At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  After a few hours they reached the ad hoc town of Canyon City, the last stopover point before the thirty-foot walls of unforgiving basalt rock on either side of the river began to narrow, creating two major sets of whitewater rapids. A contingent of Mounties had been stationed at the top, where they warned travellers about the danger below and recommended that women, children, and less adventurous prospectors take the safer and much longer trail instead. Anyone who chose to risk the rapids had to go through the Mounties, who checked each vessel and tried to ensure an experienced pilot was at the helm. In some cases, the Mounties themselves took over and piloted the boats.

  Ben heard the water’s frothing power before he saw it, and the force of it rolled through his chest like a locomotive, but he also heard an unexpected metallic jingling, and when they rounded a bend he was surprised to see a couple of horses pulling something that resembled a large wagon.

  “What’s that?” he asked Baxter, who had proved to be a great guide along the trail.

  “Oh, why, that’s Macaulay’s tramway,” Baxter explained. “Feel like resting your feet?”

  “Always.”

  “Macaulay can take a man and his freight—even a small boat if he wants—five miles along that track he laid out in the forest. Pretty major undertaking, but he’s finding it lucrative.”

  “Sounds like a great idea,” Ben replied.

  “Sure, sure. If you got twenty-five dollars to spare, it is. At this point, that’s a pretty steep fee for most folks.” Baxter meandered close to the edge of the rock wall. “And if you take the tram, you don’t get as good of a view. Come see.”

  Ben’s breath caught in his chest when he glimpsed the whitewater thirty feet below, curling and twisting up from the riverbed’s rocky bottom, and he had to turn away from the edge. It wasn’t the height that got to him; it was the water and how it grabbed at the crafts, spinning them without mercy, dragging them under when it could.

  “I don’t like feeling useless up here,” Ben told him. “I mean, all we can do is watch.”

  “It’s a little better farther on,” Baxter reassured him, “at the bottom of the White Horse Rapids. At least we’re closer to them there. Even so, there’s not much we can do.”

  “It’s incredible, watching these fools,” Thompson mused as they walked. “They got no idea what they’re doing or where they’re headed, but they’re fine with gambling everything just to get there quicker.”

  “We could save them all a whole lotta trouble,” Baxter said.

  “How’s that?” Ben asked.

  “Poor fools think there are still gold claims available.”

  Ben frowned at him. “So did I. Aren’t there?”

  “A lot of ’em have already been snapped up. Plenty of these fellas are gonna find themselves working for other miners who came last fall, or else they’ll be making their money some other way.”

  “Hardly seems right,” Ben thought out loud, “letting them even try.”

  Baxter shrugged. “We warn them all before they set sail, but they got some kinda deafness when it comes to the idea of giving up.”

  Ben’s sense of futility didn’t ease when they reached the wide base of the White Horse Rapids. When panicked voices bounced down the canyon, he still couldn’t reach them. Thompson stood beside Ben, humming nervously as he watched a raft come down, and Keitl whined softly between the two of them.

  “What do you think?” Ben asked.

  “Pretty close to the side,” Thompson muttered. “Looks like you gotta stay in the middle so it doesn’t pull you, but you gotta stay clear of that big rock, too. Takes some skill to get through.”

  After the raft safely completed its run, it drifted towards the landing spot where Ben waited, and the four passengers hopped from the raft to the water to the sand. Most were too shocked to speak, but one man was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Wooey! Wasn’t that the greatest thing I’ve ever done!” He slapped his friend on the back. “Why, I’m moved to climb back up and do it all over again!”

  “You can do it on your own, then,” his friend replied, then he staggered to the side of the landing and threw up.

  “Here comes Constable Dixon!” Baxter yelled, grinning. “That boy knows what he’s doing. He was raised on the water, and my, oh my. Just look at him go! He’s the best pilot we got. He’s done this dozens of times, but he always makes it look exciting.”

  “How many’s he got on board?” Thompson asked, sounding awed. “Eight?”

