Holland Suggestions (11 page)

“Miss Sargent,” Gould said. “You know Mr. Max. This is Mr. Ryan from, ah, Virginia.”

“Jim,” I said, nodding.

“I saw you come in yesterday,” she said, offering her hand.

The hand was soft in mine. “I saw you seeing me,” I said, attempting laughter.

And she laughed too. “Yes, I know. I was trying not to be rude; that’s why I stepped back and closed the curtain. But I guess that might be considered as rude as simply staring.”

“I didn’t think anything of it.”

“That’s good. The reason I was staring is simply that I was surprised to see another guest arrive. I just got here yesterday myself; I was told in town that the place was completely deserted.”

“Even I don’t come up till March,” Gould said.

“And now it’s full of life,” Miss Sargent said. “People are everywhere these days, aren’t they, Mr. Ryan?”

“Willy here was just saying the same thing; I guess it’s true. He’s surely seen more of the world than I have.”

Max fidgeted and lighted his pipe.

“Are you drinking, Miss Sargent?” Gould said.

“I might be coaxed. What have you?”

“Bourbon and Scotch—and a few other things I don’t handle well. I’m not very good at mixed drinks, so you’ll have to take your chances.”

“If you will just mix a little Scotch with a lot of water, that will be fine for me.”

Gould, still moving with his slow limp, went out.

“Where are you from?” I asked her.

“I’m a born New Englander without the accent. Now I live in Bridgeport, Connecticut.”

“And what brings you way out here?”

“I’m a photojournalist. I have an assignment from a New York publisher to deliver a photo book on the last vestiges of the old West.”

“I think you can still find what you want in the high country,” Max said. “I’ve been coming here off and on for years. I know of several real ghost towns; I’d be delighted to show you.”

She smiled in a way that was noncommittal.

“Who did you say your publisher was, Miss Sargent?” I asked.

“I didn’t, but it’s MacDougald and Barnes; they do a lot of picture books.”

“And you’ve done books for this publisher—MacDougald and Barnes, is it?—you’ve worked for them before?”

“This is my third book. I have an advance which should cover my expenses. That’s the only way a professional writer can work.”

Gould returned with her drink. “The bar should be in here. I miss more interesting talk by not having the bar in here.”

“You haven’t missed much,” Miss Sargent said. “Now that you’re back, we can get into something really interesting.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. Max was telling me last night that you have some fascinating legends about these mountains.”

“I do know a few yarns,” Gould said, his eyes narrowing like a fox. “But you didn’t all come out here to listen to me talk.”

“That’s part of why I did come—to get the feel of the country by talking to the people—you see?”

“I’ll second that,” I said.

Gould looked at Max, who simply smiled. “You know I always like your stories, Harry,” Max said when it became obvious that everyone was waiting for him to speak.

“After dinner,” Gould said; “that’s the time for yarn-swapping.”

The meal had a simple, backwoods flavor that we all relished; the main course was venison, which I had never tried, and it was complemented by a delicious plate of wild rice. Miss Sargent sat between Gould and Max, directly across from me, and once or twice I caught her staring at me with that same intense meditation I had first noticed when she was only a face in a window. She only smiled and shifted her eyes elsewhere.

Max began to loosen up after dinner and another drink. He told several stories of his travels in Europe. It was hard to say if Miss Sargent was impressed; she was a tough one to figure. At about eight-thirty we moved back into the den for more drinks, and the party got very cozy and friendly. Max insisted that once and for all we drop all the formality and use first names; everyone complied but Gould, who continued to maintain his proprietorial image. By nine o’clock I was feeling fine; I had not known such a homogeneous gathering of strangers in years.

Much later Jill said, “The night is going fast, Mr. Gould; are you saving your stories for midnight? Shall we all draw up to the fire?”

Harry Gould laughed. “We’re having too good a time to spoil it with a bunch of stuffy old yarns.”

“We insist,” I said.

“If you put it that way, how can I refuse?” He got up and moved his chair closer into our circle. “Yes, let’s do as Miss Sargent says—everybody pull up closer to the fire. Has everyone got a full drink?”

