Seated behind the counter was an older man who appeared almost as dusty as the room’s interior. He had a bulb-shaped head, and his gray hair, eyes, and mustache matched the faded flannel shirt he wore beneath a pair of striped suspenders. He peered at Pitt through a pair of Ben Franklin glasses perched low on his nose.
“Good morning,” Pitt said, introducing himself. Gazing up at a polished tin container that resembled a large liquor flask, he remarked, “Beautiful old oil cadger you have there.”
The old man’s eyes lit up as he realized Pitt wasn’t a lost tourist looking for directions.
“Yep, used to refill the early miners’ oil lamps. Came from the nearby Bruce Mines. My grandpappy worked the copper mines there till they shut down in 1921,” he said in a wheezy voice.
“A lot of copper in these hills?” Pitt asked.
“Not enough to last long. Most of the copper and gold mines shut down decades ago. Attracted a lot of dirt diggers in their day, but not too many folks got rich from it,” he replied, shaking his head. Looking Pitt in the eye, he asked, “What can I do for you today?”
“I’d like to know about your stock of ruthenium.”
“Ruthenium?” he asked, looking at Pitt queerly. “You with that big fellow that was just in here?”
“No,” Pitt replied. He recalled the odd behavior of the man in the brown suit and tried to shake off a nagging sense of familiarity.
“That’s peculiar,” the man said, eyeing Pitt with suspicion. “That other fellow was from the Natural Resources Ministry in Ottawa. Here checking our supply and sources of ruthenium. Odd that it was the only mineral he was interested in and you come walking in asking about the same thing.”
“Did he tell you his name?”
“John Booth, I believe he said. A bit of an odd bird, I thought. Now, what’s your interest, Mr. Pitt?”
Pitt generally explained Lisa Lane’s research at George Washington University and ruthenium’s role in her scientific work. He neglected to disclose the magnitude of her recent discovery or the recent explosion at the lab.
“Yes, I recall sending a sample to that lab a week or two ago. We don’t get too many requests for ruthenium, just a few public research labs and the occasional high-tech company. With the price going so crazy, not too many folks can afford to dabble with it anymore. Of course, that price spike has made us a nice profit when we do get an order,” he smiled with a wink. “I just wish we had a source to replenish our inventory.”
“You don’t have an ongoing supplier?”
“Oh heavens no, not in years. I reckon my stock will be depleted before long. We used to get some from a platinum mine in eastern Ontario, but the ore they are pulling out now isn’t showing any meaningful content. No, as I was telling Mr. Booth, most of our ruthenium stocks came from the Inuit.”
“They mined it up north?” Pitt asked.
“Apparently so. I pulled the acquisition records for Mr. Booth,” he said, pointing to an ancient leather-bound journal sitting at the other end of the counter. “The stuff was acquired over a hundred years ago. There’s a detailed accounting in the logbook. The Inuit referred to it as the ‘Black Kobluna’ or some such. We always called it the Adelaide sample, as the Inuit were from a camp on the Adelaide Peninsula in the Arctic.”
“So that’s the extent of the Canadian supply of ruthenium?”
“As far as I know. But nobody knows if there is more to the Inuit source. It all surfaced so long ago. The story was that the Inuit were afraid to return to the island where they obtained it because of a dark curse. Something about bad spirits and the source being tainted by death and insanity, or similar mumbo jumbo. A tall tale of the north, I guess.”
“I’ve found that local legends often have some basis in fact,” Pitt replied. “Do you mind if I take a look at the journal?”
“Not at all.” The old geologist ambled down to the end of the counter and returned with the book, flipping through its pages as he walked. A scowl suddenly crossed his face as his skin turned beet red.
“Santa María!” he hissed. “He tore out the record, right in front of me. There was a hand-drawn map of the mine location right there. Now it’s gone.”
The old man slammed the book to the counter while turning an angry eye toward the door. Pitt could see where two pages had been neatly torn from the journal.
“I’d venture to say that your Mr. Booth isn’t who he said he was,” Pitt said.
“I should have suspected something when he didn’t know what a sluice box was,” the man grumbled. “I don’t know why he had to deface our records. He could have just asked for a copy.”
Pitt knew the reason why. Mr. Booth didn’t want anyone else to know the source of the Inuit ruthenium. He slid the journal around and read a partial entry ahead of the missing pages.
October 22, 1917.
Horace Tucker of the Churchill Trading Company consigned following unrefined ore quantities:
5 tons of copper ore
12 tons of lead ore
2 tons of zinc
¼ ton of ruthenium (Adelaide “Black Kobluna”)
Source and assayer comments to follow.
“That was the only Inuit shipment you have received?” Pitt asked.
The old man nodded. “That was it. The missing pages indicated that the mineral had actually been obtained decades earlier. That trading post in Churchill couldn’t find a market for the stuff until Tucker brought a sample in with some minerals from a mine in Manitoba.”
“Any chance the Churchill Trading Company records still exist? ”
“Pretty doubtful. They went out of business back around 1960. I met Tucker a few years later in Winnipeg shortly before he died. I remember him telling me how the old log trading post in Churchill had burned to the ground. I would imagine their trading records were destroyed in the fire.”
“I guess that’s the end of the line, then. I’m sorry about the theft of your data, but thank you for sharing what you know.”
“Hold on a second,” the man replied. He stepped over and opened the thick door to the ancient safe. He rummaged around a wooden bin inside, then turned and tossed something to Pitt. It was a tiny smooth stone, silvery white in color.
“Black Kobluna?” he asked.
“A sample on the house, so that you know what we’ve been talking about.”
Pitt reached across the counter and shook hands with the geologist, thanking him for his time.
“One more thing,” the old man said, as Pitt strolled toward the door. “You run into that Booth fellow, you be sure and tell him I’m coming after him with a pickax if I ever see him again.”
The afternoon had turned colder under the cast of an approaching front, and Pitt waited anxiously for the car heater to warm up as he exited the Co-op’s parking lot. Grabbing a quick lunch at a café in Blind River, he drove back through the winding mountain road toward the airport, contemplating the Inuit ruthenium tale. The ore had to have come from the Arctic, presumably near the Inuit camp at Adelaide. How had the Inuit, with primitive technology, mined the ruthenium? Were there still significant reserves in place? And who was John Booth and why was he interested in the Inuit ore?
The questions brought no answers as he wound through the scenic hills, braking as he pulled up behind a slower-moving RV. Reaching a straight stretch in the road, the RV driver pulled to the shoulder and waved for Pitt to pass. Pitt stomped on the accelerator and sped past the motor home, which he noted had a Colorado license plate.