From Here to Paternity

book somebody here in the county did about twenty years ago. The author of the book was taken with the legend of old Gregory Smith and interviewed a lot of the old-timers about him. How accurate any of it was is anybody’s guess.“
    She thought for a moment. “Old Gregory turned up in Colorado sometime in the 1920s, I believe. Nobody knew where he lived or what he did. He’d just show up from time to time and trade gold for supplies. Apparently he had a small mine someplace in the mountains. Or maybe a stream he was panning. Then, in about 1925 or so, he came out of the mountains with a substantial amount of gold, bought this land, married a local girl, and settled in. People figured his mine had played out, and he didn’t exactly deny it, but he told folks he thought a man didn’t have the right to take more from the earth than he needed.“
    “Interesting attitude,“ Mel said. “Sort of suggests there might be a mine still worth mining.“
    The waiter came with Jane’s and Shelley’s breakfasts, and Tenny’s recital was halted while Mel ordered.
    “One of the things Doris found out,“ Tenny went on when the waiter had gone, “was that the gold he used to buy the land was melted down into little ingots—I think that’s what you call them.“
    “So?“ Jane said.
    “So it wasn’t proper nuggets or dust out of the ground or a streambed. Doris thought it was melted-down jewelry rather than anything he mined.“
    “Could that be true?“ Shelley asked.
    Tenny shrugged. “I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think the process for melting down either nuggets or jewelry is awfully high-tech. Anyway, he married and the two children—my uncle Bill and his sister, Carol, who was Pete’s mom—were born and then their mother died. Uncle Bill says he has no memory of her at all. Old Gregory stuck around after that. Did some hunting, a little farming, and some of the women from the tribe helped him raise his children. That’s why Uncle Bill’s always been so close to the tribe. Gregory died at just about the end of World War Two, when Bill was only sixteen, and Bill, who’d been hunting practically since he could walk, built the little hunters’ cabins. There were about a dozen of them and a big cookhouse-lodge. A few of the cabins are still around. We use them for storage.“
    “What was Gregory like? What did he look like?“ Jane asked.
    Tenny shrugged again. “I never saw him. And as far as I know, nobody dared take a picture of him. He was known for not allowing it. Uncle Bill once said he had a picture of himself with his mother and father, but when I asked to see it, he hemmed and hawed and said he’d lost it. Years later, I asked him about it again and he said I’d imagined the conversation. So I don’t know if there really is one or not. But even if there wasn’t, don’t assume that means anything. Most of the old-timers around here were like that. Private to the point of paranoia. The local history book has a drawing of Gregory, based on what people said he looked like. To tell the truth, the drawing resembles Rasputin more than it does any tsar,“ she said with a laugh. “Long, straggly beard, spooky-looking eyes. But then, half the men in the mountains used to look like that. Apparently a beard is real warm in the winter.“
    Jane noticed that Mel was gazing into the middle distance and stroking his chin. “Don’t even think about it,“ she said.
    He grinned. “You don’t see me as a mountain man?“
    “Was there anything else about him in the book that encouraged Doris in her claims?“ Jane asked Tenny.
    “Yes. The book said he spoke with a heavy, mysterious accent. And Uncle Bill did say that though his father couldn’t read or write English, he kept his account books in something that looked like Russian.“
    “Looked like Russian? Couldn’t that be determined pretty easily?“ Jane asked.
    “Yes, except that Gregory had Bill burn all of them when he—Gregory, that is—was sick with his final illness. At least that’s what Uncle Bill said happened.“
    “You don’t believe him?“
    “I don’t know. Uncle Bill’s a very private man. He might have said that just so nobody would bug him about seeing the account books. Then again, he didn’t need to even admit that he thought the writing was Russian, so it might well be true. There’s also a highly questionable story the local historian picked up, about some Russian visitors here once who talked to