The Lost Mine Murders Page 9

  “Did they arrest him?”

  “No, he escaped before the law arrived. When this was written, they hadn’t found him.” Emily flipped pages until she found another article. “There was a coroner’s inquest two days later that returned a verdict of willful murder against Slumach, but they still hadn’t found him.”

  “What about the gold mine?”

  “No mention of it,” Emily said as she flipped more pages. “They still haven’t found him—and he’s an old man. Sixty!”

  By the time she found the article where Slumach, starving and ill, had surrendered himself to his nephew, Peter Pierre, Clara had lost interest and was back to looking at ads. Emily read on. “I don’t believe it!”

  “What?”

  “They nursed the man back to health, then took him for trial, found him guilty of murder and hanged him. And the hanging is described as “very ably managed.” Can you imagine?”

  Clara shuddered. “I’d rather not. I don’t see why you have to read those awful details,” she complained.

  “I find it most unfair that from the first article, the reporter clearly judged Slumach guilty of murdering Bee. And how could they save someone’s life in order to hang him?”

  “But if he killed a man?”

  “I just wonder how fair his trial was.” Emily did note that for the last week of Slumach’s life, he’d shared his cell with a medicine man named Pierre, presumably the nephew they’d mentioned earlier, so at least he’d had family with him. That thought led to another.

  If there were a gold mine, perhaps Slumach would have told his nephew about it. And if Peter Pierre was still alive, he might be willing to talk about Slumach’s gold mine, which was surely the mine Granville was seeking? The mine that could cost him his life. She shivered.

  Closing her notebook, Emily returned the volume to the shelf. “We can go, Clara,” she said.

  “I’ll just finish this article.”

  Emily checked the pendant watch she wore. “We still have an hour to shop if we leave now.”

  Clara closed the book with a bang. “I’m finished.”

  As they ascended the staircase from the basement, the helpful young man they had first spoken to came over with a smile. “Did you ladies find what you were searching for?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Emily said.

  “And what were you looking for, if I might be so bold?”

  “We were looking for stories on Slumach’s gold mine,” Clara said.

  Emily shot her a look. She hadn’t intended to tell anyone, even thought she’d found no mention of the mine.

  The young man was nodding. He had a nice face, and he seemed to genuinely want to help them.

  “I’ve looked up those stories myself,” he was saying with a grin. “The good stuff never made it into the paper, though.”

  “The good stuff?” Emily asked.

  “Yes indeed. In the years before the murder, Slumach often showed up in town with a sack full of gold nuggets. Used those nuggets to pay for his whiskey, and he did like his whiskey. Liked women too, begging your pardon, ma’am, but it’s said that each year a young woman went back into the bush with him and was never seen again.”

  “Do you know anyone yourself who knew any of the young women?” Emily asked.

  “Well no, not personally, but everyone knows it.”

  “What about the gold? Do you know anyone who actually saw it?”

  “Well sure. My uncle Red was the bartender at the Royal Saloon where old Slumach used to drink. He handled those nuggets himself. The gold is there, alright.”

  “And did anyone you know ever see a map?” Clara asked.

  “No, but he had to have a way to get back to his gold, didn’t he? Stands to reason.”

  Emily gave him her best smile. “It does indeed. Thank you so much for your help. Come along, Clara.”

  Standing on the wide plank sidewalk, Clara turned to Emily, her face bright with excitement. “I can certainly see why Mr. Gipson is interested in Slumach’s map.”

  Emily nodded, and taking Clara’s elbow, drew them both back to escape a spray of water as a carriage passed by too quickly. The sun had vanished again, and it was growing chilly. Getting wet as well could mean a winter cold. “Yes, but it is still just gossip. Nothing in the newspaper reports suggests there was any gold at all.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t want to start a panic.”

  “Perhaps.” And if Gipson thought Granville had the map to Slumach’s gold, he would probably stop at nothing to lay his hands on it, Emily thought, her throat tightening.

  “Where are you, Granville?” she said under her breath. “Please be safe.”

  THIRTEEN

  Granville woke abruptly and took careful stock. Every muscle in his body ached, but the headache was gone, and his mind was clear.

  He turned his head cautiously from side to side.

  No pain.

  He looked from the cedar planks above his head to the blankets that covered him. He was warm and dry. He was also out of the snow, and the roughness of the blankets above and beneath him felt good. He could smell smoke and cedar and bear grease and hear the crackle of a fire. The sound of many voices rising and falling came from somewhere beyond him.

  Where was he?

  Drawing in a breath, Granville levered himself to a sitting position, wincing as a particularly sharp pain stabbed down his arm.

  He sat at one end of a long wooden building. Rough bunks mounded with blankets lined the walls and flames flickered in a huge fire pit in the center. The air was thick with wood smoke and the smells of cooking. His stomach rumbled.

  The mingled scents took him back to winter camps on the streams of the Klondike, warm with the fires he and Scott had used to melt the permafrost and dig out yard after yard of the gold-rich beds of old streams. Fire and furs had been their only defense against a cold that could freeze a man’s beard solid with his own sweat in less than a minute; that same cold made bathing a luxury.

