The Mine Read Online Free Page A
Author: John A. Heldt
and Damascened chrome panel, with driver-side gauges and a glove box-mounted clock, screamed original equipment.
The driver too was something of a throwback. Fortyish, with a gentle face, short sandy hair, and a medium build, he wore a crisp white dress shirt, gray slacks, and brown wing-tip shoes: Bing Crosby on the Road to Helena. A gray flannel jacket and a matching brimmed felt hat rested in the middle of the front seat. Is that a fedora? The man appeared fidgety after a minute of silence.
"Not from around here, are you?"
"No. I'm on my way back to Seattle from Yellowstone. I came with a friend. We were checking out that old mine, but now I can't seem to find him. I think he drove my car to Helena to get some sunglasses."
"Hmmm. Some friend. That mine's been abandoned for years, and most of the folks with cabins won't show for another week. I came out only to look in on my place. We've had some break-ins lately. You're lucky I saw you."
"Yeah. Lucky."
"What kind of car was your friend driving?"
"A RAV4. Bright red. Toyota. You couldn't possibly miss it."
"A red what?"
"Toyota."
"Never heard of it. I sell Buicks myself."
"So this is . . ."
"Brand spanking new. Bought it just last week. You like it? I wanted to wait for the forty-twos this fall, but the little lady insisted on buying now. You know how that is," Sam said with a wink.
Joel took a deep breath and resumed staring out the front window.
Forty-twos?
Sam tapped the brakes as he approached a major intersection. He turned east but not onto Highway 12. U.S. Route 10 North now served Helena.
The speed limit was fifty miles per hour. In a field to the south, a billboard that had once touted George W. Bush for president now pushed a rural electric cooperative. But road signs were small potatoes compared to the landscape. Barren fields had replaced the homes and businesses lining the highway. No road crews regulated the approach to the pass and every vehicle that drove by in the westbound lane bore a striking resemblance to those manufactured in the twenties and thirties.
Joel closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. This had to be a dream, or a bad interaction between his meat pie and ice tea. There had to be a plausible explanation. So Joel Smith, man of science, reviewed the data: Adam was AWOL, whole buildings had disappeared, and a crooner was driving him to yesteryear in a brand new antique. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Sam adjusted an air vent and glanced at Joel, whose face had become pasty white.
"Are you all right?"
"Just a little stomach trouble. I'll be fine."
If this is a prank, Adam, this is choice.
"I assume you know where we're headed."
Joel perked up. He had all but tuned out his new acquaintance.
"I'm sorry. I need to get to the Canary. Do you know where that is?"
"Sure do. Eat lunch there at least twice a week."
CHAPTER 8
The drive through Helena proper did nothing to help Joel's stomach. The Gilded Age mansions he had passed on the way out were still there. So were the parks. But the fast food restaurants, convenience stores, and modern stoplights had taken a powder.
Joel observed people on the street. They too provided no comfort. Men in suits and hats walked beside women in dresses and hats – hats with brims and nets and flowers, not logos of grunge bands or baseball teams or even tractor manufacturers. Central Casting could not have outfitted the city any better. Only two young men, standing on a street corner in work shirts and dungarees, looked remotely contemporary.
Sam, thankfully, kept any questions he had to himself. He did not ask about Joel's Candy in Chains sweatshirt or why a tourist from Seattle was investigating an abandoned mine far off the beaten path. He limited his comments to observations about the weather and the impact of the economy on new car sales.
He turned onto Main Street, or Last Chance Gulch, as it was signed a few hours earlier, and pulled into a metered parking space
The driver too was something of a throwback. Fortyish, with a gentle face, short sandy hair, and a medium build, he wore a crisp white dress shirt, gray slacks, and brown wing-tip shoes: Bing Crosby on the Road to Helena. A gray flannel jacket and a matching brimmed felt hat rested in the middle of the front seat. Is that a fedora? The man appeared fidgety after a minute of silence.
"Not from around here, are you?"
"No. I'm on my way back to Seattle from Yellowstone. I came with a friend. We were checking out that old mine, but now I can't seem to find him. I think he drove my car to Helena to get some sunglasses."
"Hmmm. Some friend. That mine's been abandoned for years, and most of the folks with cabins won't show for another week. I came out only to look in on my place. We've had some break-ins lately. You're lucky I saw you."
"Yeah. Lucky."
"What kind of car was your friend driving?"
"A RAV4. Bright red. Toyota. You couldn't possibly miss it."
"A red what?"
"Toyota."
"Never heard of it. I sell Buicks myself."
"So this is . . ."
"Brand spanking new. Bought it just last week. You like it? I wanted to wait for the forty-twos this fall, but the little lady insisted on buying now. You know how that is," Sam said with a wink.
Joel took a deep breath and resumed staring out the front window.
Forty-twos?
Sam tapped the brakes as he approached a major intersection. He turned east but not onto Highway 12. U.S. Route 10 North now served Helena.
The speed limit was fifty miles per hour. In a field to the south, a billboard that had once touted George W. Bush for president now pushed a rural electric cooperative. But road signs were small potatoes compared to the landscape. Barren fields had replaced the homes and businesses lining the highway. No road crews regulated the approach to the pass and every vehicle that drove by in the westbound lane bore a striking resemblance to those manufactured in the twenties and thirties.
Joel closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat. This had to be a dream, or a bad interaction between his meat pie and ice tea. There had to be a plausible explanation. So Joel Smith, man of science, reviewed the data: Adam was AWOL, whole buildings had disappeared, and a crooner was driving him to yesteryear in a brand new antique. What could possibly be wrong with that?
Sam adjusted an air vent and glanced at Joel, whose face had become pasty white.
"Are you all right?"
"Just a little stomach trouble. I'll be fine."
If this is a prank, Adam, this is choice.
"I assume you know where we're headed."
Joel perked up. He had all but tuned out his new acquaintance.
"I'm sorry. I need to get to the Canary. Do you know where that is?"
"Sure do. Eat lunch there at least twice a week."
CHAPTER 8
The drive through Helena proper did nothing to help Joel's stomach. The Gilded Age mansions he had passed on the way out were still there. So were the parks. But the fast food restaurants, convenience stores, and modern stoplights had taken a powder.
Joel observed people on the street. They too provided no comfort. Men in suits and hats walked beside women in dresses and hats – hats with brims and nets and flowers, not logos of grunge bands or baseball teams or even tractor manufacturers. Central Casting could not have outfitted the city any better. Only two young men, standing on a street corner in work shirts and dungarees, looked remotely contemporary.
Sam, thankfully, kept any questions he had to himself. He did not ask about Joel's Candy in Chains sweatshirt or why a tourist from Seattle was investigating an abandoned mine far off the beaten path. He limited his comments to observations about the weather and the impact of the economy on new car sales.
He turned onto Main Street, or Last Chance Gulch, as it was signed a few hours earlier, and pulled into a metered parking space
Readers choose
Christine Bush
Kamy Wicoff
Zenina Masters
Natalie Love
R.L. Stine
Nora Roberts
Rex Kusler
Mona Hodgson
William Faulkner
Rick Riordan