“There!”
Granville squinted into the driving snow, trying to see where their client was pointing. They’d woken that morning to find a thick layer of snow covering their small tents, all but obliterating the landscape.
Seven hours of hard slogging, made somewhat easier by their snowshoes, had brought them to the top of this sharp ridge. He estimated they were some twenty miles northeast of the lake, looking down into yet another snowbound, v-shaped valley.
With a muttered curse, he adjusted the heavy pack on his shoulders. “How do you expect to find the cache in this weather?” he hollered against the wind.
Cole shrugged. “Don’t see that’s your business.”
“It is if the rest of us freeze in the process,” Granville said under his breath, feeling a warning twinge in the toes he’d once nearly frostbitten.
Scott’s meaty hand came down on his shoulder. “Think the old geezer’s still sane?” his partner muttered in his ear. “This is pretty bad.”
“I was wondering that myself. He seems to be recognizing something.”
“Damned if I know how.”
Scanning the steep peaks rising on every side of him, Granville had to agree. “At least we’ve lost whoever was tracking us.”
“You still think there’s someone following us?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yeah.”
Granville nodded. “And I think this storm’s about to get worse. We’ll need to find shelter.”
“Looks like we’re about to get out of the wind at least.” Scott waved towards Cole, who had started descending into the valley far below them.
“Nope. Wind’s worse down there. Whistles off the glacier and straight up the valley.” Trent had come up behind them, obviously in time to hear Scott’s last words.
“Wonderful.”
The light was already fading by the time they made their way to the floor of the valley, but the mist had lifted. There might be a stream under the snow, but then again there might not.
Was this the destination they had been pushing towards?
Picturing the map in his mind’s eye, Granville traced the steep sides of the valley, the stand of three pines to the right. He looked for the rough triangle the mapmaker had drawn beside the stream… And his eyes found a huge, roughly triangular boulder, covered in snow.
Maybe the old man wasn’t so crazy after all.
Nudging Scott, he pointed out the snow-covered shape, and raised snow-crusted eyebrows.
Scott’s eyes swept the landscape. He looked back at Granville. “Pay dirt.”
“We’ll see.”
Trent came up behind them again. “What d’you see?”
Granville pointed out the mound.
Trent’s eyes followed the pointing finger, and a grin split his face. “That’s the mark on the map. We found gold.”
“If the map is real,” Granville said. His time in the Klondike had beaten the assumptions out of him.
As they watched, Cole reached the triangular boulder and crouched on the near side of it, brushing away snow. He bent closer, examining something. Standing again, he waved them on.
They set up the tents against the cliff, then rigged a spare piece of canvas in a rough lean-to against the near side of the rock. Lighting a small fire in its shelter, they picked up their shovels.
The ground they were digging into had been dug before but was still frozen hard. After nearly an hour of digging with only the flickering fire to cut the darkness, Granville’s shovel hit something with a dull thunk.
His eyes met Scott’s, and he knew without asking what his partner was thinking. Months of digging into frozen creeks and they’d found just enough dust to buy flour and lard. How ironic if they finally struck gold here.
Even if it was someone else’s buried cache.
“Give it to me.” Their client was at his elbow, almost dancing from foot to foot in his impatience.
“Trent, keep watch,” Granville said, with a jerk of his head towards the front of the lean-to.
“Awww,” said Trent, but did as he was bid.
Granville and Scott cleared enough dirt to see the edge of a grime-crusted flour sack. Each taking an edge, they gave a mighty heave and pulled it out. More lay stacked underneath.
Gold, Granville thought as he watched their client untie the first sack.
The fire flickered richly off the large lumps that partly filled it.
He swallowed hard, and Scott’s hand clenched on his shoulder. A claim yielding nuggets that size was as rich as any he’d ever heard of.
And he and Scott held a five percent share of it.
He watched as Cole clutched the nuggets in gnarled fingers, his eyes gleaming avariciously.
