The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  “You run with him?”

  “Not exactly. We clashed a few times, had the same target.”

  Oddly, Scott’s honesty seemed to satisfy Mather.

  “Yeah?” Mather said. “Sounds like Dean. What’d he tell you?”

  “No details. Just said talk to you if I was out this way. See if you needed a few more guns.”

  “Huh.” Mather eyes slid to the revolver at Scott’s hip, then to Granville standing silently behind him. “And who’s this?”

  “My partner, Granville.”

  “You’d better join us.” Mather waved them towards the table. His eyes slid to his own friends, then back to Scott. “We lost a couple guys a week or so ago. Maybe we can use you. Or maybe you should just be movin’ on.”

  Granville hoped Scott knew what he was doing.

  When he’d suggested Scott do the talking, he hadn’t anticipated the offer to join Mather’s gang. The potential for disaster loomed, but if they could pull it off, it was possibly the fastest way to get the information they needed.

  And they both knew that the more time that passed, the less chance they’d have of finding little Sarah. And the more chance that Lizzie would just fade away.

  With a grim smile, he stepped to a spot beside Scott.

  His attention was fixed on the wiry runt he figured was Androchuck, who seemed to be weighing every expression that crossed Scott’s face. Granville was willing to bet he was the more dangerous of the two.

  “So why’re you here?” the short man asked suddenly.

  “It seemed a good time to get out of town.”

  “You’re a Brit?”

  “Yes. And you are?”

  “Androchuck. The quiet one’s Berger. How’d you end up with him?” Androchuck nodded toward Scott.

  “Partnered up in the Klondike.”

  Mather laughed, a short, hard sound. “I’m guessing you didn’t find gold.”

  Having made a quick assessment of both men’s character and weighed the risks, he chose his words with care. “Not there.”

  “You found gold someplace else?”

  “Let’s just say we found a map that’ll make us rich.”

  “Then why d’you want to join with us?” Mather asked. “If you’ve got gold, you don’t need more.”

  “A man can always use more,” Granville said. “But as it happens, we don’t have gold.”

  “Just the map?” asked Androchuck, clearly suspicious.

  “Just the map.”

  “So what’re you doing here? Is the mine near Denver?” Mather asked.

  “Nope. Oregon,” Scott said.

  Granville was relieved his partner had picked up on his plan.

  Androchuck was looking from one to the other. “So who ran you out of town?”

  “We aren’t sure; we were ambushed,” Granville answered. “Leaving town for a time seemed the smart choice.”

  “Why here?” Androchuck asked sharply.

  Were they buying it? He shrugged. “Easy train ride. And Scott here remembered what your cousin said. Plus no-one would think to look for us here.”

  Well, that much was true. Unless Benton told them, of course.

  “And meanwhile you’ve got this map,” Androchuck said slowly. “We could maybe work out a deal, if you throw in with us.”

  “The mine’s not part of the deal,” Scott said.

  Androchuck eyes narrowed. “So you’d make money on us, but not return the favor?”

  “We thought to sign on as hired guns, now ‘til spring.”

  “I think I’d trust you more if we were partners. That way we’ve all got somethin’ to lose.”

  They’d taken the bait. Now could they pull it off? Granville glanced at Scott. “We’ll have to discuss this. We’ll meet you tomorrow with our answer. Here?”

  Androchuck nodded slowly. “Same time. And make sure you show up. This is our town, and we can find you.”

  “We’ll be here.”

  Signaling to Trent, they left the bar.

  As they stepped out onto the snow-covered sidewalk, Scott turned to Granville. “What’ve you got us into?”

  “As I recall, I’m not the one who offered them our services.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the one talked about the map. Now they won’t rest ‘til they get it.”

  “Exactly. And we’re guaranteed entry into their scam.”

  “At what price?”

  He shrugged. He’d promised Lizzie to bring her daughter back. “An acceptable one.”

  “Assuming they don’t just decide to kill us and take the map.”

  Granville winked at him. “Life was getting dull.”

  Scott shook his head, but he clapped Granville on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Saturday, January 20, 1900

  After donning the tailor-made suit of heavy worsted and adding the wool overcoat, cashmere scarf and fur-lined gloves, Granville eyed his elegant reflection with some cynicism. It was in stark contrast to the foxed mirror and the dilapidated hotel room he stood in.

  Only the tightness around his eyes showed signs of too many whiskeys downed in too many bars the previous night, while they chased rumors of smugglers and illegal adoptions. His clothes and the bearing drilled into him by a series of governesses conveyed confident prosperity. He hoped it would convince Baxter.

  Tipping his hat to the reflected image, he thought of his father at his most imperial, and was disconcerted to see his own features settle into something resembling the authority of the fifth Baron.

  Scott’s face swam into the wavery glass behind him.

  “You look like you ate something didn’t agree with you.”

  “Baxter needs to be convinced I’m a serious businessman.”

  Scott nodded thoughtfully. “He sees you lookin’ like that, he might be laughing too hard to answer any questions.”

  Granville’s answering grin erased all traces of the fifth baron. “Let’s go.”

