An Eye for Gold

by Sarah Andrews

  Kyle exhaled and stared at the ground.

  “Jerks,” I muttered under my breath, and strolled away from him, setting out to walk around the spring so I could hope to put the insolence of the men in the Jeep and Kyle’s pathetic reaction to them out of my mind. I was mad at the men for littering, I was mad at Kyle for being a coward, and I was mad at myself for being reckless. As I moved briskly along, I asked myself where I’d gone wrong in my estimation of him. I hoped silently that he would be gone by the time I came all the way around to my truck.

  Steep banks led down toward a pool of warm water that trickled in from a narrow seep. Bullrushes grew from the waters, their lush, impossibly thick stalks standing in stark contrast to the sparseness of the vegetation that grew only inches away from the spring. A few mud hens scooted away, squawking at me. About halfway around the pool, I heard footsteps right behind me. Kyle had put on some speed with his long legs and managed to catch up with me without seeming to hurry. He wouldn’t stand up to a couple of yawps throwing beer cans, but he sure could stretch his legs when he wanted to chase a woman.

  When we got to the uphill end of the springs, I came across the crumbling remnants of a fieldstone building. “What’s this?” I asked.

  Kyle shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, I don’t know. My partner says there was once a small placer mining camp here.”

  “So as part of your exploration, you’re going back over the known mining districts?”

  He considered my question for a moment, head hanging, lips twisting this way and that. “Well, they say the best place to find gold sometimes is where it’s already known to occur.”

  “Oh. You go after what was missed.”

  Kyle’s head jerked slightly, as if a twenty-watt bulb had just gone on inside his head.

  Time to change the subject, I decided, wondering if he was being proprietary or just couldn’t discuss the subject intellectually. He was hard to figure. The man had to be bright to have a job in this tough market, but like a loaf of bread baked without quite enough leavening, he seemed oddly dense, and fiat in places. He reminded me of certain geologists and engineers I had known in the oil business; dutiful types who had gone to college and even graduate school and had been well trained to scrupulously carry out standardized tasks, but who lacked the spark necessary for original or independent thought. The duller ones fell incrementally by the wayside and suffered layoff after layoff while the more ambitious ones went into management and sometimes grew vicious.

  I have learned more about the natural history of the canids from working with men than I ever did from having one as a pet. There are your alpha wolves, who rule with or without wisdom; your beta through omega pack dogs, who rank from top to bottom in the great game of power consciousness and there are your few lone wolves, who go off and do something unusual. Kyle so far just struck me as a good doggie, but like Deputy Weebe had said, he bore watching.

  I put him back to work as a tour guide. “So this was a placer mining camp. I saw some other ghost towns in the map atlas. Were those mining camps too?”

  “Sure, like Gilby’s Camp,” Kyle said. “There was a whole little town there back in the late twenties. Guy dug a mile-long tunnel that was supposed to intercept the workings of the district further north there, which had shut down because of drainage and haulage problems. Built a hundred-ton cyanide mill, the works. The polite histories will tell you that he ran into the same flooding problems, but it’s more likely that he knew he wouldn’t make it. That the whole thing was a scam from the beginning.” He chuckled appreciatively.

  “A mile?” I said. “That’s a lot of scam.”

  “Oh, you’d be amazed,” he said. “You whip your investors into a frenzy, show them nice surface workings, big mill, take them for a ride down your tunnel into the bowels of the earth, and the fools will fall all over themselves to invest.”

  “But still you’re doing the work. All that digging, I mean.”

  He took off his sunglasses and looked at me, his smile withered down to a smirk. “Maybe he thought he’d get lucky. Anyway,” he said, now waxing sardonic, “you know the definition of a mine?”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “A hole in the ground with a liar standing over it.”

  “Ah.”

  I gazed at him for what I hoped was a polite moment, then began to walk back to my truck in preparation for parting company with him. But before I got there, a plump, granny-looking woman of about sixty-five or so rode up on a three-wheeler. “Ah, good, someone’s here,” she said. “Couldn’t get those creeps in the Jeep to stop. Can you two spare a few minutes? I found this old man up the road needs help. He’s taken a fall and hit his head, and I can’t lift him.”

