by Howard Blum
It was dusk by the time the meal was over, and that was when Hubbard finally spoke up. “Let’s walk,” he said to Charlie. “I want to talk to you.”
Charlie rose and followed him. He saw that Hubbard was packing, his holster low on his hip as though he meant business. Charlie was glad he had his big Colt under his coat. He reckoned that pretty soon he’d find out if Hubbard was the gunny he wanted people to think he was. And that, Charlie thought, would be a damn shame. It wasn’t that the detective had any misgivings about drawing on the thief; he’d shoot him down if need be. It was just irksome that after all this time he still had no notion about where the gold was hidden. If he had to put a bullet or two into Hubbard, it was unlikely he’d ever find out.
When they reached the top of a heavily timbered gulch, Hubbard straightened up to his full height and looked Charlie in the face. Charlie’s eyes, though, kept a steady watch on the thief’s right hand. Soon as it fell toward the hip, Charlie would draw.
Hubbard’s hand didn’t move. Instead he began shouting. “That partner of yours is a goddamned policeman,” he declared hotly. “Schell and I have concluded not to dig up that gold now.”
Hubbard was bristling with rage, and the arrangement to process the gold bars had broken down. But all things considered, Charlie judged, it could’ve played out worse. After all, no one had yet charged that he was a lawman.
“A policeman? What do you mean by that?” Charlie asked as if he were bewildered by the accusation. He was trying to buy time, to work out a way to salvage things.
“I mean he’s a fly-cop—a detective,” Hubbard answered.
“Goddamned if that ain’t news to me,” Charlie said, acting shocked. “If I thought he was, I wouldn’t sleep until I had him anchored out in a deep place in the bay where no one would ever find him. Why, he knows things about me that would put me in the pen for the rest of my natural life.” Charlie’s only hope was that his anger seemed as convincing as Hubbard’s.
The thief considered what he’d just heard. Then he asked, “How long have you known Sayles?”
Charlie and Billy had worked out their cover story months ago, and now he retold it: He’d met Sayles a few months previous in Juneau. An old smuggler friend had vouched for him. This friend had assured Charlie that “Sayles could be trusted even with my life.” The two had been partners in a smuggling business between Canada and Montana, and they’d gotten into their share of sticky spots with the law. He’d seen Sayles tested.
Still, it was possible, Charlie speculated, that Sayles had turned detective since splitting up with the smuggler. “If Sayles had,” Charlie threatened, “I want to know it.”
Hubbard seemed to have calmed a bit; perhaps he was even willing to believe the story about the outlaw friend in Juneau. So Charlie decided to attack. “What grounds you got for your suspicions?” he demanded.
“Goddamn him!” Hubbard snarled. “He just looks like a policeman. And he’s traveled over the world too much. He’s told me all about his travels.”
Charlie erupted with laughter. It kept building and building till his whole body was shaking. But now he wasn’t acting. He was laughing with relief. And he was laughing at himself. All along he’d assumed that Billy had said or done something to betray that he was working undercover. But this was sheer foolishness on the thieves’ part. They had no justification at all for their suspicions.
So now when Charlie tried to calm Hubbard’s concerns, he stuck to the truth: Of course Sayles had traveled some. He was born in London, England, for gosh sakes. Hadn’t you noticed his accent? Or maybe that’s why you thought he was a detective? And sure enough, Billy came from well-off stock. But he’s a wild and reckless sort, Charlie said. After he struck off on his own, they plumb cut him off. He ain’t no detective, Charlie concluded with genuine exasperation. He’s an Englishman!
But—and the Pinkerton case files would later suggest that this was Charlie’s masterstroke—although he’d just demolished all of Hubbard’s and Schell’s suspicions, Charlie didn’t turn indignant. A cowpuncher comes to learn that while you might succeed in calming an ornery bull, it don’t do well to drive him back to the herd. Better the bull mosey back on his own; otherwise the animal might take it into his head to lower his horns and charge. So now the cowboy detective acted complacent, as if melting down the gold was of little consequence to him. Charlie said that unless Hubbard felt completely convinced that Sayles wasn’t a detective, he should let the gold stay hidden.
