Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (19 page)

They walked all through the day as the sun moved in an arc overhead. This track didn’t appear to be much used. It was narrower than the other path, and the bush crowded in close. In places, they had to walk in single file. Angus’s feet were aching and Millie was dragging on her lead, and he was about to ask if they could have a rest, when Corporal Sterling stopped abruptly. He lifted his finger to his mouth and gestured to Angus and the men to be quiet. The wind rustled the tops of the trees. Sterling sniffed the air. Millie barked.

Donohue said, “What’s up?” and Sterling shushed him. Angus shifted his weight. Millie gave a low whine.

Moving slowly, Sterling laid the rifle on the ground beside his feet. “The White Queen sends her greetings,” he said in a loud voice.

The bush separated and men were standing there. Three men. Indians. Two of them not much older than Angus, and one who looked to be about as old as time. The old man nodded. The young ones did not move.

Sterling reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe, bag of tobacco, and matches. He extended the tobacco. The old man nodded again and dug out his own pipe. Without a word, they squatted to the ground. Sterling lit a match and held the fire out. Only when the old man’s pipe was breathing smoke did the Mountie light his.

Donohue threw a look at Angus and got out his own pipe while McAllen crouched beside Sterling.

The two boys studied Angus. One was in overalls, more patches than original fabric, the other wore trousers and a yellow waistcoat. They both wore dusty and torn broad-brimmed hats. They looked enough alike to be brothers, cousins at least. The old man wore a woollen cap and had a blanket wrapped around his stooped shoulders and a moose-skin shirt beneath.

Millie sniffed the young men’s feet. Angus remembered the last of Mrs. Mann’s seed cake. He looped the dog’s lead around a tree and brought the food out. The Indian boys accepted. “Thank you,” the taller one said. They smiled at him around mouthfuls of cake.

Sterling and the old man exchanged greetings. The old man did not speak English, but they seemed to make themselves understood with smiles and hand gestures.

“Will you please ask your grandfather,” Sterling said to the boys, “if he has seen a white man and woman. They travel with a horse, and were on this trail no more than one day ago.”

The taller boy said something, and the man answered.

“My grandfather says I can answer your questions. The white people came through the woods. They made much noise. We are hunting, and Grandfather said the game has been disturbed and so we must go to another place.”

“My mother, did you see my mother?” Angus shouted.

“Shush!” Sterling said. The old man moved his hand, and the shorter of the Indian boys said, “My grandfather says your son may speak. She is your mother? She is very beautiful. My grandfather has never seen a white woman. He wondered if she was your queen. I told him your queen is very old.”

“When was this?” Donohue asked.

“Yesterday. Late in the day.”

The old man spoke and the younger ones answered. Sterling puffed at his pipe. “My grandfather asks if this man has stolen your woman,” the taller one said.

“Yes,” Sterling replied. He did not explain.

The old man muttered darkly and shook his head.

“Very bad to steal from the Redcoats,” the boy explained. He pointed to the Winchester lying on the ground. “You should know the man you follow has a rifle like that one.”

The old man rose to his feet with a smooth grace that belied his age. Sterling and McAllen stood also.

Sterling held out his hand. The old man took it. “
Mahsi Cho
,” Sterling said, giving his thanks. “Before you go, can you tell me what’s up ahead?”

The old man shook his head. He exchanged sharp words with his grandsons.

“One more day will take you to the place where the trees end,” the boy said, shifting uncomfortably.

“And beyond that?”

The Indian boys looked at each other. The old man grumbled deep in his chest. No one said anything for a long time. Millie whined.

“It is forbidden,” the taller one said at last.

“What’s forbidden?”

“There is a small river on the flat land beyond the trees. It is forbidden to travel beyond the river. We do not cross the river.”

“Why?”

The boy shrugged. “When our people first came to this land, a hunting party went there. They did not come back, and another party went to find them. They also did not come back. Many years have passed, but no one from our people has crossed that river and returned.”

