Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (21 page)

They walked in silence most of the day. Angus missed Mouse O’Brien’s hearty laugh and cheerful conversation. Donohue cursed every time he tripped over a root, and even Millie was beginning to droop.

At one point, they heard water up ahead and came to a small, cheerful stream, moving fast over rocks. The mud by the water was heavily churned, the grasses torn up, and a patch of horse manure, fresh, lay on the ground. Ravens rose with loud cries as the men approached. Sterling went over to see what the birds had been dining on: scatterings of bread crumbs.

“They stopped for something to eat,” he said. “And to water the horse. I don’t think they stayed long. We’ll rest here for a short while. Angus, do you have any more of that seed cake?”

“Sorry, sir. Gave the last of it to the Indians.”

“Oh, well. At least it was well spent.”

They shared bread, now stale and hard, and cheese and filled their water bottles. The water was so cold, that as Angus put his hand in, his fingers began to numb almost immediately.

Then they hoisted their packs once again and continued on their way.

“Where do you think we are, Corporal?” McAllen asked after hours of walking. McAllen carried the rifle and had shot two rabbits to throw into the dinner pot. He’d shown Angus how to use the weapon, but so far Angus had missed everything he aimed at.

“Damned if I know,” Sterling growled. “Sorry, Angus. We’re well north of Dawson, somewhat to the east. I’m hoping we’ll come to the tundra before too much longer. There’s not many trees, so I’ve been told, and a man can see all the way to the horizon. If that’s so, and that’s where they’re headed, we might be able to catch sight of them. We’re going steadily north-north-east now.”

“Like the map shows,” Angus said.

“Right.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” Donohue said, sounding quite unsure of himself. “Sheridan’s sticking to the map and not wandering blindly all over creation.”

“I suspect,” Sterling said, “he’s simply following whatever trail he comes across that’s going in the general direction.”

They found another campsite. This one was barely disturbed. Sterling studied the ground. “I’d say they stopped and started to make camp. There are twigs gathered, but the fire was never lit. Well, well, look at that.” He pointed with his toe to a big brown blob.

“We haven’t seen any other signs of chewing tobacco,” he said. “If Sheridan used it, he’d surely have brought it out before now.”

“You think someone else was here?” McAllen asked.

“I do.” Sterling tested the air. “What do you smell?”

Everyone sniffed.

“Smoke,” Angus said.

“Woodsmoke,” McAllen added.

“Smoke indeed.”

“More Indians?” Angus asked. “Maybe they’ve seen my mother too.”

“A handful of prospectors and trappers live out here, as well as Indians. They don’t usually care for visitors from Outside, and certainly not anyone from the government or police. Nevertheless, we’ll pay them a call.” He looked up, over the tops of the trees, but could see no trace of smoke. “The prints go in that direction, not back to the trail we’ve been following, so let’s see what we can find.”

The scent of woodsmoke got stronger, and in the distance, dogs set up a chorus of frantic barking. They crested the hill to see a homestead below.

As they approached, Sterling bellowed, “Hello, the house!” Millie barked out her own greeting.

By the time they reached the clearing, a man had come outside. He was a white man, dirty and scruffy, with unkempt hair and a long, tangled beard. His right cheek bulged with a lump of chewing tobacco, and he cradled a rifle in the crook of his arm, watching them approach through narrowed, unfriendly eyes.

“Greetings,” Sterling said. He stopped about ten feet away and waited for the man to speak.

He studied them each in turn, his eyes lingering on Angus’s face for a long time. At last he said, “Howdy. What brings the Mounties to these parts?” He did not lower the rifle.

“I’m Corporal Sterling from Fort Herchmer. This is Constable McAllen, Mr. Donohue, and Mr. MacGillivray.”

“Edmund Whiteside. I don’t like folks on my land, uninvited.”

“Mr. Whiteside, I’m looking for a white man and a woman. They have a horse with them. Have you seen them?”

“Might of.”

“When would that have been?” Sterling asked. Donohue and Angus and McAllen stood beside him, saying nothing. Even Angus was learning to keep his mouth shut and let Sterling take the lead.

He heard light footsteps on the wooden floors of the cabin. A child’s dark head poked out of the door. Another one, younger, smaller, joined her. The older child wore a dress far too big for her over-dirty trousers with rolled up hems. She had pearl earrings attached to her ears and a long strand of pearls draped around her neck.

Angus sucked in a breath. “Those are my ma’s pearls.” He stepped forward and the child darted inside. The man growled and lifted the rifle.

