The Legend of Deadman's Mine (2 page)

A
S BRIAN, SEAN, AND
Carter entered the main room of the lodge, Hank Austin, the owner of the ranch, shouted to them over the loud babble of the other campers.

“Come on inside, boys, and find yourselves seats.”

The lodge was decorated with wagon-wheel chandeliers, deep sofas and chairs draped with Indian blankets, and wood carvings of horses that stood on most of the tables.

Brian, Sean, and Carter took the nearest available chairs, and Mr. Austin pounded on a table until the other boys quieted down to listen.

“There are a few things to go over before supper,” Mr. Austin began. He explained to the boys that there were rules for making beds, sweeping cabin floors, being good bunkmates, and strictly following safety regulations.

“Other than that,” Mr. Austin said, “you boys are here to have fun. Now, we've got an early ride planned for tomorrow morning with a breakfast cookout down by the creek.”

“Yahoo!” Sean yelled.

Carter snorted. “He hasn't even been here one day and he thinks he's a cowboy already,” he muttered.

“Remember,” Mr. Austin said, “we use a buddy system. No one is to take off in the woods on his own. Understood?”

He looked right at Carter as he said, “It's too easy to get lost.”

Sean grinned when he saw the embarrassed look on Carter's face. “So you were dumb enough to get lost,” he whispered to Carter. “I bet that's a good story. Maybe Woody will tell us about it if you don't.”

The husky boy to Sean's left chuckled. “I want to hear that story, too,” he said.

Carter shot them both an angry glance, then jumped up and sat down at a table across the room.

“Hi, I'm Mike Dennis,” the husky boy said to Sean.

“I'm Sean Quinn.”

Mike lowered his voice and said, “I'm in the same cabin as you, so I have to put up with Carter the dweeb, too.”

“He's a real jerk. What's with him?”

Mike made a face. “My mom knows Carter's mom. I'm supposed to try to understand Carter and be nice to him because his mom's always getting married and that makes him feel mixed up and…”

“Did you say, ‘always getting married'?” Sean clapped a hand over his mouth as Brian turned to frown at him.

“Well, four times, anyway,” Mike whispered.

Mr. Austin pounded on the table again and spoke to Sean and Mike. “Pay attention now, boys,” he said, and introduced his wife, Rose. Mrs. Austin explained that she'd always be on hand to answer questions, take care of cuts and scrapes, make sure letters were written to parents, and help anyone who might feel a little homesick.

Sean thought she looked friendly. She even reminded him of his favorite teacher back at Redoaks Elementary School.

Brian nudged Sean when Mrs. Austin mentioned “homesick.” The two brothers grinned at each other. Homesick? they both thought. No way. They'd see their parents in two weeks, which would be soon enough. Living on a real dude ranch was going to be a great adventure.

“I want you to meet Cookie, the ranch's cook,” Mr. Austin said. “Cookie has some rules of his own you'll need to follow.”

A weathered, wrinkled, bowlegged man stepped to Mr. Austin's side. Sean couldn't help grinning. The man's scraggly tufts of white hair looked as though someone had run over his head with a dull lawn mower.

“Mr. Austin feeds his guests well,” Cookie growled, “so I know there won't be any complaints about my cooking. There'll be no food fights, and if you want dessert, you'll eat your vegetables.”

“He's just like my mom,” Mike mumbled to Sean.

Imagining a mother who looked like Cookie was too much for Sean. He burst out laughing.

Cookie's stare pinned Sean to his chair. “Son,” he barked, “is there something about vegetables you find funny?”

“No, sir,” squeaked Sean. “I like vegetables.”

“Good,” Cookie said, “because I'm thinking of cooking up a mess of turnip greens special for you tonight.”

Sean gulped. “Yes, sir,” he said.

Just then Cookie winked at Sean. Mr. Austin laughed and clapped Cookie on the shoulder. “No turnip greens tonight,” he said. “Cookie's already planned a real cowboy supper of grilled steak and baked beans to start you off on your two weeks as dude-ranch hands.”

The boys broke into a loud cheer. Sean smiled at Cookie. He was thankful he hadn't started his two-week adventure by getting into trouble. Besides, turnip greens sounded awful!

