Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (15 page)

Sheridan unloaded the horse and secured it with a long rope to a black spruce at the edge of the clearing, whereupon it immediately began munching on the soft buds of a nearby willow. The buds snapped easily off the tree, and the horse seemed content. Sheridan rummaged around in the bags, eventually emerging with a tent, bedroll, and blankets. But first he took the knife out of the pack and stuck it into his belt. He then pulled an axe out of another pack and chopped down two small poplars to serve as tent poles. I watched suspiciously as he struggled to erect the tent. It looked quite small.

Supper was, once again, fried corned beef. This time served with a can of pears for dessert. The pots and plates and cutlery hadn’t been washed from our earlier repast, so I ventured to the middle of the trickle of water and gave them a rinse.

As soon as we’d finished the totally inadequate meal, Sheridan announced it was time to sleep.

He read my mind and said that, as he feared he didn’t yet have my complete trust, I’d have to be secured while he slept. Once again, I considered resisting and bolting for it, but that would probably lead to a scuffle with Sheridan that might further damage my head or perhaps get me knifed. I’d thought about making a grab for the rifle, but considering that I didn’t know how to use the thing, he’d be on me before I could figure it out. My head had felt almost normal most of the day, and the lancing pain had settled into a dull ache. My vision had cleared once I’d had something to eat, but nevertheless if I did manage to get away, I was not happy at the prospect of wandering through the bush alone and disoriented.

With a considerable degree of ill-grace, I lay down in the tent and allowed the man to tie my arms in front of me. He apologized constantly, kept checking that the bounds weren’t too tight, and asked if I was comfortable.

Finally, he settled down and closed his eyes, and fortunately he kept his distance, what little distance there was in the hot, stuffy tent, smelling of mould and unwashed men. He’d taken the rifle to bed with him. It was tucked inside his bedroll, close to the far tent wall, his arms wrapped around it. He’d returned the knife to the smallest pack, which he tucked under his head for a pillow.

He fell asleep almost instantly. The man had a snore that would wake a hibernating bear.

I was hideously uncomfortable. The tent had no floor, and small pebbles and scratchy pine needles poked through the single inadequate blanket wrapped around me. I was very cold.

It was getting light when I awoke. Yesterday, using what miniscule bit of geographic knowledge I did have, I determined we were travelling almost due north by watching the path of the sun as the day progressed.

That was not good. North meant farther and farther away from civilization.

I’d kicked most of the blanket off in my sleep. The rope Sheridan had used to bind me was so long, I’d been able to get moderately comfortable, as comfortable as one can be sleeping on rough ground while tied up. I’d slept in worse conditions, but I’d been considerably younger.

When Paul Sheridan awoke, I was attempting to stir the embers of the campfire back to life. He crawled out of the tent, blinking and scratching at the cluster of mosquito bites on his face. “What the…?”

“Most uncomfortable,” I said. Thinking perhaps that I’d simply lie where told to, and not wanting to tie me too tightly, he’d left the rope so loose I had no trouble at all unpicking the fat knots.

“You stayed,” he said, as comprehension dawned. Followed closely by sheer joy.

“So it would appear. I’m not eating any more of that dreadful beef. I found bacon and powdered eggs in the packs. We’ll have that.”

He dashed behind a bush to relieve himself. When he returned, I was pulling on a pair of thick men’s socks with leather heels, which I’d also found among his possessions. Unfortunately, I had not found a revolver or a spare knife suitable for threatening to cut a man’s throat. Judging by the trouble he’d had chopping down a tree about the width of my thumb, the axe would make a most inefficient weapon.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I won’t be able to walk in my shoes any farther.” I wasn’t lying about that. My left foot in particular had a couple of very bad blisters. They were plump and oozing blood. Blood caked the inside of my shoe.

“I’m starving,” he said.

We ate a quick breakfast of burned bacon, runny tasteless eggs, and coffee so thick and vile I considered spreading it on the blisters on my feet. I have never claimed to be able to cook.

Sterling and his group passed through the eastern end of town to the Klondike River, where they turned to follow the river upstream. No point in looking for tracks with all the horse, dog, cart, wagon, and foot traffic around here. A patch of flatland dotted with white canvas spread open beneath the steep hills of the river bank. Children and dogs ran between the tents, and adults relaxed in the sunshine, visiting neighbours and enjoying a day of rest. They all stopped what they were doing to watch the search party pass.

