The Lost Mine Murders Page 7

  “Save your strength,” Granville said. As gently as possible, he levered Scott’s legs downhill, pulled his torso around so he faced uphill.

  Scott’s face went whiter than the snow he lay against, but the spread of blood from his shoulder seemed to stop.

  Yanking off the wool scarf he wore, Granville wrapped it twice around Scott’s shoulder and pulled tight. The big man groaned again, then his eyes rolled up in his head.

  “Probably a good thing,” Granville muttered to himself as he pulled the scarf even tighter and tied it off. “Now, how am I going to get you warm?”

  “I’ve got a blanket. Would that help?” said a voice from behind him.

  Granville turned. “Trent?”

  The snow-covered figure grimaced. “Doesn’t sound much like me, does it? Think I swallowed some snow.”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Fetched up under a tree. Luckily without cracking my skull this time. But one of my arms isn’t working too well.”

  “Thank God!”

  “Yeah, well, we’ve still got to get out of here. Even with the moon up it’ll be hard.”

  “Any sign of our pursuers?”

  “Nope. They might of got swept away worse than we did. Where they were? Fewer trees.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is Mr. Scott going to be OK? He doesn’t look so good.”

  “If we can get him out of here, he’ll be fine,” Granville said, hoping it was true. “Think you can help me get him upright without jostling your bad arm?”

  “I can try.” Trent moved to take Scott’s good side, while Granville took the injured side.

  Scott slowly revived and helped as much as he could. Between them, they got him standing without any of them passing out.

  Now all they had to do was get themselves down the mountain.

  Looking at the steep expanse of white stretching below them in the moonlight, Granville groaned inwardly. How exactly were they going to do get themselves out of here?

  Five slow and painful hours later, they reached the head of the lake.

  With the help of the moonlight, Trent had found a shorter route.

  Somehow Scott managed to help, half-stumbling, half dragged between them.

  Granville didn’t want to think about what the effort had cost his friend. Scott’s pale, sweaty face and the glazed look in his eyes told their own story. But they had to get him out before he bled or froze to death. He was too big and the terrain too steep to drag him.

  Scott knew it, too.

  He clung to consciousness with a tenacity that Granville had seen before in men fighting to survive.

  At least there was no further sign of their pursuers.

  Granville glanced at his companions. Trent looked beyond exhausted. Scott was paler than ever.

  As he watched, the big man’s eyes rolled up in his head.

  Granville made a frantic grab for him, managing to get a shoulder under his side, enough to keep him from crashing to the rocky path.

  “Is he all right?” Trent’s worried voice came from Scott’s other side, where he was braced against Scott’s right shoulder.

  Granville’s hand went to the pulse at Scott’s neck.

  To his relief, it was even and fairly strong. By the look of the bandage Scott’s wound had bled again, but the blood was already drying.

  He eased him down. “Pain and blood loss. He needs a doctor. Is there one in Port Hammond?”

  “No. Closest is New Westminster.”

  “Scott won’t make it that far.”

  “The Katzie medicine man is rumored to be skilled at healing.”

  “Rumored?” Granville hated to trust his friend’s life to a rumor, but at the moment he had little choice. “Never mind. We’ll take him to Katzie.”

  Trent looked at their sagging burden. “And how are we going to do that?”

  “Ever built a travois?”

  Trent looked from Scott’s big frame to the steep path they’d be taking along the lake. “Sure. But they don’t work too well on this kind of slope.”

  “Got a better idea?”

  Trent shook his head. Without further comment, he helped Granville lower their burden to the path. Then he melted into the woods.

  Granville listened to the whistle of the wind, checked Scott’s pulse again. Too fast, but at least it was regular.

  He pulled Scott’s coat more closely around him, then tucked the blanket from his pack tightly around him. Taking out his knife, he headed for the trees, breaking his way through thigh high snow.

  The snow wasn’t as deep under the trees, which made it easier. Choosing long, sturdy branches with thick clusters of needles, Granville made short work of cutting them free with his knife.

  Dragging several of the thick branches behind him, he tramped back to where he’d left Scott.

  His friend was still unconscious, but Trent was with him, along with a quantity of branches. Trent was rummaging in his pack.

  Granville noted with approval that he’d already found the rope they’d need. The lad had arranged the greenery in a rough triangle and was binding the branches tightly together at the corners.

  Granville left him to it and went to check on Scott. His partner’s pulse was still steady, but his lips had a blue tinge and he was shivering lightly. The sooner they got him down and warm, the better.

  He brushed snow off Scott’s face, wrapped the blanket more tightly around him. Scott’s eyes flickered, then opened. Glazed with pain, they fastened on Granville with something like desperation.

  “Granville…?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Sarah. Must find—little—Sarah.”

  Was Scott’s mind wandering? “When we get back to town, there may be word from Denver about her.”

  “You—find her. Promise.”

  “I already promised Lizzie I’d find her daughter, remember?”

  For a mad moment Granville felt like laughing. What was it about this mountain and men wanting him to make promises?

  The sudden realization that Scott thought he was dying sobered him instantly. “I’ll find little Sarah, and you’re going to help me. You’re going to be fine, Scott.”

