Adrik shook his head. “I can’t tell you what to do, mister, but you’d do well to get them back down in this direction. It’s only the second of April. There’s plenty of time to get north. I wouldn’t start back up until the Tlingits do likewise. They’re pretty good about figuring these things out.”
Another rumble sounded, and even though Adrik knew these small slides were probably not stealing away life in the night, he also knew they were precursors of things to come.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I must go.” He handed Adrik the cup and tipped his hat. “You were most kind.”
Adrik saw the panic in the man’s eyes. He understood his fear and could only pray that it might keep the younger man from death’s clutches. Healthy fear had a way of doing that. If a person listened to that quiet little voice, a nudging of the Holy Spirit, Adrik’s mother used to say, then a person could often avoid a great deal of misery. Adrik had tested that theory and knew it to be true.
With a yawn, Adrik gazed upward to the dark mountainsides before settling in for the night. The ominous sense of death surrounded him, leaving him uneasy. He began a wordless prayer, pleading with God for the protection of those who were exposed to danger. He also asked God’s blessings on Karen Pierce before he crawled into the tent and fell almost instantly asleep.
Around two in the morning a commotion awoke Adrik. He soon realized that the alarm announcing an avalanche was being sounded in the small village. Uncertain where the trouble was, Adrik pulled on his boots and coat to go in search of the problem and offer whatever help he could. Taking a lantern and a shovel, he made his way up the trail in the bitter cold and wind. Along the way, he heard tales of everything from the Scales camp being destroyed to there being little or no damage. Ignoring these conflicting stories, he pressed on up the trail and finally met up with a group of men with shovels.
“We’re digging out at least a dozen people,” one man told Adrik. “There may be more, but we saw a couple of parties headed through this direction. One man said there were at least twelve.”
Adrik shook his head and took up a shovel. “We might as well get to work,” he said, eyeing the ominous mound of snow and debris.
Twenty people were eventually rescued. The workers laughed and slapped each other on the back while the injured were treated to warm beds and strong coffee. The mountain had failed to claim their lives and so the folks were generally celebratory, having defeated the slide.
Adrik, however, was more apprehensive. He studied the dark shadows of Long Hill and stared upward toward the summit. Snow swirled around him, gentle and harmless. It was hard to imagine that such a thing could be so deadly.
The next morning there was talk of how they’d escaped the perils of the mountain. How things would be easier now that the threat of avalanche had passed. Adrik reminded more than one person that the Tlingits were still not convinced of a safe passage, and since they’d been the ones to warn of the situation in the first place, perhaps they should be heeded now. But folks generally ignored his suggestion.
Then around nine-thirty the slides began again. Word came down from the Scales that they were shutting the operation down and evacuating the camp. Adrik breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps now they would avoid real disaster.
Around ten o’clock a low rumbling came from Long Hill, signaling yet another slide. Adrik shook his head as word came back that three people had been buried in their tents. He thought of the young Englishman and wondered if he’d convinced his party to bed down in Sheep Camp for the night.
With the evacuation of the Scales came the tram workers. The tram had been set up to assist those gold rushers who had extra money to spend. The tram owners were making a bundle, much to the disappointment of the natives who had found packing for the stampeders to be small compensation for the white man stealing their trail. They didn’t mind Adrik working the line, for he often gave generously to their people, but they resented the intrusion of men from the outside. So, with this thought well etched in their minds, the Tlingits had little comment when the tram workers were caught in yet a second avalanche and killed. After all, they had warned them.
Now people were staring warily up the mountain, watching and wondering. Because the wind had picked up as well as the snow, visibility was near zero. Adrik sensed the impending disaster, but knew he was helpless to stop it. Through a combination of God’s grace and wisdom along with his knowledge of the land, he was standing safe and protected, while others would meet their death.
And then it happened. The roar echoed and vibrated against the mountainsides. The very earth seemed to move as a wall of snow poured down from the mountains above. Would-be rescuers could only wonder and wait, having no idea how bad the situation might be. Had there been others on the trail? Had they met their match in this devastating play of nature?
Adrik felt certain there would be trouble. He loaded up what he could carry and grabbed his shovel. There was work to do.
