“Oui,” was all he managed to say in reply.
Chapter 16
Mt. Pennell, Henry Mountains
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
I was the last one up the next morning. As I gradually pried my eyes open, the first thing I saw was Dad’s empty sleeping bag. Then I realized what had awakened me—the smell of wood smoke and frying bacon. Definitely one of the world’s finest aromas. I rolled out of my bag and started putting on my hiking boots. I didn’t even get my first stocking on before I grabbed my parka and put it on. It was cold!
When I came down from the trees a few minutes later, fully dressed and with my morning makeup on—yeah, right!—I saw Rick coming toward the fire from the opposite direction, carrying an armful of dead wood. Grandpère was getting a jug of orange juice out of the cooler.
Dad was crumbling bacon into a frying pan full of scrambled eggs. “Ready in about one minute. Grab your plates.”
I loved this part of camping the very most. Breakfast around a campfire. No established campground. No picnic tables or fire pits. A hearty appetite sharpened by the mountain air. And no one else around but us. As I heaped my plate full and took one of the cups of juice, Rick shook his head in amazement.
“Hungry?” he asked with a sardonic smile.
“Don’t push it, Ramirez,” I growled. “We’ve got a lot of work to do today.”
“I wasn’t pushing, just asking.”
As we settled in to eat, Rick looked at my dad. “Mr. McAllister? Is this one of the lost Spanish gold mines?”
He chuckled. “No, Rick. And by the way, now that you’re a full-time employee, you can call me Mack.”
“Yes, Mr. McAllister,” he said evenly. I smiled. Rick told me once that his dad didn’t like him calling adults by their first names. He didn’t think it showed enough respect.
“This was one of the Wolverton mines,” Dad explained.
“Oh,” we both said. Down in Hanksville, near the Bureau of Land Management office, was the old Wolverton mill. The huge old mill, with a waterwheel at least twenty feet tall, had originally been built up in the mountains by a man named Wolverton back in the late 1800s. He’d come out from back East to look for lost Spanish gold mines. Some years ago, the BLM disassembled the old mill and moved it down to Hanksville.
“He filed the first claim on it,” Dad continued. “When things didn’t pan out for him, he sold most of his properties. It’s had several owners since then.”
“Cool!” This mine was over a hundred years old.
But Rick wasn’t about to be deflected. “Do you think there are lost Spanish mines up here?”
“Nope.”
“But you said—” He was clearly disappointed. And a bit bewildered. So was I, to be honest.
Grandpère chuckled. “Letting everyone think we’re up here looking for lost Spanish gold is Mack’s way of keeping people from asking too many questions about what we’re really doing.”
Dad nodded. “And you two are not to change their way of thinking. Part of this job is keeping things to ourselves.” His eyes moved from mine to Rick’s. “In fact, what we do today, especially, stays with the four of us. Well, five of us. Mom knows all about this, of course. But not Cody. And you’re not to tell him, Danni. Agreed?”
For some reason, that warning set my hackles prickling. Not that I was hurt by what he said, but because I suddenly had a faint feeling of . . . I wasn’t even sure what to call it. It was like there was some kind of presence nearby.
I looked around, searching the trees and the hillside above us. Was there someone out there? Or something? I saw nothing, but still felt goose bumps pop out up and down my arms.
Come on, Danni. Now you’re starting to sound like your mother.
Even as I chided myself, the feeling started to go away. It was probably all the talk about lost Spanish gold mines, I decided. Or—I had another thought—maybe this was part of the gift Grandpère said I had. Maybe I was feeling the presence of some of those early Spanish explorers. Maybe even Wolverton himself. That was seriously creepy.
“Something wrong, Danni?” Dad asked, watching me closely.
For a moment, I considered telling him the truth. But the feeling was fading quickly. “No,” I said finally. “Just looking for wildlife.”
Rick’s focus was still on topic. “So are we looking for gold?” he asked.
