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“Learn something new every day.”
They raced out of Central City at the truck’s top speed of twenty-five miles per hour but soon slowed as the streets became rutted tracks that climbed into the foothills surrounding the old mining town. As they passed, Tony pointed out various abandoned mines. Most were boarded-up portals, with heavy timber lintels, with mounds of waste tailings running down the mountainsides where they had been dumped. He seemed to know the history of each and told Bell how much gold had been pulled from which mines and which mines had turned out to be busts. A few were still actively being worked. Those had a small tent village for the workers, usually with one tent that had smoke coming from a tin chimney, meaning it was the mess hall. The men working the surface stood at impressive machines that utilized water coming down through pipes laid high in the mountains for motivating power to operate the crushing and stamping mills. The crushings were then put through sluice boxes to extract the fine particles of gold from the quartz-veined granite. The higher they climbed into the mountains, the cooler the air and the thicker the patches of snow that lay upon the ground. It wouldn’t be long before everything became a sea of white when winter unleashed its full fury.
The Little Angel was an hour outside of town. It differed from the others because the boards once blocking its entrance had been removed, but there was no tent village, just a couple of small two- or three-man canvas structures and an open fire pit with a metal grille that was designed to hold various pots and pans above the flame. The other noticeable difference was the foot-deep gush of water that spewed from the mine’s entrance, cutting a deep rut into the sloping hillside and winding down past a mine below.
Wickersham saw the direction of Bell’s gaze. “That’s Bill Mahoney’s workings, the Satan Mine. He’s the one that’s demanding we cap the entrance up here. Looking at it now, I can’t say I blame him. Hell, I think if I were in his shoes, I would’ve dynamited the Little Angel days ago.”
The artificial stream cut right through the Satan Mine, and some of the water even flowed back into its mouth and had to be extracted using a surface-mounted steam pump. Its rocking arms were seesawing away while white smoke and some steam escaped from the boiler. One man stood by in attendance, with cord upon cord of split wood at the ready.
“I think as a sign of goodwill, your Mr. Bloeser should offer to pay Mr. Mahoney something for his troubles.”
Wickersham reached into an inside jacket pocket and withdrew a soft felt bag. It jangled with the sound of heavy coins. “Ahead of you on that one, Mr. Bell. Mr. Bloeser said to use my judgment.”
Bell searched the camp while Wickersham settled things with the other mine owner. He found nothing of interest in any of the tents. It was clear that since the accident, men had come up and scavenged the site, leaving only the tents behind, as their theft would have been too brazen and obvious. He even dug around under the tents to see if anything had been hidden there, as well as beneath the cold ashes of the fire pit. Nothing of value was found.
Bell had a fire going and had coffee brewing in the time it took Tony to trudge the half mile up from the Satan Mine. There was no milk, but he had brought dark crystals of rock sugar to help ward off the cold. He also added a dash of Irish whiskey to further fortify the insulating effects of the brew.
Finished with his coffee, Bell stood, muttered, “Good a time as any,” and began to strip off the overalls he’d bought that morning at a dry goods store. Below, he wore knee-length flannel drawers and a tight flannel shirt that ended at his thickened biceps. Wickersham watched with curiosity, as he had no idea what the detective had planned. Bell then removed his shirt, exposing his skin to the cold wind blowing through the Rockies. He was well muscled yet lean, with just a hint of a summer tan still remaining to give him some color.
Wickersham goggled when Bell opened a jar of lard he’d inexplicably purchased that morning and began smearing the white animal grease across his chest and under his shoulders on his back. “Um?” he said by way of questioning Bell’s actions.
“Just read about a bloke who swam the English Channel last September named Burgess. First person to do it since 1875. To keep the water from sapping too much heat from around his heart and vital organs, he smeared on a layer of lard. I plan on exploring the mine for as deep as I can right now, and this should allow me to stay in the water longer.”
To protect his feet, Bell slipped on a cheap pair of shoes he’d also purchased that morning. He fetched a D cell–powered flashlight. To help waterproof the cardboard tube, he’d wrapped it with rubberized strips like those used by electricians. The filament was of the new tungsten design, so the light was almost painfully bright when he flicked it on for a test.
“Keep the fire high and the coffee hot. I’ll be back in a bit.” With that, Bell turned and hiked the last twenty or so feet along the bank of the stream up to the mouth of the Little Angel Mine.
Isaac Bell wasn’t a superstitious man nor one to give credence to omens or portents, but he couldn’t shake a heavy feeling of dread as he looked into the Stygian mine shaft. He suspected that there were no dead men within whose souls were looking for release. And yet he felt that something of importance had taken place there, something that cast ripples in the fabric of the darkness, amplifying until they could become crushing waves.
