The Lost Mine Murders Page 8

  Pausing for breath, Emily noted out of the corner of her eye that Clara was staring at her in fascination. She hoped her friend wouldn’t give her away.

  Mr. Gipson also stared at her for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Bravo. A very inventive story, and one that almost convinces me your Mr. Granville is looking for something he’s not. But I’m afraid it really won’t work.

  You see, I know Granville to be searching for a mine discovered by a murderous Indian who was hanged in New Westminster some ten years ago. Hardly a romantic story, and not something a young lady should be bothering her head with. Surely you have a trousseau to prepare?”

  Emily gave him her company smile, the one that showed no teeth and didn’t reach her eyes. She ignored the question, which Gipson hadn’t meant anyway. “You’re quite mistaken.”

  “Oh, I think not.”

  “Then you can tell me nothing of this mine?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Nor the conspiracy against my fiancé’s life?” Emily focused on Gipson’s face, ignoring Clara’s little gasp, but the man’s expression didn’t even flicker at her words.

  “Again, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “I see. Then thank you for your time.”

  “I’m always happy to assist so attractive a young lady,” he said with a little bow.

  Snake!

  “Goodbye, Mr. Gipson,” she said in a tone even her mother could not have found fault with as she turned to the door.

  At least she’d learned that Mr. Gipson knew where Granville had gone. And O’Hearn had been right about Slumach’s lost mine.

  But who was really behind the ambush on Granville’s party?

  “Do you think Mr. O’Hearn would be interested in going to New Westminster to find out more about that mine?” she asked Clara as the walked back towards the streetcar stop.

  “Not unless he can publish a story on it. Emily, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Not at all,” she said.

  A large puddle in the middle of the sidewalk forced them onto the muddy road for a short stretch. Emily waited for a carriage and two carts to pass, then took Clara’s arm. “Watch your step,” she said, steering Clara around a steaming pile of manure at the edge of the street.

  It was a good thing she’d never told Clara the full story of the enmity between Granville and Gipson. “Besides, I’m not worth Mr. Gipson’s trouble. I clearly know nothing at all.”

  Clara sputtered for a moment, then glared at Emily. “You have lost your senses. And I thought Mr. Granville wanted to keep the mine a secret?”

  Emily smoothed her gloves and adjusted the angle of her bonnet. “He does, though it hardly seems to be much of a secret, does it? But I don’t see why Mr. O’Hearn would have to report on it now.”

  “Because his editor is concerned that he isn’t filing enough stories, and he may be in danger of being fired. He can’t afford the time away from his real work.”

  “Even though he broke the story behind the murder of Mr. Jackson last month?”

  “Especially because of that. The other reporters are watching him more closely than ever, and he is under pressure to produce another story of that caliber. Do you think this could be it?”

  “Until I talk with Mr. Granville, I don’t know what to think. But how do you know all this?”

  Clara flushed lightly. “Tim—Mr. O’Hearn has telephoned me once or twice. When he knew I’d be free to talk to him.”

  Emily smiled. “I see.”

  “So what do we do now?” Clara asked quickly.

  “Bertie’s cousin leaves tonight. I’ll be sending a message to Mr. Granville about the ambush and about Mr. Riggs and Mr. Gipson. I only hope he gets it in time.”

  Clara nodded. She knew all about Bertie’s cousin and his macabre errand.

  “I’ll need you to help me keep gathering information for him. I just hope it will be useful.” And that Granville would still be alive to hear it.

  She couldn’t bring herself to voice her fear that he might even now be dead or grievously injured.

  Granville watched as the Katzie shaman probed the wound in Scott’s shoulder with quick strokes of a long, narrow blade. Within moments, he had the bullet out.

  The man seemed to know what he was about, but when he began to pack Scott’s wound with long grayish green strands of lichen, Granville stiffened, ready to protest.

  Trent, still too pale, put out a hand and touched Granville’s shoulder. “They all use that here—says it helps the healing. Works, too.”

  Granville gave the wiry strands a skeptical look. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Uh huh. You don’t want to risk rot, do you?”

  No. He’d seen what gangrene looked and smelled like as it ate away at a frostbitten foot, then began to devour healthy flesh. Granville shuddered. Scott wouldn’t last a week.

  Medicine in this remote part of the world seemed nearly as advanced as in London, but there was no effective way to combat gangrene once it took hold. If the dry grayish threads were an effective deterrent, then he didn’t care what they looked like.

  The rich smell of something cooking had Granville’s stomach rumbling. He sniffed the air appreciatively. It had been far too long since any of them had eaten. “What smells so good?”

  Trent smiled. “Salmon chowder.”

  “At this time of year?”

  “Dried salmon. And it’ll taste nearly as good as it smells, as long as you don’t ask what else is in it. But don’t you think you’d best get your arm seen to, before you think about food?”

  “My arm?” Just how hard was the blow to the head the boy had received, anyway?

  Trent pointed, and Granville looked down. The stain of dark blood on his jacket surprised him. “It must be Scott’s,” he said.

  “I don’t think so. It’s spreading.”

