Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (23 page)

I said nothing to Sheridan about finding gold. Could the man’s foolish fantasy be reality? Was this indeed a gold mountain? Back in the Savoy, we enjoyed a hearty laugh at the expense of men who came to the Yukon expecting to pick nuggets off the ground like windfall apples, yet today I’d done that very thing. I touched my pocket. I’d pushed the nuggets in deep, past the knife. They weren’t particularly big nuggets; I’d seen larger ones laid down to finance a night of drinking or a serious hand of poker, or as a gift to a dance hall girl.

But considering it had taken all of about one minute’s effort, I’d done rather well.

I eyed Sheridan. He was ahead of me, moving fast. The path was increasingly steep, carved between enormous boulders and walls of rock. Perhaps it had been a watercourse long ago, picking its way down the side of the mountain. Surprisingly, the path wasn’t too rocky but smooth hard-packed earth in most places. As we climbed, it got steadily colder, and I shivered in my sweater and tattered evening dress. Fingers of icy mist swirled around the path, getting thicker as we walked. Ahead and above us, the mountains disappeared into the clouds.

I ran my index finger across the sheathed blade of the knife. Sheridan’s back was protected by the packs he carried, but his front was exposed. Easy enough to slip around him so I was on the higher ground and thus taller than he, murmur sweet nothings into his ear, stroke his cheek with my left hand, playfully lift his head up.

Expose the throat.

A single silent swipe with my right hand, and that would be the end of Mr. Paul Sheridan.

And then what? I stopped and turned around. We were very high and the limitless tundra lay at my feet. The carpet of flowers and grasses and rock, far below, stretching as far as I could see, reminded me of the Highlands when the heather bloomed. It was so quiet up here, not even the sweet murmur of leaves rustling in the wind. Sheridan had turned a corner and passed out of sight. I heard a scratch on rock and looked up to see two sheep watching me. They stood on a ledge that was scarcely more than a crack in the solid surface. They were white with brown horns swooping upward, curling at the edges. Large brown eyes blinked at me, and their mouths moved as they ate unseen grasses.

I imagined a city at the bottom of the mountain. Dance halls and bars and waffle bakeries and tent shops. Doctors and dentists and pickpockets. Mining officials and priests. Gentlemen and drunkards and layabouts. Prostitutes and percentage girls and laundry women. The tundra churned into mud, wildlife fleeing. Everything beautiful and powerful subdued or broken in service of the all-encompassing lust for gold.

Who would rule here? The North-West Mounted Police, as in Dawson, or the likes of Soapy Smith, as in Skagway?

Or me?

I wouldn’t be a queen and Gold Mountain would not be my kingdom. This was Canada, after all. A dominion in the British Empire. Not unclaimed territory. But I could stake a claim. I could make a great deal of money. I would be rich beyond all my dreams.

First, Mr. Paul Sheridan would have to go.

Without warning, the sheep leapt from one crevice to another and were gone. I heard a sound, someone calling. Perhaps it was the wind, whistling through rock. Something moved at the edges of my vision. I pulled my eyes away from the horizon and focused on the path below, twisting and turning down the mountain. I’d thought I’d seen something, but all was still and nothing moved.

“Will you hurry up, woman.”

I turned to see Sheridan standing on the path several feet above me. His hands were on his hips and he was breathing hard. He looked positively angry.

“I’m getting tired,” I said, putting on a pout. “I want supper. I don’t suppose you’ve managed to shoot anything.” I waved my hand to indicate our surroundings. “I can’t imagine where we’re going to make camp. There’s not enough wood to start a fire and not a flat piece of ground on which to lie within miles.”

“Stop your moaning,” he replied. “You’ll have all the comfort you need soon enough. Now get moving.”

I lowered my head submissively and took a step. He turned and continued on his way. I slid the knife out of its sheath, to check if it would come clear easily, and then put it back.

Soon enough.

