At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  When had that hope faded? What had taken the light from those eyes? Life was hard, Ben allowed. The Yukon had shown him just how difficult it could be, and what it could do to a man. Scraping out a livelihood here hadn’t been much easier, he realized. Water was scarce, and the cracked prairie dirt had refused to yield any but the most pathetic of crops. Their labour fruitless, his parents had worn frustration like a second skin, and it had grown on Ben as well. Was that what had driven his father to the bottom of a bottle? Because when he thought of it that way, Ben could almost understand what had happened. He knew what anger felt like, and he knew whisky would only have fuelled it. None of that excused what his father had done, but it did make him more human than demon.

  Standing now where his father had once stood, Ben was struck by a sense of sympathy for the man. He could never forgive his father for what he had done, the pain he’d inflicted, but he understood how easy it was to give in to the fury inside of him. He exhaled, and something released inside of Ben and he felt neither fear nor anger, not at his father, and not at himself—for his failings as a boy and as a man. It was as if a weight had been lifted off his chest and he could breathe deeply for the first time.

  “Come on, Keitl,” he said, pulling himself onto the saddle. “Time to move on.”

  As he rode, a cold front pushed in, tasting of rain. He’d seen it coming, pressed the horse and Keitl a little faster so they could reach one of the small outposts he’d been told about, but the hills blurred with the approaching curtains of rain before he could get to shelter, and when they finally found the outpost all three of them were drenched and cold.

  At least he wasn’t in Dawson City, he thought as he coaxed a small fire to life. There the cold never left your bones, drunks were always brawling, and the same old piano music played night after night. At least he wasn’t there.

  Except if he was there, he’d be near Liza.

  He reached down from his cot to scratch Keitl’s ears, remembering the stubborn girl who had broken through his walls. He could still picture the very first time he’d met her at the summit, standing up to him, unafraid and intelligent, demanding to know what was going on. Then she’d pulled her scarf down and he’d seen her eyes . . .

  Where was she tonight? Had she met someone new? Had she married? He couldn’t deny the spike of jealousy he felt at the thought, but he knew he had no right. It had been his choice to leave her behind, abandon her in the Yukon, and there was no going back.

  He rolled over, hoping to knock loose the dull ache in his chest, but it never quite went away. Maybe moving on would help with that. Tomorrow he would make for his new home.

  Liza

  THIRTY-NINE

  Liza sat behind the counter, chin in her hand, staring at the empty store. As Dawson gradually turned into a ghost town, her days of rushing around had ended. Even Eb Thompson, who had retired from the Force after he’d seen Ralph Stevens put behind bars, had set out, looking for a fresh start. The only thing worse than her loneliness was the boredom that came with it. Belinda’s most recent letter lay before her, a reminder that it hadn’t always been this way.

  Dear Charles is exactly who I want in my life, Belinda had written. He is an entertaining travel partner, he is energetic in his thinking, and he is not intimidated by me, which was always a challenge in the past.

  He’s also a liar and an opportunist, Liza thought. An actual gold digger, though he’d never think of getting his white gloves dirty. She’d said as much to Eb Thompson before he’d left.

  The fella’s a con man, he’d said, confirming her suspicions. From what I’ve heard, he’s a barber out of Montreal, not a Count like he says.

  But who was Liza to question her friend’s heart? After all, it wasn’t as if Liza’s knew what it was doing.

  She pulled out a paper and pen and started writing back to Belinda.

  Since you ask, I am no longer seeing Mr. Sulley. It didn’t last long, to be honest. His ego left very little space in the room for me.

  As her pen glided over the page, Liza felt the loneliness lift, though she knew it was a temporary relief.

  I am trying to come up with something happy to tell you about our little city, but in truth, that task is quite a challenge. There’s been another gold discovery in the Tanana Hills, in Alaska, so “little” has become an understatement. When I last spoke with Inspector Cartwright, he told me Dawson’s present population is no more than five thousand. If my math is correct, that is about one-sixth the size of when you were here. I must tell you, it is nothing like the town you left.

