Barkerville Gold (9 page)

They found Sheila still at the fence, stroking the muzzle of a large horse. “Isn't he beautiful?” she asked.

“Sure, beautiful,” Rusty agreed. “Where's the map?”

She handed it to him and he studied it as they walked in the opposite direction from Prospector Man. Katie told Sheila what had happened.

“There is no Barry and Adler's anymore,” Rusty said. “It wasn't restored. Madame Bendixen's Saloon and Boarding House is the closest saloon to where the fire started, and that's where we saw Frizzy Hair.”

Katie nodded. “I think someone left the whiskey bottles there last night and Frizzy Hair took them, just like she took that hair stuff.”

“That doesn't make any sense,” Sheila objected. “Why would anyone go sneaking around putting stuff back on the shelves?”

“I haven't figured out why yet, but I bet it's Rusty's Three Finger Ghost who's doing it. Remember when we saw him that first night? He was carrying something in a bag.”

“It's Three Finger's ghost all right. It has to be!” Rusty said. “And that was him looking for his old cabin too, before Prospector Man sneezed. Three Finger has returned to make amends so he can rest in peace.”

“Rusty,” Katie told him patiently, “you're letting your imagination get away with you again. There has to be a logical explanation and we're going to find out what it is.”

“Mark my words,” Rusty said, “tomorrow morning four of those leather pouches for carrying gold nuggets will show up at Mason and Daly General Merchants.”

“Shouldn't that be three?” Katie asked. “One of them was found at that Chinese apothecary's just after the fire.”

“Right,” Rusty nodded, “Eng Chung's. But anyway, we need to be at Mason and Daly's bright and early tomorrow morning.”

“And today,” Katie said, “after we get back, we have to go up Lowhee Trail and find that cabin.”

Sheila made an odd, strangled sound in her throat.

11
A Letter and a Map

W
hen they returned to their campsite that after-noon, Gram checked her watch. “We've got to hurry. Joyce Evans is expecting us at four o'clock.”

Rusty could not imagine anything more boring than sitting around a campsite listening to three adults talk. And besides, he could hardly wait to get started on the search for Three Finger's cabin. “Do I have to go?”

“Of course not, Rusty, but GJ and I did see Ms. Evans leaving the Goldfield Bakery with a huge bag of goodies less than an hour ago.”

“Mmm,” Katie said. “I'm going. That bakery smells scrumptious.”

“Me too.” Sheila patted her stomach. “I'm hungry.”

Rusty reconsidered. Now that he thought about it, he was kind of hungry, and his mouth watered just thinking about that bakery. But there was a stubborn streak in Rusty that wouldn't let him give in too easily. So he drew a deep breath, gave a mournful sigh. “Maybe I'll come.”

“You don't need to bother,” Katie told him. “I promise to bring you some leftovers—if there are any.”

“Crumbs,” Sheila added. “We'll bring you some crumbs and maybe a bit of icing sugar in the bottom of the bag.”

Rusty ignored them and went to get
Spirits of the
Cariboo
.

Joyce Evans was so intent on the map spread out on her picnic table, she didn't hear them arrive. At the far end of the table was a large pitcher of iced tea, six tall glasses. and a plate piled high with mouthwatering donuts.

“Hi, Joyce,” Gram said. “Is that the map you were looking for?”

Ms. Evans jumped. Then she quickly folded the map. “It's kind of embarrassing actually. I found it on that little table.” She nodded toward a folding table under her awning. “It was underneath a book, but I honestly don't recall putting it there.”

Gram chuckled. “I wouldn't worry. I do things like that all the time.”

“I brought my book,” Rusty said, handing
Spirits of the
Cariboo
to Ms. Evans.

“Thank you so much, Rusty. You know, since I arrived here, everyone has been talking about this book, but the gift shop hasn't one copy left.” Ms. Evans gazed at the cover and ran her fingers over the photo of the half-visible man. “Would you mind if I borrowed it for a few hours? I promise to return it before dark.”

“Fine with me.”

Ms. Evans tucked her map and a folded sheet of paper inside the book, which she laid on the table. Then she poured iced tea for everyone.

