The Floor of Heaven

by Howard Blum

  No doubt the liquor had helped fuel Hubbard’s amusement, but Charlie had to agree it was a pretty funny situation. He started laughing, too. So did Billy.

  Ain’t my fault that fool in Seattle didn’t pay attention to what I’d ordered, Schell said, nearly whining.

  The laughter just got louder.

  Well, Schell went on, trying to reclaim his dignity, it ain’t like that’s our only way of earning. Fact is, we’ve had a pretty good run as of late.

  Immediately Hubbard shot his partner a stern look. Schell acknowledged the reprimand with a small nod. He hurriedly began talking about how’d they’d just have to slaughter the animals. They’d eat like kings this winter.

  Charlie listened. He made sure to keep a bemused smile fixed on his face. He was determined not to betray his excitement over the quick exchange he’d just witnessed. But now he knew. After all his months working at the mine, after all the time spent searching the Alaskan coast, he was finally very close.

  That night the two detectives pitched their tent on the edge of the woods, across from the village. As Charlie lay in his bedroll, he spoke to Mamie in his mind while at the same time trying to pretend she was lying next to him. You were right, he told her. You told me not to give up, and now we’re nearly there. After he’d said his piece, he fell asleep with a lighter heart than he’d known in many months.

  Billy shook him awake only hours later. He had the Winchester in his hand, and he told Charlie that he’d better grab his Colt. Think we’re about to be attacked, Billy said evenly.

  The two armed men hurried outside in their long johns to find a bunch of drunken Indians. In loud, belligerent voices they demanded that the peddlers hand over the rest of their liquor.

  Charlie saw that one of the braves had the neck of a whiskey bottle dangling from his hand. He took aim and the bottle shattered. Then he spoke: Come any closer, and I’ll put the next bullet right between your eyes. He didn’t yell; experience had taught him that a firm, steady voice carried more of a threat.

  The Indians backed off, but they didn’t go away. They stayed close to the woods, finishing the bottles they had and singing drunkenly. Suddenly they erupted into a volley of war cries.

  Charlie listened. When they were done, he cupped his hands together and let out his own long, loud whoop.

  Billy, who had fought his share of Indians in Montana, was amazed. The yell cutting through the night was genuine enough to make his blood crawl.

  Learned that from an old Comanche in Wichita, Charlie explained with some pride. And for a while, he amused himself by trading war cries with the braves.

  Finally, the Indians left. But the two detectives stayed on guard outside their tent, their guns ready. They knew that if they lost their whiskey to the Indians, they’d have no chance of getting on with Hubbard.

  THE NEXT morning they left the Indian village. It’d been Charlie’s idea, and as soon as he shared it with Billy, the other detective agreed that it made sense. Ain’t gonna do us any good to linger here, Charlie explained to his partner. Those two are bound to get suspicious. And then there’d be no chance of our learning where they’ve got the gold. I say we head on over to the Chieke Falls and make camp. Tell Schell and Hubbard we’re going off to find the Lost Rocker Mine. I’m betting they’ll soon enough come looking for us—long as we got the bait. He pointed to the crates of rye just in case Billy didn’t follow.

  It was a three-mile canoe journey across placid waters to the head of the bay, and they continued on foot for less than a mile before making camp. They’d thought about pitching their tent closer to the falls, but then they realized they’d never hear anyone sneaking up. The water cascading down from two thousand feet made quite a racket.

  In his careful way, Charlie made sure they lived this new cover, too. Each morning they went off looking for the mine, and they brought back rocks to test each night. “We might find the damn mine before Schell and Hubbard get a notion to come by,” Billy complained after they’d been prospecting for a week and the thieves had not appeared. “Course then we’ll be rich. We won’t need to be detectives.” Billy was only joshing, but Charlie didn’t see the humor in the remark. All the money in the world, and he’d still have to keep his promise to McParland: He’d need to recover the gold. Nevertheless, he was beginning to wonder if he’d overestimated the lure of the whiskey.

