The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  “Yeah, but that’s winter. And this time, there’s no permafrost to deal with, so we can dig in the summer, like sane people.”

  “Except that it isn’t our mine.”

  Scott gave him a look that said he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’ve got the map, haven’t you? And the rightful owner is dead? Not that I’m sure Cole was the rightful owner, but there’s no one else around, so that leaves us. And a gold mine. All’s we have to do is register it.”

  Granville realized he hadn’t told Scott the details of his last conversation with their former client. “Before he died, Cole hired us to find the heir to the mine.”

  “What heir?”

  “I don’t have a name—the old man died before he could get the words out.”

  “That makes it easy. By default the map’s ours. And the mine too.”

  “We do have a photo.”

  “A photo? You’re foolin’ with me, right?”

  He grinned at Scott’s tone, and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I gave my word of honor.”

  Scott snorted. “I don’t see why we should put all the effort into tracking down some fool doesn’t deserve it more than we do.”

  “We’re doing it for another five percent of the mine. We’ll be entitled to ten percent of everything that comes out of the ground, and without doing any of the work.”

  “Ten percent sounds pretty small compared to the hundred percent we’ve got now. You really want to hand off ninety percent of a gold mine to some dude neither of us know?”

  “I gave my word. And the dude is a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “A girl, really, judging by the photo. And one in need of money, from what Cole said.”

  “A girl.” Scott shook his shaggy head as if to clear it.

  “And a pretty girl at that.”

  “Ah, you’re just tryin’ to get to me. It’s not a girl.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”

  “So where’s the picture?”

  “Emily has it, to help her find the photographer. There’s also part of a letter. Remind me to show you later.”

  “Hah. If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were trying to trick me out of my share. So what are you really up to?”

  Granville raised his right hand. “My word of honor. The map belongs to a girl named Mary, except for the ten percent that is ours.”

  “It really belongs to a girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, damn. It was a nice dream while it lasted.”

  “Are you forgetting our cut?”

  “No, but no young girl’s going to be able to get that gold out. Probably won’t even know how to register it.”

  “She will if we help her.”

  “I thought we were out of the mining business.”

  “We are. Now we’re in the mining exploration business.”

  Scott’s eyebrows drew together. “And that’s different how?”

  “We provide the advice, someone else does the digging.”

  “So who pays for the digging?”

  “She will, of course, as the owner.”

  “I thought she was broke.”

  “Not once she gets her share of the gold Cole was carrying out.”

  Scott’s frown gradually lifted, and a grin stretched across his face. “So once we get that cache safely in a bank, we’re set.”

  “Precisely. Assuming we can manage not to be killed before we find the heiress and help her to register the mine.”

  “We’ve survived this long,” Scott said, then shot Granville a suspicious look. “So why aren’t you still in Vancouver, anyway?

  “I thought you might have had visitors.”

  “Visitors? You mean like those polecats who were after us?”

  “Exactly like them.”

  “Nope, haven’t seen hide nor hair of them. In this crowd, I would have noticed.”

  “Is it my imagination, or is it more crowded in here than it was the last time I was here?”

  “There’s a bunch of visitors here, mostly from the Island.”

  Granville raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

  “Vancouver Island,” Scott clarified. “Bout thirty miles away, most of it open ocean. Anyway, they all showed up day before yesterday. I think they’re planning some kind of dance.”

  Visions of these solemn people clad in ball gowns and tuxedos and swirling to the strains of a Viennese waltz glided through Granville’s mind, and his lips quirked. “Dance?”

  “Some kind of a celebration and healing ceremony, I gather. Supposed to be quite something, according to Arbuthnot. Isn’t something non-Indians usually get to see, but until they decide I’m well, they’re not about to kick me out.”

  “So what does the shaman say about you?”

  “He tends to shake his head and mutter a lot.”

  “Not surprising. But what does he say about your injuries?”

  Scott ignored him. “As I was saying, on the whole he seems pleased with how I’m doing. So I’m ready to leave whenever you are.”

  Granville looked closely at Scott, seeing the small beads of sweat that had popped out on his upper lip, and the way he’d gradually leaned more solidly against the pillar as they’d talked. “I’m thinking about making this my base for awhile.”

  “Why? And don’t be thinking I’m not up to riding.”

  Remembering Scott bent forward, hauling fifty pound loads ups the steep Chilkoot Trail, then going back and doing it again and again and again, all the while suffering from the remains of a persistent bout of influenza, Granville had no doubt his partner could do anything he set his mind to. “I’m worried Benton may be involved.”

  “Benton? Why?”

  “He didn’t give me any names for our pursuers, but he did give me a veiled warning. And he tried to hire me.”

  “Hire you?” Scott thought about that for a moment. “That’s either a compliment or a bad sign. And why now?”

  “Probably both. And I confess it’s the timing that worries me.”

  Granville could see Scott digesting this piece of information, examining its implications. “They send someone after you?”

  “Trent and I had a tail the entire time. He made no effort to shoot at us, though.”

  “So they’re after information.”