Rumors ran rampant. Announcements of two hundred or more dead filtered down the trail. Gunshots were fired off to signal the need for help. The stampeders were more than generous with their offering. They came in droves, responding in a way indicative of the frozen north. You helped your brother in his need, because next time it could just as easily be you.
Adrik dug in and worked along a line where the trail had once been. Someone said that the remaining two hundred people on the Scales had been making their way down the mountain. One man claimed to have been at the end of the line holding on to a rope that simply seemed to disappear as the snows assaulted them from every side.
Bodies, some battered beyond recognition, were lined up and transported down the trail to Sheep Camp, where a makeshift morgue was set up in a donated tent. An emergency committee was appointed for the task of identifying and tagging each body for burial or shipping.
Adrik shook his head at the loss of life. They’d been warned, but greed had kept them fearlessly ensconced in the path of danger.
“Here’s another one!” someone yelled.
Adrik looked up to find the Englishman from the night before. He sighed. The man was dead. Shaking his head, he went back to work only to unbury another body.
“I’ve got one, too,” he called out.
People came to help him dig out the man who surprised them all by moving his lips and fluttering his eyes. When he opened them, he stared up at Adrik as if he were God himself.
“He—he—lp me,” the man stammered. Blood streamed from his face, which was crusted from the ice and snow in his beard and mustache.
“We’re doing the best we can for you, mister,” Adrik told him. “Look, just lie still. You’ll be taken to Sheep Camp where there’s a doctor.” Even saying it, however, Adrik knew the man would never make it. The left side of his face had been crushed.
The man closed his eyes, then opened them again. Adrik could see he was laboring to breathe—to live. With a power that seemed beyond the man, Adrik watched him struggle to reach his coat pocket. Realizing the man would not be settled, Adrik moved his hand aside and reached into the pocket with his own gloved hand. He pulled out the contents: a pouch of tobacco, a pipe, and a folded piece of paper.
“Letter,” the man mumbled. “Children.”
Adrik looked at the possessions, not understanding. “You have children at Sheep Camp?” he finally questioned.
“No,” the man replied.
The workers were ready to move the man to a plank for transport down the trail. Adrik held his hand up. “Wait just a minute. He’s trying to tell me something.”
“He needs attention,” one surly man replied.
“You think I don’t know that?” Adrik snapped. Turning to the dying man, he said, “Look, friend, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”
The man looked up at Adrik with lifeless eyes. “Letter to children.” With that he closed his eyes and stopped breathing.
“He’s gone,” the surly man announced. “Take him to the morgue.”
Adrik looked at the dead man and then to the letter in his hand. Stuffing the pouch and pipe into his own pocket, Adrik opened the letter.
1898, 2nd of April.
Jacob and Leah Barringer, in care of Miss Karen Pierce,
lately of Dyea
.
The very breath left his lungs, and Adrik found himself almost gasping for air. Was it possible? Was the dead man Bill Barringer? “Wait!” he called. “I might know who that fellow is.”
The workers paused. “Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.” He stuffed the letter into his pocket. Taking a better look at the dead man, Adrik scratched his jaw. It could be Barringer. He’d only met him twice, though, and there had been so many other men just like him.
“I’ll take him down.” Adrik could only pray the man wasn’t Barringer.
He grabbed the end of the plank from the man who held it. “You can borrow my shovel. Name’s Adrik Ivankov. Nearly everybody in Sheep Camp knows me. You can leave my shovel at the Summit Meat Market. They know me real well.”
The man said nothing. He seemed surprised by Adrik’s rapid instructions. Adrik motioned to the man on the other end of the plank. “Let’s go.” He couldn’t help but think that he would once again bear bad tidings to Karen Pierce. It wasn’t a job he wanted, but obviously God had given it to him for a reason.
KAREN WIPED HER HANDS on her apron and looked out the window of the Gold Nugget’s kitchen. Steam fogged the windows on the inside, while ice frosted them on the outside. It was useless to try to see out.
“Fretting ain’t gonna bring them here any faster,” Mrs. Neal chided. The older woman dumped a huge wooden bowl filled with bread dough on the floured counter top. “Workin’ will keep your mind off the rumors. I’m sure that Mr. Ivankov and Mr. Barringer are just fine.”