  Constable Dixon’s boat shot down the rapids, and Ben couldn’t take his eyes off it. A commanding shout echoed off the rock walls, and the passengers shifted on cue before the boat moved to the centre of the river, rolling over and under the waves, disappearing, then flying into the open in great bursts of spray. After Thompson’s earlier observation, Ben’s concern was about the massive rock in the centre, but Dixon’s raft swept effortlessly past, and his passengers let out shouts of excitement rather than fear. Before two minutes had passed, the barge slipped out of the waves and coasted freely towards the calmer waters. Constable Dixon lifted his hat and waved it at his fellow Mounties, a wide grin on his wet face.

  Thompson chuckled. “Cheeky bastard.”

  “Uh-oh.” Baxter was looking upriver again, and this time he wasn’t laughing.

  Everyone’s attention went to a raft floundering at the top, spinning towards the rock in the middle. The passengers were paddling hard, but they were caught by the water and everyone could see it.

  Ben put up a hand to shield his eyes, trying to make out the passengers. “Look at that one fella. How’s someone that tall supposed to balance?”

  The man in question was teetering wildly, lurching forward when a wave crashed up from behind, stumbling back when the bow lifted again. He had an oar, but as he lost control, it flailed uselessly. One of the other passengers spotted the problem and staggered over to grab him, but before he could get there the tall man’s arms windmilled, the oar flew like a bird, and the man disappeared.

  “George!” someone screamed.

  Ben knew that voice. He took off up the trail, running towards the scene as fast as he could, with Keitl bounding just ahead of him.

  Back on the landing, he heard Thompson yell, “There’s a woman on that raft!”

  “What’s she doing on there?” Baxter shouted. “Women aren’t supposed to ride down!”

  Halfway up the rapids, Ben’s heart sank. It didn’t matter how close he got, there was no way he’d be able to help. The boat would inevitably land at the bottom in either one or many pieces before he could get to Miss Peterson.

  “Can you see him?” Thompson called up to him.

  Ben scouted the foamy water for George Dexter. “No.”

  His attention returned to the struggling raft, and he saw with relief that the pilot and passengers had regained control. Right away he made out Miss Peterson, soaked from head to toe. Her face was set with determination as she plunged her oar in again and again, following whatever instructions she could hear over the roar of the water. They were almost through, so Ben scrambled back down to the landing point, and Keitl thundered past, reaching the placid little cove before him. She stood at the edge of the water, barking madly at the approaching raft and shifting nervously from paw to paw.

  “That man—” Ben said to Thompson.

  The Sergeant’s expression was grim. “Yeah. I recognized him too.”

  Miss Peterson was the first off the raft. Without hesitation, she dropped into the knee-deep, frigid water and sloshed to the shore, where she started making her way back up the canyon. Her face was as pale as snow, her long brown hair wet and hanging loose.

  Ben stepped in front of her. “Miss Peterson . . .”

  “D-did you f-find him?” she stammered through cold, blue lips. Ben wasn’t even sure she’d seen him—all her attention was on the water. “Where’s Mr. Dexter?”

  From up the bank came a whistle, and Ben turned to see two Mounties haul a
dripping body from the water. They squatted beside it, checking for a pulse, then one of them shook his head.

  Ben turned back to Miss Peterson, but she was gaping up at the two Mounties, swaying and shivering uncontrollably. Ben quickly removed his coat and draped it over her shoulders, wishing there was something more he could do. Only when she clutched the lapels and pulled them together did she blink up at Ben.

  “I . . . your friend—” he tried.

  Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes seemed to have lost their focus.

  “P-poor George,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, George! It’s so unfair!”

  It was unfair, Ben thought. He faced the water, hands clenched. What was the point of having Mounties down here when there was no way to prevent something like this from happening?

