Gold Mountain: A Klondike Mystery (14 page)

Sheridan opened a can of potatoes and one of corn, and we ate them cold with corned beef fried in too much lard. I wasn’t hungry, and my head spun if I turned it too abruptly, but I knew I should try to eat something. Sheridan munched happily and chatted about his plans for our future.

He eyed my unfinished plate. “Can’t let food go to waste. I’ve only brought enough for the trip.”

I passed the remains of my meal over, and he dug in with enthusiasm.

Before coming to the near-Arctic, if I’d thought about it at all, I would have assumed the sun hung high overhead all day. But it didn’t, of course. It moved in a circle from east to west, from low on the horizon to a mid-point overhead and down again. Further north, they tell me, the sun does not set at all at this time of year. Here it dipped below the horizon for a short while and a trace of light shone below the horizon in the dead of night. You could tell the time of day in the Yukon by looking at the sun as well as any place else on earth. It wasn’t much different from the north of Scotland where I’d been a child. I knew the movements of the sun at this latitude.

It was afternoon, I guessed. I didn’t know how long I’d been unconscious, but hopefully no more than a few hours, so it should have still been Sunday. I’d fought with Sheridan outside the Savoy at midnight on Saturday. Perhaps twelve hours had passed since that unfortunate encounter. The river beside us wasn’t very wide. Not the Yukon, certainly. I tried to envision Ray’s map, which I’d seen in Skagway. The Klondike River came from the east and ended where it met the Yukon, but I had no way of knowing if it narrowed before that. I’d seen the map too long ago, and not paid much attention at any rate.

If I had the slightest idea where we were, I would bide my time and simply leave when the fool had his back turned.

Unfortunately, I did not have the slightest idea where we were.

I reluctantly came to the conclusion that for the time being I was better off with Mr. Sheridan than leaving him. As well as being lost, I was not sure of my physical state. If I fell, reinjured my head perhaps or twisted an ankle, I could lie alone in the bush until I starved to death.

Once he’d scraped both plates clean, Sheridan announced it was time to be on our way.

“I’m sorry, Fiona, but you’ll have to walk. I don’t have a saddle for the horse. I’d hoped the cart would get us further than it did. I saw a picture in a book of the way Indians travel and figured it might work if I added a wheel. Should of known that if the Indians were too backward to use a wheel, their darn cart would be useless.”

I refrained from mentioning that perhaps Indians knew when and where to use this contraption and when not to. I hadn’t seen them with anything of its like navigating the rough mountain passes.

“Never mind, we won’t be travelling very fast, not over this ground. Pack up the dishes, will you, my dear.”

I considered refusing. I wasn’t his maid. But I bit my tongue. I’d pick my battles as and when I judged it would do me the most good.

He untied the horse and led the reluctant beast over to the saddle bags. I tossed the frying pan and coffee pot into a pack and Sheridan loaded up the horse.

It was a pathetically small amount of equipment for two people in the wilderness. No doubt the horse was delighted, but I was not.

“I will need,” I said in a tone as though I were the Queen’s secretary discussing a pending visit to some luckless earls’ country estate, “a change of clothing and sufficient toiletries for the journey.”

“Well there, Fiona,” he said, giving the straps under the horse’s belly a good tug, “if you’d been ready for me this morning like I suggested, you’d have brought what you needed, now wouldn’t you?”

Couldn’t argue with that.

Perhaps I should have met Sheridan at my lodgings on Sunday morning after all. With two steamer trunks full of dresses, shoes, corsets, undergarments, nightgowns, coats, toiletries, reading material, a jewellery box, tea set, travelling writing-table, sheets, cushions, pillows, a full length mirror, hat boxes. Not to mention Angus’s belongings. Surely then the man would have left us behind.

I’d made a series of serious errors in this matter. I’ve always found it so easy to convince men they should do things the way I wanted while leaving them to believe it was their idea all along. Was I getting soft, losing some of my skill at manipulation? Was that a natural result of having a son who seemed totally impervious to any suggestions I might make?

“May I at least have my shoes back?” I asked.

He pulled my footwear out of the pack and tossed them to me.

The heels were about two inches high, there were no straps, buttons or buckles. A dainty green bow decorated the instep. Perfectly suitable should we happen across a lady’s croquet party taking a break for tea. Otherwise, scarcely much better than going barefoot.

