Ransacker

by Emmy Laybourne

  “Well?” McKray asked. “Any gold?”

  “Let’s go a bit farther in.”

  McKray placed each footfall carefully. Sissel followed.

  His large, paw-like hand was reassuring to hold. She didn’t get the electric thrill she felt when holding James’s hand, but she did feel something. It was grounding, holding his hand.

  Soon they couldn’t go farther. McKray stood, one foot up on a ledge of rock. Sissel was close behind him, both of them stooping low.

  “All right,” she said.

  “Well?”

  Sissel held her hand up for him to be quiet.

  “It will take me a few minutes,” she said. “And I should tell you … there’s an odd thing that happens when I look for gold—my hearing goes out. It lasts longer or shorter depending on … different things.”

  She handed him the lamp. In the light, McKray’s face was rapt and eager.

  “I may need as much as fifteen minutes or so before I can hear again. I will be able to speak to you, but you will have to communicate with your hands during that time.”

  It was odd, to lay out the conditions so plainly. It made Sissel feel peculiar—as if she were performing some professional service, like a doctor or a lawyer. Then again, she did have his twenty dollars, so she supposed she was in his service.

  “All right,” McKray said. “Whatever you say.”

  Sissel turned away from him, facing the wall, mostly so she didn’t have to be distracted by him staring at her.

  She focused and calmed herself, tuning in to the sensations around her. The cold, damp air of the mine. Her own breathing, and that of McKray.

  She cast her Nytte out. The rock was dense, and for a moment there was a rebound effect, all her calling echoing around her. The four brass buttons on the front of McKray’s vest clanged like gongs, and thirty cents in dimes in his pocket shone out strongly. Even the tiny brass grommets on her own boots were loud in so small a space.

  She shifted her feet on the floor, letting go of her effort for a moment.

  Sissel felt McKray’s hand on her arm. His hand was cupping her elbow, offering support.

  “It’s a bit echoey,” she said.

  McKray nodded as if that made perfect sense.

  Sissel closed her eyes and tried to work the energy in a different way. She sent it out slowly, in soft waves, trying to permeate the stone.

  There was a feeling of heaviness, all around. So much stone pressing down on them, it was smothering. Sissel sought along the rocks near the walls of the cave. Surely the deposit of gold McKray’s miners had found continued on into the bedrock.

  She raised her hands, sending her fingers out, feeling along the rocks. She visualized a mist, a seeking mist that could penetrate every nook and crevice, and she sent it from her hands.

  There, in a thin trail through rock off to the left of her, downward, was some silver. A spattering of silver.

  She was aware of sweat on the small of her back and at her hairline. She ground her teeth together and cast more strongly.

  There were faint vibrations. She sensed nickel wafting around, cold and sharp. And it was married to some other vibration. Another mineral she’d not yet encountered. It had a pine-like greenish quality to it. There was a lot of that around, whatever it was, but gold? Nowhere.

  Sissel lowered her hands and opened her eyes.

  She found McKray had drawn closer to her and was holding the lamp up to study her face.

  She shielded her eyes from the light.

  His mouth moved, and she knew what he was asking. “Gold?”

  “No,” she said. “None.”

  She watched him cussing.

  * * *

  SISSEL DID NOT know what else, if anything, McKray was saying as they made their way, painstakingly, to the surface. She did not even care to know—she was furious.

  Tricked again by the cagey miner. The gold she had sensed in his office hadn’t come from this mine, but one of his others. He had just wanted to know if there was gold in this stupid, pointless mine.

  He was keeping the location of the gold mine a secret, even from her!

  She was thankful for the enforced silence between her and McKray. It gave her time to think and prepare some cutting remarks.

  So it was a nasty surprise she had when they reached the mouth of the cave and she found the three men from the hotel there waiting for them. Two of them had notebooks out, and a third was setting up a camera on a tripod.

  They peppered McKray with questions, and she was helpless—she couldn’t hear what they were saying. One of them was asking her questions and pointing to the mine.

  McKray started yelling. The men wrote in their little notebooks. The miners stood by, enjoying the spectacle. Then a flash went off.

  Sissel felt cold to the bone. A photograph of her, in a newspaper?

  McKray stormed over to the man, grabbed the legs of the camera, and smashed it to the ground.

  She could not hear the shouting that ensued, coming from both sides, but when McKray gestured for her to get on her horse, she did so in a hurry, not waiting for anyone to hold the bridle of the horse this time.

  * * *

  SISSEL RODE IN angry silence until she finally heard her own constricted breathing, then the clip-clopping of the horses’ hooves, then the birds in the meadows.

  The sun was high in the sky. Stieg would dismiss school soon, and probably hurry home to make sure she was all right.

  “What did they say?” Sissel asked. “What did you tell them about me?”

  McKray turned to her, coming out of his own worried reverie.

  “Got your ears back?”

  “What did you tell the newspapermen about me?”

  “Nothing. I told them you wanted to see a mine, just like I told the other fellows.”

  “Did they believe you?”

  “I don’t know what they believe. But I expect to find all my holdings flooded with gold-crazy claim jumpers within a week.”

