Harry's Legacy

PROLOGUE

An epilogue before the beginning.

John re-read the letter for the third time. He slowly began to grasp its significance, trying to make himself believe what it said. It had been sent by an attorney in the U.S., who wrote to inform him that he would be receiving in the next few weeks a check upon return of the enclosed verification form to assure his identity. Depending upon the rate of exchange at the time the check is drawn, it could be somewhere in the range of $600,000 to $700,000 NZ, the letter asserted.

As nearly as he could tell this was something like an inheritance, but not exactly. He hoped that a more explicit explanation of this extraordinary matter would come in time. If true, that is.

Incredulity was beginning to set in. I’ll believe it when I see it, he thought to himself as he put the letter in his desk drawer.

He took his tea and sat down in a chair on the front porch of his little house on Denbigh Street. It was a glorious New Zealand autumn day with the bright orange and yellow leaves aglow all around town. There wasn’t yet a crispness in the air; so at ten in the morning it was warm enough to enjoy sitting on his south facing front porch across the front of his house. The morning sun shone from behind him as he looked southward toward the historic Presbyterian Church in the next block. This parish church was his, and its congregation his extended family. A gentle breeze rustled the golden leaves; a few already fluttering to the ground.

He thought about the money. Was this some sort of come-on? If he returned the identity verification form, what would he be getting himself into? But just the same, what would he spend it on-if he received it? Certainly not on another house, as a former neighbor did after he had received a tidy inheritance!

Even though this house was small and old, it held generations of family memories, which he had only recently learned. His great grandfather, Andrew McEwan, had been a child when his family had moved in. They were the first occupants.

John remembered a story told to him by his grandfather, Drew, who was Andrew McEwan’s son. Drew had been born in the U.S. where he grew to adulthood without ever having known his father, Andrew. As a young man he had come to New Zealand looking for his father. He had found his way to Arrowtown and to this house. It was on this porch that Drew had met his Aunt Meg, for the very first time. This is how his grandfather, Drew, had told the story to John:

"My Aunt Meg was sitting here when I came up the walk. I’d come from the U.S. looking for my father; but I came to Arrowtown too late to find my father alive—Andrew McEwan, the father I had never known. But in a small way I felt as if I had found him when I came to know Aunt Margaret, his sister.

As she spoke lovingly of this house-the house in which she and my father had grown up—I could almost see them playing here as children. Then in my imagination I could hear his footsteps later on when he returned home to this house from the U.S.

Aunt Meg told me:

‘This is the very house in which your father, Andrew, and I grew up; the house of our childhood. His home until he left for America seeking his fortune. After your father returned from Alaska he lived here until he died. In fact he died in his bedroom upstairs.’

Then my father’s sister Meg turned to me and added wistfully. And, Drew, if you should decide to stay in New Zealand, this house can be yours as well. We wouldn’t want it ever to leave the family, would we now?’

Well, I did decide to remain in New Zealand, and I moved into the family home, where my father had lived out his years.

In time I met and married Diana, a young woman from Queenstown. At that point Aunt Meg moved into a granny crib around the corner off of Kent Street, so that I could bring my new bride into the family home. And so this house came to be my home, and yours, John, as well"

John sat thinking about how his grandfather had indeed stayed in Arrowtown, inheriting the family home. He thought about his own life-how he, himself, had been raised in this house by his grandparents after his own mother had died and his father had disappeared.

He remembered moving away and finding a job in Southland and working there for a while. He felt again the warm emotion which overwhelmed him when in time he had decided to return to Arrowtown and to the family home.

John Herndon reflected that, like his grandfather, Drew, nowhere else had he ever really felt that he belonged. Only here in the McEwan family home on Denbigh Street. For he knew he was a McEwan, even though it was through a tragic twist of fate that his grandfather had been born Drew Herndon in Helena, Montana Territory, U.S.A.

As the golden leaves of an Arrowtown autumn enveloped John Herndon, an overwhelming sense of contentment warmed his soul. He resolved to remain in the McEwan homestead no matter whether the legacy materialized or not!

CHAPTER 1

There was a soft stillness in the air. On the snow-covered mountainside the stately lodgepole pine and snow-laden spruce were standing motionless under a bright April sun. The tall pine shafts cast majestic shadows across the dazzling white blanket of snow covering the mountainside. The only sound was the steady, labored swishing of two cross-country skiers who were ascending an almost hidden trail through the pine forest. The trail they had chosen winds along Bitter-root Creek from the town of Herndon, Montana across the breast of Mt. Murray.