  Just then, Keitl reached up and put a filthy paw on Miss Peterson’s knee. Startled, she glanced down, and Ben heard her catch her breath. She dropped to her knees and touched Keitl’s muddy fur, examining the black patch on her chest. To Ben’s surprise, Keitl seemed to be just as curious. She sniffed the woman, then licked her face, her tail wagging madly.

  “This dog—”

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “She thinks she’s helping. Keitl, come here. You’re filthy.”

  Miss Peterson’s brow creased with confusion as she watched the dog return to Ben. “She’s yours?”

  “Miss Peterson, I am very sorry about George Dexter. I know he was your friend,” he said gently. Once again, words seemed meaningless. “It will only be a small comfort, but we do have a record of all the men on your barge, so we’ll be able to contact Mr. Dexter’s family directly. At least you won’t need to worry over that aspect of this tragedy.”

  She was still staring at the dog.

  “Miss Peterson? Is there anything I can do?”

  “No.” Her eyes shifted abruptly to Ben, and in that moment he saw a different woman altogether. The sadness in Liza Peterson’s expression had hardened to stone.

  “If there’s anything—”

  She peeled off his red coat and handed it back. “Here. Take this. There’s no need to worry about me. I’m used to surviving on my own.”

  He watched her walk away without a backwards glance, then he looked down at the rejected coat hanging off his fingers, a heavy reminder that he was responsible for these people. And he had failed them again.

  “This journey isn’t over yet, Miss Peterson,” he said softly, lifting his gaze. “The next time you need me, I will not let you down.”

  PART TWO

  DAWSON CITY

  Liza

  TWENTY-ONE

  “What was I thinking?” Liza muttered to herself as she stomped up the hill towards her tent.

  She and the Tlingit packers had finally arrived outside the sprawling tableau of Dawson City that morning and had quickly set up camp in a sheltered spot out of sight of other travellers, a quarter mile from the town. The camp was temporary—her next step was to rent a permanent storefront. After bidding farewell to her packers, Liza had made straight for the busy streets of Dawson. She hadn’t gotten far before she noticed the men of the town ogling her, whistling, and offering her the chance to make “easy money.” Her face had burned with embarrassment when she realized the reason: she’d neglected to change into her corset and skirts. She’d gotten used to the convenience and comfort of wearing men’s clothing on the trail, but here, where men’s minds were no longer on the climb, they were definitely the wrong thing to wear.

  I might need money, she thought as she searched through her things for her best dress, a cake of soap, and a cloth, but I’ll never be that desperate.

  Down at the river, she dipped the cloth into the cold water and washed her face and hands. She scrubbed patches of dirt off her dress, polished her boots, and combed through the mess of tangles in her long, dark hair, gritting her teeth against the pain. After she’d woven it into braids, she pinned them under a hat she had moulded back into shape, tucking in the ends as neatly as she could. She wished she had a mirror, but that extravagance was packed away, hopefully not broken from the trek.

  More than that, she wished her father were here. Ever since Dyea she’d been shocked by the outlandish cost of goods and services, and during her hasty trip into Dawson she’d noticed with dismay that the signs in those windows advertised startlingly higher prices. She couldn’t even imagine what rent might cost, but she had a pretty good idea it was well beyond what she could afford, given that she’d had to spend most of her cash on packers and tolls.

  Liza fingered her small supply of money. If her father were here, he would cross his arms and let the well-oiled wheels in his mind work out a solution as he’d done so many times before. If only he’d let her in on his secret back then.

  “What should I do?” she whispered.

  A memory of her father crystallized before her. It was a moment four years before, when she’d asked for a beautiful illustrated edition of Pride and Prejudice—the illustrated one with the magnificent gilt peacock on the front and spine. She’d seen it in the catalogue and wanted it from first glance, but when she begged her father to buy it for her he had shaken his head.

  If you want something, you must decide how to get it, he’d said. Not if, but how. Just like when you were just a toddler, learning how to walk. You couldn’t stand knowing your Stan could walk and you could only crawl. You watched him like a hawk, then all at once you stood up, grabbed the table’s edge, and refused to fall no matter how much you wobbled.

