when we were extending the school. And you are talking in millions of dollars, not in thousands.’ He looked up at his brother. ‘Guess how much the town rates will be next year if this damn silly caper carries on.’
Ballard said, ‘How much is your life worth, Eric?’
‘That’s a hell of a question! But I’ll give you a short answer. My life is worth that of one of my brothers – that much and no more.’
‘There’s no call for that,’ said Houghton quickly.
‘Well, he brought it up,’ said Eric. ‘In any case, according to him, I’m safe.’ He tapped the map. ‘My place is one of the survivors.’
‘Not any more,’ said Ballard. ‘Not since the trees were cut down on the west slope. Did you do that, Eric?’
‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
‘The only reason the store survived in 1943 was because of the trees. Now they’re gone there’s nothing between you and the snow. You made a bad bargain there.’
Eric stood up. ‘Too right I made a bad bargain, or rather, my old man did. You know damned well that when your mother sold him the property she cheated him of the mineral rights. Oh, she was bloody clever, wasn’t she? She even kept hold of that bit of land at the bottom where the mine is now – just enough land to put up the crushing mill to work the ore she gets out of our land.’
Ballard rubbed his eyes. ‘That’s not the way it was, Eric. It was my father who separated the mineral rights from the property. He did it in his will. Your father didn’t buy the land for five years after that. 1948, wasn’t it?’
‘The hell with it!’ said Eric. ‘She still gets the gold.’
‘No, she doesn’t,’ said Ballard. ‘She doesn’t hold the mineral rights.’
‘Pull the other one,’ scoffed Eric. ‘You’re all Ballards.’
Matt Houghton drummed his fingers on the table. ‘We seem to have left the subject.’ He glanced nervously at Eric.
‘Yes,’ said McGill. ‘I don’t know what this is all about but I don’t think it has anything to do with snow on a hillside. But those missing trees do; there’s nothing left to bind the snow.’
Eric shrugged and sat down again. ‘It’s a lousy piece of land, anyway. Too bloody steep for cattle, and I couldn’t even get in the hay crop this year.’
McGill’s head jerked up. ‘What hay crop?’ he said sharply.
‘What do you care?’
‘You’d better tell me. What happened to your hay crop?’
John Peterson rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘For God’s sake, Eric! Indulge his curiosity. Then perhaps we can get this meeting over. I’ve got things to do.’
Eric shrugged. ‘First it was the rain – the crop was sodden, so we couldn’t take it in. I thought we’d have a dry spell, but we didn’t – it rained right in to the winter, so I gave it up. It was rotting in the fields, anyway.’
‘And you just left it,’ said McGill. ‘And it’s still there uncut. Is that it?’
‘That’s right,’ said Eric, and added touchily, ‘But what’s it got to do with you I’m damned if I know.’
McGill speared him with a long stare. ‘So you cut down the trees, which is bad enough. Then you leave uncut grass, which is worse. Long, wet grass on a hillside is just about the slipperiest stuff there is. The chances of an avalanche have just gone up considerably.’
Warrick said, ‘It was slippery, I know. I tried to get up there during the rain myself. After the third try I gave up.’
‘What am I? Some kind of public enemy?’ demanded Eric. ‘Who the hell is this joker to come with his accusations?’
‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything except maybe short-sightedness,’ said McGill. ‘The first sign of potentially dangerous terrain is a mountain with snow on it; and you have one right on your doorstep but none of you seems to have seen it.’
‘Dr McGill is right,’ said Ballard.
Eric Peterson lunged to his feet. ‘Anyone called Ballard is the last person to accuse me of anything at all,’ he said with a jagged edge to his voice. ‘Anyone with a yellow …’
‘That’s enough,’ cut in Mrs Samson sharply. ‘What’s past is gone.’
‘What’s this about?’ asked Warrick, looking from Ballard to Eric Peterson. He wore a baffled look, as of a man who feels he is missing the obvious.
Matt Houghton looked bleak. ‘It’s old history and nothing to do with the subject here.’
McGill stood up. ‘Gentlemen, you have my report. It’s there on the table before you written up in technical language, and I’ve explained what it means in words of one syllable. I can do nothing more. I shall leave you to your deliberations.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Houghton.
‘To do some work.’
‘Where can we get hold of you if we need further information?’
‘At Mr Ballard’s house,’ said McGill. ‘Or up on the west slope – it needs further investigation. But don’t send anyone up there to find me. In fact, no one should be allowed on that slope from now on. It’s damned dangerous.’
He left the meeting.
Ian Ballard swam another length of the pool and then climbed out. He walked to the canvas chair where he had left his towel and began to rub himself down. It was good to relax after spending all day at the Inquiry. He poured himself a beer and checked his watch before slipping it on to his wrist.
Mike McGill came sauntering across the lawn and held out an envelope. ‘Business as usual. Old Harrison must have got over his tantrum. This will be your notification to attend; I’ve had mine.’
Ballard opened the envelope. McGill was right; the letter was from Reed, the Secretary to the Commission. He dropped it on the grass next to his chair, and said, ‘So we go on. What comes next in the evidence?’
‘The first avalanche, I suppose.’ McGill grinned and spread a newspaper before Ballard. ‘Eric has got his name in print.’
Ballard looked at the black headline bannered across the front page:
‘IGNORANT BLACK MAN’ JIBE
He shook his head. ‘He’s not going to like that.’
McGill chuckled. ‘Think he’ll come after me with a gun?’
