Everybody called Chris "Red" because he had a Garfunkel- looking mess of bright-red hair. Fortunately, he also had a sense of humor. A good thing, as he was a big son of a bitch with no neck, a prominent chin, and Popeye forearms.
“Hey, Trace, it’s been awhile. What can I do you for?”
“I need to drill three NQ-sized core holes, Red. Angled at forty-five degrees. Total depths will be around four hundred feet. Bob Malott has finished the access roads and pads, and we’re ready to turn to the right.”
“Sounds good, Trace. Send me a location map, and I’ll get a proposal down to you.”
“Have you got a rig available?”
“I do. It’s a tracked rig. Can go anywhere and makes hole like a two-dollar whore.”
I laughed. “Jesus, Red, that’s awful.”
“Ain’t it though,” Red replied, with a snort. “All kidding aside, Trace, she’s a hole-making son of a bitch.”
“Okay, Red, sounds like what I need. One more thing, Red. I need damned good core recovery. So take it slow and easy, and let’s try for one hundred percent recovery.”
“Not a problem, Trace. We’ll do a first-class job.”
I sent Red the information he needed and dialed up a conference call with Will and Wally.
“Are you fellows both on?” I asked.
“Will, here.”
“Wally, here.”
“Good. Okay, fellows, I'm getting a drilling proposal for three core holes. I’ll do some calculations and figure about how deep we should intersect the vein. We’ll drill using a down- hole hammer to just above the vein. And then we’ll start coring.”
Wally and Will both agreed.
“As soon as we get enough core assays back from the lab, I’ll put together a PowerPoint presentation. Wally, I’ll leave it to you to set up meetings with investors and brokers in Vancouver.”
“Sounds good, Trace,” Wally replied.
Will concurred. “I sure hope the assays are good.”
“They will be, pardner,” I replied. “We’ll be drilling right through the guts of the vein.”
“Heard anything more from Cyrus?” Wally asked.
“Nada, fellows. But I know he’s out there. It’s like an itch I can’t scratch.”
A couple of days later, I got Red’s drilling proposal. The costs were okay, so I signed on the dotted line and faxed a copy of the contract back to him.
Bill Thornton looked at the copies of Forest Service drilling permits and called Cyrus.
“Cyrus, Thorny here. Thought you might want to know. Brandon got drilling permits for three core holes. Blackstone Drilling has a rig on the way.”
“Interesting. They haven’t done a private stock placement yet, so, they’re operating out of good old Hip National. They’ll need the core assays to convince investors to buy shares in their private placement. Maybe we should throw a little monkey wrench into their plans.”
Chapter 6
I met Red just off Highway 20, at the intersection with Goat Creek Road. He and his crew managed to get the tracked drilling rig and compressor up to the Sullivan Mine and set up on drill hole number one.
Red would use an air-powered, down-hole hammer bit to drill down to just above the vein. At that point, he’d pull out of the hole and rig up the core barrel. We’d cut five-foot cores until we were completely through the vein zone and into footwall schist.
Red maneuvered the drill rig until it was lined up on a 190 degree bearing. This put the drill hole perpendicular to the 280 degree bearing of the vein. Next he locked the rig’s mast at a forty-five-degree angle. We would drill all three holes on the same bearing and angle. The vein appeared to be very steeply dipping to near vertical, and we would be coring through it at a forty-five-degree angle. In order to get the true vein thickness, I’d have to do a little trigonometry.
It was nearly six in the afternoon before Red got everything set up.
“Okay, Trace,” Red said, looking down at his compass, “she’s dead on one-ninety degrees, and the mast is angled exactly forty-five. The night shift will be here shortly, and we’ll fire her up and start making some hole.”
“Good work, Red,” I replied. “Grab a chip sample every five feet. We’ll start pulling core at about three hundred feet.”
“Sounds good, Trace. You’ll be here to start the coring, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Red nodded, but was looking over my head to a point up the mountain.
“Don’t turn just yet, Trace. Wait a sec and then look about half-way up the mountain behind you. We’re being glassed.”