“Nope,” Dad said. “Already found that.” Then, at Rick’s look, he grinned. “It’s only a few thousand dollars worth. In another of Wolverton’s mines. But the vein ran out after just a few feet.”
“So what are we looking for, Dad?”
He leaned back, a mysterious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What do you two know about rhodium?”
“Rhodium?” Rick asked.
“You mean rodeos?” I said at the same time.
“No, rhodium. R-H-O-D-I-U-M. Rhodium.”
Rick and I exchanged glances, but he was as blank as I was. For which I was grateful. It really fried my bacon when he knew the answers and I didn’t.
Dad turned to Grandpère. “Tell these kids about rhodium, Jean-Henri.”
“Gladly,” he replied. “Rhodium is a precious metal belonging to the platinum group of metals. It is silver-white in color and is usually found only in connection with nickel and platinum. It gets its name from the Greek word rhodon, or rose, because sometimes it produces salts that are rose colored. It is very rare. In fact, it is a hundred times more rare than gold.”
Rick and I leaned forward, our eyes wide.
“Really?” Rick said in awe.
“It is called one of the ‘noble’ metals because it is resistant to corrosion and oxidation. In fact, even when you heat rhodium to extremely high temperatures it doesn’t oxidize.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to sound impressed.
He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and I could tell he was fully into what Mom called his “professor mode.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me why it matters if rhodium doesn’t oxidize at extreme temperatures?”
“Why does it matter that rhodium doesn’t oxidize at extreme temperatures?” Rick said.
I was surprised to see that he had taken a pocket notebook out and was writing as fast as he could.
“Because then you can use it in the manufacture of things that produce very high temperatures, like spark plugs, industrial furnaces, and especially in automotive catalytic converters.”
“That sounds enormously exciting,” I volunteered.
“Manufacturers think so,” Dad replied. “And they’re among the few who can afford to buy rhodium.”
I perked up. Maybe this stuff wasn’t as boring as I thought. “So it’s worth a lot?”
Dad bowed in Grandpère’s direction with a grin. “On that question, I defer to my esteemed colleague, Professor Jean-Henri LaRoche.”
“Thank you, Doctor McAllister,” Grandpère said, returning the grin. “Currently, rhodium is selling for just about double the price of gold, and about a hundred times more than the price of silver.”
“Oh, my gosh!” Rick blurted. “Really?”
“When I checked the other day,” Grandpère went on, “rhodium was selling for a little more than three thousand dollars per troy ounce.”
Rick was writing furiously. “About how big would an ounce of rhodium be?” he asked.
“About the size of a sugar cube. However, back in two thousand eight, the world suffered a temporary shortage of rhodium. Before it leveled out again, rhodium was selling for ten thousand dollars an ounce.”
I whistled. Ten thousand bucks for a sugar cube? That was serious money. Suddenly I had another thought. “Is this a rhodium mine, Dad?”
He shook his head. “There’s no such thing as a rhodium mine. Almost all rhodium is produced as a byproduct of nickel or platinum mining.”
My face fell. “Oh.”
His smile turned impish and sly. “But it would be nice to be the first exception to that
rule, don’t you think?”
My head snapped up. Dad’s grin totally split his face.
“There are hard hats with lamps on them in the blue duffel bag. Grandpère, would you grab those burlap sacks? Rick, get our camping shovels. And Danni, there’s a small mining pick on the back of my four-wheeler. Will you get it?”
Chapter 17
When we reached the mine shaft, we switched on the lamps attached to our hardhats and fell in behind Dad. As we moved toward the opening, I could see there had been activity up here recently. Fresh rock, footprints, some trash from the mine in a pile to one side. I made them stop while I took a few pictures on my camera phone. I wanted to remember everything about this trip.
As we entered the actual mine shaft, which was low enough that we had to duck our heads, my anxiety shot off like a rocket. Memories of that day I went into the coal mine with Dad suddenly came rushing back.
