The Lost Mine Murders

by Sharon Rowse

  Had he convinced Baxter? He’d done what he could, and would be here as requested.

  Then they’d see.

  After leaving Baxter, Granville walked briskly back across town towards their hotel.

  When he turned onto Sixteenth, he had the uneasy feeling of being watched, but he saw no-one paying particular attention to him. Every sense alert, he took advantage of every awning and hanging sign that might interfere with a shooter’s aim.

  He was acutely aware of every spot he passed that provided potential cover for an ambush. There were far too many of them.

  It was a relief to turn into Cobley’s Stationary, which catered to the amateur naturalists and artists who stopped in Denver on their way to exploring the Colorado wilderness. The young clerk was both helpful and knowledgeable, and Granville had no difficulty obtaining the paper and inks he needed.

  As he left, he scanned the street. Still no sign of the shooter.

  And the sensation of being watched was gone.

  Had the fellow gone looking for Scott and Trent?

  Back in their cramped hotel room, he removed his tailored coat and starched shirt, hanging them in the small clothes press and shrugging into a dark wool shirt. He replaced the gun holster, then spent several hours making a copy of the map, with a few strategic alterations.

  When Trent and then Scott returned, empty-handed, he was painstakingly aging the result with dirt and cold tea.

  Scott headed straight for the whiskey bottle, poured a shot, and tossed it back.

  “No luck with Harris’s lists?” Granville asked.

  “Nope. Just confirmed what he told us. She’s not at any of these places.”

  “Any sign of the shooter?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “It felt like I was being watched for a time, but I saw nothing and there were no shots taken.”

  “Huh. Wonder where he got to?”

  That was indeed the question, and it was one he didn’t have an answer for.

  Trent was standing by Granville’s elbow, watching silently as he continued his work on the map. “That’s what you wanted the stationary store for?” the boy finally asked. “It’s amazing! If I didn’t see the real one, I’d believe this one.”

  Scott looked from the original map to his copy and raised a brow. “Misspent youth?” he quipped as he poured himself another drink.

  “Something like that,” Granville said, youthful pirate hunts and treasure maps flickering through his mind. “We need something to bargain with, but we hold the map in trust for Mary Pearson.”

  “Interesting sense of fair play you’ve got,” Scott said. He regarded the false map critically. “This is good, except that you seem to be missing a few pieces. Place names, for one.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So they can’t decide they don’t need us?”

  “Right. I’ve left out everything that identifies where the map is actually located. To find the mine, they’re going to need us. Alive.”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Thanks. I thought so.”

  “But they won’t, will they? Find the mine, I mean?” Trent asked.

  “No. Take a look at where this map ends.”

  Trent looked closer, compared it to the original and let out a low whistle. “They’d never get out again.”

  Scott took the map from him, glanced at it, then winked at Granville. “Serve ‘em right if they steal it from us.”

  “Plus they think it’s in Oregon.” Granville rubbed the last smudge of dirt into his map.

  “So how’d it go with Baxter?”

  “I think he believed me. I’m to meet him again day after tomorrow. Then we’ll see.”

  “What d’you think of him?”

  “He was exactly as Benton said—slick as a snake.”

  Scott’s hands tightened into fists.

  “Snakes aren’t exactly slick, you know,” Trent’s voice came from the narrow bed along the wall where he’d perched. “Their skin is smooth and dry, not slimy at all.”

  He hid a grin. “Think about how they move.”

  “What? Oh—they’re fast, and they writhe.” The boy thought for a moment. “This guy, Baxter. He’s like that?”

  “Exactly like that. Deceptively innocent, until you see him move.”

  “Huh. So what’s next?” the boy asked.

  “Next I let this dry in the sun for an hour or so.”

  “And then?”

  “Then I think it’s time for our return visit to the Red Mule.”

  The speakeasy was less crowded than the previous day, but looked even dirtier in the shafts sunlight stabbing through the grimy windows. Mather and Androchuk were in their usual spot, and from the looks of it, they’d been there awhile. They didn’t look too pleased by Granville’s news.

  “So why don’t we just go get the gold?” Mather demanded.

  “The ground’s frozen—too hard to dig,” Granville said.

  “Not to mention the blizzards,” Scott added.

  “Oh,” said Mather. “But what about …”

  “Let it go,” Androchuck said. “They’ve already told us.” He turned to Granville. “You got that map?”

  After a show of reluctance, Granville handed over the copy he’d made. Androchuck held it up to the flickering gas lantern. “Can’t see much here. I’ll need to see this under a better light. And show it to our backer.”

  “And who might that be?” Granville asked, holding out his hand for the map.

  “He’s by way of being a partner of ours,” Androchuck said. “And you’ll get the map back after I talk to him.”

  He opened his mouth as if to protest, let his gaze move to where Mather’s hand rested lightly on his gun, and sat back.

  “I’m counting on it,” he said, pointedly glancing at Scott’s hand, also resting on his revolver. “Especially as you’ll need us to find the area where the map’s set.”

  Mather looked startled. Androchuck considered the map for a moment more, then tucked it in an inner pocket. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “Why exactly are you meetin’ with this partner of yours?” Scott asked.