  No answer. Scott was unconscious again.

  “I’m done,” Trent said from where he crouched by the travois.

  Granville walked over, checked the structure, finding it sound. “Good work, Trent.”

  The boy flushed slightly. “Thanks.”

  “Can you give me a hand here?”

  Trent nodded and helped him set the travois beside Scott’s prone body, the wide part near his head, the narrow part at his heels. Between them they half lifted, half dragged Scott onto the travois and tied him firmly in place.

  Then Granville attached lengths of rope to the two corners of the wide end and shrugged into his pack. Trent mirrored his actions, then each of them took a length of rope and hoisted the travois so only the narrow end rested on the snow.

  With a quick grin at Granville, Trent put his back into it, and they began to drag their makeshift sled with its unconscious burden down the uneven lakeshore.

  TEN

  Monday, January 8, 1900

  Monday morning found Emily back in typewriting class, seated neatly in front of her machine and nearly frantic with worry. She’d heard nothing from Granville, nothing from O’Hearn, and between church and afternoon visiting yesterday, she’d not been able to get away from her family even long enough to make a telephone call.

  All around her was the clacking of typewriter keys, and the low hum of voices as some of the students repeated the words to themselves as they typed. Emily raised her hands into position. She typed a word or two, then dropped them again.

  It was no use.

  She couldn’t concentrate.

  “Miss Turner.”

  Emily jumped, looked up to find Miss Richards standing over her. She hadn’t heard her teacher approach.

  “You’re meant to be doing the fingering exercise
. Is there some problem?”

  “No. No, I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night, and am having difficulty concentrating.”

  “I’m afraid that is no excuse,” Miss Richards said. “When you join the world of work, as your presence in this course says you are intent on doing, there will be no acceptable excuses for inattention to your work. The efficiency of an office will depend on you; you must be effective and alert at all times.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry,” mumbled Emily. She could feel herself flushing.

  For the next half hour she typed, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” over and over again, forcing herself to focus. She could feel Miss Richards’s sharp glances, but she didn’t look up.

  When it was finally time for the break, Laura came up behind her. “Emily, are you all right?” she said in a low voice. “Come outside, I must speak with you. And bring your coat. The wind has come up, and there’s snow in it.”

  Quickly Emily fetched her thick wool jacket and followed Laura.

  Once they were standing in the lea of the building with their backs to the sharp wind, Laura turned to face Emily.

  A few heavily laden carts clattered by on the street behind her and one of the horses neighed a protest, but Laura ignored them. She looked worried, Emily thought, and braced herself.

  “Emily, I overheard Liz Andrews, Julie Parker and Andy Riggs gossiping before class.”

  “What did they say?”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but—they said Mr. Granville has been shot.”

  She couldn’t get her breath. “Shot! Are you sure?”

  Laura nodded and pressed her arm. “Oh Emily. You haven’t heard anything?”

  “No. How—how bad is it?”

  “From what I could hear he is still alive, but that’s all I know. I’m so, so sorry.” She gripped Emily’s arm tighter.

  “I must know more.”

  “I’ll find out for you. They won’t talk to you.”

  “They’ll have to talk to me, whether they like me or not.”

  “It’s your father’s money they don’t like. They resent your being here, but they think I’m like them.” There was disdain in Laura’s voice. “I’ll—I’ll flirt with Andy. Get him to talk. He’s soft on me, anyway. It shouldn’t be hard.”

  “You’re sure you want to do this? It may be dangerous.”

  Laura gave her a sharp smile. “I’m sure.”

  “Be careful,” Emily said as she watched her unexpected champion depart.

  It was impossible to concentrate the rest of the morning.

  Even Emily’s growing knowledge of shorthand had deserted her. Everything she took down was indecipherable when she went to type it back. She’d never been so glad of anything as when Miss Richards called the lunch break and she saw Laura signaling to meet her in the cloakroom.

  “What did you learn?” Emily asked her.

  “It sounds as if the injuries were minor.”

  Unlike her sister Jane, Emily wasn’t a fainter, but she had to steady herself with a hand against the wall. She closed her eyes, breathed a silent prayer.

  “But they say your fiancé has a map to a cursed gold mine, and that the map was stolen from a murdered man,” Laura said.

  Who had been murdered, and when? “Did they mention a Mr. Gipson?”

  “They didn’t mention any names. Why?”

  “Never mind,” Emily said. “Go on.”

  “They say Mr. Granville can’t escape the curse.”

  “What curse?”

  “Apparently all who touch the map die a horrible death by unseen hands,” Laura said in a shaky voice.

  “Meaning they’ll be attacked at night,” Emily said. “Those who go around talking about people dying from curses usually attack after dark.”

  “But—don’t you believe in curses?”

  Emily shook her head. “No, and I don’t believe in hauntings, either. But thank you for telling me, Laura. Can you make my excuses to Miss Richards? Say I’m feeling unwell and have gone home.”

  “You’ve been so distracted she’ll believe that easily,” Laura said. “Yes, of course I’ll tell her.”

  “Thank you,” Emily said absently reaching for her coat.