  He grinned at the memory, his eyes searching his new surroundings.

  Katzie. He remembered now. They were safe.

  And this was the first chance he’d had to think about what had happened. And why.

  From the moment Cole had been killed, all he’d thought about was getting them out alive.

  He put a hand against his chest, relieved to feel the outline of the map packet through his thick shirt. Whoever had tracked and then ambushed them knew about the map, had probably been on their trail since Port Hammond.

  Had Cole spoken too freely? The image of the brothel in Port Hammond flashed across his vision.

  Well, it wasn’t the first time he and Scott had come up against would be claim-jumpers, and likely wouldn’t be the last. Especially now they were part owners in what promised to be a very rich mine.

  But where was Scott? Granville’s gaze sharpened, searched. And found his friend two bunks over. Scott’s face was drawn and pale but his eyes were alert.

  Meeting Granville’s gaze, he smiled. “Glad to see you’re awake, pardner,” he said in a thin voice unlike his usual booming tone.

  “Where’s Trent?”

  “No idea. Haven’t seen him since I woke.”

  Which wasn’t that long ago, from the look of him. Still, very little could keep his massive friend down for long. Unless his wound was infected, Granville thought in sudden alarm.

  With a stifled grunt, he got his feet under him and heaved.

  Head swimming, he put a hand against one of the massive cedar beams.

  “Steady there,” came Scott’s voice. “Maybe you should wait ‘till that medicine man comes back.”

  And risk being dosed with that foul concoction again? Not if he had anything to say about it. “I’ll be fine.”

  Scott shook his head. “You’re even stubborner than I thought, and that’s saying something. But thanks for getting me down, partner.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Granville said.

  “And what ar
e you doing up?” Trent asked from behind him.

  Trent’s sudden appearance behind him startled Granville into losing his train of thought and nearly his balance. “Why would I not be up? And who made you my physician?”

  “Don’t mind him. He gets testy when he’s injured,” said Scott.

  Trent grinned. “I’d noticed. Does that mean you don’t?”

  “I’m the soul of meekness.”

  Granville snorted.

  “Ignore him,” Scott continued with a grin, though his voice was growing weaker.

  “Trent, I need a word,” Granville said, putting a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “Somewhere out of earshot.”

  “I need to talk to you, too,” Trent said.

  “Awww,” said Scott. “You’re spoiling my fun.” But his eyes closed as they walked away.

  Granville directed Trent far enough away that Scott couldn’t hear them, assuming he was still conscious. “How is Scott? Has gangrene set in?”

  Trent looked confused. “I told you he’s fine. You were just talking to him.”

  “He seems infernally weak. Even a short conversation exhausted him.”

  “He lost a lot of blood. The shaman says he’s doing good.”

  “You’re positive there’s no rot?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Fine. What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “A couple things. The first is—this.” And he thrust a carefully folded and sealed note at Granville.

  Breaking the seal, Granville was stunned to see Emily’s wide-spaced handwriting. “How did this get here?”

  “A cousin of Bertie’s brought it.”

  “How did he know to find us here?”

  “I told Miss Emily to try here or Port Hammond. He’ll have left another note waiting for you in Port Hammond.”

  Granville’s eyes dropped back to the note.

  There was news from Harris in Denver, and it sounded urgent.

  He skimmed the rest and his heart seized. Emily had talked to Gipson? And to someone named Riggs, trying to find out who wanted to kill him?

  Was she daft? She’d put herself in danger asking questions, and he was very much afraid she wouldn’t stop there.

  He needed to get back to Vancouver.

  He turned to Trent. “I must talk with this messenger.”

  “Too late. He’s gone on.”

  “On where?”

  “Further up the Fraser. He won’t be back this way for a couple of months. Why?”

  “I need to know if he told anyone in Port Hammond who sent him.”

  “I doubt it. I told you, he’s Bertie’s cousin—they don’t much like Chinamen in Port Hammond. He’d have asked for you, then come here.”

  Which didn’t decrease the danger Emily might be in, if anyone had read that note.

  Worrying about Emily wasn’t going to help her. Granville had to heal, and get back to Vancouver. Now.

  “What was the other thing you wanted to tell me?” he asked Trent.

  “Oh, about Mr. Arbuthnot. He’s English, like you, and he’s making a study of the Indians. Maybe he can tell you more about the shaman’s medicine—he’s the one who told me what to call him. Wait, I’ll get him.”

  Before Granville could say a word, Trent had dashed off.

  Moments later he was back with a stout, middle-aged man with the full beard and sober dress of a Victorian gentleman. His high-buttoned black lounge suit was a tad dated for a London drawing room, but in the middle of a Katzie village it looked ludicrous.

  “This is Mr. Arbuthnot,” Trent said. “He has a farm near Langley but he spends time with the Indian tribes when he can.”

  The gentleman advanced on Granville and held out a hand. “Happy to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I too have been sharing the Katzie hospitality. I gather from our young friend here that you have a few questions as to the nature of the medicine practiced by the olia.”

  “The olia?”