  “Here’s the headline I’d write: Deceitful Miner Tricks Young Lady into Helping Him Find Out There Is No Gold Whatsoever in His Mine.”

  McKray shot her a sideways look.

  “None at all, eh?”

  “That big knot you have in your office certainly didn’t come from that mine,” she said.

  McKray didn’t meet her eye, but looked straight ahead down the road toward town.

  “I wanted to know if there was anything in there,” he said. “I was told it was promising.”

  “If your land surveyor told you it was promising, then you were lied to. And you lied to me in return,” Sissel said. “Don’t you remember you said you’d help me keep my family’s secret? Those newspapermen took my photograph!”

  “I smashed the plate.”

  “Still!”

  “Come along, we’d better get you back before school gets out.” McKray kicked his horse into a canter.

  “If you’d taken me to the mine with the gold, I could have told you exactly where it lay in the stone. I could have drawn you a map, and I would have.”

  “I paid you twenty dollars for a service I needed performed. And if you’ll come to my other mines, I’ll pay you more to do the same again!”

  “You tricked me. You can’t be trusted. I won’t go riding with you again.”

  “I never said the gold was from that mine, not explicitly.”

  “What you said was purposefully misleading,” Sissel said. “Don’t try to argue it with me. I won’t be convinced. And what about your offer to buy my family’s land? Was that part of some hoax as well?”

  “I was told the area in the hills on your land is promising.”

  “Well, it’s not. Your surveyor is up to no good.”

  A few minutes later, McKray broke the silence.

  “I’ll make sure the newspapermen don’t put your name in the paper,” he said.

  “How will you do that?”

  “I’ll give them an exclusive about the
gold I found,” he said begrudgingly.

  They rode along for a moment.

  “Thank you, Mr. McKray.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Hemstad.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The atmosphere around the camp was grim that night. A cowboy had been sent to butcher one of the fallen beefs, and they had steaks, but the good meat did nothing to lighten the mood.

  As directed, Whistler had brought the body of Harold Mandry to the camp, strapped facedown across the back of a horse. Now Mandry’s corpse lay wrapped in his bedroll off a good distance from the fire.

  When Tincher had arrived for supper, he went over and pulled back the canvas. Everyone gathered around behind, looking down at Mandry’s body.

  There was no question about it, he had been shot through the chest. It looked like it had been done with a rifle—there was a small, neat puncture in the man’s chest. His shirt was dark with dried blood, the blood clogged with dust. Mandry’s body looked small and shriveled in death. Hanne gave a shudder.

  Tincher threw the canvas back over him and straightened up, a look of extreme disappointment on his face. He turned around.

  “This is ugly business,” he said. “A man shot on one of my drives? This is ugly, ugly business. And furthermore, what I just don’t understand, cannot understand, is how a cowhand hired onto this drive would go and shoot somebody at the back of the herd! That just don’t make sense to me.”

  He kept his voice low, but no one doubted how absolutely furious the man was.

  “None of you could possibly be that stupid, could you?”

  Everyone looked over to Owen, some covertly, some making it obvious.

  “I see you all looking at me,” Owen said, “but I promise you I did not shoot this man. We’d already settled things between us—you all saw that written on his face after we fought.”

  “Well, who did, then?” said Whistler. “Who shot my friend?” His voice seized up with emotion.

  “I’ll get the local sheriff out,” Tincher said. He assigned a young cowboy to ride for town in the early morning. “Bring the sheriff back and fetch our mail while you’re at it. We’ll spend the day here tomorrow, see if we can’t round up more steer. Wolves will be out there, so make sure you keep on the lookout.”

  Tincher walked off alone.

  Talks started up around the fire.

  “Whistler, I’m sorry to say it, but Mandry wasn’t the nicest fellow in the world,” someone said.

  “He was a right son of a bitch,” another added. Then, “Sorry to cuss, missus.”

  “It stands to reason someone could have sneaked up on us and shot him. Maybe someone from town, someone he’d wronged?” the second one said.

  Whistler said nothing, only nursed a tin mug of black coffee and sat muttering toward the fire.

  The cowhands began to argue, to discuss it, to turn it over and worry at the problem. Hanne passed among them, refilling coffee cups.

  Then she took the pot, still heavy with the coffee grounds at the bottom, back over to the chuck wagon to make another pot.

  She dumped the grounds out and poured a ladleful of water from the barrel in the wagon into the large pot. She swirled it around and emptied the last grounds onto the earth.

  Owen came to stand beside her. When she went to do it, he took the coffeepot and filled it with water from the barrel for her.

  “Owen,” she said. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Someone who wanted to start a stampede, maybe.”

  “Yes,” Hanne said. “Or someone who doesn’t know a thing about cattle.”

  Her Nytte was still and silent. She and Owen and Daisy were not in immediate, physical danger, but something was wrong. There was trouble following them.

  Hanne went to bed early. Owen did not join her in the bedroll. Tincher wanted extra men watching the cattle.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, the rider Tincher had sent to town came back with the sheriff right as breakfast was ending.