  As the three of them exited the hotel, Trent glanced up and down the street. “Which way?”

  “I’m heading for the business district. I don’t know about you two.”

  “Depends. I could spend time in a higher rent district.” Scott waved a hand at the seedy buildings on both sides of the street as they headed east. “But I don’t want to queer your pitch, as you Brits say. What’s the plan?”

  The stealthy movement of a curtain across the street caught Granville’s eye. “Duck,” he shouted.

  Suiting action to words as a bullet slammed into the wood siding of the tavern behind them.

  He crouched behind the wooden railings, his revolver drawn.

  Scott did the same, while Trent had rolled to sight his gun under the lowest rung of the railings.

  Glancing back over his shoulder, wincing as the movement pulled on his barely healed wound, Granville could see the bullet had hit precisely where he’d been standing, centered on his heart.

  Whoever the shooter was, he was good.

  Very good.

  He risked a glance over the railing, ducking just in time to avoid the bullet that whined by his ear. “There’s only one shooter. He’s in the hotel opposite us, second floor.”

  “And he’s good. I can’t get a shot in,” Scott said.

  “Me neither,” Trent said.

  For a long minute, none of them moved.

  It was intensely cold, and the wind that came straight off the mountains that circled the city seemed to find every gap in their clothing.

  “Get inside,” Granville said to the other two in a low voice. “I’ll cover you.”

  Ten minutes later, the three of them were seated in a dark corner of the Drunken Pheasant, mugs of ale in front of them. They still had their revolvers drawn, but there was no further sign of the shooter.

  Granville took a deep pull on his ale, his eyes moving quickly around the dim, fetid interior. Neither the exchange of shots nor their hurried entrance seemed to ha
ve interested the bar’s few patrons. The bartender was still watching them with one hand out of sight, undoubtedly on the rifle he’d have below the bar, but he hadn’t hesitated to pull the ale or accept their coin.

  It was good ale, too. Much better than he’d had expected from the look of the place.

  “So who’s after us now?” Scott had drained his tanker and was conducting the same visual search Granville was.

  “Could be our friends from home or our new partners looking for a shortcut to the map,” Granville said.

  “But if it’s one of the guys from Vancouver, how’d they find us?” Trent asked. “We weren’t followed.”

  “That we know of. Maybe Benton told someone where we were going. Maybe someone heard us purchasing our tickets. This fellow seems to have a network of informants. And I find it interesting that there’s only one shooter again.”

  “Yeah, but he’s a deadeye,” Scott said. “Know anyone other than Benton with a network like that?”

  “I’m still new in town, remember? What do you think?”

  “No-one I can think of. You think Benton sent him?”

  “We both know he’s capable of it. I can’t see any gain for him in doing so, though.”

  “Doesn’t seem his style, either.”

  “I agree, but we’ve too many unknowns. Starting with our late client and his partner, or whatever Pearson was to him. If that’s even his name.”

  “Yeah. Guess we’ll just have to keep a low profile ‘till we can figure it out.”

  “Unless we can get a shot at him.”

  “Doubt it—he seems pretty wary. All I’ve seen so far is the glint of a rifle behind a curtain.”

  Trent was looking from one to the other. “You don’t suspect Harris is in on this?”

  The two men turned to look at him.

  “I gather you do?” Granville asked.

  Trent hurriedly lifted his ale, drank down a mouthful. “Well, he knows we’re in town. And where we’re staying,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

  “What’s between you and the detective, Trent?”

  “Nothin’. I never met him before.”

  “Yet he almost seemed to recognize you,” Granville said, regarding their assistant’s suddenly pale features closely. “Or d’you just look like someone he does know?”

  Trent flushed. “Well—he might know my Pa.”

  “Your father? The man who left town after that fiasco when he tried to break into the silk train?”

  Trent bristled. “You know it is.”

  “And where is he now, Trent?”

  “Here.”

  “Denver?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s had a run-in with Harris?” Scott asked.

  “He’s trying to go straight, but there’s no work. An’ he says most of the police are crooked.”

  “Scott?”

  “Far’s I know, Harris is a straight arrow. But he doesn’t hold out much hope of finding little Sarah, does he?” Scott’s voice was harsh.

  “So we may not be able to count on him for much help.” Privately Granville wondered about the expression he’d seen cross the detective’s face when he mentioned the kidnapping ring. It was something to think about. Later. “You’re planning to check out the rest of the places on his lists?”

  Scott nodded.

  Granville turned to Trent. “Would your father know anything about baby farms?”

  Trent shrugged. “I doubt it, but I’ll ask. If I can find him.”

  “And if we don’t get shot getting out of here,” Scott put in.

  He grinned at them. “We won’t if this establishment has a back door.”

  They emerged cautiously from the alley the rear entrance opened into, but there was no sign of the shooter.

  Guns drawn and ready, they made their way towards the center of town. As they turned onto Sixteenth, Trent gazed up at the six and seven story buildings that lined it, a nervous crease between his brows.

  A loud report had him ducking, but Granville’s hand on his arm kept him upright.

  “That wasn’t a gun,” Granville said.

  “Then what…?” Trent started to ask, then stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide, to watch the black Daimler chugging down the street.