I paused a couple of seconds, did a half-turn and bent down as if tying my boot. Looking up, I saw the sun reflect off glass.
“Got to be binoculars,” I said, standing and turning back to Red.
“Huckleberry pickers?” Red said, with a grin.
“Ah . . . I doubt it. I think we may have caught the interest of an old-time mining promoter. Could be one of his drones.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Ever hear of Cyrus McSweeny?”
“Everybody in mining knows that slimy so-and-so. I thought he was in prison for tax evasion.”
“He was. Did five years and been out a couple.”
“Did it temper the old bastard?”
“Not noticeably.”
“Okay, so how do you want to play it?”
“Well, with us drilling twenty-four-seven, it will be hard for anybody to stir up much of a fuss. Main thing is securing the core. I’ve rented a building from Bobby Malott down in Winthrop. We’ll split, store, and ship core samples from there. I’ll talk to Bob about security at his yard.”
“We could be vulnerable when we move the core boxes from here to yard,” Red added.
“Good point, Red. I’ll transport the cores myself, when I’m here. Otherwise, haul it to Bob’s yard with the crew change. I’ll call the county sheriff, Henry Orvis, he’s my cousin, and tell him what’s going on. Maybe he’ll run a deputy up here once in a while. Kind of show the badge.”
Red nodded in agreement. “For extra security, I’ll send Luke Johnson, one of my hands, with you when you’re transporting cores. He don’t bathe too regular, and he chews old stogies like they was chewing tobacco. But in a fight, he’s as mean and nasty as they come.”
“Perfect,” I said, with a chuckle. “Plus, I’ll have Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson riding with me at all times. I’ll see you in the morning.”
*****
On my way back to Winthrop, I put in a call to the sheriff’s office in Okanogan.
“Sheriff’s office, Deputy Haines speaking.”
“Deputy Haines, this is Trace Brandon. Is the sheriff around?”
“Yeah, Trace. Hang on and I’ll get him.”
Cousin Henry Orvis had been sheriff of Okanogan County for about eighteen years, and had always been re-elected by a large margin. Now in his fifties, he had the Orvis side of the family: dark complexion and jet-black hair. Henry was about six feet tall, thin, and wiry with a bushy mustache. He looked a hell of a lot like the actor, Sam Elliott, and he was a dead shot.
“Hey, Trace,” Henry said. “Long time no see.”
“Yes, sir. How’s the sheriffin’ business?”
“Never a dull moment. Hell, last week a couple of cowboys got drunke'd up and tried to re-enact the old Omak Stampede Suicide Race. Mashed-hat gallop right through town, down the hill into the Okanogan River, full-tilt kamikaze.”
“Damn. Did they make it?”
“Hell no!” Henry chortled. “We had to fish their sorry asses out of the river before they drowned. We’re still looking for their damned horses. So, what’s up, cousin?”
I gave Henry a brief overview of the Sullivan Mine project, and then got to the Virus.
“I'm sure you know of Cyrus McSweeny?” I asked.
“Yes, is he still causing trouble at his age? Hell, he’s got to be in his sixties by now.”
“Yes, and yes. He’s like
a cancer that just won’t quite go into remission.”
“Is he giving you trouble?”
“Nothing yet, other than his offer to be my partner. But someone is watching the drill site. We saw the sun glint off their binocs.”
“Well, cousin, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do until they do something illegal.”
“Understood. But, maybe you could send a deputy up our way, now and then. Kind of show the badge a bit.”
“Be glad to. I’m supposed to be up your way in a few days. I’ll give you a holler. You can buy me lunch, and we’ll let your audience know the sheriff’s in town.”
“Thanks, Henry. I really appreciate it. And it will be good to see you again.”
On the way into Winthrop I stopped at a burger joint on Highway 20. After eating the best burger I ever sank a tooth into, I headed to the Chewak Construction Company yard to meet with Bobby Malott. We visited a few minutes about security, and then I hightailed it back to the mine.
