But photography had been steadily growing in popularity, and the day was coming when anyone, rich or poor, would be able to freeze a moment in time, capture it forever. An old woman could look upon herself in the bloom of her beauty. A father could see his grown son once again as an infant.
Already, pictures were being taken as a matter of course of classes as they graduated, couples on their wedding days, and men marching off to be killed. The battlefield photos of Mathew Brady were famous the world over. It was likely, Duncan suspected, that Danny appeared in some of those from Gettysburg.
He and Fitzcairn had discussed his concerns back in Seattle. Fitz was sure that photography was a passing fashion, like painting in miniature. No one he knew ever really liked how they looked in sepia tones, after all. Woman particularly were never happy with the results. Perhaps the device might find continued use by newspaper reporters and the like. But in the main, he was certain, people would prefer the art of brush and paint, which could alter life in pleasant ways.
But Duncan was just as certain that the camera would cause great grief to his kind in years to come. So he had declined Claire’s offer. It would not do for someone he might come to know a hundred years hence to find the face of Duncan MacLeod among images from the Klondike gold rush.
At this moment, however, he almost regretted his decision. Though the flat black-and-white of the photograph wouldn’t truly be sufficient, still it would be good to have a record more permanent than memory of this valley that Sam had led them to.
After they’d left the village, they’d mushed along the north side of the Klondike until the river ran out. The dogs were fresh, the path was clear. The going had been easy. Then they followed a trail into the mountains that wasn’t there unless you knew where to look.
That trail had led them to this glorious place. In his homeland, it would be called a dale—a long, narrow valley, running arrow-straight in the midst of the Mackenzie Mountains. There was a small lake at the bottom, fed by the frigid runoff from the snow-covered slopes. The water seemed to be both sapphire blue and crystal-clear at the same time.
Stands of dark green spruce trees covered the lower hills along the sides of the lake, sweeping up from the shore. At the head and foot, the trees grew more sparsely. The rocky ground sloped gradually, and then soared upward thousands of feet, topped by white peaks that jutted into the misty blue sky. At night, which came ever earlier as winter approached, that sky was filled with a multitude of stars. They were stars strange to Duncan.
He stood now by the water, a short distance from the camp they had set up at the far end of the lake. In his mind, he worked on his next dispatch. The poets among his kind could perhaps have done justice to this land, he thought. But he was a warrior. He felt the lack of wit to conjure a picture in words. Still, he would do his best. And wish again, fleetingly, that he could send along a photograph to speak for him.
The Indian had said to look not where the stream was now but where other streams had been. The notion made no sense to Fitzcairn. But MacLeod went along with it, though it made more work. So Fitz shrugged, collected the prospector’s tools that they had carried with them for thousands of miles, and set to the task at hand.
Already today, he had spent several hours on his knees, digging beneath the hard topsoil to the earth below. Then he would fill a pan with the dirt, pour water into it, and swirl the contents. The gold, if it were there, would settle on the bottom.
He moved a few feet to a new spot of ground. He dug, filled, poured, and shook. Grit. Mud. Foul water. He rose and tossed the contents of the pan to the side, raising a shout from MacLeod, who was unfortunate enough to be in the way. He looked down at the camp, snug against the hillside below. A mug of tea might be just the thing. And perhaps a bite of sourdough bread, spread with some of the sweet preserves the Indian had with him.
But it was nearly time for them all to take a break. Something was cooking. Fitz could see the fire and smell the delicious odor rising on the smoke. The valley was filled with small game, birds and beasts that hadn’t yet vanished for the winter. And the lake teemed with fish. They had been eating well this last while.
Fitz felt renewed at the thought of food. One or two more pans, then, and he would be more than ready for a meal. He knelt down. Vixen, who had been dozing a few yards away, rose to her feet. She bumped against him, wagging her tail. Fitz shooed her away. There now, a pan of dirt. Add a dipper or two of water—Vixen was drinking from the bucket. He laughed, ruffled her ears, and began shaking the pan gently.