“Of course,” he went on with a small shrug, “it would hurt me a little as I’d spent some money in Juneau on supplies for melting the stuff.” But Charlie made it clear that the money he’d be losing was a small matter. All that counted was that Hubbard and Schell do what they thought best.
Hubbard suddenly turned contrite. He bowed his head like a man lost in prayer as he sorted through all he’d just heard. Then he reached out for Charlie’s hand and shook it firmly. “I never doubted you for a minute,” the thief said. “We will call the deal on again.”
He was still cautious, though. “But I’m only going to bring about one-fourth of the stuff at a time,” Hubbard added. “When you melt the first batch, you can take $100 worth out for your part. Then I’ll cache my part and bring in more. That way there won’t be any danger of us losing it all if he’s a policeman.”
“Suits Sayles and me fine,” Charlie said evenly, while he silently rejoiced. The operation was back on track.
THE NEXT day Charlie watched as the two thieves selected a location for the furnace. It was in a timber grove about two hundred yards from the camp. Nice and secluded, both Hubbard and Schell appraised it. “No one will ever find it,” Charlie agreed; although for a reckless, mischievous moment he felt like adding, “Except for two Pinkerton operatives.”
Then, spouting the knowledge he’d picked up from Durkin, Charlie assumed his role as the expert gold processor. He gave instructions on how to make the clay bricks for the furnace, and he got a fire going in another kiln to burn the charcoal they’d need. Schell and Hubbard put in full days, but they had no complaints. Schell still didn’t feel completely easy about Sayles; there was something in the Englishman’s manner that put him off. But he had no doubts about Sayles’s partner, Lee Davis. It sure was a stroke of luck they’d crossed paths with him. Without his taking charge, they’d still be plunking the gold bars into a frying pan and watching as their fortune melted into a yellow muck over an open fire.
It all went very smoothly. By the afternoon the clay bricks had been molded and set out to dry in the sun. Then Charlie fell sick. His stomach was hurting him something fierce, he complained. He felt like an angry mule was kicking at his insides. And this wasn’t the first time he’d been brought low like this, he revealed. It was an old digestive aliment, and there was only one thing that would set him right: Carter’s Little Liver Pills. A sawbones in Abilene had prescribed the pills the last time the pain had nearly laid him out, and they’d worked like magic. Since there was little to do for the next few days but wait for the bricks to dry and the charcoal to burn, Charlie said, he might as well head down to Killisnoo. He should be able to rustle up some of the Carter pills from a doctor, or maybe the trading post stocked them.
Shot of whiskey might work just as well, Hubbard suggested.
Let the man get his darn pills, Schell reprimanded. We’re counting on Lee. He ain’t gonna do us any good if he’s feeling poorly.
So clutching his stomach, near to doubled over with pain, Charlie got into his canoe. They helped him shove off, and Charlie made a small drama out of the difficulties involved in paddling while he was suffering so. But once the camp was no longer in sight, he straightened up and began paddling vigorously. He was feeling better than he had for months. Mamie, he silently celebrated to his wife, we’re gonna do it! We’re gonna get the gold!
In Killisnoo, Charlie didn’t search out a doctor or head to the trading post. He went straight to the warship where Marshal Collins was
stationed.
The old lawman listened with attention as Charlie shared his plan. He wanted the marshal to make camp at the head of Hood Bay, on the south side of the island, and wait for him. Once the first batch of gold had been melted and the thieves had revealed its hiding place, Charlie would come get him. About five miles, Charlie reckoned, separated the heads of Chieke and Hood bays. He’d sneak out of camp on foot and head out to find the marshal when matters were ripe for arrest.
It wasn’t Collins’s plan, but as the marshal considered it he couldn’t find anything that didn’t set right. He asked the detective when he wanted him in Hood Bay.
Five days from now should do the trick, Charlie replied. I imagine I’ll come wandering into your camp sometime after midnight. Still, I’d be obliged if, in case I don’t show that night, you wait around for two more days.
The marshal nodded in agreement. Then he asked: “What if you don’t show after that?”
