There was nothing much for us to do now the survey was over. There were two rifles at the ranch-house, one belonging to Boy and one to my grandfather, and I encouraged Bill and Don to get out after game whenever they could. For myself I just lazed, gaining in energy every day and spending a good deal of time going over and over my plans to get the rig up the hoist. If everything worked smoothly it would be all right, but I had to plan for every eventuality.
Three days later I took Bill Mannion with me and we rode down to Come Lucky. We carried blankets and rucksacks stuffed with spare clothing and food. In a bag tied to my saddle were several of the charges used by Boy for his survey shots together with detonators, coils of wire and the plunger and batteries for shot firing. The sun was hot as we went down the pony trail to Thunder Creek. The timber had a warm, resinous smell and all about us pulsed the early summer life.
As we rode into Come Lucky I saw a change was coming over the place. New huts were going up; some were rough, split pine affairs, others pre-fabricated constructions trucked in from the saw mills. Some of the old shacks were being patched up and repainted. A new life stirred in the ghost town and for the first time since I had set eyes on the place it was possible to walk up the centre of the main street. The mud and tailings from the old wooden flumes above the town had set hard in the sun and wind to produce a cracked, hard-baked surface like a dried-out mud hole. There were even little drifts of dust blowing about.
It was near midday and several of the old men were in the Golden Calf for a lunch-time beer. They stared at us curiously, but without animosity. The dam was going ahead. Come Lucky was coming to life. They’d nothing to fear from me any more.
Mac was in his office. He was seated at the desk working on some accounts and he stared at me doubtfully over his steel-rimmed glasses. ‘Getting tired of living up in the Kingdom?’ he asked me.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I just came down to see if there was any mail for me.’
‘There’s a telegram for you. Nothing else.’ He reached in to a pigeon hole of the desk and produced it.
I slit open the enevelope. It was from Boy and had been handed in at Calgary the day before, June 1st. ‘Results perfect. Have seen G. He will be at House as arranged. Returning immediately arriving Come Lucky Tuesday.’ I handed it to Bill. ‘Where will I find Trevedian?’ I asked Mac.
‘Maybe in his office, but most of the day he’s up at the hoist.’
‘Does he sleep up at the camp?’
‘No. He’ll be in town by the evening.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘If you see him, tell him I’m looking for him.’
The old man stared at me with a puzzled frown. ‘What would ye be wanting him for?’
‘Just tell him I’d like to have a word with him.’
As I turned to go he said, ‘A friend of yours was asking about you.’
‘Who’s that?’ I asked him.
‘Jean Lucas.’
‘Jean! Is she back?’
‘Aye. Came back two days ago. She came to see me last night. Wanted to know what ye were up to.’
‘What did you say?’
The corners of his lips twitched slightly and there was a twinkle in his blue eyes as he said, ‘I told her to go up and find out for herself.’
‘Well, if she’d taken your advice we’d have met her on the way down,’ I said.
‘Aye, ye would that. Maybe she didna feel like it. Sarah Garret tells me she’s no’ looking herself despite her holiday.’
I was very conscious of the Luger in the rucksack on my back, of a sudden restlessness compounded of spring and the smell of the woods and a desire to see her again. I went out through the bar into the sunshine, my heart throbbing in my throat.
‘Where now?’ Bill asked.
‘We’ll go down and see Trevedian,’ I said and climbed on to my horse and rode back down the street, lost in my own thoughts and the memory of that last time I’d seen Jean, wrought-up, unhappy and strangely close to me. I remembered the vibrance of her voice, the reflection of her face in the blackness of the window panes as I lay in my bed.
But at the sight of the open door of Trevedian’s office I put all thought of her out of my mind. This was no time to start dreaming about a girl.
