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 Book Cover
Painting by Susan Mains – Grenada (used with permission)
 Cover Design by Lindsay Heider Diamond - USA

The Dead Came Knocking © Copyright <<2023>> Ib Meyer

Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any
information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any
actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is
illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is
investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

For more information, email IslandMysteriesWestIndies@gmail.com

or visit www.islandmysteries.net

In Memory of Per Høvik Meyer

Beloved Father,
Traveler,
Merchant Mariner
 “Accept the things to which fate binds you,
and love the people with whom fate brings you together,
but do so with all your heart.”
Marcus Aurelius
 CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
 CHAPTER 1
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The knocking on the portside hull of my yacht had finally gotten
on my last nerve.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock..
I op ened my eyes. The slight and dispersed first orange rays of
pre-dawn sunlight were coming through my open bow hatch.
Knock.
Knock.
I slipped off the bunk, padded naked on my bare feet through
the cabin, up the companionway to the cockpit and reached out to
unclip my swim shorts from the lifelines. While I was doing this, I
wished I had stopped in the galley first to make coffee, as was my
habit.

Too late now, Sten. Just check it out first.

I slipped the swim shorts on, hopped out onto the side deck,
and grappled my way forward to see what had woken me up.
I approached the bow and saw my lines, still taut and securely
attached to the mooring. Nothing had moved. Everything looked
okay.
I worked my way forward and then over the edge of the deck to
peer down below.
Naked feet and legs were gently swaying in the water.
I leaned over further, and I saw it. A body. A woman’s body. Her
head, still rhythmically knocking against the hull of my boat with the
current.
 The body was mostly unclothed; red undergarments still intact
and a red dress gathered around her waist. A long piece of it was
snagged on the mooring ball line. She was face down, her red and
black hair extensions splayed out in the water like a veil. Her head
was rhythmically knocking on the hull.
I slowly brought myself up to a sitting position leaning up
against the stanchion and I sighed. The gentle lapping of the waves
on my hull, punctuated with the dampened knock was almost
musical.
There was a gentle hum as the cool morning breeze blew
through my lines and a soft whirring sound in the wind vane on a
neighboring yacht. The pounding of my heart was my only company
as I decided what to do.
As a child growing up in Africa and former sergeant of a
Sheriff's Office in Colorado, still serving in the reserves, I was no
stranger to death and not shocked by it. I am, however, saddened
by death, especially unexpected and violent deaths. My many
encounters with death over the years taught me to think, not emote,
when presented with life’s finality. Emotions simply get in the way.
Standing up, I stepped over the lifelines and jumped into the
water. In my mind, I knew she was dead. She had been knocking on
the hull for at least thirty minutes, but I needed to be sure. I took a
couple of strokes toward her and cupped her neck with my left hand
as I treaded water and checked for a pulse. She was cold to the
touch and had no pulse. I gently rolled her head to face me and
lightly pushed back her eyelid. Her eye was opaque. There was no
doubt now; she was dead. I let her head gently roll back into the
water.
The dress came away from the mooring ball line as I pulled on
it. Suddenly she was floating free. I grasped her arm and slowly
guided her to the stern of the yacht while she bobbed up and down
with the waves.
Leaving her to float was not an option, but there was no way I
could get her into my yacht by myself. I decided to tie the piece of
dress that had been attached to the bridle to the stern ladder and
quickly climbed on board. The horseshoe life-preserver was within
reach. I removed it from its holder, attached the end of the line to a
rear port cleat and let out the line. I went back down the ladder into
the water and carefully placed it around her chest, just under her
arms. After ensuring she was secure, I climbed back up the ladder
and took in the slack on the line to keep her close to the back of the
vessel.

How messed up is this? The first time I use my life-preserver is

for the dead.
 CHAPTER 2
I had been on this mooring ball in Prickly Bay, Grenada, for two
weeks, and did not know the surroundings very well yet.

Think, Sten, think. You used to do this for a living.

The Grenada Coast Guard was an easy VHF radio call away; but
a radio call at 0600 hours would probably result in waking my
neighbors up and I didn’t care to have a number of eyes, nor phone
cameras on me. Neither was I fond of the thought of having a well-
intentioned neighbor coming over in a dinghy to help. No. The lady
in the water deserved dignity. Everyone does. No radio call today. It
would have to be a phone call to the police station.
Hurrying down the steps to the cabin, I went to the chart table
and unplugged my phone from the charger to search online for the
number of The Royal Grenada Police Force. It was a quick search; I
dialed the number. Moments later I heard, “Good day. This is
Constable Benoit speaking.”
“Good morning. My name is Sten Dahl and I’m calling from the
sailing vessel NÅDE (“Noe-deh”). I am anchored in Prickly Bay and
I’m calling to report the dead body of a young lady floating in the
water beside my boat.”
“Hello… Excuse… Did you say a dead body?”
“Yes, the dead body of a young woman. I’m a police officer
from the United States. I don’t have much equipment on hand but I
checked her pulse, and she is dead. I tried to pull her out of the
water but she’s too heavy for me to bring her aboard my boat. If
you could, please send assistance right away.”
“Okay. Please repeat your name and spell it for me.”
“My name is Sten. S-T-E-N. Last name is Dahl. D-A-H-L. My
yacht is in the middle of the bay so the Constables will need water
transport. The name of my yacht is N..A..D..E. I’m flying an
American flag at the back of my white thirty-foot yacht. I have a
blue sail bag and a blue cover over my cockpit. I’ll hoist a white flag
with a red X on it. Since the Marina is still closed, I’ll take my dinghy
to the dock and pick the constables up. I’ll be standing next to a
gray dinghy. I am a Caucasian male, 5” 11” tall, bald, approximately
175 pounds, blue eyes, full beard, and I’ll be wearing blue shorts
and a gray shirt.”
“OK. Thank you very much sir. Please give me your telephone
number.”
I had to repeat the phone number a couple times, but the
constable knew her job and took down the rest of the information,
which she double checked by repeating it back. She hung up with
the promise that she would call me back directly and she did. While
all this calling was going on, and all the information was being
exchanged, I was looking down at the body of a young woman, the
beads of water glistening on her dark brown body in the new
morning light, on a day that she would never live. Her time of grace
– her nåde – brutally cut short.
 CHAPTER 3
I slipped on a gray t-shirt, dinghied over to the dock and tied up
and waited for the police to arrive. I brought my binoculars to keep
an eye on the body. I don’t know why I needed to. She was secured
to the boat by the life-preserver, so she wasn’t going to float away.
She didn’t need me keeping an eye on her, but even though her time
for help had come and gone, the least I could do was afford her the
dignity that her killer had not. I made sure she was not alone.
About twenty minutes later a white police sedan drove up to the
dock with lights flashing. Three uniformed constables got out of the
vehicle: two males and one female. They each retrieved a bag from
the trunk of the vehicle and started walking down the dock towards
me. I saw their gestures and heard faint voices as they pointed in
my direction. I could imagine the conversation they were having as
I’d been in their position before.
“Good morning. Are you Mr. Sten Dahl?” asked the female. I
noticed she wore sergeant stripes.
“Yes, I’m Sten. I’m the one that called this in. Thank you for
coming.”
“My name is Detective Sergeant Nelson, this is PC Jones and
Corporal Francis.”
We all shook hands. “This is my dinghy,” I said, turning and
holding my hand out toward the small boat. “It’s only meant for
three people, so we’ll need to place two people on each side and
balance carefully. I’ll get in first then please hand me your bags.
