Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (13 page)

I had almost nothing in the way of possessions: a couple of skirts, a blouse, a hairbrush and some ribbon. A knife.

I dared not go into the confined space of the wagon to get my things.

I walked away from the traveller’s camp, heading toward the lights of London, far in the distance. An orange glow in the night sky.

I did not look back.

My head hurt. I was lying on something very rough, and something was digging into the small of my back. A horse whinnied not far away, and I could hear the wind moving through the trees and water rushing over rocks. A twig snapped and a man mumbled.

For a very brief moment, I thought I was back on Skye, that it was the first morning I’d been with the Travellers and they were breaking camp, readying to move on. But I caught no scent of oatmeal bubbling over the fire, heard no chattering women or laughing children, and did not smell heather or grouse or the barren hills of the Highlands. A cool breeze blew against my cheek, a breeze that had drifted through boreal forests of pine, spruce, and birch. It brought with it the scent of scrub and decaying vegetation and fresh water racing for the frozen sea.

Taking care not to move, I opened my eyes. I was looking up into a tree, a rather scruffy, stunted old pine. The sky above was blue, and white clouds drifted overhead.

I heard the strike of a match and a muttered curse and then turned my head, very slowly.

A man was about ten feet away. His back was to me, and he crouched over a pile of twigs. He struck another match and a puff of wind playfully blew it out before it could touch the wood.

Beyond the man and the fire pit, a brown horse munched on grasses at the banks of a river, its tail constantly moving as it flicked flies away.

I felt something land on my hand, a fly or a mosquito, but I didn’t move. I took inventory of my body. I was lying on my back, a rough blanket tucked around me. My right cheek was throbbing and the back of my head hurt. I wiggled my toes and felt blood flowing through my legs. I was not wearing shoes. I remembered a fight, falling down.

Then I remembered it all.

It was Paul Sheridan trying to light a fire in the wind. The sun was high overhead. Other than the wind and the trees and the horse and Sheridan, not a sound could be heard. We were nowhere near town, where the racket never ended, nor the Creeks, where people were coming and going at all times, day or night, nor the Yukon River where an armada of boats crowded with excited people headed for Dawson.

I had not the slightest idea how long I’d been unconscious or where we were.

I felt a sting in my hand and knew the mosquito had bitten me. Still, I didn’t move. I could probably get to my feet without disturbing Sheridan, his head bowed, intent on his task. I’d make a noise getting to the horse, and the animal itself would react. It didn’t have a saddle and wasn’t standing near a convenient boulder. Difficult to mount, and even if I did get on, almost impossible to control. There were three packs stacked beside a tree, fastened shut. My new hat rested on top of one. I could see nothing I could use for a weapon. A rifle leaned up against a tired old spruce, but it was on the far side of Sheridan. He’d get to it before I could.

About all I could do would be to quietly get to my feet and hope to make cover of the trees before he noticed my absence.

And then what?

I had absolutely no idea where I was or where I should go. I didn’t have a knife or a gun. I was in stocking feet, wearing an evening gown. By the feel of it, my hair had broken away from its pins, so it was unlikely I even had a hairpin to hand.

Nevertheless, I would try. Surely we couldn’t be too far from town, and the Indians around here were not hostile. Once I was away from Sheridan, I’d yell and scream as I walked, and someone would find me.

Hopefully a person before a wolf or bear. Or Paul Sheridan.

I kept my eyes on the man, now trying to make a windbreak of his body while striking a fresh match, and tensed my arms and legs. I rolled slowly onto one side, but as I lifted my head, a pain as sharp as if a hatpin had been driven through it had me taking a gasp.

Sheridan looked up. “Ah,” he said, “You’re awake. Good. I was starting to worry.” He rose to his feet with a groan.

I pushed myself up. The trees wobbled and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, the trees were standing still and Sheridan was smiling. “Hungry? Let me get this fire going and I’ll have the coffee on and fix us something to eat.”

“I don’t want coffee, nor food,” I said. “Unless it’s in my own home.” I walked toward the horse, keeping my head high. Something was wrong with these woods: the trees were faded and blurry around the edges. “I hope this creature knows the way back to town. Where’s the saddle?”

“No saddle,” Sheridan said. “We came by cart, but it won’t be taking us any further.” He looked over my shoulder and I turned. At a bend in the river, a makeshift contraption lay on its side. It was about the size of a barrow a gardener might employ, with a single wheel at the back and excessively long poles lashed to the front. The wheel hung at an unhealthy angle. “I made something for the horse to pull, thinking you’d prefer to ride as long as you could. Didn’t expect it would get far. Least you had someplace to sleep. It’ll be the rest of the way on foot, I’m afraid. The horse’ll carry the bags.”

“Mr. Sheridan.” I placed my hands on my hips. “I am returning to town, thank you very much. You may accompany me or not.”

“Fiona, why are you being so difficult?” He threw up his hands, and genuinely looked confused. “I’ve told you my plan. I’m gonna make you the richest woman in the world.”