  I glanced sideways at Kyle just in time to see his facial muscles tense. “Old guy in a brush-painted van?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “You know him?”

  “That’s Sam,” Kyle said. He heaved a deep sigh. “Okay, let’s go get him.”

  I said, “I’m Em Hansen. This is Kyle.”

  “Pleased to meet you, dear,” the woman replied. “I’m Sally Dancer. We’d better get going. The poor old boy looks pretty weak.”

  Kyle and I each got in our own vehicle and made a small parade as Sally Dancer led us a couple of miles up the road toward a place where it passed through a narrows between two prominences in the Kamma Mountains. I saw the brush-painted van a short way up a side road that spurred to the north. Beside the van, lying in its shade, I saw an old man with white hair. We hurried to the spot but, by the time we got close, I was glancing overhead to see if there were vultures circling yet. The old man did not look good—ashen, weak, and panting—but he was alive and conscious. Sally had propped him up on his side with his head on a rolled-up jacket. The back of his head was bruised and bloody.

  Kyle approached him hesitantly. When Sam saw him, he smiled brightly and said, “Why, hello there, Kyle “ He stopped to pant. “You find MacCallum?”

  My ears picked up. Was MacCallum still missing?

  Kyle bent over the old man, bracing his hands on his knees. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with resignation. “No, Sam, Don’s still gone off somewhere.” He sighed with exasperation. Then, his tone growing brittle with something close to annoyance, he said, “You seen him since I came by your shack the other day?”

  The old man smiled, and let his bright little eyes widen vacantly. “Seems I’ve got myself in a bit of a . . . a pickle here, son. Was on my way . . . back from town last night when a . . . a tire blew . . . guess I took a fall.”

  “Looks like you didn’t get very far changing that flat” Kyle said sardonically.

  Sam closed his eyes and panted. “Got winded. Heard a car coming . . . walked down . . . stood in the road to . . . flag ‘em down. Get some help, you know?. . . They just honked . . . get out of the way . . . damnedest thing.”

  “They just drove on by?” I asked, appalled. “Was it two jerks in a black Jeep?”

  Sam looked confused. “White Stetson . . .” He closed his eyes and concentrated on trying to take a breath.

  “You must have dreamt it, Sam,” Kyle said. Giving me a knowing look, Kyle made a circling gesture around one ear, so I’d know the old coot was daft.

  “Well, I’m glad you got out of the road, Sam,” I said. “Those idiots in the Jeep might have finished you off if the white hat didn’t.”

  “Must have stumbled . . . don’t know . . .”

  “Let’s get you into town, Grandpa,” I said.

  Sam’s eyes flew wide with panic. “No! No, missy . . . take me home . . . I’ll make coffee . . . it’s . . . it’$ . . .”

  “Good for the soul,” Kyle said, finishing Sam’s sentence dejectedly. He moved from his bent position into a full squat “Well, let’s just see if we can get you up.”

  The old man coughed. “Don’t know . . .”

  I said, “I really think we should take you into Lovelock.”

  “Yes,” said Sa
lly.

  “No!” Sam wheezed. His eyes glittered. “No, no, don’t you be worryin’ over me, now . . . just been there . . .”

  Kyle said, “What Sam wants, Sam gets. Let me tell you, ladies, I’ve known Sam for a while now. He only goes to town for his mail and more grub. You try to take him by force, and you’ll find out how strong he really is.”

  “Don’t have no use for doctors” said Sam.

  “Okay,” said Sally. “I’m a retired nurse. I’ll sit with him until he’s stable, then I’ll go to town and see what I can do to bring him some help.”

  Sam stretched his mouth into a grin, pulling back his whiskery cheeks to reveal a gap where several teeth were missing to one side of his upper middle two, which were stained yellow. It made him look like a little mouse. I tried not to feel total horror at his state of decay. We locked eyes, and I saw deep inside them a mixture of trust, innocence, and a tattered, yet still strong, force of will. “Just take me up the hill,” he said, now wheezing slightly. “Got to get back to my gold.”