  And the very next day you walked on your own, her mother had finished for him. You saw your doll across the room, and you simply went and got her. That’s all there was to it.

  She’d smiled at their words, but they hadn’t helped her with the challenge of acquiring the book. If her father would let her do more in the store, then she’d be able to make more money, but until then she’d be stuck. She’d scanned her bookshelves, imagining the copy of Pride and Prejudice joining her existing collection of treasured books, and it came to her that she didn’t need the ones she’d already read. When she went to him, her father proudly approved her plan to sell off some of her older books, and in time she bought the beautiful new edition.

  Liza closed her purse and went to the pack where she’d tucked away the little treasures she’d found along the trail. She didn’t need to look at her father’s ledger to know that if she was to survive here she would have to sell something to make something. Tucking the jewellery into her coat pocket, she headed back down to Dawson’s busy streets, more wary this time, but obscene suggestions and catcalls no longer chased her down the street.

  At the first pawnshop on Front Street, Liza peered in the window and spotted a typewriter, a fiddle, a set of gold-rimmed teacups alongside a box of slightly tarnished silverware, a stunning candelabra—which made her wonder what the owner had imagined the Klondike might be like—and a lady’s elegant gold gown, among other things. Her treasures would fit in nicely here, she thought. Chin raised, shoulders back, she pulled open the pawnshop’s door and strode directly to the counter.

  A sombre-looking clerk rubbed his thick brown mutton chops with speculation as she walked towards him. “Can I help you?” he drawled.

  “I hope so.” She pulled out one of the necklaces from the trail and placed it on a velvet square already laid on the counter.

  Without a word the pawnbroker pulled out a loupe to inspect the chain and locket. “Loan or sell?”

  “Loan.” She could get more from loaning now, and she planned to sell it herself when she had her own place.

  “I’ll give you five dollars. Interest’s twenty-five percent.”

  The offer was low, but she’d expected to bargain—she’d learned along the way that was how it went in the North. “It’s worth a great deal more than that,” she said coolly. “We both know that.”

  “Perhaps, but this is Dawson City.”

  She frowned at th
e necklace. Apparently she would have to loan the pawnbroker much more of her stock if she was going to raise enough money for rent.

  “It isn’t enough for what I need,” she admitted.

  “What about that?” He pointed at her waist, where her father’s pocket watch hung just inside the folds of her coat. Then he switched his gaze to her mother’s ring on her finger. “Or that?”

  The idea of parting with the last tokens of her family sent a wave of panic through her, and she cupped her hand protectively around the watch. “Those aren’t for sale.”

  Unconcerned, he crossed his arms. “Five dollars for the necklace. Take it or leave it.”

  She scooped up the necklace and dropped it back into her pocket. “This is absurd. I shall bring my business elsewhere.”

  “No one will offer more. Especially to a woman. You’re a bad risk.”

  Heat flared in her cheeks at the suggestion. A necklace was a necklace. Pawning items had nothing to do with whether she was a woman or not. She would prove him wrong.

  “You don’t know anything about me. Good day, sir.”

  But an hour later, as she slumped out of the last pawnshop on the street, she had to admit that he’d been right.

  As she passed a general store, her stomach grumbled at the sight of a barrel of apples, and she peered into her purse, counting what she had left. The apples were soft and a dollar each, but she hadn’t eaten since morning, and she was starting to feel dizzy with hunger. With no other choice, she handed over the money.

  Outside on the boardwalk, she took small, economical bites of the apple, watching people wander by. Her stomach cramped, but the pain was more from anxiety than hunger. Had she made the wrong decision by coming here? Her eyes fell to her hand, to the gleaming band of gold her mother had worn for so many years. If she couldn’t find a store to rent, it wouldn’t matter if she had the ring or not; she’d have no livelihood. The image of those lecherous men with their disgusting propositions came back to her, but she pushed it away. She wasn’t that desperate yet.