Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  “Yep, last time was when you put in some drill pads for me on the Boulder Creek project.”

  “I remember, Trace. So, what can I do for you today?”

  “I need to reopen the old Sullivan Mine road, from Highway 20, up Goat Creek, to the confluence of Montana Creek. Then about a mile up Montana Creek to the Sullivan Mine. And I need three drill pads built.”

  “I’m familiar with the Sullivan, Trace. You have claims in there?”

  “Just staked and filed thirty.”

  “Who did the staking?”

  “Ken Hodges and Associates, out of Chelan.”

  “I know Ken. He’s one of the best.”

  “I’ll send you maps and a plan of operation. Can you take a look and give me a proposal?”

  “I’ll need to get on-site and see what we’re looking at, work-wise.”

  “Okay, Bob, today is Monday. How about we meet at your office on Wednesday, and I’ll give you the grand tour. I’ll bring Will Coffee with me to do the permitting. Do you remember Will?”

  “Ugly as sin, broken-down ex-center for Central, turned law dog?” Bob replied, with a snicker.

  I laughed. “Yeah, Bobby, the same center who's team beat your team’s sorry ass four years running.”

  "Okay, bring him if you must,” Bobby replied, with a chuckle. “I guess I can put up with him for a day or two.”

  “Thanks, Bob. See you at your yard on Wednesday.”

  *****

  Will and I rolled into Winthrop about ten Wednesday morning. We met Bobby at his office and then headed out to the claims, dropping Will off at the Forest Service office.

  Bobby and I drove up the rough road along Goat Creek, stopping where I had parked the previous trip. Getting out of the Bronco, I noticed beer cans and sandwich wrappers on the ground.

  “Damn, somebody has been here since my last visit,” I said, pointing to the beer cans.

  “You’d think they could pick up their damn trash,” Bob replied, shaking his head in disgust.

  “Tell you what, Bob, I think we’d better check some of our location monuments to be sure no one’s messing with our claims.”

  “Expecting some kind of trouble, Trace?”

  “Do you know who Cyrus McSweeny is?”

  “Oh, yeah, I know the Virus.”

  “Well, he called me the other day, pumping me for information. He said he’d be seeing me.”

  “I noticed you’re carrying a shooter.”

  “Yep, .357 Smith & Wesson,” I said, patting my holster, “loaded with 230-grain hollow points.”

  “Good. Keep it with you when you’re up here, especially if you're up here alone.”

  “Jesus, is Cyrus that dangerous?”

  “In his line of work, he’s the top of the food chain. Miners I’ve worked with say he’ll take down or move claim stakes and pay off clerks in the courthouse to pre-date his location notices. Hell, he’s the full-meal deal of trouble. Don’t underestimate him, or his drones.”

  “Don’t worry, pard. I won’t.”

  When we got to the mine, I showed Bobby where I needed the drill pads built. I left him to map out his work plan while I checked the location monuments. I walked down each of the claims, checking the latitude and longitude of each monument with my GPS. All the claim stakes were up and matched the original coordinates.

  Returning to the mine, I dug my hardhat and mine light from my backpack. Looking around, I found a sapling and cut a stout walking stick. One mine swim per year is my limit.

  Slowly, I began working my way down the adit. It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for: a number of fresh gashes in the roof of the adit. Someone had cut several samples from the exposed vein. It wasn’t too difficult to guess who. I just hoped Cyrus’s man had sampled far enough down the adit to step off into the winze.

  On the trip back to Winthrop, I didn’t mention what I’d found to Bobby. He had his hands full building the access road and drill pads. I dropped him at his yard, and he promised to have some costs to me in a couple of days.

  I met up with Will back at the W.

  “How did it go at the mine?” Will asked.

  “Bobby got a good look at the work and will have a proposal for us in a couple of days.”

  “Everything copacetic at the mine?”

  “We’ve had company, Will.”

  “The Virus?”

  “Got to be. Someone’s been in the adit. I could see fresh chisel marks where they took samples. Once Cyrus gets the assays back, he’ll know uranium is the play.”

