At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  For Ben, the assignment couldn’t have come at a better time. He wanted to leave the mountain and its vivid reminder of the murderous avalanche, and he couldn’t wait to get away from Miller, who was grinding on his last nerve.

  When all his things were back inside the tent, Ben sat on his cot and took out his rifle kit, hoping the routine of cleaning his weapon would calm his nerves. Keitl curled up by his feet with a contented sigh.

  “Don’t see why I can’t go with you and Thompson,” Miller said, watching Ben.

  Ben ignored him, sliding the cleaning rod in and out of the barrel of his rifle, clearing out the old powder as Miller yammered on.

  “Belcher don’t need me here,” he grumbled. “He needs me at Lake Bennett. You know what? I might just go anyway.”

  “That’s his call, not yours,” Ben said. “I reckon you doing that would be considered insubordination. You don’t want to tempt Belcher.”

  “You don’t want to tempt Belcher,” Miller mimicked. He started picking his teeth with a thin piece of wood. “He don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  Ben cocked the lever open, peered inside the chamber, then swabbed the barrel a couple more times. When he was satisfied, he got to work cleaning out the chamber.

  “Why you and not me?” Miller demanded.

  Ben finally met his gaze. “You know why.”

  “No, I don’t. What, is your Sergeant buddy giving you inside information?”

  Ben set the gun aside with a little more force than was needed. “They’re looking for men who aren’t afraid to work hard,” he said, holding Miller’s glare.

  Miller sat up straight. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  When Ben didn’t respond, Miller threw his feet over the side of the cot and leaned in so his face was right in Ben’s. Keitl gave a yelp and scrambled to her feet.

  “You and your damn dog. I’ve had enough of both of you.”

  Ben gritted his teeth. “We’re leaving soon.”

  “I ain’t afraid to work hard, and you know it.”

  That was almost laughable. “Really?”

  For a moment, it looked like Miller might admit Ben was right, but that would be too much to ask for. Instead, he asked, “Speak to Belcher for me?”

  In Ben’s eyes, Miller did just enough to get by, and in most cases he was the one asking for help as opposed to offering it. Ben would never call himself perfect, but at least he could honestly say he’d done his best. That’s what being a Mountie was all about.

  “I can’t,” Ben replied. “It’s not up to me. Look, things are changing. Just stay here, do the job, and they’ll send you down soon enough.”

  Miller’s expression hardened again. “You know, if we were in opposite positions, I’d stand up for you.”

  The tension in the air was like a string he could pluck.

  “Well,” Ben said. “We aren’t.”

  Miller shoved him, and they both jumped to their feet, going nose to nose as Keitl darted out of the way, barking. All winter long, Ben had put his pent-up rage to good use behind hammer, shovel, and axe, but that work was finished. There were no more physical demands distracting him from showing Miller what he really thought of him.

  “What is your problem?” he growled.

  “Right now I guess it’s you,” Miller replied, shoving him again.

  Keitl’s barks picked up, louder and sharper, and Miller snapped, “Shut up, dog!”

  Before Ben could stop him, Miller kicked the dog. Keitl cried out, and all Ben saw was red. He lunged at Miller, sending them both through the tent flap and onto the snow. Ben landed on top, and as his fist smashed into Miller’s face he felt the pressure of holding back for so long lift away. He struck him again, and Miller snarled back through blood-coated teeth, rolling Ben onto his back so he could take a swing at him. He only got in one punch before Keitl jumped on top of both of them.

  “Gentlemen,” Thompson said, appearing out of nowhere.

  Ben and Miller froze.

  “On your feet.”

  They jumped to attention, staring straight ahead, neither of them wiping at his bloody face. Keitl cowered behind Ben as Thompson came in close.

  “Been a long winter, hasn’t it?” he asked, hands behind his back. “I bet that felt good.”

  From the corner of his eye, Ben saw Miller flash a brief smile, but Ben didn’t move a muscle.

  “Are you children done fighting now?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” they replied.

  Thompson shook his head. “I doubt that.”

  Regret closed over Ben like a cloak. What had he done? All that work. All those months. All the discipline it had taken to get to this point, and in the end he was no more than when he’d started: a brawler with a quick temper.

  Keitl pressed her muzzle between Ben’s knees, peeking out at Thompson and whining softly.

  “Tell you what,” Thompson said. “We’re all worn down. I’ll let this one go. But you only get one warning. No fighting within the ranks. You both know that.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “I do have a suggestion,” Thompson said brightly, taking a step back. “We got a week left up here. How about neither one of you says a word to the other until then.” His beard lifted at the corners. “Except maybe at the end, when you can admit how much you’re gonna miss each other.”

  They didn’t move until after Thompson had left. When they faced each other again, Miller’s resentment was easy for Ben to see. It smouldered beneath the surface, and Ben could tell it would only take one spark to set him off again. Ben knew that feeling well, but now all he felt was shame. He’d been right to protect Keitl, but he shouldn’t have given in to his rage. Doing that made him no better than his father.