The night crew was blowing and going. A long line of samples bags were lined up near the rig. Nick Wetzel was the night-shift driller, a rosy-cheeked, heavy-set giant with a bald head and red mustache.
“Hey, Nick,” I yelled, to be heard above the compressor, “how’s it going?”
“Damn good, Trace. We should be just about to the vein when the day-shift gets here.”
“Wow, that’s great, Nick. Any problem with groundwater?”
“Not yet. Samples are dry as James Bond’s martini.”
I laughed. “That dry, huh?”
I opened several of the sample bags and checked the lithology of the rock chips . . . all granodiorite. We were still drilling through the hanging wall above the vein.
I waved at Nick to get his attention. I held up six fingers, then pointed to myself. He nodded, understanding I would be back at six in the morning. I wanted to get back to Winthrop, work on my maps, and get a good night’s sleep. We’d start pulling core early tomorrow morning.
At 5:50 the next morning I pulled up to the mine, just behind Red and the day-shift crew.
“Morning, Red . . . fellows,” I said, giving the crew a casual salute.
“Morning your own self,” Red replied, with the wave of a hand big enough to shag fly balls.
Red and I walked over to the drill, and I checked the latest samples blowing up the hole.
“How deep are we, Nick?” I yelled.
“Two ninety-five, Trace.”
“Okay, that’s far enough with the hammer. Pull out, and let’s start coring. We should be about five feet from the vein.”
Nick’s crew pulled the drill rods and hammer bit out of the hole, and turned the rig over to Red, and the day shift.
The night crew shoved off while Red’s crew set up the wire- line coring system. With a wire-line system, we would be able to pull liners from inside the core barrel without pulling the drill pipe out of the hole. Recovered core from inside the liners would be placed into divided wooden-core boxes. Each core box held twenty feet of core in five-four-foot sections. Markers indicating depths were inserted at the top and bottom of each section of core.
Once the core was boxed, I measured it to determine how much core we had recovered. Next, I described the rock type, noting any mineralization or alteration. And, finally, I photographed the cores to document our work, and for future PowerPoint presentations.
“We’re ready, Trace,” Red said.
“Okay, Red, let’er rip,” I replied.
We cut five feet of core the first run, putting us at three hundred feet. I looked at the bottom section of the core and could see traces of pyrite and other sulfides.
“Red, we’re right on the vein.”
Red gave me a thumbs-up and ran a liner back down the drill pipe.
It took about an hour to cut the next five feet. When we pulled the liner and laid the core in the box, Red whistled.
“Holy shit, Trace,” Red said. It’s almost pure sulfides.”
I took my rock hammer and broke off about a six-inch section of the core and looked at it with my ten-power hand lens.
“Yeah, it’s damned good, Red.”
Red and I saw the flash of light at the same instant.
“Our little Peeping Tom is back,” Red said, lifting his eyes to the mountain behind us.
“I saw it, Red. Nothing we can do about it. There’s no law against watching us core.”
The next five cores all cut nearly pure sulfides with just traces of vein quartz. On the eighth run, we cut two more feet of ore and then were into the footwall metamorphic schist.
Red shook his head. “Jesus, Trace, we’ve cut thirty-two feet of mineralization.”
I nodded. “True thickness will be a tad little less as we cut the vein at an angle.”
“True enough,” Red replied, “but it’s still one hell of a vein.”
“Isn’t she though,” I said, looking at the last section of core. “Red, we’re three feet into the footwall. Deep enough on this one. Go ahead and trip out, and let’s plug the hole.”
While Red and the crew pulled the drill rods and core barrel out of the hole, I examined the core in more detail. The ore looked to be comprised of copper, pyrite, and pitchblende. I ran my pocket Geiger counter down the length of several cores.
I looked over at Red, who was watching me with some interest.
“Red, tell any of the crew that handled the core to be sure and wash their hands before they eat, or light up.”
“Hot?” Red asked.
“En llamas,” I replied, nodding. "Very, very, hot rock."
