Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (16 page)

“Corporal?”

“From now on bring up the rear. Stay a good bit behind and keep your ears open. You find anyone else following us, stop them.”

“Right.”

“We can’t go much farther today anyway. Light’s getting bad.”

“We can’t stop,” Angus said. “Not if my ma isn’t stopping.”

“If I lose the trail, it won’t be any help to her. We’re tired and hungry. Men make mistakes, bad mistakes, when they’re tired. This spot looks as good as any. We’ll make camp for a couple of hours.”

Angus stamped his foot and looked as if he were about to argue. Fiona was dark-haired and dark-complexioned, and her black eyes flashed fire when she was angry. Angus was blond and very fair, but his blue eyes had the same intensity and determination.

“Collect firewood,” Sterling said, not giving the boy a chance to continue the argument. “Feed Millie and let her drink. That sky looks clear, so I don’t think we need worry about putting up the tent tonight. Mouse, collect what food we have and get the fire going and make supper for us all. Donohue, gather some spruce bows to provide us with a mattress.”

“I’d suggest ...”

“I don’t care what you suggest. Mind you, don’t wander too far away. Get yourself lost and I’m not wasting time searching for you. In case anyone else from town has a mind to follow us, we’ll take shifts sitting guard. While you’re setting up camp, I’m going up ahead to scout around.”

And he left before anyone could think of another thing to argue about. Damn nuisance bringing a bunch of civilians into the wilds. Have to argue about everything.

Ray Walker had never been a lucky man. Born in the slums surrounding the great Glasgow shipyards, where luck was in exceedingly short supply, he’d been raised to use his fists almost from the cradle. His father was a good man but none too bright, out of work more often than not, usually because he didn’t always remember to do what he’d been told. Ray’s mother worked long hours at the fish canning plant and then hurried home to take care of her family. She gave birth to twelve children in twenty years but only three of them survived. Ray and his two wee sisters.

Ray Walker began working on the docks when he was twelve years old, handing over what money he earned to his mother to pay the rent on their stinking tenement flat and buy food for the younger children.

When Ray was fifteen his father died, coughing up blood until there was so much he drowned in it. Ray stayed at home until his youngest sister was safely wed and then left. He sent part of his wages to his mother, visited his sisters and their wee ones on a Sunday, but otherwise could pretty much be counted on to get in a fight on a Saturday night and drink up what remained of his pay packet.

One night, not long after his mother died, finally crushed by life, Ray was with a woman — a cheap slag who prowled the shipyards — in the filthy flat she worked out of. She said something that offended him, he never remembered what, and he beat her until she passed out.

He quit his job the next day, said goodbye to his sisters, and left Glasgow. Not because he was afraid of the police, no one cared about a slag getting herself smacked around, but because he realized he was on a very dangerous path indeed.

He went to London, worked at odd jobs, mostly stayed away from the pubs and the prostitutes, and saved his wages until he could buy passage to the New World. He wanted to go to America, but as it happened, when at last he went to purchase his ticket, the next ship out was bound for Halifax.

Life was still hard, but he never thought it any harder than that of most of the poor people he came across as he made his way across the continent.

He used the last of the money he’d made working on the Vancouver docks to buy supplies and passage to the Klondike.

He got off the boat in Skagway in August of 1897.

And had his first bit of luck in all of his forty years.

He met Fiona MacGillivray.

She’d been like a dream, Fiona. Not because she was beautiful and proper and charming, but because she was as smart and cunning and unscrupulous as ever a man Ray had known.

She reminded him in some ways of his mother. Or perhaps what his mother might have been able to be if she hadn’t wed at fourteen and given birth to twelve children by the time she was thirty-five.

He’d never felt anything sexual toward Fiona. He could rub her feet when they ached at the end of a long day, or watch her arranging her hair in front of the cracked mirror in her office, and find no strain in his trousers or shortage of breath.