“Mr. Whiteside. I don’t want any trouble. The woman I’m seeking’s obviously been here. I also recognize the necklace.”

Whiteside peered at Angus. “Your ma, boy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve the look o’ her, though the colour’s wrong. Your wife, Corporal?”

“A subject of her Majesty in need of assistance.”

Whiteside grunted and lowered the weapon. He tossed his head in the direction of the open cabin door. Sterling took that to be an invitation. “Come on in,” the trapper said, “and we’ll talk about it. Don’t suppose you have any grog on you?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

Angus unloaded Millie’s packs and tied her to a stump while the men followed Whiteside. The hysterical barking of dogs came from the kennels at the edge of the property. Realizing that none of her kind were coming to greet her, Millie circled three times and then tucked her tail beneath her rump and settled down for a nap.

The cabin was small and dark, crammed with goods and heavy with the scent of tobacco and grease. A pregnant woman stood beside the iron stove. Her skin was brown, her cheekbones high and flat, and her eyes as dark as a Yukon winter night. Her hands were wrapped in her apron, caressing her belly, and a thick black braid hung over her shoulder. Her right eye was shades of black and purple, almost swollen shut, and a matching bruise marked the side of her mouth.

“Ma’am,” Sterling said, removing his hat.

At a grunt from the trapper, the woman got a stone jar down from the shelf and brought it and mugs to the big table in the centre of the room. The girl crept into a pile of blankets against the far wall, leading the boy by the hand. The boy buried his head into the bed, but the girl watched them with an unblinking stare.

Whiteside splashed liquid into mugs. He lifted his own and drank deeply.

Sterling almost choked on the fiery hot liquor. It burned its way down his throat all the way to his stomach. McAllen took a tiny sip. Donohue swallowed his in one gulp and leaned back with a satisfied grunt. Millie settled, Angus came in. Whiteside began to pour some liquor into an extra mug. “No,” Sterling said, sharply.

The corners of Whiteside’s mouth lifted up. He downed his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“When were they here?” Sterling asked.

“Who?”

“Don’t play games with me,” Sterling said. “I’ll have you taken into town if you don’t co-operate.” He glanced at the woman, who’d retreated to her place by the stove. Her hands rested on her enormous belly and her face was expressionless. An empty threat, and everyone knew it. Take the man away and the woman and children would starve come winter.

Was this the woman the Indians had told him about? Who’d left her tribe to live with a white man and would never be allowed back?

He’d wondered about that. Plenty of Indian women set up with white men, very few with benefit of clergy, and lived with them until the men decided they’d had enough of the wilderness and abandoned their half-white families. Most of the women went back to their tribe easily enough. What had the old man said? This particular woman had gone too close to the forbidden?

“Just messin’ with ya,” Whiteside said. “Yeah, they was here. A pretty woman and a city man. Won’t last another month in the wilds. First sign of snow, they’ll be rushing back to town fast enough.”

“I can only hope so,” Sterling said. “They were here last night, I assume.”

“Yup.”

“And they left when?”

“This morning. Couple hours after sun-up.”

“That’s great,” Angus said, jumping to his feet. “We’re almost on them.”

“Hold on a minute,” Sterling said. “Where’d they go?”

“Now that I can’t rightly say. I told him I find him on my trapline, I’ll kill him. What’d you think about that, Redcoat?”

“I think that if you killed him, the NWMP would see you hang for it.”

“You could try at any rate.” He poured himself another drink. This time he did not offer the jug around. “But before you do that, you c’n arrest the woman.”

“Why?”

“Stole a knife.” The man looked at the Indian woman. She turned her head away. “One o’ my best skinning knives. And here after my family and me showed ’em such nice hospitality.”

“She needs the knife to defend herself,” Angus shouted.

“Forget about it. Don’t matter none to me if’n she sticks it between his ribs.”

“Once again,” Sterling said, feeling impatience rise in his chest like heartburn. “I ask you where they went.”

“He said he were lookin’ to go prospectin’ to the northwest. I told him to make sure he did.”

“Did they go northwest?”

“Nope, they’s heading east.” The man shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. “No one goes there.”

“Why not?”

He chewed at a scrap of loose skin on his right thumb. It came away in a spurt of blood. He sucked at it, eyes on the table.

“I asked why not? What’s to the east?”

Outside, a black cloud moved across the sun, plunging the cabin into deep gloom. A gust of wind rattled the shutters on the windows and a cold breeze blew between the cracks in the log walls. Millie howled, and the trapper’s dogs answered.

