by Ashna Graves
The whole interior of the cabin was visible, and whoever had made this mess was no longer inside. Neva felt the skin on her back and neck tighten. She had seen no one in the car when she glanced through the window, and no light had shone in the other cabin, which left just one possibility. The intruder was outdoors, most likely behind her, possibly watching at this moment.
Slowly she straightened and turned to face the darkness, listening so hard she felt a headache start up. There was not a sound, not even the usual night stirrings of wind and creatures. Why had she left her car down the road? Surely any sane person would have driven right to the cabin and remained in the car while sizing up the situation, possibly even honking to bring out whoever was inside. But it was too late to berate herself, too late to wish she’d gone straight home before dark rather than stopping at Darla’s. The object now was to move, to cross the porch, descend the steps, get back to her car…she was on her way. Soon she was on the ground and as she passed between the car and pickup truck, the usual quiet voice of reason spoke inside her head. Whoever had searched the cabin was looking for something specific, surely Reese’s stash, and would not be interested in her. She was an outsider on Billie Creek, with no connection to the mine or gold or the violence of young men—
“Are you looking for someone?”
The voice out of the darkness punched her heart into a gallop like a slapped horse. “Who is it?” she managed, clutching her shoulders.
“That should be my question,” returned the same male voice.
Now she could make out a tall figure leaning against the tailgate of the pickup, a familiar figure, she thought. “Is that you, Andy? I was looking for Reese.”
“He’s in jail as far as I know,” replied the voice in an offhand tone. “Sorry if I scared you but you gave me a turn too. I didn’t think there was anybody out here except me. Who’s Andy?”
“Andy Sylvester, with the Forest Service. I’m Jeneva Leopold, from the mine up the road. Who are you? I really can’t see.”
“Boris Dietering.” He paused as though for a response and when none came, he added, “I own this mine. I flew out when I heard what happened.”
“Flew out from where?”
“Baltimore. Let’s go inside where we can talk.”
Still unable to see him as more than a silhouette, Neva did not reply immediately. She didn’t want to return to Reese’s devastated cabin, and she was not interested in the mine owner from Baltimore, who, it seemed, had ransacked his own property. She said firmly, “I’d rather wait until morning. I’ve been gone all day and I’m really beat. You could come up to the mine for breakfast.”
“I have to catch a flight early. This won’t take long.”
Unable to think of a good reason to refuse, she followed him without speaking again until they were inside the cabin. He turned as soon as she was through the door and she found herself facing a figure that could not have looked more out of place in the smelly, chaotic little room. Tall, slim, neatly formed in every feature, brown hair softly waved to the side like a young boy’s, eyes very blue in a lightly tanned face, his fine cotton pants and shirt fitted enough to show a tidy build but loose enough to appear debonair, casual—all in all, a mine owner was the last thing he would be taken for.
Glancing around at the wreckage, he said, “Looks like they should have locked the door.”
“You didn’t do this?”
“Mess up my own cabin?” His laugh was easy and melodious. “Any idea what they were looking for?”
“Gold bullion, no doubt.”
“You make it sound like a joke but Reese was getting gold, you know.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “The theory seems to be that gold was the reason he killed Roy but I don’t buy it. What do you think?”
“I don’t think Reese did kill Roy, but I’ve got no real reason. And if his temper did get away from him so violently, I really couldn’t see him trying to make it look like an accident. He’s too straightforward.”
“Sounds good to me. What about Lance? Where is he, anyway? I thought I had three employees here. One dead, one in jail on suspicion. Where’s the third?”
“He left the mine without telling anyone where he was going.”
“Is that so? Before or after Roy died?”
“Before. Several days before. I’m sure he’ll come back when he’s ready, probably when Reese gets out of jail.”
“Well, I guess I wouldn’t blame anyone for disappearing from this place, even if I do own it.” At ease with his hands in his pockets, he surveyed the mercilessly illuminated mess that surrounded them. “That is a terrible light. Propane is it?”
“I believe so.”
“Not a very comfortable spot to spend a night. The other cabin’s just as bad.” His eyes settled on Neva with sudden, confident warmth. “Maybe you would have someplace more comfortable?”
“I do, but I’m afraid it’s fully occupied,” she said, and though uncertain whether it was true, she added for good measure, “Skipper’s at the mine and probably wondering what’s taking me so long to get up the mountain. If you change your mind about breakfast you’re welcome to come up. Just watch for where the car tracks veer right toward the creek about four miles up.”
Chapter Twenty-three
The sight of Skipper’s camper in its old spot by the creek took away the uneasiness of the meeting with the suave mine owner. Neva wanted to talk with him, but the windows were dark, and she turned the car back up the road to the cabin without disturbing him.
In the morning, he was pounding on her kitchen door while the coffee was still dripping. “You gave me the slip yesterday,” he accused. “I was back by suppertime and waited for you all evening. How can I look out for you when I don’t know where you’ve gone off to?”
“Look after me? Skipper, all I do is walk or sit around, although yesterday was different, it’s true. I went over to Hatlee. You were supposed to be back two days ago, you know. I waited up for you.”