Rusty, Sheila and Katie sat at the picnic table near the closed screen door of Ms. Evans' tent-trailer. The adults settled on folding chairs under the spreading branches of a cottonwood tree, nibbling on one small donut apiece, sipping their iced tea and chatting about boring stuff. Rusty turned his attention to the stack of donuts. He had an important decision to make. Which one was the biggest? He finally settled on a bear paw—a long, fat donut crammed with whipped cream and coated in dark chocolate. He took a huge bite. Awesome! He closed his eyes and lost himself in the sweet taste.

Someone kicked his shin. Not hard, but enough to make his eyes pop open. Whipped cream oozed from the remainder of his bear paw. He caught it with his tongue, just in time.

Another kick!

Across the table, Katie pulled a face at him. Her eyes flicked from him to the tent-trailer behind him and back again. Rusty looked over his shoulder and his jaw dropped. Just visible through the screen door was a pair of boots. They were unusually tall and quite different from your average modern-day leather boots.

“Uh, Ms. Evans,” Katie asked, “could I have some more iced tea, please?” She picked up the empty pitcher. “I'll make it for you.”

“Of course, help yourself,” Ms. Evans said. “The mix is on the counter and the ice cubes, naturally, are in my little freezer.”

“Come and help me, Rusty,” Katie said.

Rusty stuffed the remainder of his bear paw into his mouth, hopped up and opened the screen door. He stared. On the floor in front of him were bootprints. Dusty, almost obliterated, but unmistakable. They were the same as the prints he had sketched.

Katie brushed past him. He stepped inside and closed the screen door. While Katie set about making more iced tea, Rusty glanced outside to be sure none of the adults could see, then picked up a boot and flipped it over.

“A perfect match,” he whispered.

As he bent to put down the boot, Rusty glanced toward the small table near the door. Held down by salt and pepper shakers was a piece of yellowing paper. He looked closer. It was covered with scratchy, old-fashioned ink handwriting. He picked it up. Katie peered over his shoulder. They read quickly.

September 7, 1868

My Dearest Emily:

At last I am able to return to you and the chil
dren. I most sincerely apologize for leaving you
alone these many years. You were quite right. I was
being selfish. Nothing turned out as I had hoped.

I have lived in this wretched town for long
enough, spent my last spring wading over a main
street that becomes a raging river. Did I men
tion that all the buildings are set on stilts to allow
spring floods to wash through?

Once here, my dreams of riches quickly shattered, as you know. Nevertheless, I was loath to
return empty-handed. Knowing that you were
forced to mortgage our farm in order to feed and
clothe the children made returning even more difficult, especially since I always believed my fortune was waiting, just around the corner. However, rest assured, our troubles are over at last. I
may not have struck gold, but I have managed to
put aside a substantial fortune nevertheless. I dare
not say more about it now, but will explain all
in my final letter to you, which I am working on
and will keep safely hidden, in that secret hiding
spot I mentioned previously, until the time comes
to leave. I shall mail the letter from Victoria and
trust that it will arrive safely in Cornwall shortly
before I, myself, get home.

I plan to leave my windowless little cabin for
good by the end of this month and walk as far as
Quesnel, keeping to the trails and back roads. I
must confess to a strong feeling of foreboding. I expect this comes as a result of the many dishonest
things I have done, and still must do, in order to
return home. In the event that something terrible
happens to me before I escape this hideous country, Kees has agreed to bring all my gear, which is
little enough, when he leaves Cariboo for the winter. He will ship it out to you from Victoria. I trust
Kees implicitly.

Until we meet again, my dearest Emily.

Your loving husband,
James

Rusty put the letter back. His eyes wandered to the bench seat and he jumped back in surprise.

Poking from beneath a bright pink cushion was something white and hairy. He reached out cautiously, lifted a corner of the cushion and then picked it up. Underneath was something that resembled a pure white Angora cat, squashed flat. At the sound of a soft footstep outside, Rusty dropped the cushion.

The screen door creaked open. By the time Ms. Evans' face appeared in the doorway, Rusty had opened the small, below-counter refrigerator. Katie picked up the full pitcher and grinned.

