history of the RCMP and its predecessor, the North-West Mounted Police, don’t ask him anything about his job.” Aunt Norma started clearing the table. “So what time is your archaeology friend coming around?”
I got up to rinse the dishes and glanced at the clock — it was only 9:15. “Eddy said something about getting a letter of permission to excavate. So it’s going to be later this morning.”
Aunt Norma looked at her watch. “I hate to do it to you, kid, but I’ve got to get to work.”
“But it’s early and I just got here,” I protested. “Can’t you go in late?”
“Sorry, the news comes first. Why don’t you wander around town and see what’s up? We’ve got a great little museum you should check out. Henry’s been the curator for the last twenty years and knows all there is to know about Golden’s history. His ancestors were among the first pioneers to come here. While you and your friend are digging up the ground, Henry could be digging into some dusty old pages looking for useful information that might help you.”
“Eddy told me when there’s written documents available that help an archaeologist interpret the past they call it historical archaeology. Otherwise an archaeologist has to depend on just the material remains, like artifacts, human bones, or dwellings, to piece together the lives of people who lived long ago.”
“That sounds like when a detective looks for clues at a crime scene,” Aunt Norma added.
“Yup, an archaeologist looks for clues that can tell what people ate, how they made tools, what their homes were like, and even stuff that helps us to understand what they believed happened after death.”
“I’m pretty certain you and Henry will make good friends. He loves history as much as you love archaeology. You know, some of the best information you’ll ever find comes from old newspapers. He’s got some at the museum. Ask him about them. They’re full of information that will give you a good sense of people’s attitudes in the past. There’s one old guy I always get a kick out of — John Houston, editor of The Truth. He was a good example of how racist and intolerant people used to be.”
Aunt Norma laughed. It was one of those snorting laughs, and I suddenly realized she looked and sounded just like Mom.
“The only good thing you could say,” she continued, “was at least he looked down his nose at everyone equally — the Irish were the navvies, the Chinese were Chinamen, and the First Nations people, well, more often than not, they were the redskins.” Aunt Norma squeezed my hand and got up from the table. “Sorry, kiddo, but I have to get ready for work.”
I was about to do my best impression of a pouting kid but was interrupted by a knock at the door. When I opened it, there was Eddy grinning her curly white head off.
“I know I said it would be late morning before I got here, so I hope you don’t mind that I’m early.”
“Mind? It’s perfect. My aunt’s getting dressed right now and is about to ditch me for work. Do you want to come in and have some leftover cornbread? It’s awesome.” I patted my stomach.
“Thanks, but I’ve had my breakfast. Do you think you could get ready in a hurry?”
I smiled and saluted. “I’ll get ready double quick, Captain. I’ll meet you in the truck in five minutes.”
It was quite amazing how fast I could dress when I had a good reason. After dragging a brush through my hair, scrubbing my teeth for ten seconds, and giving Aunt Norma a kiss on the cheek, I dashed out the door. It was only when I came to a screeching halt in front of the truck that I realized we had a visitor riding shotgun. He had long stringy black hair, a ring through his bottom lip, and black eyeliner, and when he waved, I could see he even had black nail polish. Ugh.
“Sorry, Peggy, you’ll have to sit in the back of the cab today.” Eddy directed me to the narrow bench behind the driver’s seat — hardly big enough for a doll to sit on. “Peggy Henderson, meet Sam McLeod.”
“Hi, Sam,” I said shyly.
The guy turned and smiled slightly. “Actually, I prefer to be called Tristan, like King Arthur’s knight.”
Actually, why don’t I just call you Frank, as in short for Frankenstein? I thought.
“It is an honour to meet the young maid of whom I have heard so much,” he added.
Now that was a completely weird-the-kid-out thing to say. I turned to look out the rear window so he couldn’t see how my face was turning into a ripe tomato.
Eddy chuckled. “Sam … I mean, Tristan has a flare for the dramatic.”
“Ah, ’tis true, madam,” he said in a phony British accent. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.”
Somebody get me a barf bag. What was Eddy thinking bringing this guy along?
“Shakespeare,” Eddy said, smiling. “That line’s from As You Like It, act 2.”
“Dear lady,” the kid said, “you render me nearly speechless — but not to fear, for I shall quickly recover.”
Eddy slapped her leg and hooted like an owl.
“It pleases me that the lady is so familiar with the works of William Shakespeare. M’thinks we shall be fast friends indeed.”
“M’thinks so, too, young sir,” Eddy said, still laughing. “Nothing could be better than mixing a little Shakespeare in with your archaeology.” Eddy turned to me as if she’d just remembered I was sitting in the back listening to them. “We’re fortunate to have Tristan along today. He lives in Golden and is one of the few who knows exactly where the old Pioneer Cemetery is. He’s going to lead us to the disturbed burial site, and that’s going to save us time searching for it ourselves.”
I was glad she’d finally shared her reason for bringing the Goth geek along. I was beginning to think she’d split her beam … or cracked her noggin … or flipped her lid. No matter what her excuse, I got the distinct feeling this wasn’t going to be the kind of morning I’d been looking forward to.
Fortunately, the drive to the Pioneer Cemetery was short. After the underpass, we motored along a narrow road that ran between the railway and a steep hill.
“Stop the carriage here,” Tristan suddenly directed.
When we got out, I glanced around, expecting to see something that looked like a cemetery. Besides the train tracks and the dirt road, there was nothing — well, like I said, nothing except a steep hill covered in trees, fallen rocks, and brush. I was beginning to wonder if the Shakespeare wannabe was on a mental vacation.
“Ah, Eddy, there’s nothing here,” I blurted with a sense of satisfaction and irritation.
“How poor are they who have not patience! Follow me, ladies.”
Double ugh. Somebody get me that barf bag quick.
Tristan started up the steep slope, which was covered in scrawny pine trees and shrubs, with loose rocks that must have rolled down from the highway at the top of the hill. As Eddy and I followed him, a few bits of shattered and weathered wood caught my eye. They looked like