  At least it was a minor injury Granville had suffered. She’d force herself to believe he would be fine, but she hated the helplessness she was feeling.

  What she really wanted was to get a horse and ride into the mountains to save him, though she had to smile at the image. She enjoyed riding through a snowfall in Stanley Park, but she didn’t have the knowledge or the skills to survive in the snow-covered mountains beyond town.

  Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Emily resolved to do the only thing she could; to see what she could find out about the map and the conspiracy against Granville. It might be reckless, but at least she’d be doing something.

  And once he was safely back, perhaps that information would help him. And he would be back safely. She refused to consider any other possibility.

  Bundling into her coat and bonnet, she hurried down the narrow back stairs to avoid Miss Richards. Pushing through the heavy door, she paused for a moment, irresolute, then pulled her coat closer against the sharp wind and turned away from her route home.

  The livery stable was quieter than the last time Emily had been here. A few horses nickered back and forth. From somewhere came the steady thump of shod hooves kicking a stall.

  “Quiet, there,” a voice yelled, and the noise stopped.

  Bits of hay drifted through the air, and the midday sun glittered off cobwebs thickly draped between the high rafters. Emily brushed at the back of her neck. She hated the very thought of spiders.

  Catching Mr. Riggs’ eye on her, she hurriedly dropped her hand.

  “Don’t know why you’re here again, Missy. I can’t help you,” he was saying with a heavy frown. Small brown eyes darted from Emily to Clara and back.

  “Oh, I know,” said Emily, with a confidence she didn’t feel. She was glad she’d stopped to collect Clara—even with her company, this felt risky. “However since your son has been somewhat indiscreet about the plot against my fiancé, I thought you might like to clarify a few details.”

  The man’s scowl deepened. “Young idiot don’t know what he’s talking about. You’d best go, the both of you. A livery stable is no place for a lady.”

  And he turned his back on them, busying himself with a stack of papers that looked ready to topple onto the scarred wooden table. “He’ll regret he ever heard of that map, though,” he added under his breath.

  Emily shivered at the venom in the man’s voice. Suddenly she wanted to be as far away from the livery stable as possible. “Thank you for your time. Come along, Clara.”

  “Well, that was useful,” Clara said when they were safely outside. “Can we go shopping now?”

  “I know it was a waste of time,” Emily said. “But he might have been startled into telling us something. Anything I can learn about the conspiracy might help Granville.”

  Clara patted her arm. “So what do we do next?”

  She must have sounded more desperate than she’d realized. “Thank you, Clara.” Snapping open her watchcase, she glanced at the time. “We still have more than an hour before dinner. Time enough to visit Mr. Gipson.”

  “Since he’s a released felon, I’m sure no one will think anything of our going to see him,” said Clara in her sweetest tone.

  “He’s pretending to be just a businessman. It won’t be too bad.”

  And indeed it wasn’t.

  Mr. Gipson’s offices were in a much pleasanter part of town than the livery stable, and bore no resemblance to what Emily would have expected of a criminal. The dark oak paneling topped with soberly striped wallpaper and heavy furniture reminded her of her father’s office. They were received by a very polite clerk, and asked to wait until Mr. Gipson could see them.

  Impatient, Emily distracted herself by watching the clerk’s fin
gers fly over his typewriting machine. He seemed to be having no difficulties with keys sticking together or having his fingers stuck between the keys. And he had to be typing more than sixty words per minute.

  Before she could ask him how long he had been a typewriter, which would probably have thoroughly embarrassed Clara, a slim, silver-haired gentleman dressed in impeccable black appeared at the door.

  “Please come in, ladies,” he said.

  This was the fraud who was Granville’s mortal enemy? Emily looked past the sartorial splendor to take in the narrowing of his eyes as he assessed them. Did he know who she was?

  Something about the way he watched her said he did.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Gipson,” she said as she and Clara preceded him into his office.

  Here the resemblance to her father’s substantial office was even stronger. Everything from the heavy wood furniture down to the thick carpets spoke of a successful man.

  He knew it too, Emily thought, seating herself and watching as he gracefully rounded his desk and sank back in his large leather chair.

  He brought his hands together, index fingers tapping against his chin. “Now, how may I be of service?”

  “Mr. Riggs suggested we should talk with you,” she said.

  “Indeed? Now why would he make such a suggestion, I wonder?”

  Had he looked just a little startled? Perhaps she could shake him further. “You are in business together, are you not?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But how may I help you?”

  He’d recovered himself far too quickly. Emily decided to play the role of a rather naïve young lady. “I’m engaged to Mr. Granville,” she said, and managed to blush. “Do you know him?”

  “I had the pleasure of meeting him in the Klondike, where we both spent some time.”

  Pleasure indeed. Granville had told her some of what this man had done, including that he’d tried on at least one occasion to kill him, and would have succeeded if not for Mr. Scott.

  “Mr. Granville is out of town at the moment, on business, you know, but before he left he told me a little bit about the mine with the curse on it. Mr. Riggs is the father of a friend of mine, and he said you might be able to tell me more about the mine? I think it so romantic the mine was discovered by a lady, and that she died before seeing a penny from it.”