Donohue muttered under his breath, McAllen’s eyes darted around the room, and Angus glanced toward the door. Only Sterling continued to stare at the trapper.

“Don’t recon I know,” he said at last. “Never been there. There’s somethin’ strange there. Somethin’ not right. Indians ’round here say that land’s cursed. Don’t go much into worryin’ ’bout Indian superstition, but that land over the creek? No, I don’t go there.”

“Does no one go there?” Donohue asked.

“Sometimes the dogs hear folks passing through, heading west. Always at night, come to think of it. They don’t stop, they don’t talk. Sometimes, they leave things for the woman an’ the kids.” His eyes darted toward her. “Presents. Fruit or nuts.”

“You make them sound like fairies,” Donohue said, “Elves. Storybook creatures.”

Whiteside stood up. “I got work to do. Winter’s comin’ and it’s gonna be a hard one.”

Sterling rose also, and the others clambered to follow. “Show me the path they took, and we’ll be out of your way.”

They went outside. Whitehead pointed toward the small hill. “They went back the way they came.”

Angus untied Millie. McAllen and Donohue started off. Sterling hesitated. “Your wife,” he said at last, “is close to her time. You might want to get her to Dawson. There’s doctors there now.”

Whitehead spat a lump of tobacco, barely missing the toe of Sterling’s boot. “Indian women don’t need doctors. She’ll manage.”

Sterling walked away. Angus fell into step beside him.

What happened in a man’s home between him and his wife was no one else’s business. That’s what everyone said.

Still didn’t make it right.

We camped on the side of the creek. It was not a good location — I had to cross the water several times to fetch wood for the fire, and there was no shelter for our tent. I considered refusing to do the work, but Sheridan was behaving in such a strangely apathetic manner, it seemed if I didn’t do it, no one would.

I gathered twigs and brush to start the fire and was fortunate enough to come across some good-sized dead branches in a clump of spruce. It took me several trips to lug it all across the creek, and I was not in good humour when I pushed Sheridan aside and rearranged the kindling into a pile that might actually burn.

I lifted the ptarmigan. It was a very small bird and wouldn’t provide much of a meal for two people.

I thought of my own knife nestled in my sweater pocket.

I did not bring it out.

“If we are going to eat, give me your knife so I can skin this thing.”

“I’ll do it,” he said. He held out his hand and I passed the bird over. Once it was roasting over the fire, Sheridan pulled himself to his feet and began collecting rocks to hold down the edges of the tent.

I opened the last can of potatoes to accompany the meat, and we ate our meal hunched close to the fire, now dying into embers. As I munched on the badly-cooked ptarmigan, I watched long shadows crossing the rolling hills in the east. I thought of Scotland and the bare beauty of the Highlands I missed so much. My father accompanied the earl and his guests many times on hunting trips and cared for his shotguns. He never allowed me to touch one of them, much less learn how to use it. If the hunting had been good, and sometimes even if it hadn’t, the kind earl would send my father home with a couple of good grouse for our pot. I smiled, realizing why I’d suddenly come over all affectionate for Scotland. This ptarmigan, as badly cooked as it was, reminded me a great deal of those fine Scottish grouse.

I finished my meagre dinner lost in thought.

A strong wind came up as we were preparing for bed, bringing with it the scent of snow off the mountains and wildflowers from the plains, and our tent was storm-tossed all the night long. Once again, I insisted Mr. Sheridan retire outside. “Not proper,” I said with a sniff.

He spent the night buffeted by the wind.

The miserable fire went out while we slept, and the cold woke me. I rummaged through the food bags — which did not take long — and located about one half a cup of oatmeal.

“Mr. Sheridan. We cannot continue. We simply don’t have adequate food.”

He had rolled out of his blanket when he heard me exit the tent. At my words he lifted his eyes to the horizon, and I was once again reminded of that preacher, sermonizing reverently to farm families who replied with laugher, jeers, and thrown rocks. “Another day, I suspect, Fiona. And we’ll be there.”

“Perhaps not. Now that we’ve found the way, I suggest we return to town and outfit ourselves properly. Plus collect Angus. Why we can be back in a week! Well-equipped and ready to face the unknown like true adventurers.” I almost gave a proper British rah, rah, but decided that might be laying it on a bit thick.

He gave me a long look. “Really, Fiona. Do you think me that much of a fool?”

I sighed and crossed the creek one more time to collect firewood. My head was stuffed full of wool. There have been times in my life when I’ve gone without adequate food, and I’d seen what hunger could do to others. It’s hard to think straight when your body’s shutting itself down to conserve energy.