“There’s a white man who knows no better, a trapper,” the other said. “He lives at the edge of the forbidden zone. If you want to know what lies beyond he might be able to tell you.”

The old man muttered.

“When I was very small, a woman from our tribe left us to be with the white trapper. My grandfather says she will never be allowed to return. Her family will never speak to her or to her children. She is gone too close to the forbidden.”

“Thank you,” Sterling said again.

The old man nodded, and then they were gone, leaving only the movement of the bush behind them and the cry of a raven.

“Wow,” Angus said.

“What’s that nonsense about a forbidden zone?” Donohue said, tapping ash out of his pipe. “Probably don’t want anyone going into the good hunting grounds.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Sterling said. “They looked highly uncomfortable talking about it.”

“Primitive superstition.”

Sterling said nothing. He simply picked up the Winchester and set off down the trail. Angus grabbed Millie and followed.

“Sir,” he said, when he caught up to the Mountie. “How did you know they were there? The Indians I mean. They were so quiet.”

“Bear fat and woodsmoke and tobacco. If the wind hadn’t been coming this way, I wouldn’t have known.”

Judging by the light, we stopped to make camp much earlier than we had the day before. Perhaps even Paul Sheridan was running out of steam. Or maybe he just wanted to tuck into those geese.

He was collecting wood for the fire and tent poles, and I was trying to remember how best to get feathers off birds, when a breaking branch caught my attention.

A man stood under a small spruce, watching me.

I got to my feet slowly.

He was a white man, short and thin, with a grey-and-black beard that hung over his chest and long dirty grey hair tied back from his face by a bandana. He was very dark, but it was difficult to tell if the colour came from the sun or was simply dirt. He carried a rifle and had a hunting knife stuck in the belt at his hip.

“Good day,” I said. “I do hope we won’t get any rain this evening.”

He grunted.

Sheridan heard the voices and hurried over. He thrust out his hand. “Hi. Sheridan’s the name and this is my fiancée, Fiona.”

The man looked at Sheridan’s outstretched hand for a long time. Then he extended his own and the two men shook. His hands were caked with dirt, the yellow nails alternately broken and overgrown. Two fingers on his left hand were rounded stumps.

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, it sounded like an instrument that had not been used for a long time. “Nothin’ around here for city folks.”

“We’re just passing through,” Sheridan replied. “Too many people in the Territory these days for my liking.”

“Nowhere to pass through to,” the man said.

I’m not accustomed to being ignored. “Indeed,” I said, “then perhaps you can direct us to the nearest mounted police fort or other government officials.”

The man looked as surprised as if Soapy the horse had spoken. Then he laughed, showing two brown teeth in an otherwise black and empty cave. “Your woman ain’t gonna last long in the wilds.”

“She’ll be fine,” Sheridan said. “We’re prospecting. I’ve heard word there’s a good strain of quartz up north and west some. Might mean gold.”

“Don’t know ’bout that,” the man said, studying me. He did not look too terribly impressed. He obviously thought Sheridan was out of his mind to bring a woman such as me into the wilderness.

We had something in common.

“Do you, uh, live around here?” I inquired.

The man spat a load of chewing tobacco into the ground. I took that to be an affirmative.

“If so,” I continued, “I’d appreciate the opportunity to clean up and have a night’s rest. We have two fresh geese as you can see, and would be happy to share.”

“Be quiet, Fiona,” Sterling said in a loud whisper. “The man’s a trapper. Probably doesn’t like company.”

“Don’t usually. But I figure you folks need some help. For one night anyway. Sorriest couple of folks I ever did see.” He shook his head. Something flew out of his beard. “Where’s the rest o’ your stuff?” He peered around our makeshift camp, seeing one horse, one rifle, and three saddlebags.

“We’re travelling light,” Sheridan said.

The man laughed. “Plumb crazy. But folks have been sayin’ that ’bout me for years. Figure you’ve got me beat, Sheridan. Name’s Edmund.”

Edmund?