  On the morning of their tenth day by the falls, Charlie left camp with a new agenda. He’d spotted bear tracks the previous day and he’d convinced Billy to set out with him on a bear hunt. With winter coming, a thick bear-fur robe might come in handy, he’d suggested. But all Billy could think of, as they made their way through thick woods, was how his partner’s pursuit of Mr. Whale had nearly cost them their lives.

  There were no disasters that day, only disappointments. The tracks led straight up into some granite hills before they lost them. On the long hike back to camp, through rough country, a frustrated Billy recited a list of their failures. They had spent a week looking for a mine that probably didn’t exist. They’d chased a bear who’d outsmarted them. And if that wasn’t enough, they’d found the gold thieves, only to leave the next day. Charlie listened to this dismal tally and could find no reason to disagree. More troubling, a new consideration had been gnawing at him: For all he knew, the schooner could’ve upped anchor and sailed off. Then they’d need to track the two thieves again. Only this time, the detectives might never find them. Or if they somehow got lucky again, they’d be hard-pressed to offer a believable excuse for showing up. Billy was right. The entire operation seemed to be heading downhill.

  As they got closer to camp, both detectives saw a wisp of smoke rising up into the clear evening sky. Without a word, the two men cocked their weapons. Charlie indicated with his hand that he’d march straight in; Billy should circle around and enter from the tree line. They split up, and Charlie proceeded forward warily.

  Hubbard was sitting by a fire. Didn’t know when you fellows would return, so I made myself at home, he said. It was getting cold.

  Howdy, said Charlie with a big smile. And he eased back the hammer on his Colt.

  Howdy, Billy called out as he entered from the woods. His rifle was cradled lightly in his arms.

  I was wondering if you fellows had some whiskey to sell? Hubbard asked with the happy voice of a man who’d already put away his share. He held out the half-empty bottle in his hand and explained that this was the last bottle in the stash he’d been working his way through.

  We don’t sell whiskey to white men, Charlie said.

  Hubbard looked at him ominously.

  But you’re free to drink with us, Charlie continued. Let me get you a bottle.

  IT TURNED out that the only lure better than whiskey was free whiskey. Hubbard took to coming by nearly every night for the next two weeks. Still, Charlie was patient. He didn’t rush things. He knew that if Hubbard turned suspicious, he’d run, and then they’d never discover where the thieves had stored the gold. Or, for that matter, have a case that would stand up in court.

  So when they sat around the campfire and passed the bottle, Charlie told tales about his many scrapes in Texas and New Mexico. He never came out and said it, but he made it apparent that he’d come north to Alaska to escape some trouble. Considering his shaky frame of mind when he’d left Denver, that was pretty much the truth. Maybe that was why his stories were so convincing. Anyway, Hubbard was impressed. He felt like he was drinking with a real desperado.

  And when Charlie wasn’t talking about his outlaw adventures, he’d would sit by the campfire and discuss gold. He’d picked up a few things while working in the mine, so, always nice and casual, he’d make a point of throwing bits of his knowledge into conversations. One night he’d be going on about how a prospector who knew his beans would be able to extract ten times more gold from his ore than one who didn’t. The next he’d be lecturing about leaching, how it was necessary to use chlorine to process the ore if you hoped to get the con
taminants out of the slag. Charlie could tell Hubbard was paying close attention to this sort of talk. In fact, he asked Charlie lots of questions about the chlorinization process.

  One night when the detectives returned to camp, both Schell and Hubbard were waiting for them. Schell had never come by their camp before, and Charlie knew his presence could mean only one of two things: Either the big man was there to take care of the two whiskey peddlers once and for all or he’d come to ask a favor. However things played out tonight, Charlie suspected, the successful resolution to the case would hang in the balance. In the distance he could hear the rumble of the falls. At that tense moment, Charlie felt it might have been a drum roll signaling a momentous event. He waited in silence for Schell to speak.

  He didn’t have to wait long. No sooner had Charlie sat down by the campfire than Schell blurted it out.

  Hubbard tells me you boys know a bit about prospecting, he began.

  Charlie simply nodded. He’d decided there was no point in overplaying his hand.

  Hubbard hesitated. Then: “How’d you like to make $400 by helping us melt down some gold?”