Karen pushed her hands into the dough and began to mechanically knead the mass. “I just want to know if the slide was as bad as people are saying. That last guy said over three hundred people are dead.” She fell silent, an image of Adrik Ivankov coming to mind.
“Adrik might be up there,” she murmured, trying hard not to sound worried. “But I doubt Bill would be. After all, he left us before Christmas. He might have gotten held up by the weather, though.”
“Now, then, the world is full of might be’s,” Mrs. Neal chided. “No sense frettin’ until you know something for sure.”
“I know you’re right, but I can’t help it. I’ve had nothing but trouble since coming north. I don’t know that I can bear losing anyone else.” Karen’s voice broke as she pushed the dough aside. “I need a breath of air.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, Karen turned and grabbed her shawl. “I’m going to check on Leah.” She left the aromas of the Gold Nugget kitchen behind and stepped out into the yard behind the building where Leah Barringer was supposed to be splitting wood. Leah was nowhere in sight, however.
The wind whipped up the edges of the shawl, causing Karen to tighten her hold. Spring thaw wouldn’t come for at least another month or two, and the elements were rising up just to make themselves known. Karen sighed, silently longing for warm weather. Looking down the alley to see if Leah might have gone visiting with one of the neighboring proprietors or their help, Karen found the place surprisingly deserted.
Karen felt her pulse quicken. Only the day before the fire, Leah had been the center of some much undesired attention. Drunken miners had thought her rather pretty and accosted her on her walk from church to the store. Karen and Jacob had been delayed at the church, helping to organize plans for Easter. When they came upon Leah, backed against a wall with smelly, dirty men on all sides of her, Jacob and Karen were livid. Karen could only hope they weren’t repeating the scene.
Heading down the alley, Karen called to the girl. “Leah! Leah, where are you?”
She heard the girl crying before she spotted her hiding behind a stack of crates. “What’s wrong?” Karen questioned, kneeling in the mud beside Leah. The cold muck seeped through her layers of skirt, petticoat, and woolen hose. “Are you hurt? Has someone bothered you?”
“No,” Leah sobbed. “I’m just scared.”
“What are you scared about?”
“Papa.” The single word needed no further explanation.
Karen reached out and lovingly touched the girl’s cold cheek. “I know you’re worried about your father, but we haven’t heard anything that would indicate he was in the avalanche. Besides, you know how rumors are. Things are seldom as bad as they seem.”
“But I feel it here,” Leah said, pointing to her heart. “I just know Papa’s in trouble—that he’s hurt.”
“You can’t know that,” Karen said, trying her best to sound convincing. She wasn’t about to tell the girl of her own concerns. “Don’t borrow trouble. Besides, your papa should be well on his way north.”
“Karen, is God mad at us?”
Taken aback, Karen cleared her throat nervously. “Why would you ask that?”
Leah looked up, her dark brown curls falling in ringlets to frame her face. Her blue eyes were huge, pleading with Karen for answers. “Mama used to say that sometimes bad things happened ’cause we didn’t listen to God. ’Cause we had to have things our own way instead of His way. She said God sometimes let the bad things happen to get our attention ’cause we were ignoring Him. I’m thinking maybe God is mad and trying to get our attention.”
Karen wasn’t about to agree with Leah’s conclusion. She wanted to keep her distance from God just now. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to maintain her childhood beliefs. And it wasn’t that she was refuting His existence or supremacy, Karen told herself. She was just angry and nursing a grudge, and she couldn’t do that and cozy up to God at the same time.
There was a part of her that already worried she’d somehow brought this disaster on them. God no doubt wanted her to see that He was still in charge—that He could further strip her of what was dear and precious. That He, as Leah put it, might be trying to get her attention.
“I know for a fact that God isn’t mad at you, Leah,” Karen said, feeling confident of that one thing. “Come on, let’s get the wood inside, and we can go upstairs and clean up. You’re no doubt soaked clear through. Mrs. Neal baked a fresh batch of cinnamon rolls, and I know she’d spare one for you.”