In a second, he knew. Specks of light settled out, shining in the grit. And not one or two here and there—the bottom of the pan was covered with them. He sat back on his heels, and opened his mouth to call MacLeod. At first, no sound came out. Then he started to laugh. His laughter grew, until he was fairly gasping for breath. Vixen caught his mood. She ran in circles, barking loudly. When MacLeod and Danny came to him to see what was the matter, he showed them the pan. And they knew, too.
That night, he broke out a bottle of expensive brandy that he had bought in Seattle. He had carried it with him, keeping it safe. In case there was need of it, in case there was something to celebrate. He opened it slowly, savoring the aroma. They had no fine crystal glasses to hand, but it didn’t matter. The brandy was heady liquid fire, drunk from battered tin cups. One round of toasts followed the other, until all of them, the Indians included, were drunk. From the brandy. And from a renewed attack of the disease called Klondike fever.
It had been that easy, then, to find the gold. The months of the journey north, the weeks on the trail through the mountains, the days spent setting up the camp—then Hugh cried out, and it was done.
Since then, they’d worked hard during the short hours of the daylight, all of them. Even the two heathens took up picks and shovels. The strike was a rich one, it was plain to see. Why, Danny himself had panned out nuggets as big as a man’s thumbnail! It didn’t seem but a moment until they had two leather pouches, made from the hides of moose, filled with gold. And more being found every minute.
At night, exhausted yet still somehow filled with energy, Danny slept hard. And he dreamed. But these dreams, unlike the nightmares that had tortured him all of his life, he would remember with the rising of the pale, distant sun.
It seemed in the dreams that a door that he had long thought closed to him was beginning to open. It was much like the heavy dark wooden door on the grand Fifth Avenue house—the door with the golden knocker through which he had watched the green-eyed girl vanish from his sight. He’d never so much as caught a glimpse of what was behind that door.
Now, though, he could see the entrance hall. The walls were covered in gold wallpaper with a pattern in it. Flocked, it was called. He remembered that from the whorehouse in New Orleans. A great crystal-and-gold chandelier hung from the ceiling. It looked much like the one in the Queen of Spades. A staircase of gold-and-green marble, with a solid gold banister, led to the second floor of the house. Had he not seen one such through a window of a fine home in Pittsburgh?
Just where the stairs curved up, there was a window made of bits of colored glass, like those in the churches that were important enough to be called cathedrals. The window had three panels. The two on the side were of angels, dark-haired women wearing snow-white dresses. Sometimes he could see their faces clearly—Amanda, Minnie, the green-eyed girl all grown up. And sometimes they were only pale ovals. In the center was another angel, a man this one was, holding a flaming sword. He was smiting the wicked who cowered at his feet. The faces of the wicked often changed. But the angel always had Danny’s face.
As the days went on, and more pouches were filled, Danny began to venture into other rooms in the house. In his sleep—and sometimes with his eyes wide-open.
“There’s easier ways for a man to make his fortune,” Fitzcairn complained. “I haven’t ached this much since Henry Fitz taught me the proper way to sit a horse.”
“Do tell us, then, about these easier ways.” Duncan stopped and turned. “From your vast experience.”
Fitz mumbled a reply.
“What?” Duncan asked, cupping his hand behind his ear. “What was that you said? Could you speak up a bit?”
Fitzcairn spoke loudly, “I said ‘no.’”
“No—what?” Duncan was relentless.
“No,” he shouted, “I can’t speak on the subject from experience!” A grackle, startled by the noise, flew from the bushy cover. Vixen, who had followed along with them, bounded off after it.
“No experience?” Duncan shook his head. “But what about that trading ship you had a stake in? All the wealth of the Indies, bound for the New World?” He frowned. “Oh, I’d forgotten. It sank.”
Fitz tried to push past, but the trees were thick around, and Duncan was not about to move.
“And didn’t you once have a da Vinci sculpture to sell?” he continued. “A lovely female nude, done in bronze? Except that …” he paused. “Oh yes, now I remember—it turned out to be a forgery.”
Danny, who had been lagging behind, caught up to them. “What ship was that, Hugh? You’d never mentioned—”
Fitzcairn stood between the two Immortals. He turned first to Duncan. “She was a tight ship with a good cargo, Highlander. It was just bad luck that the weather went against her. And the statue was an excellent fake. As you well know! You had the opportunity to examine it closely after the fair Amanda got her thieving hands on it.” He faced Danny and continued.
