The Floor of Heaven (31 page)

As they were beaching their canoe, Charlie noticed two men coming down from the cabins to meet them. Even from a distance, Charlie could see they were Schell and Hubbard; they fit the description Durkin, the mine superintendent, had supplied. In another stroke of good luck, Charlie knew straight off that he’d never met them at the mine and he doubted that they’d ever seen him, either. That would certainly make things easier. He whispered to Billy to follow his lead.

Schell came up close, staring at them as if irritated by their presence. He was a large man, as big and threatening as a bear. A scraggly beard running to gray hid most of his wide face, except for two dark, sullen eyes and a nose that looked like it’d once been busted, then never properly reset. A few yards back Hubbard, arms folded across his chest, slouched with a deadly stillness against a tree. He was a runt of a man, with a shiny, bald dome for a head and a belly protruding from his checked shirt. A holster packing a Colt rode low on his hip. Charlie had met many a gunny who didn’t look threatening but nevertheless was a crack shot—Billy the Kid quickly came to mind—so he kept a wary eye on Hubbard. It was also plain that Hubbard was drunk; and while drink could affect his draw and his aim, it might also turn him nasty. Very casually, Charlie unbuttoned his mackinaw. If it became necessary, he wanted to be able to reach for the big revolver tucked into his waistband. And as if it were the most natural of things, he moved a few steps away from his partner. Billy eased away, too. Both detectives understood there was no advantage to being bunched close together like grazing buffaloes.

Schell seemed not to notice the cautions the two men were taking. His manner was both confident and insolent. Without a word of greeting, he demanded to know what they were doing in the Indian village. His gruff tone made it clear that it wasn’t an idle question; he’d better be satisfied by the answer or there’d be consequences.

Making sure to put plenty of south Texas in his voice, Charlie played the genial cowboy. Schell had been loud and direct, and in other circumstances Charlie would’ve taken offense at such rudeness. But Charlie hadn’t come this far simply to arrest the two thieves. He wanted to find the stolen gold, and to accomplish that, he reckoned he’d need to win their confidence. He didn’t want to gamble on trying to sweat the information out of them. They looked like hard cases, and too much was at stake. Besides, if they stonewalled, Charlie realized, it wasn’t just the gold that would be lost. He might not even be able to prove to a judge’s satisfaction that they were the thieves.

So he played along. He was all high spirits, as friendly as a cowpuncher jawing with the other hands as they washed away the day’s dust at the bar. In this garrulous manner, he dished up the cover story Billy and he had concocted at the start of the voyage. They were whiskey peddlers and they were doing a hurrah business in the Indian villages, while at he same time managing to stay one step ahead of the law. This Chinook camp looked as good a place as any to unload some of our firewater, Charlie went on heartily.

Schell’s reaction did not betray anything. He might’ve believed Charlie, or he might not have.

It was a tense moment. Charlie saw that Hubbard’s arms were no longer folded. They now rested by his sides, as if ready to draw. At the same time, Billy had inched backward, toward the canoe; the Winchester lay in its stern.

Reckoning he’d nothing to lose, Charlie decided to improvise. Days earlier, when they’d put into Killisnoo, a nearby settlement, a prospector who’d happily shared their bottle of rye had told them a fanciful tale about the “Lost Rocker” gold mine. According to legend, some forty years ago three old sourdoughs had been working a rich mine somewhere in the rolling hills beyond the waterfall, near the head of Chieke Bay. But before they could register their claim, a passel of renegade Tlinglits had swooped into their camp and smashed their skulls. By the time the bodies were discovered the following spring, all that was left of the camp was a wooden rocker, the handmade device the prospectors had used to “rock” the gravel as they sifted for colors. And so the legend of the Lost Rocker Mine had been born, a tale of a bonanza waiting to be rediscovered. The yarn had tickled Charlie’s imagination when he’d heard it, he being an accomplished storyteller, and instinct told him it might now come in handy. After all, Schell and Hubbard surely had gold fever. They might cotton to a couple of prospectors. So he tried it out.

Course, he began to palaver, selling whiskey ain’t the only reason we crossed Chieke Bay. We figure that while we’re at it, we might get lucky and find us the Lost Rocker Mine.