The office of the Trevedian Transport Company had been enlarged by knocking down the partition at the back. There was another desk, more filing cabinets, a field telephone and an assistant with sleek black hair who affected high-heeled cowboy boots, blue jeans and a fancy shirt. Trevedian was on the telephone to Keithley as I came in. He was in his shirt sleeves and his big arms, covered with dark hair, were bronzed with sun and wind. He momentarily checked his conversation as he caught sight of me, unable to conceal his surprise. He waved me to a seat, finished his call and then put the receiver back on its rest. ‘Well, what can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘I suppose Bladen wants to get his trucks out, is that it?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Rather the reverse. I want to get some trucks in.’
‘How do you mean?’ His eyes had narrowed as though the sun’s glare was bothering him.
‘What do you charge per load on your hoist?’ I asked him.
‘Depends on the nature of the load,’ he said guardedly. ‘What’s the trouble? Running short of supplies?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I want to know what rate you’ll quote me for hoisting a drilling rig up to the Kingdom?’
‘A drilling rig!’ He stared at me. And then his fist came down on the desk top. ‘What the hell do you take me for, Wetheral? No drilling rig is going up Thunder Creek.’
I turned to Bill. ‘Take note of that, will you. This, by the way, is Bill Mannion,’ I introduced him. ‘Now, about this rig. I quite realise that the road up Thunder Creek runs through your property and that the hoist is owned and run by you and James McClellan jointly. Naturally a toll is payable to the two of you for the transport of personnel and equipment up to the Kingdom. Perhaps you’d be good enough to quote me your rates.’
‘Quote you my rates!’ He laughed. ‘You must be crazy. The road’s a private road and the hoist is private, too. It’s being operated for the Larsen Mining Company. You know that damn well. And if you think I’m going to transport any damned rig up to the Kingdom—’ He hesitated there and leaned forward. ‘What’s the idea of taking a rig up there?’
‘I’m drilling a well.’
‘You’re drilling a well.’ He repeated my words in an offensive imitation of my English accent. Then his eyes slid to Bill Mannion and in a more controlled voice he said, ‘And what makes you think it’s worth drilling up there?’
‘Bladen’s done a check on his original survey,’ I said.
‘Well?’
‘There’s ample evidence that the original survey was tampered with. Louis Winnick, the oil consultant, has computed the results. The seismograms show a well defined anticline. The indications are promising enough for me to go ahead and drill.’
‘And you expect me to get your rig up there for you?’
‘I’m merely asking you to quote me a rate.’
He laughed. ‘You’re not asking much.’ He leaned across the desk towards me. ‘Get this into your thick head, Wetheral. As far as you’re concerned there aren’t any rates. Your rig isn’t going up Thunder Creek. You can pack it up the pony trail.’ He grinned. ‘I give you full permission to do that, free of charge, even though it is partly on my land.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I must insist on a quotation for the hoist.’
‘Insist? Are you trying to be funny?’
‘Do I get a quotation or not?’
‘Of course you don’t.’
‘I see.’ I got to my feet. ‘That’s all I wanted.’ He was staring at me in surprise as Bill and I moved towards the door. I paused in the entrance. ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘you do realise, I suppose, that the original road up Thunder Creek was constructed in 1939 by the Canadian Government. The fact that you have improved it recently does not stop it being a pub
lic highway. Are you acting on Fergus’s instructions in putting a guard on it and holding up private transport?’
‘I’m acting for the Larsen Mining Company.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘That means Fergus.’
After that I went back up the street to the Golden Calf. Mac was still in his office. ‘Can I use your phone?’ I asked him.
‘Aye.’ He pushed the instrument towards me. ‘Would it be something private?’ He had got to his feet.
‘No, it’s all right,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing private about this.’ I picked up the instrument and got long distance. I gave them the number of the Calgary Tribune and made it a personal call to the editor. Half an hour later he was on the line. ‘Did Louis Winnick let you have his final report on Campbell’s Kingdom?’ I asked him.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘And a fellow called Bladen was in here with the whole story of the original survey. Who am I talking with?’
‘Bruce Wetheral,’ I said. ‘Campbell’s heir.’
