Cold Gold (9 page)

Randolph nodded. “I will. And thank you, John, for everything you’ve done for me.”

“One more thing,” John warned. “You follow way I tell you, and when see daylight, wait. Let eyes rest, then go on bit more. Wait. Go slowly. You been in dark long time. Muscles must remember how to work eyes.”

“I’ll be careful,” Randolph promised him.
“Any news from town?”

He
was busy picking up the canvas bag that was now filled with food and missed John’s hesitation.

John did not like being untruthful. Sheriff Johnson had impressed upon him how important it was that Randolph not know his wife had arrived. It’s the only way to stop him from doing something hasty, Johnson had said. So John said nothing and simply shook his head.

Randolph shrugged on the coat John brought for him, but put the hat and gloves that went with it into the bag. He would need them soon enough once he was above ground. John told him the weather was mild but, this being mountain country, they both knew how that could change in the blink of an eye. He put out his hand and after a moment John Woo took it. The handshake served as a silent goodbye. Without another word Randolph switched on the flashlight that John brought him. Its beam illuminated only a short distance into the all-encompassing gloom, but he carefully followed it along the dark tunnel.

At intervals he shone the light upwards, making sure he had head-room. Having just recovered from one bump on the head, he could ill afford another. The light revealed square-cut roof props at regular intervals and, above them, dusty wooden boards tied to cross-beams.

Randolph walked quickly. The air current in the tunnel seemed to come from a different direction now, and wafted more strongly over his face. There must be a cross-drift cutting into this tunnel. He shone the beam of the lamp along the walls and up over the ceiling, stopping at regular intervals to turn the light off and wait. He didn’t know how soon he would see the first glimmer of daylight and needed to conserve the battery. The tunnel curved upwards and soon he panted with the effort of going uphill. Nowhere near as fit as he had been, he stopped frequently, resting against each roof prop as he reached them. Once, he stumbled over a long-forgotten shovel and cursed into the darkness when he nearly fell.

He stopped again to catch his breath, and then continued. When the footing level
ed out, he turned off the lamp and sat down. Sweat beaded his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

John
Woo had told him to take it easy, but the urgency to leave this miserable place forced him to take a deep breath and stand up. Then he realized the darkness was not so complete, that he could now see degrees of black. He peered ahead and then saw the faintest point of light, the first daylight he’d seen in more than two weeks. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stumbled along, anxious now to get to the end of the tunnel. The light grew brighter and he stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust as John told him but the delay irked him.

Shards of light pierced the gloom, leading him on, teasing him, luring him closer to the mine entrance. He wanted to run, to feel the fresh air flow over his face and have the sun warm his skin. But, the closer he got to the portal,
he saw that he was still not free. The entrance to the mine was enclosed in a boarded up adit. The light that beckoned him filtered between the gaps in the planks like pale fingers trying to pry them apart.

“No!” he roared, slamming his fist against the timber. He followed this with a kick of frustration against the lower boards. The sound of his boot connecting with the boards was nothing more than a hollow thud, but pain from the impact shot up his leg and left him dizzy. He pushed against the door and heard the rattle of a chain on the outside.

“No, no, no!” he yelled into the gloom around him. He rested his back against the door, panting as he watched the dust he’d raised dance down the sunbeams gliding through the space between the top of the door and its frame. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he gulped for breath and gathered his wits.

His breathing gradually steadied. His pulse slowed. He hauled himself upright again and ran his hands through his hair, then looked around. In the dimness he could just see the outline of a cot against the wall to his left. He was lucky not to have walked into it and crack his shins.
Cans of peaches, now covered in dust and cobwebs, were stacked on a shelf above the bed.. An abandoned, and equally dusty, Winchester rifle lay across the bed. Randolph completed a quick search of the area using the flashlight, but could find no ammunition to go with it.

Stowed under the cot h
e found a pack harness and a sheet of canvas and nearby, a moldy smelling sack of hay. There were no tools, nothing of use. Randolph sat on the edge of the cot, making himself relax. He still needed to rest, to think. He could not let haste hamper his efforts, not when he was almost free. He reached into his bag and pulled out some bread and cheese, which he munched on with relish. The effort of making his way through the mine shaft had made him hungry, and the time it took for him to eat gave his eyes further time in which to adjust. He took a long pull on the water bottle John Woo had provided him with and then stood up. It was time to get to work.

Sure now of what he must do, he grabbed the rifle and used the barrel of it to prod around the meagre gaps in the boards until he found one that gave just a little bit. Forcing the point of the barrel into that weakness, he twisted it so he could put his weight on it. The boards were stubborn, ignoring his grunting efforts until, with a creak and then a crack that nearly deafened him, they gave way. Randolph pulled at the broken and splintered boards, throwing strips of wood behind him, careless of where they landed.

Sunlight streamed into the gloomy space. He squinted through the gap he’d made and saw a jagged line of snow covered peaks. He recognised the shape of some of them and knew he was on the western face of Pine Mountain. He took up the rifle, using first the barrel then the butt to work steadily at the hole until it was big enough for him to step through. He stowed the rifle butt first into his bag and then shoved the lamp in beside it. Even though he didn’t want the added weight, he scooped up the canvas cover as well. When he finally stepped free from his prison, he found himself on a wide, windswept ledge. Piles of dry droppings indicated where horses or mules had been tethered.

“Mules,” Randolph muttered. “Whatever they were moving, they
probably used mules.”