  Granville looked back at his arm. Sure enough, the edges of the bloodstain had widened slightly. As he watched, they widened again.

  “Well, damn,” he said, suddenly aware of a throbbing pain, sharper than the bruising from the avalanche…

  ELEVEN

  Granville opened his eyes to find dark eyes watching him out of a broad, smooth face. The man looked vaguely familiar, but who? And where?

  He blinked twice, willing his mind to clear. He didn’t feel threatened, but he did feel decidedly odd. Where was he? He drew in a deep breath, relieved to find he could do so.

  Another face moved into his field of vision. This one he recognized.

  “Granville, are you all right?” Trent asked.

  “What happened?”

  “You passed out. The shaman here says it’s from blood loss. And the bullet was still lodged in your arm. I’m amazed you didn’t feel it.”

  Granville felt like someone had wrapped his brain in wool as he tried to process what Trent was saying.

  He recognized the first face now. It was the same Indian who had seen to Scott’s wounds. He remembered he’d been impressed by the man’s confidence and air of wisdom, despite the fact that he seemed barely into middle age. At least he’d been impressed until the man had started shoving dried plants into Scott’s arm.

  Granville’s fuzzy mind focused on that thought.

  What had the shaman put in his own wound? And had Trent said they’d pulled out a bullet? Surely that couldn’t be right. When had he been shot and how bad was it?

  He tried to scan his body for pain, but everything hurt too much to distinguish any particular pain. There was that aching that seemed to be a new pain, but aside from the infernal muzziness, he was fine. He just needed to sit up and…

  “Granville. Hey, Granville.”

  Trent’s voice seemed to be coming from a long way off, but the urgency in it had Granville forcing his eyes open. “Wha…?”

  He lifted his head and a cup was held to his lips. Obediently he took a long swallow, and then began to sputter. It was the most bitter, wrong-tasting liq
uid he’d ever had the misfortune to swallow. And after his time in the Klondike, that was saying something.

  “Are you trying to poison me? What is that infernal stuff?”

  “I told you, you’ve lost some blood. The shaman says this will build your blood. Or something like that.”

  Granville swallowed, trying to get the bitterness out of his mouth. “He told you this potion of his would build my blood, and you just fed it to me?”

  “Well, I think he said it would fix your blood.”

  “You think? How do you know he isn’t trying to poison me?”

  “This shaman is one of the good guys. He treated me once, that time I took on a mountain lion and lost.”

  “You took on a—never mind. I don’t want to know. Did he dose you with one of these potions of his?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then how could you feed it to me?”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I? And by rights, I shouldn’t be. Pa had to drag me more than ten miles with my shoulder laid open, bleeding all the way. We were lucky the blood didn’t pull another lion.”

  At least it wasn’t poison. And the shaman did seem to know what he was doing. But he wasn’t staying for another dose of that medicine.

  Granville closed his eyes, trying to find the energy to get himself back on his feet. He drew in a deep breath, noting the sharp, clean scent of the cedar branches he lay on. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so weak. Gritting his teeth, he began to lever himself off the soft mat of branches.

  Trent’s hand against his shoulder stopped him. Granville was chagrined to realize that it took very little pressure to keep him lying there. “How deep was the bullet?”

  “I was clawed, not shot,” Trent said.

  He chuckled, then winced to hear how weak he sounded. From the look on the boy’s face, Trent thought his mind was wandering. “I mean the bullet they dug out of me,” he said. “Isn’t that what you told me earlier? So how deep was it?”

  “Granville, that was four hours ago.”

  “You mean I’ve been out all that time?”

  Trent nodded.

  And the boy hadn’t mentioned Scott. He pictured Scott’s drained face, heard again his shaky words, his certainty he was dying, and felt a clench of fear. “How is Scott?”

  “He’s fine, sleeping. He lost even more blood than you did.”

  Trent waved to a blanket-covered lump some ten feet away from where he himself lay. “See for yourself. That’s him.”

  Scott’s face was turned away from them, but he could see the steady rise and fall of the blankets. Relief made his tone sharper than he’d intended. “So you’ve been dosing him with that potion of yours too?”

  Trent didn’t seem to take it amiss. “No, the shaman says he needs to sleep.”

  “You didn’t let me sleep.”

  “He said you need the potion more.”

  “Great,” muttered Granville. “Are you going to tell me where I got shot or not?”

  “You sure get demanding when you’re laid up,” Trent said with a grin. “It was lodged against the bone. The bullet must have been nearly spent, cause it should have broken the bone. Bruised it some, though.”

  Granville tried to picture it. “How is that even possible?”

  Trent shrugged, “The shooter was uphill, the bullet probably ricocheted, maybe even a couple of times.”

  A jumble of images flashed through Granville’s mind; the whine of a bullet, the rumble of the avalanche, the moment of stark terror as the world had turned white, then upside down. He drew in a deep breath, forced his tired mind to make sense of what he was remembering.

  Then his mind focused and his hand went to his neck. The map!

  There was no sign of the oilcloth pouch that had hung there. If the avalanche had been torn it off, they’d never find it.