On a Friday afternoon, reveling in the peaceful quiet beneath the pines, Tom Harris no longer was hearing the noisy bustling excitement which had signaled the end of another week at Herndon High School. Skiing next to him, Heather Scott was also letting go of her busy week, a week she’d spent at her teller’s window at Miners’ State Bank.

Heather had recently been promoted to head teller. Originally from Jordan, Montana, she had attended the University of Montana in Missoula immediately after high school; but she had dropped out after a couple of years when she found a good job in a bank in Missoula. Five years later she moved to Herndon, taking a job as a teller in Herndon’s only bank. In this position she was accustomed to meeting many of Herndon’s citizens while serving them through her teller’s window. This contact had made her feel more and more a part of the community. Tom Harris had been among her many patrons-one with whom she had become acquainted not only as a customer but personally as well. After a few dinner dates, they had grown to enjoy each other’s company. Their shared appreciation of the out-of-doors had initiated their custom of Friday afternoon get-aways, usually into the nearby mountains.

Tom enjoyed teaching English to local high schoolers, a few of whom were as turned on by the subject as he was. But by the final bell on Fridays he was always ready to ease into something entirely different. Since November, when the snows had descended upon the nearby mountains, cross-country had been his recess of choice. Heather’s too.

Not only was it the bank which occupied Heather’s work week, but also her courses at the university. She’d been a student at the University of Montana, but after a year she quit school and went to work for a bank in Missoula. After a few years she decided to go back to school-this time to enroll in the school of architecture at Montana State University in Bozeman. Little by little she was making her way toward a degree in architecture. Now the end was in sight; in fact, June 12 th would mark the completion of her course-if all continued to go well.

Most Friday afternoons, though, she took time off to spend in the mountains with Tom. He was a few years older; and because of that she would often tease him for being like a big brother to her. But to him this made no sense. If anything she was the big sister who kept him honest, he would often say. Two people, enjoying each other’s company, more as siblings than lovers. He found her field of architecture appealing; and she thought his teaching of English fascinating. So they made a good pair, never lacking for good talk between them. Though usually when they skied they moved along quietly, talking with one another only when stopping to rest, as they did on this particular afternoon.

Tom looked at his watch. Time to rest a bit and then to return home while it was still light. He looked about and spotted a fallen log of some size, well positioned for a brief rest. There they talked about the beauty and the solitude of this particular trail. I don’t think we’ve ever been up this one, Tom said more as a question than a statement.

No, I’m sure we haven’t. Not even on summer hikes, I don’t think.

This made them look around even more carefully, to examine this new area. I’d be interested to see this sometime in summer without the snow, Tom suggested.

You’re right. Then suddenly she pointed, Do you see that metal thing in that spruce grove over there?

Yes, I see it. What is it?

Their curiosity was enough to make them get back on their skis to slip through the curtain of spruce bows to see for themselves. They passed between a pair of spruce trees which formed a gateway into a small clearing. The canopy of spruce had kept much of the heavy snows from falling into the clearing. Standing in mute silence in the center of the area were the rust-covered ruins of a piece of abandoned machinery, obviously motionless for decades. Rusted shut for many years. A cast iron stack stood in front of a corroded boiler, next to which was a steel fly wheel, about four feet in diameter. This was on an axle extending from a steam engine. Scraps of metal machinery parts and a few feet of braided cable lay on the ground near the engine. All around the rusted ruins were weather-beaten boards strewn on the rough ground beneath what appeared to have been a shed of some sort. Thirty yards beyond the steam engine stood what was left of a log cabin only lightly covered with snow. Its four walls were still standing with a bit more than half of the wooden roof. The rest of it had fallen in long ago.

When Tom and Heather went over to the cabin and looked inside they saw that the dirt floor was strewn with snow-covered debris from the ceiling. The sun shining through the spaces in the roof where boards had disappeared cast a striped pattern on the snow below. Weeds which had grown between the boards and were now frozen, drooped over the rotting wood. Nothing was left in the way of furnishings. Near the cabin a pile of weathered gray boards marked the site of a second cabin now almost fully decayed and disappearing into the forest floor.