Come aboard, one at a time and hold her steady.”
I took my sandals off, threw them in first then stepped into the
dinghy and sat down by the engine, which I promptly started. They
passed their bags which I stowed away and Sergeant Nelson
released the line from the dock cleat and maintained control. She
knelt down holding the dinghy steady against the dock and
instructed Constable Jones to board first and take a seat next to me
on the starboard side. Corporal Francis boarded next and sat directly
opposite Constable Jones then, with what looked like practiced ease,
Sergeant Nelson pushed us from the dock while sliding on board and
positioned herself opposite me.
My boat and dinghy were new, so our slow motoring back to the
yacht was not too noisy. I was thankful for the engine being quiet. I
looked around as we motored. People were beginning to come up
out of their cabins in the yachts and catamarans moored and
anchored in the bay, but no one took particular notice of us.
Shadows glided up and down, in and out – silent – disturbed only by
the lone dinghy, the arrowhead with its wake making a line directly
toward NÅDE and the dead woman at my stern.
I tried to move as slowly as possible to avoid “rocking the
boats” so early in the morning. As I was steering my brain reminded
me how upset it was over not getting its morning coffee. I concurred
with that sentiment as we approached the body of the young
woman that had come knocking. Coffee would come soon enough. I
hoped so anyway.
As we approached NÅDE, Sergeant Nelson took her bag and
strapped it around her right shoulder. She had the painter (dinghy
line) in her left hand and was already indicating, without saying a
word, that she would hop on board NÅDE and secure the dinghy to
one of the stern cleats. I nodded my head, letting her know I
understood.
Everyone was looking at the dead body as we approached.
Sergeant Nelson hopped on board, and while taking up the slack on
the line, the two others clambered onboard. They moved over to
where the body was floating in the life-preserver, bobbing up and
down in the wake of the dinghy. I made sure the dinghy was secure
on the cleat and then stepped aboard. We all stood, quietly,
respectfully, looking down at the almost naked body of the young
woman who was the focus of our attention.
I broke the silence. “Would it help if I described for you what
occurred this morning?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Sten,” said the Sergeant quietly, “but before
you do I need to check the body.”
 I nodded in agreement.
Sergeant Nelson put on a pair of gloves and knelt down as I
released the line and slowly dragged the body towards her. She
checked her pulse, opened one of her eye-lids, and then stated in a
slow and quiet voice, “Yes, she is dead. The time is 0713 hours.”
She stood up and approached her colleagues while I kept the
line taut to keep the body close to the stern. After a few muttered
words of instruction between them she turned to me.
“Mr. Sten, please tell us everything from the beginning. Don’t
leave anything out. PC Jones here will be taking notes as you do and
recording you using his cellphone. Corporal Francis will take over
securing the body, taking photographs and making preparations for
its transport.”
I recounted the facts in the order I was accustomed to doing:
location, date, time, light, weather, temperature, description, what
actions I had taken, and so on. While I was doing that Corporal
Francis was on his radio; squelches and loud voices shattering the
otherwise calm and quiet morning, organizing the pickup of the body
with the Coast Guard. He then busied himself with his phone and
began taking pictures of the body.
By this time, more and more occupants in the bay were
appearing on their decks to try and see what was going on. Eyes
were on us from all around. After I completed my explanation
Corporal Francis took pictures of the boat, the pendant and lines,
and of me. I willingly allowed them to take pictures of my hands and
the inside of my yacht. I had nothing to hide and I knew what
needed to be done.
While Corporal Francis was taking pictures inside, his radio
ripped through the silence like an explosion. It startled all of us. The
Coast Guard was minutes away. I had suggested to Sergeant Nelson
that it might be best if we take the victim out of the water and place
her on my transom. It would be much easier to lift her from there,
onto my side deck, and then into the Coast Guard cruiser. She
nodded okay. By the time the Coast Guard cruiser came alongside
we had the body of the victim on the transom and inside a body
bag.
 She was young. Even in death her relaxed face revealed her
beauty. She had silver chain earrings an inch long and a simple silver
cross, also about an inch, on a chain that hung low between her full
breasts. The silver accentuated her smooth dark skin. She wore a
simple silver band on her left middle finger and a plain silver bangle
on each wrist. There was no bruising that could be seen in the early
morning light, even assisted by a LED flashlight. No lacerations. No
contusions. Her undergarments were still intact, but her dress was
torn at the top right-hand shoulder of the thin polyester, sleeveless
fitted garment that went to just above her knees. The dress had
been pulled down from her shoulders to around her slender waist.
Sergeant Nelson had taken all of this in and spoken it out loud
as Constable Jones recorded and made notes. Corporal Francis
continued taking pictures. Using an evidence ruler he quickly
photographed all of her jewelry while she was still wearing it and
then removed and bagged it. All of this was done in a hushed,
thoughtful and respectful manner as the world of Prickly Bay looked
on.
Once the coast guard arrived, the decision was made to move
the body and chaos ensued. I took a few steps back and watched.
There were lengthy discussions between the coast guard officers
and those on board my boat on how best to make the transfer, who
was going to do it and so much more. Voices were raised. Hands
were flying up and down like Frigate birds. Sergeant Nelson
suddenly moved forward, squatted down and began to lift the
lifeless body.
Suddenly there was frenetic activity as everyone surged forward
to help. Moments later, the body of the victim was in the stern of the
Coast Guard cruiser. She looked as though she was going out to sea
for burial.
“Thanks be to God,” I said aloud while turning away from
looking at the shrouded body to Sergeant Nelson.
“I have done this before you know: Investigated deaths. I won’t
tell you how to do your job but I will say that I am here to offer any
help I can. I know that you’ll have to leave with the body now and
there'll be a ton of paperwork to do, but if you need help in the
future – I’m at your service and so is my dinghy.” I handed her a
piece of paper with my contact details.
She looked at me, and I at her, as though we were looking at
each other for the first time. She was about 5’ 7” and had a feminine
figure, oval face, generous lips and smooth creamy dark brown skin.
Her uniform was neat and pressed. Her cap was covering the top
portion of her face so her eyes looked piercing and intense in the
shade of the glowing sun. Her cheeks were high and when she
smiled, her face transformed. She was smiling now.
“Thank you for your offer, Mr. Sten. Lord willing, I hope we
won’t, but if we need assistance, I’ll be sure to get in touch. As you
said, there is much to do. I’ll be going now. I appreciate your time
and all that you’ve done. If I have any questions, I’ll give you a call.”
She held up the piece of paper, her lips formed in a pleasant,
curved smile. “Have a blessed day.” With that, she placed the paper
in her left breast pocket and turned and hoisted herself, with the
support of a couple Coast Guard personnel, over into the waiting
boat which promptly sped off, once again, rocking the boats in the
bay.
 CHAPTER 4
I stood looking at the Coast Guard cruiser as it dropped off
Constable Jones at the dock with all the bags then disappeared off
back to base. He hurriedly placed them back into the trunk of the
police sedan and sped off – lights flashing. I sat down in the cockpit,
tired. I had a sheen of sweat on me already from being out in the
sun and my mind was taking in the silence as the breeze continued
to gently blow, cooling me off as I sat in the shade of my cockpit.
Coffee – my morning drink of choice. I needed some. I went
down to the cabin and got my stainless-steel percolator out. Water –
Fire – Coffee. In a short period of time the scent of my favorite brew
was wafting through the cabin. The pour. The first close-up smell.
The first sip. I went back up top with my heavy bottomed, stainless-
steel mug of steaming coffee.