  “Do you think he is going to try something with the claims?”

  “I don’t think so. The claims are legally located and filed and now in the BLM system. When he finds out Ken did the staking, he’ll probably drop that idea. My guess is he’ll come at us some other way. Maybe after we’re public. He could buy up a large block of shares and demand a seat on our board. Or he could just short the shit out of our stock. In any case, we’re going to have to be very, very, careful going forward.”

  Back in my office the following Monday, Will and I had a conference call with Will’s attorney buddy, Walter Wilkins. Wally told us he had a suitable shell company. We agreed to meet in Vancouver just prior to a special shareholders’ meeting Wally would call. The shareholders of the shell company would vote to approve vending my claims into the shell company. In return for the claims, I would receive a controlling share position. The process was commonly referred to as a reverse merger.

  Will, Walter, and I would be elected directors of the company. As directors, we would appoint the officers of the corporation. I would serve as chairman and CEO, Will as secretary and treasurer. The name of the company would be changed to Montana Creek Mining Corporation. The new trading symbol on the Vancouver Stock Exchange would be MCM.V.

  Chapter 4

  Cyrus McSweeny’s Spokane office was on the sixth floor of the old Inland Empire Building. Built in 1900, it remained one of Spokane’s historical architectural treasures.

  Cyrus’s office was plush, with lots of wood and leather furniture. Photos of various mining operations covered the walls. The only things lacking were diplomas. Like his pal, Thorny, Cyrus had come up the hard way, from working in the mines to investing and promoting penny mining stocks. He was street smart and not afraid to bend or break a few laws. And along the way, he’d made millions.

  Now in his early sixties, he was six feet tall, ramrod straight, lean and wiry with a shock of unruly white hair. His cobalt- blue eyes would have made Paul Newman envious. Women still sought his company, and he could still appreciate them.

  This particular morning, he was working at his gold-inlayed mahogany desk when his cell phone rang.

  “Cyrus, it’s Thorny. Got a sec?”

  “Sure thing, Thorny, I’m just sitting here looking at some commodity charts.”

  “Well, this may give you another chart to review. The samples I grabbed from the Sullivan came back, and I have the information you wanted on the those mining claims.”

  “What did you turn up?”

  “On the claim status side, they’re tight as a sixteen-year-old virgin. Ken Hodges & Associates over in Chelan did the staking. He’s not the expert witness you’d want on the stand. The SOB has never had a claim overturned.”

  “Okay, so over-staking is out. How about the assays?”

  “Gold and copper in line with reported assays back when the mine was in production. Those values alone will make a mine with today’s gold and copper prices.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, yes. The damned vein carries a lot of uranium. The assays all ran eight to ten percent."

  “Uranium, eh? Now I see young master Brandon’s interest.”

  “Uranium’s been in the tank since Three Mile Island blew up. Do you think it will come back?”

  “Already coming back, Thorny. All the reports indicate utilities are quietly buying up available stockpiles, and looking for more. Price is beginning to t
rend northward again.”

  Cyrus paused, drumming the fingers of his left hand on the desk-top.

  “Listen, Thorny, I may have underestimated our young geologist friend, just a tad. Get with your contacts in Vancouver and see who’s snooping around for a decent shell company. He’s going to have to go public to raise enough dough to get rolling.”

  “Will do, sir. I’ll be back to you when I have something.”

  Cyrus knew a grade of 8 to 10 percent uranium, with any kind of reserves, would put the Sullivan Mine in rarefied air, right up there with the big dogs like Cameco and Rio Tinto.

  Will and I drove to Spokane and caught a commuter flight to Vancouver. We met up with Walter Wilkins at the Harbor View Inn, in downtown Vancouver.

  “There he is,” Will said, waving to catch Wilkins’s attention.

  Wally waved back and joined us near the hotel’s front entrance.

  “Hi, fellows. Good flight?” Wally asked.