  “That’s my thought. They aren’t sure which of us has the map.”

  Scott nodded slowly. “Did you talk to Frances?”

  “Yes. She hadn’t heard anything.”

  “And Lizzie?” There was reluctance in Scott’s tone, as if he was bracing himself for bad news.

  “Frances says she’s eating. And has stopped smoking opium.” Granville hoped that heartening news would distract Scott, keep him from asking about his niece.

  “And little Sarah? Any news?” Scott asked.

  He couldn’t lie. Reluctantly, Granville pulled out the crumpled telegram, handed it over.

  Scott’s eyes scanned the few lines, met Granville’s. “So that’s what you’re doing back here.”

  Granville grabbed back the paper, scanned it. He’d given Scott the wrong telegram; he hadn’t meant to tell his partner about the threat on his life.

  Scott was watching him closely. “You might as well give me the other one,” he said, holding out a hand.

  Silently Granville handed over the telegram Emily had kept for him, watching his friend’s face pale as he read it. When he’d finished, Scott’s big hand fisted around the flimsy paper. “If you have this, why aren’t you on the train to Denver?”

  “We’re no good to little Sarah if we’re dead.”

  Scott gave him a hard stare. “I can take care of myself.”

  “That’s not the issue. I don’t think they’ll give up easily, not with a gold mine at stake. If I thought it’d draw them out after me, I’d be on the next train to Denver.”

  “You think it wouldn’t.”

  “Not as long as you’re here.”

&n
bsp; “I’m good to ride.”

  No, he wasn’t. “We’ll need money first, which means the gold. And I think we’ll have to produce Cole’s body before long, since there’s a detective here. We can’t get to Denver if we’re in jail.”

  Scott ignored his attempt at humor. “So what’s the plan?”

  “I thought I’d hand the body over to the law, get out enough gold to look for little Sarah and re-hide the rest. Then we’ll take ourselves and the map to Denver.”

  Not fooled by the explanation, Scott reached out and gripped his partner’s shoulder hard. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m just tired of being shot at.”

  A commotion on the other side of the room captured Granville’s attention. Scott followed his gaze.

  “It looks like the dancing’s about to start.”

  “Now?”

  “Yup. They’ve been feasting and preparing for two days. Look.”

  Granville watched in fascination as first one and then several gray haired Indian matrons stood up and began to sway, chanting as they did so. Nothing further from the waltz could be imagined, yet there was a stately grace to this form of dance. “Are they Katzie?” he asked.

  Scott squinted his eyes to see better down the length of the hall. “The middle one is. The others are relations from the Island. Sisters, cousins, who knows.”

  “The clans are closely related?”

  “Tribes. And you’re asking me?” He gave Granville a quick grin.

  “Well, if you’ve been spending any time talking to Arbuthnot, I thought you might have picked up something.”

  “How do you think I know as much as I do? And that’s another thing. What’ d’you mean by inflicting him on me when I was too weak to get away?”

  “Mr. Arbuthnot struck me as a very convivial gentleman,” Granville said with a straight face.

  “Huh. The man loves to talk. And he’s fascinated with everything to do with the Indians in this region of the world, really a fount of knowledge on the subject. Problem is, the man’s also a prosy bore.”

  He grinned. “I rather thought he might be. But for all that he’s the epitome of the upright Victorian gentleman; I knew if you needed something he’d see to it.”

  “Hmmmph,” Scott said. “Well, if you want to know about these dances, you can ask him yourself. The lecture you’ll get will serve you right.”

  “This is fascinating,” Granville said, his eyes on the slowly spinning figures.

  “Yup, sure is. But I’m happy to watch it; I don’t need to know the ins and outs of it all.”

  Granville watched as the women swayed and chanted. “I think I’ll have that chat with Arbuthnot.”

  “You have that look in your eye again. I don’t think it’s dancing you’re going to be asking about, is it?”

  “I might start by asking about dancing.”

  “Hmmpf. Last time you got that look in your eye, you tricked a bunch of tenderfeet that had their eye on our claim into prospecting up the other end of Rabbit Creek. And look how well that turned out.”

  Granville glanced sideways at Scott. “You know full well it wasn’t my fault they hit pay dirt on that supposedly worthless claim.”

  “All I know is our digging got us nothing but gravel and more gravel.”

  “We found enough color to buy our food. Most of the time.”

  “Well, I’m hoping you can do better this time. Maybe you can even avoid the black eye that you got as part of those negotiations.”

  “I hardly think Arbuthnot is going to punch me in the eye.”

  “Nope, but the ones you’re hopin’ to trick will probably do worse to you.”

  “Not likely.”

  Scott chortled, but Granville noted in concern how pale he was under the weathered tan his face wore even in winter.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Mr. Arbuthnot?”

  The small man, dapper in spite of the fact he’d been living out of a trunk for the last week, turned away from the dancing to see who had addressed him. His face lit up when he saw Granville.

  “Mr. Granville! You have seen how well your friend is doing?” He was nearly shouting to make himself heard over the drumming and the rhythmic stomping of moccasin-clad feet.