  Liza

  SEVENTEEN

  A pearl of water ran down the tent’s canvas seam, then plopped into the growing puddle at the bottom of Liza’s cot. As one fell, another appeared, then the next, and the next, hypnotizing her. For the last three nights, she’d lain in her tent and stared at the ceiling, wishing she could disappear. With her family dead, there would be no one left to miss her. So many times she considered walking outside, lying in the snow, and slowly falling asleep. Just like Stan. If she walked far enough, no one but a Mountie would ever find her body.

  Sergeant Thompson had promised they would bury her parents properly, side by side in the spring. Right now, their frozen bodies were stacked with the others in that bleak morgue Constable Turner had shown her the first time they’d met.

  George Dexter had been very supportive. The day her mother died, he’d come upon her, weeping outside the hospital tent. He’d consoled her, brought her food, and kept her company.

  “It’s my turn to help you, Miss Peterson,” he’d insisted, “in whatever way I can. What can I do? Shall I arrange to have your things sent back to Vancouver for you?”

  She couldn’t bring herself to answer him. For two days, he had done what he could to draw her from her miserable state, but Liza was numb with sorrow and guilt. She heard him now, settling outside her tent flap as he often did.

  There was a brief scratch as he lit a match for his pipe, and longing rose from Liza’s chest to the tips of her ears. She knew that sound so well. As the pipe’s soft white smoke scented the air, she closed her eyes and imagined her father sitting in his favourite armchair with the worn upholstery. She saw again the brief glow of his tobacco leaves and the smoke dwindling from between his lips as he pored over the store ledgers. “A good day’s work, a good day’s work,” he would mumble to himself.

  “I thought I might speak to you philosophically today. About the reason we are all here,” George said, breaking into her thoughts.

  “I’m here because I survived when my family did not,” she replied shortly.

  “My dear, that is not a reason, that is a result,” he said patiently. “A reason is like a purpose, whereas a result is an outcome. I believe God has a purpose for us all, and in my case, well,
I believe something in His plan requires me to be right here, right now.”

  “There’s a reason you are sitting outside the tent of a girl with no family and no future in this godforsaken place?” She knew she sounded bitter, but she was past the point of caring.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  She rolled onto her side, resting her cheek on her arm. “What reason could there possibly be for that?”

  “Perhaps so I can be here for you in your time of need. Just like you were there for me that day on the trail.”

  “If it hadn’t been for that day on the trail, our paths might never have crossed,” she countered. “What would have been your reason then?”

  “Ah, but they did.”

  “But what about—”

  “I do not think in what-ifs, Miss Peterson. What I know is that because of you, I still have a chance to make something of myself and return to my family a prosperous man.” She heard him draw gently on his pipe as he considered that point. “At least that is my hope, anyway.”

  She let his words sink in, then said, “I’m only here because my family dragged me along. Look how well that turned out.”

  “Give yourself a gift, Miss Peterson. Let the knowledge that God has brought you here for a reason comfort you in this difficult time.”

  She sighed. “Well, I wish God would tell me if my path should be forward or back.”

  “That, my dear, is up to you, and you alone.”

  Through the wall of the tent she saw him get to his feet, then move the chair back to the side as he always did. Before he left, he paused by the entrance.

  “Miss Peterson, I understand your grief and your indecision. I cannot imagine how I would choose were I in your position.” He exhaled slowly. “But I must leave this place tomorrow. It is time for me to continue my journey. I wish I could help you with the next step, but that is up to you.”

  George’s boots crunched away into the distance, and Liza stared straight ahead, feeling defeated. She was so tired of indecision. Of the crippling grief that made it difficult for her to breathe, let alone imagine leaving the tent.

  He was so certain, she thought enviously, that there was a divine reason she was here. Just like Stan, who had been convinced that no one was ever really gone. But how did any of that help her escape this horrible place in her life? Why was she here? Why was she the only one in her family to have survived? And what if she left this place and continued on? What could she do in Dawson City? Run the store on her own? The very idea made her laugh. She knew very well what her father would say about that.

  All her life, she’d been told not to worry. She need not concern herself over the business of the store. She need not worry about the journey north. All would be well, and her parents and brother would look after her. But they were all dead. Even Blue, who had given her so much joy in such a short amount of time, was gone. Liza was alone at the mountain’s edge, and she had to make the most important decision of her life.

  The simplest choice would be to slide down the mountain the way she’d come, back to Dyea. From there she could board a ship to Victoria after the ice broke in the spring. She could go back to Vancouver and civilization. Back to friendships and laughter and the real world. Except . . . everything she’d known was gone. She could never have her old life back. And if she returned to Vancouver, she feared the pain of having to face all those memories without her family by her side would be unbearable.

  She had a vague idea of what lay ahead if she kept to her father’s original plan: the crowded banks of Lake Lindeman and Lake Bennett, the dangerous expanse of the Yukon River, then Dawson City, a town she’d heard was wild and unpredictable. The “Paris of the North,” her father had called it. That’s where his shop was meant to be and where they were supposed to make their fortune. But even if Liza did make it to Dawson City, there was no way she could open a store of her own.

  Except . . .

  She rolled onto her back, wondering. What did she know about running a store? She had been her father’s enthusiastic shadow for years. Why had he discouraged her? Did he really feel she wouldn’t be able to do it, or was that simply his old-fashioned thinking?