After the meeting, Brian and Sean introduced themselves to their bunkmates. Besides Mike Dennis, who was ten years old and said all he really liked was football, they met fourteen-year-old Dan Page and Bobby Wilson, who had just turned eight.

“My favorite team is the Cowboys,” Mike explained. “But I also like the Rams.”

Dan shook his head. “The Rams stink.” He looked at Brian. “What about you?”

Brian shrugged. “I'm not much of a football fan, really,” he said.

Dan smiled. “Me, neither. Maybe I should be. It would make my parents happy. They complain that I spend too much time with my computer. In fact, they sent me to this dude ranch just to separate me from my computer and make sure I get plenty of fresh air and exercise.”

“You're good with computers?” Brian asked. “Cool!” He had an idea. “I wonder if there's a computer on the ranch.”

“I know there is,” Dan said, then frowned. “The only problem is I had to promise my parents I wouldn't touch a keyboard the entire time I was here.”

Just then Mr. Austin walked past, and Brian immediately ran to catch up with him.

“Mr. Austin,” Brian asked, “would you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Sure thing,” Mr. Austin said. “That's why I'm here.” He gave Brian a big smile. “The fact is, though, I thought I'd covered everything you'd need to know.” He scratched his head. “I did mention the pool hours, didn't I?”

“My questions aren't about your dude ranch,” Brian explained.

Mr. Austin gave Brian a puzzled, sideways glance. “They're not?” he said.

“No,” Brian said. “They're about the missing horse—Nightstar.”

Mr. Austin looked meaningfully at Brian. “Now how in the world would you know about Nightstar?” he asked.

“That's the thing,” said Brian. “I don't know much more than that he was stolen.”

Brian could tell from Mr. Austin's confused expression that he still didn't understand.

“My dad's a private investigator,” explained Brian. “Someday I'd like to be one, too, and this case interests me.”

Mr. Austin nodded, then looked at his watch. “We've got a few minutes,” he said, “but I don't know if I'll have the answers you're looking for.”

Great! Brian thought as he whipped out his notebook. He got right to work. “If the horse was taken out of the barn in a truck or a horse trailer,” he began, “wouldn't somebody have heard something?”

“As Wade Morrison told me,” Mr. Austin said, “most of the ranch hands had driven into Reno to a dance and didn't get back until around one in the morning. At the estimated time of the theft, Morrison was at home, along with a couple of hands who stayed in the bunkhouse, but they all claimed they slept soundly and didn't hear a thing.”

“Did they check for hoofprints,” Brian asked, “in case the horse was led away on foot?”

“As a matter of fact,” Mr. Austin said, “they did. But I guess the ground around the stables had been raked. There were no prints at all.”

Brian made notes as fast as he could. Then he had a thought. “According to the map my dad showed us before we came here,” he said, drumming his pen on his notebook, “there's only one road out of here. It's the one that connects with the highway to Reno. Did the sheriff check to see if anyone spotted a horse trailer on the highway that night?”

Mr. Austin shook his head in disbelief. “I do declare, son,” he said, grinning, “if I didn't know better, I'd say you already were a professional private investigator.”

“Thanks,” Brian said. “Well?”

“Well what?” Mr. Austin asked, then remembered. “Oh, right. He checked, but nobody had.”

A gong sounded. “That's the call to dinner,” Mr. Austin said. “Did we take care of all your questions?”

“For now,” Brian said, flipping his notebook closed. “Thanks.”

Mr. Austin nodded, then turned to address the campers. “The tables are outside, boys, and it's cafeteria style. Help yourselves.” He had to quickly step out of the way as two dozen hungry campers stampeded through the main doors of the lodge.

“Come on, Brian,” Sean called out excitedly, “before I starve to death.”

“Wait for me!” Bobby yelled as he ran after Sean.

The boys had piled their plates high with food and were climbing over one another looking for places to sit.

Sean was seated at a table with his fork halfway to his mouth, dreaming about how good the food was going to taste, when he saw Bobby standing alone looking for an empty seat. Sean thought he looked so miserable he might cry. Sean sighed, put down his fork, and walked over. “Since we're going to be bunkmates,” he told Bobby, “come on and sit with us.”