I don’t know from where I got the strength. I’d scarcely had a decent meal for a week, and I hadn’t eaten for hours. The water bottle was empty, and we hadn’t come across water in a long time. Perhaps Sheridan’s enthusiasm, as he bounded ahead almost as easily and surely as the mountain sheep, was giving me some energy. Or perhaps my own thoughts drove me forward.

With sufficient funds, not only could I return to Scotland and extract my revenge on Alistair Forester, the man who murdered my parents, but I’d no longer have to worry about the law and my past, uh, profession. No British policeman would arrest an excessively wealthy lady for stealing silver or jewellery. The nobility did it all the time. At the end of a country house party, more than one householder had waved away the last of the guests only to discover valuable items had been unwittingly gifted to their visitors. If a maid pocketed a cheap trinket, she’d be sacked, a footman would face a stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, a hanger-on such as I would be socially ruined if not jailed. Lord or Lady Fitzjames-Worthington-Montague would be assumed to have taken the item by mistake, and it would be impolite to ask for it back.

With my newfound wealth, I’d purchase a country estate of my own, send Angus to Eton and then to Oxford or Cambridge. Eventually buy him a title. Set him up as a proper gentleman.

So happy was I with these thoughts, I almost bumped into the back of my captor. It was well after suppertime and long shadows crossed our path. Tendrils of cold mist curled around our heads and feet. The mountain closed in around us and sheer black rock rose up on either side, as straight as if it had been cut with a giant’s knife. The path narrowed to not much more than a foot wide, as if a doorway of sorts had been carved out of the stone. I squeezed forward to stand behind Sheridan and peered over his shoulder.

I gasped.

We stood high above a valley. Mountains, black and sleek, rose up on all sides. Below us, hawks and eagles circled. A wide blue river flowed lazily across the landscape, and plumes of white steam drifted into the air from several places on the valley floor. Everything was green and verdant, the ground hidden by vegetation: tall trees with large flat leaves and dense undergrowth. The sun was lowering itself behind the peak opposite where we stood, and the hills were bathed in a clear golden glow. The air at my back was Yukon-summer cold, bearing the threat of snow and icy winds. Ahead of us it blew soft and warm, perfumed with what might have been citrus.

The trail dropped sharply away and descended in a straight line, eventually to disappear into a clump of trees heavy with vines.

Gold Mountain.

Sheridan stepped backward. His mouth hung open and he looked into my eyes. He said nothing as he dropped slowly to his knees. A single tear travelled down his left cheek.

He lifted his face to mine.

His throat was wide and white, rimmed with a torn and dirty collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I found it,” he said in a whisper. “We’ve made it, Fiona, we’ve made it.”

I gripped the handle of my knife and slowly pulled it out of its sheath. I envisioned piles of gold stacked at my feet, diamonds on my fingers and emeralds in my ears and loops of pearls around my neck. Gowns of silk and satin and lace. More beautiful than ever, I’d bask in the adoration of all who encountered me. Angus would be prime minister some day. Sir Angus of the Yukon. Lord MacGillivray of Skye. He’d marry an insipid, buck-toothed great-granddaughter of the Queen, and I would take tea at Buckingham Palace and be the grandmother of a future king of England.

“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan” I said, “For bringing me here.”

I pulled the knife free.

“You are needed no longer.”

A dog barked.

For a fraction of time, I assumed it was a wolf. Then I remembered Angus telling me wolves do not bark, they howl. Only dogs bark.

Another bark, followed by an excited shout, from the path we’d recently ascended. A gust of wind came out of nowhere, carrying the single word “Mother.” The word lingered in the air like mist.

I looked at my hand, knuckles white on the handle of the knife.

What on earth was I doing? Was I seriously contemplating slicing a man’s throat? I didn’t even want to take tea with the Queen, nor to have a dreary daughter-in-law and buck-toothed grandchildren. Paul Sheridan knelt at my feet, submissive as a lamb to the slaughter. He had not heard me speak. I shoved the knife away and gave my head a proper shake.