‘Well, Mr Wetheral, we ran the story pretty well in full a couple of days back.’
I thanked him and then brought him up to date with Trevedian’s refusal to allow a rig to proceed to the property. When I had finished he said, ‘Makes a dandy little story. Private enterprise versus big business, eh? Well, Mr Wetheral, this won’t be the first time we’ve backed the small operator.’
‘You’re going to back us then?’
‘Oh, sure. It’s in the interests of the country. We’ve always taken that line. What are you going to do about getting your rig up there?’
‘Take the matter into my own hands.’
‘I see. Well, go easy on that. We don’t want to find we’re backing people who get outside the law.’
‘I’m not getting outside the law,’ I said. ‘It’s Fergus and Trevedian who have got outside the law.’
‘We-ell—’ He hesitated. ‘So long as nobody gets hurt . . .’
‘Nobody’s going to get hurt,’ I said.
‘Fine. Well, good luck. And, Mr Wetheral—if you do bring in a well be sure and let us have details. Later on I’d like to send one of my staff up to have a look at things if that’s all right with you?’
‘Any time,’ I said. ‘And thanks for your help.’ I put the receiver back.
‘So ye’re going to drill?’ Mac said.
I nodded. ‘I suppose your son wouldn’t take the responsibility of getting the rig up there?’
‘Jamie’ll no’ do anything to help ye, I’m afraid.’ He kept his eyes on the pipe he was filling, avoiding my gaze.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I suppose not.’ I hesitated. ‘Trevedian will ask you what I’m up to. There’s no harm in telling him that I’ve been on to the Calgary Tribune. But I’d be glad if you’d forget that bit about my taking things into my own hands. Will you do that?’
‘Aye.’ He gave me a wintry smile. ‘I’ll no’ spoil yer game, whatever it is. But dinna do anything foolish, lad.’ He peered up at me. ‘Ye ken the advice I ought to gie ye? It’s to forget all aboot the Kingdom—sell oot and gang hame. But it’s no’ the sort o’ advice a young feller would be taking.’ He shook his head. ‘Mebbe I’m getting old.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good luck to ye. And if I should see Jeannie?’ He cocked his head on one side.
I hesitated and then I said, ‘If she should happen to ask about me, tell her there’s a vacancy for cook-general up in the Kingdom—if she wants her old job back?’
He smiled and nodded his head. ‘Aye. I’ll tell her that.’
I paid for the call and we left then, riding down the hard-baked gravel of Come Lucky’s street, conscious here and there of faces peering at us from the windows of the shacks. Through the open door of his office I caught a glimpse of Trevedian. He was on the phone again, but he looked up as we rode by and stared at us, his heavy forehead puckered in a frown.
The sun was hot as we rode down to the lake-shore and there were gopher standing like sentinels on the mounds of their burrows. Their shrill squeaks of warning ran ahead of us as one by one they dropped from sight. Beaver Dam Lake was still and dark, mirroring the green and brown and white of the mountains beyond. A truck ground past us as we turned up towards Thunder Creek, a haze of white dust hovering behind it. And when it was gone and the dust had settled, everything was still again. Summer had come to the Rockies.
‘Will you wait down here for Boy?’ Bill asked.
I nodded. ‘We’ll camp down by the creek tonight.’
We found a suitable spot, well concealed in the cottonwood close to the waters of Thunder Creek, cooked ourselves a meal and slept for a couple of hours in the sun. Then we saddled the horses again and started up the road towards the camp. All I carried was my rucksack. The shadows were lengthening now and as we entered the timber the air was cool and damp. Every now and then Bill glanced at me curiously, but he didn’t say anything. He had the patience and tenacity of all geologists. He was content to wait and see what I was up to.
