Chapter 2
Michael Wellan wasn’t entirely sure if he liked San Antonio.
Having grown up back east, he found the town to be an odd mixture of extremely rural, yet striving to be urban at the same time.
There were shacks and lean-tos on the outskirts, with little plots of land that, even in winter, tried to produce something for the folks who lived there to eat, while on the other side of town, there were large houses that wouldn’t look out of place in Boston or Chicago.
Today, he and Walter were visiting the bank. The manager was a thin, tall, stooped man by the name of AJ Custer, and he welcomed them into the bank with great deference. Or perhaps that was the stoop, making him seem to be bowing to anyone whom he addressed.
“What brings you to visit us today? I wasn’t expecting you for another week or so,” Mr. Custer said, folding himself efficiently into a chair behind his large desk.
“We need a statement of the account,” Walter said in his mild-mannered, slightly distracted way. “There should have been several deposits made, and we would like to make certain they were received.”
“Are you suggesting something?” Mr. Custer asked, looking suddenly offended.
“Goodness, no!” Michael said with a reassuring smile and a shake of his head. “No, we just need to check that the payments have been made. It’s new business, you see, and that makes everyone involved a little twitchy.” Especially Andrew, he thought.
Mr. McGregor was expecting a repayment of some of the money he had invested in the mine, and with all the setbacks, not to mention the recent cave-in, they were on a tight budget.
“I can have that information for you in a few minutes,” Mr. Custer said. “I’ll let Lewis know what you’re looking for. He deals directly with your account.”
He rose and headed to his door.
Walter turned to Michael and shrugged. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as Andrew keeps thinking it is. With my calculations and a generous margin of error, we should still be well within the budget.”
“Let’s just get the statement and whatever else you need so that you can work it out to the dime. Okay?” Michael asked. “Then Andrew can calm down.”
Walter nodded. “I know. That’s why we’re here. Still, I can’t help but feel that he doesn’t trust my work. As though I would lose track of things like that. It’s not something I do.”
“I know, Walter,” Michael said, thinking that geology was far easier than dealing with the accountant.
He took everything that had to do with the mine and its money to heart.
He kept meticulous records, and everything was accounted for that Michael guessed needed to be, so where the problem lay, if there was a problem, it wasn’t with Walter.
Still, Andrew was fretting, and it couldn’t hurt to get a more recent statement. And so, here they were in San Antonio on this dull November day.
Michael, given half a chance, would rather be back in camp. In the camp, there was always the chance that he would bump into Emily. He tried to run into her as many times a day as he could. It was a small camp, so he managed it often.
When he spotted her taking her pupils out to look at a tree or something else as part of their lesson, Michael would find that no matter his mood, he smiled.
When she spotted him and returned the smile, his heart would miss a beat.
And when she brushed against him, even in passing, his skin would erupt in gooseflesh.
It was a wonderful thing that Michael had never thought would happen to him.
He was in love, and he was happy and miserable all at the same time. It was perfect.
“What is wrong with you?” Walter asked, elbowing Michael in the ribs. “Fix your face. You’re staring as though there’s something lovely on that wall. If there is, I’m not seeing it.”
It was true. The wall directly behind the bank manager’s large desk held a painting. The figures were ill-formed and blotchy, and the scenery was washed out as though it was a dull day. There was little about it that might appeal.
“Ah, here you are,” the manager said, entering his office once more with a brown envelope in his hand. “I hope that you will also be signing some orders for the usual payments to be made at month’s end. It is right around the corner.”
“I will sign,” Walter said. “But I would like to check the figures first though.”
“Of course,” Mr. Custer said. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to otherwise. Mistakes can happen, and it’s far easier to fix them when they are nothing but a few scratches of ink on a page than when they involve money transferred to the wrong hands.” He smiled, revealing skewed front teeth.
Michael smiled too and resumed his inspection of the painting on the wall.
Gosh, it really was horrible. The painter had been in love with a dull, toneless blue and every shade of gray and brown the countryside could possibly produce.
Was this a scene of this area in winter?
It certainly seemed to be. Why anyone would want to capture that, he couldn’t say.