“Afternoon,” Richard Sterling said to a cluster of men sitting on recently felled logs and puffing on pipes.

“Afternoon, Corporal.” The eldest man had a pure white beard and a mane of hair. His eyebrows were grey and so long they stood up as if waxed. “Young Angus. Off after Mrs. MacGillivray are you?”

“Word travels fast,” Sterling said. Millie plunked her bottom in the only patch of soft grass for miles.

“That it does. Johnny here was tellin’ us something earlier you might want ta hear.” He nodded to the youngest of the men, who, full of self-importance, rose to his feet and stood perfectly straight as though called upon at school to recite the alphabet.

“My wife, she don’t sleep too good.” Colour flooded into his face. “She’s expecting any day now and can’t get comfortable. So I was out having a smoke, see. And I seen the strangest thing coming down the path.”

“What time was this?”

The young man shrugged. “After midnight sometime. Before sun-up.”

“Carry on.”

“Man with a horse pulling a funny kinda cart. Sort of a half-cart with only one wheel at the back and long poles tying the cart to the horse.”

Sterling’s heart began to beat faster. He kept his face impassive.

“Was a woman with him?” Angus shouted. “Was my ma with him?”

“Be quiet, boy,” Sterling said. “I’ll ask the questions.”

“But ...”

“I said be quiet. You want to go back to town, say so now.”

“No, sir.” Angus’s face fell into a pout.

“Tell you the truth.” The man paused, looking at the men around him, drawing out the story, enjoying his moment in the limelight. Sterling gave him a look. “Yes, there was a woman.” He held up one hand, “I didn’t see her face. She was lying in the cart. With a blanket over her. Only knew it was a woman ’cause she was wearing a dress and had pretty little feet.”

“Describe the dress,” Donohue shouted. “Was it green?”

Sterling feared he’d made a mistake allowing a bunch of civilians to tag along.

“Green, yeah. Pretty green, sorta like ...” the young man looked around, searching for something green with which to compare. Here, in what a year ago had been the Yukon wilderness, he couldn’t find anything the right colour. “Green,” he said at last.

Angus couldn’t restrain himself. “It must be my mother. We’re wasting time.” He jerked Millie’s lead and started to move off. Donohue followed.

Sterling let them go. “This woman. Was she ... awake?”

The man shrugged. “Can’t say. She weren’t moving, not that I saw. I figured she was a drunken whore being carted off by her pimp or a customer. None o’ my business. Sorry, Corporal.”

Sterling and Mouse O’Brien exchanged glances. No need to say that Sheridan might have been taking a dead Fiona as well as a live one out of town.

“Can you describe the man?”

“He was walking beside the horse, leading it. Tall, taller than the horse’s head but right skinny, just a bag of bones. He didn’t say nothing to me, and I didn’t say nothing to him. Like I said, none of my business what a man’s doing with a drunken whore. Might even o’ been his wife, all I knew.”

“Thanks,” Sterling said. “Any one got anything to add?” The men shook their heads.

“Hope you find ’er, Corporal,” the bearded one said.

Sterling did not reply. Angus and Donohue were up ahead, moving fast, as if they expected to come across Fiona around the next bend.

Well beyond the tents and cabins that made up the town of Dawson, the forest had been stripped of lumber for building, but eventually all signs of humanity faded away and the wilderness returned. Aspen and birch, pine and poplar closed in around them; the underbrush was thick, and the forest floor covered with leaves, branches, and twigs. Traces of woodsmoke from town faded, to be replaced by the scent of mulch and rotting humus. Birds flew overhead or called from the tops of trees, small animals rustled in the undergrowth, and Millie’s ears lifted for no reason the men could discern.

Sterling moved slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. He’d ordered the others to stay behind him, particularly an impatient Angus and eager Millie. They were on the north bank of the river. The path to the gold fields was south; no one had reason to come this way.