  “Yeah, smooth as a bar-maid's butt,” Will replied. “Wally, this is Trace Brandon, my client, partner, and friend.”

  “Trace, really good to meet you. Will, here, has told me a lot about you,” Wally said, extending his hand.

  “Walter, good to meet you too, and don’t put too much credence in what Will told you about me,” I said, with a laugh.

  “Call me Wally, Trace. All my mates do. And don’t worry. I take all Will’s fabrications with a grain of salt.”

  We grabbed a quiet corner table in the bar, ordered some beers and got down to business.

  “So, Wally, you’ve located a good vehicle to merge with?” I asked.

  “Yes, I have. The company is a British Columbia numbered company, incorporated specifically for a reverse merger. One of my associates, Richard Rosenburg, and I control one hundred percent of the five million founder’s shares. There’s an additional million shares on the street held by investors who bought the initial public offering. Richard and I will give up eighty percent of our shares in return for your vending in all the Sullivan Mine claims.”

  “So, we’ll have about seventy percent control?” I asked, to confirm.

  “Correct, Trace. You’ll get four million founder’s shares. Richard and I will keep one million shares, half a million each. And there will be one million shares of free trade in the float. So a total of six million issued and outstanding.”

  “What about any funds from the IPO?” Will asked.

  “The IPO went out at five cents per share. Netted about forty-five grand, after expenses. Most of the balance has been used to pay small management fees, accounting, legal, filing fees, et cetera, to keep the company current and in good standing. There’s thirty-five hundred in the company checking account that will transfer,” Wally answered.

  I nodded. “What do you think, Will?”

  “It’s about as tight as you can get and still be a publicly traded entity. It leaves little room for others to gain a significant position.”

  “True, unless they are able to acquire a significant percentage of the thirty-plus percent we won’t control.”

  “True enough, Trace, but it would take a pretty shrewd trader to do that,” Wally replied.

  I looked over at Will.

  Wally saw the look of concern in my and Will’s eyes.

  “Is there someone you’re specifically worried about?”

  “We’ll, there is one guy,” Will replied. “You may have heard of him. Cyrus McSweeny.”

  Wally set his beer mug back on the table. “The Virus is interested in your deal?”

  “Well, he called me,” I replied, “and pumped me for information, even offered to be our partner.”

  “I see,” Wally replied. “Cyrus is well-known on the street up here. And he can play pretty rough. We’ll need be very careful not to leave him any openings.”

  “Agreed and understood,” I replied. “But, first things first. We need to get through the special shareholders' meeting and complete the merger. Remember, there’s no serum once you’re infected by the Virus.” I added, with a laugh.

  We held the special shareholders' meeting later in the week in Vancouver. All the items on the agenda passed. Montana Creek Mining Corporation was in business.

  Wally would start preparing private-placement documents, allowing the company to sell shares to the public in British Columbia, Canada. The company's treasury would issue the shares. Sale of the shares would dilute our control position, but bring in the capital needed to start developing the Sullivan Mine.

  It took Bill Thornton about a week to put it all together. He called Cyrus and scheduled a meeting at Cyrus’s Spokane office.

  “Okay, boss, here’s the lowdown. Brandon and his lawyer buddy, Will Coffee, were in Vancouver about a week ago. The Vancouver Securities Exchange filings show they held a special shareholders' meeting and merged their claims into a numbered B.C. shell corp. Looks like they walked away with about seventy percent control. The two founders of the shell company kept five hundred thousand shares each. And there’s a million shares in the float. The numbered company was renamed, Montana Creek Mining Corporation.”

  “Damned fine work, Thorny. I think you’ll find a little bonus in this month’s check.”

  “Thanks, Cyrus.”

  “Who were the original founding shareholders?”

  “Walter Wilkins, a Vancouver attorney, who remained a director. And a Vancouver promoter named Richard Rosenburg.”

  Cyrus rubbed his chin for a couple of seconds. “Okay, Thorny, find out all you can about Rosenburg. He may have some weakness we can exploit. I know this Wilkins character. He’s tough, clean, and righteous. No . . . we’ll concentrate on trying to acquire Rosenburg’s shares.