Nevertheless, I put them on.

“Be sure and extinguish the fire,” I said. “You don’t want to set the woods ablaze.”

He kicked a bit of dirt into the circle of rocks, and so we set off. One scraggly horse, one determined American, one most reluctant daintily-shod and evening-gowned Scotswoman. Sheridan talked as we walked, encouraging both the horse and me. The horse was not much happier about this expedition than I. Sheridan went first, leading the beast, and I trotted along behind as we followed the path of the river. The riverbank was rocky, steep in places. Thick clumps of red willow, dwarf willow, and Labrador tea grew right down to the water.

I’d decided my best option would be to slow us down so that searchers could catch up to us, in the event someone — anyone — was coming after me. However, subterfuge on my part was scarcely necessary. I estimated we were moving at the speed of a particularly indolent snail. At this rate, Angus would be a grandfather by the time we reached our destination. There was no trail. We rounded aspen and birch trees, clusters of poplar saplings, and more clumps of dwarf willow. We climbed boulders, fought for footing amongst loose dirt, stones, and fallen branches. We slipped on tussocks and hummocks, and our feet sunk into spots of rich loamy soil. Attempting to clamber over a boulder rather than go around, I lost my footing and plunged ankle-deep into the water. It was freezing cold and I yelped. Sheridan gave me a poisonous look. The horse snatched at sedge growing on a tussock and ripped off a mouthful.

I sat down on the rock. It was damp and cold. “Mr. Sheridan, I can go no further. This whole expedition is a total waste of time and effort. We will only get lost and blunder about in the wilderness until we starve or break a leg.”

“The going gets easier up ahead a bit.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you fool. You’ve never been here. You have no idea what’s up ahead.” Suddenly I was furious. Too angry to attempt to be charming and subtly persuasive. I was nothing but tired and sore and, to be honest, getting very frightened.

We were heading into nothing, being led by a madman.

“I don’t like being called a fool,” he said.

“Then don’t act like one.”

He walked over to the horse, and for one brief moment my heart lifted and I thought he was going to turn us around. Instead, he plunged his hand into a saddlebag and came out with a knife. He faced me, the knife held up in front of him. It wasn’t a particularly big knife, nor was it a very sharp one.

But it was big enough. Sharp enough.

“I am going to Gold Mountain, Fiona. Now, you can come with me and stop your goddamned complaining. Or you can stay here. With this knife buried in your belly. Which will it be?”

I hesitated. I doubted that Sheridan would kill me.

Could I take that chance? If I ran for it, he’d catch me with no trouble at all. He eyes were very dark and tight lines radiated out from his mouth. An angry man could do a lot of damage he’d later come to regret.

I got slowly to my feet. “Very well,” I said. “Provided you put that knife away.” He ran one finger slowly up the flat of the blade, his eyes fixed on my face. Then he grinned and shoved it back into the pack. “You might be tired now, Fiona, but you’ll thank me for my perseverance one day.” He waved his arm gesturing for me to proceed. “Ladies first. You should be able to stick to the riverbank for a bit.”

I passed him and the horse. I’d keep walking until I could find a chance to escape safely. But I most certainly would not stop complaining.

We didn’t stop to eat or to rest. When I complained that I was hungry and thirsty, Sheridan said I should have eaten when I had the chance, and paused only long enough to hand me a container of water. It was very hot and the sky was clear. At least the mosquitoes were taking a nap.

In his enthusiasm, Sheridan, leading the horse, had passed me on a straight stretch. Unfortunately, he kept looking over his shoulder to tell me to hurry up, and I had no opportunity to slip quietly away.

Several hours passed in this manner before Sheridan stopped so abruptly the horse crashed into him, and I into the horse. The river had dwindled to a creek, and the creek was dwindling into a stream. We’d reached a point at which the edges of the watercourse were largely dry while a trickle of water drifted down the middle. Sheridan clambered down the steep bank and beast and woman followed. The river bottom was very soft, but in most places the ground had dried and wasn’t too muddy. We didn’t have bush to push through and made much better time from then on.