“Someone’s coming,” Sheridan said. He pushed himself to his feet. The small pack he’d worn across his chest for the entire trip, the one containing his knife, dropped to the ground. I kicked it aside.

We went to the edge of the trail and peered down in the direction from which we’d come. Through the swirls of white mist we could see movement far below. A man and a dog, ascending. No, two men. My heart moved into my throat. A man and a boy and a big white dog. The man was dressed in a red tunic and black boots and wore a broad-brimmed hat. The boy had a shock of too-long blond hair. Their heads were down and their backs bent as they concentrated on climbing.

Angus. It was Angus. And Richard Sterling.

He’d come for me.

“My escort,” I said. “It’s time for us to part, Mr. Sheridan. I’ll not be continuing, but I truly wish you well.”

The man’s eyes were as round and white as Soapy the horse’s when he’d refused to cross the creek.

Sheridan swung the Winchester off his back. “You belong to me. I’m not letting you go.”

“No!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot. Angus, run.”

Sheridan lifted the rifle to his face, laid his cheek against the barrel. I saw his finger inch toward the trigger.

I launched myself at him and threw my entire body against his left side, throwing him off balance. He staggered and the weapon fired. From below came cries of alarm and increased barking. Sheridan braced his legs and brought the rifle back up. I grabbed the barrel and we wrestled for it.

“You’re mine,” he hissed, the sound like a snake moving through grass, “mine.” His eyes were very cloudy.

He managed to wrest the weapon out of my hands. Shifting it, he struck the side of my head, hard, with the butt. I staggered backwards; stars moved across my eyes and my head swam. I dropped my forearms to the ground and broke the fall before my skull could strike rock. I pulled myself to a sitting position and sat on the hard ground, blinking. Paul Sheridan moved in and out of focus. There were two of him, and then three, and finally just one. But that one was bracing the rifle barrel against a rock and settling back into shooting position.

I clambered to my feet, pulling the trapper’s knife free with one smooth movement. I again threw myself at Paul Sheridan. All the while I was screaming, trying to gather strength for myself as well as warn Richard and Angus. And, hopefully, frighten Sheridan.

He swung around and lifted the rifle in defence. I raised the knife high and brought it down, slicing it across his arm, wrist to elbow. The blade was very sharp, and it cut deeply. Bright red blood spurted. Sheridan said not a word, but threw the rifle to the ground and faced me. His mouth was set, his eyes so round, the surface so white, I wouldn’t have recognized them. He was breathing very deeply and hissed as air passed in and out of his mouth. He moved fast, sending a fist toward my jaw. I pulled back in time and thrust the knife forward, but he leaned aside and my blade sliced cold mountain air. We circled each other, eyes fixed, hearts pounding, hands up.

All I had to do was to keep him away from me and from that rifle, give Richard time to get to us. And Angus. Oh, heavens, don’t let Angus be the first to arrive. I could hear shouting from below and the dog barking. Richard would be moving carefully, not sure if the shooter was reloading or if he had another weapon. Angus would be scrambling up the hillside pell-mell, heedless of danger to himself.

I dared to glance toward the trail. That was a mistake. Sheridan saw my attention shift and he came in low, his left arm up and out, prepared to take another cut if he could get his right fist though my defences.

I ducked down and slipped under his arm. I was aiming for the centre of his belly, but he slid to one side at the last second and the knife cut only his jacket. His fist crashed into my face and I fell. I landed hard, once again, but kept my grip on the knife and held the blade pointing up and out. Sheridan swung his foot at my face, and I brought my weapon up, slicing into his calf, just above his boot.

He stepped backwards. Blood was pouring down both his arm and leg now. He stared at me through those crazed eyes. His chest heaved and his breathing was ragged, but he’d not said a word.

“I’m not going with you,” I said. “You will have to kill me, and you do not want to do that.”

The white cloud faded from his eyes. He blinked. “Fiona,” he said, in a voice full of sadness and of pain. “Fiona. I will always love you.”

