The Floor of Heaven (36 page)

Makes sense, Charlie agreed lightly, while at the same time his mind instantly raced with anxieties. What if I can’t follow Durkin’s instructions? What if I get it all wrong? What if the damn furnace blows up in my face?

He was so preoccupied with worry that it didn’t occur to him to ask the question Billy finally posed: “Where’s Schell?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Hubbard shot back snidely. He still hadn’t come around to trusting Sayles. But he finally said, “Schell stayed behind to stand guard over our cache.”

That news caused Charlie further consternation. He had no idea where the gold was hidden. And he wouldn’t have a chance of finding out unless he succeeded in melting down a few bars tomorrow. Meanwhile, tomorrow was also the day he’d told Marshal Collins to make camp at Hood Bay. Only there’d be no point in making arrests unless the detectives knew where Hubbard and Schell had hidden the gold. Charlie cursed his own stupidity. He should never have told the marshal to set out so soon for Hood Bay. All Charlie could do was hope that the marshal wouldn’t get antsy, that he’d wait, as they’d agreed, for two additional days before charging in. Of course, Charlie knew, there was no guarantee that even with an extra two days he’d locate the gold. But he was hoping that by then his “two-by-four brain,” as he liked to joke, would’ve figured something out.

The next morning Charlie fired up the charcoal in the furnace and soon had a blue flame burning. He kept watching for signs that the furnace was beginning to crack, for smoke to start pouring out, but it worked like a charm. And hours later, when he easily removed perfectly formed gold nuggets from the molds, he imagined even Durkin would’ve been proud of him.

There was no need, however, to guess about Hubbard’s reaction. He was ecstatic. You boys sure know what you’re doing, he rejoiced. After a few drinks to celebrate, he said he’d be going back to tell Schell. Tomorrow he’d come by with a serious batch of gold.

As soon as Hubbard left, Billy wanted to follow him. We play it right, we’ll be looking over their shoulders when they dig up the rest of the gold, he insisted with excitement.

Charlie was of a mind to agree. It was more than likely that Hubbard would lead them to Schell and the hiding place. But it was also likely, he reasoned, that Schell and Hubbard would be expecting them to follow. There was no getting around the fact that the thieves remained suspicious. That’s why they weren’t bringing the gold in a single load. That’s why Schell was standing guard. The more Charlie thought about it, the more convinced he grew that this was another test: Hubbard would be on the alert to see if he was being trailed.

No, Charlie said in the end. It’s better we hold back.

What about Marshal Collins? He struck camp in Hood Bay today, Billy argued.

He knows to wait, Charlie said. I reckon he will.

And supposing Hubbard doesn’t show tomorrow with the gold? Supposing they hightail it during the night? Now that they know about building a furnace and such, they might figure they don’t need our help, Billy went on, pressing his argument.

Charlie hadn’t considered that possibility. He had to think about it for a few moments. He finally answered. “I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

BUT SHORTLY after daybreak, Hubbard paddled into camp with a canoe loaded with gold. As soon as Charlie saw the stack of bars shining in the sun, he smiled at his partner as if to say, Told you so. And the two detectives set in motion the plan they’d worked out during the long, anxious night.

Charlie got a fire burning in the furnace, but this morning he made sure not to add sufficient charcoal. He let the first batch of charcoal burn down before it occurred to him that he best pile on more charcoal to get the necessary blue flame. Then, when the fire was burning blue, Billy had a problem with filling the crucibles. It took hours and hours just to get a single bar of gold reduced to shiny nuggets. And there remained some dozen bars to process.

If Hubbard suspected the two men of deliberately delaying things, he didn’t say it. He seemed content with the way things were going. If it took an entire day to melt the bars, he was willing to wait. In his mind he was no doubt imagining walking into a Seattle bank and cashing his pokes full of nuggets.

As the day dragged on and the processing proceeded in its slow way, Charlie had a thought. Since we’re gonna be at this for a while, he said, as if the notion had just occurred to him, why don’t I head back to camp and put some chowder on the fire? A week back he’d prepared his fish chowder, an old Texas Gulf recipe, and Hubbard had wolfed it down. Fact was, the thief had remarked that it was one of the tastiest meals he’d ever eaten. So Charlie was hoping he’d be partial to having a bowl this evening.