Well. It’s not like I had firm plans.

The young woman’s body kept coming back to mind, gently

rocking with the waves..
I wonder who she was, what her name was and what happened
to her?
There is a proverb of the Chewa people in South Central Africa -
Mlandu suola. The translation is; A case to answer does not rot.
When an evil thing happens or an injustice occurs, the need for
justice does not rot, fall apart and go away. It is not forgotten. No,
eventually, justice will prevail.
I needed answers and I felt my muscle memory and brain
engage like I hadn’t felt in a very long time. I needed to seek
justice.
I looked at my left hand and stared at my wedding band, my
coffee still steaming in the cup in my right hand. These hands will
never again hold the body of the person who wore the pair to this
ring. That other ring is buried, underground, in a container in the
beautiful high plains of the Colorado Rockies. The life that wore the
pair to my ring – her time of grace ended too soon as well.
The nameless young lady who came knocking on my boat, did
not have peace at the end of her life. Her family will not have peace
but at least I can try and help them find out what happened. I’m
good at that. At least… I used to be.
The investigator in me surfaced. My thoughts went to options,
solutions, and possibilities. I was in a foreign land with no police
power. This was definitely limiting but workable because I had no
one to report to. Also, I had time on my hands, lots of time.
Most investigations into any unexplained death begin with
interviews. This would be no different. As I looked around I
determined a course of action. The yachts moored and anchored
closest to the dock would know the most about the comings and
goings of dinghies. The ones closest to the shoreline would be more
aware of things that occurred on shore. In an instant I decided how
I could give myself a head start and bring some of this information
directly to me.
I picked up my cell phone and called Elisa. Originally from
Germany, Elisa and her Canadian husband had been moored in
Prickly Bay for years. She was the de facto director of the social life
that floated in Prickly Bay. She kept the sailing community informed
and inline via her ‘Cruisers net’ daily VHF broadcast.
“Good morning Elisa. This is Sten of SV NÅDE. Firstly, thank you
for all the information I received from you last week. It was most
helpful”
“Good morning Sten” came the reply “No problem. What can I
do for you?”
“Well, I imagine people have seen some activity over here and I
wanted to let you, and everyone else, know what’s going on.”
“Yes,” said Elisa. “I have been receiving messages and emails in
the last hour asking me if I knew what was going on.”
“Well, I was woken up this morning by a knocking on the hull of
my boat. I went to check it out and found the body of a young
woman so I called the police.”
 “Was the woman from one of the yachts?” she asked, shock in
her voice.
“That’s not clear at this stage, but my guess is she was local.” I
replied. “In any event, I wanted to share my contact details in case
anyone saw or heard anything last night that might be helpful. As
you know I was a police sergeant in the USA and I want to help the
police however I can.”
I decided, after my breakfast of coffee and water, it would be a
good idea to rinse off the transom then take a quick shower and get
ready to go visit some yachts. I also wanted to speak to the
dockmaster and get his insight about the currents and where the
body might have come from. It wasn’t long before I heard Elisa on
her morning broadcast, giving everyone the news.
By my third and final cup of coffee, my phone was sounding off
every five minutes. Sure enough, emails were coming in from
neighboring yachts. Elisa had done her magic.
 CHAPTER 5
I began to read through them. Of the eleven emails I received,
only three had anything of interest; SV Gone With The Wind, SV Too
Fun and SV Corona Del Mar. Using my binoculars, I was able to
locate these vessels and see their names on their transoms. All three
were anchored or moored in front of me, close to shore and the
dock at Prickly Bay.
I decided to conduct my interviews from North to South. SV
Gone With The Wind was not only close to shore but was also
relatively close to the dock and, since they had responded to the
yacht net radio call with an email, I felt perfectly comfortable
approaching them. The dinghy ride over was short and I honed my
thoughts on how to approach the interview. It had been at least a
year since I had done one.
As I approached the catamaran I made a full circle around her,
waved at the two occupants standing in the cockpit, and while doing
so, looking for anything out of place. Nothing struck me as off. She
was a relatively new model Fountaine Pajot Helia 44 catamaran and
very well cared for. I finally came in along-side her stern and hailed
her.
“Good morning. My name is Sten. I am from the NÅDE
anchored behind you. I got your email a little while ago. Permission
to come aboard?” I looked into the eyes of the man and woman;
they were sun weathered, gray haired, and smiling.
“Absolutely young man,” said the female of the two in a musical
Southern Belle accent. You cannot help but smile when you hear
that lilting ethereal voice of a Southern gentlewoman. The man
stepped down to help me as I maneuvered my dinghy to their stern.
“Welcome aboard,” said the man as he expertly tied off my line
on a cleat that showed a lot of experience and proceeded to offer his
hand to help me on board.
 The woman came down to stand alongside the man and said,
“Sten, wasn’t it? Welcome to our home. My name is Patsy Williams,
and this is my husband Donald Williams, but everyone calls him
Donny.”
We were just having breakfast when Elisa’s broadcast came over
the yacht net. We couldn’t believe it. Of all places for there to be a
death like this – Grenada is definitely not the place that I thought
that this would’ve happened. Anyway, Donny and I spoke, and we
think that we heard something last night, so that’s why I wrote to
you. You will be staying for food so just take a seat.”
I smiled. On a southerner’s yacht, I knew that I was going to
eat a full breakfast, drink more coffee and be given an overflow of
information. Patsy did all the talking. Donny smiled and nodded his
head and with their permission, I began recording the conversation
using my cellphone.
“Well Sten, Donny and I were invited for Thanksgiving yesterday
just over there. You see that Catamaran,” said Sally, pointing to the
next boat down off the starboard side. “That is the SV Too Fun. The
owners are Sally and John Martin. Donny here has been pestering
me for a good turkey dinner and Sally really knows how to cook a
real American Thanksgiving meal.”
“We ate a late lunch, talked and drank for pretty much the
entire afternoon and evening. Donny, bless his heart, didn’t drink
that much because he had to dinghy us back over before dark. I will
admit we were all comatose from turkey and stuffing.”
“Do you want some more eggs? How about some more
sausages? I have extra of both,” said Patsy as she leaned over and
dished my plate full of eggs, a couple sausages and then some
coffee before I could answer.
“Sure, great. I appreciate that,” I said. I was feeling full just
looking at it.
Both Patsy and Donny seemed relaxed and at home; Patsy was
doing all the talking and moving plates around and serving while
Donny sat quietly and listened.
“Well now, you didn’t come over here just to talk about food,”
Patsy said. “We got back just before dark, so it was about 1820ish
hours. Sorry about the military time. Donny here was in the Navy.
We were quite tired, so we just put on the AC and went straight to
bed. At about 2230 hours I woke up to use the head and my moving
around woke Donny up. He is such a light sleeper. Another holdover
from his time in the Navy.
“After I finished, Donny used the head. I decided that I was a
little hungry and needed some food to nibble on, so I went up to the
galley. I got some cheese, sausage, olives, and a little wine out and
put it on the table in the cockpit. It was a gorgeous night out.
“As I said, we were sitting around the table, enjoying the
breeze, looking at the stars, and eating some snacks when we heard
it.”
My ears pricked. “What did you hear?” I asked.
“We heard screaming and shouting from the shore, from the
area of the Marina,” said Patsy. I mean a woman was screaming and
shouting. She sounded mad, real mad. We also heard what sounded
like a male voice too, but it wasn’t very loud at all. Either way, we
couldn’t understand anything being said. You know, the voices were
distant and they talk so fast here our old ears just can’t keep up.
But, there was no doubt that the woman sounded angry.”
The whole time Patsy was talking, Donny just smiled, nodded
his head and kept my coffee cup filled and food on my plate.
Pasty continued. “Another holdover from the Navy is that Donny
is an excellent cook. I was in banking. When it comes to a good
breakfast, he’s the expert. We’ve been sailing the Windward Islands
since he retired. We bought Gone With The Wind, and well, we went
with the wind.” She kept on smiling and talking at an astonishing
rate.
“To be honest we didn’t think much of the yelling. We’ve heard
lots of people yelling in our time, not only when we were in the
Navy, but also in the sailing that we have done. We didn’t pay any
attention until we heard Elisa this morning. Poor girl. I hope the
police find out who did it.”
After getting a few more details down, I thanked Patsy and
Donny for their information and then tapped my cell phone to stop
recording. It was a good interview. The breakfast was excellent, and
they were earnest in offering to have me back again. My stomach
definitely agreed with that.
 CHAPTER 6
After saying my goodbyes to Patsy and Donny, I dinghied over
to Sally and John Martin on the SV Too Fun. I made a full circle
around their catamaran too, a similar but newer model to Gone With
The Wind. I saw nothing out of the ordinary. Everything seemed to
be in its place. As I approached, an older man and woman, both
smiling, came down to the stern as though they had been waiting
for me.
“Good morning. My name is Sten and I—”
“We know who you are, young man, and why you are here.
Come aboard. Hand me that line and I’ll tie you off and help you
out,” said John who just kept on talking.
“As soon as I heard the news on the net this morning, I called
Donny. This is the most bizarre thing that’s happened in the 6 years
we have been cruising. Come on up. There you go. Can I call you
Sten?” I nodded in reply and was about to his hand when he
interrupted himself, “I’m John and this is my wife, Sally. I’m sure
Donny fed you, but can we get you some coffee?”
John was dressed in aquamarine swim shorts and a bright
yellow tank top. I’d not seen an ensemble like that before.
At this point I was able to sneak in a few words.
“Thanks for allowing me aboard your vessel. To answer your
question, John, yes; I’d love some coffee and some water too
please.”
“Good. Well, come on up to the cockpit, Sten, and out of the
sun. We’ll sit at the table, and you can ask us whatever you want,”
said John.
The sun was brightening as it rose, and it was being reflected in
earnest on the water and other vessels around. The easterly winds
were steady and cooling, and the clouds were high and wispy. It was
another perfect day in the paradise called Grenada.
 As I made my way up to the waiting table and the next
interview, I looked around and saw a well decked out and homely
space.
Sally was wearing a thin light yellow linen sundress which
emphasized her tan. She came to the table and sat down next to
John. John kept on talking and I was having a hard time placing his
accent.
“This situation is totally out of the ordinary. I’ve been coming
down to Grenada chartering catamarans for years, and never have I
heard of something like this. Quite shocking really. We’re from
Wyoming in case you were wondering. I had a medical practice
there but I’m retired now. Coming to Grenada and sailing was our
winter therapy, and now we get to enjoy our therapy every day.
Sorry, Sally tells me I like to talk too much and never give anyone
else a chance to say anything.”
John paused, as though offering me an opportunity to speak but
as I was about to speak, he continued.
“As I wrote in the email, since we’ve been here, the shoreline
has been pretty consistent in terms of lights.” He pointed towards
the shore in the distance past the bow of the boat, “Most of these
houses in front of us have been vacant, probably due to the COVID-
19 pandemic and travel restrictions. We have really enjoyed the
relative peace and quiet.”
“Last night, however, we noticed lights in the lower part of the
large home directly in-front of us. I told Sally I was happy to see a
little life was coming back. Sally, what time was that at?”
Sally looked at me and said, “It was about 9pm. I was
messaging my sister, that's why I remember. We always talk at the
same time. We went to bed maybe a half hour later. We put the AC