At least they did if they made it out alive.
It was five minutes past twelve when Emily and her friend Clara Miles joined Tim O’Hearn at a small table in the back of Stroh’s Tea Shop. Emily leaned her dripping umbrella beside the window and tucked her wet feet under the chair.
The restaurant was warm and bright after the damp grayness outside. She didn’t recognize anyone at the nearby tables. In any case, the cheerful din of news and gossip shared meant their conversation would stay private. Good.
Despite her deep unease about Granville’s safety, Emily smiled to see O’Hearn’s eyes light up when they rested on Clara. Though Clara showed no outward sign of attraction to the young reporter, she’d gone to a great deal of effort to ensure that her new hat perfectly matched her outfit.
Emily looked from one to the other. They suited each other, and Clara was practically glowing. She hated to have to damp that glow with her news.
As soon as their tea, scones and sandwiches has been served, Emily took a deep breath and began. “Thank you for meeting me. I’m very worried about Mr. Granville and I need your help.”
“What? Why?” O’Hearn asked, leaning forward.
Clara put her gloved hand over Emily’s, squeezed gently in support and comfort.
“Before I tell you, you’ll have to swear you’ll not mention a word to anyone. Or write it,” she said, looking directly at O’Hearn.
The reporter grimaced, then nodded. “What is it?” he asked.
“My fiancé is out searching for a mine. And I’ve been told someone is planning to ambush and kill him and his party,” Emily said.
It was hard to put into words the fear that had kept her awake all night.
Laura hadn’t come back with more information, so Emily had only her word that someone wanted Granville dead. “I don’t know whether to believe it or not,” she finished.
Clara’s blue eyes widened and Tim’s hazel ones narrowed.
“Searching for a mine?” he said. “Where? Not out beyond Pitt Meadow?”
“How did you know?” Emily asked.
“There’ve been rumors about that mine for years. Folk ‘round the area call it the Lost Mine, and a few prospectors have already lost their lives looking for it. Supposedly an old Katzie Indian named Slumach had a fabulously rich mine back in those mountains, but he was hanged for murder a few years back without disclosing his secret. And you say Granville’s gone looking for it?”
Emily nodded.
“This time of year? They’ll freeze to death,” O’Hearn said.
“He and Mr. Scott both spent time in the Yukon,” Emily told him. “I think they’re used to worse cold.”
O’Hearn didn’t look any happier. “Those mountains have a bad reputation amongst the old-timers. They call them killers.”
Emily felt the cold knot in her stomach get bigger at his words. “The mountains may not get the chance.”
“Who is planning the ambush?” Clara asked.
“I don’t know all the details, but the father of one of my classmates is supposed to be part of it,” she said. “Laura, another of my classmates told me about it.”
“Oh, yes. Your typewriting classes,” said Clara. “But how could she know?”
Emily flashed her friend a look. Did Clara resent her new studies? She’d never said what she thought of Emily’s desire to be a typewriter, which was unlike her.
“She heard the son boasting about it,” Emily said. “He didn’t give details; mostly he was showing off.”
“But you think it might be a serious threat to Granville?” O’Hearn had his notebook out.
“Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I do.” And the more Emily talked about it, the more certain she was, and the more worried she became.
“If you tell me the name, I’ll look through our archives, see if I can learn anything about the father and his associates,” O’Hearn said.
“Andy Riggs was the one talking about it.”
“But I know him,” said Clara. “Or at least I know his father.”
“You do? How?” Emily asked.
“Mr. Riggs and his eldest sons own the livery where we stable our horses,” Clara said.
O’Hearn looked at her, his forehead creased. “Riggs? I’ve heard something about him recently. I’ll look into it right away.” He drained the last of his tea and put the cup down with a snap.
“Please hurry,” Emily said as he put a few coins on the table and with an oddly formal half bow took his leave.
“And you’ll go back to class and wait to hear from him?” Clara asked after he’d gone, raising her brows in mock surprise.