Before long, he found what he’d scarcely dared hope he’d find: hoof prints. Boot marks were beside them, and the jagged line of a wheel being dragged across rough ground. The weather was on his side. It had rained a couple of days ago, sufficient to make the ground soft enough to take prints, not too muddy to make the going difficult. Nevertheless, the trail was hard to follow, crossing rocks, stepping into the river, rounding trees, circling back on itself.

Sheridan would have a minimum of twelve hours on them, more if he’d left town immediately. Which was probably the case. The longer he kept Fiona subdued, the more likely someone would come across them or she’d kick up a fuss that could not be ignored.

Say they’d left shortly after midnight when Walker and Betsy had seen her last. It had been close to four in the afternoon before Sterling and his party followed. He should be able to move faster on foot than Sheridan, with horse and cart and reluctant woman. But Sheridan presumably knew where he was going, whereas Sterling had to search for tracks. If he hurried, as Angus kept insisting, and lost the trail, he’d waste a lot of time getting back to it.

He was positive now that Fiona was alive. If Sheridan had killed her and was taking the body out of town to dispose of it in the wilderness, he would have done so by now. But the weight of the cart seemed to remain the same, and they had not come across any signs of the ground being disturbed or the cart unloaded.

They were heading east, following the north bank of the Klondike River. The going wasn’t easy: no one came this way. A bit of a deer track cut through the bush, which no doubt Indians also used. Wisely, Sheridan had stuck to that. Get turned around in the deep bush and a man might never find his way out again. According to the map as Angus remembered it, Sheridan would be heading north soon.

Sterling heard it before he saw it: water rushing over boulders in a hurry to meet up with the larger river. Another few steps and they came across a small river coming south, spilling into the Klondike.

“That’s odd.” He thought back to the big map in McKnight’s office. It showed Thomas Creek, a small river not far out of town, which they’d crossed some time ago, and then Twelve Mile Creek, which should be a good bit further east.

“Let’s have another look at that map,” Sterling said to Angus. The boy came over and unfolded it. Everyone, including Millie, gathered around. “This is the river,” Sterling moved his finger down what they’d assumed to be the Klondike. “And right here,” he tapped on a small blue line, “seems to be this creek. But it isn’t on the gold commissioner’s map. I’d assumed Sheridan’s map was nothing put a mess of squiggles. Maybe there’s something to it after all.”

“You mean there really is a gold mountain?” Donohue said.

“I mean nothing of the sort. It’s possible whoever drew this map was here at one time. Trappers and prospectors have been in the wilds for twenty, thirty years or more. Just seems odd that the official map doesn’t show this river. Wait here. I’m going to have a look up ahead.”

Angus looped Millie’s lead around a dwarf willow, Mouse O’Brien pulled out his pipe, and Graham Donohue collapsed to the ground with a groan.

Sterling placed every foot with care. The banks of the river were not steep here, and the rough trail came close to the water. The cart tracks entered the water and disappeared. Sterling cursed. He walked along the bank, eyes on the ground. If he couldn’t find where they came out, he’d have to decide which way to go. Carry on following the Klondike, or turn and go north beside the unnamed river. It would have to be north: Sheridan would be following his map. He found no sign of anyone’s passage for about a hundred feet. Then Sterling spotted a branch snapped off a young poplar. It was a fresh break, the exposed wood clean and white. Beneath the tree, the earth was churned up, doubtlessly by feet scrambling for purchase. Another few steps and he found the print of a shod horse. Sterling let out a breath and turned to shout at his followers. “I’ve got it. This way.” He didn’t wait for them to catch up. Better if one by one they gave up and returned to town.

He heard running feet and the sound of Millie panting. “Did they teach you to track in the Mounties, sir?” Angus said. “Will you teach me?”

“No, and perhaps. When I was a boy we lived in the Carrot River Valley in Saskatchewan. Not many white families around, so my friends were mostly Cree. They taught me a lot — to hunt, to track game.” He was quiet for a long time. He did not say, “To be a man.”

“That must have been grand, sir,” Angus said.

“It was. When I was young.” In his mind’s eye he saw a flash of long shiny black hair, liquid eyes, white teeth, and golden skin. Her name was Many Birds, and he had not thought of her for a very long time. Richard Sterling shook his head and noticed a scrap of grey wool caught on the branch of a black spruce, at about the height of a horse’s back. He lifted it gently away from the tree and showed it to the others without a word. From a blanket, probably. It was reasonably clean and dry. It hadn’t been there for long.