All those thoughts ran through his head in an instant and were then cast aside as he flicked the light on again and stepped into the stream without pause. The water was icy col
d and it lanced right through to his shins and seemingly made brittle the fine bones of his feet so that with each step he imagined they would shatter like crystal. The current was strong, but only a foot deep, so he wasn’t yet offering its flow much resistance. As he went deeper, the going would become considerably slower. His second purpose for making this early foray into the mine was to test whether it would be possible to plumb its depth while lugging the bulky rebreather.
The shaft was roughly square, and along the floor ran parallel train tracks no more than two feet apart. The ties were thin lengths of timber bolted directly into the stone. Bell established a rhythm for walking atop the ties and not slamming his toes into their edges. He felt around with his feet occasionally to detect if anything had been left on the floor, but so far he had turned up nothing. Any light debris would have been swept out with the current, and he couldn’t imagine anything heavy being left behind along the rails. The light revealed nothing but bare stone that had been worked with pick, hammer, drill, and explosives.
The downward slope was gentle, but it took only a few minutes of walking for the water to be up around Bell’s waist. The cold was so raw that he could picture how blood flowing up from his legs was physically colder than the rest of his circulatory system. His legs moved by effort of sheer will alone. When the water reached the level of his lowest ribs, he felt like he was trudging through the deepest snow these mountains had to offer. It helped a little to turn edge-on to the flow and stick close to one side of the tunnel. Bell knew his lips were blue, and his teeth chattered so hard he had to clamp his jaw shut so his vision remained steady. The lard was protecting his core to a degree, but the agony of being immersed in such icy conditions was sapping both his strength and his considerable will. He forced himself to keep going, vowing only to turn back once he was neck-deep in the numbing water.
His fortunes changed somewhat when he found wires had been bolted into the wall just above head height. They ended at a shattered insulator, and Isaac imagined that scavengers had yanked out the section of the electrical system nearest the surface for its scrap value. It was a telling reminder that life here was a hardscrabble existence and nothing was ever allowed to go to waste. He managed to use his free hand to help pull himself against the current and held on tightly when he needed to rest his failing body.
He had maybe ten more feet of tunnel before the water became too deep when he kicked something under the glittering surface. He groped down for it but he couldn’t reach it. Submerging his head was a gamble because he would lose a vast amount of core heat that was already dangerously low, but Bell knew his body, trusted his abilities, and before he could come up with an excuse that was true he plunged below the surface, feeling along the rocky floor until he grasped the object. He burst out of the water with a primal roar of agony, the cold drilling into his temples like railroad spikes.
His makeshift waterproofing had protected his flashlight from the occasional splash, but its full immersion had shorted the circuits. It didn’t matter. In the utter blackness he could tell he’d found a miner’s pick. He braced the head of the pick against the wall to keep himself from being thrown against it and let the current undo in moments what it had taken him fifteen minutes to gain. He had to start plodding again when the water level was back down around his hips, but going with the current needed much less effort. Moments later, he was back out in the weak sunlight, cold, exhausted, but pleased with his effort.
Tony Wickersham saw him emerge from the inky mine and rushed up with a blanket to toss around Bell’s shoulders and helped guide the detective down to their small camp. Bell shook, and his face was so numb he couldn’t form words.
The Englishman parked him on a log as close to the fire as he dared and mounded more blankets over his shoulders. Isaac couldn’t hold a coffee mug, so Tony held it for him and gave him sips like one would give bouillon to a sick child. It took ten minutes before Bell could even acknowledge the help he was being given and then it was just a weak smile and a tightening of his eyes. Another ten minutes would pass before he could hold the mug, though his hands still trembled.
“Worth it?” Tony asked finally.
“Totally,” Bell stammered. “I needed further proof that I’m certifiable.”
A half hour later, Bell was dressed properly again and, with a full belly and a couple of pulls at the whiskey, was feeling himself again. “Tell me about this pick I found.”
Wickersham grabbed up the miner’s tool. He had a deftness in handling the pick that told Bell the young Englishman was more than familiar at using the awkward, top-heavy implement.
“It’s a pickax. What do you want to know? This is a fairly large one, more common here than the smaller ones used to chip away inside coal mines. The handle’s probably ash and the head is steel, a little rusted, but that’s to be expected. And . . . Well, well, well. Interesting.”
“What?” Bell asked, hopeful that his freezing sojourn hadn’t been for naught.
