Free From the Dragon Keepers' Vault by Kate Klimo

 
    There were once two dragons named Leandra and Obsidian, who made their den in the side of a mountain. Leandra had scales and wings of a deep, rich red, the color of sugar maple leaves in autumn. Obsidian’s scales were luminous silver and his broad wings pale salmon pink.
    This was during the days of the Gold Rush, when the land swarmed with prospectors greedy for riches. But the dragon couple lived in peace and plenty. For hundreds of years the local native tribe had worshiped the dragons’ mountain home, which they called the Old Mother, believing that two fierce, fire-breathing spirits lived there. To keep the spirits happy, on the third night following every full moon, the natives left the bodies of two freshly killed deer in a clearing near the foot of the mountain.
    The native people were correct. This was a sacred place, for it was one of the few areas where the membrane between the four elemental realms—Airy, Fiery, Earthly, and Watery—was very thin. Still, it had always been a peaceful area, until a certain someone—driven by riches and power and the taste of dragon blood—came along to disturb the peace.
    A bright red harvest moon had risen in the sky when a small delegation of tree spirits known as dryads came to visit Leandra and Obsidian.
    “We come from the woodlands near the native village,” said their leader, a Douglas fir.
    “These are hard times for the native people,” said Leandra sympathetically, for she and Obsidian had watched from the mountainside as the natives lost more and more of their age-old hunting grounds to the prospectors.
    “These are hard times for all of us,” said the Douglas fir. “The miners probe our roots for gold nuggets, and the farmers hack us down to clear fields and build cabins. But we have not come here tonight to mourn our losses. We come to warn you, our cousins. We fear you are in grave danger.”
    Obsidian blinked slowly at the dryad.
“Fear?”
    What did these dragons know of fear? Obsidian and Leandra had spent their entire lives on this mountain beneath the protective dome of its magic.
    “A few weeks ago,” said the Douglas fir, “a man came to the village claiming to want to record the local native lore. The lore seeker had long, shimmering golden tresses and a golden mustache. In exchange for the lore, he offered warm blankets, and seashells from the great ocean to the west. The tribal chief did not like the looks of the man, so he sent the stranger packing.
    “But the chief’s son had a daughter who was sickly, and he hoped that the warmth of the white man’s blankets and the magic from the seashells would cure her,” said the Douglas fir. “In desperation, the chief’s son ran after the visitor and told every tribal tale he knew. Only one story piqued the stranger’s interest: the tale of the two fierce, fire-breathing serpents guarding the treasure that lies in the heart of this mountain.”
    Leandra and Obsidian looked at each other and smiled fondly. Neither of them had ever had cause to use their fire-breathing powers for anything more serious than lighting a fire. The gold nuggets in the mountain gave them strength, as all dragons draw strength from gold and precious stones. But treasure? They were each other’s greatest treasure.
    The Douglas fir continued: “The stranger thrust the blankets and shells at the chief’s son and beat a hasty path back to the rooming house in Goldmine City. He packed up his few belongings and left on the stagecoach bound for San Francisco.”
    “Just the other day,” said a Ponderosa pine whose tree shaded the rooming house, “the stranger returned to Goldmine City with five boxcars loaded with mining equipment. He is no lore seeker, but George Skinner, president of the Great Pacific Mining Company. Skinner bragged that he had laid a claim to the mineral rights on all the land hereabouts, including thismountain.”
    “George Skinner?” Obsidian murmured. The name seemed familiar. Where had he