“That’s what you get for dressing that way,” Stan told her.
“Hush. Why don’t you put on my skirts sometime and see how you like it?”
He could scold all he wanted, but freeing herself from the confines of her corset and skirts made Liza feel like there wasn’t anything she couldn’t do. As if she was shedding her old skin to make way for a new, stronger version of herself. She couldn’t imagine how her fragile mother could bear all that weight in addition to her awkward, wet skirts, and she felt guilty for not coaxing her into her own pair of trousers. After all, there had been plenty of others left behind in those abandoned trunks.
As the trail rose, the temperature fell, and fur coats which had previously been stowed were put to use. In one aspect, Liza was more fortunate than the others, since she had her own precious little heat source curled up against her chest. But her coat, like all the others, was heavy, and the snow dragged it down even farther.
The snow began later that day. As a child, Liza had stuck her nose to the living room window at the first sign of snowflakes, and even now, as she stood on the side of a mountain, the silent snowfall was hypnotizing. The tiny flakes grew in size and number, piling one on top of the other until they created a soft world of white.
But in under an hour, she realized this snow was not like any she’d seen before. What had started as a placid dance swiftly had become a full-on battle, and she could see no more than three feet in front of her. As if determined to force her and the rest of the travellers back down the mountain, the blizzard doubled its efforts yet again, and Liza had to bow her head and concentrate on each step she took. She could barely see her family anymore; they had become as grey and shapeless as everyone else on this mad trek, and they no longer wasted their breath by offering encouragement.
Nothing could have prepared Liza for this trek. Not the newspapers, not the shouted warnings of men in boats returning from the peak, not even the repugnant stories told by toothless prospectors with mangled noses. She shook her head, trying to clear the water from her face, but the melted snow blurred her vision even worse. Everything was cold and wet and heavy, and each step took more effort than the one before, but she didn’t dare stop, because the line would move on without her and she couldn’t risk losing her family in the—
“Liza! Watch your step!” Stan called from behind.
“Watch your own step,” she muttered under her breath. She turned to yell back at him, but she wobbled sideways and slipped. With a gasp, she spread out her hands just as her knees hit the icy step hard, and she bit back a cry. Blue wriggled, letting her know she was all right, but Liza’s heart still raced. One more wrong step and she could have tumbled down to the bottom.
“Get moving!” yelled an unseen climber.
Despair washed over Liza. Everything about this journey was terrible. Had her father imagined this nightmare when he’d told the family this would be the “adventure of a lifetime”? Adventure of a lifetime indeed! She wasn’t supposed to be here, clinging to the side of a mountain in the worst snowstorm she’d ever seen. She should be home, working on her father’s inventory or dusting shelves, squeezed into her corset, wearing her favourite skirt, laughing easily with customers or friends, perhaps enjoying a sherry later on.
But here she was. She had no choice but to keep climbing. The line of travellers stretched for miles ahead of her, and Liza set her gaze on the hat of a tall man ahead of her. Back at Sheep Camp, she’d spotted him—he was the tallest man she’d ever seen and as slight as a scarecrow—and yet he moved onward with determination. Using the man’s hat as her beacon, she took a step, and another, and another. He became a type of destination, though he would always be ahead of her.
When they finally reached the summit, Liza’s body was layered in bruises from falling so often on the icy trail. Her eyes burned from the sun, snow, and wind, despite the goggles her father had given them all, and her lips had cracked so badly she could not have smiled if she wanted to—which she didn’t. Her parents, silent and grey, slumped into their tent, and seeing them broken like that frightened her even more than the looming clouds overhead. Only Stan appeared intact, though she saw exhaustion even in his laboured movements.
As soon as her brother had assembled their shared tent, she collapsed inside it and opened the top of her coat so Blue could climb out, soft and untouched by the storm. Liza’s mind swirled helplessly with fatigue as she cupped her hands around the dear little face and drew her closer, craving the comfort of her warmth against her skin.