Bobby beamed. He looked so grateful, in fact, that he reminded Sean of a puppy that begged to be picked up. He tagged after Sean, right on his heels, and squeezed in on the bench next to him.

The boys wolfed down their food and became so excited talking about what the dude ranch was going to be like that they were surprised to discover it was already getting dark.

At the bottom of the hill, Mr. Austin had built a large campfire, and it blazed high with a whoosh and a crackle. All at once the boys scrambled down the hill and found places to sit on the split-log benches that ringed the campfire. A few of the ranch hands, including Woody and Cookie, sat with them.

“S'mores for dessert,” Mr. Austin said, and passed around long sticks and marshmallows to toast. “It just so happens I know a ghost story.”

It was a story Sean had heard before from Sam Miyako, Brian's best friend. Sam had earned a reputation back in their neighborhood as someone who was always trying to frighten the younger kids with scary stories. Sean was Sam's favorite target.

The story was about a ghost who kept following people, crying, “Give me my bones!” And even though Sean already knew the story, it still seemed awfully scary outside in the dark.

Suddenly in the distance there was a mournful howling.

“It's the prospector's ghost!” Carter said ominously.

“For goodness' sake, Carter,” Mr. Austin said, “that was just a coyote. Don't worry about coyotes,” he told the boys. “They don't want to meet up with you any more than you want to meet up with them.”

Carter spoke up. “Tell them about the lost mine and the ghost of the prospector who protects it.”

“A lost mine?” asked Brian.

“Is it somewhere on this ranch?” Mike asked. The boys began to fidget excitedly.

“The lost mine is a legend,” Mr. Austin said. “And so is the prospector's ghost. They're just stories that got out of hand.”

“But there were directions to the mine,” Carter said. “I heard about them.”

Cookie chuckled. “Sure there were. And they were so confusing it's no wonder the prospector got lost.”

“What were they?” asked Brian.

Cookie frowned, trying to remember. “Supposedly there was something about finding the highest peak and following the trail to a tree with two tops,” he said. “From there it was downhill to a rock ledge, and facing south, or something like that.”

“It does sound confusing,” Brian said.

“I bet I could follow that trail,” Carter said. “Just because the lost mine hasn't been found doesn't mean it isn't there. In fact, I think I have a pretty good idea just where it is.”

Mike nudged Sean. “Carter's a real pain. He pretends he knows everything. I guess he can't stand it if somebody else gets more attention than he does.”

“Now listen carefully, boys,” Mr. Austin said firmly, his eyes coming to rest on Carter. “Don't get any ideas about hunting for a lost mine. There are abandoned mines all over Nevada. But none of them are haunted, and all of them could be extremely dangerous.” He glanced around the campfire meaningfully. “The story's just make-believe. But even if the mine did exist, it would be hazardous. Those old shafts are nothing but rotten timbers and narrow passageways, and cave-ins are a real possibility. I want to return you to your parents safe and sound.”

“I'd still like to hear the story,” Sean said. “Will you tell us? Please?”

“As long as you keep in mind it's only a story,” Mr. Austin said, relenting. The boys all agreed, and Mr. Austin began. “There was a lot of silver mining in Nevada back in the 1800s,” he explained, “but when the United States passed the Coinage Act of 1873, the silver dollar was omitted from the official currency. So,” he said, “when the government stopped making silver dollars it caused the price of silver to drop, and most of the mines closed down.” He paused, staring into the fire. “Well,” he continued finally, “some of those mines contained fine veins of silver, but with prices so low it would have cost more than it was worth to try to mine the ore.”

He pointed off into the distance. “There was supposed to be one mine in particular near-abouts that had produced an especially top grade of silver.” His eyes roamed slowly to one side, then the other. “But there were some…accidents in the mine. Terrible, horrifying accidents,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ever since, that mine has been known as…Deadman's Mine.”

There was some restless murmuring from the boys.

“Around 1890,” Mr. Austin said, “an old prospector won the deed to the mine in a poker game and set out to work it, sure that the price of silver would soon return to what it had been.”