over another skeleton, this one adorned with strands of long blond hair that had matted to the skull, and still boasting jewelry—a gold wedding band on the long, brittle phalange of the ring finger and a necklace dangling from one of the upper vertebra into the rib cage.
Lawrence said, “Quinn, you need to come see this!”
June and Abigail got up. They stood in the center of a large cavern teeming with the bones of Abandon—at least a hundred skeletons, most still intact, their clothes having long since disintegrated in the cold storage of the cave, moist enough to support the growth of a hairy white fungus that over-spread portions of the rock like a network of capillaries. The skeletons were of every size and scattered throughout the chamber in a vast array of death poses, the scene reminding Abigail of some morbid sculpture exhibit. Her stomach was churning, and she wanted to shut her eyes to it, but she knew that would make little difference. This mine and its occupants would stay with her for the rest of her life, in waking moments, in dreams.
They drifted wordlessly through the crypt. Most of the skeletons were sprawled across the floor, as if they had lain down en masse to die. Abigail saw one curled up in the fetal position in a corner. Another lay beside a small boulder, its skull cracked, pieces of it on the rock floor, pigmented in proximity with the deepest burgundy shade of ancient blood. A pair of skeletons lay along the wall, their humerus and radius bones intertwined, having perished in each other’s arms.
Abigail felt herself coming undone as the images of the dying townsfolk accumulated.
A skull resting in the lap of another skeleton.
On a pair of femurs, the leather binding of a pageless King James Bible.
Between kneecaps, a clear corked bottle still holding an inch of century-old whiskey.
Skeletons sitting up grasping shotguns and rifles and revolvers, the wood stocks badly rotted or gone altogether, others clasping bricks of gold with their browned finger bones.
A handful clinging to the remains of their children.
And under a rusted-out shadowgee, a skeleton with long black hair tweaked both her horror and curiosity at once. On the wide plates of its browned pelvis lay minute femurs and tibias and ribs, a skull the size of an apple, phalanges no thicker than matches, and when she realized these constituted the bones of a mother and its fetus, Abigail broke down.
Lawrence walked over and sat with her. “I know,” he whispered. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“Guys?” June said. “Would you mind turning your headlamps off? I’ve got Emmett’s camera with me, and . . .” She was crying again. “He’d want me to shoot this for him.”
They switched off their headlamps, Abigail hating the darkness, not even the faintest presence of light to adapt to in this pure, unfiltered black. She gave June one minute, listening to the click of the camera echo through the chamber and the distant drip of water. She finally said, “Sorry, but I’m turning my headlamp back on. I’m too freaked-out to just sit here in the dark.” She found breathing easier with her headlamp on. “You must be beside yourself, huh, Lawrence?”
“This is beyond anything I ever dreamed of finding. The gold and the entire town, in the same place, at the same time.”
“It’s gonna be amazing material. This’ll turn out great articles for both of us.”
“I don’t know about you, but I plan to write a book.” Lawrence stood up, offered Abigail his hand, but she didn’t take it, just sat there staring at a coal-oil lantern capsized between two femurs. “Abby? You all right?”
“I don’t know how to process it all. Everything we’ve been through tonight.”
Lawrence hollered through the chamber, “Quinn! Come in here!
They crossed the uneven rock, working their way among the skeletons.
“There he is,” Lawrence said, pointing to the bulb of light thirty feet ahead. “Hey, professor, you really need to come in here, see all the bones.”
When Abigail’s headlamp struck Quinn, he was zipping his backpack.
He glanced up at them, said, “I hope it’s enough, Lawrence.”
“What? The gold? Of course, eighteen million is plenty for every—”
“I’m not talking about the gold.” Quinn shouldered the sagging backpack. “I mean knowing what happened to the town. You spent a good part of your life trying to solve that mystery, and I want you to know I sincerely hope it’s a good consolation.”
“For what?”
Quinn stepped into the passage. The door to the mine slammed shut in a thunderous concussion of metal on metal, and its echo seemed to last forever. Then came a sound Abigail had already heard once before—the squeak of that rusted bolt sliding home inside the iron door, then the crossbar dropping into the brackets, then that giant padlock locking back.
1893
FIFTY-EIGHT
G
loria and Rosalyn sat against the rock wall, holding each other and listening to the burgeoning chaos near the iron door, where twenty armed men had gathered after hearing gunshots in the passage. But that had been some time ago. The men were growing antsy.
Someone said, “Time we rain hell on some red niggers.”