I’d hoped Paul Sheridan would tire of this foolishness and I’d be able to talk him into going back to town. Clearly that wasn’t going to happen.

I’d have to take my chances.

I should be able to find my way back to that dreadful trapper’s house. Without Sheridan to contend with (or sympathize with) he might be willing to take me ... someplace in exchange for a handsome reward. Even dressed in torn rags and a cast off sweater with my hat yanked down over my head and my hair like a rat’s nest, I clearly looked like a woman of means.

Didn’t I?

I fingered the knife concealed deep in my pocket.

I looked back. Sheridan had picked up the rifle and was standing very still, the weapon held up to his face, his finger on the trigger, facing the edge of the creek where a line of scruffy bushes dipped toward the water.

I studied my surroundings. The creek meandered across the plain, running more or less parallel to the line of mountains on the eastern horizon.

Enough of this. It was long past time to be on my way home. I wasn’t taking another step in the direction of that mountain. Mr. Sheridan seemed unwilling to cross the creek. I had absolutely no idea why that might be the case, but I’d take advantage of it. He wouldn’t shoot me.

Would he?

Even if he did shoot, unlikely he’d hit me. I was a good distance away.

I’d tucked my socks into the folds of my dress while wading across the water; I had nothing to return to camp for.

Setting my back straight, I lifted my head and began to walk along the edge of the stream. According to Sheridan’s ridiculous map, we were going north and east. This creek was heading south. I would simply follow it, steering west with the sun. With luck I could slip back across the creek once I’d lost the odious Mr. Sheridan. Perhaps I could even find Soapy. The horse was no fonder of the wilderness than I and would be glad of my companionship.

I’d taken three determined steps when the rifle went off. So started was I that I leapt into the air. My naked right foot landed on a rock and my left slid into a small depression. I lost my footing completely and fell, hard. My hands dug into sharp stones and my right wrist, the one I’d hurt yesterday, twisted under my weight. Pain shot up my arm, lancing into my shoulder, pain so sharp and unexpected I screamed.

“Fiona!” Through the haze of pain and confusion, I heard Sheridan shout my name. “Oh, save us, Fiona! My beloved.”

Water splashed as he stumbled across the creek. I’d rolled onto my back, after checking the knife was still in place, when Sheridan dropped to his haunches beside me. “My darling, I’m so sorry. Where are you hurt?” His hands began to explore my body.

I swatted them away. “Everywhere. Help me up, you fool.”

“But, but,” he said. His eyes were wide with fear as they studied me. He reached out as reverently as if he were touching a holy relic, took my forearms, and turned my palms up. They were dotted with tiny stones and flecks of blood.

“Oh, Fiona. I thought ... I can’t bear to imagine what I thought. If I lost you ... I don’t know how I could go on.”

He thought he’d shot me.

And he’d forded the creek, which for some reason seemed to terrify him, to get to me.

Another chance lost.

I wasn’t shot, but my hands hurt like the blazes, my wrist screamed in protest at any movement, and my knees were torn and bleeding.

After Sheridan settled me on a patch of moss, apologizing profusely for frightening me, and went back across the creek to collect our things. He seemed to have no further trouble with the water.

As I watched him go, I felt a touch of almost-affection for the man. He was trapped in the grip of sheer madness and nothing, such as my unwillingness to be his consort, would dissuade him from following his goal. Once we — I should say, he — got to this mountain and found that it was nothing out of the ordinary, would he recover his senses? Or descend completely into insanity?

I brought my wandering sentiment under control sharply. As much as Mr. Paul Sheridan might care for me, I must never forget that he did not have my best interests at heart. I was alone in the wilderness with a madman.

A large ragged hole had been torn in my dress at about the level of my knees. Propriety be damned. I tore off a strip from knee to hem, dipped the cloth into the water, and used it to clean blood from my hands and legs.

Sheridan’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the sight of all that exposed flesh. I glared at him and he blushed to the roots of his hair. He began piling twigs for our morning fire. I settled my back against a not-too rough tree and watched him work. For breakfast he served me coffee and the last of the oatmeal.

After we’d eaten, Sheridan repacked our possessions — a pathetically small bundle — and politely asked if I’d mind carrying some of the lighter things. He put the coffee pot and the frying pan into a sack. They made a tiny lump at the bottom of what had once been our food packs. I considered telling him we might as well leave them behind, as we had no more coffee and nothing to fry. He gave me a sheepish smile that would have been attractive had he had a full set of teeth, and I reached out and took the offering.

His own knife, he kept to himself.