ambushers. Giving the other two times to hide the body.

  And the gold.

  When he finally reached the cave Trent had described, Granville dumped the bags of rocks behind some scree along a back wall. Stretching out his aching shoulder muscles with a weary groan, he released the mules.

  They would make their own way down, and perhaps serve as further distraction.

  Then he was off, changing direction to race down a narrow almost-trail that would circle back to their rendezvous point.

  An hour later it was clear there were a few holes in their plan.

  “Ambushed again,” Scott said.

  The three of them were crouched behind a low rock outcrop, their pursuers well hidden on the treed slope above them.

  All of their exit routes were cut off.

  “The mules didn’t fool them long enough,” Granville said.

  “You think they know we found gold?” Trent asked.

  “They certainly know about the map, and they’d have to be blind not to see the load the mules were carrying. Which makes them more dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  Scott’s eyes met Granville’s over the boy’s head.

  “A gold map’s no guarantee there’s gold at the end of it. If we found gold, it means our map’s real,” Scott said.

  “But the gold was already dug—we don’t know for sure there’s a mine there,” Trent said.

  “Yeah, but they don’t know that.”

  “Together, the gold and the map are easily worth more than all three of our lives,” Granville said. “If the fellows shooting at us are greedy enough, they’ll keep the gold for themselves, and just forget to tell whoever hired them.”

  “I’ll draw them off.” Scott made as if to stand.

  Granville held him down with one hand on his shoulder. “You’re going nowhere.”

  “Even in this light, you’re too big to miss,” Trent said.

  “I think that was rather the point,” Granville said.

  “Oh.”

  “You got a better idea?” Scott asked Granville.

  Granville pulled out the etched sliver flask he’d carried with him since he left London and offered it to Scott. The big man grinned, saluted Granville with the flask and took a swig.

  A line appeared between Trent’s brows as he looked from one to the other. He started to say something, stopped, looked at Granville again. Finally he said, “Maybe there’s a way out of this.”

  “Tell us.”

  “There’s a ravine not far from here that most people avoid, and it’ll get us out without them knowing. If we wait ‘til full dark, we should be safe.”

  “I know I’ll regret asking,” said Granville. “But why do they avoid it?”

  “The Katzie think it’s haunted,” Trent said, “and the rest of ‘em think it’s too steep to be safe.”

  “Hmmm. And is it?”

  “I made it down once,” Trent said.

  Granville narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Well, I’d run out of bullets and a cougar was after me. But I’m sure I can find it again.”

  Granville turned to Scott, whose shoulders were shaking silently. “And what are you laughing at?”

  “I’m not sure which is worse, being shot or using the lad’s escape route.”

  “Well, if the escape route doesn’t work, I’m sure they’d be happy to shoot us.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Trent was looking back and forth from one to the other. “Shouldn’t you be more worried?”

  “No point,” said Granville, passing him the flask. “Have a drink. Waiting for dark is going to seem like forever.”

  Another shot came from above them. He returned fire.

  “I’m down to my last box of cartridges,” Trent said softly from his left.

  He’d been afraid of that. “How far is the entrance of this ravine of yours?”

  “Not very far, but if we go now they’ll see us.”

  “We’ll have to make the bullets last, then. Try to space them out; it shouldn’t be long now.”

  As the darkness thickened around them, Granville braced himself for a rush from above—it was what he’d have done—but nothing happened.

  Maybe their pursuers thought they had them trapped, and were content to wait for dawn.

  Maybe they hoped to freeze them out.

  Finally it was too dark to see. The crackle of a branch underfoot had Granville bracing for a shot, then Trent’s voice came softly. “It’s me. Put your hand on my shoulder and I’ll lead us down. Watch your step, it’s steep.”

  “Right. Scott?”

  “Behind you.” A familiar hand came down on his shoulder, and Granville placed his own hand on Trent’s shoulder.

  It was cold, and as dark as the Yukon in the dead of winter. There was no light to reflect off the snow and every tree root seemed to grab at his feet. The damn slope was too steep to be going down blind.

  Not that they had any choice.

  Granville’s foot slipped and he froze, tightening his hand on Trent’s shoulder so that the boy stopped, too. He couldn’t afford to knock loose anything that might make a noise and alert their unknown assailants. Still less could he afford to fall on a treacherous slope he couldn’t even see.

  Foot by excruciating foot, the three descended.

  Granville couldn’t fathom how Trent was managing to find a path for them, when even following in Trent’s wake was challenging. Behind him, he felt Scott stumble more than once.

  Each time he tensed.

  Scott was big enough that falling he’d take out the other two like bowling pins. Granville’s lips twitched at the mental picture, while his left foot sought and found the next foothold. Mostly the snow had crusted enough to hold their weight.