on, watched some TV and then went to sleep. We are early to bed,
early to rise kind of people.”
“So, you say that the lights came on at 9pm or that you noticed
them at about 9pm?” I asked.
John spoke up “I would say I noticed them at about 9pm. We’d
eaten a huge Thanksgiving meal with Donny and Patsy and we’d
dozed off up here after they left. We woke up before dark, cleaned
up the galley and then I settled into some reading. I still read
medical journals to stay current. Sally had been calling the kids – we
have two of them and one granddaughter – and then she called her
sister. While she was on the phone I noticed the lights on. So, short
answer – I don’t know. They could have been on before I noticed
them.”
While John was talking, Sally headed into the saloon. I heard a
grinding sound and smelled fresh coffee brewing. A few minutes
later Sally came out with the water and coffee served in China cups.
The coffee was nutty with a hint of caramel, earthy, full bodied and
expertly brewed. Sally really knew what she was doing. She smiled.
“Sally, this is divine.” I looked at John. “You are a lucky man.”
Without missing a heartbeat Sally said, “Yes he is.” She had a
mischievous glint in her eye, and John looked at her smiling.
“Yes, I am,” he said. “I truly am. Sally’s put up with me for
almost forty years. How about you, Sten. How long have you been
married?” He nodded toward the ring on my left hand.
“I was married for four years.” There was silence.
“You used the past tense Sten,” John said, raising an eyebrow.
“She was killed by a drunk driver in a car accident a little over a
year ago.”
Since the accident, I have heard so many responses to those
words ranging from, “Sorry for your loss,” to stunned silence. John’s
response was different. He reached out, grabbed my right hand with
his and patted the top of it gently with his left. Sally stood behind
me placing her hands on my shoulders and slowly began to gently
knead them.
There was no need for words because they had spoken so
clearly and gently in their actions. I squeezed his hand in return.
John released my hand and Sally stopped kneading my
shoulders and came around and sat next to John.
“Well, we need to have you over for a good meal soon, Sten.
Sally is a chef...” Sally shook her head “…yes you are, Sally,” “She
might not be certified, Sten, but she is a chef. She does magic with
food. Ask anyone. She can cook, bake, you name it. Foods from all
over the world as well as her own creations. If you are here for
Christmas, you WILL be joining us, even if I have to dinghy over and
get you. I’ll ask Donny to help me. He’s quiet, but he’s done a lot in
his life, much of it he can’t speak about. Between the two of us, you
wouldn’t have a chance!” He said, smiling. They were both smiling.
I smiled back, grateful for everything, but especially for another
stitch in the gash of loss. There had been a number of stitches since
that horrible day. This, though, was unexpected. A cleaning and
further healing of a wound to my soul that had left an enduring
mark on my very essence and who I am as a person.
We talked for about an hour about all sorts of things from boats
to sailing passages, experiences, and advice – it seemed like ten
minutes. I was so relaxed and at peace. It was like being at the
dinner table with my family. I was able to be myself, no facades, no
pretensions. I hadn’t felt this in months. I hadn’t realized how much
I missed moments like this, how much I missed family.
I sadly had to move on to the next interview; however, I did so
knowing that I would be back, and soon. Sally told me that while
John and I were talking she had sent me some good flavorful African
and Asian recipes that were easy to prepare onboard a boat. I gave
her a long hug and a whispered thank you. I gripped John’s hand
with both of mine and looked him in the eye. He simply said, “See
you soon son.”
I nodded and shook his hand.
 CHAPTER 7
I headed further down the bay toward the Corona Del Mar. It
was late morning now, and traffic in the bay was picking up, as was
the heat, the wind, and the intensity of the sun. I looked at my
watch – 1047 hours. I had already had my fill of coffee for the day. I
needed to increase my water intake. I also had this feeling that I
was going to hear from Sergeant Nelson soon. “Well, my cellphone is
on. If she calls, she calls. If not, I’ll give her a call soon.” I muttered.
I put it out of my mind.
The Corona Del Mar looked to be an older style sloop design of
wooden construction. Her hull’s planking was evident, and she was
looking her age. Her gel coat had spots in it. Her white exterior paint
was weathered and flaking in some sections. Her woodwork was
bleached gray and needed sanding and varnish. When I was up
close, I saw a substantial amount of marine growth on her hull
under the waterline. The sail cover for her main was off white and
spotted with stains. It almost looked like an ancient shroud.
She looked like she had been in the sea for a while and needed
some tender loving care but she looked well lived-in. There was
laundry clipped to the lifelines on both sides of the boat around the
bow. The clothes all looked to be for adults, mostly female.
The ladder was on the port side. The stern was occupied by her
cockpit. All the hatches were open. I did my circumnavigation of the
boat. There were plants growing in the cockpit area, and a makeshift
privacy curtain made of colorful tropical wraps rippling in the wind. It
had a totally different vibe from the other two. She was flying the
French tricolor. Both of the other boats flew the star-spangled
banner.
The email that I had received from Corona Del Mar was from
Marie. She had said that she had a little information and that I
should come in the late morning. They were going into town to do
some shopping and should be back by 1000 hours.
 I came alongside the port side and cut the engine. I grabbed
the ladder and called out, “Hello. My name is Sten. Permission to
come aboard?” I was met with silence. I called out again, “Hello. My
name is Sten. You emailed me early this morning about information
you might have. Permission to come aboard?”
Silence except for the wind in the lines and rigging as well as
fluttering in the make-shift privacy curtain. Not complete silence
though. I could hear some slow beat Electronic Dance Music coming
from below. Then I saw a slender tanned woman in a multi-colored
bikini and shoulder length black hair standing on the deck looking at
me. Her green eyes were piercing. I looked at her and raised my
hand, “Good morning. My name is Sten from SV NÅDE.” I pointed to
my sloop. “Elisa spoke about the incident on the net this morning
and I received an email from Marie. May I have permission to come
aboard?”
The woman replied in a strong French accent, “Oui, oui, I am
Marie. Come aboard.” She beckoned me on board and said, “Come
here to the cockpit. We are finishing to put away our things from
shopping then we swim to be cooled off because the day is hot
already.” She turned away and walked back to the cockpit behind the
privacy screen. I grabbed the line in my left hand, grabbed the
ladder with my right hand and climbed up with the dinghy painter in
hand, tying off when I reached the top.
I stood up, made my way to the stern, and brushed aside the
make-shift privacy curtains to look around. It was crowded. It
seemed like they had been at anchor for a while. There were plants,
lights, books and all sorts of other items cluttering the cockpit. The
table in the center was open and had plates, cups and other items
on it. It was well used. A tablet was open and upright on the table
and the screen was active. Marie saw me glance at it and said, “I
was checking my emails to see if you had replied.”
“Sorry I did not reply. I thought about it and decided I would
just accept the invitation and show up. It is such a wonderful day –
a good day for a dinghy ride. Thanks for your email and invitation. Is
now a good time to talk?”
“It is good. I will call the others to come.”
 As she moved to go down below I could see bags of groceries. I
saw another young female in a bikini top with a wrap around her
waist and a young male in swimming shorts going through the
grocery bags and storing everything away. Marie spoke to them in
French as she went down below.The last time that I had put my
mind to understanding French was in secondary school in Malawi,
Africa – a long time ago. I didn't understand a word.
I sat down in the cockpit, in the shade and waited for them to
finish their conversation.
I was raised by a Norwegian father and spent years in Sweden
and many in Africa with countless European friends. I am well
accustomed to the differences between Americans and Europeans in
life, dress, cuisine, art, culture and sailing. I enjoy the variety; from
the differences in speech to the differences in tones of skin, shapes
of eyes, colors of irises, styles of hair and dress, social customs, and
the list goes on. The yachting community is in many ways the
epitome of what the United Nations continually fails to achieve;
harmony among a diverse group of peoples.
The yachts are different, the levels of care and expense are
different, the flags flown and the places of registration are vastly
different from each other. Despite all of this, there is an undeclared
sense of community; a watchfulness for your neighbor, the lending
of a hand, a line, a tool, and the openness to socialization with
people that you would probably never have associated with on land.
There is a sharing, a mutual responsibility, and an understanding of
what is acceptable and unacceptable, a closeness, and a balanced
sense of individuality and community that the likes of the United
Nations can only dream about.
The gentle breeze was blowing in my face as I looked out at the
Atlantic. The make-shift privacy screen behind me gently rippled in
the same breeze. When I turned around to look at it, it reminded me
of the “old fashioned” tubular kaleidoscopes that we played with
when I was younger. Colors shifted and changed. It was a good
memory that made me smile.
“Monsieur Sten.” I came out of my reverie. Marie’s voice came
from close by, yet still down below in the cabin. “Yes, I am here,” I
replied.
“Would you like to have some lunch with us? Jose said that the
walk and the shopping has made him hungry.”
“I would like that very much. Thank you,” I replied.
“Do you mind that we have red wine, some bread and cheese
and some vegetables for eating?” Marie asked.
“Not at all. That sounds delicious.” And it did. Eating, I have
found, is the universal language of friendship. Who am I to decline
friendship, especially when it is healthy, tasty, and free?
“We will be up soon. Thank you for waiting,” said Marie.
“Not at all. Es un placer.” I thought, since the vessel’s name was
in Spanish, and Jose was a Spanish name, I would see if Spanish
was spoken on board. Also, since my Spanish was alive but my
French was not, I would make the effort to be friendly as well by
showing respect through effort.
“El habla Español,” He speaks Spanish, I heard Jose say.
“Puedes hablar mucho Español Señor Sten?” Are you fluent in
Spanish Sten?
“No. Lo siento. Aprendí Español en México pero muchos años
pasados,” No, Sorry. I learned Spanish in Mexico but a lot of years
ago, I replied.
“Don’t worry,” I heard Jose say. “I probably speak better English
than you speak Spanish or French. I attended university in Canada.”
I then saw him as he walked up into the cockpit. He had a bowl of
cut vegetables in one hand, and an opened bottle of red wine in the
other. He was a tanned, black haired, black bearded slim
Mediterranean young man with caramel colored eyes. He was
wearing black swimming shorts, and had tattoos on the upper halves
of his arms and on his chest.
“We have not formally met. My name is Jose. Welcome aboard
Corona Del Mar. Also, thank you again for waiting. We just had to
stow our things away.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Jose. My name is Sten. It was no
trouble, It was nice just to sit and enjoy the breeze and the shade.
It’s been a busy morning; a lot has happened.”
 He sat down across from me and looked at me. He looked to be
in his mid-twenties, the same as Marie.
“We were all shocked to hear what happened when Elisa
reported it on the net. Do you know what happened and who the
person was?” asked Jose.
“At this time, I know nothing. The police left with the body and
they did not recognize her,” I said. While I was speaking, Marie came
up with a platter with some cheese, meat and sliced bread on it
followed by the young woman I had seen below. She was tanned
with blond hair tied into a bun and a wrap around her waist. Her
hands were filled with plates, silverware and cups. The blond woman
sat next to Jose, thigh to thigh and Marie sat next to me.
“My name is Olivia” said the woman as she offered me her hand
across the table. I took it and shook it. It was gentle but firm. She
had a stud in her left nostril and multiple rings and studs in both
ears.
