It had taken him a moment to realize where he was and why. Then as yesterday invaded with the full force of another tempest an unvoiced groan descended from his mind to his bowels. He'd brought Eliza to the house of their former housekeeper and nanny the night before. There was nowhere else he would leave her.

  He’d had to tell Helena what had happened.

  “Oh, Jorie, no! Herself couldn’t survive the night in such—” After a pause she asked, “Sweet muther of Christ, is she. . . dead, then?”

  He felt the tears sting his eyes. He could only look away.

  “Faith and begorrah, how could the likes of this have happened?” She crossed herself, and then saw the look on his face. “Oh, forgive me, lad, I should’na said nothing ‘bout it.”

  “Can you keep Eliza for awhile?”

  “It’s blessed, I’d be.”

  Jorie was brought back by the sheriff’s question.

  “Which road was it you turned off on?”

  “Tamarack.”

  He glanced at the other men. No one was talking much. Only Kurt spoke, and mostly to his horses, encouraging them to forge through the snow.

  “Getyup, Bess. Getyup, Tess. There you go now. It’s not a Sunday outing we’re after. Could you make it a bit faster, so’s we could get there before the sun sets?”

  They turned down Tamarack Road, and Earl Foster was quick to ask, “Where to now, Jorie?”

  “We turned in at the old lumbering road.”

  “Which one?”

  “About forty rods on.”

  There were no wagon tracks to show the way, no sign of human life in the eerie white silence. The only thing he could hear was the pounding of his own heart.

  The lumbering road could not be seen, but they turned in where the trees had been felled.

  “Where did you stop the buggy, son?” the sheriff wanted to know.

  Jorie shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. It doesn’t look like we were ever here.”

  “Don’t look like nobody was ever here,” Kurt agreed.

  The occasional absence of trees suggested various trails, leading off in different directions.

  “Are you sure this is the right lumbering road?” Earl asked.

  “No. But I think it is.”

  “Did you pass any others before the one you turned off on?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, let’s get started.”

  Earl jumped out of the sleigh, and the others followed.

  “Mr. Foster, from wherever I was, I know we started off to the left from the road.”

  “All right, then,” said Earl, “let’s all start off this way. You said the trail split?”

  “A number of times.”

  The four of them worked their way through the snow. Only Kurt and Earl had brought snowshoes, although the brush was so overgrown, they found them cumbersome to use.

  “You didn’t leave any breadcrumbs, Hansel?” Kurt asked.

  Jorie looked away. “No, sir.” |

  They came to a split where there were two trails.

  “You and Kurt go that way. We’ll carry on here.”

  Jorie followed Earl down the trace. The reprimand of two squirrels disturbed the stillness. Other denizens of the forest peered above their warrens of safety, as the intruders tromped through their habitat.

  How different it all looked today. Bright sunshine made the woods appear welcoming, friendly. Chunks of snow fell from the branches of hemlock, as the wind stirred the trees.

  Somehow, just maybe she’d managed to survive. It was too soon to give up hope. Perhaps she’d found some sort of shelter, or some kindly soul had found her. He looked for recent footprints, sniffed for chimney smoke. Once, in the distance, he heard the sound of branches breaking underfoot.

  “Mother!” he called out.

  Earl turned to look at him, but said nothing. The second time Jorie called out the sheriff put a hand on his sleeve. “It’s a doe, son. Just a deer.”

  Nothing looked familiar to Jorie, not the hill they climbed or the split of paths. They turned back, regrouped with the others, and set off in different directions.

  “Give a whistle if you find . . . anything,” Earl called after them.

  They didn’t, and finally gave up on their search for the day, as the spare sun waned. The sheriff decided he’d need more men for the search.

  On the way home, Earl said, “You sure you don’t know the man’s name that helped you? What’d he look like?”

  “He was big. Cornish accent.”

  “Cornish. With all the transplanted miners from Cornwall, that narrows it down as much as saying a man you met in France was French.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way, until Earl dropped Jorie off. “You’ll have to help us until we find your ma. Be here at nine tomorrow.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cora didn’t allow any form of alcoholic beverage in the house, and Earl seldom desired it, but after a miserable day searching for the body of his old friend, he decided he was entitled to some refreshment. Besides, he couldn’t sit still.

  He headed across Franklin and down to Tezcuco Street. This pulsing hub of Hancock sloped steeply down to the long and narrow Portage Lake, leading to the shipping and railway companies spawned by the mining business. The larger bulk of the lake lay to the east before it joined Lake Superior. Here, between Hancock and her sister city Houghton, it ran as narrow as a river. Ships plying the Great Lakes would bring in supplies and leave with copper and iron ore along shipping routes from Detroit, Chicago or Duluth.

  Along Tezcuco Street a myriad of saloons staked their claims amidst the finest hotel, the busiest Chinese laundries, public bathhouses, banks and barbershops. On this and nearby streets there were saloons for the Irish, the German, the Cousin Jacks from Cornwall, the Croatians and almost every nationality in the world.