They had come upon a small gold camp left from the mining days of over a century past; and they had discovered what Tom guessed was a piece of gold mining equipment silently standing fifteen yards from what appeared to have been an opening into a mine tunnel, now mostly closed in with fallen dirt and rock.

That’s the ruins of a stationary steam engine, Tom observed. And then he added, I wonder what on earth for.

It was Heather who guessed, It might have run some sort of ore crushing device; or maybe it provided the power to transport the ore in some way. Think what a job it must have been to have gotten that heavy thing up here!

Look there, under that joint in the steam pipe! Tom said, pointing to a rust-covered tin can hanging by a rusty wire from one of the pipe joints. An unknown miner put it there to catch the water condensation, I bet! Still hanging there after all these years. Then looking more closely, Tom added, You can still see some of the label.’

It figures, Heather noted, Water must have been precious this far up the mountain.

Now all it catches is the snow in winter and rain in summer, year after year, without any use for it.

Then examining the can more closely Tom reported, You can still see some of the label-Tomato Soup.

As they surveyed the area they could see here and there pieces of gray weathered timber, lathe and frame siding protruding from the sparse white snow cover.

Another cabin, maybe, Heather guessed. It makes you wonder what it must have been like to work up here so isolated from the rest of the world.

Tom replied, It really does set your mind to thinking, just the fact that a living person put that can under there, years ago! And it still hangs there long after the mine played out and the prospector left to look for another claim.

How long ago, I wonder? Heather said.

I would guess, more than a hundred! Tom looked at his watch, but enough of that for now. We’d better be getting back to town

As they got up and turned to ski down the trail, Heather suggested, We need to come up here in summer, when the snow is gone and the ground’s clear

Then maybe we could piece together what was going on here, Tom agreed.

As they skied down the trail to civilization, Tom saw in the distance the ruins of other old wooden structures. Look over to the northwest in the next drainage. Isn’t that some more mining ruins?

I think so, Heather looked in the direction Tom pointed. It looks fairly extensive. Like an entire town, I’d say. Too bad we don’t have time to ski over there.

Another spot to explore later, Tom suggested.

They continued skiing down the mountain in silence until they reached Tom’s car parked at the trail head. After securing their skis on the top rack they drove back to town. Their conversation centered around their thoughts from up on the mountain.

Heather opened: You know, Tom, if you could only find some history about this region-locate a diary, or a journal from someone who was working up there!

That would be great! Odd that you should suggest a journal. I’ve been looking for authentic journals for my class to read this past month-for a unit on personal memoirs.

Where would you look for such a thing?

I’d start at the public library; and then maybe the university archives, or possibly the county historical society.

Back in town, Tom dropped Heather off at her apartment, and on his way home he stopped by the supermarket to pick up some fresh salmon for his supper.

Tom lived in a two story older house on one of the tree-lined streets only a block from the main street business district. It was a large, substantial house, built in what was called a bungalow style. The roof sloped both to the front and to the back, each section of roof having a prominent dormer window for an upstairs bedroom. Tom used the front bedroom as his. The other bedrooms were unoccupied except when he entertained overnight guests. He’d bought the house soon after coming to Herndon to teach. Tom rattled around in the house alone, except for Alabaster, his long haired snow white cat.

As usual Alabaster greeted him when he came in; the scent of fresh salmon made the cat’s greeting all the more friendly. Patience, Allie! You’ll get yours after I’ve had mine. Dinner was an occasion for Tom. His cooking habits tended toward the gourmet. He set about making some pesto sauce for the fish, and then tossed a fresh salad using his Swiss spinner to dry the lettuce and other greens. He sprinkled chopped fresh sweet basil, and some grated freshly ground Parmesan cheese on it before tossing it with some of his own olive oil, herb, and rice vinegar dressing. When the salmon was broiled just right and the hot tea had steeped he took his seat in his dining room to enjoy a Friday evening feast. Alone? Not entirely. Alabaster waited on the cushion of the chair opposite him. As Tom ate he looked out of the large bay window which framed the three mature blue spruce in his side yard. This made him think about the unknown miner who had operated the steam engine among the spruce trees so high up Mt.Murray. What had he used the steam engine for? What had become of the man-or men? He thought about the hardship of such a life and compared it to his own-one of relative ease and luxury.