Olivia set plates, silverware, and cups in front of each person.
Jose poured the wine, and Marie began slicing cheese and meat for
everyone. “Please eat, Sten,” Marie said.
I took some bread, cheese, meat, and a few cut vegetables and
began to eat. It was delicious, and the cool crisp red Pinot was
refreshing.
We ate and we talked. We are born on land. We live on land.
We work on land. We build on land. There usually is some
compelling reason why we who are of the land go to sea. Those
reasons make for good stories, and they had some good stories.
They told me how their individual lives intertwined and how they all
decided to go to sea and came to be here. I then turned the
conversation around to the reason I was there.
“So tell me about last night,” I said.
Marie seemed to be the social leader of the group and
responded for them all.
“We were all in the cockpit last night enjoying a late dinner. We
had candles with covers so that we could enjoy the stars and not
have too much light. It was different from other nights because
there were some lights on the shore that had not been there before
right over there by that jetty. We saw a light on it just before
midnight and heard shouting as well, but we could not understand
anything. It sounded like a man and a woman, lasted maybe three
to four minutes and then stopped.”
I asked Jose and Olivia if they agreed with what Marie said and
they concurred. I asked if they had seen or heard anything else.
Nothing.
All three boats basically had corroborating accounts of lights on
in some of the rooms of the lower level in the home across from Too
Fun. This was the first time these lights had been seen. An unknown
man and woman had argued on the jetty below the house or close
to the marina. The argument was short and occurred between 2330
and 0000 hours. The argument stopped suddenly with no more
talking or noise heard.
My phone rang suddenly, as though my thoughts had been
heard. I looked at my watch: 1317 hours. It was a local number I
didn’t recognize. I answered it, saying, “Hello. This is Sten speaking.”
“Mr. Dahl, this is Sergeant Nelson. I require you to come down
to the South St. George police station please. I have some follow up
questions. When this afternoon will you be able to make it down to
the station?”
“I will be there at 1500 hours.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dahl. Inform the desk officer that you are there
to see me and that you have an appointment. I’ll see you at 1500
hours.” The call ended.
I saved the number to my contacts and then looked at my
hosts, pointed to my phone and said one word – “Police.”
 CHAPTER 8
I dinghied back to NÅDE, took a cooling swim and then quickly
showered, shaved and changed my clothes. I had decided to walk to
the police station and then possibly, after a little shopping and a
meal at a local restaurant, take a taxi back to the marina. With my
dry bag, hat and walking stick in hand, I got back on the dinghy and
motored to the marina dock.
I waved at the dockmaster, Charles, as I tied my dinghy off. He
was busy overseeing the fueling of a yacht, but I made a mental
note to try and speak with him later and began my walk, stick in
hand, to the police station. I didn't really need it to walk, not yet
anyway, but it was useful to fend off any canines that might be
having a bad day.
“Sten, stop marching,” I told myself. I hadn’t realized that I was
marching. I was nervous, agitated, upset and angry all at the same
time. I was a suspect in a case and I was innocent. But, the police
were still about to waste their precious time trying to eliminate me
from the suspect list. Mostly though, I was angry about the
senseless death of a young woman.
The police station was like most in the Caribbean – utilitarian in
design yet colorful. This one was royal blue. There was a flagpole
out front along with a sign designating South St George’s Police
Station and a small garden, if you could call it that, of decorative
shrubs in need of a trim surrounding the flagpole. Signs on the glass
doors stated the latest and the oldest public service announcements.
They were a mixture of high gloss and faded paper and print – like
some of the programs they represented; high gloss to begin – faded
and unrecognizable and sometimes irrelevant as time went by.
I entered the Police station through the glass doors. The
reception area was small and rectangular with a door to the right
and another to the left. There were bench seats to the immediate
right and left against the wall, facing the counter. To the right, was a
bulletin board with mostly worn and bleached notices – including the
faded and outdated COVID warnings flapping in the breeze of the
fan. The sun bleached everything – even though it was inside.
As I walked in, I was presented with two constables seated
behind a high concrete block counter facing me. At the counter, a
female constable was on the phone and a male constable was
reading something below the counter. There was a senior officer, in
uniform, near a door to the left leading out of the reception area,
speaking to a civilian in a quiet voice. A young couple, dressed like
tourists sat on the bench to my right. I sat down and listened.
“Yes, madam. I understand that you are upset. I would be too;
however, I cannot criminally charge the two goats that broke free
from their tether and ate through all your garden. I can do nothing
to them. I can speak and possibly charge the owner, but you’ve
stated that you do not wish to punish the owner, your neighbor.
Therefore, I suggest that you ask your neighbor to beat the guilty
goats or get some of the meat when one of them is slaughtered,” I
heard the senior officer say to the citizen.
I looked up at the varnished wood slate ceiling and smiled. The
things that police officers had to deal with and resolve around the
world – it was a never-ending fascinating list.
While looking around some more, I made eye contact with the
male constable who had been looking and writing something. He
nodded his head at me then he turned to the tourists and beckoned
them to approach. Both of them did. He handed the female a slip of
paper and what looked like an ID and said, “Here is your three-
month driving permit. Have a good day.” She took it from him, read
it, smiled and then they both turned around and exited the reception
area with a nod and smile in my direction. “Sir?,” said the constable
as he beckoned to me.
All this time the female constable was on the phone. Her voice,
tone and decibel level had changed while I waited. She had slowly
become louder, her eyes rolled upward multiple times, her hand was
thrown out from her side at shoulder height or up toward the ceiling
as she shook her head and her tone was becoming more angry as
the conversation continued. “Sah. I have said it many times. This is
not a police matter. There is no law against this activity you are
describing….”
“Good afternoon,” I said. “I am here to speak with Sergeant
Nelson.”
“Aah, you’re the one who found the body this morning. Yes, she
informed us that you were coming. Just wait and I’ll call her.” He
took out his cellphone and called. “Yes, Sergeant. The man you are
expecting is here…. Yes…. I will do so.”
“Please go through that door,” he said, pointing to the door on
the, past the senior officer who was still using all his skill to address
the citizens complaint about the hungry goats. “Then take the first
corridor on the right. Find the second door on the right, knock, and
enter,” he concluded.
The floors and walls were concrete. The ceiling was high with
fluorescent lighting. As I looked around it seemed like only a quarter
of the bulbs were working. The doors were wood and the second
one had a notice on it which read INTERVIEW. This was going to be
interesting. I, a former detective, being interviewed as a witness
(suspect? – hopefully not), for a serious crime, in a foreign country.
For the first time the seriousness of the situation hit me. I was
so used to being the law, but I was not the law here. I am possibly a
suspect in a homicide in a foreign country without many of the
constitutional protections that US citizens have that are so often
taken for granted. I began to sweat more.
I knocked, paused, and entered. There was a wooden table in
the center of the small interview room and two wooden chairs facing
each other on opposite sides of the table. Sergeant Nelson was
standing beside the chair closest to the door and greeted me.
“Good afternoon Mr. Dahl. Thank you for being so timely. Please
take a seat.” She pointed to the chair farthest away from the door.
As I walked by her to the chair, I noted the thin file and a cell phone
on the table in front of her chair. I sat down. She was good. She had
done this before. She was looking at me the whole time, assessing
me. She was setting the stage and chose the chair for herself closest
to the door in case she needed to exit quickly.
 She waited until I was seated and then sat down. She picked up
her phone, tapped record, then placed it back down on the table.
“The time is 1507 hours on 26 November 2021. Present is Sergeant
Nelson of the RGPF and Mr. Sten Dahl in interview room A. To begin,
Mr. Dahl, this is being recorded and you do not have to say anything,
but it may harm your defense if you do not mention, when
questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Do you
understand this and do you agree to speak with me?”
Here we go, I thought. There are some things that are universal
– interviews and interrogations are part of this. Even if you are
innocent, you still get the pucker factor, the nervousness. I grimaced
internally and sighed externally and replied. “I understand the
warning, and I agree to speak with you.”
“The purpose of this interview,” she began, “is to determine
what you know about the cause of the death of the victim that you
say you found in the water beside your yacht this morning. During
this interview I am most likely going to write down some notes and
the entire interview will be recorded. Also, I strongly urge you to
speak openly, freely, and honestly. Do you have any questions for
me at this time?”
She was surprised by my response. “Yes. By the look of that file
there,” I spoke as I pointed to the one on the table, “You have
probably already requested information from the FBI about me. If
my memory serves me right, you most likely contacted the office in
Barbados and already know that I’m a reserve law enforcement
officer. I actually told one of the constables that this morning. As
such, you know that I will have investigated multiple crimes and
written many reports. So, you can ask me questions, like you would
any other civilian, or I could give you a detailed verbal report after
which you could ask me clarifying questions.”
Sergeant Nelson just stared at me for about ten seconds. Police
types all over the world are territorial. We don’t like power plays
unless we are the ones with the power. I wasn’t sure what my
assertion was going to result in, but I was impressed. She showed
no overt emotion; no anger, frustration, disbelief, nothing.
 Then she smiled. A slow and genuine smile that showed white
teeth – a smile that touched the eyes. “Mr. Dahl,” she said, “not only
have I been on the phone with the FBI in Barbados, I have also
been in touch with a certain Sheriff’s Office in Colorado, USA and
was even granted a rather long conversation with the Sheriff as well
as a few other people in his office,” she said.
“Well, Sergeant Nelson, it seems like you know quite a lot about
me then. However, back to the question. Do you want me to report
on what occurred this morning or just go through this interview
formality with you?”
Sergeant Nelson continued to smile calmly and confidently, but
it was no longer in her eyes. “Please, report,” she said.
I obliged. I detailed the date, time, temperature, wind speed
and direction, my actions, observations and then mentioned that I
had done some field interviews.
Her demeanor changed instantly; the smile disappeared, the
eyebrows went up and she raised her hand to gently smooth down
her hair, front to back. She folded her hands together on the table,
leaned forward and looked directly at me.
“You did what?” She asked.
I nodded. “Yes, I conducted some field interviews at a few
yachts this morning,” I said. “You really did that?” she asked.
Incredulity written all over her face.
I nodded again. “Yes. I was there, I know the yachting
community, so I thought I would help. I can give you a full report on
that too if you like.”
Once again, she looked at me for ten long seconds with a
relatively deadpan face then simply said, “Report!” This time, there
was a loud urgency in her voice. She was not happy. Frankly, had
the roles been reversed, I would have been upset too. I sighed.
I delivered my report as thoroughly and as quickly as I could
with a constant back and forth of clarifying questions and repeated
answers. There was no offer of water, and definitely no smile.
Sergeant Nelson was all business. She was angry.
“So, in summary,” she said, “the only change that anyone
