"You don't have to make everything between us a challenge," he called to her. "We can work together on some things."
She never faltered in her forward stride while she glanced over her shoulder and flashed him a grin. "Oh we can? What do you have in mind exactly?"
Noticing the sultry glint in her eyes, Max realized that her innocent question was anything but innocent. It suggested a challenge even bolder than the one to find the next marker. And Max’s blood pumped with the anticipation of satisfying her. But then he remembered his pledge to leave Betsy as unsullied as he’d found her.
"What I have in mind, Miss Sheridan," he lied, "is locating this so-called silver mine as quickly as possible."
Her grin widened. "That may be what's in your mind, Max, but it's definitely not what's in your eyes."
When did she get to be so darned perceptive, he wondered.
They'd walked about another forty-five minutes when Betsy suddenly stopped and grabbed Max's arm. Her voice trembled with excitement when she asked, "Max, why do you suppose Clyde Faraday said to look for a horse thief's heel?"
"I don't know. I guess he had a reason. Otherwise he'd have said a cowboy's heel or a prospector's heel."
"Exactly. What do they do to horse thieves out here?"
"They kill them, vigilante style by hanging or shooting."
"So it's possible Clyde Faraday's horse thief would be a dead man, right?"
"Possible, yes."
Her voice rose with excitement. “I found the horse thief's heel!" She squeezed his arm and waved her finger at a vague spot that could have been anywhere in the Rocky Mountains.
“Whoa, Betsy. You’re pointing at the entire horizon.”
She steadied her finger. "See that round rock and the part that juts up a few feet behind it. Couldn't that be a man's rump and the heel of his boot? And those jagged pieces sticking up...that's his spur."
It seemed improbable at first, but when Max finally picked out the formation and studied it, he was convinced. While he'd wondered, too, why Faraday had picked a horse thief to be his marker, he'd never thought the fictional outlaw would be lying prone on the side of the mountain. But there he was, on his stomach, dead as a doornail with his boot sticking up in the air. "By golly, Bets, I think you've done it."
She waved at the others. "I found the horse thief!" She soon had everyone persuaded she was right.
The third bald head was easier. A series of three nearly barren knobs pointed toward the first prong of the devil's fork chain, and the prospectors followed the direction they indicated. When they stood on the third top, Dooley pointed out that the mountain vegetation had thinned out considerably. "The third bald head,” he said. “We’re on it, and we’re so close I can almost smell the ore. Old Clyde said the mine was near to the tree line. Look sharp for the spinster's bonnet. We’re about to find us some silver!"
Ramona, being familiar with hats and other devises for keeping the sun off her face, was the first to spot the bonnet. The granite 'brim' swept dramatically away from the bowl of the 'bonnet' which was a solid part of the mountain wall.
"It makes perfect sense," she said. "Look how huge the bonnet is. No wonder Clyde Faraday called her a spinster. No one can even see the old lady's face, so how could she ever attract a suitor?"
"Or perhaps Clyde fancied that some poor sap did see her face one time," Ross suggested, "and that explains why she's a spinster and keeps it covered all the time."
Dooley ended the conversation by keeping them on track. "We're wasting time here. It ain't a real woman! It’s the Fair Day Mine!" He raced with amazing alacrity across the rocky ground separating him from the bonnet.
Betsy started to follow, but Max held her back. "Let him go. It seems only fitting the old guy get there first."
“You’re right, Max. It’s his claim after all.”
“Well, true. But I was thinking he’d need the most time to accept that there’s no rich ore left in this mountain.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was the end of the line. If the Fair Day Mine was not inside the spinster's bonnet, there were no more clues to follow. Feeling her pulse beating in her throat, Elizabeth trailed behind Dooley, Max, Ross and Ramona. What if Ross never realized his fortune and had to go back to New York admitting his failure? Then he would have no money to pay his legal expenses. What if their father refused to help him, and Ross went to jail for his arrest at Dixie Lee's and his involvement with that horrible Frankie Galbotto? Maybe Ross had made some mistakes in his life, but surely he didn't deserve a fate that horrible.
And what if Elizabeth was about to find out that the Fair Day Mine never existed in the first place? Maybe it was only a figment of a disillusioned old man’s imagination all along. She would still write her story but the ending would be much different than she’d planned.
She glanced at Max and suddenly a calm overcame her. Something good had come out of this venture, and she could no longer deny it. She'd gotten to know Max, almost as intimately as a girl could know a man, and just remembering their night in the abandoned hotel sent waves of desire through her body. Certainly this journey had taught her a lot – about life and independence and love.
And Elizabeth had become a reporter, a viewer and interpreter of life. She was now a person who lived her life, one who had left Manhattan a sheltered, pampered, inexperienced debutante, and would return a woman in every sense of the word. She looked at Max, anticipating their next time alone. Indeed, whether they found the silver or not, a big part of Elizabeth Sheridan had become Betsy. Max took her hand and brought her up beside him. Together they followed the others around the edge of the bonnet's brim to whatever fate held in store.