“Sorry about that, but I got held up,” he said, accepting a mug without appearing to notice it. “I’ve got some news for you. I did a little checking while I was out. That squimp Sylvester was right. Orson’s not the only owner of the Billie Creek Mine. The other owner—are you ready for this?—the other name on the claim is Mr. Gene Conrad Holland. That’s right, folks, Gene Sufferin’ Smith himself. He’s been registered as a partner since just after your uncle disappeared.”
Neva had been leading the way out the screen door, but turned to look at Skipper with astonishment and consternation.
“It’s true, as sure as I’m standing here,” he asserted.
“Well, for God’s sake, that’s just plain bizarre. Why didn’t he say so? He had plenty of opportunity and I even asked him about the mine ownership. It’s outrageous.”
“Beats me. I could hardly believe it myself.”
Neva continued out to the porch, sat down, and waited until Skipper was settled on the settee before saying, “And you know what? This means that Gene’s the sole owner of the claim now. I found out yesterday that Orson died. I went to see his sister in Hatlee and she told me that he died a week ago. This is all very strange.”
“Isn’t it just.” Skipper nodded thoughtfully. “That’s too bad about Orson, but I don’t imagine he had much in the way of quality of life. Still, it’s life.”
After reflecting for several minutes, Neva said, “I feel like going straight down there and asking for the whole story. In fact, that’s just what I’m going to do when I finish this nice cup of coffee.”
“Sorry, no can do. When I came in yesterday Gene was just pulling out for Pocatello. He said he’d be gone a few days, maybe until next week.”
“Did you tell him you’d found out he owns the mine?”
“Well, as it happens, I did say that. I hope it’s okay.”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?”
“I was thinking maybe you’d want to talk to him yourself, without him knowing you know the
truth, if you see what I mean.”
Neva regarded the old artifact hunter quizzically. “I don’t quite see, I’m afraid. It’s a bit odd that he didn’t tell me, but when you think about it, he’s the most logical person to own the mine. He’s been mining this creek since he was a boy, and I’m sure he has his own good reasons for keeping quiet. Mining’s a funny business, remember. At least that explains why he came into the cabin one day when I wasn’t here.”
“Maybe you don’t think it’s screwy, W.T., but I do. I think there’s something rotten in Denmark and I don’t mean fish. You know what’s wrong with you? You’re too goddamned nice. You go through life thinking everything’s going to come up roses. Well, I’m here to tell you from experience that it’s more likely to come up weeds. And I don’t mean marijuana.”
***
Two hours later, lying on her back on a hot rock halfway up the ridge, Neva had to admit to herself that she felt more perplexed about Gene’s behavior than she had let Skipper believe. She could think of no good reason for him to keep her in the dark about the true ownership of the mining rights, and the more she thought about him the odder he seemed. Since he owned Billie Creek Mine, why wasn’t he working it instead of the Sufferin’ Smith Mine, which was said to be difficult and unproductive? Billie Creek Mine hadn’t been worked in so long there was no sign of mining apart from bits of pipe and other such debris, along with overgrown gravel heaps by the creek, but surely it would be easier to excavate than the ridge top. And when she told him about the eviction notice, why had he not done something to help? He could have told Sylvester that she was the caretaker, or that she was cleaning up the site in preparation for his mining efforts later in the season. On the other hand, maybe he was the one who had alerted the Forest Service in the first place, hoping that she would be evicted.
For some time her thoughts swirled like silt disturbed in a pond, but at last, gazing into the endless blue sky, she felt her mind settle and clear. Surely there was nothing to be uneasy about. With Orson gone, who better than Gene Holland to own the mine? Had he intended to make dramatic changes—for instance, to turn it into a pit like the Barlow Mine—he would have done it long ago. He must believe that the claim had been mined out already. It had been the first mine on Billie Creek, after all, and had been worked for nearly a century. Maybe he was attached to the mine for sentimental reasons. He had seemed fond of Uncle Matthew and Orson, and very interested in the mine’s history. Whatever his reason for hanging onto the claim, it had to be better than having it fall into the hands of someone like Boris Dietering, a man with no apparent relationship to the land or local history. If she did decide to leave her mother’s ashes here, she would feel comfortable knowing that Gene had control of the mine for at least the foreseeable future.
And the longer she stayed in the canyon, the more inclined she felt to bury the ashes here. She was healing spectacularly with the help of the hills and the desert sun, and feeling closer to her lost uncle than she’d ever expected to, and what better connections could there be than these? For as long as she lived, she could return here whenever she chose, to renew her own strength and to come closer to…to what? Her mother’s spirit? Her uncle’s legacy? She didn’t care, she realized with a sudden sense of release, it didn’t matter how the situation was defined in words. What mattered was that she had found physical and emotional bedrock here.
