Barkerville Gold (11 page)

But Sheila shook her head. “No. I mean with that map Ms. Evans tucked into Rusty's book.”

“What? Why didn't you tell us before?”

“Because I knew you'd want to open it, and Ms. Evans would notice because it was folded in four and the paper is super flimsy.”

“Let's go check it out.” Katie started along the back road.

“We can't go into her tent-trailer!” Sheila said firmly. “That's private property.”

“But what if it's still in the book on the picnic table?”

“The book's my property,” Rusty said. “I think that's legal.”

Sheila looked doubtful.

“We'll just walk past her campsite, okay?” Katie said. “And see if the book is there. If it isn't, we won't go in, I promise.”

At the far end of the back road they walked quickly past Prospector Man's campsite. His white van was still parked in the same spot. There was no one in sight. They continued around the curve and stopped at the entrance to Ms. Evans' campsite. Her picnic table was empty.

“Let's get out of here,” Sheila said, “like you promised.”

“But look.” Katie pointed at the small folding table pushed up against the tent trailer, under the awning. On it was Rusty's book. “That counts.” Katie walked boldly into the campsite. She picked up the book, carried it to the picnic table, opened it and waved a folded sheet of paper at Rusty and Sheila. They ran to see.

Katie carefully spread the fragile paper on the table. Like the two letters from James Evans, the handwriting that covered two sides of this paper was in ink. This writing, however, was neat and precise.

October 12, 1868

Dear Mrs. Evans:

As Bishop of Saint Saviour's Church, Barkerville,
I am honored that Mr. van der Boorg trusts me
to write this letter on his behalf. Although he has
learned to speak English very well, he has not had
occasion to learn to write the language.

The following words are Mr. van der Boorg's.

I regret to tell you that your husband, Three Finger, has disappeared without a trace. I tried to find
him. Here is all I know:

Three Finger left his backpack and everything he
owns near his cabin. He met me for a whiskey to
warm his insides before he started for home. But
suddenly a fire broke out and this town burned to
the ground.

That night I heard some men talking by
Williams Creek. They said Three Finger started the
fire and they were getting rowdy. So I set off to
warn your husband. But he was not at his cabin
and I could not find him.

I must warn you that Eng Chung is very angry
at Three Finger. This old Chinese man thinks it is
Three Finger's fault that his son, Eng Quan, got
killed. I have been told Eng Chung used his ancient medicine to put a curse on your family.

The truth is that Eng Quan stole some gold nuggets. The evidence is clear. A leather pouch with
gold dust in it was found under Eng Chung's back
stairs. Then Eng Quan ran away. This proves he is
guilty. I do not know why his old father believes it
is Three Finger's fault, but I know my good friend
is an honest man.

One of the miners who went looking for Three
Finger said Eng Chung's curse caused Three Finger to die on September 16. It looks like this is
true. This miner also told me that since the next
day was Three Finger's forty-second birthday, Eng
Chung would curse the number one son of Three
Finger and every son's number one son to die on
the day before he reaches forty-two.

This curse will not end until all the stolen items
are returned and Eng Quan's name is cleared. Sadly, I do not know how this can happen when we
both know Three Finger cannot be guilty.

Some people believe they saw Three Finger's
ghost at night, but that was only me. I tried to
solve this mystery so Eng Chung would take back
his curse. But I have failed. I am so very sorry. I
am an honest man but not educated.

With this letter I am sending you all the worldly
possessions of your departed husband. You will see
I have not opened his pack.

Your humble servant,
Kees van der Boorg

“Yikes!” Rusty said. “A curse upon the whole family.”

“Hmm,” Katie placed the letter on the open book, “doesn't Ms. Evans have a son?”

“Yes,” Sheila said. “She was talking about him when you two were doing your snooping thing. And she said something about her son's birthday coming up soon.”

“How old is he?” Katie asked.

Sheila shrugged. “How should I know?”

“Shh!” Rusty whispered. “Listen!”