noticed last night was an argument between an unseen man and
woman, on a pier, below a house that had lights on in the lower
level and up until then had been dark.”
“Yes,” I replied. The smile was wiped from my face too. I was
tired and apologetic. “I understand that it is not usual for a possible
murder suspect to conduct field visits. In fact, it is frowned upon.
However, as you must already know or at least suspect – I did not
murder the young lady. I have a strong aversion to injustice, and I
have a strong drive to uphold justice. That’s why I did what I did.”
While I was justifying my actions she looked at me. We were
both tired. “I can understand why you did what you did Mr. Sten,
especially after speaking with your Sheriff, but I don’t agree with
what you did.
“We have concluded here. Please remain in Grenada until such
time as I officially inform you that you may leave. Also, when I say
remain in Grenada, I mean that you will not move your yacht from
where it is currently moored, not even for an afternoon’s sail. I’d
also like you to make yourself available should we need to follow
up.” She picked up her phone, touched the screen a couple of times
and then put it back down. The interview had ended.
“Yes,” I responded. “I will follow your directives. “I’ll write up
the interviews as soon as I return and send them to you with my
own written report. Is there an email address I can send them to?”
She stood up, opened the case of her phone, took out a card
and handed it to me. “My email and phone number are both listed.”
She pointed toward the door. I slowly stood up, nodded my head in
her direction and extended my right hand. She swung her right hand
across her body over to mine and we gave each other a short firm
grip and a single shake. She was not happy at all.
Sergeant Nelson escorted me all the way to just outside the
glass doors in the front entryway, wished me a blessed day and went
back inside. I was alone again, outside, with mixed feelings. I was
unsettled because I was powerless to acquire the truth, and I had
no control over how to best exact justice for the dead. I was
frustrated. Yes, I was angry too.
 CHAPTER 9
I put my dry bag on my back, began spinning my walking stick
and marched back down the road to the mall where the grocery
store was located. My mind was running through questions; what did
the medical examiner’s report conclude as the cause of death? Who
was I kidding? There was no medical examiner report yet. Who was
the victim? What was she doing there, if she had been there? What
was going on with the lights at the house that had previously been
dark? Who were the people who had been heard arguing? Was it
just an accident and all these events weren’t connected at all?
I became aware of my surroundings and realized that I had
overshot the grocery store and was now at the roundabout near the
public park by the beach. The road was filled with traffic. There was
a football game going on on the community field next to me and a
vendor on the side of the road selling coconut water. The sidewalk
was filled with people. I was not paying any attention to any of this.
I knew the questions that needed answers, but I was powerless to
seek the answers. I was invested yet excluded.
I turned back and headed to the grocery store which was very
crowded. Families, young couples hanging out, professionals in their
business attire or company uniforms shopping before heading home
for the weekend. The decibel level was high as though the burden
and stress of work and school was being released and thrown from
the body in sound. The taxi stand was full and waiting for
customers. The outdoor benches were full and shopping carts were
scattered all over the parking lot.
I made my way inside. The remnants of the COVID pandemic
were still evident. The almost totally scuffed off markers delineating
six feet social distancing. A hand sanitizer station still by the
automatic sliding door, no longer mandatory, and only the elderly
occasionally wearing masks.
Another random document with
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being carried on in the north vein, and he was afraid Billings had said
too much.
“He mentioned you, Mr. Rover, and also a Chicago capitalist
named Renton, and that seemed to make Garrish wild. I understand
the two had it hot and heavy for quite a while, and then Billings went
away in disgust.”
“Was that the night he disappeared?” asked Jack. Tom Rover had
explained to the miner that the boys were his two sons and his two
nephews.
“That’s it. Garrish and Lew had their argument about five o’clock.
Then Lew went down to the bunkhouse, and a little later had his
supper. After that he got some kind of a message and went up the
mountainside where they had reported some kind of a landslide a
few days before. That was the last seen of Lew by any one of our
men.”
“Gee! you don’t suppose he was swallowed up by the landslide?”
exclaimed Randy.
“There wasn’t no landslide when Lew went there. That happened
several days before. Besides, me and some other men searched the
whole vicinity and didn’t find no trace of Lew.”
“But he might have been caught in a new slide and buried out of
sight,” said Andy.
“It’s possible, my lad. But I don’t think so. Lew Billings was a very
careful man, and he wouldn’t go prowling around no loose dirt or
rocks unless he knew what he was doing. In all the years he’s been
mining and prospecting, I never knew him to get caught in any such
way as that.”
“Well, what’s your idea, Butts? Give it to me straight,” came
sharply from Tom Rover. “We’re both friends of Lew Billings, so there
is no use in beating about the bush.”
“Well, it ain’t for me to say what happened to Lew,” returned the
old miner doggedly. “I told you about the argument he had with Peter
Garrish. Maybe that had something to do with it, and maybe it didn’t.”
 “Well, Lew Billings is my friend and Peter Garrish is not,”
answered Tom Rover bluntly. “This looks like some sort of foul play
to me.”
“Oh, Dad, you don’t think they would——” Andy broke off short,
hardly daring to go on.
“I don’t know what to think, Andy,” was his father’s sober reply.
“This is rather a wild country, you know; and I have told you my
opinion of Garrish and his crowd before.”
“Do you think it possible that Billings took a train to Chicago to
head you off?” questioned Jack. “He might have gained some new
information that he wanted to get to you as soon as possible.”
“I don’t think he took no train,” interposed Hank Butts. “Leastwise,
not from this station. I’ve asked the station master, and he named
over everybody who got a ticket and went aboard, both ways. If he
took a train at all, it would have been from some other place.”
“Can’t you figure it out at all, Butts?” questioned the twins’ father.
“No, I can’t. I don’t think Garrish is the man to shoot another fellow.
He’s too much of a coward. But he might play Lew some underhand
trick. I think Lew made a big mistake to mention you and that Mr.
Renton.”
“Maybe that gave this Peter Garrish an idea that Billings knew too
much and ought to be gotten out of the way,” suggested Jack.
“It almost looks like that,” answered his uncle. “But the question
just now is: What did they do with the man?”
The matter was talked over for some time longer, but no one could
suggest a solution of the mystery. Lew Billings, the individual Tom
Rover had depended on in his fight to maintain his rights in the
Rolling Thunder mine, had disappeared, and Tom was almost at a
standstill concerning what to do next.
“Aren’t you going over to Sunset Trail?” demanded Randy
anxiously. “You aren’t going to back out, are you, Dad?”
 “No, I’m not going to back out,” was the firm reply. “But I suppose
I’ll have to change my plans somewhat, awaiting the reappearance
of Lew Billings or some word from him. He wrote that he had
important information, but he didn’t give sufficient details for me to go
ahead alone. If Billings doesn’t show up, I suppose all I can do is to
wait until Mr. Renton comes.”
Hank Butts had come over to Maporah on horseback, leading one
other steed, that belonging to Lew Billings.
“And that proves that Lew didn’t go away on horseback,” said
Butts, “because it’s the only nag he owns. I brought him over in case
I met up with you,” and he nodded to Tom Rover.
“Well, I’ve got to find some sort of mounts for the boys,” answered
the twins’ father. “Otherwise, we’ll have to make some arrangement
to stay here.”
“You might get a shakedown over to Gus Terwilliger’s,” answered
the old miner, waving his hand toward the store. “He’s got a kind of
bunkhouse in the back there. It ain’t much of a place, but the miners
and cowboys use it sometimes, when they’ve got to wait for trains.”
“Do you suppose he has any horses?”
“I can’t say. He might have.”
“I don’t suppose they have anything in the way of an auto running
up that way?” came from Fred.
“Not much!” and for the first time since meeting them Hank Butts
grinned. “Pretty good going down here, but once you get in the
mountains, and you couldn’t run an auto a hundred yards. Besides,
some of them trails is so narrow a horse can’t scarcely navigate
’em.”
“In that case, how did they get the mining machinery up there?”
questioned Jack.
“It all had to come in by the lower route, lad. It’s over a hundred
miles more than this way around. But they had to do it, for there ain’t
no other way to reach Gold Hill—that is, by wagon.”
 The crowd had walked away from the station and now came back
to find the place deserted and locked up.
“No more trains to stop here until nine o’clock to-morrow morning,”
announced Hank Butts, as he untied the two horses and offered one
of the steeds to Tom Rover. “Each of us might carry one of the boys,
but I don’t see how we could carry two,” he went on.
“We’ll go over to the store and see what we can do,” answered the
twins’ father, and with the boys walking and the men riding they soon
reached the general store which the miner had indicated. Here the
last of the customers had departed, and the proprietor sat in an easy
chair dozing with his pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth.
“Sure! I can give you a shakedown for the night if you want it,” said
Gus Terwilliger, after the situation had been explained to him. “Or, if
you want it, I may be able to fit you out with horses.”
“Didn’t know you had so many animals, Gus!” exclaimed Butts, in
surprise.
“Oh, a general store like this has got to keep everything,”
answered the storekeeper, with a grin, and then went on to explain
that six cowboys had gone away on a vacation and had left their
steeds in his care.
“They said I could hire ’em out to any responsible parties that
came along,” went on Gus Terwilliger. “They’d be mighty glad to get
a little money out of the beasts instead of having ’em eat their heads
off in my corral. Cowboys ain’t any too wealthy, you know.”
The quarters the storekeeper had to offer were clean and fairly
comfortable, and after another talk with Hank Butts Tom Rover
decided to stay at Maporah over night.
“If we went over to Gold Hill with you it might only make more
trouble for you,” he explained to the old miner. “You had better go
back and say nothing about having seen me. We can ride over to-
morrow just as well as not. But I’m going to depend on you as a
friend, Butts,” he added, taking the old miner by the hand. “And if you
hear of anything worth knowing, don’t fail to let me know about it and
at once.”
 To this the old miner agreed, and a few minutes later set off on
horseback, taking Lew Billings’s mount with him. Then the Rovers
reëntered the general store and asked the proprietor if he could give
them their supper.
“Sure thing! And breakfast, too,” answered Gus Terwilliger. “That’s
what my wife and two daughters are here for—to wait on all
customers.”
The boys were shown a place where they could wash, and a little
later they and their uncle were conducted to a small but comfortable
dining room and there treated to a home-cooked meal that, while
perhaps not as elaborate as those served on the train, was entirely
satisfactory. The two Terwilliger girls waited on the table and smiled
broadly at the visitors.
“Going to work in the mine?” questioned one of the girls, a miss of
fifteen.
“No. We came out to hunt elephants,” answered Andy, with a wink,
and thereupon both girls giggled and soon became quite friendly.
After the meal the horses were brought out and examined and
Tom Rover, with the aid of the boys, selected five of the mounts, and
also hired the sixth animal for the purpose of transporting their
baggage up to Sunset Trail.
“Well, Uncle Tom, things don’t look very bright, do they?”
questioned Jack of his uncle when they were ready to turn in.
“They certainly do not, Jack,” was the sober reply. “This
unexpected disappearance of Lew Billings upsets me a good deal. I
hardly know what to expect when I reach the mine.”
“Do you think you’ll have trouble with this Peter Garrish?”
questioned Randy.
“I certainly do! A whole lot of trouble!” answered Tom Rover.
 CHAPTER XX
AT THE ROLLING THUNDER MINE