“I’m going nowhere without my son.”

“Well, I’m right sorry we had to leave without him, but that was your fault, you know. If you’d come along like I told you to, Angus would be here, wouldn’t he?”

I couldn’t argue with that. Then again, there didn’t seem to be any point at all in arguing with Mr. Paul Sheridan. I shook my head, trying to look defiant while refocusing my vision. Slowly, Sheridan merged back into one person.

“I’ll send word for the boy,” he continued, “soon as we’ve arrived and I’ve staked the claim to the mountain and valley.”

“Mr. Sheridan,” I said, opening my eyes wide and touching my hands to my chest. “You must understand. I appreciate your offer very much, I am honoured to have been chosen to be your ... companion.” I was not going to say queen — that would be almost
lèse majesté
. There is only one Queen in the Empire. “However,” my eyes filled with tears, “I am not yet ready to remarry. You see, Mr. MacGillivray has only been dead less than two years.”

He studied me. And then, to my surprise, he broke into laughter. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you?” I blinked. “Oh, yes, the dainty English lady with your nice dresses and accent and charming smile. But you were quick enough and clever enough to get yourself out of Soapy’s reach lickety-split. I’ve seen you in the Savoy, listened to talk around town; everyone knows it’s you who’s in charge, not Walker. Tell you the truth, Fiona, you almost had me convinced. I learned the hard way outside the Savoy Saturday night. You fight like a man. Didn’t learn that from your governess, did you? I’m sorry I had to hit you, but you shouldn’t have fought me. Now I’m gonna get this damn fire lit and make us coffee. And then we’ll be on our way. Got it?”

“Mr. Sheridan ...”

“Paul.”

“Mr. Sheridan. All that may, or may not, be as you say. But I’m not going with you. I wish you the best on your journey.” I lifted my skirts.

“How far you gonna get, you think? You’ve had a blow to the head and been unconscious for a long time. Can you see properly? Or are you trying to make everything stand straight? I see how you keep squinting and shaking your head. Do you know where we are? Do you know which way’s town? Go running off helter-skelter you won’t get far. For all your manners and business sense, I doubt you can live off the wilderness.”

He wasn’t entirely right about that. I’d walked the wilds of Skye with my father, and lived with Travellers for two years. That, however, had been on the sheep-filled hills of Scotland and among the neat hedgerows of England, where one was never more than a few hours walk from some village or hamlet or just a crofter’s cabin. Not much my father or the Travellers taught me would be of use in the wilds of the Yukon. And Sheridan was right about one thing. If I moved my head too quickly, my vision swam, and that hatpin was there, ready to stab me behind the eyes.

Would Sheridan kill me if I tried to get away?

I looked into his face and did not know.

No matter. The man had to sleep and he couldn’t watch me constantly. I’d wait until my head cleared and bide my time.

Besides, surely someone would come looking for me.

Wouldn’t they?

I let some of the anger fade from my face.

“Good girl. Now you sit right there, where I can see you while I get this fire going.”

He’d gathered rotting logs and piled them into a circle in the clearing. The wind was strong, coming straight across the river.

The river. If I followed the river, it should take me ... somewhere. I had no idea what river this was or in what direction it flowed. For all I knew it would only take me deeper away from civilization. Hadn’t I heard somewhere that the rivers here flow north to the Arctic? I couldn’t remember. Miss Wheatley had not instructed us in geography. I cursed the oversight.

“Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “You need a windbreak. Even if you get that fire lit it will not last long. Collect rocks from the riverbank and place them in a circle. Inside the circle you can place your kindling. The logs you’re using are too big. Use twigs and dead needles. Put the logs on once the flames have taken. Didn’t anyone teach you to make a fire?”

“Not out-of-doors,” he said.

I’d suspected as much. His speech wasn’t too rough and his hands were uncallused. He’d been brought up in a city, and had no doubt always made his living by following the orders of Soapy Smith or his ilk.

Following my instruction — I was certainly not going to do the work myself — before long he had a cheerful blaze going. He walked over to the packs and pulled out a tin coffee pot and frying pan. I eyed the packs. They were rather small for taking two people into the wilderness.

“How much food did you bring?”

He opened the corned beef using the little key attached to the can, dropped a spoonful of lard into the pan, and tossed the beef on top.

“Enough. I can hunt,” he nodded to the rifle, “to supplement our rations. Anyway, we’ll be there soon enough.” He tapped his chest. “The map’s been right so far. Tomorrow we follow this river, then cut inland. Couple hours ’till we get to the old Indian trail and straight all the way.”

I didn’t bother to hide a sigh. The man couldn’t light a campfire, but he thought he could hunt for our food?

In that I would not be able to assist him: I have never handled a firearm. I eyed the rifle.

How quickly could I learn?

Angus MacGillivray sucked on the end of the pencil and studied the sketch. He was aware everyone was gathered around, leaning over him, willing him to finish the drawing. He added a line. Back in school, he’d loved geography best of all the subjects, learning how to read a map and the wonders of the world it opened up.