We travelled until well into the evening. Mosquitoes gathered in clouds, delighted at the convenient arrival of dinner. My feet were dragging, my arm was mechanically sweeping the black ostrich feather on my hat across my face to keep the bugs off. I was almost asleep on my feet, but Sheridan moved steadily, his steps strong and determined, head down. Every once in a while, he’d pull out his map and consult it without breaking stride. The man must be exhausted. He wouldn’t have slept last night, busy as he’d been kidnapping me and dragging my unconscious body out of town.

Ambition and determination had taken control of him.

At last Sheridan stopped once again. He pulled out his map and studied it while I sunk gratefully onto the soft river bank. A new group of mosquitoes instantly descended. The horse munched at grasses beside me and flicked his tail. I pulled off my shoes and studied my left foot. A blister was forming on the back of my heel and another on the little toe. At the moment, they were only an irritation. Tomorrow, walking would be very painful indeed. I could not walk on rocks and pine needles barefoot.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” he said.

I looked around. “Stop where?”

“Here. There’s a patch of clear ground over there where we can put the tent.”

“This is a watercourse. We can’t sleep on a riverbed, you fool.”

He blinked. A mosquito settled on his cheek but he didn’t brush it away. “Why not?”

“In case it rains in the night and all that rainwater decides to come this way.”

He glanced at the sky. “Doesn’t look like rain.”

I rolled my eyes. “Do as you will, but my tent will be set up there, on the bank under that tree.”

The expression on his face indicated that he might argue, but then the stubborn set to his shoulders fell and he said, “I knew you were the woman for me, Fiona. You’re quite right. Don’t ever be afraid to contradict me. I want our marriage to be a true partnership.”

I refrained from making a comment.

Richard Sterling followed the excited barking of dogs as he crossed the parade ground of NWMP Fort Herchmer. The Union Jack in the centre of the square snapped briskly in the strong north wind. Men stopped what they were doing to watch him. News had travelled fast, as it always did in the Yukon. Fiona MacGillivray was a well-known woman. She was generally liked, although she did have enemies. Ironically, it seemed as if she was in this mess because of someone who wanted to be her friend, not an adversary.

Sterling glanced up at the sky. The wind was strong but the clouds were not heavy and he didn’t smell rain on the air. Rain now would be a disaster, destroying his best hope of finding a trail to follow. He’d met Paul Sheridan once. His impression had been of a city fellow, small-time crook, and gang-member. Not someone used to the wilderness or to physically covering his tracks. He hadn’t even come over the Chilkoot, but by boat from St. Michael. And Fiona? She’d travelled the Chilkoot trail, up the Golden Stairs, on a makeshift boat down the Yukon, but by Angus’s account she hadn’t even been able to prepare their meals. Nevertheless, she was a highly resourceful woman and Sterling expected — hoped — she’d have enough of her wits around her to leave signs of their passage.

If she were still alive. No one had dared mention, in the crowded back room of the Savoy, that she might not have survived Sheridan’s attack.

Richard Sterling pushed the thought aside. She was alive and he would find her.

He pushed open the door to the NWMP kennels, and the animals set up a round of joyous barking. The dog-keeper was leading a large white dog out of its cage. “Here she is,” he said, “I figured you’d want Mrs. Miller again.”

Sterling shook his head. News travelled faster by mouth in the Yukon than it did by telephone in the cities.

The long-haired dog wagged her tongue and wiggled her bottom. Sterling crouched down. “You’re right there,” he said to the man. “Best pack dog in the Territory.” He gave Mrs. Miller a scratch between her ears and then ran his hands over her body, particularly down her legs.

“She’s in good shape. I’d know otherwise.”

“Just checking.” Her name was Mrs. Miller, after the prune-faced wife of an inspector in the NWMP. Mrs. Miller, the canine one, at seven years old was no longer young, but she was clever and could cheerfully walk a long way bearing a heavy pack. “Good old Millie,” Sterling said. The man took saddle bags down from a row of hooks on the wall and tossed them over the dog’s back. He handed Sterling a small canvas bag containing strips of dried fish, her food.

“Thanks.” Sterling took the offered lead and left. Mrs. Miller trotted happily behind.

At least she
, Sterling thought,
is looking forward to the journey
.

“Good luck,” the dog handler called out.

Next stop was the kitchens, where he asked the cooks to pack him five days’ worth of food. He would take supplies only for himself and McAllen. The civilians would have to bring their own. Next stop was the barracks. He tied the dog to a railing and went inside to pull his bed roll off his bunk and dig spare clothes out of his trunk. The non-commissioned officers’ barracks were empty and he was glad of it. He didn’t want to waste time while advice and useless good wishes were offered.