Sounds good to me, Hubbard said eagerly. No sense all of us waiting around the furnace. Me and Sayles should be able to handle things.

Charlie hiked back to camp, and quickly went to work preparing the fish chowder. He used his bowie knife like an executioner’s ax, chopping off fish heads at a frantic clip, and he didn’t take much care with the spices. And quicker than he would’ve thought possible, Charlie had a slapdash version of the stew simmering over the fire. It wouldn’t win any blue ribbons in Matagorda County, but up in Alaska it might do.

Satisfied, he put the next part of his plan into action. He hurried through the woods to the Indian village. Charlie was hoping he’d be able to spot Schell standing guard, and that way he’d learn where the gold was hidden. It stood to reason that Schell wouldn’t be expecting him; the thief believed his partner had the two men within his sight at all times. The dicey part, though, was whether Schell would actually be standing watch over the gold. And there was no telling when Hubbard might get a sudden hankering for chowder and head into camp—only to find Charlie gone. That could cause a real disturbance. In that case, Billy had best be able to get to his Winchester mighty quick.

Still, it was the only plan Charlie could think of, and he’d decided it’d have to work. And for once, luck was on his side. He made his way to the Indian camp and had taken a concealed position behind a clump of trees when straight off he spotted Schell. As he’d been running through the woods, Charlie’s fear had been that the hideout would be somewhere deep in the forest, perhaps near where Hubbard had buried the frying pan. But now he looked into the camp and understood that that, too, had been a ruse. There was Schell, rifle cradled in his arms, standing guard by the birch racks over where the Indians dried salmon. The smell would be god-awful. It’d be the last place anyone would think to conceal a fortune of gold. That’s why it was the perfect hiding place. And if Charlie had any doubts about whether the treasure was buried where Schell was standing, a further look erased them. The ground beneath Schell’s boots had been turned over and then hastily trampled down again in an attempt to disguise the digging. Which made sense; this morning Hubbard had delivered a new batch of gold for processing.

Then all at once, Charlie’s moment of discovery collapsed into one of panic. Schell appeared to be looking his way. Had the thief spotted him? Charlie pressed his body tight against the side of a giant spruce, and waited. But in the next instant he saw what had caught Schell’s eye. A whiskey bottle was leaning against one of the salmon racks, and Schell picked it up to take a pull. Charlie moved slowly back into the deep timber. Soon he was running through the woods, returning as fast as he could to the camp on Chieke Bay. He prayed that Billy had been able to drag out the processing, that Hubbard hadn’t left the furnace for a quick taste of chowder.

Charlie had managed to grab a spoon and was stirring his chowder when Hubbard and Billy walked into camp.

Hubbard was smiling. He had a sack full of gold nuggets, and he was looking forward to a bowl of chowder. Been thinking ’bout this meal all day, Hubbard said.

Before they sat down to eat, though, Charlie suggested that they have what he playfully called “appetizers.” He passed a bottle of rye to Hubbard and watched the thief take a swallow. Next it was his turn. Charlie took a long, deep pull. After the nerve-racking day, he reckoned, he surely could do with a drink.

THAT NIGHT Charlie took sick. His stomach was acting up again. He moaned softly; he wanted it to sound convincing, though at the same time he hoped he wouldn’t wake up Hubbard. That was the latest complication. He’d hadn’t counted on the thief’s sleeping across from him in the tent, but Hubbard had drunk too many “appetizers” to make his way back to the Indian village. Charlie would now need to slip out of the tent without waking Hubbard. He thought about putting off getting the marshal for one more night, but he felt that would be risky. He’d told Collins that if he didn’t show by tonight, the marshal should come in with guns blazing. If it played out that way, anything might happen.

So Charlie got up and put on his clothes and boots. He moved carefully, hoping not to wake the sleeping man.

“Where you going?” Hubbard spoke up, instantly awake.

My stomach, Charlie complained. He said he was going to make a hot toddy. Maybe that would help things.

Charlie went to the campfire and put water on to heat. After it came to a boil, he poured it into a cup and added a good measure of rye. After all, McParland had always stressed the importance of living your cover, he told himself with a smile. Dutifully, he sat by the fire for a while and sipped his toddy.