  The last time Belinda had been there, they’d sat outside the hotel, enjoying a sherry. She remembered so clearly the moment when Belinda had raised her glass in a toast.

  To the old days, she had said.

  To the old days indeed, Liza thought. To the snow and ice and mud and hunger, to swindlers and thieves and desperate miners. The old days were the most miserable anyone could ever have known, and yet she missed them terribly.

  For as much as the Klondike had taken from her, it had been the most incredible, unexpected adventure of her life. Financially, she had struck it rich, as they say, but just like the fortunes of so many of the men who had come here, it had begun to slip through her fingers like sand. But of course the best parts of her Klondike adventure had had little to do with money.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out the aging photograph of her and Ben, taken at the Victoria Day celebrations. She’d clipped it from the pages of The Klondike Nugget and saved it, even though it brought her sadness every time she looked at it. She remembered how she’d leaned towards him that day, but even that closeness hadn’t taken away the pain she saw in her own eyes. At the time she hadn’t realized he had been looking at her, not the camera. His expression had been tinged by hurt as well.

  I know you are wondering about my next steps, as am I. You will no doubt be relieved to hear that I do not believe I can stay here much longer. I have not made up my mind where I will go—though I do not think I shall return to Vancouver. I must have some of my father’s intrepid spirit in me, because I feel the nagging urge to search out a new adventure. I am leaning towards reopening the shop somewhere else, which I know you would applaud. There are a number of little towns opening up, and they’re hungry for new citizens and merchants. They’re all quite a ways from here, though. But I’m hopeful that wherever life takes me, and you, we will see each other again.

  Now she’d done it, made herself cry and probably done the same to Belinda. Drying her eyes, she signed her name at the bottom of the page, folded the paper into an envelope, then stepped outside, not at all concerned about closing up early. Who would notice? On a nice, sunny day, Liza could sit outside her store all afternoon and see no more than a dozen people wandering by. When she remembered the noisy crowds and the thrill of being among them, then compared it to this, well, it just made her sad. Why, then, did she hang on so tight?

  She should have left months, even years, before, but she’d been weak. The truth was that a small part of Liza still hoped that someday Ben would come back for her, though she knew that would never happen. But if he did, well, she had to be here. What if she left and he couldn’t find her?

  But he wasn’t coming back. There was no need for her to stay here, and if she did she feared it would do more harm than good. She would go somewhere else, start a new life.

  She stopped in at the post office to mail Belinda’s letter, and she was surprised when the postmaster went to the back and returned with an envelope addressed to her. She didn’t recognize the rough, scrawling hand, but inside she found two pages. The first was a very short letter suggesting she take a look at the enclosed newspaper article, which she did.

  Then her heart began to race.

  Ben

  FORTY

  The familiar whistle of the mine echoed across the valley as Ben returned from his rounds, signalling one of three daily shift changes. It was four o’clock, the end of the day
for many and the beginning for the graveyard crew. Time to turn his horse away from the mountain and towards downtown Frank.

  The tiny town had impressed Ben from the very beginning. It amazed him how, in little over a year, a mountain of coal had sparked a town and turned it into a popular stop along the new Canadian Pacific rail line. Stretching from the base of Turtle Mountain, past the Old Man River, and down to the rail line, Frank had everything anyone might ever need: a post office, a two-storey school, a couple of doctors, hotels aplenty, and about six hundred citizens, most of them well-mannered family folks.

  It was all because of Turtle Mountain and its vast stores of coal. The funny thing about the mountain, Ben had discovered, was that it did some of the mining on its own. Sometimes the miners found chunks of coal lying on the ground, as if the mountain had shifted, dropping bits and pieces as it did so. Ben wasn’t the only one to find the phenomenon eerie. The local Blackfoot and Kutenai called it “the mountain that moves” and took longer routes to avoid being in its shadow.