  Then his foot broke through and found ice.

  He started to slide.

  Scott’s hand grabbed his shoulder like the pincers of some huge crab.

  Heart banging in his chest, Granville found his feet.

  Had their pursuers heard?

  It was a long moment before he could hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. Then all was still except the slight shush of snow as Trent put another careful foot down, a soft whump as another branch lost its weight of snow.

  From somewhere not too far away came a sharp crack and he stiffened.

  “Ice,” came Trent’s voice on a quiet breath and Granville nodded, releasing the breath he’d been holding. A branch somewhere had frozen and exploded.

  Another explosion had him instinctively ducking, then laughing at himself.

  He ignored the third explosion until Scott suddenly threw himself forward, knocking Granville and Trent to the ground.

  They slid downwards in one out of control mass, slamming into the trunk of a mammoth cedar.

  It took a moment to find his scattered wits. “Scott, what…?” Granvi
lle began, only to find a huge hand over his mouth.

  “Rifle shot,” came Scott’s voice harsh in his ear.

  Granville replayed the last few minutes. The first two cracks had been ice, or at least he thought they had, but the last had been different. Scott was right.

  “How did they know where we were?”

  “Somebody has sharp ears.”

  “Wonderful,” Granville said, then realized that he was lying half atop Trent, and the boy didn’t seem to be moving.

  His breath stopped. “Trent?”

  He reached out and shook the boy’s shoulder. “Trent?”

  No response.

  Granville suddenly felt cold in a whole new way. “Scott, I think Trent’s been hit,” he whispered to his friend, who was still sprawled half on top of him.

  Scott’s voice sounded strained. “Can’t have been. That last shot—got me.”

  “What? How bad?”

  “Bad enough. I’m bleedin’ some, and my arm’s gone numb.”

  “Can you move?”

  “I can try.”

  Granville felt Scott gather himself, muttering curses, then the weight lifted off him and he sensed Scott sprawled just a little uphill of him. “Let’s get that bleeding stopped.”

  “Look to the boy.”

  Whether Trent was knocked out or had broken his neck, nothing he could do would help. “I’ll see to you first.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “That’s my intention.” Something in Granville’s voice must have gotten through to Scott, or he was more injured than Granville wanted to think, because he stopped protesting.

  Carefully Granville moved uphill towards where Scott’s voice had come from. “Where’s the wound?” he asked.

  “Left shoulder.” Scott sounded short of breath.

  “Lucky shot.”

  “For them, maybe.”

  If Scott was joking, surely he couldn’t be too badly off? Reaching out, Granville found Scott’s shoulder then eased down, letting out a soft curse when he felt the warm stickiness soaking down his arm.

  “I’m going to stop the bleeding,” he said in a low voice, hoping he could stop it.

  As he spoke, there was a crack and another shot whined overhead.

  They were getting closer.

  Granville unbuttoned the layers of clothing Scott was wearing, working as quickly as he could, but hampered by the pervasive darkness and the need for silence.

  As his hands worked, his mind slid to Trent and the cold knot in his stomach grew. He forced himself to concentrate on stopping Scott’s bleeding. With an effort of will, he mentally ran through the contents of his pack. What could he use for bandages?

  Granville’s fingers found icy cold skin, and a clean entry wound, bleeding freely.

  He let out a quiet sigh of relief.

  The bullet would need to come out, but it had missed anything vital. If he could stop the bleeding, Scott would be fine, unless he succumbed to infection or cold.

  Or another bullet.

  “I gather it’s isn’t a major wound,” came Scott’s voice in a harsh whisper.

  “You’ll live.”

  “Feels like I’ve been kicked by one of our donkeys. And I’m freezing.”

  “Right. I’ll just get a nurse to bind you up.”

  Scott snorted and Granville started to shrug out of his pack.

  “Here,” came Trent’s voice and two folded bandanas were thrust into his hand.

  Granville felt a weight roll off his shoulders. “Thanks. Glad you’ve rejoined us. You okay?”

  “My head hurts but I’m fine.”

  “Dizzy?”

  “Uh—no.”

  “Truth.”

  “Well, maybe a little.”

  Sounded like the boy was concussed. He’d have to keep a close eye on him the rest of the night.

  Another crack, closer yet, and another bullet sung by, a little to the left of where they lay.

  Assuming they made it through the rest of the night.

  Cursing under his breath, he packed one of the squares Trent had handed him tightly against the wound in Scott’s shoulder, wrapping the other of it around him to keep the pressure on. It was an awkward business while trying to keep low to the ground, but at last it was done and Scott buttoned up again.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said in an undertone as he sat back. “Trent?”

  “Nowhere to go but down,” Trent said. “Follow me. And just hope they keep missing.”