  Was there any reason she couldn’t do it?

  The afternoon sun was baking the canvas of the tent, and the suffocating heat forced her outside for air. All around her, winter was gasping its last breaths, its icy power humbled beneath the warmth of sixteen hours of sunshine a day. The mountain peaks were melting, and streams gurgled and danced under shrinking sheets of ice, thirsty for their own share of warmth. Nearby, a group of men were standing around a fire, sharing stories and drinking coffee from tin cups. On her other side a couple of men were packing their sleds, doing business with the Tlingit, getting ready to move on.

  Other than George, everyone here was a stranger, but it came to her that they all had something in common. Each one of them was weary, bruised, and underfed, but they were also survivors, limping relentlessly towards a shared goal. No one could guarantee what lay ahead, Liza thought, and it was terrifying to choose a path when you couldn’t see its end. And yet every one of these strangers was obliged to follow the same blind hope.

  Including me.

  Liza stretched her arms as wide as she could, easing the stiffness from her muscles.

  Her gaze lifted past the mountains and up to the endless blue sky. Was her family watching, waiting to see which way she chose? The memory of her father’s face, his joyful anticipation of their success, came to her then. She took a deep breath of cold, bracing Yukon air and she made another promise.

  “I will make you proud.”

  Ben

  EIGHTEEN

  Thompson made Ben’s last week at Chilkoot bearable by sending word that he needed his help at Happy Camp. It was obvious that Thompson’s motive was to put some distance between him and Miller, and Ben was grateful for that.

  “What do you need me to do?” he asked when he arrived.

  “I was just heading over to talk with Josef Olenev about his dogs,” Thompson said. “They attacked a couple of other teams this morning and hurt three dogs. You want to handle that?”

  “I can do that.”

  “I’ll keep Keitl with me,” Thompson offered, and Ben resisted the urge to grin. Keitl had been with Ben for about five weeks, and, with the exception of Miller, she’d worked her way into just about everyone’s soft spot. Even the gruff Sergeant’s. “Safer here,” Thompson explained. “Oh, and don’t let Olenev tell you he don’t speak English.”

  Right away Ben saw what Thompson was referring to. The tethered dogs in question were rangy and mean, scrutinizing him with hungry eyes as he spoke to their master. He could see they were hungry, but then again, who wasn’t? A good master took care of his team before he took care of himself, and that didn’t seem to be happening here. Olenev held up his hands and feigned confusion at Ben’s words, but when Ben calmly informed him that he’d be removing the dogs from his care, the Russian got the message. Ben watched him tie the dogs better, then the Russian assured Ben—in excellent English—that he and the team would be gone the next morning.

  After that was settled, Ben wandered around the other tents, checking that everyone was doing all right. The mood at Happy Camp was, in general, more cheerful than over at the Chilkoot Pass, since most of the travellers thought the worst of their journey was behind them.

  Whenever they asked him if the road ahead was easier, he’d say, “Nothing about this journey is easy, but you’ve made it this far, so you’re probably stronger than you thought you were before.”

  He knew that was true for him. Physically he was leaner than ever due to the hard work and limited food, and working in the snow had hardened his muscles to iron. But it was more than that. With the exception of time spent with Miller, Ben’s temper had been almost non-existent up here, and when it did rear its ugly head, he had easily funnelled it into whatever work needed doing. He felt more confident around the prospectors these days, and h
e could see how they relied on him, which only made him more confident in what he was doing. Every day it got easier to put past mistakes behind him.

  “Good afternoon, Constable,” said an older man in a tired hat. He stood smoking by a fire with some other men. “Care for a cup of coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Ben said. “I just filled up at the post. How are you gentlemen doing? All rested up, ready to go?”

  “Sure, sure. We was just saying what a fine day it is to get a move on.”

  One of his buddies said, “A fine day to get rich!”

  “Have a safe journey,” Ben said, moving on to the next tent. “Good afternoon, sir. I—”

  He stopped in his tracks and removed his hat at the sight of Liza Peterson standing a few feet away. Her eyes were closed, her face upturned to the sun as she drank in its warmth. She looked thin, he thought. He could tell she hadn’t heard or seen him yet, and he briefly considered moving on before she did, but that would be cowardly of him. He couldn’t avoid her.

  The last time he’d seen her was the night after the avalanche, when he’d found her asleep and half-frozen on the snow above her brother. She’d barely stirred when he’d carried her inside and set her in a safe bed. That was the night his nightmares had started again. Over the last week or so he’d started sleeping a little better. But seeing her now brought a heavy swirl of guilt back to his gut.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Peterson.”

  She turned away from the sun, her open expression closing as she recognized him. “Oh, hello, Constable Turner.”

  Ben wasn’t afraid of much, but something about this woman made him nervous. “I was hoping I’d see you again,” he said, walking towards her. “I wanted to say again how sorry I am about the last time we met.”

  “You tried,” she said dismissively. “You did all anyone could do.”

  He was surprised to hear her say that. “I wish I could have done more,” he said. “I imagine your parents are relieved to have you with them again.”