At first the sound was faint, unrecognizable. Then came the loud
rrrrh-whump
of a van door sliding open. It was followed by a harsh cough.

13
Books, Beards and Boots

L
et's get out of here,” Rusty whispered. “Prospector Man's watching us!”

How could he be?” Katie asked. “We just saw him up on Lowhee Trail.”

“Well...but…whoever's over there will see us snooping around Ms. Evans' campsite. He'll tell her!”

“What if
he's
snooping around Prospector Man's van?
We
might tell on
him.”

Sheila gave an exasperated sigh. “Just don't look,” she said. “Close the book and walk away. Now.” Without waiting for a reply, she headed for the road.

All the tiny hairs on the back of Rusty's neck stood on end. He really wanted to leave, but Katie leaned on the picnic table, fingering the letter, lost in thought. “Leave it, Katie, let's get out of here!”

Whether it was his excellent advice or another cough from the campsite behind that helped Katie make up her mind, Rusty did not know. He didn't much care, either. He was so relieved to see her tuck the letter inside the book.

They joined Sheila on the road and walked quickly away. The little number sign in front of their own campsite beckoned to them, and Rusty could hardly wait to get there. But Katie stopped abruptly. “We need to go back.”

Sheila groaned. “What now?”

“We can't leave the book on the picnic table. Ms. Evans will know someone was snooping.”

“So?” Rusty asked. “She won't know it was us. And— knowing her—she probably won't even remember where she left it.”

“I think she will.” Katie looked up at the sky. “See all those clouds rolling in? I bet she moved your book in case it starts raining before she gets back.”

“She still won't know it was us,” Sheila pointed out.

“She will if the man in the van tells her.”

“If you ask me,” Sheila said, “I think she should lock things inside her tent-trailer when she leaves. Which means if we leave the book on the table, we're really doing her a favor—maybe she'll be more careful from now on.”

Rusty felt a cold splatter on his nose, then another on his hand. He glanced up. “Unless a humungous bird just flew overhead, it's starting to rain. And I don't want my book to get wet.”

They turned around. When they reached the entrance to Ms. Evans' campsite, they stopped and stared. The book was not on the picnic table.

“It moved!” Rusty pointed to the table beneath the awning.

“Maybe that van man moved it for her when he noticed the rain,” Sheila suggested.

“Which means,” Rusty pointed out, “that he
did
see us and he
will
tell her for sure.”

“Look!”

They followed Katie's gaze to the white van's rear window, clearly visible through a gap in the trees. The one-way glass acted like a mirror. In the reflection they could see the picnic table, part of a man's head and a glimpse of his shoulders. He wore a blue baseball cap and had chubby cheeks. His head was bent and small glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Suddenly he glanced at the sky and pushed himself up from the table. He gave a loud, wheezy cough and hurried for the van, clutching a sheet of paper.

By the time they reached their campsite, it was pouring rain. GJ carried their portable barbecue from the picnic table and placed it under the awning. Gram grabbed towels and bathing suits from the line they had rigged up.

“Hey, kids! I'm glad you're here!” GJ said. “It looks like we're in for a downpour. You'd better put your tents away before they get too wet.”

Rusty, for one, thought this was an excellent idea. He hated to be first to admit it, but he did not want to sleep outside tonight. With their three little white tents all in a row, clearly visible from the road, he wondered how long it would take before Prospector Man realized the three kids were sleeping inside those tents and decided it was a perfect opportunity to teach them a lesson they'd never forget.

That evening, instead of Crazy Eights, they played a board game around the table inside the trailer while rain pounded on the metal roof. Shortly after nine there was a knock on the door and GJ went to open it. “Joyce!” he said. “Come on in out of the rain.”

Ms. Evans stepped inside wearing a waterproof jacket with her arms wrapped tightly against her stomach. “I brought your book back, Rusty,” she said and pulled it from under her jacket. She handed it to Rusty while GJ took her jacket and hung it on a peg near the door.