Red and his crew pulled out of the hole and prepared to cement it from top to bottom. The night-shift would likely show up just in time to move the rig to the second drilling location and start drilling. It looked like Red’s crew would be doing the coring on the second hole too. Luck of the draw.
We’d cored forty feet with nearly 100 percent recovery. The core was neatly packed in two wooden boxes, twenty feet of core in each box. Luke and I secured the boxes in the back of my Bronco, and I went over to say good-bye to Red and the rest of his crew.
“Super job, fellas,” I said. “Nearly one hundred percent recovery—damned good work.”
“Looks like we’ll be doing the coring on number two as well,” Red replied.
“My thoughts exactly. Poor old Nick is getting stuck with the noisy, dusty, hammer drill bit again.”
Red and the crew laughed.
“Be careful hauling the core down to Winthrop,” Red said. “We don’t want to have to re-drill this son of a bitch.”
“Don’t worry. Luke and I will have this core in Bobby’s warehouse and be sipping a cold brew before you can say, 'Jack Dempsey.'”
I drove slowly down the mine road and turned left at Goat Creek. I’d gone about three-quarters of a mile when a man with a bandana across his face stepped out of the bushes and held up a hand. His other hand held what looked to be a 9mm automatic.
I slowed to a stop, keeping the Bronco in first gear with the clutch down.
“Just sit tight, Luke. And hang on,” I whispered. “I got this son of a bitch.”
“You’re wasting your time, bud,” I said, as the masked man came up to my open window. “I’ve only got about twenty bucks on me, and Luke here isn’t carrying any dough. You want a stretch in Walla Walla for a lousy twenty bucks?”
“Shut your fuckin’ hole. Both of you, get out of the truck.”
“Okay, okay, just don’t get trigger happy.”
Reaching for the door handle with my left hand, I used my right hand to cut the wheel hard and fast to the right. I dumped the clutch and floored the gas, fishtailing the Bronco hard into the outlaw. The Bronco's rear tire caught his right leg just below the knee, snapping it like a twig.
I slammed on the brakes, killed the engine, grabbed my Smith & Wesson from beside my seat, and jumped out. Luke was hot on my heels. The highwayman had dropped his pistol on the road, and Luke kicked it out of reach. The
poor bastard was on his ass, rocking back and forth, holding his shattered leg in both hands. The break was a compound fracture, and bone was sticking up through his torn jeans.
“Okay, amigo," I said, "who sent you , and what were you after?”
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch. You busted my leg all to hell.”
I kneeled down, reached out, and tapped on his exposed fibula with the barrel of my .357 Magnum. He screamed like a wounded hyena.
I looked over at Luke. He grinned and spat a huge stream of brown tobacco juice. He was obviously okay with my interrogation techniques.
“Want to try again, shit for brains?”
“All right . . . Jesus! Just give me a goddamned second.”
“Second’s up,” I said, moving the barrel of my revolver towards his exposed and bloody leg bone.
“Okay, okay! The guy who hired me is named Thorny. Some shit like that. I don’t know his real name. He called me and told me to grab your cores.”
I grabbed his bandana and told him to wrap it around his leg above the wound.
“Tie it tight and then loosen it every ten minutes or so. I wouldn’t want you're sorry ass to bleed to death.”
“It hurts like hell, mister.”
“Yeah, I bet it does. About like me and Luke would be after you’d pumped a few nine millimeters into us.”
“No, sir. I was told not to hurt you, unless absolutely necessary. I was just to get the core.”
“And where were you going to take the core?”
“Nowhere. I was told to dump the cores in the Methow River and burn the core boxes.”
“Okay, Just hang on while I call my cousin,” I said, flipping open my cell phone.
“Your cousin? Goddamn it! I need a fuckin’ ambulance.”
“I’ll see if he can bring one with him.”
Luke spit another stream, and started laughing.
I called Henry and filled him in. He said Deputy Haines was just south of Winthrop and could be on scene in about twenty minutes. He’d have Haines alert the paramedics in Winthrop.
I hung up and turned to the injured man. “You’re in luck, highwayman. The cavalry is on the way.”
Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1) Page 4