She was, quite simply, the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was as tough as they came, tougher than most, and a true Scotswoman, holding loyalty to family and clan above all. And he, Ray Walker, was part of her new-world clan. He trusted her completely, but nevertheless he checked the ledger every week and popped into the bank on occasion to ensure the business accounts were as they should be. They ran a hugely successful business, and Ray Walker had no worries about the future. He’d stay in the Klondike as long as there were miners to be mined and salt away most of his share of the profits in anticipation of the day the gold rush ended.

And then there was Irene Davidson. Not beautiful, like Fiona, but also a woman with a determination to make a success of the part she’d been given in life. He might even think of proposing to Irene one day.

Today he wasn’t feeling so confident about his future. Fiona wasn’t here and he wasn’t sure how long he could manage the business without her. He tried to cheer himself up by remembering that if anyone could find her and bring her back it would be Richard Sterling. To Ray Walker, it was as obvious as the pack of men shoving themselves toward the bar that Sterling was in love with Fiona. About the only thing clearer was that she was in love with the Mountie. Too bad neither of them were prepared to admit it. To themselves or to each other. Yet.

The Savoy was packed early on Monday morning. The front room full to the point of bursting at the seams. Men lined up at the bar, three deep, elbow to elbow.

Fiona had once remarked that nothing seemed to abate the flood of drinkers and gamblers pouring through their doors, and once news of the kidnapping of Mrs. MacGillivray and the hunt for a mountain of gold had spread through town, everyone gathered, wanting to be part of the excitement.

There must have been a hundred men lined up at the door at ten o’clock, when Ray opened up. All the talk was of a tropical valley full of gold no more than a few days’ hike away. Ray’d been there when Inspector McKnight said he’d give a blue ticket to anyone who whispered word of Sheridan’s map. He should have known someone would tell. Lancaster perhaps, the doddering fool, or young Constable Fitzhenry trying to impress a dancehall girl. Before twenty-four hours had passed, half the town knew about it.

Men were bent over tables and the bar counter, sketching out copies of the map Angus had tried to reproduce. They got further and further from reality. Some had paths heading west to Alaska, some due north to the Arctic Sea, some back down the Chilkoot to just outside of Dyea.

Old Barney was regaling the crowd with stories of other great treasure hunts. He told a fresh-faced cheechako that, once his glass was refilled, he’d tell them about the crystal mountain he’d seen years ago, far in the distance. Pure glass it was, as clear and brilliant as a jewel around a lady’s neck. The man ordered another whisky, and when his back was turned, Barney gave Ray Walker a cheeky wink.

“Bad business,” Joe Hamilton said.

“Mounties have set out after her,” Ray said. “They’ll be back soon.” He wiped the mahogany counter with his rag.

“I’d like to help,” Hamilton said. He leaned across the bar and lowered his voice. “I went after them, yesterday. But Sterling told me to get back to town, tell you he’s found her trail. I know where they’re going.”

“Do you now?” The man beside Hamilton turned. He was alone and drank his whisky very slowly. He looked Hamilton up and down, taking in the rotten teeth, the filthy clothes, the hat with half the brim missing, the acrid odour of rough nights and hard-working days. “The corporal was right. Man can’t go rushing off into the wilderness, friend, unprepared. How about I provide everything we need in the way of supplies, and you show me the way? Finish your drink. We’d better be going now, before anyone else gets the same idea.”

Hamilton grinned. Ray started to say something but at that moment the dancer Betsy came through the doors. Fiona didn’t allow the girls onto the premises when they weren’t working. Not only was having women in the bar a shady matter of the law, but she thought it reduced the value of the dollar-a-minute dance if men could drink with them any time they liked. Ray crossed the room to tell Betsy to get out. The man offering to travel with Joe Hamilton called to Murray, “Bartender, I’ll purchase two bottles to take with me.”

But Betsy wasn’t here to drink or to meet friends. She spoke to three men sitting at the big centre table. She didn’t bother to sit, and the men did not stand. She put her hands on the table and talked in low, serious tones. As Ray approached, she straightened and scurried out. The men at the table stood as one and followed her, leaving unfinished drinks in front of them.

When Ray turned back to the bar, Hamilton and his new friend were gone.