“Reckon,” Charlie said gravely, “you’d better come looking for me with your guns drawn. I’ll either be in a heap of trouble or dead.”
THREE DAYS later, just after the sky had turned dark, Hubbard appeared without warning in the whiskey traders’ camp. He was carrying several bars of gold. He tossed a bar to Charlie.
Charlie caught it, and his first thought was that it was damn heavy. Then he remembered that it’d been his appreciation of the weight of the bars that’d helped him work out how the thieves had managed to get their loot from the mine warehouse down to the beach. He hoped Durkin had followed his advice and now had guards patrolling the pipeline. But in the next moment Charlie quickly put that concern aside as Hubbard began to explain the reason for his unexpected arrival.
Schell and me figured we should run a test, Hubbard announced. We want to see if you boys know what you’re doing before we bring over any more gold.
Makes sense, Charlie agreed lightly, while at the same time his mind instantly raced with anxieties. What if I can’t follow Durkin’s instructions? What if I get it all wrong? What if the damn furnace blows up in my face?
He was so preoccupied with worry that it didn’t occur to him to ask the question Billy finally posed: “Where’s Schell?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Hubbard shot back snidely. He still hadn’t come around to trusting Sayles. But he finally said, “Schell stayed behind to stand guard over our cache.”
That news caused Charlie further consternation. He had no idea where the gold was hidden. And he wouldn’t have a chance of finding out unless he succeeded in melting down a few bars tomorrow. Meanwhile, tomorrow was also the day he’d told Marshal Collins to make camp at Hood Bay. Only there’d be no point in making arrests unless the detectives knew where Hubbard and Schell had hidden the gold. Charlie cursed his own stupidity. He should never have told the marshal to set out so soon for Hood Bay. All Charlie could do was hope that the marshal wouldn’t get antsy, that he’d wait, as they’d agreed, for two additional days before charging in. Of course, Charlie knew, there was no guarantee that even with an extra two days he’d locate the gold. But he was hoping that by then his “two-by-four brain,” as he liked to joke, would’ve figured something out.
The next morning Charlie fired up the charcoal in the furnace and soon had a blue flame burning. He kept watching for signs that the furnace was beginning to crack, for smoke to start pouring out, but it worked like a charm. And hours later, when he easily removed perfectly formed gold nuggets from the molds, he imagined even Durkin would’ve been proud of him.
There was no need, however, to guess about Hubbard’s reaction. He was ecstatic. You boys sure know what you’re doing, he rejoiced. After a few drinks to celebrate, he said he’d be going back to tell Schell. Tomorrow he’d come by with a serious batch of gold.
As soon as Hubbard left, Billy wanted to follow him. We play it right, we’ll be looking over their shoulders when they dig up the rest of the gold, he insisted with excitement.
Charlie was of a mind to agree. It was more than likely that Hubbard would lead them to Schell and the hiding place. But it was also likely, he reasoned, that Schell and Hubbard would be expecting them to follow. There was no getting around the fact that the thieves remained suspicious. That’s why they weren’t bringing the gold in a single load. That’s why Schell was standing guard. The more Charlie thought about it, the more convinced he grew that this was another test: Hubbard would be on the alert to see if he was being trailed.
No, Charlie said in the end. It’s better we hold back.
What about Marshal Collins? He struck camp in Hood Bay today, Billy argued.
He knows to wait, Charlie said. I reckon he will.
And supposing Hubbard doesn’t show tomorrow with the gold? Supposing they hightail it during the night? Now that they know about building a furnace and such, they might figure they don’t need our help, Billy went on, pressing his argument.
Charlie hadn’t considered that possibility. He had to think about it for a few moments. He finally answered. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.
BUT SHORTLY after daybreak, Hubbard paddled into camp with a canoe loaded with gold. As soon as Charlie saw the stack of bars shining in the sun, he smiled at his partner as if to say, Told you so. And the two detectives set in motion the plan they’d worked out during the long, anxious night.