“The point I was endeavoring to make before I was rudely attacked by this Scot’s git”—Duncan snorted loudly enough to disturb another bird—“was that even my Immortal bones are feeling the strain of our efforts. It’s hard on the back, bending to dig up gold! I’m not certain that I’m in condition for any swordplay.”
“You’ve been saying that since we left camp. And I say that’s all the more reason you should do it,” Duncan insisted. “If you’re worried, ye needn’t be—I promise I’ll not run you through this day.”
“I’ve learned a thing or two since Verona, laddie.” Fitzcairn replied. “If you’re determined that we’re going to do this, then we’ll just see who gets the best of whom.” He strode off into the woods. Danny went to follow, but Duncan held him back. In a minute, they heard Fitz calling, followed by the barking of a dog.
“Where the bloody hell are you, MacLeod? Where the bloody hell am I?”
After finding Fitzcairn, they continued to pick their way through the forest. As they went along, Duncan carefully marked the trail, cutting wedge-shaped blazes in the trees. Finally, they came to a clearing large enough for their needs.
Duncan unsheathed the
katana.
It felt good to have it in his hand again. He’d been able to do his exercises a few times during the journey. But this was the first time since one evening on the shore of Lake Bennett that he had found an opportunity to practice with his sword.
The valley was sheltered, the mountains blocking the worst of the chill winds. And it was warmer still here among the trees. The three Immortals were able to shed a layer or two of clothing. That allowed them to move about more freely as they played at the Game that was the center of their lives.
Danny sat at the edge of the clearing on a felled tree. He held Vixen by a piece of rope tied around her neck, as Duncan took on Fitzcairn.
They’d not really crossed swords since they’d first met, though they had fought side by side more than a few times. Fitz had gotten better since Verona. He still carried the cavalier’s blade that he’d been given by his teacher, and he used it, as always, with style. But over the centuries he had added more power and control.
As they fought back and forth, Fitz kept up a steady stream of insults. Duncan gritted his teeth and ignored him. He was far more practiced and experienced, so bit by bit he was wearing Fitz down.
Suddenly, Fitzcairn feinted a downward slash to the right. Duncan moved to block it. With a swift motion, Fitz transferred the blade to his left hand, and thrust forward. Duncan was only able to avoid the blow by falling backward. He rolled quickly back to his feet, and raised the
katana
defensively.
“One of the things you’ve learned?” Duncan asked, as they circled one another.
“In Spain,” Fitz replied, grinning, “from a swordsman named Montoya. He had a sister—”
“Don’t they always?” Duncan said, as he closed in. A flurry of movement, and the cavalier’s sword went flying.
Fitz laughed and offered his hand to Duncan. “Ah, I should know by now not to think of women when I’ve a sword in my hand. Such sweet distraction!”
“Aye, it’s true. There’s just no room in your tiny English mind for more than one thing at a time,” Duncan said. They shook hands. Danny tied the dog to a tree and retrieved his teacher’s blade.
“We’d best let the Highlander rest, Danny,” Fitz said. “And pick pine needles off his britches.”
Duncan stood to the side then and watched Fitzcairn and his student. Rather than insults, Fitz kept a running commentary—advising Danny, correcting him, complimenting him on a particularly good pass.
The young Immortal had no style—he hadn’t really had enough time to develop one. Still, Duncan could see how he had survived. He fought with his sword as he no doubt fought with his fists. He was quick, strong, and brutal. Even an ill-aimed blow, if delivered with enough force, can make a nasty wound. A wounded opponent was a weakened opponent. A weakened opponent was an easier kill. And there was no rule that said that a kill had to be clean.
Duncan did recognize one or two moves that obviously came from Fitz—a certain way of parrying a two-handed thrust and a swift stabbing motion with the blade held sideways. But the student was no match for the teacher, overall. He wondered though—in a real fight, how brutal could Danny be?
He was vaguely aware that Vixen had been whining steadily. Suddenly she broke into furious barking, throwing herself forward, straining to break free.