I was comforted to see a whole row of screw jacks lining both sides of the tunnels. They were placed at regular intervals beneath existing crossbeams, and in a couple of places, new crossbeams had been put in place to shore up the ceiling. My anxiety began to melt away. I should have known Dad wouldn’t work in dangerous conditions.
“Did you do all this, Dad?” I called.
“Me and Grandpère,” he said. “There’s still more to do, but we’ll only do that if we find what we’re looking for.” He looked at Rick. “Now you can see why I want to hire you full time. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
Rick nodded, only half listening. He was examining one of the jacks more closely, fascinated. “How much weight can these bear, Mr. McAllister?”
“About twenty-five tons each.”
He ran his hand along the metal. “Sweet!” he murmured.
We moved about a hundred or a hundred and fifty feet into the shaft. The light from the entrance was only a faint glow, and we had to use our headlamps to see. Slowing my step, I directed my light on the walls. There were still some places covered with what looked like a hundred years of dust and grime, but there were also fresh pick marks in a couple of other places where larger, circular patches had been cut away. Evidence of someone looking for something valuable.
About another hundred feet in, Dad slowed, then crouched down, directing his light on the left wall of the tunnel. “This is it. Come on up.”
Gathering around him, we peered at the wall. A patch of rock about six feet square and a foot or two deep had been hewn out of the wall with picks. Piles of rubble lay on the ground. Dad stepped back so we could see better. Grandpère moved in alongside us, leaning over to get a better look. I guessed he hadn’t seen this either.
“See anything unusual?” Dad asked.
I squinted, moving my light across the wall. Lots of pick marks. A couple of deeper gouges. Most of the rock was the same deep gray color, almost black. Rick and I saw it at the same instant. He reached out before I could and touched a thin, irregular line of rock that was lighter in color than the surrounding wall. It had a dull, silver-gray metallic look to it, somewhat like lead.
“This looks like a vein,” Rick said, running his finger along it.
“Not a vein,” I cried. “A whole seam.” My voice echoed up and down the tunnel. “Is it silver, Dad?”
“No. That’s what Wolverton thought too. Silver, or lead. He took samples down to the assayer and had them tested, but when the assayer told him it wasn’t either silver or lead, but some unknown metal with no value, he gave up. He closed the mine and put it up for sale a few weeks later.”
I jerked around, gaping at him. “Is this rhodium?”
Dad grinned like a kid on Christmas morning. In answer, he took out a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. “Gather around please.”
We moved in, focusing the beams of our lamps on the paper.
“This is a report from the assayer’s office in Salt Lake City. I received this a few days ago by registered mail,” Dad said.
I shivered, and not just from the cool air inside the mine. I was so excited I thought I was going to jump out of my skin.
Pulling the paper closer, he began to read. “‘To McAllister Mining Consultants. Attention: Lucas D. McAllister. Dear Mr. McAllister: In regards to the sample of powdered ore you submitted on May third of this year, we provide the following analysis. Sample Number One, Danny Boy Mine, Shaft Number One. The powder sample was loaded in a holder for analysis. It was examined using an X-ray diffractometer using Cu K-alpha radiation—’ Blah, blah, blah—lots of scientific jargon.” He looked up, winked at me, then continued reading, more slowly.
“‘Results and Discussion: Patterns for the ore sample show this powder contains significant amounts of the element rhodium (symbol Rh; atomic number 45). Approximately 28 percent of the sample submitted is nearly pure rhodium.’”
He looked up, a triumphant smile across his face. “‘Special Note: Because the results of this analysis run contrary to known characteristics of rhodium, along with the fact that no known rhodium deposits have been found in this particular area of North America, we took the liberty of running a second, independent evaluation of the samples submitted. This confirmed all aspects of the previous evaluation. With best regards,’ Etc.”
Grandpère let out a long breath. “Twenty-eight percent,” he said in awe. “Oh my!”
Dad folded up the paper and returned it to his pocket. His face was grave, but I could see the excitement dancing in his eyes. “What do you say we get to work and fill those sacks? I’d like to take about a hundred pounds down with us. We’ve got some people who are very anxious to see this.”