“Are you having problems finding things?” Ms. Evans asked.

“No,” Katie said. “Rusty's always kind of slow. He daydreams, you know.” She said this as if he suffered from an incurable disease.

Rusty busied himself plopping ice cubes into the tea while Ms. Evans waited. Outside, they rejoined Sheila, who had opened Rusty's book to the story of Three Finger. “Look at this,” she said to Ms. Evans. “A man named James Evans came to Barkerville from Cornwall, just like you. Maybe you're related!”

“Actually, we are, but I learned about him only recently. He was my late husband's great-grandfather, and I can't say I'm proud to admit it.”

“Oh?” Katie asked. “Why's that?”

“Thanks to him, this family has been cursed with tragedy for all these years,” Ms. Evans said bitterly.

“Like what?” Rusty asked.

Her eyes filled with tears and she covered her mouth with one hand. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything.” She hurried away.

Rusty poured himself a glass of iced tea, grabbed another donut and sat down beside Sheila, who lifted the front cover of the book as if trying to prevent him from seeing the page she was reading. Naturally he tried to peek over top. But Sheila's fingers tapped insistently on the table beside the book. He looked down and almost choked.

There, shielded from the adults' view, was the paper Ms. Evans had tucked inside his book. It was an old, hand-drawn map. Crisp and yellowed with time and crisscrossed with cracks from many foldings, the map showed a trail marked “Lowhee” that wound up the mountainside just north of Barkerville. Partway up, the trail split in two. A dotted line had been inked in parallel to the right-hand trail and stopped where a small creek trickled down the hillside. An X marked this spot, and from there the dotted line continued along the creek to a second X. Between the two X's was written “253 paces.” At the second X the dotted line took a sharp turn to the right, indicating “57 paces” from there to a tiny drawing of a log cabin, complete with stone chimney and a curl of smoke. Printed below the cabin were the initials “J.E.” Next to the chimney, printed neatly in ballpoint ink, was one word: “Gold?”

Rusty's mouth went dry. He reached for his iced tea. Katie was scribbling like mad, her head bent over her notebook. He assumed she was making notes about the letter they had just read. That gave him an idea. Pulling his sketchbook from his backpack, Rusty proceeded to sketch a copy of the map. When he was done, he slipped the original to Sheila and she tucked it back inside the book. They all stood up at once.

“Thanks, Ms. Evans,” Sheila called. “Those donuts were delicious!”

Katie thanked her too and added, “I think we need to go for a hike up the trail now. I ate way too much!”

“Me too,” Rusty said. “Thanks, Ms. Evans. I really pigged out!”

“I guess you won't be needing any dinner tonight then?” GJ asked.

“Trust me,” Rusty said, “by the time we hike up that mountain and back down behind Sheila, we'll be hungry again!”

They hurried up the trail. When they reached a little creek, they stopped while Rusty retrieved his copy of Ms. Evans' map from his backpack, then unfolded and consulted it.

“I can't believe Ms. Evans is the ghost!” Sheila said.

“The man, you mean,” Katie corrected her. “Or, I should say, the woman dressed as a man dressed as a prospector from the past.”

“Dressed as a ghost from the past,” Rusty added. “The evidence is in her trailer.”

“And evidence does not lie,” Katie said. “Yesterday she was up here tramping around in the bushes, trying to find the cabin—which means she must think the gold is still here.” Katie pulled out her notebook. “Three Finger's letter mentioned a hiding place. He said he told his wife about it in an earlier letter.”

“Hey!” Sheila said. “When you two were snooping around in her tent-trailer, Ms. Evans told Gram and GJ that she sold the old family farmhouse in Cornwall last month. She said it took her, like, forever to clean out the attic because of all the old letters and stuff that were stored there for the last 200 years.”

“All right!” Katie said. “If she has Three Finger's letters, she knows where the secret hiding place is.”

“And she used Three Finger's map to find the exact spot.” Rusty waved his map at Katie. “Look at what she wrote beside the chimney!”

“
Gold?
But before she found it, Prospector Man scared her off.”