  It wasn’t a great option. Still, as long as their pursuers were shooting blind…

  “But the moon’ll be up soon,” the boy finished.

  Great.

  Before he could say anything, there was another crack, closer yet, then a deep rumble that he seemed to feel through his body as much as hear.

  What was that?

  Then he realized. The slope was steeper here, the snow deeper, and the idiots had set off an avalanche.

  Granville froze.

  Behind him he could hear Trent’s harsh intake of breath.

  How close was it?

  From somewhere above came a loud yell suddenly choked off.

  Too close.

  He had to get them out of here.

  The only survival trick he’d ever heard was to try to swim your way through an avalanche as it engulfed you. With his shoulder wound, that wasn’t an option for Scott.

  Granville had to get him clear of the avalanche’s path.

  The roar made by the falling snow seemed to be coming from below as well as above. Granville had a feeling none of them were going to make it out alive.

  But he had to try.

  Grabbing Scott’s arm and draping it over his shoulder, he half-ran up the steep slope, drawing on a strength he hadn’t known he possessed.

  “Come on, Trent,” he yelled.

  When they were halfway up the side of the ravine, the sound died.

  It was eerily quiet.

  Granville held his breath, listening hard. Nothing.

  The avalanche had missed them. Before he could do more than draw in a relieved breath, there was a loud ‘crack’.

  What the hell?

  “The fool is signaling to his buddies,” came Scott’s voice in his ear. “Now, if we’re really lucky, it won’t set off…”

  His words were cut-off by another deep rumble.

  “Guess we weren’t that lucky,” muttered Granville as he half supported, half dragged his wounded partner upwards as quickly as he could.

  But not quickly enough.

  Between one breath and another, the snow was on them.

  NINE

  Granville drew in a deep breath, relieved to find he could do so. His body was aching and all but buried, yet somehow he wasn’t crushed.

  He drew another breath, then slowly sat up, expecting to feel the throbbing sharpness of broken bones. Nothing.

  Moving in what felt like slow motion, he reached up and wiped the snow from his face, noting with detached interest that while his wool cap appeared to be gone, he still had both his mitts.

  The world came back into focus, and with it, fear.

  Scott. Trent. Where were they?

  The last thing he remembered, he’d been dragging Scott towards higher ground, with Trent beside him. Looking at the featureless white around him, Granville felt despair wash over him.

  They could be anywhere.

  A groan from somewhere to his right had him digging through the snow.

  His eyes saw nothing.

  His hands met nothing but cold snow.

  He heard only the shushing of the wind through the cedar trees.

  The trees.

  If the trees had forced the avalanche to break around them, maybe it had left pockets of safety in which one or both of them might still live.

  His eyes scanned the slopes.

  No motion, no color anywhere, only moon-silvered white and the still black trunks.

  He spared a moment to wonder
where their pursuers were, if any of them were still alive, but there was no time to care. If Trent and Scott had been buried by the heavy snow, he had little time to find them.

  Assuming they were still alive.

  How long had he been out? He held his breath, listened hard.

  Another groan, fainter.

  Just ahead of him.

  Granville waited with everything in him for the next faint sound.

  Was that breathing?

  Someone else was alive out here.

  His eyes darted from one patch of shadow to another, listening hard. It came again.

  A breath.

  Another.

  “Scott?” he called. “Trent?”

  A movement. There, in the shadow of that tree.

  Granville stumbled toward the motion, hoping it wasn’t a squirrel or one of the ambushers, carried down by the snow.

  “Trent? Scott?”

  Ducking under a low hanging branch, he found himself in a small cavern of snow, staring into Scott’s pain-glazed eyes.

  The big man was upside down, his legs extending upward out of sight, his head facing downhill. Blood stained the snow beneath his shoulder. “Scott?”

  Scott blinked a few times, as though clearing his vision. An attempt at a smile quirked the big man’s lips. “Good—to see you,” he managed. “Can’t—move.”

  Granville bit back a curse.

  “Let’s get you out of there,” he said in an undertone. “Hang on.”

  He reached out, quickly felt Scott’s limbs.

  Scott’s legs were caught under a thick tangle of branches uphill from where he lay. He was truly lucky they weren’t broken—a little more pressure, a slightly different angle, and they would have been. He didn’t share the thought with Scott.

  His friend had enough problems, blood loss and hypothermia being the most immediate. He needed to get Scott turned around, stop the bleeding and get him warm.

  Somehow.

  His mind flipped to Trent, then he blanked the thought. First he had to see to Scott.

  “Hang on, this might hurt,” he said, as he levered Scott’s legs free of the branches that were pinning him.

  Scott groaned. “Might—hurt,” he said in a thin voice. “Always—the comedian...”