The mountain was endless. They had climbed for fourteen hours today. Tomorrow they would do it all over again. And probably the day after that as well. The raging snow and ice would beat them down forever. Was the old prospector right? Would they lose their fingers, toes, and noses before finally collapsing and becoming part of yet another drift for others to pass by? When the puppy nuzzled closer, snuffling by her ear, the precious sound was Liza’s undoing, and she gave in to the tears, wishing they could wash away the storm and the mountain and the endlessness of the day. As sleep began to close over her, thick and black and welcome, she hugged Blue a little tighter and whispered a quiet prayer that this mountain would not be the end of them.
Ben
TEN
Dressed in their buffalo robes, beaver hats, and sealskin mitts, Ben and Miller leaned on their shovels and waited for the day’s first prospectors to reach the summit of the Chilkoot Trail. The outpost was complete, the flag waved valiantly on the mountaintop, and the Mounties were about to put the new one-tonne rule into effect. Ben knew deep down it was for the good of everyone, but when he’d woken up that morning, apprehensive about what was ahead for him that day, he started to think the Mounties motto should be changed from Maintien le Droit to Do Things No One Else Wants to Do.
As the prospectors arrived, some collapsed in heaps. A lot were overcome by coughing fits, and most were too out of breath to speak. The Mounties welcomed the newcomers with cups of water, and when everyone was somewhat settled, Miller bellowed, “Everyone! Gather round! We have an announcement to make.”
“I’ve got this,” Ben told him, thinking the news might be easier for the weary travellers to take coming from him rather than Miller.
“Sounds good to me. I’ll back you up,” Miller replied, smiling wryly.
As Ben explained the new rule, speaking as gently but firmly as he could, he watched the prospectors’ expressions of interest change to shock, then anger. At the end of his speech, the crowd erupted in protest.
“This can’t be legal!” one man cried, grabbing his friend’s arm. “Why, this is . . . What’s the word, Smit?”
Smit shook his head. “I’d call it blackmail or something.”
Ben held up his hands, trying to soothe the angry travellers. “The rules are for your own safety,” he said, echoing Belcher’s speech. “Now, no one is saying you have to get up and go right away. Rest a bit. Have some more water.”
Miller chimed in. “But keep in mind that every minute you wait, another man is staking a claim.” He gave a casual shrug. “Could be your claim. Of course, I’m just reminding you of what you already know.”
“What about our things?” one prospector asked.
“Your things will be safe here with us. Make a pile, then raise a flag over it—a tall flag, so you’ll be able to find it when the snow buries everything,” Ben said. “You can leave a man here if you’re uncomfortable with that arrangement, though that’ll slow your progress.”
Over the course of the next week, Ben lost track of how many times he explained the one-tonne rule. The prospectors kept on coming, day and night, their frozen faces bruised by the elements, their bloodshot eyes dead with exhaustion—and yet as soon as he told them the rule they were able to find the energy to sputter their outrage. It got to the point where Ben could almost predict what kind of reaction he’d get based on how the person was dressed. Expensive, city-style coats usually meant he’d face righteous fury and ac
cusations that the Mounties were infringing on their rights. More practical clothing suggested an experienced traveller. Those men grudgingly called the new rule a dirty deal but backed down with a little more understanding.
One morning, Ben approached a man the size of a grizzly to show him the list of supplies he’d need to bring if he wanted to continue on, and the prospector’s face darkened. “I’m not doing that,” he growled.
“It’s the law,” Ben replied, moving towards the next man in line.
But when Ben was about ten feet away, the prospector pulled out a pistol and aimed it at him.
“Ben!” Miller yelled, drawing his own weapon and pointing it at the big man.
“I ain’t going back down there,” the man roared. “You can’t make me do that.”
The Yukon wind screamed through the uneasy silence, but of the dozens of people standing around the summit, not one seemed to notice. All eyes were on the showdown between the grizzly man and the Mountie.