Besides school teaching and related activities like the Chess Club, he served on the official board of his church, referred to as the session. As a well-liked, tenured high school teacher, he was a respected resident of the community. Happily for Tom, Herndon was a town which valued its teachers and did a good job of funding education. He was called upon for various volunteer efforts. He also found time for pleasure reading in the evenings with Alabaster asleep on his lap, or curled up in front of the fireplace. The good life, he thought as he enjoyed the last bite of salmon-though lonely sometimes, he had to admit.

Alabaster kept a steady meow going as Tom spooned some leftover salmon into the cat dish. While Tom cleaned up the dishes it didn’t take the cat long to devour what little salmon had been left. Tom dried the dishes and Allie licked his chops and cleaned his face with his paw, making ready for a comfortable snooze in front of the fire on the hearth in the living room. Tom had laid a fire in it, and now lit it to accompany their relaxed evening at home. Curled up with a good book, as they say! This one was an Anne Perry mystery set in Victorian London.

The fire crackled, sending a shower of tiny meteors against the metal screen. Alabaster’s back twitched and Tom awakened, and returned to his reading.

The phone rang. It was Heather. Hello, Tom. I can’t get my mind off that secluded mine with the steam machinery. I don’t know what it is about that scene. It’s like we’re supposed to find out more about it and discover who the people who operated it were! It has started me fantasizing.

Hey! Tom chided, Bank tellers aren’t supposed to use their imaginations. They should deal in dollars and cents-facts! I don’t want you to fantasize over my bank account!

No-but architects are paid to dream before they design! How about that? Heather replied, getting the best of Tom.

OK, you’re right, Tom said grudgingly. So, what are you imagining?

OK. Here’s what I think. Heather shared her fantasy. It’s the story of Sheldon, who had been a Confederate soldier. I’ve written it down. Let me read it.

Tom was taken aback by Heather’s quick work at spinning a tale, My sakes, you even have him named! Yes, read me about the mine on Mt. Murray.

"Here’s what I have:

The war between the states was over. Many young men from both sides had nothing to return to. Sheldon’s home in Georgia had been destroyed by fire; and he had no job. But he was so in love with Penelope, he was in a frenzy to find work to earn enough to ask her to marry him. So when he heard stories of the fabulous gold fields of Montana Territory, he resolved to join the next party of men going west.

When he finally reached Montana he asked the old timers where the gold was. Fortunately he was given some very good directions by a man he met in a local hotel. Go up Bitterroot Creek, boy, and you’ll find color. Everyone else had said, Gold is where you find it But this advice was specific; and young Sheldon sensed the sincerity of the man in the hotel lounge.

I like your looks, boy, the man had said. If you’ll follow my advice, I’ll stake you to grub and supplies for only ten percent of your find!

They shook on it; and the next day Sheldon was on his way up Bitterroot Creek leading a mule heavily packed with enough grub and supplies for a month. In a few days time he’d struck pay dirt on the west slope of Mt. Murray"

Quite a yarn you’re spinning, Heather. You sound like one of my creative writing students! Tom interjected.

There’s more! she said, anxious to go on with her fantasy.

In time Sheldon developed his claim and his mine earned him a small fortune. He sent away for steam powered equipment so that he could transport the ore to his own processing operation.

After a couple years of working his claim, Sheldon returned to his home town in Georgia and asked Penelope to marry him. They married, and with his fortune in gold he bought into the local bank, built a fine house, and raised a family of four children.

And he lived happily ever after!

That’s my story! How’s that for fantasizing over a pile of rusty ruins?

Wow! You really took off with that one. Tom answered, But you realize that most of the miners who scratched all over these hills found barely enough to buy a train ticket back home.

I know. But it’s fun to spin a better yarn than that.

"It’s all the more reason for us to try to find out what really happened up there, Heather. Maybe we will hit on a true story—and it’ll be stranger than fiction!’

I have an idea we will, Tom.

Maybe so. In any event, I’ll have a look in the public library tomorrow. Let you know what I find. What are you up to tomorrow?

The usual Saturday stuff-laundry, straightening and cleaning this place, and then I’ve got a project to finish for class Monday.

Have fun! I’ll talk to you when I get a clue.

OK-good night, Tom!

Tom hung up wondering again what it was about that mine ruins? Later as he lay in bed in the dark he closed his eyes and saw that abandoned tomato soup can still hanging from the rusted pipe gently bobbing back and forth after all these years-ready to catch a bit