“You c’n come home with me, spend the night. Figure your lady might find some things she c’n wear. Proper clothes, like.” He looked at my feet. “Maybe even shoes. Then in the morning you c’n be on your way.” He turned his head and shot another glob of tobacco onto the ground.

I doubted that Mr. Edmund’s accommodation would be any more pleasant than sleeping out, but if he had clothes I could wear, perhaps he also had a wife and family. I would pay very handsomely for an escort to the nearest government office. “What an excellent plan,” I said. “Lead on, Mr. Edmund. Not too far, I hope?”

He looked into my face. The corners of his mouth turned up and he sniffed. I felt the small hairs at the back of my neck rise, and a line of ice water moved down my spine.

Sheridan was gathering up the things I’d unpacked. “I promise you, I don’t have plans to remain in this area,” he said.

“See that you don’t,” the trapper said, his eyes on mine.

I scrambled to mount Soapy once again. It was not a very dignified performance.

Edmund led the way, not looking back to see if we followed. Scruffy bushes of Labrador tea and dwarf willow, punctuated by the occasional spruce or birch tree, closed in around the almost non-existent trail. If the trapper decided to abandon us, we really would be lost. I bent low over Soapy’s neck and felt branches breaking against my back.

We hadn’t gone more than a few miles before I caught the scent of woodsmoke in the air. The trees spread out, and I could sit upright again as we climbed a gentle hill. Below, the woods had been hacked down to create a clearing beside a small lake. A single log building sat in the clearing, masses of purple and white wildflowers growing out of the sod roof. A high cache, a shack mounted on tall poles, was behind what I took to be the house, and a patch of earth had been dug to create a vegetable garden, green plants laid out in neat rows. About ten large white dogs were chained in an enclosure next to the woods. As we descended the hill, the dogs, straining against their chains to reach us, set up a hysterical chorus and two children ran out of the cabin, squealing with excitement. One stretched out a hand and touched Soapy’s neck. The horse stamped its feet but didn’t shy away, and I gave the child what I hoped was a friendly smile. It was a girl, face smudged with dirt but her hair was clean and her clothes didn’t smell too bad and her brown eyes shone with curiousity and intelligence. A black bruise darkened her left cheek. The other child, a younger boy, stood back and stuck his thumb into his mouth. I guessed he was about two years old.

By the time we reached the house, a woman had come outside. She waited for us by the door, hands wrapped in a faded pink apron. She wore a brown homespun dress that once would not have been out of place on the streets of Dawson. Now the fabric was thin to the point of transparency in places, and the dress was so many-times-mended, it seemed to be held together by nothing but patches and neat stitches. Her hair was black, hanging down her back in a thick braid. Her eyes were very dark, her face round, her cheekbones flat, and her skin brown. She was an Indian and she was hugely pregnant.

She didn’t smile as I rode up to her front step. I slid down from Soapy and held out my hand. The woman did not accept it, and I wiped it on my hip. “Good day,” I said cheerfully, “how kind of you to offer us hospitality. It’s been a most exhausting journey.”

She said nothing, and I wondered if she spoke English.

Edmund handed the woman the two geese with a grunt. She scurried back inside. Most of the buttons at the back of her dress were undone so that her stomach would fit into the garment.

I ducked my head and followed. The outside of the cabin was a jumble of fishnets, snowshoes, wooden crates and barrels, animal hides and traps, but inside it was clean and tidy. There appeared to be only one room, with a pile of blankets against the side wall, a lumpy horsehair sofa against the near wall, a hand-carved pine table in the middle of the room, and a big iron stove at the back. Nailed to the wall beside the stove was a board that served as a counter. Clean dishes, pots, and pans were stacked beside a bucket of soapy water, and the shelves were piled high with cans and packages of food. A tea set, with a blue and gold pattern on a white background, sat on the table. Spode, if my memory served.