  “He has the say on who we take on and who we don’t.”

  It had to be Baxter. “What happens then?” Granville asked, hoping a meeting with Baxter wasn’t in the plan.

  “Then we talk. Tomorrow morning. Ten.”

  Granville gave a curt nod. “We’ll be here.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Sunday, January 21, 1900

  Ten o’clock found them back at the Red Mule. At this hour, it still reeked of last night’s revelries; stale smoke, stale beer and unwashed males. Sitting at their usual table, Mather and Androchuk each had a half-empty tankard in front of them. They looked like they hadn’t ever left.

  “OK, you’re in,” Mather said, looking pleased with himself.

  “His cousin vouched for you,” Androchuck told Scott. “Said you’re almost as ruthless as he is, and a crack shot. But you’ve new partners in your gold mine.”

  “Yeah. Us.”

  “Uh huh. Done much digging?” Scott asked.

  “We’ve done our share,” Mather said. “Both of us were at Cripple Creek, and I spent some time at Leadville.”

  So Mather might know James Pearson, if his name was indeed Pearson. He’d have to think of a way to ask about him that wouldn’t raise Mather’s suspicions, Granville thought.

  “Different kind of mining,” Scot said. “Might come in handy, but you’ll have a lot to learn.”

  “I think we need to know what business we’re getting into. If we’re to be partners,” Granville said.

  “It’s no fail,” Mather said with a smirk. “We’re relocating kids.” He emphasized the second word and glanced sideways at them as if inviting them to share the joke.

  The man was despicable. Granville vowed to himself that he’d see Mather and his partners behind bars before they were done, but allowed no trace of his feelings to sh
ow on his face. “And there’s money in that?”

  “Good money, on both ends. And more when they need papers so it looks like their own child. Ba…” he began then hurriedly changed his words when Androchuck cleared his throat loudly. “ Our partner set it up brilliantly,” he finished.

  So it was Baxter. And as he’d guessed, Mather was the weak link in this partnership. That could prove useful. “When do we get to meet this partner of yours?”

  “You don’t,” Androchuck said. “The fewer people know who he is, the safer for him.”

  That was a relief—they couldn’t afford to have his own double role exposed. “Fine with me, as long as the money’s good.”

  “When do we start?” Scott asked.

  “Tomorrow night. Meet us here around eight. And come armed. We’ll fill you in then.”

  “Good enough. Scott?”

  Scott shrugged. “Long as they pay us, I’ll follow orders.”

  Granville knew that for a blatant lie, but if it fooled these two, that was all he cared about.

  Back in their nondescript room, Granville headed straight for the whiskey. Early as it was, he needed to get the taste of their new partners out of his mouth. He held the bottle out to Scott.

  Ignoring the invitation, Scott jabbed a finger into his chest. “Why’d you give up so easy? They’ll start suspecting us if we’re not careful.”

  “I had to get out of there, before I told them what I really thought,” Granville said. “I can’t believe Harris had word of this and didn’t do anything.”

  “Not like you to be an idealist. There’s not much the law can do.”

  “These are children,” Granville said, then regretted it when he saw the misery in Scott’s eyes. “We will find her, Scott,” he said, wishing he were certain of it.

  “Yeah,” the big man said, reaching for the bottle and pouring a good four fingers.

  Granville watched, concerned. Scott had been drinking steadily since they got here. And there was little more they could do until the following night. If he kept drinking like this, he’d be useless by then. “Mather said he used to dig at Cripple Creek.”

  “Yeah. I heard that. Too bad we can’t just ask him about Pearson.”

  “So we ask someone else. We can’t get any further in finding little Sarah until I meet with Baxter tomorrow. Might as well spend time looking for someone who knew Pearson.”

  Scott frowned. “I used to know some men who’d spent time in Cripple Creek. Wonder if they’re still in town?”

  “You never worked there, did you?”

  “No. But when they found gold in the early 90’s, the Creek drew would-be miners from all over. Then mining went soft and a bunch of ‘em headed for the Klondike in ‘97 and ‘98. Remember Soapy Smith?”

  Granville nodded, scowling at the memory of the notorious “King of Skagway,” who had plucked many an unwary pigeon before his final, and fatal, duel with the law.

  “He was from Denver.”

  “Since he’s dead, I hardly see how he can be of help to us.”

  Scott ignored him. “Carter was from here too. And so was Rogers. Might as well see if any of ‘em are still around.”

  “I don’t think Rogers made it back. Remember?”

  “Was he the one froze to death?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Shame. What about Kendrick? And Bailey. They made it out, didn’t they?”

  “Bailey shipped out of Skagway same time we did. And I last saw Kendrick in the bar in Sheep Camp, but he looked pretty hearty then. They both from Denver?”

  “Yup.”

  “So how do you propose to go about finding them?”

  “We’ll need to split up. And we’ll need Trent.”

  “Where is the boy?” Granville asked with a sudden spurt of worry. Just because they hadn’t seen the shooter today didn’t mean he wasn’t still after them.

  “Damned if I know. He can’t have gone far.”