  The sheriff was an imposing figure, a tall man in his fifties with a close-cropped silver beard. After grimly inspecting Mandry’s body, he told everyone to stay in camp until he released them.

  Then he rode off with Tincher and Whistler to examine the spot where the body had been found.

  It didn’t seem like anyone was unhappy to be told to wait in camp. Men had more thick black coffee and then eagerly gathered around Witri as he handed out the mail.

  Hanne and Owen unloaded the supplies the rider had gotten from the general store. He had taken an extra horse with him, and laden the poor beast down with sacks like a pack mule.

  Witri read off the names from the letters, and the cowboys took their mail almost reverently, then headed off to read in private. Letters from home were rare and treasured on the trail.

  “Owen Bennett, one for you,” Witri said.

  Hanne and Owen looked at each other in surprise.

  Owen set down a sack of coffee and walked to Witri.

  Hanne rushed to his side.

  “How did they find us?” she asked.

  But Owen shook his head.

  “It’s not from home,” he said. “It’s from a lawyer.”

  Hanne followed him as they headed away from the press of men surrounding Witri.

  “‘Dear Mr. Owen Bennett,’” he read. “‘It is with the greatest sadness that I write to inform you of the deaths of your parents, Howard and Lavinia Bennett.’”

  Owen fell silent, reading ahead. He handed her the letter. It was written on fine, cream-colored stock in an elegant, spidery hand.

  “Why, Owen,” Hanne said. “This says the ranch is yours.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Your brothers…”

  “Dead,” Owen said.

  They looked at each other, eyes wide.

  “I never wanted it,” he said. He looked white and shocked. “The ranch.”

  “I know you didn’t,” Hanne said.

  * * *

  THE SHOCK HAD not passed much by the time the sheriff came back with Tincher and Whistler. Owen moved as if in a dream. Hanne knew it must be hard to take it all in—the deaths of his family, all wiped out by the fever and ague, and the ranch now his.

  “Gather up,” Tincher hollered. Their small party had been joined by another man, a young man riding a piebald gelding. He appeared to be a deputy, as he wore a brass star on his vest.

  The men dismounted and approached the campfire. Witri offered them some coffee, which they took.

  “There’s a bit of a complication,” the sheriff said, scratching his head. “My deputy here tells me that our Harold Mandry was a wanted man. Convicted of theft. Both horse theft and property.”

  Murmurs of surprise and a good bit of cussing went up around the camp.

  “There was a hundred-dollar bounty on his head.”

  He spoke these words to a general air of bafflement in the camp. “Any of you want to claim it?” he asked. There was only more confused grumbling from the men.

  Whistler spat tobacco juice out onto the ground. He had his shoulders up and his arms crossed.

  “I didn’t expect so,” the sheriff said. “So I’ll be hauling the body to town and we’ll deal with it from there.” He drained his coffee cup and handed it back to Witri.

  He tipped his hat toward Hanne. “Ma’am,” he said politely. “Gentlemen,” he said to the rest, “I hope the remainder of your drive goes peaceful.”

  “You heard him,” Tincher addressed the camp. “This case of Mandry’s death is closed, and we got fifteen hundred cattle to move to Helena, so let’s get back to work, gentlemen.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When Sissel returned to the hotel, she found that Stieg had not come to check on her. In fact, she had to track him down. He was at school, with papers spread on his desk. It was nearing seven o’clock, and he had lit a lantern to read by.

  “Hello, Brother?” Sissel called.

  “Yes
, Sissel. Are you feeling better?” he asked without looking up.

  “Aren’t you coming back to the hotel?” she asked.

  Stieg sighed. He patted a stack of compositions.

  “I’m afraid I left myself a bit more grading than I should have. Would you forgive me if I work through supper?”

  Sissel shrugged. She half wished Stieg would confront her about leaving school early. Carrying such secrets was beginning to wear on her. But he was fully immersed in his work.

  Sissel wondered at the distance she felt between them. She knew she bore the responsibility for the divide. The secrets she kept had pushed them apart.

  “Go on up to Alice’s house,” he urged her. “They’re always saying we’re welcome for dinner. Go take them up on it.”

  “All right.”

  “Don’t forget to study for your oral examination,” Stieg reminded her.

  “I won’t.”

  The Boston Tea Party. No taxation without representation. Sissel had all the facts memorized.

  * * *

  THE OSWALDS LIVED on Elm Street, two streets up from the hotel and one street over. The house was a timber house, two floors, neat and cozy. Lamplight poured out of the first floor windows. Two potted nasturtiums stood on either side of the front door, which made the house seem all the more inviting, but Sissel found herself feeling shy. It felt awfully forward to just up and knock on the door.

  Sissel was halfway up the walkway to the front door, but now she stopped. Maybe she should sneak away and just do as Stieg was going to do, eat in the room. She was very hungry, and tired, too.

  Perhaps the bakery was still open. She didn’t want to go to the general store, not after the scene earlier with James.

  She turned to leave just as the door opened and there stood Alice.

  “Sissel,” Alice said. “What a surprise. Are you feeling better?”

  There was a funny set to Alice’s mouth.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Alice ought to have asked her in, but instead she slipped outside, closing the door behind her.