  For the past couple of years, Ben had been exchanging letters with Eb Thompson. Going by his stories, it seemed as Frank’s fortunes rose, Dawson City’s fell, so when Ben had suggested that Thompson might come to Frank and take a job in the mine, he’d been interested. In his letter the month before he’d told Ben he was on his way. Ben was looking forward to having Thompson’s gruff but easy personality around again, and he wanted to introduce him to his new partner. Constable Robert Leard was a good, steady Mountie who rarely let anything faze him. Of course, after Dawson there wasn’t much in Frank that Ben couldn’t handle on his own. The difference was that here, Ben had to keep in mind that most men wore pistols on their hips. A small fight on payday could escalate quickly.

  Like now, he thought, hearing raised voices coming from the Frank Saloon. He spurred his horse towards the crowd gathering outside the building, then jumped down and cut through to see what was going on. Right away he spotted Vinny Stein, a tall young banker in an expensively cut suit, standing about ten feet away from Joe Britten, one of the foremen from the construction camp, known for his brawling.

  “What’s the problem?” Ben asked, stepping between the men, catching the strong smell of alcohol on their breaths.

  “He robbed me!” Vinny yelled, pushing forward like a bull.

  Ben held him back. “Stay here, and don’t touch that pistol if you want to keep it.”

  “I’m gonna get that louse!” the man said. “If you want me to stay here, you’re gonna have to make me.”

  Ben obligingly cuffed the sputtering man to the railing outside the saloon, then turned to Joe. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. He’s just a drunk fool bent on stirring up trouble with respectable folk.” Joe sounded less intoxicated, but he wouldn’t meet Ben’s eyes. “Why don’t you sit him down, Constable? Read him a page from the Good Book?”

  “Difficult to do that without knowing the truth of the matter. Come along, Joe. The sooner we do this, the sooner you can leave.”

  “I ain’t going with you,” he snapped.

  “You know the rules. If the two of you can’t talk this out, the North-West Mounted Police will be happy to provide you both with a couple of nice, neat cells for the evening.”

  As Ben was speaking, he saw Joe go for his holster and instantly reacted, throwing him on the ground.

  “Why’d you have to do that, Joe? Now I got no choice.”

  He dragged the miner to his feet, but Joe jerked backwards, slamming his skull against Ben’s nose. Ben saw stars, but he kept his grip.

  “Really? You’re gonna hit a Mountie?” Ben said, tasting blood. He cuffed Joe to the other railing, then wiped his face with the back of his hand. Getting hit was par for the course when it came to being a Mountie, but it never got less painful.

  “Now, one of you better tell me what’s going on here,” he said.

  Vinny spoke first. “He’s got twenty dollars of mine he took cheating at cards.”

  “Is that right?” Ben clucked his tongue at Joe. “Am I charging you with cheating as well as assault?”

  “Check his inside right pocket.”

  Ben dug in Joe’s pocket and pulled out the money, counted out twenty dollars, then handed it to Vinny. The rest he tucked back into Joe’s coat. The immediate problem was solved, but from the look on their faces, Ben sensed the fight wasn’t quite over. Cheating at cards was more than wrong; it was embarrassing to both sides. He’d have to separate the two men further before things got any worse.

  “Need a hand?” a voice asked, and Ben turned to see Thompson striding towards him.

  “Am I glad to see you, Sergeant,” Ben replied, grinning.

  “Been a while since anyone’s called me that,” his friend said, studying Ben’s bloody nose. “Why do I always seem to find you in a tussle? At least it wasn’t you throwing the punches this time.”

  Ben chuckled. “Help me out with them, would you? Then I’ll show you around.”

  After Vinny and Joe were safely locked in separate cells and left under Leard’s supervision, Ben and Thompson set out on a tour of the area. Ben couldn’t get over how good it felt to be riding with Thompson by his side once more, and today was a perfect day to show off Frank. The flatlands and lower slopes had bristled into a dry golden brown, and the mountain peaks, with that familiar stark grey hovering over the tree line, were beginning to shine white with snow.