What they found was more of the same. Craggy mountain wall, tumbled boulders, scrub pines and scrawny bushes were exactly like the ones she had traipsed over all morning. With her hand on the withers of one of the burros, she avoided eye contact with Ross. But she knew what he must be thinking when his backpack hit the ground with a thud.
"That cuts it, old man," Ross spat out. "Say your prayers because you're about to meet your Maker, or in your case, the devil. And we're on just the right mountain to send you straight to hell."
"Give me your best shot, you little pipsqueak,” Dooley said feinting left and right to avoid Ross’s air punches. “I'll make you rue the day you was born."
"Was this a lark for you, you crazy old coot? You took me just as surely as Grant took Richmond, and now you're going to pay."
Elizabeth nudged Max. "Do something!"
"I am. I'm watching them."
"Someone's going to get hurt!"
"Probably. But I don't particularly fancy the notion that it could be me."
The daggers she shot from her eyes must have worked because he finally stepped up to the men, ducked his head, and placed a palm firmly on each one’s chest. "Now come on, boys. Is this the example you want to set for all the little miners who'll come along after you?"
"Cassidy," Ross sputtered out of clenched teeth, "do you have any idea what I've gambled on this little holiday of Mr. Blue's?"
"Like I told you on the train days ago, Ross, I have a very good idea what's at stake here."
Elizabeth looked from one to the other of the men, not quite certain what they were talking about. "We all have a lot at stake, don't we?” she said. “Time and money, and..."
As if he hadn't heard her, Ross fixed Max with a beady glare. "Look around you, Cassidy. There's no mine. There's no damn mine!"
Max's gaze swept the rough interior of the spinster's bonnet. "Are you really sure about that, Ross?"
Dooley dropped his arms to his sides and picked up on the challenge in Max's question. "Yeah, you whining little thumb sucker,” he said to Ross. “How do you know there ain't no mine? The least you could do is have a look-see."
"I'll bet the mine's over here."
Everyone looked at Ramona, who had wandered over to a patch of thick vegetation. She tugged at stubborn l
imbs clinging to the mountain and held up a bunch of twigs. "See this stuff? I know what it is. It's mostly dead now because of the cold, but I recognize the dried bunchberry leaves and columbine. It grows wild in the mountains, but I'd think it'd be kind of rare up this high...unless someone dragged it to this spot and planted it."
"Someone like the Faraday brothers perhaps?" Max said.
"That's it!" Dooley shouted gleefully. "The Faradays hid the entrance with those plants. Any fool can see that."
"Then how come you didn't?" Ross asked. "You're the biggest fool here."
Either Dooley didn't hear him or chose to ignore the barb, because he was at Ramona's side in a split second. His hands working with the speed of buzz saws, he soon had brittle limbs and dry leaves flying through the air.
The others approached slowly, standing clear of the debris until Dooley stopped and wiped dust from a spot he'd cleared in the brush. Like magic, an old wooden sign appeared, the burnt words barely readable in the worm-eaten surface.Fair Day Mine, it said, Prop. of Ian and Clyde Faraday, Holyhead, Wales.
"Now let's hear you say there ain't no Fair Day Mine, Mr. City Boy," Dooley crowed, "or is your mouth too full of your big foot to spit the words out?"
Ross stepped up to the sign and ran the tip of his finger over the letters. "We did it!" he shouted, turning to the others. "We found the mine. We're rich!”
Everyone tugged and pulled four year's worth of nature's curtain from the entrance. When the vegetation had been removed and set aside as kindling for the evening fire, the miners stared at a hole in the mountain, five feet tall and four feet wide. Planks of lumber crisscrossed the entrance, the last barrier to the potential riches inside.
Each member of the party stuck his head between the boards to peer into the dark interior. Since the setting sun was just a golden glow on a nearby mountain top, it was nearly impossible to tell what the mine was like inside. Even when Ross lit a lantern and held it through the planks, there was nothing but utter blackness beyond the ring of the flame.
"I can't see a damn thing," Ross said. "Let's tear the boards down and go in for a look."
As eager as she was to see what was inside, Elizabeth realized the foolishness of going in the mine at night. "I don't think that's a good idea." An hour before, she'd fetched a woolen blanket from her bedroll, and she wrapped it more tightly around her shoulders. "It's freezing out here, and I'll bet it's worse in there. I read that mines are usually a few degrees colder than the air." She stuck her hand inside the mine to demonstrate. "We'd better wait till morning."
"I hear these mines never get above forty degrees, even in the daytime," Max stated. "I agree with Betsy. We should wait."
"She's right as rain," Dooley said. "We don't know how many shafts the brothers blasted in there, or how deep they run. Some of them might drop twenty or thirty feet straight down. And they might end in water. This ain't no walk in the park, sonny, and I, for one, won't put one foot in there tonight."
"Sissies, all of you," Ross grumbled, "But alright. We'll go in first thing in the morning."
They pitched tents in the shelter of the bonnet, about one hundred yards from a ledge that dropped almost one thousand feet to a canyon floor. After their evening meal, they huddled around the campfire talking about the next day's events. The mine opening, just a few feet away, beckoned like a pharaoh's tomb filled with unknown treasure.