You think there’s any truth to that story? Schell asked. His tone was now less like that of a man looking for a fight. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested.

Catching his partner’s drift, Billy answered: If anyone’s gonna find that mine, it’ll be us, he snapped. They’d done some prospecting in Nevada and California, he explained, and knew a few things.

Suddenly Hubbard spoke up. All this talk is making me thirsty, he said in a voice so high it reminded Charlie of a child’s. How ’bout you fellows gather your wares and we try some of that whiskey you’re selling.

IN THE camp, the two whiskey peddlers did a booming business. It was clear Schell and Hubbard had forged some kind of relationship with the Indian chief. Were they paying him? Had they promised him a share of their gold? Or were they simply giving him whiskey? All Charlie knew for certain was that there was a bond between the two thieves and the chief, and that, he worried, might make for complications when it came time for arrests. He figured he could handle the two men, but a whole village of angry Indians might prove more of a challenge.

For now, though, everything was under control. Although the Indians lined up to buy their bottles of rye, Hubbard proved to be their best customer. Even Charlie had difficulty keeping up with him. Course, Charlie was also being careful. He knew he needed to get the men to talk, and he also had to remain sober enough to listen. But even before the first bottle was drained, Charlie asked the question that’d been on his mind ever since they’d paddled by the schooner. All day it’d been itching his curiosity nearly as much as the whereabouts of the stolen gold. How come, he asked, you’ve all those animals on your boat?

Hubbard broke out laughing as if it was the funniest question he’d ever heard. You tell him, he finally managed to say, pointing the bottle at Schell.

With a sudden hesitancy, Schell started to explain. He’d come up with the idea of going into the stock business, he began finally. So he’d ordered some chicken, hogs, and cattle from a stock dealer in Seattle and had them shipped by steamer to Killisnoo. Yesterday they’d sailed over in the schooner to pick up the animals. He waited a moment before going on, and Charlie saw that a pained expression suddenly covered the big man’s face. The plan had been to breed them, Schell said at last with a shrug.

Breed ’em? Hubbard challenged, and now tears of laughter were running from his eyes. That’d be a good trick all right, he continued derisively. We got a dozen leghorn hens, but no rooster. A big ol’ razorback hog, but no sow. And two black muley cows, but no bull. I don’t see no stock business coming out of those pickings.

No doubt the liquor had helped fuel Hubbard’s amusement, but Charlie had to agree it was a pretty funny situation. He started laughing, too. So did Billy.

Ain’t my fault that fool in Seattle didn’t pay attention to what I’d ordered, Schell said, nearly whining.

The laughter just got louder.

Well, Schell went on, trying to reclaim his dignity, it ain’t like that’s our only way of earning. Fact is, we’ve had a pretty good run as of late.

Immediately Hubbard shot his partner a stern look. Schell acknowledged the reprimand with a small nod. He hurriedly began talking about how’d they’d just have to slaughter the animals. They’d eat like kings this winter.

Charlie listened. He made sure to keep a bemused smile fixed on his face. He was determined not to betray his excitement over the quick exchange he’d just witnessed. But now he knew. After all his months working at the mine, after all the time spent searching the Alaskan coast, he was finally very close.

That night the two detectives pitched their tent on the edge of the woods, across from the village. As Charlie lay in his bedroll, he spoke to Mamie in his mind while at the same time trying to pretend she was lying next to him. You were right, he told her. You told me not to give up, and now we’re nearly there. After he’d said his piece, he fell asleep with a lighter heart than he’d known in many months.

Billy shook him awake only hours later. He had the Winchester in his hand, and he told Charlie that he’d better grab his Colt. Think we’re about to be attacked, Billy said evenly.

The two armed men hurried outside in their long johns to find a bunch of drunken Indians. In loud, belligerent voices they demanded that the peddlers hand over the rest of their liquor.

Charlie saw that one of the braves had the neck of a whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. He took aim and the bottle shattered. Then he spoke: Come any closer, and I’ll put the next bullet right between your eyes. He didn’t yell; experience had taught him that a firm, steady voice carried more of a threat.

The Indians backed off, but they didn’t go away. They stayed close to the woods, finishing the bottles they had and singing drunkenly. Suddenly they erupted into a volley of war cries.

Charlie listened. When they were done, he cupped his hands together and let out his own long, loud whoop.