“What a magnificent view!”

It was Jack Rover who spoke. The party had been on the way to
Sunset Trail for over two hours. All were mounted on the steeds Tom
Rover had hired from the storekeeper and behind them came the
extra horse loaded down with their belongings.
“I’ll say it’s a fine view!” declared Fred, who was riding beside his
cousin.
They had reached the top of one of the foothills of the Rocky
Mountains and on all sides stretched rocks and forests with here and
there a great mound rearing its head toward the sky. At one point
there was a sharp cleft in the mountainside, and from this rushed a
torrent of water, making a thundering sound as it reached the rocks
and the river bed far below.
“That’s where the Rolling Thunder mine gets its name,” said Tom
Rover, pointing to the waterfall. “If you close your eyes you’ll think
the sound very much like rolling thunder.”
“Is the mine over there?” questioned Andy eagerly.
“Yes. But you can’t see it from this point. We’ve got to cover at
least two miles more before we get in sight of the place.”
“And where is Sunset Trail?” questioned Jack, with equal
eagerness.
“That’s just above and a little to the south of the falls,” answered
his uncle. “We’ll hit that trail just before we get to Gold Hill.”
The climbing up and down the foothills leading to the mountains
beyond was no easy task for either horses or riders, yet the boys
enjoyed the outing thoroughly.
 “It beats reciting in a classroom all hollow,” was the way Randy
expressed himself. “Me for a life in the open air every time!”
“I knew you boys would enjoy this,” declared Tom Rover. “If it
wasn’t for what I’ve got on my mind just now I’d be as crazy about it
as you are,” and for an instant there was an old-time twinkle in his
eyes.
“Oh, Uncle Tom, don’t worry about the mine all the time!” burst out
Fred. “Things may straighten themselves out quicker than you
expect.”
“I hope they do,” answered his uncle. But almost immediately his
face again resumed a worried look. The disappearance of Lew
Billings had affected him deeply.
Tom Rover had already explained to the boys that many of the
men at the mine kept house for themselves and that there was also
something of a boarding house, presided over by a colored man,
Toby White, who at one time had been a chef in a San Francisco
hotel. It was at Toby White’s boarding house they hoped to obtain
accommodations during their stay at Gold Hill.
“But of course we won’t want to stay at the boarding house all the
time,” said Fred, as the party rode along. “We want to get out on
Sunset Trail and do some hunting and fishing.”
“You’re welcome to go out as much as you please, Fred,”
answered his uncle. “All I ask of you is that you keep out of trouble.”
“Oh, we know how to take care of ourselves,” answered the
youngest Rover confidently.
“But remember, Uncle Tom, we won’t want to leave you if you
need us,” put in Jack quickly. “If there is any fighting to be done, we
want to be right alongside to help you.”
“I don’t expect any fighting, Jack,” was the reply. “Peter Garrish
isn’t that kind of a man. As Hank Butts said, he’s a good deal of a
coward. If he tries anything at all, it will be in a very underhand way.
What I want him to do is to open the books of the concern and let me
talk with the superintendent and the others in charge of the mine and
find out exactly how things are going. I have an idea they are selling
a good portion of their ore to another concern at a low price and that
that concern is owned by Garrish and his friends.”
It was not yet noon when they came in sight of Gold Hill. As they
made a turn of the mountain trail they came again within sound of
the thundering falls, which was now below them.
The entrance to the Rolling Thunder mine was not a
prepossessing one. The opening was in the side of the hill and from
it ran a small railway to a crusher a short distance off. There were
half a dozen buildings, some of wood and some covered with
galvanized iron. Half a dozen men were moving about and they
gazed curiously at the new arrivals.
“We’ll go over to Toby White’s boarding house first and see what
sort of accommodations we can get there,” said Tom Rover. “I don’t
want to give Garrish a chance to keep us out.”
“Keep us out! What do you mean?” questioned Randy.
“He might give Toby a tip not to take us in. He might try to make it
so uncomfortable that we couldn’t stay here.”
“But we could camp out if we had to!” cried Fred.
“Sure we could! And that’s what I’ll do if we have to,” answered his
uncle.
Tom had been at Toby White’s before, at the time he had made his
investment in the mine, and as he had treated the colored boarding-
house keeper rather liberally, White was all smiles when he
recognized his visitor.
“I suah am proud to see you, Mistah Rover,” he said, bowing. “Got
your fambly with you, eh?”
“I have, Toby. My two sons and my two nephews. I want to know if
you’ve got accommodations for us.”
“I ce’tainly has. Come right in and make you’selves at home.
Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”
 “We may want to stay quite a while, Toby,” went on Tom Rover, as
he dismounted, his action being followed by the boys.
“Stay as long as you please, sir. I can give you a room to you’self
and I’ve got two other rooms where the young gentlemen can double
up. Just come right in, sir.”
“I wonder if he’d have been so friendly if he knew Uncle Tom was
after Peter Garrish’s scalp,” whispered Fred to his cousins.
“Hush, Fred,” admonished Jack in a low tone. “You’d better keep
all that sort of talk under your hat for the present.”
Having proceeded to make themselves at home in the rooms by
putting away their belongings, the boys rejoined Tom Rover, who had
announced that he was going over to the office of the mine, one of
the small buildings near the mouth of the mine shaft.
“It’s just possible Garrish may want to see me alone,” announced
Tom Rover. “So if I give you boys the hint just make yourselves
scarce for the time being,” and so it was arranged.
“But don’t forget if you need us just yell and we’ll come running,”
announced Randy. He had heard his mother warn his father not to
get into a fight with the mine manager.
While Tom Rover walked over to the office the boys wandered
down to the mine opening, gazing curiously at the darkness beyond
where only a few lights flickered.
“Gee, I never could see what there was in being a miner—I mean
a fellow to work way in the bowels of the earth like this,” remarked
Fred.
“I don’t think this is as bad as a coal mine,” answered Andy.
“Gosh! that would get your goat, sure. Those poor fellows are
hundreds and hundreds of feet out of sight of daylight. If anything
gives way, it’s all up with them. I’d rather be a lineman working on
the top of telephone poles.”
“Yes, or even an aviator flying through the clouds,” added his twin.
 When Tom Rover entered the office attached to the mine he found
two young clerks in charge. Neither of them was working. One had a
newspaper in his hand and from this was reading some baseball
scores. They stared in wonder at their visitor.
“Is Mr. Peter Garrish around?” questioned Tom. His manner was
one of authority and the clerks felt instinctively that here was some
one who was entitled to their attention.
“Mr. Garrish just stepped out to the mine for a few minutes,”
answered one of the clerks. “He’ll be back presently. Anything I can
do for you?”
“Did he go down in the mine?” questioned Tom Rover.
“No, he only went over to call up one of the gang foremen. They’re
getting ready to set off another charge down there.”
“Then I’ll walk over and see if I can find him.”
The boys walked around the mouth of the mine and then stepped
inside for several yards in order that they might get a better view of
what was beyond. They were straining their eyes in the semi-
darkness when suddenly Jack felt a rather rough hand on his
shoulder.
“Hi, you fellows! What are you doing here?” cried an
unsympathetic voice. “Don’t you know that strangers have no
business in this mine?”
“Excuse us, but we didn’t know we were intruding,” answered
Jack, and he and the others retreated to the mouth of the opening,
followed by the man who had accosted them. He was a tall, thin
individual with gray hair and steely blue-gray eyes.
“Where did you boys come from?” questioned the man abruptly,
and looked sharply from one to another.
“My brother and I came with my father,” answered Randy. “These
two fellows are my cousins.”
“What’s your name?”
“Randy Rover,” was the answer.
 “Randy Rover!” repeated the man, and his manner showed his
astonishment. “Are you all Rovers?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the sons of Mr. Thomas Rover of New York?”
“We are,” answered Andy.
“Humph! Did your father send you out here?”
“No. We came with him,” answered Randy, and then he continued
quickly: “Who are you?”
“You don’t know that? I thought everybody knew me. I am Mr.
Peter Garrish, and I am in charge here. You say you came with your
father—where is he?”
“Here he comes now,” answered Randy, as Tom Rover strode
toward the crowd.
Peter Garrish looked, and as he saw the parent of the twins his
face took on a look of commingled fear and anger. He compressed
his lips and gave a slight toss to his head.
“Came to make trouble, I suppose,” he snarled, “Well, it won’t do
him any good!”
 CHAPTER XXI
OUT ON SUNSET TRAIL

