“What about trace minerals?” she said. “Have they been found on the reservation?”
Ferguson didn’t say anything. He reached past her, retrieved a small vial the size of a prescription bottle, and handed it to her. “Garnets and sapphires,” he said. “I washed them out of the creekbed there.” He pointed to a spot on the map that Vicky guessed was about fifty miles north of the reservation.
She held the bottle up to the window, turning it slowly in her hand. A layer of red and blue grains sparkled in the light. Then she stood up and studied the area he had pointed to. Dubois to the north, Table Mountain and Indian Meadows farther south, creeks crisscrossing the area. To the west, the direction from which the creeks flowed out of the mountains, was the Shoshone forest and, over a ridge, Bear Lake, a place of spirits, important to her people.
She sank onto her chair and closed her eyes. The pieces of the puzzle were beginning to form a clear image. She’d assumed that Vince Lewis had wanted to tell her something about the reservation. She was wrong. Nathan Baider had found diamonds at Bear Lake. A diamond mine would drive the spirits away. The Arapahos and Shoshones would lodge complaints with the state, file lawsuits, do everything possible to protect the area, which explained why Baider had to work in secret. Vince Lewis had died trying to warn her so that she could warn the tribes, and his wife must have known what was going on. She must have confronted Nathan Baider. If Duncan Grover had come upon the secret, it would explain why he had been killed.
“Are you all right?”
Vicky’s eyes snapped open. Charlie Ferguson was bending over her, as if he might take her pulse, his own eyes narrowed with worry.
“I’m okay,” she managed. She made herself take a long breath. “Suppose Baider Industries located a diamond deposit at Bear Lake. What would be the next step?”
Charlie Ferguson looked startled. “Bear Lake Valley? That would be highly controversial. They might want to keep it secret. Wouldn’t want tourists and rock hounds trampling the area. They should get a mineral lease and authorization, but they might not. They might want to see what they’d found first. Dig a prospect pit about twelve hundred feet deep and take out a few thousand pounds of rock. The average diamond yield is point-zero-five carats to seven carats per ton of rock. If the sample rocks showed gemstone-quality stones, they’d want to make a bulk commercial test with about ten thousand tons of rock. At some point they’d probably file for a mining permit.”
“How much time are we talking about?”
“An established mining company that knows the ropes—”
“Like Baider Industries,” Vicky cut in.
The man shrugged. “Let’s just say the process would be smooth.”
“A mine could be operating before anyone realized what was going on?”
“Possibly.”
Unless someone like Vince Lewis decided to blow the whistle, Vicky was thinking. She turned back to the map: a blue-and-green blur with red, yellow, and white pins jumping out at her. After a moment she realized the professor had sat down, and she took her own chair.
“How large is a diatreme?”
“Anywhere from a few acres of surface area to a mile in diameter.”
“How can I find the kimberlite pipe in Bear Lake Valley?” she said.
Ferguson exhaled a long stream of air. “You could try panning for trace minerals downstream from the valley . . .” He hesitated. “You could hire a plane to fly over the valley and do photo imaging, the way DeBeers locates new deposits in the interior of Australia. A very expensive process, I might add.”
Vicky shifted forward, a sense of excitement gathering inside her. “What about satellite imaging? Could satellite sensors detect a kimberlite pipe?”
The professor shrugged. “Sensors can detect the color of your hair,” he said. “Problem lies in interpreting the data. It takes highly trained geologists. Some work in government labs. Others are at commercial satellite companies that sell the imaging data.”
Vicky stood up and swung her bag over one shoulder. “You’ve been very helpful,” she said.
“I’m afraid you’re on the wrong track.” Charlie Ferguson was on his feet next to her. “I’ve known Nathan Baider for years. If he found a new deposit in central Wyoming, he’d notify our office.”
“You said a mining company would want to keep a new deposit secret.” Vicky kept her eyes on his.
“From the public and other mining outfits,” the man said, “not from our office. It would be a significant find, the first pipe identified in the area. I can’t believe Nathan wouldn’t have let us know.”