Everyone had. We made a semicircle around the fire and Gould turned off the lights.

“Probably no region on earth has more legends and stories than this part of the Rocky Mountains. The legends come from three main sources—from Indians, who lived here for thousands of years; from the Spanish conquistadores, who raped the land and the people in the sixteenth century; and from the pioneers of the late eighteen hundreds. All of them left something here. Often what they left was gold, treasures more valuable and vast than anything ever invented in fiction. Let me tell you about a few of them.”

The red-orange light of the fire flickered on his face as he told us his first tale. It was an absorbing little drama about an old miner of the 1880s named Jeremiah Horn. After twenty-five years of poverty-level grubstaking, Jeremiah struck a fat vein of rich ore. Every spring after that he took a pack mule into the mountains, disappeared for three months, and came back in late summer with enough gold to carry him through the winter. Many people tried to track Jeremiah to his mine, but the old man was an expert tracker and backtracker and he always lost them.

One spring Jeremiah Horn rode away into the hills and never returned. “Nobody knows what happened to him,” Gould said; “and nobody ever found his mine, either. My guess is, Horn either got bushwhacked or was lost in a spring storm.”

“Is that likely? About getting lost, I mean,” Jill said. “If he was such an expert tracker…”

“The weather in these parts can change in a minute, Miss Sargent. Even an old-timer can lose his way in a high mountain snowstorm. People still get lost, a few every year. In the case of Jeremiah Horn, who knows? Maybe he fell from one of those early mountain trails you see in pictures. Maybe someday somebody will find his bones in the bottom of a ravine, and that might open a clue to the location of the mine.”

Gould moved on. His tales were short and earthy, and he knew just enough about each to whet my appetite for more. Next he told us about a train robbery, when gold worth more than two million dollars was stolen and stashed somewhere in the mountains. Within twenty-four hours of the robbery the bandits were captured, but the money never was found. “It’s out there somewhere, buried under some rock,” Gould said; “it’s just waiting for somebody to find it.”

He sipped his drink. “What I’m telling you now are stories based entirely on fact. Some of the legends are really wild, but everything I’m telling you now actually did happen. There are records proving that Jeremiah Horn lived, and that he made a fantastic strike. We know the loot from the train never was found. All three of the robbers were dead within a year, and all of natural causes. None of ’em ever told where the money was. Call it coincidence or fate or whatever, but that’s what makes these mountain tales so fascinating. You look at this country and you know that
anything
can happen here. There must be two or three dozen documented cases of treasures found and lost again.”

“Why?” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Why were they lost? You’d think anyone who found something like that would be careful to map it out.”

“You’d think so, but it wasn’t that way. This territory was a melting pot in those days, Mr. Ryan; not at all what TV has made it out to be. There wasn’t often a face-to-face gunfight; it was far more ordinary to find someone shot in the back. If people knew you had something valuable, why, they just took it away from you if they could do it. So when a man struck it rich he kept his map in his head and he kept his mouth shut. When he died—and that was usually at an early age—the location of the mine went with him.

“There’s another factor too, and that’s the land itself. This country changes all the time. We get heavy snows here every year, and landmarks have a way of disappearing from one winter to the next. I know of several reliable stories of miners who struck it rich, marked their claims, and came back the next spring only to find the whole landscape different. I can see you find that hard to believe, but ask Mr. Max; he’s seen it.”

Max nodded. “Tell them about Caverna del Oro, Harry. You were talking about wild legends, and that’s the best of them all.”

“Please, not tonight; I’m not used to talking so much. Let’s save Caverna del Oro for another time.”

The party dissolved quickly after that. Gould turned on the lights and Max excused himself. Jill stepped outside for a breath of air and I followed her out.

“How long will you be here?” she asked.

“A few days; maybe a week. How about you?”

“Until I’ve finished my work. I want to hike up into the hills…”

“I was thinking of going out tomorrow too. Will you come with me?”

“Yes, I’d like that. Right now I’d better get up to bed.”