We reached the bend that concealed the road gate and its guard and I struck up into the timber. The timber was not very thick here and as we made the detour we caught glimpses of the guard hut. We came back on to the road about half a mile above it. The surface was much drier than it had been when Jeff and I had made that moonlight run and wherever there was water, hard core had been poured in by the truck load. Even so the surface was heavily rutted and some of the log culverts showed signs of breaking up. Every now and then I glanced up at the telephone wires that hung in shallow loops from the bare jack pine poles. There were just the two lines and at most points it would be possible to reach them from the top of a truck. At a point where the road reached down almost to the floor of the valley we saw beaver working in the black pools they’d dammed and once we caught a glimpse of two coyotes slinking through the timber. But my mind was on practical things and not even the sight of a small herd of mule-deer distracted me from my reconnaissance. We kept to the road all the way, only pushing into the timber when we heard the sound of a truck.
About a mile above the guard hut I found what I was looking for. The grade had been getting steadily steeper as we climbed up from the creek bed and we came face to face with a shoulder of the valley side. The road swung away to the right and we could see it zig-zagging in wide hair-pin sweeps as it gained height to by-pass the obstruction. Ahead of us a trail rose steeply up the shoulder, a short-cut that would come out on to the road again. We forced the horses up the slope and came out on to a rocky platform that looked straight up the valley to the slide and the sheer cliff of the fault. It was a most wonderful sight with the white peaks of Solomon’s Judgment crimsoned in the sunset.
About a mile further on we came out on to the road again where it swung round a big outcrop of rock. It had been blasted out of the face of the outcrop and above it the rocks towered more than a hundred feet, covered with lichen and black where the water seeped from the crevices. We waited for a truck to pass, going down the valley, and then we rode out on to the road.
I sat there for a moment looking at the overhang. This was what I had remembered. This was the place that had been in my mind when I first conceived my plan. The question was would I find what I wanted. I rode forward, a tight feeling in my throat. Everything depended upon this. The rock had been blasted. There was no question about that as I began eagerly examining the wall of it.
‘What are you looking for, Bruce?’ my companion asked.
‘I’m wondering if there are any drill holes,’ I said. I’d banked on the driller going ahead, drilling his shot holes, regardless of whether they’d blasted sufficiently. Twice we had to canter off into the timber whilst a truck went by. Each time I came back to the same point in the face of the rock, working steadily along it. And then suddenly I had found what I had hoped for; a round hole—like the entrance to a sandmartin’s nest. There was another about ten feet from it and a third. They were about three feet from the ground and when I cut a straight branch from a tree and had whittled i
t down into a rod I found two of them extended about eight feet into the rock. The third was only about two feet deep. I took off my rucksack then, got out my charges and pushed them in, two to each shot hole. The wires to the detonators I cut to leave only about two inches protruding. Then we rammed wet earth in tight, sealing the holes. I marked the spot with the branch of a tree and we rode on.
About half a mile further on the road dipped again and crossed a patch of swampy ground. Road gangs had been busy here very recently. A lot of hard core had been dumped and rolled in and just beyond the swamp the trees had been cut back to allow trucks to turn. There was good standing here for a dozen or more vehicles. Over a slight rise a bridge of logs spanned a small torrent. Again I slipped my rucksack from my shoulders and got to work with the charges, fixing them to the log supports of the bridge and trailing the wires to a point easily reached from the road. I marked the spot and climbed back on to the road.
‘Okay, Bill,’ I said. ‘That’s the lot.’
We turned our horses and started back. There was still some light in the sky, but down in the valley night was closing in.
It was past nine when we rode into our camp. We built a fire and cooked a meal, sitting close by the flames, talking quietly, listening to the sound of the creek rumbling lakewards. I felt tired, but content. So far everything had gone well. But as I lay wrapped in my blankets, going over and over my plans, I wondered whether my luck would hold. I wondered, too, whether I wasn’t in danger of creating a situation I couldn’t handle. I was planning the thing as a military operation, relying on surprise and confusion to carry me through, banking on being able to present the other side with a fait accompli. I wondered chiefly about Garry Keogh. He was Irish and he was tough, but he ran his own rig and he’d got to live. His approach to the whole thing was entirely different from mine.
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