  “We’ll need a Canadian entity,” Thorny said. “Shares in the private placement will only be available to British Columbia residents, or BC corporations.”

  “Okay, when Montana Creek Mining’s private placement comes out, we buy all the shares we can get through Twisp River Resources. Twisp is a private company, domiciled in BC. I own it one hundred percent though my Cayman holding company, Carib International.”

  “Perfect, boss.”

  “Yeah, it’s a start. Also, I’ll have Twisp River start buying shares in the open market. Not enough to draw attention, just steady buy orders. We’ll see how much cheap free trade we can accumulate.”

  Back in E-Burg, I went to work preparing a three-hole coring program. Wally made it clear we needed some good core assay results to present to investors before we could do a successful private placement. In the interim, the three of us would have to loan the company the money to complete at least the first core hole.

  Bob Malott’s proposal for building the drill locations and road repair arrived while I was in Vancouver. The drilling locations were one thousand feet apart. If we intersected good ore values, I could extrapolate some inferred reserves. It would be enough to interest the penny stock mine crowd in Vancouver.

  *****

  I’d been so busy with the claims and merger that I hadn’t had any time for Tina. Now, with a few days to kill while Bob’s crew completed the mine road and drill pads, I called her.

  "Hey, kiddo,” I said, when Tina answered the phone, “sorry I’ve been out of town so much. But getting this mining deal put together turned into quite a chore.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tina replied, coolly. “Are you sure you haven’t taken up with another woman?”

  Uh-oh, I could be in serious trouble, I thought to myself. “No, nothing like that, Tina. I’ve been up at the mine most of the time,” I said, grasping for traction. “Look, let me make it up to you. How about supper at the Cold Creek Inn?” The quaint little restaurant was located on the outskirts of Ellensburg, on the east bank of the Yakima River, and was her favorite.

  “Well, seeing as how I am hungry, and horny, I guess I’ll let you off the hook, this time. Pick me up at seven. And you’d better not be late, cowboy.”

  At seven, straight up, I knocked on her ap
artment door. Tina opened the door and glanced at her watch. She was wearing tight Wrangler jeans, cowboy boots, and a white blouse with pearl buttons. She looked better than a high-grade assay.

  “Damn good timing, Trace,” she said, with a husky laugh.

  Hot damn, I might be back in the saddle. “Yes, ma’am. Nineteen hundred hours, as requested,” I said, with a smile. “And I am at your disposal for the rest of the evening.”

  “You’d damn well better be,” Tina replied, hooking her arm through mine. “To the Inn, and don’t spare the horses.”

  “There’s three hundred of them under the hood,” I said, as I opened the passenger door of my Bronco. “Just remember to buckle up.”

  As advertised, the Inn delivered a fabulous meal of Black Angus rib eyes, house salads, baked potatoes, and two bottles of a very limited vintage, commemorative, Central Washington University Cabernet. I found this particular cabernet had a soothing effect on the female spirit. Too bad there were very few bottles of the vintage remaining.

  After supper we went back to my place just outside of town. I keep a thirty-one-foot Airstream in an RV park along the Yakima River. The RV park has water, septic, and power, all the comforts of home. Plus, the romantic sound of the Yakima River rushing by.

  I don’t know if it was the rushing river, the commemorative cabernet, or the RV park ambiance, but something worked. We were kicking our clothes off as we climbed into the Airstream. Horny was the right word. Tina led me, and my erection down the hallway to my queen-sized bed. She pushed me down on the bed, straddled my thighs, and guided me home. It would be a horse race to see who came in first.

  I placed, but could barely walk the next morning.

  Chapter 5

  Bob Malott called and said the mine roads and drill pads were ready to go. After Bob and I were done, I called Chris Blackstone with Blackstone Drilling Company in Oroville, Washington.

  “Red, it’s Trace Brandon, down in Ellensburg.”