But we stood there for a few more moments, listening to the mountain noises and feeling the sting of the cold air. I did not say anything. I was thinking again of Amy, and now I had to admit it: I was beginning to worry. Jill sensed my preoccupation and soon turned away to go in. I escorted her upstairs. At her door she turned to me and said, “What time tomorrow?”

“Let’s go early. Six o’clock?”

“Fine.”

“And maybe tomorrow night we can hear the rest of Harry’s tales. His Caverna del Oro interests me.” She nodded slightly. “Good night, Jim.”

L
ONG BEFORE FIRST LIGHT
I was awake, but I did not get up. I forced myself to lie still until I heard the sounds of birds outside. It was five-fifteen. The air was pale, with a foggy predawn glow that I used to love but have grown to hate. I swung my body out of bed and looked through the window toward the rim. I was surprised to see a man standing in the front yard of the old house. He stood so still, watching the inn with such obvious intent, that I almost passed over him in my quick scrutiny. From my perch he was fully two hundred yards away, and I could not make out his features at all. I saw that he wore a red shirt and dark pants, but the facial characteristics probably would have been blurred at that distance in broad daylight, let alone the gloom of early morning. A telescope was mandatory; that was unquestionable now. I would get away to Pueblo in a day or two and bring one back with me.

While I was watching, the front door of the old house opened and the vague form of a woman appeared behind a screen door. She remained in the darkness, coming only to the door to speak briefly with the man before stepping back and closing the door. He remained outside for perhaps another ten minutes, and I watched him for as long as he was there. He went in just as the sun was breaking the sky in the east.

I was full of insane notions these days; now came the wildest yet. For all of fifteen minutes I calmly weighed my chances of prowling around the old house without being caught. Of course it was mad; something like that always is to a man who has lived his life within the law. Yet somehow I would have to clear up this matter of the black Oldsmobile, and if that meant employing unconventional methods, so be it. The telescope would be a first step in countersurveillance. Beyond that, I did not know at this point how far I would go. A lot would depend on what
they
did, and when.

I came down into the lobby at exactly six o’clock. Already Harry Gould was up and on the job. He stood behind the bar, grinning broadly, as if anticipating another flood of guests. “I thought you might be going out this morning,” he said quietly. “I wanted to give you some pointers about the country before you go.”

“Great.” I pulled up a barstool.

He poured coffee from a pot simmering behind the bar. “People who have never been in the high Rockies can’t appreciate how fast this weather can change. I know I told you that last night, but I could see then that it didn’t make much of an impression. Don’t ever make the mistake of underestimating it, Mr. Ryan. Right now it looks like summertime outside. That can all change in an hour; we could be buried under snow again by tonight. We’re due for a few more good snowstorms before summer really comes anyway. I’ve even seen it snow in July.”

“So I should watch the weather?”

“You bet. If it starts to cloud up, get on back here. Don’t fool around with storms in this country. Up there, when everything is white, it’s so easy to wander off the trail and get lost. If that does happen, don’t walk around. Find some shelter and build a fire, if you can; wait it out. We’ll find you.”

I nodded and sipped from the steaming cup.

“That’s the sermon,” Gould said. “There’s just one more thing: Stay out of old mines.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.”

“Yeah, well, you never know what might attract people. Some of these old mines have been here for ninety years. A lot of them are half filled with water. And watch out for shafts.”

“Shafts?”

“That’s a hole sunk straight down into a mine to give it air. Some of them are a hundred feet deep. I don’t have to tell you what would happen to a man who fell into one.”

I shivered. “Jesus, does that really happen often?”

“Once is too often. Sure, I run across a newspaper story now and then about a hiker who’s fallen into a mineshaft. It’s easier than you think. Some of them are boarded over with rotten wood; some are overgrown with weeds. Once in a while a man just disappears in the high country and never is found. When that happens, I figure he probably fell into a shaft.”

I heard Jill’s soft footsteps and gulped my coffee as she came down. “My hiking partner arriveth. I appreciate your help.”

He nodded amiably. “Coffee, Miss Sargent?”