Uninvited, I sat on a rough-hewn tree stump that presumably served as a chair. I pulled off my socks and studied my feet. They were raw and weeping — quite disgusting. The rough wool had rubbed against the blisters and re-opened them. My left sock was thick with blood, old and new. The floorboards creaked, and I looked up to see the Indian woman standing in front of me. She held out a bowl containing a lump of yellow paste as foul-smelling as it looked. I tried not to shudder as she pushed the bowl toward me.

“For sore,” she said, making rubbing gestures. “Good.”

I accepted the offering. “Thank you. My name is Fiona.”

Her eyes darted around the room. Sheridan was settling down at the table; Edmund had slipped outside, unbuttoning his trousers as he went. The children watched us, wide-eyed.

“Josie,” the woman said in a whisper before hurrying back to her kitchen alcove.

I dipped my finger into the muck and applied the ointment to my feet.

Edmund returned and got a stone pitcher down from the top shelf. He slapped it on the table, Josie brought him two mugs, and he sloshed liquid into the cups. I smelt raw liquor. Clearly, I was not going to be offered any, but that suited me perfectly well.

“None for me, thank you,” I said, loudly. “Do you have tea? I’ll make it if you like.”

I did not care for Edmund and I did not trust him. He looked to me like the sort of man who could smell weakness a mile off. I’d betray no weakness in front of him.

I wanted to be on our way, and soon, but I did want to rest my feet and have a cup of tea and some goose for dinner. Good heavens, was that a bag of rice on the top shelf?

“Tea,” Josie said. “I make tea.”

“Thank you.”

Josie served a piece of — could it possibly be — lemon with the tea. I stared in amazement at the thin yellow slice. “Where on earth did you get that?” I cautiously poked it with my finger, fearing it would disappear into a puff of smoke. I lifted my finger to my lips and tasted. Lemon, for sure.

“A traveller,” Josie said with a shrug, turning back to the stove.

The tea was hot and wonderful. She served it in one of the delicate blue-and-gold china cups, and when I’d finished I snuck a surreptitious peek at the bottom. As I’d suspected: Spode.

Such a tea set being here was no odder, I supposed, than Fiona MacGillivray drinking from it in a trapper’s cabin in the Yukon wilderness.

Edmund didn’t talk much, but Sheridan chatted away about his plans to become a gold prospector. He kept touching his hand to his chest, the pocket where he kept the map, and I knew he didn’t trust Edmund either.

Josie took the geese outside and returned in minutes with two naked birds. The little girl sat at my feet, staring up at me with awe, and the boy clung to his mother’s skirts while she cooked.

For dinner we feasted on goose and rice and berries. Best of all, we also were served carrots and chard. The carrots weren’t fresh, probably stored from last year, but the chard was green, crisp, and absolutely delicious.

Being raised in a proper British household, I attempted to make conversation over the meal, but everyone stuffed food into their mouths so fast there was room for nothing else, and I soon gave up.

Dinner over, Edmund leaned to one side, farted with gusto, and stood up. “Goin’ ta feed the dogs,” he said.

“I’ll help,” Sheridan said.

Edmund grunted. The children followed them outside.

Josie had refreshed the water bucket and was wiping the dishes. I stood beside her. She pushed her sleeves up prior to plunging them into water, and I could see a line of deep purple bruises running up her left arm. Her hands were red and chapped, her nails broken and cuticles torn.

“I need your help,” I said, my voice pitched low. “I don’t want to be with this man.”

She kept her eyes on her task, hands moving.

“I have money, friends, influence in Dawson. In town. I have a son.”

“In the town you have these things. Here you have nothing.”

“Will you help me?”

She didn’t reply.

“If you don’t know the way to the nearest government post, an Indian village will suffice. You must know the way to the nearest village.”

Nothing.

“You can come with me. Take me there. I’ll look after you. You won’t have to come back here. You can ride the horse.”

“I won’t leave my children.”

“Help me,” I repeated.

“Mrs. Fiona. I cannot help you. I cannot help myself.” She jumped as Edmund’s voice rounded the corner of the cabin and she scurried into the corner like a rat.