  He passed lampposts bearing the ordinances he’d posted, prohibiting disorderly persons, drunkards, fortune tellers, vagrants, prostitutes. Puppet shows, wire-rope dancing or other idle acts and feats were also forbidden. Already weather-worn by the storm, they needed replacing. The sheriff considered most of these laws a load of bollix, but he didn’t write them— only tried to enforce them. It wasn’t easy keeping the lid on a mining town. Too many folks in these parts thought they were north of the law, and said as much.

  As usual, the blast of the six o’clock quitting whistles at the Keweenaw and Portage Mines signaled the saloon keepers to ready-up for the onslaught of thirsty customers. The pubs were the second shift for the miners and they took it as seriously as the first.

  Those who frequented these watering holes had three passions—booze, bawds and brawls—in that order. And here you could learn what had happened up top that day. Long after other establishments had buttoned up for the night, gas street lamps lured the working men into their open arms. Not that they needed any encouragement.

  The Bear Claw was such an establishment. Miners swarmed in, stamping the snow off their boots, and blowing on their hands. The smells of tobacco mingled with the hard-won sweat from the fiery pits below. The patrons didn’t mind. Years of working in the foul smelling depths, where, like moles, they were accustomed to darkness—the overlay of fog in the saloon, made yellow by the gas lamps and smoke, did nothing to dampen their spirits.

  The news on that evening caused the din in The Bear Claw to rise to an even greater pitch than usual, and everybody in there had something to say.

  Stout, the saloon keeper, had made sure to get all the information he could while the miners were still below grass. His congregation, as he called them, would expect as much.

  “What happened to her, Stout?” Red Topper asked.

  "Her son took her out to the woods on a joy ride.”

  Hardy cut in. “He’s either plum loony, or he was puttin’ his ma away. Ain’t that right, Stout?”

  “You talk to the sheriff?” Gums asked.

  "Nope. Heard all about it
from Kurt.” Stout spoke with authority as he transferred the dirty glasses from the tub of soapy water to the rinse basin. “He took the kid and a posse out there to find the body this morning.”

  Stout could afford to be generous with his information and his drafts. The Bear Claw would make a lot of money tonight.

  “They find her?”

  “Nope.”

  A hush fell as the door opened and the wind ushered in the sheriff. Heads turned.

  Earl mounted a stool. A babble of questions greeted him as Stout placed a whiskey before him.

  “Mrs. Radcliff, she’s dead?”

  “Don’t see how she could be alive.”

  “Her son took her out there with a storm comin’ in?”

  Gums O’Mallory moistened his lips. “And just left her there to freeze to death?”

  “What’s that look like to you, Sheriff?”

  Earl decided coming here was a mistake. He waved off the questions, and took his drink to a table in the back.

  The men showed enough respect to leave him alone.

  In a way it was odd, Earl thought, that there was such a to-do about Catherine Radcliff’s death. Plenty of barroom fights, some leading to death, broke out among men who only saw the light of day at night, and the night all day long.

  Mine accidents, from explosions and collapses to men falling down mile-deep shafts, had all taken their toll in this community. A woman didn’t know when she sent her husband off with his lunch pail if she’d ever see him again. Murder was not that unusual either in this brawling mining town, where a pint of forty-rod at his favorite saloon was more important than a man's religion. But the thought of a man taking the life of the one who’d given him life was beyond their understanding.

  Earl was finishing his drink and about to leave when a young man approached him, pulled up a chair and sat down.

  “I’m Walter Radcliff.”

  Earl appraised the man. “Catherine Radcliff’s step-son?”

  “Ball in the pocket.”

  Earl looked for a resemblance between the young man and his father, but couldn’t detect any. Must look like his mother. His facial features were unattractive, though he possessed a fine physique. Most miners did, he mused, until the work broke them.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I knew there was trouble between Jorie and his ma, so what happened out there in the blizzard—” he tipped his chair back— “Well, there’s no great surprise there, is there?”

  “You got your mind all made up?”

  Walter laughed. “You think it was an ‘accident’, do you, Sheriff?”

  “I’m gathering information about the family,” Earl said. “Would you mind stopping by my office tomorrow evening?”

  Walter shook his head. “I’m heading back to Red Jacket in the morning.” He surveyed the surroundings. “Strikes me this is as good an office as any.”

  Radcliff signaled Stout to bring another round to the table and leaned forward. “Watcha wanna know, Sheriff?”

  Earl didn’t like the man’s attitude and he didn’t like the venue for this interview, but he remembered something about a bird in hand.

  “How old were you when your pa married Miss MacGaurin?”

  “’Bout six, I reckon.”

  “How did you and your step-ma get on?”

  “There was no love between us. I won’t pretend there was.”

  “Why is that?”

  Earl heard the young man’s feet shuffle on the other side of the table.

  “She was crazy about her own kid. Didn’t want to be bothered with somebody else’s brat.”