  “Pretty little town you got here,” Thompson said as they turned back. “I bet you don’t miss the Klondike.”

  “I don’t miss the cold,” he said. “But I have some good memories of the place.”

  “Me too,” Thompson admitted. “I doubt the world’s ever gonna see another Klondike Gold Rush.”

  “You think that’s true?”

  He nodded. “That mountain’s still got gold, but she’s keeping it, I reckon. Nobody’s gonna bother with the Chilkoot or anything that crazy ever again. I guess we learned our lessons.”

  “I sure did,” Ben said, his mind going to Liza. “How are folks holding up there?”

  “A lot have left. Miss Daisy sends her regards.”

  “Ah. How is she?”

  “She’s Belinda’s personal maid now. She’s travelling the world.”

  Warmth filled Ben’s chest. “Now that is good news.”

  “She’s a good girl. I was glad to see her get out of the life.”

  “What about Gertie? She still there?”

  “Nah. She’s living in Portland now, I heard. Married a big-time lawyer.”

  “That girl always got what she wanted.”

  The rooftops of Frank were coming into view, clinging to the late sunshine as long as they could.

  “How is—” Ben started, but he stopped himself. They rode a little farther. “Is she married too?”

  “No, Liza’s not married,” Thompson said. “She’s got admirers, but she ain’t interested, seems like.”

  Hope sparked inside Ben. He’d been so sure she would have moved on by then.

  “You ever write to her?”

  Ben shook his head. “No. Her life’s changed, and so has mine. She’s probably forgotten all about me.”

  Thompson’s gaze rose up the side of the mountain. “Not so sure about that,” he mused.

  “Even still. I bet she wishes she could.”

  Thompson didn’t know about the last time Ben had seen Liza. About how he had turned his back on her after tossing that flippant, thoughtless remark her way. Even as he’d said it, Ben had known that was the cruelest thing he could have said to her. It was also the biggest lie. He had no right to write to her now, invite himself back into her life. He’d hurt her so badly before. He didn’t deserve a chance to do it again.

  Liza

  FORTY-ONE

  Liza took a deep breath for courage, which seemed ironic in a way. She had climbed mountains, ridden whitewater rapids, fought a man in a flooded street, and been held at gunpoint, but none of that scared her
as much as this moment when she stepped onto the railway platform in Frank.

  Ben. There he was, standing open-mouthed just a few feet away, staring at her as if she were a ghost. He hadn’t changed in four years, and the sight of him sent her heart racing. Beside him, Thompson was grinning from ear to ear.

  “I knew we’d surprise him,” he said, moving towards her.

  She squeezed his arm gratefully. After all, if it hadn’t been for his letter, she never would have come here. She never would have known where to look.

  “Constable Turner,” Thompson said cordially. “May I present—”

  “What are you doing here?” Ben asked, his voice hoarse. Then he turned to Thompson. “This had to come from you.”

  “Show him what I mailed you, Liza. It’ll give him a pretty good idea of what happened.”

  She pulled the paper from her coat pocket and handed it to Ben, but he just kept staring at her. She’d practised what she wanted to say all the way down here on the train, and now was the time to do it. She preferred the other script she’d come up with, the one where Ben rushed to greet her, lifted her into the air, and covered her with kisses, but she would have to work with this one.

  “I’ve been a fool,” she confessed. “I hung on to Dawson for far too long. After Belinda left she kept writing to me, asking why I was still in Dawson, why I hadn’t looked for you, and I—” Her words came too quickly, but there was no way to slow them down. “And of course she was right. I’ve always been so stubborn, and so much time had passed, and I didn’t have any idea how to find you.” She gestured towards the paper he still held. “Then that arrived.”

  Ben tore his gaze from her face to his hands, and she watched him unfold the clipping from The Nugget that Thompson had sent her. She had memorized every word.