  “We could lay him in the bed of my truck,” I said. “I’ve got a sleeping bag . . .” I let the words trail off. Kindly as I felt toward the old guy, I wasn’t sure there would be a way to wash his effluvia off my precious bed roll.

  “Let’s get him into the van,” said Sally, giving me a wink. “Kyle here can have that flat fixed in a jiffy.”

  Kyle set his face like concrete and got to work. I helped him while Sally fussed over Sam. When we were ready, Sally said, “On the count of three. One, two . . .”

  We lifted him. He was as light as a sparrow. As we settled him onto the backseat of his van, I connected with his breath, and almost gagged on the fusty, rotting air that rose from his decaying interior. It smelled like my grandmother’s had only days before she died.

  Kyle closed the side door of the van and handed me the keys to his vehicle. “Will you follow me, please, and I’ll drive you back down later? That way I can say I can’t stay, because I have to bring you out. Otherwise, he’ll have us up there for hours.”

  I squinted at Kyle, appalled at his insensitivity. “Don’t you think he could stand a little company?”

  Kyle’s face stiffened in anger. “Oh, certainly. He’ll keep us there feeding us watered-down coffee, showing us his postcards, and . . . this guy MacCallum I work with thinks he’s great company, you know? Spends hours with him . . .” His voice trailed off, and he looked away.

  I thought, You sound like a pissed-off kid whose ailing dad has just taken advantage, and your petulance does not be-come you, but I said, “You keep talking about this guy MacCallum. Maybe we should find him and tell him that his friend is sick.”

  Kyle let out a deep sigh. “I’ve been looking for him for days. He’s . . . gone off somewhere.”

  I wondered more than ever where that somewhere was.

  We headed on up the track, and a mile or so up, we came across the sketchy remains of another mining camp. I could see the remnants of the head frame that had once lowered men and equipment down a shaft, and die crumbling concrete foundations of several buddings were still evident Only one structure still had a roof, and I presumed that to be Sam’s habitation. Kyle parked his van outside of it, and we helped Sam in, and got him into what he called a bed. I turned around to get him something to eat and drink, and was immediately fearful of touching anything. The place was a mess, and inches deep in uncleaned dishes, mouldering cans of pet food, and lounging cats. The stench was nearly overwhelming. It was obvious that Sam had been ill for a while, and that he knew he was dying. He had just one instinct, and that was to come home to die. He seemed at peace.

  Sally bustled her way to the stove and set a kettle to heating. Kyle retreated to the door, his hands jammed into his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He looked like a caricature of a sulking vulture.

  I moved to Sam’s bedside and put a hand on his shoulder. He was fading in and out, but suddenly he looked up at me, his eyes clear and sharp. He smiled, and grasped my hand. “It’s a good life,” he said, for the moment not even panting. “Remember that. It’s a gift that we’re on this earth, and every moment is pure gold.”

  I stared down into his eyes, drinking in his words. In that instant, he was no longer old and decrepit, but timeless and overflowing with joy. I felt honored to be near him; And I thought, Did MacCallum see this in him? Or did he take advantage?

  Sam’s eyes closed, then opened again. “Thank you for bringing me back up to my gold,” he said. “It’s important to be where you’re supposed to be.” A moment later, his eyes glazed again, then closed.

  I moved over to where Kyle stood by the door and said, “He’s asleep, Kyle. I think Sally and I can take care of this.”

  Kyle backed out the door, motioning for me to follow. Outside, he said, “Uh, I was hoping we could continue our tour.”

  I thought this over briefly. Gathering information for Tom Latimer was all fun and games, but if it meant bouncing around looking at crumbling buildings with this guy, then it was no deal. Besides, he might know absolutely nothing that would bear on the case. And he didn’t know where MacCallum was.

  I looked up into Kyle’s hang-dog face. “This MacCallum guy you’re looking for,” I said, “where do you think he’s gone?”

  “I don’t know,” Kyle said morosely. “He just took off, and didn’t even tell me he was going. He and I have been together for years.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “So what do you say?”

  I shook my head. “I think I’d better help with Sam. Thanks for the help getting over to die Rabbithole.”

