Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  “Nonsense,” Donohue said. “Pure fantasy told to keep men warm around the stove on a winter’s night. That damned fool’s taking Fiona straight into nothing.”

  “They say,” Lancaster continued, “only the pure of heart can find it.”

  “That eliminates Sheridan then,” Ray said. “And Fiona too, begging your pardon young Angus.”

  Sterling hadn’t said a word. He ran his eyes over the map and rubbed at his chin. Whatever was at the end of this map — fantasy mountain or not — if Fiona MacGillivray was being taken there, he would go after her. And he would not return without her.

  “McAllen,” he said at last. “You’ve been down the Klondike. How far?”

  “No more than thirty miles, Corporal. There’s nothing there but trees and more trees.”

  “North of the river?”

  “Don’t know, sir. We were exploring the south bank some. Not the north.”

  Sterling tapped the paper with his finger. A smaller blue line led away from the larger one. Going north. “Do you know what’s here?”

  McAllen peered at the map. He shook his head. “Hard to judge distance on that map there. That’s what, five, seven miles up? I don’t remember anything of significance.”

  “I’d like to have a look at the map in your office, sir,” Sterling said to McKnight. “There must be some reason this spot’s marked.”

  McKnight and Sterling held each other’s eyes. Angus didn’t breathe. “Good idea,” the inspector said at last.

  “I’m going with you,” Angus said.

  “No, son. Not this time. I need to move fast.”

  “If not with you then I’ll go by myself,” Angus said. “I will. I have the map in my head, remember.”

  “No,” Sterling said.

  Angus’s ally came from an unexpected direction. “Take the lad, Corporal,” McKnight said. “He’s proven himself to be a good man. They say you’re a tracker, Sterling, but moving fast might not be wise. It’s easy to miss signs in haste. McAllen, you’ll accompany them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going too,” Donohue said.

  “Why?” Sterling said. “So you can write it down and send a report to your newspaper? That’s no help to us.”

  Donohue stretched himself, as though trying to reach the Corporal’s height. He fell very short. “Mrs. MacGillivray is my friend and I intend to find her.”

  Ray snorted. “Fiona’s my friend also, as well as my partner, but I ken it won’t be doing her no good a Glasgow lad stomping though the wilderness.” He gave Angus what he probably thought was an encouraging smile. It did not have the desired effect. “I’ll stay behind. Run our business. Keep everything in order for when she gets back.”

  “Sort your party out, Sterling,” McKnight said. “Report to me before leaving. Anyone attempting to reproduce this map will be brought up on charges or given a blue ticket. In the meantime, Constable Fitzhenry....”

  The officer standing guard at the back door, whose neck had stretched a good couple of inches as he strained to get a glimpse of the map, snapped to attention.

  “You and Campbell ask around, see if anyone’s seen this Sheridan fellow recently. It’s entirely possible the man’s still in town and has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “Yes, sir.” Fitzhenry headed for the door.

  Sterling reached for the scrap of paper, but Angus snatched it up. Sterling held out his hand. “If the Inspector says so, you can accompany us. But you don’t forget for a minute who’s in command.”

  Sheepishly, Angus passed the map over. Sterling took one more look at it before folding it and putting it in his pocket.

  “You’ll need a warm jacket, change of clothes, extra socks, bedroll, and food for several days. Meet me at the Fort in one hour.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Donohue, if you insist on coming, you’ll need supplies also. One hour or I’ll leave without you. Mr. McAllen, the same. We’ll start at the mouth of the Klondike and follow the river. I’m not rushing blind into the wilderness. If I can’t find a trail to follow, we’ll turn back. Is that understood?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  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.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  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.