  “We’d like that very much,” Charlie answered quickly, and for once there was not a trace of an actor’s guile in his joy.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  hat momentous night in the camp near the Chieke Falls, the evening seemed to stretch on and on, the sun remaining high in the sky, glowing all the while as brightly as the flames from the campfire. It was a night when Charlie felt that a solution to the case might finally be within his grasp. Then, sometime after ten, the sun went down and a thick darkness enveloped the spruce forest and the night sounds grew thick, the birds and insects chirping in a steady chorus. Hubbard sidled up to Charlie. I want you to come with me, he said.

  Where to? Charlie asked evenly.

  Hubbard didn’t answer the question. Instead he said they would be back in a few hours. In the meantime, Schell would keep his partner company.

  Guard him is what you mean, Charlie thought. It immediately occurred to Charlie that this might be a trap, a move to separate the two of them so they’d be easier to overpower. The offer of $400 to melt the gold had been a trick, a ruse to lull them into believing there was nothing to worry about. Or then again, perhaps not. It might just as well have been a genuine business proposition. Yet for a moment Charlie considered that it would be prudent to arrest the two thieves right then and there, while Billy and he had the chance of getting the drop on them. But arrests wouldn’t solve the case. In fact, he reminded himself, without the gold it’d be difficult to convict the two men. So when Hubbard got up to leave, Charlie ignored his misgivings, said a cheery good-bye to Billy, grabbed a fresh bottle of rye for the journey, and then, with a calm that was all disguise, followed Hubbard out of the camp. Hubbard led the way to a canoe.

  In the canoe crossing Chieke Bay, there was little talk. Hubbard steered, and Charlie listened to the whishing sound of the paddle cutting through the water. His eyes soon adjusted to the dim light thrown off by the stars, and he saw that they were heading back toward the Indian village. He began to wonder whether Hubbard had arranged for a group of braves to be waiting on the beach to waylay him. Charlie had his Colt tucked into the waistband of his pants, but taking on a passel of Chinooks as well as a white gunslinger would prove difficult. Yet he was not afraid. His mind didn’t work like that. Instead, he began to focus on how he’d extricate himself if things turned sticky. He decided straight off he’d need to put one right between Hubbard’s eyes and hope that’d put a damper on the Injuns’ grit. As the canoe moved closer to shore, he scanned the beach and the tree line; he saw no one.

  Once they were on the beach, Charlie kept a watchful eye on the shadows but at the same time tried not to betray his concern. Again he asked Hubbard where they were heading.

  You’ll know soon enough, Hubbard said tersely. Then he asked for the bottle. Charlie felt that might be a reassuring sign. A man doesn’t want to dull his senses before a gunfight. In the next moment, though, Charlie had to concede that he’d known a few hard types who needed help finding the courage to draw on a man. In the end, Charlie decided he’d no choice but to accept what Hubbard had said. He’d know soon enough.

  Hubbard led the way through the spruce forest. At night it was a bewildering maze of tall trees and deep shadows, but Hubbard was not deterred. He marched on swiftly and without hesitation. At first Charlie tried to mark the trail in his mind, looking for distinctive limbs or rock outcroppings. But he soon realized that this was impossible. The stars were hiding behind clouds and the darkness was so total that he could not distinguish one big spruce from another and the rocks they passed rose up as vague forms. Still, he dragged his right boot heel as he walked; though the ground was hard, it might leave a trace he’d be able to see in the daylight.

  They continued on in silence for what seemed to Charlie to be three miles or so, and then Hubbard raised his hand. “We’re here,” he announced.

  As Charlie watched with a growing excitement, the small man found a shovel that had been leaning against a tree. Then he executed a right turn like a soldier on parade and took a series of measured steps. One, he counted out loud. Two.… When he reached ten, he began to dig.

  This is it! Charlie told himself. Hubbard’s about to dig up the stolen gold!

  After shoveling for only a short time, Hubbard reached into the hole. In the darkness Charlie couldn’t make out what he was holding in his hand. But when Hubbard approached, he saw the object clearly: It was a frying pan.