We walked along the dry edges of the creek bed, and both Sheridan and the horse seemed to find the going easier than yesterday. As the day progressed, the trees got increasingly small and scruffy, the spaces between them growing. The tops of the distant mountains were draped in white, and a strong wind was blowing, bringing the scent and chill of snow with it.

Had I made a mistake, once again, in not taking my chances and fleeing while Sheridan slept? We were heading toward nothing. We would not round a corner and see a white church steeple in the distance; we would not happen upon a welcoming inn at the crossroads (there being no roads); we would not see a smudge of yellow smoke marking a town or village on the horizon; we would not encounter a cheerful, ruddy-faced farmer bringing eggs and cheese and vegetables to town for market day.

Nothing lay ahead except the endless forest, distant mountains, and the frozen sea beyond.

The elevation rose, gradually but steadily, as we travelled. Suddenly, the woods cleared and the path broke open on the left. I could hear the welcoming sound of water moving swiftly, and the horse needed no encouragement to follow it. A flock of geese lifted into the air and flew low overhead, honking loudly as they settled into formation. A Kingfisher came from the opposite direction. Its wings didn’t move, but it travelled fast above the water, drifting on the wind. The clearing was full of wildflowers in shades of yellow and white, and low bushes were thick with clusters of dark purple mossberries.

I was opening my mouth to mention the berries, when a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye and I looked downstream. A moose stood knee-deep in a patch of gently moving waterweeds. It lifted its head and looked at me, a long strip of grass dripping out of both sides of its mouth. It was the most ungainly, ugly beast, all knees and joints and ribs beneath a massive head, but its eyes were beautiful, huge and liquid brown. Sheridan had put his rifle on the ground and was bending over the water, filling his bottle. I didn’t draw his attention to the animal.

It took another mouthful of grass before turning and walking away without a sound. It disappeared into the bush with only a gentle sway of branches to mark its passing, and I wondered that such an apparently lumbering beast could move so silently and gracefully.

“Tomorrow,” Sheridan said, “I’ll do some fishing. For now, I want to keep moving while the weather’s good.”

“Do you know if the berries on that bush are safe to eat?”

He eyed them. “Better not try. Anyway, we don’t need them. I’ve enough food to last until we get there.”

I doubted that. I’d seen what he had in the saddle bags. After the tent, bedroll, blankets, dishes, frying pan, and coffee pot, almost no room remained for food to sustain two people for more than another day or two.

Sheridan might be able to live on his obsession, but I could not.

I might come to regret not mentioning the moose.

If he hadn’t been so worried about his mother, Angus would have enjoyed his adventure in the wilderness. On their way to Dawson a year ago, as they’d travelled down the Yukon River from Lake Bennett in a boat hastily made of green logs, with a sail which the day before had been a tent, it had taken his breath away to see how completely empty — how vast — this land was. They’d stayed on the river, and all he’d been able to do was watch the countryside moving slowly past. They heard the howling of wolves at night and had seen moose several times, wading in the long grasses. At one spot, a grizzly bear, a gigantic creature of flashing teeth and claws, was fishing in a stream that fed into the river, tossing fish onto the rocks as easily as a woman might pick berries. In Dawson about all anyone seemed to want to do was dig up and cut down the wilderness as fast as possible.

He lay awake for a long time, listening to the night and watching the glow of the fire as the men took turns keeping watch. Mr. Donohue had gotten lost when out searching for wood and blundered around, bellowing. Sterling had refused to let anyone go after him, figuring that he’d have two lost people, so they kept shouting until Donohue followed the voices and eventually found his way back. He’d not been pleased, covered in scratches and insect bites, and he’d lost his cap. But Sterling said nothing, and Donohue tucked into his supper quick enough. Supper had been good, too. Beans and thick slabs of bacon with bannock cooked over the fire and strong sweet tea. Mrs. Mann had packed a seed cake for Angus, and he was pleased to be able to pass it around after dinner while the men smoked their pipes.