“I’m pretty sure that’s it, sir,” he said.

Everyone in the room leaned back in disappointment.

“Why, it could be anywhere,” Sergeant Lancaster said.

“Not really,” McKnight replied. “You can see where the Klondike and the Yukon Rivers meet. Here’s the Klondike moving off due east. I have a map of the territory in my office. We might want to compare.”

“And then what?” Graham Donohue said. “The rest of this map is nonsense. It doesn’t show Grand Forks or the trail to the Creeks or Forty Mile or anything recognizable. There must be more to it, Angus. What are you forgetting?”

“I’m not forgetting anything. This is it. The map Mr. Sheridan showed me.”

“Man couldn’t find his way to his ass following this map,” Donohue said.

“That Mr. Sheridan is labouring under an illusion is not in question here,” McKnight said. “I’ve heard the stories. There are hundreds of them. Gold beyond imagining. A valley where fruit trees grow and rivers never freeze. No one can ever explain why, if this place is so special, even the Indians haven’t found it by now.”

“It’s hidden. Secret,” Lancaster said. Angus looked up at the man. His eyes were unfocused. “Part of this world yet not.” Lancaster, Angus knew, had been a champion boxer in his youth. He suspected the sergeant had been hit on the head a few too many times. He’d recently proposed to Fiona. She politely turned him down, but the man continued to live in hope.

“Nonsense,” Donohue said. “Pure fantasy told to keep men warm around the stove on a winter’s night. That damned fool’s taking Fiona straight into nothing.”

“They say,” Lancaster continued, “only the pure of heart can find it.”

“That eliminates Sheridan then,” Ray said. “And Fiona too, begging your pardon young Angus.”

Sterling hadn’t said a word. He ran his eyes over the map and rubbed at his chin. Whatever was at the end of this map — fantasy mountain or not — if Fiona MacGillivray was being taken there, he would go after her. And he would not return without her.

“McAllen,” he said at last. “You’ve been down the Klondike. How far?”

“No more than thirty miles, Corporal. There’s nothing there but trees and more trees.”

“North of the river?”

“Don’t know, sir. We were exploring the south bank some. Not the north.”

Sterling tapped the paper with his finger. A smaller blue line led away from the larger one. Going north. “Do you know what’s here?”

McAllen peered at the map. He shook his head. “Hard to judge distance on that map there. That’s what, five, seven miles up? I don’t remember anything of significance.”

“I’d like to have a look at the map in your office, sir,” Sterling said to McKnight. “There must be some reason this spot’s marked.”

McKnight and Sterling held each other’s eyes. Angus didn’t breathe. “Good idea,” the inspector said at last.

“I’m going with you,” Angus said.

“No, son. Not this time. I need to move fast.”

“If not with you then I’ll go by myself,” Angus said. “I will. I have the map in my head, remember.”

“No,” Sterling said.

Angus’s ally came from an unexpected direction. “Take the lad, Corporal,” McKnight said. “He’s proven himself to be a good man. They say you’re a tracker, Sterling, but moving fast might not be wise. It’s easy to miss signs in haste. McAllen, you’ll accompany them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m going too,” Donohue said.

“Why?” Sterling said. “So you can write it down and send a report to your newspaper? That’s no help to us.”

Donohue stretched himself, as though trying to reach the Corporal’s height. He fell very short. “Mrs. MacGillivray is my friend and I intend to find her.”

Ray snorted. “Fiona’s my friend also, as well as my partner, but I ken it won’t be doing her no good a Glasgow lad stomping though the wilderness.” He gave Angus what he probably thought was an encouraging smile. It did not have the desired effect. “I’ll stay behind. Run our business. Keep everything in order for when she gets back.”

“Sort your party out, Sterling,” McKnight said. “Report to me before leaving. Anyone attempting to reproduce this map will be brought up on charges or given a blue ticket. In the meantime, Constable Fitzhenry....”

The officer standing guard at the back door, whose neck had stretched a good couple of inches as he strained to get a glimpse of the map, snapped to attention.

“You and Campbell ask around, see if anyone’s seen this Sheridan fellow recently. It’s entirely possible the man’s still in town and has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Yes, sir.” Fitzhenry headed for the door.

Sterling reached for the scrap of paper, but Angus snatched it up. Sterling held out his hand. “If the Inspector says so, you can accompany us. But you don’t forget for a minute who’s in command.”

Sheepishly, Angus passed the map over. Sterling took one more look at it before folding it and putting it in his pocket.

“You’ll need a warm jacket, change of clothes, extra socks, bedroll, and food for several days. Meet me at the Fort in one hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Donohue, if you insist on coming, you’ll need supplies also. One hour or I’ll leave without you. Mr. McAllen, the same. We’ll start at the mouth of the Klondike and follow the river. I’m not rushing blind into the wilderness. If I can’t find a trail to follow, we’ll turn back. Is that understood?”