Free Mountain Rampage by Scott Graham Page B

windows. Several other easy chairs, aligned to take in the view of the river and Longs Peak beyond, were empty, and the aisles between the stacks of books leading away from the windows were deserted. The hordes of summer tourists in Estes Park obviously had more important things to do than visit the local library, and the locals were busy serving the visitors.
    â€œI’d like to learn what I can about Cordero Mine,” Chuck told the librarian. “On Mount Landen, near Trail Ridge Road.”
    The librarian crinkled her nose. “Cordero? Never heard of it.”
    â€œYou’re not alone. I’ve been assigned to do some archaeological work on it with a crew of college students. I spent some time in here a few weeks ago trying to do some preliminary research, but I couldn’t find a single mention of it.”
    The librarian’s face lifted in a bewitched smile. “A mystery,” she said. “I like it.”
    She took hold of her cane and pushed herself to her feet. She was under five feet tall, her shoulders bowed and misshapen. She limped heavily as she rounded her desk. A three-inch lift was glued to the sole of one of her brown, square-toed shoes to make up for a distinct difference in the length of her legs.
    The librarian led Chuck down one of the aisles away from the wall of windows.
    â€œWalk this way,” she told him. She wiggled her buttocks and gave a quiet snort of laughter as she shuffled down the aisle between the stacks of books, leaning on her cane.
    They came to a row of computers lining an inner wall. The librarian took a seat in front of one of the machines and pulled a rolling chair from the next computer over for Chuck. Her knobby fingers danced across the keyboard in front of her.
    Chuck watched the monitor over her shoulder as she worked her way from the Larimer County Records Department to the department’s mapping center to a bird’s-eye view of the Mummy Mountain Range. Controlling the computer’s mouse with nimble rolls and clicks, the librarian zeroed in on Mount Landen.
    â€œWhere is it?” she asked.
    Chuck pointed at the east flank of the mountain, above tree line.
    The librarian used the mouse to zoom in from above until the collapsed logs of the miners’ cabin became discernible in the grainy satellite photo.
    â€œAh-ha,” she said.
    With deft movements, she created a blinking, dotted-line box around the mine site, freed the boxed section from the satellite photo, and somehow transferred the freed section to another website, this one administered, as near as Chuck could tell, by an obscure branch of the U.S. Department of Mineralogy. There, the librarian pasted the box into a waiting screen, entered a series of coordinates in a search bar—numbers she’d memorized, apparently, from the Larimer County website—and clicked enter .
    The Department of Mineralogy website popped up with a lengthy number of its own.
    â€œGotcha,” she proclaimed.
    Before Chuck could say anything, the librarian sped on with her search, copying the number and moving to yet another website, this one operated by the State of Colorado. There she pasted the number into another search box and clicked the mouse.
    This time there was a slight pause before the site displayed a few cryptic lines of text against a light-blue background:
    Joshua Weed, Hiram Longstrom
    Application No. 681, Claim No. 394
    September 8, 1861
    The librarian sat back from the computer and crossed her arms in front of her in satisfaction. She lifted a gnarled finger from the fold of her elbow and pointed at the screen. “No wonder you didn’t find anything. See the date?”
    â€œA few months after the start of the Civil War, right?” Chuck asked.
    â€œYep. No wonder there’s no more information about it than this. The federal government had a few more important things to do than record and follow up on the last few mines beingpunched in the ground at