Billy, who had fought his share of Indians in Montana, was amazed. The yell cutting through the night was genuine enough to make his blood crawl.

Learned that from an old Comanche in Wichita, Charlie explained with some pride. And for a while, he amused himself by trading war cries with the braves.

Finally, the Indians left. But the two detectives stayed on guard outside their tent, their guns ready. They knew that if they lost their whiskey to the Indians, they’d have no chance of getting on with Hubbard.

THE NEXT morning they left the Indian village. It’d been Charlie’s idea, and as soon as he shared it with Billy, the other detective agreed that it made sense. Ain’t gonna do us any good to linger here, Charlie explained to his partner. Those two are bound to get suspicious. And then there’d be no chance of our learning where they’ve got the gold. I say we head on over to the Chieke Falls and make camp. Tell Schell and Hubbard we’re going off to find the Lost Rocker Mine. I’m betting they’ll soon enough come looking for us—long as we got the bait. He pointed to the crates of rye just in case Billy didn’t follow.

It was a three-mile canoe journey across placid waters to the head of the bay, and they continued on foot for less than a mile before making camp. They’d thought about pitching their tent closer to the falls, but then they realized they’d never hear anyone sneaking up. The water cascading down from two thousand feet made quite a racket.

In his careful way, Charlie made sure they lived this new cover, too. Each morning they went off looking for the mine, and they brought back rocks to test each night. “We might find the damn mine before Schell and Hubbard get a notion to come by,” Billy complained after they’d been prospecting for a week and the thieves had not appeared. “Course then we’ll be rich. We won’t need to be detectives.” Billy was only joshing, but Charlie didn’t see the humor in the remark. All the money in the world, and he’d still have to keep his promise to McParland: He’d need to recover the gold. Nevertheless, he was beginning to wonder if he’d overestimated the lure of the whiskey.

On the morning of their tenth day by the falls, Charlie left camp with a new agenda. He’d spotted bear tracks the previous day and he’d convinced Billy to set out with him on a bear hunt. With winter coming, a thick bear-fur robe might come in handy, he’d suggested. But all Billy could think of, as they made their way through thick woods, was how his partner’s pursuit of Mr. Whale had nearly cost them their lives.

There were no disasters that day, only disappointments. The tracks led straight up into some granite hills before they lost them. On the long hike back to camp, through rough country, a frustrated Billy recited a list of their failures. They had spent a week looking for a mine that probably didn’t exist. They’d chased a bear who’d outsmarted them. And if that wasn’t enough, they’d found the gold thieves, only to leave the next day. Charlie listened to this dismal tally and could find no reason to disagree. More troubling, a new consideration had been gnawing at him: For all he knew, the schooner could’ve upped anchor and sailed off. Then they’d need to track the two thieves again. Only this time, the detectives might never find them. Or if they somehow got lucky again, they’d be hard-pressed to offer a believable excuse for showing up. Billy was right. The entire operation seemed to be heading downhill.

As they got closer to camp, both detectives saw a wisp of smoke rising up into the clear evening sky. Without a word, the two men cocked their weapons. Charlie indicated with his hand that he’d march straight in; Billy should circle around and enter from the tree line. They split up, and Charlie proceeded forward warily.

Hubbard was sitting by a fire. Didn’t know when you fellows would return, so I made myself at home, he said. It was getting cold.

Howdy, said Charlie with a big smile. And he eased back the hammer on his Colt.

Howdy, Billy called out as he entered from the woods. His rifle was cradled lightly in his arms.

I was wondering if you fellows had some whiskey to sell? Hubbard asked with the happy voice of a man who’d already put away his share. He held out the half-empty bottle in his hand and explained that this was the last bottle in the stash he’d been working his way through.

We don’t sell whiskey to white men, Charlie said.

Hubbard looked at him ominously.

But you’re free to drink with us, Charlie continued. Let me get you a bottle.

IT TURNED out that the only lure better than whiskey was free whiskey. Hubbard took to coming by nearly every night for the next two weeks. Still, Charlie was patient. He didn’t rush things. He knew that if Hubbard turned suspicious, he’d run, and then they’d never discover where the thieves had stored the gold. Or, for that matter, have a case that would stand up in court.