Shadows from the fire danced along the mountain wall. They licked at the boards covering the mine opening and leapt into the black chasm Elizabeth could only dream about until morning. The shadows reminded her of bent, gaunt men, like two Welsh brothers who'd died on this mountain before they had a chance to enjoy its spoils.
They'd died violently, victims of greed and evil. Thinking of the Faraday brothers now, Elizabeth experienced two equally strong emotions...excitement and fear. Did the Fair Day pull her to its deep, dark core with a promise of treasure, or repel her with its tragic secrets and threats of spirits who'd been cheated out of a peaceful death?
She was once again thankful for Max's comforting presence. They sat side by side, sharing a blanket. Their thighs, covered by the thick denim of britches, touched beneath the woolen covers. Max's hand found hers and his fingers, warm and reassuring, wrapped around her palm. "Sleepy?" he asked.
Had it only been twenty-four hours since those fingers had played upon her skin bringing life and fire to her body like a musician brings music and soul to his instrument? "A little," she admitted, wishing she could stay with him tonight.
"I think we should turn in," he said. "Who knows what tomorrow will bring."
"I know," Dooley said, stirring to awareness. "Silver. Tons of good rich ore."
Ross sprinkled some precious water on the fire, and it sizzled to a smoky death. "And hopefully a mountain stream these Rockies are supposed to be famous for. I don't look forward to marching a half mile down the mountain to the last little brook we passed just to get a bucket of water."
Dooley turned impatient eyes on him. "It's just like you to start fussing about a little bit of work. I hope you ain't opposed to getting your fingernails dirty once we get in the mine."
Ross met his gaze head on and shook his finger at the mine. "Don't worry about me, old man. I'll work circles around you to get to that ore."
"There's no way a dandy like you is gonna..."
Max grinned at Elizabeth. "It's going to be a restful night, I can see that." Folding his blanket over his arm, he rose and went to the two men. Taking each by an elbow, he marched them to the tent they were all sharing. "Say goodnight to the ladies, gents. I'm sleeping in the middle tonight, so if you two come to blows, make darn sure your reach is long enough to pummel the right man!"
Elizabeth watched until their tent flap was secure and the lantern inside was turned low. Then she followed Ramona into the other tent and wrapped herself in a cocoon of blankets.
The morning dawned crisp and bright. The miners immediately turned their attention to the rotting cross boards separating them from success. Ross and Dooley quickly removed the lumber and exposed the mine entrance. Sunlight streamed around the spinster's bonnet and into the opening, creating an almost shrine-like effect which Elizabeth was certain prophesied good things ahead.
"Who's going first?" she asked as they all hesitated on the brink of wealth. "I can't wait to go inside."
She jumped when Dooley grabbed her elbow. "What are you talking about, girlie? You’re not going in the mine. Neither is the other girlie."
She wrenched her arm free and spun around to face him. "Why not for heaven's sake?"
"Everybody knows women are bad luck in a mine."
"I've never heard of such a stupid thing,” she said, determined that Dooley’s superstitions wouldn’t keep her from exploring. “Nobody here ever heard of it either, right?"
Max and Ross nodded, but Ramona only curled her lip sheepishly. "Well, to tell the truth, honey, I've lived in these parts long enough to have heard most everything, including this superstition. But personally, I think it's rubbish."
"It's not rubbish!" Dooley shouted. "When a woman goes in a mine, her soul never leaves. Her body may come out, but her spirit stays there to haunt the hard-working men who come after her. Many a miner has seen the apparitions in the tunnels, white as gypsum on the mine walls, their hair and skirts blowing like sails behind them. Tormenting sights they are, the ghostly souls of womenfolk."
"That's ridiculous," Elizabeth said. "You don’t really believe in ghosts? Souls left behind...that's absurd."
"Well, I ain't about to take the chance!" Dooley thundered. "You’re not going in. The knockers don't like it."
She was losing her patience. The old man wasn't making any sense, but she'd indulge him with one more question. "Who are the knockers?"
"I think he's talking about tommyknockers, Betsy," Max said.
Dooley nodded. "That's right. Listen to him. He's heard of the knockers. He knows what those little devils can do."
/> "Anyone from the British Isles has heard of them, Dooley. It doesn't mean I believe in any of the tales."
"Will somebody please tell me what's going on?" Ross demanded.
"There's an old superstition that started in Cornish mines,” Max began. “Whenever a miner was killed in a tunnel his spirit lived on in the mine in the form of a tommyknocker. Supposedly they're ornery men, like mischievous leprechauns, and they make noises to warn off other miners."
"They ain't mischievous, they're downright mean!" Dooley said. "And they swing their picks against the rocks. You can hear them all through the shafts. Tink, tink, tink, it's the tap of a knocker. And whoever is unlucky enough to hear it, he's the next to die."
Taking note of the animation in the old man's face, Elizabeth decided two things. One was that she didn't believe a word of this silly folktale and the other was that Dooley adamantly did.
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