Other than worrying about his mother, the only thing spoiling the grand adventure was the mosquitoes. Dratted creatures got into everything. After they’d eaten, Sterling passed the frying pan around and told them to rub cold bacon fat on their faces and hands. Whether it was that, or just that it was late, the insects hadn’t bothered him too much once he’d lain down and pulled his bedroll around him. The spruce bows Mr. Donohue had gathered made a surprisingly soft and comfortable bed.

Angus woke to the scent of coffee. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up. Corporal Sterling crouched over the small camp stove.

“Morning, sir,” Angus said.

Sterling turned with a smile. “Morning, Angus. Get water, will you. Porridge for breakfast.”

“Will we find my ma today, sir?”

“You know she hates being called ma, so don’t say it just because she’s not around to hear.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“In answer to your question, I don’t know. But the trail’s good and clear. Get that water. The sooner we eat, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”

They had breakfast and packed up without wasting time. As yesterday, Corporal Sterling went ahead, moving slowly, head bent and eyes on the ground. Angus chafed with impatience. He wanted to run up the trail, yelling and calling out for his mother. Where else would Sheridan have taken her but along this track? Nothing but solid wilderness lay around them, other than the river, getting smaller and smaller as they went upriver, and a rough path beside it.

They rounded a bend, and Sterling let out a low whistle. Angus put on a burst of speed, pulling Millie along after him. A wooden cart lay on its side, the single wheel sticking out at an angle.

Sterling put up a hand, and with muttered curses the men crashed into each other behind him. Then they saw the broken cart, and everyone stood, listening to the silence of the forest. Eventually, Sterling said, “I don’t think anyone’s around. Don’t move while I see what there is to see here.”

He studied the cart and then examined the ground. From where he stood, Angus could see people had been here, as well as a horse. The remains of a campfire smouldered in a circle of rocks. Sterling crouched down and put his hand over it. Then he got to his feet and, cursing, kicked dirt onto it. “Coulda burned the goddamned forest down.”

Everyone spoke at once.

“Can you tell how long ago they were here?”

“Was my ma ... mother ... with him?”

“We’re getting close.”

“What do you suppose they’ve done now, without the cart?”

“Think they’re much further ahead?”

Sterling held up his hand once again. “I don’t think I need worry about destroying the tracks. They’re plenty of signs they’ve been here. Have a look around. If you see anything of interest, let me know.”

A couple of empty food cans were on the ground by the fire pit. Horse hooves stamped out a circle at the edge of the clearing and went down the bank to the river. A set of smaller prints, from bare feet, were amongst the booted ones. Sterling let out a long breath. He’d been acting under the assumption that Fiona MacGillivray had come this way although there’d been no sign of her since the man at the riverside camp had noticed a green dress and pretty feet. He felt a great weight lift off his chest.

“Angus,” he called. “Look.”

Angus looked. A smile broke across his face. “My mother?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Why’s she not wearing her shoes?”

“I’d say they were here about twelve to fifteen hours ago. They must have travelled all of Sunday night. Looks like they stopped to eat here, no doubt because the cart broke and Sheridan had to repack his supplies. That much is obvious. There’s a patch of ground over there where it looks like someone lay down, but I don’t see any trace of a tent or otherwise setting up for sleeping. I’ll conclude they didn’t make camp here, but kept on going.”

“I told you we were wasting time stopping last night!” Angus shouted.

Sterling turned to him. “Would you rather have blundered past here in the dark?”

Angus studied his feet.

“So, if they didn’t sleep here, they would’ve stopped later to make camp.” Sterling did the calculations in his head. “Right now we’re a good twelve or more hours behind them. But they have to sleep sometime and that’ll give us a chance to catch up. Don’t worry Angus. Your mother’s a resourceful woman. I’ve no doubt she’ll try to find ways to slow him down.”

Donohue laughed. “Wouldn’t want to have Fiona MacGillivray against me, I’ll tell you that.”

“My mother,” Angus said, giving Donohue a poisonous look, “is only a woman. And she is being held prisoner by that ... that man.”

“Only isn’t the word I’d use,” Mouse O’Brien said. “Corporal?”

“Let’s go.”