  “Yes indeed, and I thank you for looking after him so well.”

  “Oh, I did nothing. It was the olia’s doing. They say he’s the last one amongst all the Halkomellem to truly know the old ways of medicine and of healing. In fact, he’s the reason they’re holding this dance.”

  The mention of the dancing momentarily distracted him. “Why is that?” he asked.

  “They say Peter Pierre knows all of the old spirit chants.”

  Suddenly Granville lost all interest in the dance. “Pierre? Is he the same man who spent time with an old Indian named Slumach before he was hanged for murder?”

  Arbuthnot nodded. “He is indeed. In fact, he’s his nephew. Slumach turned himself in to Pierre when he finally could hide no longer.”

  “Were you here then?”

  “Not at all; I only brought my family out from England in ‘92. But the stories of what happened are everywhere.”

  “In ‘92? You have learned a great deal of the Indian culture for so short a time.”

  “Thank you. It is a passion of mine,” he said.

  “Have you heard of Slumach’s lost mine, also?”

  Arbuthnot smiled. “Everyone has heard those stories. But don’t waste your time on them, there’s no more truth in them than in most ‘pot of gold’ stories.” He gave Granville a penetrating look. “But did I not hear Mr. Scott say the two of you were in the Klondike?”

  “That’s right,” Granville said, bracing himself for the endless questions that information usually evoked.

  But Arbuthnot merely nodded. “You know whereof I speak, then.”

  “Yes. The gold was there, but for every man who came out with a fortune, thousands lost everything. For some poor souls that included their lives.”

  “I fear it is the same with the Lost Mine of Pitt Lake,” Arbuthnot said. “Except that in this case, there is no gold, but still those who chase it lose everything.”

  Except that there was gold in the Lost Mine, and plenty of it. “Have you ever asked Pierre about it?”

  Arbuthnot shook his head, lips firming a prim line under the little moustache he wore. “I would not care to be so rude,” he said. “The poor man has undoubtedly heard more than enough on the subject from others. He’s been good enough to offer me the shelter of his home. I would not profane that with base enquiries. He has far more important information to impart.”

  Granville fought to hold back a smile at his tone; he rather liked the little man. “Thank you. And where might I find Pierre? I want to thank him for his care of Scott,” he hastened to add, for Arbuthnot was now giving him a disappointed look.

  “He’s over there,” Arbuthnot said, waving towards a man of medium height with a broad, pleasant face and long black hair tied back in a braid and threaded through with eagle feathers. It was the shaman who’d cut the bullet out of him and doctored Scott.

  Granville made his way through the cheerful crowd to where the shaman stood.

  “Mr. Pierre?”

  He turned to face Granville. “Ah. You are well? The arm is not painful?”

  “Yes, I’m very well, and grateful to you for it. And for caring for my friend so well.”

  “He is most welcome here. A man of gentle spirit, I think.”

  Granville glanced over at where Scott towered above the others, thought of all the fights he’d won, yet Pierre had the right of it. “Yes. He is.”

  The Katzie man nodded. “And heals very fast.”

  “Which I am relieved to hear. I do have a question for you, though, and not related to Scott’s healing.”

  “Ah?”

  “You had an uncle, I hear?”

  Dark eyes rested on his face for a long moment and Granville had an impression of great wisd
om, surprising in a man who could not be much above forty. “You look for the mine.”

  “Actually, I look for the rightful owner of the mine.”

  Pierre’s eyes again searched Granville’s face, then he nodded slowly. “I see. You have found the mine.”

  Granville said nothing, knowing Pierre would understand the unspoken agreement.

  “Then what question do you have for me?”

  Instinctively Granville trusted the man, but still he kept his answers general. “The man who hired us to help him find the mine had a map.”

  “Oh?”

  Granville looked sharply at Pierre. There was something knowing in his face. “My client’s dying words charged me with finding the rightful owner of the map, or rather his heir.”

  “My uncle left such a map.”

  Had his instincts been wrong? “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I have destroyed it. The mine is cursed, the cost of taking out gold too high. Anyone attempting to find that mine can expect injury or worse.”

  The skepticism Granville was feeling must have shown on his face.

  “The mine killed the old man, I think?”

  “It was not the mine that killed my client, it was the men who ambushed us.” Or rather, it was the men who had attacked them for the sake of the map.

  “For me, it was a broken leg,” Peter Pierre was saying. “Just as my party set out to search for my uncle’s mine. The spirits spoke clearly. There are things more important than gold.”

  Granville nodded slowly in deference to the conviction in the man’s words. “And have you heard of another map to this mine?”

  “Rumors only. If you like, I will try to think of names I have heard.”

  “The only one I have is James.”

  “James.” There was a thoughtful silence, or at least as much silence was possible in the din. “I will think on it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are serious about finding this heir, then?”

  “I gave my word of honor.”

  “I see. I will think on it, and after the dancing we will speak again.”

  “Does the dancing go on all day?”

  “All day and all night, and sometimes the next day and night also.”

  It was hard to imagine dancing lasting so long. “I’ll look forward to our conversation.”