There was only one way to go
now. Down. But how long a trail would it be? He could not tell, but decided to leave immediately and make the most of the daylight and the warmth in the sun. Judging from its height in the sky, it must be just after noon. He walked out onto the narrow trail and, as he rounded the shoulder of the mountain, stepped carefully until he knew what the track was like. It hugged the rugged rock face to his left, but on his right he looked over the tops of pine and spruce. Apart from the trees and some rough scrub, there was nothing between him and the valley floor at least three thousand feet below.

He drew back and took a breath. Having survived a brutal attack and
been nursed back to health by a caring stranger, he had no wish to be as ungrateful as to miss his footing. He’d surely finish up dead where no one, other than scavenging crows and coyotes, would likely find him. He stopped occasionally to hunker down and look across the valley for signs of life, but there were none.

He heard no birds, no distant sounds of life. His only companion was the constant whine of the wind as it wrapped around the peaks and sighed
between the trees. The trail dropped steadily downwards. Each step took him closer to Cold Creek, closer to solving his problems and closer to returning to Serena. His thoughts occupied him so deeply, he paid little attention to where his feet carried him. Then he found himself on a rocky outcrop over a deep ravine and came to an abrupt stop.

Three massive tree trunks
spanned the gap. Wooden planks were fixed across them to make a bridge of sorts. There was no handrail of any description and Randolph tried to envision crossing it in a high wind or driving rain. He had to step back and squelch a sudden attack of vertigo. He kept his eyes closed for a moment until the feeling passed, then he scanned the bridge again. A scattering of animal tracks disturbed the snow and he looked at them closely, thinking the paw prints might be wolves. But one print was clear. A mountain lion had crossed the bridge. He peered ahead, but saw nothing that looked dangerous.

The sun
slowly dropped behind the mountains and it would soon be dark. He could waste no time, so stepped onto the bridge with all the confidence he could muster and walked steadily across it, sighing with relief as he jumped off the other side. There were signs that pack trains had halted here, probably while they waited for another train to pass.

He was much lower down the mountain now, moving steadily between the trees rather than looking down on them. But dusk was falling and it would soon be night. He had to find somewhere to rest while he could still see. Moving off the trail he clambered over some fallen timber then ducked beneath the low
est branches of a spruce tree. The branches gave good cover. Looking around, he decided the timber provided enough of a screen for him to chance making a fire. He did not want to be seen, to have the news of his miraculous recovery reach King’s ears before he and Montgomery had a chance to plan King’s arrest.

The refuge
couldn’t have been better. He reached into his bag and took out dry kindling and matches. There were enough broken branches and twigs around that he could keep a fire burning for a few hours. He stoked the fire as much as he dared, then rolled himself into the canvas and settled down on a bed of pine needles. Just as he closed his eyes, a long plaintive howl rode the night air. It was joined by another, then another.

Randolph shuddered. Wolves. How close were they?
Were they hunting?

He reached for the
rifle, fed the fire again and closed his eyes.

~*~*~*~

By morning the fire was dead and his hands and feet were stiff with cold. He hadn’t expected to sleep, but between the physical exertion of exiting the mine and the fresh air, he must have been more tired than he thought. He slowly emerged from beneath the tree and stretched carefully. His muscles objected and he was glad that he had pushed himself to exercise while still in the mine, or it could have been far worse.

A noise behind him made him duck down, but when he glanced over his shoulder he saw nothing more dangerous than
a winter-white rabbit. It moved past him without haste and he waited until it disappeared before shaking out the canvas and folding it up.

He
kicked out the remains of his fire and then made his way back to the trail. He paused before stepping out of his cover and closed his eyes. His sharp ears caught nothing more than the soft breeze and the mournful sound of a train whistle.

That
whistle must mean he was close to Cold Creek. He set out again with renewed purpose, striding down the trail with no hesitation for it was now wider and more level. Soon it widened out even more, and Randolph decided to move back into the shelter of the trees. He stepped over fallen branches and pushed his way through low bushes until he could see that the track stopped at the edge of a creek.

He took his time scanning the site. A little upstream
, a rough wooden framework housed a rusted hunk of metal. He carefully made his way towards it and realized he was looking at an abandoned mobile ore crusher.

“Well, well, well,” he muttered. “So that’s how they did it. Smuggle the ore out of the mine by the back door, process it here out of sight, and then move it on to
Yreka by road.”

He scouted around the site, hoping to find any evidence he could pass on to Montgomery but found nothing more incriminating than a couple of empty bean cans
and a beer bottle.

He
again looked upstream, then down, but saw no way of crossing the creek. His feet crunched on the gravel as he walked to the ice-feathered water’s edge. Poking the ice with the toe of his boot, he hastily pulled his foot back when he heard the crack of the ice giving way. Not knowing how deep the water beneath might be, it was far too dangerous to risk walking on it. His only option was to follow the creek downstream and see where it took him.

The sun
spilled over the eastern peaks and ridges and the temperature rose as Randolph picked his way between dogwoods, aspen and willow. Even though the branches were bare, they gave him some cover. He stopped at regular intervals to catch his breath and get his bearings before following the curve of the creek and, as he rounded the bend, he dropped down to his knees for cover.

The creek he’d been following was a tributary of
Cold Creek and from his vantage point he could see the station and the rooftops in town. He needed to contact Montgomery in Yreka as soon as he could, but would again have to exercise patience. He heard the slow huffing of a locomotive and watched it edge out of the roundhouse and halt at the station, then reverse up the branch line to pick up the cars from the mine head. He squinted into the sunlight as the morning brightened.

He had two choices. He could risk being seen by getting onto the train at the mine head, or hobo his way onto it. For that he would have to climb the trestle under
the line where it crossed Cold Creek but would have to wait until nightfall again.