Cat Who Went Up the Creek

Only after the required banter did Qwilleran pose the question: Has Moose County ever had a gold rush?

“Well . . .” Homer mused as he retrieved pertinent facts, “there was a Poor Man’s Gold Rush in the nineteenth century before they discovered the real gold: coal and lumber; that’s where the fortunes were made.

“In my own lifetime there’s been periodic hysteria over a gold strike, but it never amounted to anything. If you ask me, there’s more cold cash buried in coffee cans in people’s backyards than was ever—”

Rhoda snatched the phone. “Ask Mr. MacMurchie. He used to sell sluice boxes and panning equipment.”

Homer snatched it back again. “Ask Thornton Haggis. He used to take his boys panning.”

Without delay Qwilleran phoned the retired stonecutter and made an appointment for lunch. Thornton was one of the most savvy natives he had met since coming to the north country. Thorn, as he was called, had attended a university Down Below, majoring in art history before returning to manage the family’s monument works. After retirement he plunged into volunteer work—helping at the art center, assisting the sheriff’s department in spotting brush fires, and now playing the role of saloonkeeper in the forthcoming reenactment. It came as no surprise to Qwilleran that Thorn had been a gold prospector.

They agreed to meet at the Nasty Pasty in Mooseville; only a restaurant serving the best pasties in the county could risk such a name. Meanwhile, Qwilleran and the Siamese sat on the screened porch and enjoyed the sylvan quiet.

Koko chattered at an occasional squirrel who had come too close to his turf and pointed his ears toward the creek when he heard quacking. Qwilleran quickly harnessed him and took him for a shoulder-ride down to the water’s edge. Two ducks were gliding serenely followed by nine ducklings (he counted them) in perfect formation, the entire company turning left or right like a drill team.

A man’s voice said, “Only the females quack; the males go cluck-cluck.” It was Doyle Underhill from Cabin Three. “Is this the cat that got rid of Mrs. Truffle? We should give him a medal.”

The photographer was heading for the boat shed with his camera. “Do you like canoeing, Qwill? You’re welcome to come with me any time.”

“Unfortunately, Doyle, I had a traumatic experience while paddling along the shore of the big lake. A sudden offshore breeze spun the prow around to the north, and I was on my way to Canada a hundred miles away. There was nothing I knew to do until a sepulchral voice from nowhere told me to back-paddle. I made it safely back to shore but lost my taste for canoeing.”

“Sounds supernatural.”

“No, it was only my neighbor on the beach, a retired police chief with a bullhorn. . . . How’s the shooting up the creek?”

“Great! The other day I photographed a huge owl, taking off over my head like a bomber.”

“What do you do with your photos?”

“Sell a few to magazines and photo services.”

“Do you know about the photography show opening Sunday at the Pickax art center? They’re having a reception for the artist, John Bushland.”

“I see his byline all the time! He’s super! I didn’t know he lived around here.”

“You and Wendy should go and meet him, between two and five o’clock. He likes to be called Bushy because he’s losing his hair.”

“We’ll go. Thanks for the tip. Too bad you don’t like canoeing, Qwill. When I’m paddling up this creek I really feel one with nature.”

A few minutes later he was paddling quietly upstream without disturbing the ducks.

When Qwilleran arrived at the Nasty Pasty in Mooseville, Thornton Haggis was waiting in a corner booth, his generous shock of snow-white hair making him instantly visible.

“I see your wife hasn’t let you go to the barber recently.” Qwilleran said, pursuing their usual joke.

“I let her win the battle this time. I’m playing the saloonkeeper in the reenactment, and they think white hair will make the character look like a wholesome father figure.”

“How did you get involved?”

“Funny thing. When my boys were teens, they hated history. Now they’re two grown men with families and an active sand-and-gravel business, and they were the first to join the re-enactors. They talked me into it.”

The two men ordered the café’s famous pasty. Thornton said, “I like it because they make the crust with vegetable oil in the new way instead of lard in the old way, and they dice the meat up the old way instead of grinding it in the new way. They use local potatoes and season the filling with sage and onion and a little butter.”

“Is cooking one of your many skills, Thorn?”

“No, but I like to read cookbooks.”

“Homer tells me you used to go gold prospecting, Thorn.”

“That’s when my boys were about ten and twelve years old. After that, they got interested in soccer and girls, but for one summer, panning for gold was good, clean, family fun. We found a few crumbs, which we had imbedded in plastic for key rings. I still use mine.”

“Where did you go digging—or panning?”