  “You must have stored up some resentment about that.”

  Walter shot his wad of chewing tobacco several feet into the spittoon, looked up with a smile as if expecting praise. “Yeah, but I wasn’t out in the woods playing ‘Hide or Die’, was I?”

  He took the drink from Stout’s hand before it was on the table, and poured it down his throat. “My half brother deliberately left his ma out there in the storm. Some would call that murder, sheriff.”

  Earl didn’t like his cockiness. “What leads you to that conclusion?”

  “I saw ‘em go—the two of ‘em heading into that storm. Only him came back.”

  “And what grandstand seat did you have to watch these comings and goings?”

  “I was over to Peabody’s. Could see it all from his front window.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Ain’t that enough?”

  “What are you doing in Hancock, Walter? Thought you worked up in Red Jacket.”

  “Came down to get the horses. Somebody’s gotta take care of them. Jorie ‘pears to have taken off.”

  “Are you or your brothers married?”

  “Why do you want to know that?”

  “We’ll be looking for a home for Eliza.”

  “Who?”

  The deceased’s little daughter.”

  “Oh.”

  “Her custody is uncertain at this point. The aunt would prefer not—”

  “That girl is no kin to me or my brothers.”

  “Pardon me, but I believe she is your half-sister.”

  “I don’t even know her. And my older brothers barely knew who the deceased was. They was all grown by the time I got stuck with a new ma.” He chewed on this awhile. “Why can’t Jorie take her? Oh, yeah, he’s prob’ly going to hang.”

  Earl shook his head. “Michigan was the first state in the union to do away with capital punishment.”

  “Yeah? ’More’s the pity.” Walter rose. “Well, you think on what I said, Sheriff.” He tipped his cap and took his leave.

  Earl watched the young man swagger out. Walter’s ‘proof’ wasn’t worth a fart in the wind.

  He would check on Walter’s story, but the only thing it would prove is whether he was the consummate liar Earl conjectured he was.

  As he tossed in bed that night, Earl wondered about the man who Jorie said had helped him. He would put something in the paper asking this man to come forth. Seemed a damn shame that Jorie knew neither the name of the man with the lantern nor his whereabouts. And how handy that the falling snow showed no footprints to prove or disprove Jorie’s story.

  The next day on their way out of town, Earl had the search party stop at Orville Peabody’s place on the main road north. Orville lived by himself. Confined to a wheelchair after an accident in the mine, he managed to keep house by himself except for a half-breed who came in once a week to help.

  Earl rapped on the door, knocked the snow off his boots and let himself in. Orville was at the table eating porridge. He smiled at Earl. “How you doin’, ole man?”

  “Watchit, I’m younger than you, Sheriff.”

  “True enough. Orville, have you seen anything of Walter Radcliff lately? Has he been by?”

  “Yup.”

  “When was that?”

  “He brought over some newspapers, all about his stepmother’s death. He seemed quite pleased about it.”

  “Did you see him the day of the storm?”

  “Naw, not ‘til the next afternoon. I saw Jorie Radcliff that day, though. Riding north with his ma.”

  “What was the weather like then?”

  “Still sunny. Didn’t see him come back, though. In the blizzard I couldn’t see that bush by the window.”

  Volunteers came every day to help with the search, even the coroner, Lester Meisel.

  After the fourth day, Earl said to Jorie, “Are you sure it was in Michigan you left her?”

  But on the fifth, the coroner, with a team of dogs, found the body of Catherine Radcliff lying on her face, frozen under a foot of snow. Wrapping her carefully in a blanket, he whistled to the others that the search was over.

  Lester Meisel looked up from the document he’d just signed. “Mrs. Radcliff had a broken ankle, sustained in her fall, I suspect. Apparently, she went willingly with him.”

  “What do you make of her lying on her face?”
r />   “Reckon she crawled some from where he left her, trying to save herself.” He looked up. “Sad thing, indeed. She died like a wolf cub in the storm, with her back to the wind.”

  Lester had a way with words, Earl thought. Some said he should have been a poet.

  The coroner capped the ink bottle and blotted the paper. “Here’s the certificate.”

  Earl read it. “Cause of death: Exposure to cold.”

  “Did you find any bruises or signs of force?”

  “Hard to tell.” He paused. “It won’t be possible to have a viewing of the body, Earl. Animals—”

  “That’s enough.” He didn’t want to pursue that line. He said only, “Will you be wanting an inquest, Lester?”

  “I think we can dispense with that, Sheriff.”

  Earl Foster dreaded going to the service. He knew he’d be barraged by questions before and after.

  He deliberately arrived late. When he entered the Radcliff home he could hear those assembled singing a hymn in the parlor. He winced when he saw that the manner in which it was set up provided no way to slip in inconspicuously. The doorway to the back parlor was at the front of the room where the minister stood.

  Earl bowed slightly to the reverend and stood to the side, feeling all eyes upon him. Several more people arrived after he did, and the quartet had to pick up their music stands and move to the next room.