  Despite the headache that pounded behind his eyes, he tried to visualize the lines and words in faded ink that marked a debt of honor and perhaps a woman’s salvation.

  Before he could comprehend the enormity of the loss Trent’s hand touched his shoulder.

  He looked up to see Trent tapping his own chest. “I have it,” he said. “We had to get your shirt off to get at your wound, but I made sure no-one saw it.”

  Granville blinked twice, trying to get Trent to come into focus.

  He could feel himself fading, and it was an effort to comprehend what the boy was saying. He blinked again, stared at Trent’s chest, and suddenly understood.

  A moment of overwhelming relief was followed by a wave of dizziness.

  Then the blackness closed in on him.

  TWELVE

  Wednesday, January 10, 1900

  Emily stared out the streetcar window as thick forest gave way to rain drenched fields and thought about Granville. How badly wounded was he? Would he have received the note she’d sent him?

  Would it help?

  She could only pray it would. All she could do now was keep gathering information, hope it would help him when he returned.

  To keep from thinking about him injured, perhaps dying and the helpless feeling it gave her, she focused on the empty fields, dotted here and there with stumps that must have been too big to remove, and busied her mind trying to imagine clearing this land. How had they done it, logged thick forests with no more than axes, saws and horses to pull out the stumps, clearing acre after acre of land, built farms?

  Her father said the land here was rich; a former river delta, so things grew easily, but that meant the trees must have grown easily, too, with deep, strong roots. What made someone want to farm such land, to see a dense forest and think of clearing it to grow food to feed the cities?

  “What are you looking at, Emily?” Clara asked

  “Do you ever wonder where our food comes from, Clara?”

  Clara looked at Emily, then out the window. “You think too much, Emily,” she said.

  Disembarking in New Westminster some half an hour later, Emily looked around her for a confused moment. Columbia Street was still lined with graceful buildings of wood and brick and stone, but some of them looked temporary, and she didn’t recognize anything.

  “Which way are we going?” Clara asked.

  “I’m not sure. I was fourteen when I was last here, and the fire two Septembers ago burned down so many of the landmarks. I saw the photos, and they were awful, but after all this time they are still repairing the damage. I had no idea how devastating that fire really was.”

  Clara looked at the bustling downtown around her. “I don’t see even any hint of damage.”

  “No, because most of these buildings are newly built. If you look, though, some of them are still temporary.” Emily looked towards the end of the street, finally recognizing something. “The train station is original, and I think Queen’s Hotel, but everything else is new.”

  “It really is impressive,” Clara said. Then, practical as always, “So how do we know where to go?”

  “The streets are the same,” Emily said, recognizing the signs for Columbia and Begbie Streets with a feeling of relief. “So the Columbian building should be to the right and two blocks down.”

  “Good,” said Clara. “And if we’re finished in time, we can shop. I’ve seen several intriguing windows.”

  Mentally rolling her eyes at Clara’s predictability, Emily nodded, and took her arm. “Then let’s be on our way.”

  Once they reached the newspaper building they were quickly directed to the basement, where oversized volumes of the paper, bound in dark blue buckram, were kept in serried ranks.

  Mr. O’Hearn had told them Slumach was hanged ten years before, so Emily began with newspapers from 1890. She chose October through December and handed Clara the previous volume.

  At any other time, she would have been fascinated by stories on the growth of the city, but her fear for Granville kept her focused. Not so Clara.

  “Emily, look at the prices on silks,” her friend said. “They had a sale
at Globe House.”

  “Clara, please try to focus on finding the article,” Emily said. “Otherwise you might not have time to shop before the last train.”

  Clara nodded, but Emily could see her eyes widen as she scanned the pages. If she’d been a man, she’d have laid a wager that Clara was reading every advertisement. She’d have won, too, she thought with a silent sigh as her own eyes scanned each page.

  After half an hour of searching, her eyes were blurring and she’d sneezed twice from the dust.

  “Emily, look at this.”

  The excitement in Clara’s voice raised Emily’s hopes as she turned to see what her friend had found.

  “Do you believe these styles?” Clara asked, stabbing at an illustration of an evening dress with a pronounced bustle. “How very dowdy. And so uncomfortable. I am glad fashion has changed, I’d hate to have to appear in something like this.”

  “Clara…” Emily began. Then her eye caught a word halfway down the page. Slumach. She leaned over to read the article, peering at the time-blurred type.

  “Emily! I’m trying to read this!”

  “Clara, this is the story I’ve been searching for. Can you look at another month?”

  “You mean I found it? How exciting! What a good thing I came with you.”

  Speechless, Emily glanced at Clara. The twinkle in her friend’s eyes reassured her. “Indeed.”

  Clara smiled, not the least impressed by Emily’s tone, and passed her the volume. “Now you sound like your fiancé. Here you are.”

  “Thank you,” said Emily, already scanning the article titled Shot Dead. “Listen to this, Clara. Apparently this Slumach was accused of shooting another Indian named Louis Bee. And the shooting took place near the Pitt River. That’s where Granville has gone.”

  “When was this?”

  “September 9th, 1890. Ten years ago.”