The shadows were getting long, and it would soon be necessary to stop. No point trying to track a man in the near-dark. Lose the trail, and he could waste precious hours trying to find it again.

They were tired now, not talking much, stumbling on the rough ground. Once they’d left the noise of the bigger river behind them, Sterling had become aware of another sound. A sound that didn’t belong here.

“McAllen,” he said, not breaking stride or lifting his eyes from the ground. The young constable trotted up.

“Someone’s following us.”

McAllen’s head whipped around. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Nevertheless, they’re there. When we round that bend up ahead I want you to duck into the woods. Wait and see who it is. If it’s an Indian party, leave them alone and catch us up. If it’s someone from town, who has no reason to be here, shout out for me.”

Sterling kept walking, slowing his pace. O’Brien, Donohue, and Angus caught up before he reached the curve of the river. They rounded the bend and McAllen slipped behind a tree. Sterling hissed at the others to keep moving.

Two minutes passed, and then he heard McAllen shout, “Stop. You’re all under arrest.”

Sterling ran back. Voices rose in argument.

“We’re not doing anything wrong. Just out for a walk.” Joe Hamilton had his hands in the air. Two men who’d been in the Savoy in the morning were with him. They carried thin packs on their backs and gripped stout walking sticks.

“What the hell are you lot doing here?” Sterling growled.

“Nothing,” Hamilton said. He looked at his companions. “Right boys?” The man’s mouth was a mess of broken and rotted teeth and it stunk to high heaven.

“Figured you’d need some help rescuing Mrs. Fiona,” one of Hamilton’s companions said. His hat was worn and dusty, most of the buttons were torn off his jacket, and Sterling could see bare flesh through the thin fabric in the knees of the man’s trousers.

“Well, I don’t. Go back to town.”

“Don’t know the way.”

“Follow the river.”

“You can’t stop us from going where we want, Sterling,” the third man said. He glared at the Mountie. Hamilton’s face was as guilty as a schoolboy caught laughing in church, the second man was embarrassed at being caught, but this one was defiant. Joe Hamilton might think he was dashing to Fiona’s rescue. His companions were hoping to get to Gold Mountain first.

“Actually,” Sterling said, “I can. You’re interfering with a servant of Her Majesty in the performance of his duties.”

“We didn’t mean any harm, Mr. Sterling. We’d like to help, that’s all,” Hamilton said, with an attempt at a smile.

“Go ahead,” the other man said, “arrest us.” He looked around. “Don’t see no jail. Guess we’ll all have to troop back to town together. Leaving poor Mrs. Fiona in the hands of that villain.”

“Look here, Ralph Green,” Mouse O’Brien said, “I’m not having any of your nonsense.” The big man stepped forward, hands clenched. He loomed over Green, whose cockiness suddenly deserted him. “I’ll take you back to town myself, if I have to. And,” he added, “you won’t be walking.” Mouse lunged forward with a growl. Green jumped back.

Mouse dug in his pocket and pulled out a drawstring bag. “Here,” he said. “Go to the Savoy tomorrow and report to Walker that we’ve found her trail. Have a drink on me while you’re there.” He handed a gold nugget to Joe Hamilton and a smaller one to the second man. He looked at Green. “You going with them, Ralph?”

“Guess so.” Green held out his hand. Mouse dumped a nugget into it. Green looked at the gold, and then stared pointedly back at Mouse. He kept his hand outstretched. Mouse put the bag away. He sighed heavily and started taking off his jacket. “If that’s what you want.”

“Okay, okay. We’re going.” Without another word Green headed back the way they’d come.

“Thanks, Mouse.” Hamilton touched the brim of his cap. The second man grunted.

When the three men had disappeared around the bend, Sterling said, “The NWMP doesn’t bribe men to obey the law. But thanks anyway.”

“Joe Hamilton means no trouble. Everyone in town knows he worships Mrs. MacGillivray. But that Ralph Green. If he cares about rescuing your ma, Angus, then I’m your Aunt Fanny.”

“If word of that map gets around town,” Sterling said, “we’ll have most of the men in the Territory coming after us. McAllen.”