“Of course not. Since Mr. Riggs already knows you as a customer, you and I are going to rent horses.”
“But I don’t like to ride,” Clara said.
Emily stared at Mr. Riggs. All around her were the stompings and janglings of a busy livery stable. Men were saddling horses, harnessing buggies and negotiating rates. The mingled smells of hay and horse manure reminded her of trips to the country.
Emily, Clara and the proprietor stood in what seemed a small oasis of calm as he refused to rent them the horses she had requested.
“Sorry, Miss,” he said, his eyes darting to her bare ring finger as he spoke, as if confirming her unmarried status. Her spinster status in his mind, she thought in annoyance.
“If your father’ll sign for you, we’d be happy to provide our finest mounts. But legally, I can’t rent to you.” As you should know, his look seemed to say.
Behind the obsequious tone was an arrogance that reminded her of his son.
“I see. Would my fiancé be able to rent horses for me?”
“Of course. As long as he accompanied you ladies on your ride.”
“Naturally. I’ll speak with him on his return, then.” Emily considered the man before her for a moment, then took a risk she knew Granville would be upset with her for.
But she couldn’t picture this man being a threat to her, and she needed to know. “Perhaps you know him? Mr. John Granville?”
His face didn’t change, but one hand jerked slightly, then tightened on the bridle he was holding.
“I’m not perfectly certain if it is this stable he usually deals with?” Emily said, smiling a blithely as she knew how.
“No, don’t believe I’ve ever met the man. He new to town?”
Emily nodded, fascinated by the contrast between the empty face and the clenching and unclenching hand. “Yes, he is.”
Riggs’s eyes went past her. “Have him come see me then, we can arrange something. Now, if that’s all…?” he said and began to edge them towards the door.
With a quick glance at the man who had just entered, Emily inclined her head in a passable imitation of Mama’s most regal nod.
“Good day,” she said and swept out, gesturing Clara to follow her. Unfortunately she tripped on the lintel, entirely spoiling the effect of her exit.
“I don’t trust that man,” Clara said as they reached the board sidewalk outside the livery stable. “He has mean eyes.”
Emily paused in the act of sweeping her skirts out of the mud and looked at her friend in surprise. Clara seldom took a dislike to anyone, but she was right about the man’s eyes.
“He knows something,” Emily said. “He obviously recognized Mr. Granville’s name, but he wouldn’t admit it.”
Clara glanced at her. “I have an idea, but I’ll need to talk to Mr. O’Hearn first.”
Despite her growing concern about Granville, Emily couldn’t resist teasing her friend. “Again?”
Clara smiled at her. “Indeed. I think we need a man’s opinion before we do anything else.”
“Mr. Riggs would certainly agree with you. And of course, this would have nothing to do with your desire to see Mr. O’Hearn again?”
“Naturally not. But since it was Mr. Gipson who came in, I think we need to share the information.”
“That was Mr. Gipson?”
“Indeed it was.”
Emily was considering the implication of this. “My father still thinks Mr. Gipson was wrongly accused, you know.”
“My father thinks him guilty, but rather admires his smoothness.”
“Hmmph. I’d call him slimy, not smooth,” Emily said, but picturing the elegant suit and manicured hands of the man she’d just seen, she reluctantly admitted to herself that she could see why Clara’s papa held the opinion he did.
“Shall we see if we can find Mr. O’Hearn at the newsroom?”
Emily was too busy calculating how she would get word to Granville to wonder about Clara’s new decisiveness.
The Daily World newsroom seemed even more crowded and noisy than usual. Brash voices and shouts of laughter echoed over the relentless clatter of typewriter keyboards. Every desk was filled, and a group of men stood over an old stove in the far corner, deep in conversation. Emily didn’t see a single woman anywhere.
As they neared Tim O’Hearn’s desk, Emily watched Clara’s face.
The reporter obviously did mean more to her friend than she had originally guessed. She wondered for a moment if her face was that easy to read when Granville was around, and rather hoped it wasn’t.