  No sooner had he said this than the door flung open and Trent hurried into the room, red-faced and panting.

  Granville’s hand was poised on his revolver, and he noted Scott’s alert readiness. “What’s wrong?”

  “They—they—”

  “Is someone after you?” Scott asked, rising to his feet.

  “No,” he gasped.

  “Then wait until you get your breath back,” Granville advised.

  Trent nodded, bending over and putting his hands on his knees. Gradually his breathing slowed. “I think I’ve got a lead on what happened to little Sarah,” he said at last, standing upright.

  “What?”

  “How?”

  “I was down along Market Street, lookin’ for my Pa. I saw a couple police officers, acting odd. So I followed them.”

  The boy had expected to find his father in the red light district, dangerous even in daylight? “Odd? In what way?”

  “Never mind that. What about Sarah?” Scott demanded.

  Trent darted an apologetic glance at Granville, but answered Scott. “They went into a large yellow house off Twentieth. It was nearly half an hour before they came out again.”

  “Officers visiting brothels is hardly news.”

  “From what I saw, I think it’s a baby farm. One not on your list.”

  “So I was right. Harris is involved.” Scott’s big hands clenched until the knuckles gleamed white.

  “I don’t think he is,” Trent said.

  “I thought you didn’t trust the fellow either.”

  “I don’t. But these cops were too sneaky. If the detective knew, they wouldn’t have to hide.”

  “The lad’s right,” Scott said. “But how many other places weren’t on that list of Harris’s? We’ll have to find every one of them.”

  “No, you won’t,” Trent burst out.

  Granville gave him a sharp look. “What did you do?”

  “I went in, told them I was looking for my little sister. I said my Mam died a couple years ago while I was working back east, and I’d heard they’d taken in little Nan.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  Trent shrugged. “I said all I wanted was a chance to see her, say hello, and that I had money for any boarding costs that might be owing, so they didn’t throw me out. Just asked how old she was, what she looked like.”

  “What did you say?” Scott asked.

  “I didn’t see any harm in telling the truth, but when I said she was nearly three, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a birthmark on her arm shaped like a seahorse, their eyes went kinda funny and they couldn’t rush me out of there quick enough.”

  “They knew her.” Scott’s face seemed lit from inside.

  “Sounds like it.” Granville’s mind raced. “And now they know someone is looking for her.” He looked at Trent. “They’ll know her background, and that she has no siblings, much less a brother your age.”

  Trent’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “We’ll have to move fast,” Scott said, easily following Granville’s thinking. “Else they’ll move her, maybe send her out of state.”

  “If she’s still there. She may have been adopted out before now.”

  “So I’ve made things worse?” Trent’s fists clenched and his jaw thrust out. “Then I’ll just have to get an answer out of them.”

  Granville fought back a grin at the boy’s dramatics. “Don’t blame yourself. This is the first solid lead we’ve had since we arrived.”

  “And we can force the rest out of them,” Scott growled, grabbing his hat off the bed.

  “Not so fast.”

  Scott and Trent both stared at Granville, but it was Scott who spoke. “What d’you mean?”

  “Do you want your niece back or not?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you can’t just rush in.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cause they might do somethin’ stupid. Right?”

  Granville smiled at Trent, nodded. “Right. This is where we need to be smart. If
we are, we’ll not only take little Sarah home with us, Baxter and company will be in jail and the smuggling ring scattered.”

  Scott glowered at him. “Yeah, that’s easy to say. But how? And what about the baby? Huh?”

  “We can’t alert them until we have our plans in place,” Granville told him.

  “What plans? We ask questions till we find little Sarah, then grab her and take the nearest train out of here.”

  “With our shooter still out there? And while Baxter and his boys might try anything to stop us? It’s too risky. And I couldn’t sleep nights if we just leave Baxter and his henchmen with their filthy business.”

  Convincing his friend not to head straight for the baby farm was hard. It took a good fifteen minutes of arguing, but Scott finally agreed to take it one step at a time, once Trent had satisfied him that the little ones had appeared well fed, warm and clean.

  “You sure ‘bout that? Cause most baby farms I heard about, they weren’t looked after right,” Scott had growled.

  Only Trent’s repeated assurances had convinced him.

  “So now what?” Scott asked.

  “We keep working with Baxter and Mather, and we follow up on this lead Trent’s given us. Scott, you need to ask the sheriff about this latest baby farm, see what he knows. Trent and I will keep looking for word on Pearson.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “I can’t believe we’re here under the guise of making afternoon calls,” Clara whispered. They stood in a tiny but painfully neat parlor in a house that couldn’t have more than four rooms and an attic. The air smelled of lavender and carbolic, as if it had been thoroughly scrubbed just that morning.

  “Shhhh. They’ll hear us.”

  “I also don’t believe the way you dragged the information out of Mrs. Howe. And to do so at church!”

  “It was just social conversation. Perfectly acceptable.”

  “I don’t think your Mama found it so. I saw her face when you announced that one of those maids was a fellow-student at your typewriting class.”

  Clara was right, and Emily knew it. “But Mrs. Howe remembered Mary. And her address.”