  “A motor car,” Granville said. “You have an address for your father?”

  Trent shook his head. “Care of General Delivery. I’d no idea Denver was so big.”

  It seemed small to him, but then his idea of a city was London. Viewing Denver from Trent’s perspective, Granville could imagine his sense of dislocation. The place was at least twice the size of Vancouver, maybe more.

  “Time to split up. We’ll be less conspicuous if we separate. Scott will help you look for your father. I’ll visit Baxter, then stop in at a stationers. I’ll meet you back at the hotel,” Granville said.

  That drew Trent’s attention away from the street. “A stationers? Whatever for?”

  “So he can write to his fiancé,” Scott said with a chuckle.

  “Just watch your backs,” Granville said.

  All senses alert, Granville covered the remaining few blocks quickly, finding Baxter’s office without incident. It was located on the fourth floor of a six-story tower just south of Curtis.

  Nothing about the location, the starchy receptionist or the expensively furnished office gave a hint of the nature of Baxter’s business. As he considered the large oil of a hunting scene in the reception area, Granville found himself wondering what else the man was involved in, and whether any part of his business was legitimate.

  A gesture from the attractive woman behind the reception desk caught his attention. “Mr. Gordon? If you’ll come this way?”

  “Thank you.” He met her sideways look with a smile.

  The hallway she led him down was paneled in mahogany, the Turkey carpeting thick enough to muffle their footsteps. If this was a cover, it was an effective one. And Baxter’s appearance only solidified the impression.

  The lawyer advanced around his desk, one hand outstretched. His dark business suit, hearty manner and richly rounded tones were designed to inspire confidence. Baxter’s office was as polished as he was, but the rich woods and dark brown leather were much warmer than his gaze.

  His brother William would like this man, Granville thought. It made him even warier.

  “Mr. Baxter? A pleasure, sir. I’m in town on business, from the coast, and I was advised that you were the man in Denver whom I had to see.”

  “I’m honored, Mr. Gordon. May I ask who spoke so highly of me?”

  “Several of my acquaintances have done so. All men with hopeful new families, you know.”

  “In general, I prefer to deal with family men. I find them more reliable.”

  “As do I. Indeed, my wife and I plan a large family, but our hopes are as yet unrewarded.”

  “That is unfortunate indeed.” The lawyer paused, seemingly waiting for something.

  “Are you a family man yourself, Mr. Baxter?”

  “I am indeed. Been married the last eight years or so.”

  “Yes, yes it is. And do you have children?” Granville wasn’t sure how much more of this small talk he could stand, but without knowing what cue Baxter was looking for, he was feeling his way. Was it too soon to mention adoption?

  “Yes indeed. We’ve been blessed with a daughter. She’s four. Family is so important, is it not?”

  “Yes, yes it is,” Granville said, thinking quickly. Eight years of marriage and only one chid? Granville wondered whether that indicated trouble in the marriage. Or perhaps Baxter himself had adopted?

  He leaned forward slightly, dropped his voice. “In fact, so important that my wife and I are considering adopting a child. If we could be sure of his bloodlines, of course.”

  “You’re thinking of a boy?”

  Granville nodded, letting an expansive smile cross his face. “Must have that heir, you know. Followed, perhaps, by a little girl to please the w
ife.”

  “Hmmm.” Baxter played with his pen as if making a weighty decision, then leaned forward. “Mr. Gordon, I may be able to suggest a solution to your dilemma.”

  “Yes?”

  “A cousin of mine, from a very good family, has run into—difficulties. The child is due any day now, and all indications are that it will be a boy child.”

  “I see.” Granville sat back, steepled his fingers. “And the father?”

  “Too young for responsibility, but with a very good bloodline.”

  As if they were discussing horses, Granville thought in disgust, as he let a little calculated eagerness show on his face. “It sounds perfect.”

  “There is the matter of the lying-in expenses…”

  Granville waved a dismissive hand. “Not a consideration.”

  “And the legal fees for registering the birth—to your lady wife, of course.”

  Granville leaned forward again. “Is such a thing possible?”

  “Indeed it is. It is more expensive, of course.”

  Naturally, given that it was illegal, and likely required large bribes in the right places. “In this matter, money is available for whatever is required. It’s a matter of great importance to m—my wife, you know.”

  Greed gleamed in Baxter’s eyes then was gone. “I understand,” he said.

  “Since this is my heir, I’d like to accompany you at every step of the legal process. Would that be possible?”

  “I’m afraid not. I must protect the reputation of my young relative.”

  “I realize there may be additional costs, and I’m more than happy to bear them.”

  “I’m sorry, the answer is still no.”

  “I see.”

  “I must honor her confidence as I will honor yours,” Baxter said smoothly.

  Honor had nothing to do with it. Did Baxter already know of a male infant, or would it be up to his cohorts to find one for him? “And the next step?”

  “The baby, your son, will be born soon. You’ll need to make another appointment for the day after tomorrow. At ten.”

  “Ten o’clock, day after tomorrow.” Granville extended his hand and left the office, feeling as if he’d stepped too close to a snake pit.