Charlie got a fire burning in the furnace, but this morning he made sure not to add sufficient charcoal. He let the first batch of charcoal burn down before it occurred to him that he best pile on more charcoal to get the necessary blue flame. Then, when the fire was burning blue, Billy had a problem with filling the crucibles. It took hours and hours just to get a single bar of gold reduced to shiny nuggets. And there remained some dozen bars to process.
If Hubbard suspected the two men of deliberately delaying things, he didn’t say it. He seemed content with the way things were going. If it took an entire day to melt the bars, he was willing to wait. In his mind he was no doubt imagining walking into a Seattle bank and cashing his pokes full of nuggets.
As the day dragged on and the processing proceeded in its slow way, Charlie had a thought. Since we’re gonna be at this for a while, he said, as if the notion had just occurred to him, why don’t I head back to camp and put some chowder on the fire? A week back he’d prepared his fish chowder, an old Texas Gulf recipe, and Hubbard had wolfed it down. Fact was, the thief had remarked that it was one of the tastiest meals he’d ever eaten. So Charlie was hoping he’d be partial to having a bowl this evening.
Sounds good to me, Hubbard said eagerly. No sense all of us waiting around the furnace. Me and Sayles should be able to handle things.
Charlie hiked back to camp, and quickly went to work preparing the fish chowder. He used his bowie knife like an executioner’s ax, chopping off fish heads at a frantic clip, and he didn’t take much care with the spices. And quicker than he would’ve thought possible, Charlie had a slapdash version of the stew simmering over the fire. It wouldn’t win any blue ribbons in Matagorda County, but up in Alaska it might do.
Satisfied, he put the next part of his plan into action. He hurried through the woods to the Indian village. Charlie was hoping he’d be able to spot Schell standing guard, and that way he’d learn where the gold was hidden. It stood to reason that Schell wouldn’t be expecting him; the thief believed his partner had the two men within his sight at all times. The dicey part, though, was whether Schell would actually be standing watch over the gold. And there was no telling when Hubbard might get a sudden hankering for chowder and head into camp—only to find Charlie gone. That could cause a real disturbance. In that case, Billy had best be able to get to his Winchester mighty quick.
Still, it was the only plan Charlie could think of, and he’d decided it’d have to work. And for once, luck was on his side. He made his way to the Indian camp and had taken a concealed position behind a clump of trees when straight off he spotted Schell. As he’d been running through the woods, Charlie�
��s fear had been that the hideout would be somewhere deep in the forest, perhaps near where Hubbard had buried the frying pan. But now he looked into the camp and understood that that, too, had been a ruse. There was Schell, rifle cradled in his arms, standing guard by the birch racks over where the Indians dried salmon. The smell would be god-awful. It’d be the last place anyone would think to conceal a fortune of gold. That’s why it was the perfect hiding place. And if Charlie had any doubts about whether the treasure was buried where Schell was standing, a further look erased them. The ground beneath Schell’s boots had been turned over and then hastily trampled down again in an attempt to disguise the digging. Which made sense; this morning Hubbard had delivered a new batch of gold for processing.
Then all at once, Charlie’s moment of discovery collapsed into one of panic. Schell appeared to be looking his way. Had the thief spotted him? Charlie pressed his body tight against the side of a giant spruce, and waited. But in the next instant he saw what had caught Schell’s eye. A whiskey bottle was leaning against one of the salmon racks, and Schell picked it up to take a pull. Charlie moved slowly back into the deep timber. Soon he was running through the woods, returning as fast as he could to the camp on Chieke Bay. He prayed that Billy had been able to drag out the processing, that Hubbard hadn’t left the furnace for a quick taste of chowder.
Charlie had managed to grab a spoon and was stirring his chowder when Hubbard and Billy walked into camp.
Hubbard was smiling. He had a sack full of gold nuggets, and he was looking forward to a bowl of chowder. Been thinking ’bout this meal all day, Hubbard said.
Before they sat down to eat, though, Charlie suggested that they have what he playfully called “appetizers.” He passed a bottle of rye to Hubbard and watched the thief take a swallow. Next it was his turn. Charlie took a long, deep pull. After the nerve-racking day, he reckoned, he surely could do with a drink.