“Please, sit down,” Gram invited, “and I'll make you some tea.” She got up to fill the kettle. “Are you feeling all right, Joyce?”

Rusty looked more closely at Ms. Evans and noticed how her wet face looked pinched and drawn. She pulled a white cotton handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her cheeks, but her eyes were red-rimmed and she looked exhausted.

“I am a bit tired,” Ms. Evans admitted. She sank onto the couch and fidgeted nervously with her handkerchief. “I haven't slept well since arriving here.”

“Did you drive all the way from Cornwall by yourself?” Rusty asked.

Ms. Evans nodded. “I'm quite used to being on my own since my husband died thirty years ago. Ted was crop-dusting our fields when his plane crash-landed in a drainage ditch. He was killed instantly.” She hesitated and her lower lip wobbled. “When I heard the news, I was busy planning a birthday party for him, for the next day. He would have turned forty-two.”

Rusty glanced at the others. “Do you have any children?” Katie asked quietly.

Ms. Evans nodded. “Two sons. They were just little boys then, of course. Scott, my older son, was not yet twelve when his father died—about your age, Rusty. Losing his father was very difficult for him.”

Rusty added up the figures. Thirty years ago, almost twelve. “So Scott is forty-two now?”

“Not quite.” Ms. Evans dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief. “His birthday is next week.” She sighed. “And Scott has an eleven-year-old son of his own, named Brandon. Those two have such wonderful times together—they are off on a fishing trip in Northern Ontario right now.” She stood up abruptly. “Listen, I really am exhausted. Thanks so much for the offer, but if you don't mind, I'll take a rain check on that tea, splash my way back to my trailer and go right to bed.”

Ms. Evans slipped into her jacket and was about to open the door when she turned back. “By the way, Sheila, did you happen to notice a small, folded piece of paper when you were looking through Rusty's book this af

“Paper?” Sheila glanced at Katie and away. “Uh, yes. It was still there when I closed the book.”

“Strange.” Ms. Evans bit her lip. “It seems to be missing now.” She pushed open the door and stepped out into the gloomy, wet evening.

That night, as he lay in his sleeping bag on the fold-out couch, Rusty thought about Prospector Man and Ms. Evans in her prospector's disguise. She must have found Kees van der Boorg's letter in her attic last month and learned about the curse. So of course she would worry about her son, and that would explain why, after 136 years, she wanted to return all the stuff Three Finger stole.

Maybe they were wrong about the gold. Maybe Three Finger
did
manage to smuggle it out of Barkerville. Maybe it was in his pack when van der Boorg shipped it home to Cornwall. And that could mean Joyce Evans had a load of gold nuggets to return. Was that why Prospector Man kept spying on her? To get the gold? But how could he possibly know?

And who was that other guy in Prospector Man's campsite? He must have taken that letter out of the book, but why? Was he in cahoots with Prospector Man? Suddenly Rusty remembered when he and Katie went into Prospector Man's campsite to check out that map. Something or someone had made a noise inside the van. Did Prospector Man have a partner? These thoughts circled round and round in his mind as he grew more and more confused. But through all his confusion, one thing remained clear: first thing in the morning they would go straight to Mason and Daly's store.

Rusty's eyes opened slowly, lazily. Someone was standing over him. He jumped. Prospector Man?

“Relax, Rusty, I didn't mean to wake you. I'm just going to make some coffee.”

Rusty remembered then. He was not in his tent, but safe inside the trailer where Gram was just now opening the blinds behind the stove. “The rain has stopped for now,” she said, “but it's a perfect day to drive into Quesnel for groceries.”

Rusty sat bolt upright. “We can't go to Quesnel today!”

His grandmother turned around, surprised. “We need a few things, Rusty. You three eat way more than either GJ or I imagined. And we thought it would be a nice change, especially for the girls. History isn't exactly their thing, as you may have noticed.”

“But we
have
to go to Barkerville!”