Back outside he untied the dog. About forty-five minutes had passed since he’d left the Savoy. No sign of Donohue or Angus yet. Angus, he didn’t mind taking. The boy was smart and quick although somewhat impulsive. Donohue on the other hand. What did he have to offer? If he wasn’t coming along to write it up for his newspaper, then it was to get into Fiona’s favour. Sterling didn’t realize he’d growled until he saw the questioning look on Millie’s face.

McKnight stood behind his desk, the surface almost invisible under mounds of papers and books, when Sterling knocked and walked in. The office was a mess of papers, winter clothes, spare boots, and wood — chopped, stacked, ready for the stove. A Winchester rifle rested on the table next to the bookcase.

“Let’s have a look at young Angus’s sketch again, shall we.” McKnight took the map off the wall and spread it across his desk, the papers underneath creating mountains and valleys. It was an up-to-date map of the Yukon mining district. Unfortunately, everything north of the Klondike River was marked “unexplored.” Sterling unfolded his own map. The two men studied them.

“This line here,” McKnight said, “might be this river. I can barely make out the name. What’s it say?”

“Thomas Creek.”

“Is it this blue line on Sheridan’s map, do you think?”

“I think, sir,” Sterling said, “it’s irrelevant if it is or not. Chances are good Sheridan expects to come across a river feeding into the Klondike from the north, so he’ll take the first one he comes across that white people haven’t reached yet. If the Gold Commissioner doesn’t know what’s there, then no one else does. Except the Indians and they don’t need to make maps. Least not ones we can read.”

McKnight peered myopically though a thick layer of glass. The man must be as blind as a bat, Sterling thought, without his spectacles. The inspector stroked his moustache. “You’re in the boss’s favour at the moment, Sterling. But favours come and go. You want to take care you don’t get ahead of yourself. And get busted down. Again.”

Sterling felt his gut tighten. “I’ll remember your advice. Sir.”

“See that you do. Now, I’m sending you on this excursion, better to say I’m letting you go, because the NWMP has to be seen to be doing something to affect the return of one of the town’s most prominent citizens. Do you expect, honestly, to accomplish anything? Why not just wait until Sheridan sheepishly returns to town?”

“In many cases, I’d agree with you,” Sterling said, trying to sound reasonable. It was no secret he and McKnight didn’t get on: they’d butted heads too many times. “But I sense a madness in the man. To attack Mrs. MacGillivray, provided that’s what happened, and carry her off.” He shook his head. “She’s not a, shall we say, compliant woman.”

“No.”

“My fear, if I may say so sir, is that they’ll get lost. Unlikely Sheridan has much, if any, experience surviving in the wilderness and Mrs. MacGillivray ...”

“Is a lady, of course. Completely out of her depth.”

“If they get lost, they might not be able to find their way to town or to the Creeks if even the man decides to turn back.” Sterling thought of the Yukon as it had been before the rush. As most of it still was. A vast space teeming with life, if you knew how to look for it. To city eyes it seemed as empty and inhospitable as a desert. “The Indians around here are not aggressive. If they come across any lost people, they’ll be more than happy to bring them to us expecting a reward. But Sheridan might not know that. He’s an American and they’ve been fighting Indians down there until not so long ago. He’ll try to avoid them.”

“Do you honestly think you can find them?”

“I have some skill in the bush, yes. If they make it as far as the tundra? I’ve never been there, but tracking is tracking.”

“You can tell me some day where you got this skill. But for now ...” McKnight stopped at a knock on the door, shouted, “Enter,” and Constable Fitzhenry came in. He gasped for breath, his face was flushed, and Sterling knew the man had news before he even opened his mouth. “Sheridan left his lodgings Saturday night. Cleared out all his things and told the landlady he’d not be back. He’d originally taken the room until Thursday, then changed it to Sunday and left on Saturday.”

He paused to take a breath and McKnight asked, “Did he say anything about where he was going?”

“No, but he kept hinting he’d be back some day, rich as a king of the Orient, he said. She paid him no mind. They all say that, don’t they?”