Neva wandered until late afternoon, paying little attention to where her feet led her. The sun dropped below the ridge but the hard ground radiated comfortable heat. Picking her way down a rocky slope, she realized that she was below the outcrop where she and Reese had shared the whiskey. Thinking of the bottle he had sailed out into space, she watched for glass fragments as she zigzagged across the steep slope, stepping with more care than usual. Four buzzards circled overhead. If she were to trip and break a leg, forcing her to crawl, would they spiral closer and land nearby to wait? Had her uncle’s bones been picked clean by ancestors of these birds?
The ground grew less steep and was dotted with knee-high bunchgrass growing out of shale gravel rather than soil. She crossed this patch and entered a stand of unusually tall sagebrush, some standing higher than her head. Following the path of least resistance through prickly shrubbery she rounded a shoulder of the hill and stepped into a narrow clearing that felt like a courtyard even before she saw the tunnel.
About twenty feet in front of her, an irregular, arched hole opened into the hillside. It had to be the old Calypso Mine, but just to be sure she turned to look across at the opposite ridge. Yes, the position appeared right, and so was the packrat smell that Darla had described. With a hand over her nose and mouth, she approached the dark tunnel, which was topped by a large lichen-crusted rock that stuck out horizontally like a door lintel. The packrat nest was too far inside to see, and there was no sign of the cave-in. The tunnel roof was higher than her head by several feet and supported at intervals by rough timbers that looked perfectly sound, but the stench was stronger than her curiosity and she turned away without going inside. Plunging again into the fragrant sagebrush as though into a cleansing pool, she breathed deeply of the delicious evening air. She could never be a miner—at least, not the tunneling variety—even if she felt the lure of gold. She was far too claustrophobic, and would not have gone more than a few feet into the Calypso Mine had it smelled like roses.
***
Busy with starting a dinner fire and putting on water to heat, Neva didn’t notice the note at first. Not until she lit a lamp and carried it into the big room did she see the scrap of paper next to the ashes. On it was a scrawled message.
Thanks for the food, it was good. Why do they think Reese done it? Put the answer at that cabin with the front fell out in that little can on the tree. You can put it in there and I will get it. I took my knife and hat. See you, LC.
The thought that Lance had been in her house was disturbing. Andy and even Tony Briggs had been satisfied with leaving notes on the porch—but, of course, Lance would have had to come inside to find paper and a pen. He had used her special pen, the only one that had not dried out, and he had not bothered to cap it or replace it on the desk. She turned in a slow circle examining the room but found nothing else out of order. It was fine that he had noticed the hat and knife on the kitchen table. She had meant to take them to him along with the supplies, but had forgotten in her rush to get an early start in her search for the line shack. That he knew about the tobacco can on the tree suggested the answer to at least one small mystery. Lance must have left the nugget there for some reason of his own.
After dinner she wrote a reply explaining that she had no idea why McCarty had arrested Reese except that there wasn’t anyone else to arrest and Reese had a bad record. As she finished writing, Skipper’s quad roared up to the door, and she went eagerly out to meet him. Cayuse jumped off the seat as soon as the scooter stopped and charged around with his nose to the ground, barking.
“God damn it, get back here!” Skipper roared, then addressed Neva in a normal tone. “Well, he’s picked up some sort of scent. Did you have company today, or what? I hope it wasn’t that squimp from the Forest Service again.” He swung one leg over to sit sideways on the seat and crossed his arms over his chest with a satisfied air. “I’ve been all over the territory today, and did I ever get an earful. I’m beginning to see why you like being a snoopy journalist.”
“Who said I’m a snoopy journalist?”
“It’s a compliment, W.T., so don’t get fussed. You want to hear this or not?”
“Do you want tea or something first?”
“No thanks, I don’t want to pee all night. Now listen up. I saw your pal, Darla.”
“She’s hardly a pal.”
“Are you going to argue with everything I say?”
“Okay, okay, go ahead, I’m all ears.”
“Well, then, here’s the deal.” Waiting until Neva sat down on the chopping block, he continued, “Darla told me that the fellow that owns t
he Barlow Mine has turned up and was telling everybody down at Angus this morning that he found you snooping around the mine late last night, and that the place had been torn up pretty bad and some things stolen. He didn’t say what was missing, but everybody figures it’s Reese’s stash, and this guy wants it for himself. Now why would he be trying to pin it on you?”
“Because I was there last night just as he says.”
“It’s true?”
“Not that I searched the place but I was there. When I was driving up late from Darla’s I saw a light in the house and thought maybe Reese or Lance had come back. I looked in the window.”
“And he caught you?”
“He about scared me to death. I assumed he did the ransacking but he said he didn’t.”
Skipper regarded her in silence. It was now so dark she could barely make out his unhappy expression. “If you’d told me about it this morning I wouldn’t have made a fool of myself telling everybody the guy’s a shyster. You aren’t being square with old Skipper, Walkie-Talkie.”
“I’m truly sorry, but I didn’t think of it this morning. I was so interested in what you found out about Gene, it drove everything else out of my mind.”
“So who searched the place?”
“I have no idea. I don’t know why everyone’s making such a big deal out of Reese’s stash. It doesn’t amount to much.”