“Ah yes, I see you’ve spotted it,” Mr. Custer said. He turned to look at the painting himself. “My dear Annabel painted it. She fancies herself an artist, you know?” He sighed, looking chagrined. “It’s …”
“Winter?” Michael asked.
“Yes, I believe so,” Mr. Custer said. “It was a birthday present.”
“Oh?” Michael asked. What could one say to that?
Gee, I’m sorry your wife didn’t get you something better?
That seemed dreadful, and he didn’t even know Mrs. Custer.
Annabel was probably a lovely lady, if not a very talented artist. Although she had more talent than Michael did.
Anything he painted would look like a blind ten-year-old did it.
“Is there any special reason why she chose a winter scene?” Michael asked. “Is your birthday in winter?”
“Actually, I was born in June,” Mr. Custer said. He pulled his lips tight into a straight line.
“Er, Mr. Custer?” Walter said, thankfully saving Michael from discussing the art any longer. “I’ve checked the figures, and I believe that the interest was calculated incorrectly here and here.” Walter pointed to several figures written neatly on the pages.
“Let me see,” Mr. Custer said, and he too began to scrutinize the pages, taking a pencil and making notes on a piece of paper.
It was times like this that Michael felt like the fifth leg on a dog. Utterly useless. He knew a bit more about accounting than he did about art, but not enough to be of any use and possibly just enough to get him into trouble. He contented himself with staring out the window at the dull day.
A man walked past the window. He was in a gray suit, the color of the painting across the desk from him.
Perhaps that was what drew Michael’s attention to the man.
He seemed lost. He stopped walking just as he passed the window, turned, took three steps back the way he had come, and then turned and walked on again.
“Oh, there it is,” Mr. Custer said. “Yes, I believe that is the error. I will be having words with Lewis. He forgot to carry the one.”
“Yes, it happens. That’s why checking is so vital,” Walter said. “I’ll be happy to sign the payments list though, now that things seem to be in good order. Could Lewis just fix the statement, please?”
“Of course. Give me a minute,” Mr. Custer said and left the room again.
Walter sat back and smiled when the bank manager was out of the office.
“Sometimes I wonder about people,” he said.
“What would happen if I didn’t check and recheck everything over and over again?
Honestly, we would end up paying for things that we don’t owe folks for.
” He shook his head. “What are you staring at now? Lost interest in the painting?”
“There’s a man outside the window,” Michael said. “He’s been walking back and forth for the last few minutes. I think he must be lost.”
“How is that of importance to us?” Walter asked.
“It’s not, but there’s something familiar about him.” The man had the same shade of honey-blond hair Emily had, and he was even fine-boned like she was, although taller and larger, of course.
Gosh, he really must be in love with her if he was seeing similarities between her and this complete stranger outside the bank.
What was she up to around now? Probably teaching.
Emily devoted a lot of her time and energy to trying to tap some sense into the camp children’s often stubborn heads.
Michael didn’t envy her the job. He would rather be down in the mine for days than teach that band of hooligans.
The door opened behind them, and Mr. Custer came in with the revised statement. He handed it to Walter, who painstakingly checked it again and finally nodded to say that it was fine.
“Is there anything else I can help with?” Mr. Custer offered.
Walter handed the bank manager an envelope.
“This is from Andrew Carter,” Walter said. “He asked me to give it to you as we were leaving. I have no idea what is written inside; he said it was confidential and just between the two of you.”
“Oh, thank you,” Mr. Custer said. “I will see you out.”
He put the envelope on his desk and walked them both out of the bank. They shook hands with him and were once again in the muted sunshine. There were clouds racing across the sky, and the breeze had picked up speed and become cold.
Michael closed his jacket around him. He was hungry. It had to be around lunchtime by now.
“Do we have time for a bite?” he asked.
“Only to buy a sandwich at the bakery,” Walter said.
“We still have to pick up supplies at the general store and then head home before dark. I’m glad you insisted we deliver the shipment to Mr. Fry first. I think if we still had that hanging over our heads, we would have to skip lunch entirely.
” He frowned. “Am I wrong, or did we get less than usual for that shipment?”