34
It was nearly four o’clock by the time we had filled our four bags, eaten a cold meal, and started to pack up the campsite. We were tired, but still going strong on the excitement of what we had found. Dad and Grandpère strapped the ore sacks to the backs of their four-wheelers. Rick and I took our camping gear.
As we secured the last bungee cords on the machines, Grandpère laid a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “All along I thought this whole idea was half crazy and that we were just having some fun up here, Mack, but now . . .” He cleared his throat quickly, “I’m really proud of you.”
“You’re part of this too, Grandpère. It’s not just me.” He turned to Rick and me. “And you are too. Now you see why we have to keep this strictly between us. We talk to no one, not until after we get this confirmed and make doubly sure our claims are properly registered. Word gets out, and we’ll have people crawling all over this mountain.”
“How much do you think what we have here is worth, Mr. McAllister?” Rick asked.
“What do you think, Grandpère? I’d say we have a little more than a hundred pounds of ore. But there’s a lot more overburden in this stuff than in the sample I gave the assayer’s office. Do you think we could get five kilos of good metal out of this?”
“Well,” he mused, “that would be about eleven pounds, or about ten percent. I think we can do a little better than that. Maybe ten kilos.”
“So how much would that be worth?” I asked.
To my surprise, Rick had his notebook out and a pencil in hand again. He looked at Dad. “How much is a troy ounce compared to a regular ounce?”
“Slightly more, but not enough to worry about now. Calculate it based on sixteen ounces to a pound.” I could see that he was pleased with Rick’s eagerness.
“So”—he was scribbling as he thought out loud—“a kilo is 2.2 pounds, or about . . . um . . . let’s see. Sixteen plus sixteen, plus about three more ounces, would be thirty-five ounces per kilo.” He looked up. “Right?”
“Right so far,” Grandpère responded, grinning.
He was still scribbling and talking to himself. “If we have ten kilos, that’s three hundred fifty ounces. At three thousand dollars an ounce, we have . . . um . . .” He stopped, leaned in closer, checking his math. When he looked up again, his jaw was slack. “That’s one million, fifty thousand dollars worth of rhodium,
Mr. McAllister.”
“Shut up!” I cried.
Grandpère jerked around. “What did you say?”
Dad laughed. “It’s all right, Grandpère. That’s just the teenage way of saying, ‘You gotta be kidding.’”
A million dollars? For a half a day’s work with picks and shovels? I couldn’t believe it. I leaned heavily against the nearest four-wheeler. We all stared at each other, stunned.
Dad finally turned to me, his face completely sober. “Let’s get one thing straight right now, young lady,” he said. “You’re not going to get a birthday present like this every year.”
I feigned a pout. “Really?” Then I grabbed my cell phone. “Then I have to have at least one picture of my million-dollar birthday.”
Chapter 18
By the time we were off the mountain and back at the campground where we had left the trucks, it was almost eight thirty. As we got off the machines and stretched, Dad turned to Rick. “We can get this, Rick. Why don’t you take off and surprise your dad by being home early? And tell him thanks again for letting you come.”
“I . . .” He glanced at his watch, and then at me.
I nodded. “I’ll stay here and help. It would be a real nice thing, Rick. Let him know how grateful we are.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure,” Dad said. “And knowing how hard it is for Danni to cross that line between death and the resurrection each morning, let’s not start work until about ten tomorrow.”
Rick ignored my cry of protest. “Okay. And thanks again for everything, Mr. McAllister.” He grinned. “I’ve never made a million dollars in one day before.”
“Neither have I,” my dad answered with a laugh.
I walked Rick to the truck and watched as he threw his sleeping bag and backpack in the rear of the 4Runner. “See ya tomorrow, Danni.”
I briefly touched his arm. “I’m so glad you got to be here for all this, Rick.”
He nodded as he opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel. But he didn’t close the door. He looked at me kind of funny.