Free Mountain Rampage by Scott Graham Page A

uniform size, roughly five feet across, long enough to cover most of the bottom of the tunnel from one side to the other, but short enough to account for variations in distance between the side walls—all except the floorboards at the back of the mine.
    The planks covering the last few feet of the tunnel bottom were different, he now remembered. Each of those boards had been cut to fit precisely from one side of the tunnel to the other, leaving no open space showing on either side.
    He caught his breath. The section of floor at the back of the mine had been constructed with a specific goal in mind: to hide all signs of the vertical shaft.

E LEVEN
    The drive into town took less than five minutes. Chuck turned down Elkhorn Avenue, past the bookshop and knickknack stores, and parked in front of Estes Park’s public library, a sleek, stone-and-glass structure built on the banks of the Big Thompson River at the east edge of town. He pushed through the heavy glass front doors and headed for the research librarian’s desk at the back of the main floor.
    Chuck had posted daily progress updates on the field school’s blog site throughout the summer, along with reports of the students’ upcoming work schedule. Anyone who knew of the vertical shaft’s existence and was following the updates would have known Team Nugget was set to uncover the shaft upon dismantling the last of the floor in the tunnel today.
    What if someone hadn’t wanted the shaft uncovered, and had gotten hold of some blood to make the puddle, expecting that the anonymous report of it to the police would force Chuck to keep the students in town and away from the mine, at least for today, and perhaps for the remainder of the week? What might there be about the vertical shaft that, all these years later, was still worth keeping secret?
    Chuck slowed to take in the view through the two-story wall of windows rising beyond the research desk. The Big Thompson River meandered past the back of the library through the heart of the flat, park-like valley from which the town of Estes Park derived its name. A mile farther east, the river entered V-walled Big Thompson Canyon and plunged, roiling, to the plains. Through the upper windows at the back of the library, Longs Peak, the 14,255-foot monarch of Rocky Mountain National Park, rose ten miles south of the Y of the Rockies complex, the mountain’s sheer east face, known as the Diamond, purple with afternoon shadow.
    In the early 1900s, mountaineering guide Enos Mills summited the peak almost three hundred times as he led groups of flatlanders up the arduous route to the top of the mountain. Mills claimed the term “naturalist” for himself and devoted his life to a single cause: alerting an entire generation of Americans to the beauty and preservation value of the magnificent mountain wilderness seventy miles northwest of Colorado’s capital. His tireless work led directly to Congress’ 1915 pronouncement of the four-hundred-square-mile expanse of rivers, streams, high alpine meadows and jagged peaks directly west of Estes Park as the nation’s thirteenth national park, forever protected from human development.
    The librarian seated at the research desk observed Chuck with twinkling eyes. She was well into her seventies, her mouth a bright red slash of lipstick beneath a powdered nose and rouged cheeks. A mauve blazer covered a silky white blouse fastened at the throat with an opal brooch. Her curled hair, dyed brunette, was shellacked into place. A cane fashioned from a gnarled tree branch leaned against her desk.
    â€œNever grows tiresome,” the librarian said. Her voice was earthy and well-worn, almost masculine.
    â€œYou’ve got the best seat in town,” Chuck responded.
    â€œThat’s what they tell me every time I ask for a raise.”
    Chuck glanced around. A middle-aged man read a magazine in an upholstered chair at the foot of the rear wall of