Michael had been avoiding this point, wanting to have time to consider what had happened. “Yes, we got a bit less. The copper had more impurities than before. I think we need to speak to Ethan. Maybe he let something slip.”
“Well, let’s get on with it; we can’t be late,” Walter said.
Right. Andrew’s orders were that everyone had to be back in camp by nightfall.
Michael sighed. He missed the days before the bandits had made it their personal mission to chase anyone from their encampment down.
The bandit leader, El Aguila, was apparently still unhappy Andrew had given refuge to the people the bandits had driven from their homes.
He seemed inclined to carry on a perpetual feud.
They went to the bakery, and Michael was surprised to find the lost man in the gray suit standing in line.
“Excuse me,” the man asked the woman in the line in front of him. “But do you know this place?” He pointed to the address on an envelope he was clutching.
“Yes, it’s the post office down the street,” she said.
“No, I meant the ‘care of’ part. Care of Andrew Carter? I could swear she didn’t come here for an Andrew.”
“Look,” the woman said bluntly. “I don’t know any Andrew Carter, okay?”
The man nodded and put the envelope in his pocket.
Walter and Michael exchanged looks. This was trouble.
That was the mailing address for the mine.
It didn’t have a name, and neither did their town.
That was because it wasn’t actually a town yet.
A couple of half-built houses and some tents didn’t make it much of anything.
So, when folks wrote to them, they would send the letters care of Andrew to the post office in San Antonio.
“This is curious,” Walter said. “You should speak to him. I’ll get the sandwiches.”
Michael considered this and nodded. Walter was a great fellow, but he could be a little odd and sometimes people didn’t know what to do with him.
When he had his sandwich, the man walked out. Michael followed, and as they passed by the alley between the bakery and whatever was next door, he made his move. He grabbed the man’s arm, pulled him into the alley, and slapped a hand over his mouth as he rammed him against the bakery’s wall.
The man made a panicked gasp and tried to get out of Michael’s grasp, but he was just too big. The man was a head shorter than Michael and had far fewer muscles. Michael spent most of his days swinging an ax in the mine; he had no trouble holding onto the little man.
“Stop squirming,” Michael said. “I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I might be able to help you. But you need to tell me why you’re looking for Mr. Carter.”
The little man’s eyes went wide. He nodded, unable to speak with Michael’s hand over his mouth.
“If I let you go, will you promise to just answer my question? We’ve had some trouble, and I don’t want to add to it,” Michael said.
The man nodded.
Michael lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.
“He—” the man tried to yell, but Michael was too quick. He covered the man’s nose and mouth this time, and it took the man beating on his forearm before he let him go. The man gasped and bent over double, sucking in air in an almost theatrical way.
“Stop that!” Michael said. “It wasn’t that bad. You’re laying it on thick, don’t you think?”
“Oh, all right,” the little man said, straightening up.
Michael didn’t see his fist coming. He slammed it into Michael’s jaw, and as Michael took a step back, the man aimed a kick at Michael’s groin.
Perhaps it was luck, perhaps fate, or perhaps the man couldn’t aim, but whatever it was, Michael was spared seeing stars as the man’s foot connected with nothing better or worse than his inner thigh. It was still painful, but not bladder-loosing agony.
A moment later the man was running down the alley.
Michael hobbled after him, swearing.
The little man wasn’t fast. He ran with a pronounced limp, as though something had happened to one of his knees recently, and he was still recovering.
Michael grunted and tried to go faster on a leg that didn’t feel like it belonged to him.
The little man looked back over his shoulder and walked right into a stack of crates behind the building. There was a loud crash, and he lay sprawled with his foot stuck in a chicken coop.
“Enough of this,” Michael said, walking up and towering over him. “Now, tell me who you are and why you’re looking for Mr. Carter.”
The man swallowed and held up his hands. “All right. I’m Felix Gardener,” the man said. “I have a letter here from a Troy Wellan.” He held out the envelope.
Michael took it in a daze. It was one of the letters Troy had written to Emily. “Where did you get this?” he demanded.
The man looked confused. “In my house, of course,” he said. “She left it.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“My niece, man! Emily Gardener came out here a few months ago. I’m Uncle Felix,” he smiled. “Now who the heck are you?”