If Peter Garrish was ill at ease, it must be confessed that Tom

Rover was also somewhat perplexed regarding the best way of
approaching the manager of the mine. He had thought to get a great
deal of data concerning the mine from Lew Billings and then confront
Garrish with these proofs of his wrongdoing.
“Came to look the place over, I suppose?” said Garrish, eyeing
Tom distrustfully.
“I did,” answered the father of the twins bluntly. “And I also came
to take a look at the books.”
“Take a look at the books, Mr. Rover? What’s in the wind now?”
and Garrish’s voice took on a decidedly unpleasant tone.
“I won’t beat around the bush, Garrish. You know that for a long
time I have not been satisfied with the way things are going here. I
have got a lot of money tied up in this mine, and I don’t intend to lose
it.”
“Who said you were going to lose it?” demanded the manager.
“Nobody said so, Garrish. But I can put two and two together as
well as the next fellow. I don’t like the way things are running here.
By the way, what have you done to Lew Billings?”
“Billings! I haven’t done anything to Billings.”
“He seems to be missing.”
“Well, that’s his fault and not mine. We had something of an
argument and I told him if he was not willing to carry out my orders
he had better look for a job. Since that I haven’t seen or heard of
him.”
 “He seems to have disappeared very mysteriously, Garrish,” went
on Tom suggestively.
“See here, Rover, do you want to start something?” snarled the
manager. “If you do, I’ll tell you right now it won’t get you anywhere!
I’ve had nothing to do with Billings’ disappearance. He went off on
his own hook. Now, I know you’re a stockholder here and you’ve got
a stockholder’s rights. But you must remember that I’m the manager
and that I represent the majority of the stockholders. I’m willing to do
what’s fair, but I won’t be bulldozed.”
“I sha’n’t ask you to do anything but what is fair, Garrish,”
answered Tom. “You certainly ought not to object to a large
stockholder like myself looking over the books and taking a look
around the mine.”
“That’s all right. But you’ve got to treat me as a manager ought to
be treated, or you’ll keep out of the office and out of the mine too.”
“Well, perhaps after——” began Tom, and then suddenly stopped
and said instead: “Well, have it your own way, Garrish. Just the
same, I don’t think you’re treating me quite decently, seeing that I
have seventy-five thousand dollars locked up in this mining
company.”
“Other people have over half a million dollars locked up in it. I’m
representing them as well as you. You know the majority rule, and I
am taking my orders from the majority.”
After this there was a sharp exchange of words lasting ten minutes
or more. During that time Peter Garrish tried to draw Tom out, but the
father of the twins refused to commit himself any further than stating
that he had come West to look over the mine and likewise the books.
“Well, you can’t go down in the mine to-day, and probably not to-
morrow,” said Peter Garrish at last. “We are using a lot of dynamite
and it might be dangerous. As soon as it’s safe you can go down and
take a look around.”
“All right, that’s fair,” answered Tom. “Now, what about the books?”
 “The two bookkeepers are busy to-day making out the pay roll and
doing some other things, but I’ll fix it so you can go over the books
with them in a couple of days.”
This was as much as Peter Garrish was willing to concede. Then
he added that they might obtain accommodations from the general
storekeeper at Maporah.
“Yes, we stopped there last night,” answered Tom. “But now we
have already made arrangements to stay at Toby White’s boarding
house.”
“Toby White’s!” exclaimed the manager, and it was evident that
this information did not please him in the least. “Toby had no
business to take you in. That boarding house is run exclusively for
mine employees.”
“Well, he had room, and he took us in. I don’t see what harm there
is in it when the rooms are vacant.”
“That place is on mining property, and Toby understood the
boarding house was to be exclusively for our employees. Of course,
if you, as a stockholder, want to stay there, I’ll raise no objections.
But I don’t see what we’re going to do with these boys around.”
“We don’t expect to stay around very much,” put in Randy quickly.
“We’re going out on Sunset Trail to see if we can stir up any fishing
and hunting.”
Another argument started over the question of the boarding house,
but here Tom Rover was firm and stated that they would stay as long
as the colored man would permit them. Then some one came to tell
the manager that they were getting ready to set off the charge as
ordered, and he said he would have to leave and see that everything
was all right. But before going down into the mine he hurried off to
the office, where he closed the door sharply behind him.
“Uncle Tom, those bookkeepers were not busy at all!” whispered
Jack. “When we looked in at the window they were both looking over
a newspaper and talking about baseball scores.”
 “Never mind,” answered his uncle, with a peculiar look in his eyes.
“I think I know how to handle this Peter Garrish. He puts on the front
of a bulldog, and just at present I’m going to let him do it. But before I
get through with him I’ll make him squeal like a stuck pig. Don’t you
boys give him any information, and especially don’t say a word about
those stockholders I stopped off to see in Chicago. You just go back
to the boarding house, and then you can go out on Sunset Trail if
you want to. I’m going to ride back to Maporah. I want to send off
several telegrams. He says he has the backing of the majority of the
stockholders. Well, he won’t have when I get through with him.”
“Gee, that’s the way to talk, Dad!” exclaimed Randy, in admiration.
“You get the other stockholders to back you up, and you can soon
give Mr. Peter Garrish his walking papers.”
All returned to the boarding house. A little later Tom Rover set off
on his return to the railroad station. Then the boys, with nothing else
to do, looked over their hunting and fishing outfits and, after dinner,
went off on horseback to do a little exploring.
They found Sunset Trail a fairly good highway leading westward. It
wound in and out among the hills and mountains, and there were
numerous high spots where the descending sun might be viewed to
advantage.
“I suppose that is where the name comes from,” remarked Fred,
as they came to a halt at one of these high spots to view their
surroundings. “It must be beautiful here when the sun is setting
beyond those distant mountains.”
“I don’t believe there’s very much in the way of hunting around
here,” remarked Jack. “So far I haven’t seen a sign of anything
outside of a few squirrels.”
“I’d like to get some trout or pickerel,” came from Fred. “Gee, I
haven’t been fishing for almost a year!”
“Speaking of fishing puts me in mind of Clearwater Lake,”
remarked Randy. “I wonder if Phil Franklin has done anything about
looking for that silver trophy we lost overboard.”
 “Gee, I certainly wish that was found!” sighed his twin. “They ought
to be able to get at it somehow, if they fish long enough.”
The boys rode up a long hill and then went down the somewhat
steep decline on the other side. At the foot they found a fair-sized
stream of water rushing along through the rocks.
“Here is a pretty good trail,” announced Jack. “And look, isn’t that
a lake?”
“That’s what it is!” cried Fred. “Come on! Let’s ride over and see
what it looks like. Maybe we’ll have a chance for some fishing to-
day,” he added, for they had brought their rods along and also a box
of assorted flies.
The trail was rocky in spots, but the horses seemed to be used to
this sort of going and made fairly good progress. Presently they
came out on the edge of the lake which seemed to be about half a
mile long and over two hundred yards wide. There were numerous
rocks on the shore interspersed with brushwood and trees.
“There ought to be something in the way of fish in this lake,”
remarked Jack. “Let’s try our luck and rest the horses at the same
time.”
The lake was located about seven miles directly westward from
Gold Hill and in a spot evidently but little visited by the natives. Not a
building of any sort was in sight, and when the boys discovered the
remains of a campfire they came to the conclusion that the fire must
have been built months before.
Tethering the horses so as to make sure the animals would not
stray away, the four boys quickly unslung their fishing outfits and got
them ready for use.
“I don’t know what we ought to fish with—flies or worms,” said
Randy. “What do you think?” and he looked at Jack.
“If we can find any worms we might mix it up,” was the reply, and
so it was arranged.
Having baited to their satisfaction, the boys wandered along the
bank of the lake, seeking various points that might look
advantageous. Jack and Andy found convenient fallen trees while
the others walked out on a rocky point that projected far into the
water.
“Hurrah, I’ve got something!” cried Randy, after a few minutes of
silence, and brought up a lake trout about nine inches long.
“Good for us!” came from Jack. “Not so very large, but it’s the first
catch, anyway.”
For some time after that the fish did not seem to bite. But presently
Jack brought in a trout weighing at least a pound, and then the
others were equally successful. Inside of an hour they had a mess
between them weighing five or six pounds.
“Gee, we’re going to have fish for supper all right enough,”
declared Fred, with satisfaction. “I don’t see why the miners and
other folks around here don’t do more fishing.”
“It doesn’t pay as well as mining, that’s why,” answered Jack. “Just
look at it, we’ve been here nearly two hours, and we’ve got about
two dollars’ worth of fish. If the four of us were working at the mine
we’d have earned at least eight dollars in that time.”
“This wouldn’t be a bad spot for camping,” suggested Andy.
“Suppose we ride around the lake,” suggested his twin. “There
seems to be a trail all the way around.”
The others were willing, and soon the fishing tackle was put away
and they were once more on horseback.
At the lower end of the lake they found another stream of water
running between a mass of dense brushwood. Here the trail was
narrow and the horses had to pick their way, for the spring freshets
had thrown the loose stones in all directions.
“Maybe we had better turn back,” came from Fred. “The trail
seems to be getting worse instead of better.”
“Oh, I reckon it will be all right on the higher ground,” answered
Jack. “When the snows melted last spring I suppose the water was
pretty fierce down here where the lake empties.”
 Andy and Randy had pushed ahead, and now they disappeared
around a bend of the trail. A moment later came a yell.
“Hi! Look out, boys! There’s some wild animal here! He’s up a
tree!” came from Andy.
Then came a snarl, followed by a snort of fright from the horse
Randy was riding. The next instant something came flying through
the leaves of the tree, landing on the horse’s flank.
 CHAPTER XXII
THE MOUNTAIN LION

“It’s a wildcat!”
“No, it’s a mountain lion, and it’s going to attack Randy!”
“Shoot the beast!”
“Look out or you’ll shoot Randy!”
“There they go—through the bushes!”
“What shall we do?”
Such were the startled exclamations from the other three boys.
The yell from Andy had brought Fred and Jack hurrying forward, and
they were just in time to see the wild animal land on the flank of the
horse. Then the steed, evidently terror stricken, dashed into the
brushwood alongside the trail, carrying Randy with him.
“Was it really a mountain lion?”
“Where did they go?”
“Randy! Randy! Can’t you shoot the beast?” screamed Andy.
The words had scarcely left Andy’s lips when there came a
scream from his twin and another wild snort from the horse. Then
there was added to the tumult the snarl of the mountain lion and an
instant later the beast dropped from the horse and shot through the
brushwood directly in front of where Jack and Fred had brought their
mounts to a halt.
The boys had brought their guns with them, but not having noticed
any game worth shooting at had placed the weapons behind them.
Both Jack and Fred made frantic efforts to get their weapons into
action, but before they could aim at the mountain lion it had whirled
around and disappeared up a rocky trail and then behind a clump of
brushwood. An instant later they saw it streaking up the
mountainside. Jack took aim and so did Fred, but before either could
pull a trigger the beast disappeared.
“Randy! Randy! Are you all right?” called out his twin anxiously, for
they could hear the horse Randy was riding thrashing viciously
around in the brushwood some distance away.
“Whoa! Whoa!” Randy called out. “Whoa, I tell you! You’re all right
now, old boy! Keep quiet! Whoa!” The boy continued to talk to the
horse and do his best to subdue the animal. But the nails of the
mountain lion had been dug deep into his flank and he evidently felt
as if he had been scourged with a whip. He continued to prance here
and there and then, of a sudden, streaked off across a clearing that
led upward.
“There they go!” shouted Jack. “The horse is running away!”
“Hold tight, Randy!” shouted Fred. “Don’t let him throw you!” For a
dash upon those sharp rocks that lay strewn all over the open space
might mean death.
Fortunately, Randy had slung his fishing rod beside his gun and
had tied his share of the fish in a cloth behind his saddle.
Consequently, his hands were free to hold the reins, and this he did
grimly as the horse pranced over the field very much like an
untamed broncho.
“Whoa! Whoa!” went on Randy, doing his best to subdue his
mount. “Whoa, I tell you! That wildcat—or whatever it was—is gone.”
As the horse shot across the field and among some short
brushwood, the three boys left behind headed in that direction. Each
had his gun ready for use, thinking that possibly the mountain lion or
some other wild beast might show itself.
Never had Randy had a rougher experience than the present.
Several times he was all but flung from the horse as the animal
swung around to avoid hitting one rock or another. Once he dropped
the reins and held on to the horse’s mane. Then the animal stumbled
and the lad went up in the air and it looked for a moment as if he