Ben didn’t reach for his own gun. Instead, he focused straight ahead, past the barrel of the pistol and into the man’s eyes. He saw the determination in the prospector’s stance and the anger in his expression, but Ben wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t the first time someone had pointed a gun at him, and this was what he’d been trained for. He gestured for Miller to lower his gun, then he turned back to the prospector.
“Hand it over, sir.”
The big man spat to the side. “Ain’t gonna happen.”
“You are in Canada now,” Ben reminded him, “and we are the North-West Mounted Police. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt and guess you don’t yet know that we’re the law up here.” He tilted his head ever so slightly. “Now give me your weapon.”
The man shook his head, his dark eyes on Ben’s. “It ain’t right what you’re doing. Ain’t right at all.”
Back at Depot, the Constables had been taught that the longer a tense situation continued, the worse it could get. A few feet away, Miller had lowered his gun, but in his periphery Ben could see him shifting from foot to foot, looking for an excuse to fire. He was a stack of dynamite ready to go off. Ben would have to act fast if he was going to protect everyone up here.
No one in their right mind would shoot a Mountie in broad daylight in front of so many witnesses, he told himself, purposefully ignoring the voice in his head that reminded him that no one here actually was in their right mind. With his eyes on the angry prospector’s face, Ben strode directly up to him and pried the weapon out of his massive hand before he could tell what Ben was doing. Once he had the pistol out of the man’s reach, Ben stepped back, relief rushing from his chest to his face. A tiny line of sweat had broken out across his brow, but he maintained his neutral expression as if he’d done this same maneuver a hundred times before.
Miller gave an almost inaudible whistle. “Nicely done,” he mumbled.
Ben checked the safety on the pistol, tossed the weapon to Miller, then turned to the man. “Absolutely no revolvers, pistols, rifles, ammunition, or weapons of any kind are allowed past this point. Also, we’re collecting duties on anything purchased outside of Canada.”
The prospector scowled at the information. “No guns?” he asked. “How are we supposed to defend ourselves?”
“What do you need to defend yourself against?” Ben asked for the thousandth time that week. It still surprised him that weapons were the first objection, not custom duties.
“You know what.”
“In Canada we don’t allow weapons,” Miller said, stepping in. “So that means you won’t have to worry about defending yourself against any. Get it?”
“I want to speak with someone in charge!”
“Superintendent Sam Steele will be visiting this outpost tomorrow,” Ben said. “You can wait to speak with him, but if you decide not to, we will either accept your surrendered weapons and tariffs right now, or we will accompany you back to the base and out of the Yukon. You’ll hear the same thing from the Superintendent.”
“How can you do this?” came a muffled yell. A slight traveller stormed up to Ben, covered so completely in goggles, scarf, and furs that Ben couldn’t see his face. “Do you have any idea what we just came through?”
“I do,” he assured him. “I’ve been through it myself a few times.” He pointed at the Maxim. “We carried that up on my last trip.”
The man ignored him. “You want everyone on this mountain to bring an unreasonable amount of supplies up here, then you want to collect duties on it? No, sir. That’s robbery. We won’t do it.”
“Sorry, sir, but you either bring everything on the list or you don’t get past me.”
Frozen mitts flew to the fellow’s face, and he ripped off his scarf and goggles. “Who do you think you are, ordering us around like that?”
At that moment, a noisy gust of wind swept past, stealing Ben’s gasp of surprise. The traveller wasn’t a man at all, but a woman—though no one could blame him for his mistake. Not only was she bundled up beyond recognition, she wore trousers. He would never understand the insanity of this place. Men were crazy to come all this way, but why would a woman choose to do it?
“Sorry, miss, but the rule stands.”
Her windburned face reddened further. “My family and I have already done this trip three times just to get our things up here. Now you want us to go back and buy more because we don’t have all the stuff on your list?” She stomped her boot. “This is ridiculous. What kind of monster are you?”