O’Hearn looked up, saw Clara and beamed. Then he scrambled to his feet. “You’ll never guess what I’ve uncovered.”
Clara’s dimples showed. “Mr. Riggs is in partnership with Mr. Gipson.”
“How the blazes did you know that? I just found out myself because I checked the land titles and articles of incorporation, and that’s da—darned tedious reading, let me tell you.”
“We have our ways,” Clara said in an airy tone.
Emily smiled at the baffled look on O’Hearn’s face.
“Tell us about the articles of incorporation,” Clara said. “Are these for the livery? Whatever made you think to look for them?”
He gazed into Clara’s wide blue eyes, then looked down at the papers strewn across his desk with a visible effort. “Yes, they’re for the livery. And it seemed the place to start—it’s always interesting to know where the financing comes from.”
“But I thought Mr. Gipson had been in town less than a year,” Emily said. “How could he be a partner in the stables?”
O’Hearn laughed. “He isn’t exactly a partner,” he said. “Word is that Riggs is rather fond of the cards, and lost pretty heavily to Gipson. Now Gipson holds the mortgage.”
“Hmmm,” said Clara. “So Mr. Riggs would have an incentive to participate in any business Mr. Gipson wanted him to.”
“Exactly.”
“We don’t yet know that he did so,” Emily said. “But if he did, how did he know there really is gold? And what are they planning?”
“You’d make a good reporter,” said O’Hearn with a broad grin, tipping his cap to her. “I’ll see what else I can find out.”
“Thank you. If you need to reach me, we’re on the telephone. It’s 3079. Just tell them you’re calling about my classes.”
“Right.” O’Hearn scribbled down the number.
Emily and Clara linked arms and strolled out.
Clara’s hand tightened on her arm. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course,” Emily said.
“You’ll call me if you hear anything about Mr. Granville?”
“Yes, I will. Or when I hear he’s returned.” And let that be soon, Emily thought. Please, let it be soon.
But it wasn’t enough to sit and hope.
As she rode home on the streetcar, Emily mentally composed the note she would send to Granville.
Caught up in her thoughts, she rode past her stop, and had to hurry back the extra two blocks to her family’s home.
Dashing up the stairs to change for dinner, Emily stopped dead and stared at the dark shape lurking outside her room. “Bertie? Whatever are you doing here?”
“A telegram comes for Master Granville.”
Emily’s heart began to race. “For Mr. Granville? Where is it?”
Silently their houseboy handed her a folded yellow paper. Emily quickly opened it and scanned the terse message. “Have lead. Come at once. Harris.”
Harris was the detective Granville had met in Denver, so this was about little Sarah. Had they found her?
She took a deep breath to steady herself. “I must get word to Mr. Granville as soon as possible. Bertie, Trent said you know a way?”
Bertie nodded, his long pigtail bobbing against the gray tunic he wore. “The cousin of my cousin is ancestor hunter. He leave soon for Hope, but for me he stop in Port Hammond.”
“And Katzie, just in case.”
“Yes.”
Despite the urgency she felt, she was intrigued his words. “What is an ancestor hunter?”
“He search for the bones of Chinese who die while working on the iron road. The—remains?” He stumbled over the ‘R’s.
He was looking for the bodies of the men who had died building the railroad.
Emily felt a shiver at the thought, but kept her voice steady. “Yes, remains is correct. But why?”
“To send home. Bones then given proper burial in the home of ancestors.”
It seemed to Emily a gruesome thing to do, but obviously it was important to Bertie. She inclined her head, which could be taken as agreement or homage to the dead, then asked, “Can your cousin take the message tomorrow?”
“I ask.”
“Thank you, Bertie. I’ll write two copies of a note for Mr. Granville now, and give them to you after dinner.”
Bertie bowed. Emily smiled her thanks then raced back downstairs to search for paper, ink and a working pen.