Sterling and McKnight nodded in unison. Fitzhenry continued, “She told me something interesting. Sheridan bought a horse last week. The landlady said it was a miserable creature. And then,” he paused for effect, “he made a wagon.”

“A wagon?”

“More of a cart, she said. With one big wheel at the back and two poles about six feet long at the front, and a leather harness of some sort.”

“Like a travois?” Sterling asked.

“What’s that?”

“The Plains Indians use a travois. Fastened to the back of a horse or dog, it pulls a load. Like a wagon without wheels.” Being a white man, Sheridan probably thought he was improving on the native design by adding a wheel. Not realizing that a wheel was a liability, not an advantage, where there were no roads. Even the best designed travois was not meant to penetrate bush or manoeuvre over hills and gullies.

“I don’t suppose anyone saw this horse and travois in town on Sunday?” McKnight asked.

Fitzhenry shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Shall we ask around?”

“What an excellent idea, considering we are attempting to locate the person who made this vehicle,” McKnight snapped.

Fitzhenry flushed. McKnight waved his hand and the young constable fled.

“I like the sound of that,” Sterling said. “A horse and a wheeled contraption will leave a clear trail.”

“Better get on with it then,” McKnight said. “You’re to take that.” He gestured to the rifle. It was a Winchester Carbine, polished to a high shine, a box of cartridges beside it. Sterling raised one eyebrow. “Let’s hope you don’t have to use it. At best it might provide some food if you’re out longer than expected.”

Sterling picked the weapon up. He balanced the weight in his hands, laid it against his cheek, and stared down the barrel. He looked at McKnight, nodded, and headed for the door. The inspector’s voice stopped him and he turned back. McKnight coughed. Sterling waited. McKnight cleared his throat and said, “Good luck, Corporal. Take as much time as you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Donohue and Angus were seated on the steps beside the dog. McAllen leaned against a post, but he snapped to attention when Sterling came out of the office.

Mouse O’Brien was with them, pack on his shoulders.

Sterling groaned.

Angus let out a low whistle when he saw the rifle.

“Mouse, what are you doing here?” Sterling said, fearing he knew the answer.

“I heard the news, figured you needed some help.”

“I don’t need any more help and I’m not leading any more city folks into the wilderness.”

“Sure you do,” Mouse said. “You got a lot of stuff for that one little dog to carry.”

“Thought you’d want to spend the time with your new bride. And aren’t you going back to the Creeks tomorrow?”

“Mrs. O’Brien.” Mouse tasted the words on his tongue. “Insisted that I come. A man’s first duty, after his country and his family, is to his friends, she said.”

Sterling did not want to argue any more. Best get moving before anyone else came to join them. Next it would be Mrs. Saunderson and the dancers.

He eyed the packs at the men’s feet.

“It’s grand that you’ve got Millie,” Angus said, rubbing the big dog’s head. “She’ll find Ma, won’t you girl?”

Millie barked her agreement.

“The dog is the property of the NWMP and will carry McAllen’s and my supplies,” Sterling said. “Donohue, O’Brien, you and Angus are to carry your own. Do you understand?”

Donohue said, “Yup,” and Angus nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s why I’ve come,” O’Brien said. “I can take some of Angus’s things.”

“You all brought food? Enough for five days at least?”

“Yes.”

“That should do. If we need more, hopefully we’ll come across some game.” He stroked the rifle butt, then reached into his jacket and pulled out the map. “Angus, you’re in charge of this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

McAllen had stopped at the kitchen to pick up the provisions and cooking supplies. They packed the dog’s saddle bags as best they could with food, pans, a coffee pot, and a tiny travelling stove. Sterling would carry his bedroll and spare clothes. And the rifle.

Donohue rechecked the contents of his own pack.

“If we’re ready, let’s go,” Sterling said. “Angus, you can walk with Millie.”

“Okay,” Angus said, taking the dog’s lead. “I’ve been thinking about this Gold Mountain. You don’t suppose there’s actually something to it, do you, sir?”

“No, Angus, I do not. There’s enough strange and wonderful things in this world without making up stories. I suppose there might be a gold deposit, after all there’s gold around here, isn’t there? But if there is, it’s highly unlikely to be marked on a map Paul Sheridan picked up in his travels.”

Sterling led his small party across the parade square. Mounties and civilians came out of the barracks and offices to watch them pass.