dinner Cameron yarned about some of the practical difficulties they had run into when getting the mine going. ‘The trouble was mainly with the people. The folks around here weren’t very enthusiastic at first. They’d got pretty set in their ways and didn’t like change. All except old man Peterson, of course, who saw the possibilities.’
‘That reminds me,’ said McGill. ‘What’s with the Petersons? And how many of them are there, for God’s sake?’
‘Three brothers,’ said Ballard. ‘John, Eric and Charlie. The old man died last year.’
Cameron said, ‘John has the brains, Eric has the drive, and Charlie has the muscle and precious little else. If Charlie-boy had twice the brains he has now he’d be a half-wit. The Petersons own the Supermarket and the filling station, they have a half share in this hotel, run a couple of farms – things like that. Charlie wants to develop Huka as a ski resort but he’s finding it tough sledding; his brothers don’t think the time is ripe for it. Old Peterson saw the possibilities and his boys are carrying on where he left off.’
‘You forgot Liz,’ said Stacey. ‘She’s over there – fourth table along.’
Ballard turned his head. He had not seen Liz Peterson since his return to the valley and his image was still of a freckled, gawky girl with pigtails and skinned knees. What he saw was something quite different and he drew in his breath.
Liz Peterson was a rarity – a really beautiful girl whose loveliness did not depend on the adventitious aid of cosmetics. Her beauty lay deeper than the surface of her skin – in the bone structure of her skull, in the sheen of good health and youth, in the smooth and controlled movements of her body. She was beautiful in the way a healthy young animal is beautiful and she had the unconscious arrogance that can be seen in a thoroughbred racehorse or a fine hunting dog.
‘By God!’ he said. ‘She’s grown up.’
Cameron chuckled. ‘It tends to happen.’
‘Why haven’t I seen her around?’
‘She’s been visiting in North Island; just got back this week,’ said Cameron. ‘She had dinner with us on Monday. Stacey was quite impressed, and it really takes something to impress my girl.’
‘I like Liz,’ said Stacey. ‘She has a mind of her own.’
Ballard looked studiously at his plate. ‘Any of the Petersons married yet?’
‘John is – and Eric’s engaged.’
‘Charlie?’
‘No – he hasn’t had to – not yet; but it’s been a close call once or twice from what I hear. As for Liz, she should have been married long ago but Charlie has a way of scaring the young men. He looks after his sister like a hen with one chick.’
McGill said, ‘The Petersons don’t like you, Ian. What was all that about this morning?’
‘An old quarrel,’ said Ballard shortly. He glanced at Cameron. ‘Know about it, Joe?’
‘I’ve heard,’ said Cameron. ‘Something about the Ballards cheating the Petersons out of the mine.’
‘That’s the way the Petersons tell it,’ agreed Ballard. ‘Not John – he’s too sensible; but Eric tends to drive it into the ground a bit. What happened was that my father had a row with my grandfather and emigrated to New Zealand. Although he’d left the family, he was still enough of a Ballard to be interested in gold when he found it on his land. He knew there wasn’t enough sign to start a serious operation, the price of gold being what it was, but when he made his will before he joined the army he left the land to my mother, but the mineral rights he left to my grandfather.’
‘In spite of the fact that they’d quarrelled?’ asked McGill.
‘He was a Ballard. What would my mother do with mineral rights? Anyway, after he died my mother had to sell the land – she couldn’t farm it herself. She sold most of it – that’s the west slope – to old Peterson, who neglected to check if he had the mineral rights. I don’t know if he cared about that one way or the other, but when my grandfather bought the rest of the land from my mother – the bit at the bottom of the slope – and started to exploit the mineral rights under Peterson land then all hell broke loose. Accusations of bad faith were tossed around like confetti. The Petersons have always been convinced it was a deep-laid plot on the part of the Ballards. Actually, of course, it was nothing of the kind, but because my name is Ballard I’m stuck with it.’
‘When you put it that way it doesn’t sound too bad,’ said Cameron. ‘All the same, I’m not surprised that the Petersons are riled.’
‘I don’t see why they should be,’ said Ballard. ‘The only people making a profit out of the mine are the Petersons; the mine brought prosperity to this valley and the Petersons are creaming it off. The Ballards certainly aren’t making a profit. You’ve seen the operating figures, Joe, and you know the company is just breaking even.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen if we have to put in extensive avalanche protection. I’ve been trying to get hold of Crowell all day but he’s not available.’
‘Who is he?’ asked McGill.
‘Chairman of the company. He lives in Auckland.’
‘I’ve been thinking of avalanche protection,’ said McGill meditatively. ‘I’ve got some figures for you, Joe. When you design the avalanche gallery over the mine portal allow for an impact pressure of ten tons a square foot.’
Cameron flinched. ‘That much?’ he asked incredulously.
‘I’ve been talking to people who witnessed the 1943 slide. From all accounts it was an airborne powder avalanche, and so was the 1912 slide, according to Turi Buck. The next may not be any different.’
‘Airborne powder! What’s that?’
‘This is no time for a lecture on avalanche dynamics. All you need to know is that it’s fast and it packs a hell of a wallop.’
Ballard said, ‘The 1943 avalanche turned a hundred acres of big trees into firewood.’
Cameron put down his fork. ‘Now I know why you’re worried about the town.’
‘I wish to hell the council was as worried as I am,’ said McGill bleakly.
Cameron looked up. ‘Here comes Matt Houghton. If you tell him what you’ve just told me maybe he’ll become as scared as I am.’ As Houghton came up, his bald head gleaming, Cameron pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down, Matt. What did the Civil Defence people have to say?’
Houghton sat down heavily. ‘I haven’t had time to talk to them yet. We’ll be posting signs on the slope; Bobby Fawcett’s scouts are making them and they’ll be putting them up tomorrow. Got any stakes we can use, Joe?’
‘Sure,’ said Cameron, but his voice was abstracted. He was looking at McGill.
Ballard leaned forward. ‘What do you mean, Matt – you didn’t have time? I thought it was agreed …’
Houghton flapped his hands. ‘It’s Saturday, Ian,’ he said plaintively, and shrugged.