He headed for me, and I braced myself for another attack. Instead he dodged and ran around me. I swivelled on my rear end, and the last I saw of Mr. Paul Sheridan, he was standing in the stone doorway, surrounded by a blaze of golden light from the setting sun. He took one step, and then another, and disappeared.

The barking was getting closer. “I’m here,” I yelled. “He’s gone. It’s safe.”

I staggered to my feet, thrust the knife behind a boulder, gathered up the rifle, and dashed a few yards down the path, whereupon I fell to the ground and arranged myself so I was draped across the trail in a dainty swoon.

They were nearing the top of the mountain. The trail was steep and the going difficult. Angus would have run on ahead had Sterling let him, but he cautioned the boy that they didn’t need another twisted ankle — or worse. Thick damp mist spun around them, and visibility wasn’t much more than a few feet. Rock, sheer steep black rock, rose up on either side.

“Mother,” Angus cried, and Sterling looked up. The mist had cleared, for a moment, and they could make out a figure standing above them. It was tall and thin and ghostly, dressed in rags, topped by hair as tangled as brambles and the remnants of a hat. Richard Sterling’s heart knew who it was.

Angus dropped Millie’s lead and put on a sprint, and Sterling barely had time to reach out and grab the boy by the arm. “Caution,” he warned. “We don’t know what’s up there.”

Angus fought against the restraint, but he wasn’t strong enough to free himself. “It’s mother. My mother. She’s alive. Let me go.”

“No. Wait. I’ll go first.”

As if to underscore his point, a shot rang out. The noise bounced off the rocks around them, echoing across to the plains far below. Sterling heard rock shatter as he dove behind a boulder, dragging the boy with him. Millie launched into a chorus of barks.

“Stay down.” Sterling swung his own rifle around and raised it. “I’m going up and you are to stay here, Mr. MacGillivray, until I call the all clear. Make no mistake, that is an order.”

Millie bounded on ahead. Sterling paid her no mind. He moved cautiously, only moving from the cover of one rock to another when he could see a safe path. Sheridan had the high ground, never a good thing in any battle, whether entire armies were clashing or it was one lone man against another. Sterling kept the back of his mind focused on Angus. How long would the boy be able to remain in place?

If his mother called out, not long at all.

It was quiet now, up above. He could hear nothing over the dog’s barking. The mist drifted across the path like curtains, constantly opening and closing. An advantage, he knew, as the shooter above would have to wait, nervous and anxious, to get a good shot. Fiona had disappeared, stepped back from the edge. No doubt she lay cowed in the shelter of a boulder, shocked at the sudden display of man’s violence.

Acid spurted into his gut. He tightened his grip on the rifle and broke cover, gaining another two or three feet. Then he rested, back against the mountain wall, weapon in front of him, finger resting on the trigger, barrel pointing up, listening.

Millie had disappeared. Unafraid, she’d rushed on, still barking.

A woman’s voice broke the silence. “I’m here. He’s gone. It’s safe.”

Sterling lost all the vestiges of caution. He broke cover and ran at full speed up the twisting mountain trail.

He rounded a corner and there she was. Fiona lay on the ground while Millie jumped on her and licked at her face. Her long black hair was a rat’s nest trapped in the wreckage of her church hat; under a homemade sweater, her green dress was so thin and torn it wouldn’t serve to make rags; her arms and legs and face were covered in streaks of dried blood, ugly scratches, and purple bruises.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

He wanted to do nothing but drop to his knees and take her into his arms and hold her forever. But Sheridan was still up there somewhere, despite Fiona saying he was gone. There was no place the man could have gone.

Richard Sterling bent down and grabbed the rifle that lay on the ground.

Angus’s footsteps pounded against the bare rock, and the boy almost shoved Sterling aside in his haste to get to his mother. Fiona burst into tears and wrapped her arms about her son.

Keeping his eyes on the path ahead, Sterling said, “Mrs. MacGillivray. I trust I find you well.”