When he was done, he returned to the tent. For the next hour he tried to sleep, but the pain in his stomach, he wanted Hubbard to believe, was too troubling. He got up to make another toddy. When Hubbard didn’t stir, he grabbed his Winchester. This time he didn’t pretend to sit by the campfire. Charlie headed out of camp.

He’d never previously hiked over to Hood Bay, and on a starless night the trip through unexplored country proved to be hard going. Fallen timbers unexpectedly blocked his way, and all Charlie could do was crawl on his hands and knees beneath the high piles of thick tree trunks. But that left him at the mercy of the devil’s clubs. These were tough briar bushes, and they took hold of his clothes and ripped at his skin like an eagle’s claws. It was slow, painful going. Another concern: Charlie had to get to the head of Hood Bay before the marshal broke camp. He doubted he’d make it.

The only way he’d arrive before sunup, he decided with resignation, was to follow the bear trails. There were plenty of trails, all right. The big animals had come down from the mountains and were feasting on the skunk cabbage and berries in the woods. Charlie’s fear was that they might wonder whether a cowboy detective would be a mite more tasty than some blueberries. Still, he stuck to the bear trails. To scare off the beasts, he took to singing.

He started in on a song he’d learned while cowboying in the Texas Panhandle: “My lover is a cowboy
He’s kind, he’s brave, and true
He rides the Spanish pony / And throws the lasso, too …” But after a half dozen or so times it got so that even he couldn’t tolerate the lyrics. Then he tried just whistling. And when he grew tired of puckering, he let loose with his Comanche yell. He felt damn foolish, but it was better than having some bear come nosing up to him. Charlie could hear the sound of brush cracking as the bears prowled nearby in the darkness. He kept his Winchester cocked, waiting for an animal to come charging out of the shadows. But they never showed. Still, his nerves grew frayed as he continued on his cautious way through the night.

On the top of the mountain range, Charlie came to a lake. He couldn’t scout up a bear trail, and the prospect of creeping through fields of sharp devil’s clubs was discouraging. So he made his way down the edge of the timber and waded into the lake. He thought if he stuck close to shore, it wouldn’t be too bad. But the water was ice-cold and deeper than he’d expected. It reached up to his waist, and he had to make his way carrying his Winchester over his head. His progress was slow, and it was getting late.

When at last he reached the opposite shore of the lake, he discovered that there was a creek running down the side of the mountain toward the bay. Since he was already wet and cold, Charlie figured another soaking wouldn’t be of much consequence. No matter what, it’d be better than traipsing through a mess of devil’s clubs. As it turned out, the creek was only knee-deep, and Charlie made good time.

It was just turning to daylight when Charlie woke up Marshal Collins in his tent.

“Wondering whether you’d show,” the marshal said.

“For a spell, so was I,” Charlie replied.

CHARLIE AND the marshal stood on top of a hill and looked down on the camp at Chieke Bay. Hubbard and Sayles were getting breakfast. The smell of fresh coffee was strong.

Charlie led the way through the brush, and they came down behind the tent. They’d stayed away from the campfire and had not been seen. Now they waited. The moment seemed so full of tension that it was about to burst. Then Collins looked at Charlie, and the detective nodded.

Charlie walked out from behind the tent with his rifle leveled.

“You’re under arrest,” the marshal shouted as he followed, his pistol drawn.

Hubbard stared. He was quivering with anger, unable to speak. For a second it seemed as if he might draw, but he must’ve realized it would be suicide. Instead he ignored the marshal and walked straight up to Charlie.

“How in hell can you ever show your face in public again after the way you treated me?” he declared, the words full of fury.

Charlie uttered a small laugh, and at the same time lifted the Colt from Hubbard’s holster. “My conscience won’t bother me on that score, I can assure you,” Charlie said with pride.

Schell was in his tent when he was arrested. His rifle was by his side, but he didn’t even consider reaching for it. He just raised his hands in surrender.

As Schell was led out of the tent with his hands cuffed behind his back, the big man finally spoke. He turned toward Charlie and taunted, “You bastards will never find the gold.”

Charlie didn’t answer. There was a shovel lying near the tent, and he grabbed it. He walked slowly to the salmon racks and began digging, a broad smile on his face all the while.