He met her glare with his own. “If your heart is set on reaching the goldfields, then yes, you will have to go back down there. Probably many times. Until you have satisfied the requirements of the North-West Mounted Police.” His frustration bubbled to the surface. “And since you asked, I am Constable Turner, the monster responsible for ensuring you and everyone else up here survive this winter.”
“Don’t patronize me,” she said, her nostrils flaring.
Ben’s hands clenched inside his mitts. He was so tired of these people and their arguments. He worked too damn hard to shrug it off every single time. He pointed to an area off the beaten path. “Do you see that big cave we dug in the snow?”
She nodded.
“That is our morgue. A few times every week we find starved, frozen bodies on the trail. We store them in there until we can send them down to Dyea, where they’ll be buried when the ground thaws. Every time we bring in a corpse—” She cringed at the word. Good, he thought. “—we go through their coats and bags to try and find some kind of identification so we can contact their families, but I imagine many of them will never be claimed.”
He saw her shudder as she regarded the cave. “When those people were coming up here, we didn’t have this one-tonne rule. If they’d brought all the supplies on this list with them, they might still be alive. The truth is, I would rather not store your body in there.”
Her eyes met his and his annoyance ebbed away. “My parents are ill.”
Over her shoulder Ben noted three people watching her. Two were leaning heavily against the taller one in the middle, and the one on the right hacked noisily before gasping for breath as a coughing fit began. Ben had heard that dangerous sound before and knew she was right. Her parents were in no condition for a return trip just yet.
“We have a hospital tent at Happy Camp. You should take them there.”
“This is . . .” She looked away, but not before he saw tears shining in her eyes.
Reality was settling in for her, he thought. He’d had weeks to get used to this place, and when he’d finally arrived he still hadn’t been prepared for it. How could a young woman have any idea what she’d be dealing with up here?
“It’s difficult,” he finished for her. “And we understand that. But Miss . . . ?”
“Peterson. Liza Peterson.”
“Trust me, Miss Peterson. We know it’s a lot to ask, but this rule is meant to help you survive.”
He turned his attention to the next person in lin
e, but even as he spoke to the newcomer he glanced back at the woman. She was gesturing to her family, passing on the message. He watched them slowly load up again, then trudge away from the pass, following her lead to Happy Camp. That girl has some grit, he thought. I hope she makes it.
Liza
ELEVEN
Liza’s eyelids warmed against the sunlight, and she dozed a little, dreaming of April in Vancouver. Back then she hadn’t been forced to climb mountains in a slow, awkward line, lugging a fifty-pound bag. In Vancouver, there had been flowers and laughter and freedom, good food, friends, and a comfortable bed every night.
Stan’s voice broke through her daydream. “Get up, Your Highness. We can’t sit around here all day.”
If only she could ignore her dear brother, shut him out like she’d almost managed to shut out the exhausting white world around them. She was so tired of him, of the mountain, of the snow—really, she was tired of everything. And she missed her parents terribly. Since they’d left them to recover in the hospital tent at Happy Camp—wasn’t that an ironic name—over a month ago, she and Stan had made this climb on their own more than thirty times each. Now most of the family’s supplies waited outside the Chilkoot Pass Mountie post, buried deep under the snow. She hadn’t wanted to leave the last time they were up there, because their father hadn’t been doing well at all, but her mother had insisted they return to Sheep Camp.
He’ll be disappointed if we aren’t ready to go when he is, her mother had said.
This was the last time Liza would ever have to climb this accursed trail, and that’s what made it bearable. That and Blue, of course. Playing and snuggling with Blue at the end of each day was a big part of what kept her going. In the last weeks, the puppy had grown so much, though her paws were still far too large for her body. And just as Liza’s mother had suspected, she had icy blue eyes. Even Stan had fallen for Blue, throwing snowballs for her to chase and wrestling over sticks. On the last two trips, the puppy had managed to climb most of the trail on her own, with only a little help from Liza.
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