  “Well, uh, I got to get back to work, yeah.” He began to move toward his vehicle, then stopped. “Um, if Sam says anything more about MacCallum, would you . . .”

  “Sure,” I said. I began to turn back toward the door.

  “I’ll just be out taking samples, you know. I could kind of wait for you.”

  “This might take awhile.”

  “But your truck’s way down the road. I should at least take you to it.”

  I shook my head again, wishing he would just leave. “Sally can take me on the back of her three-wheeler.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He started to move toward his vehicle, but then turned back yet again. “Well, I work out of a mine over east of here, but . . .” His face brightened again. “Of course, you could meet me down in Lovelock, where I’m staying. I’ll buy dinner.”

  “I won’t be going back that way.”

  “Or I could show you the mine,” he said, hanging on like a tick. “It’s not far at all.”

  Now he had my attention. “Is it open-pit or underground?” I asked.

  “Underground. Very modern. Rubber tire,” Kyle said, watching me like a tiger inching up on its prey. “In fact, my plans aren’t carved in stone. I could take you there now.”

  My busy little mind got the better of me, spinning out rationalizations. I thought, The mine. Wasn’t that where Pat Gilmore’s office was? Yes, when I’m done here, I could drive over there, just take a look, and give Tom a call Before of course continuing onward to the back of beyond. Nice spicy little side trip. The key is to not let anyone know that I know about the rodent thing, or Pat Gilmore’s death, or that I’ve ever heard of Granville Resources before

  Just then, Sally came over to the door. “He’s resting comfortably now,” die said. “Thanks for the help. I’ll just stay with him a while and make sure he’s okay. You two scamper along.”

  I turned back to Kyle, and, shrugging my shoulders, said, “Why don’t I just follow you on over there?”

  28

  AS SALLY DANCER CLIMBED BACK ONTO HER THREEwheeler, she made a decision. Sam was definitely failing, and she would honor his wish by phoning a friend of his rather than the local authorities. But she figured that he wouldn’t go anytime today, or even tomorrow, so there was time for another hour or two of buzzing around on her three-wheeler before she headed back to the camp she had set up over by the ghost town of Scossa. There, she w
ould get on the ham radio and make that call.

  Sally headed down Rosebud Canyon to the road that led toward Winnemucca. Once outside of the narrows, she found a faint track that led along the flank of the Kamma Mountains that she hadn’t driven over before, so she decided to follow it.

  She noticed it partly because two other vehicles had just been over the route, leaving fresh tire tracks. She paused for a moment and looked at the tracks more closely. Yes, they still had delicate crumbles of soil associated with them, so they had definitely been made since the last rain. A wandering thunderstorm could erase these crumbles with a few violent drops on this parched earth, but the last rain might have been months ago. But the last strong wind would also have destroyed this fine a tracing, and there had been a good one about two days back. She liked examining tracks. They were like little histories.

  A quarter mile farther up, the fresh tire tracks stopped. She paused to examine them. One vehicle had turned around, making a messy job of it and taking a sagebrush out by the roots in the process, and the other had left the faint road and headed uphill into the stiff, short grasses.

  This pissed Sally off. She loved off-road motoring, but only so far as it followed existing trails. She believed firmly in making no new tracks, as this hastened erosion and killed delicate plants and crushed the burrows of animals.

  Sally got off her three-wheeler and stomped up the hill. The tracks led around a shoulder in the mountainside, out of sight. And they led only one way, just four tire tracks mashing the soft clay soil, compacting it into uselessness. Perhaps if the trail was truly fresh, and the jackass who had done this had not simply ground his way over the crest and down into the valley where the old squatter named Sam lived, she would find the culprit and give him a piece of her mind.

  A short way up the hill, she spotted a human foot print pointed the other way, coming toward her. It was not the print of a boot. Boots left the marks of raised treads, but this print was fiat and featureless, like a leather-soled dress shoe would make. A skid mark led downhill toward it, as if the fool had been having trouble with his footing. She put her own foot next to the print It was not much larger than her boot, perhaps a man’s size nine, like her husband’s.