  Mr. Arbuthnot smiled forgivingly. “The Katzie word for a shaman. I don’t profess to be an expert, but I have been making a fairly intensive study of the ethnography of the local tribes, particularly the languages, along the same lines as the chap called Hill-Tout. I don’t suppose you met him last time you were here? No? Splendid chap, and knows his dialects. They are all related, the dialects you know, stretching over several hundred miles and right across to Vancouver Island. All Coast Salish, but the dialectic inflections of the various tribes show remarkably few differences. Quite fascinating, really.”

  “And the shaman?”

  Arbuthnot gave a little laugh. “Oh, yes, forgive me. Favorite topic, you know. The shaman, yes—actually the olia is the middle of three levels of shamans within the Coast Salish structure, but he’s the one who does the actual healing. The top level, the sqelam is more concerned with the pathology, and making the spells to cast out the evil influences that may be affecting health.”

  He gave another little laugh. “Not much use with a bullet, though, is it?”

  “I was curious about the plant he used in my partner’s wound, just before he bound it,” Granville said before Arbuthnot could go off on another tangent.

  He’d met his like before—amateur scientists with an unfailing enthusiasm for their discoveries. Their contribution to scientific knowledge was often enormous, but he knew from experience that once fully launched on the subject of their hobbies, they were difficult to divert. “What did you call it, Trent?”

  “Lichen.”

  “Lichen, eh?” said Arbuthnot. “Long strands of gray-green stuff?”

  Trent nodded.

  “Hmmm—related to Spanish moss, I believe. I’ve seen it used to great effect in the prevention of infection in an open wound. Very useful stuff, though I know our good Dr. McKecknie is rather skeptical of its use.”

  “Does it prevent gangrene?” Granville asked.

  Arbuthnot looked thoughtful. “That I don’t know, but I have heard of few instances of rot among the tribes, so perhaps it does.”

  It wasn’t the definitive answer he’d hoped for, but at least the shaman’s ministrations were unlikely to cause Scott harm. “And are you staying here?”

  “I am indeed. I have a small tent pitched outside, and plan to be here for another week or more.”

  It might serve. Scott couldn’t be moved for at least another few days. He should be safe enough from their attackers here, surrounded by so many people, but wounds turned bad so easily. If Arbuthnot was willing to keep an eye on things... When he broached the matter, Arbuthnot beamed.

  “Delighted to help. I can converse with the olia, and, you know, follow the course of his treatment. I know a little of medicine myself, have to living so far from town. Not that we are too isolated in Langley, there’s a small community of us, but no doctor. Depending on the weather it can take most of a day to fetch him; we need to be somewhat self-reliant.”

  Granville nodded without comment, afraid of setting the man off again. “Let me introduce you to Scott,” he said. “And I deeply appreciate your willingness to take this on.”

  “Not at all, my dear chap. Not at all.”

  FOURTEEN

  Port Hammond didn’t look any more promising in thin sunlight. In daylight, the few buildings were faded and barely standing and the road more potholes than surface. The only thing Granville could find in its favor was that no one was shooting at them. Yet.

  Trent was still protesting. “I don’t see why we had to come back here.”

  Granville silenced him with a look, and made his way to the weathered general store cum post office. It was in slightly better shape than the rest of the town, probably because it also served as the town’s meeting place.

  He asked for his mail and was handed another copy of Emily’s note, along with an unfriendly stare. The seal on the note was intact, but the edges were suspiciously frayed.

  Had they identified the sender? He could only hope not.

  It was bad enough that Gipson
and this Riggs knew of Emily’s suspicions; he’d rather no one else did.

  He glanced around. Two old men and a boy a little younger than Trent were leaning against the battered counter. Well, since they already knew who he was, he might as well ask them a few questions.

  For all the good it did him.

  None of them seemed to remember Cole’s last visit, or anyone he might have talked to. The shopkeeper, plump but narrow-eyed, was little better.

  Faced with this façade of ignorance, Granville held onto his fraying patience; they had little time and he needed answers.

  At the door, he turned back. “I hear rumors about a lost mine in the area. Any truth to that story?”

  The locals glanced at each other.

  “That’s a pretty old story,” the white-bearded one finally said. “Why ask now?”

  “My late client seemed uncommonly interested in the tale. And since he’s dead, I can’t very well ask him.”

  This prompted another exchange of glances.

  “He’s dead?” the second old man asked. “Cole?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “That why you’re so interested in who he talked to here?”

  “That’s why.”

  Four pairs of eyes were staring at him. “What makes you think we’d know something?”

  “That’s privileged, I’m afraid,” Granville said, watching with amusement as the statement produced the exchange of glances he’d anticipated. “You’ll understand I can’t say anything further.”

  “Well, if you’re chasin’ a killer, I can see where you’d need information,” the storekeeper said. “Have you talked to the police in New Westminster yet?”

  He’d wondered who had jurisdiction. “I’ll be reporting the murder on my way back to town.”

  He noticed the youth edging towards the door while the shop owner engaged his attention. From the corner of his eye, he saw Trent sliding into the boy’s wake. Good for him.

  Granville kept his own attention firmly fixed on his portly interrogator, who was nodding.

  “Then your best bet is to talk to Joe over at the saloon. He’ll be opening a couple hours from now.”