  A frying pan? Charlie had no idea what was going on. He’d been led through the woods in the dark of night to a secret hiding place, where the master thief had unearthed—a frying pan! It didn’t make any sense.

  Then Hubbard handed him the pan. Charlie looked closely and saw that it was coated with a yellow substance. He traced his fingers across the plate of the frying pan in a slow examination. The pan was coated with gold.

  That’s why we need you and Sayles, Hubbard offered in explanation. Charlie still had no idea what Hubbard meant. The whole thing was damn odd. A golden frying pan? But he hadn’t been bushwhacked. And he wanted to believe that the frying pan was not the only thing buried somewhere in these woods. It seemed very likely that the gold bars were hidden nearby. If he was patient, Charlie reckoned, Hubbard would get around to making things clear. In the meantime, Charlie would just listen. Besides, he feared that if he did too much talking, he’d reveal how little he actually knew about processing gold.

  The whiskey encouraged Hubbard’s natural tendency to ramble, but just as Charlie was beginning to lose patience, the thief got back on track. He explained that they’d tried to recast some gold bars into nuggets. The first step, they’d figured, would be simple enough: Melt the gold. We got a good bark fire going, he said. And we made a bellows out of an old raincoat and a cracker box. That kept the fire blazing. Next we plunked a gold bar into that frying pan and held it over the flame. We figured that soon enough we’d have a liquid we could pour into a mold. Only thing—and now Hubbard began waving the frying pan about—when the gold cooled, it stuck to the frying pan. We can’t even scrape it off.

  Imagine it might raise a few questions, you walking into a bank in Seattle trying to cash in a frying pan, Charlie suggested. He was treading lightly, but at the same time he was also trying to draw Hubbard out.

  Hubbard laughed one of his deep, wheezy laughs. That’s why we need you and Sayles. We got a lot of bars we need to recast. Don’t want any smart-aleck banker running to the sheriff.

  At that moment Charlie kept very still. Go on, he silently coaxed. Tell me the whole story. Tell me where the gold is hidden. He was bursting with questions, but he feared that if he pressed, Hubbard would be spooked. He’d stop talking altogether.

  Charlie waited. Then Hubbard asked in a low, soft voice, “I tell you a secret, swear you’ll keep it?”

  “Yes,” Charlie lied.

  “The gold. It’s stolen from
the Treadwell mine.”

  OVER THE next three days, the four men seemed to discuss little other than the mechanics of recasting gold bars. Now that the secret about the source of the gold had been revealed, the thieves were no longer cagey about their intentions. They made it clear that they needed to mold the machine-stamped Treadwell bullion into smaller, unrecognizable bars. It’d be the only way they’d be able to turn the gold into cash at a bank and not get arrested. But other than explaining their need for their two new friends’ expertise, the thieves remained guarded, if not downright suspicious. They were very careful not to reveal where the cache of stolen bars was hidden. And whenever Charlie dared to ask what he’d hoped would be seen as an innocent question, wondering, say, how many bars they’d need to recast, the two thieves would immediately shoot each other wary looks and the conversation would come to an abrupt halt. So Charlie decided not to pry. Too much was at stake; he needed to know where the gold was hidden. He would wait and play along.

  Guess we’ll need to build a furnace to melt the gold, Schell said.

  Of course, Charlie agreed, although he had no idea if that was the case.

  We do this right, Schell continued, we’ll need crucibles to hold the molten gold. And molds. And chloride so we can leach the stuff when we melt it down. Get all the impurities out.

  Exactly, Charlie agreed; only once more he had no idea what he was agreeing to. He didn’t want Schell to stop talking. He figured that if the thief kept jawing he might inadvertently reveal where the gold was hidden. But as the days of talk went on, Charlie became convinced that the two thieves were too disciplined to make a slip. He’d learn the location of the gold only when the time came to recast the bars. He’d have to wait until then. Except that strategy raised another problem. Despite all his boasting, Charlie had no idea how to melt down the gold. Once he set to work, he’d be exposed as a fraud. And then he’d never learn where the gold was hidden. Instead, the two detectives would need to kill the two thieves before they got killed themselves.