Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  “Thanks.” Sterling took the offered lead and left. Mrs. Miller trotted happily behind.

  At least she, Sterling thought, is looking forward to the journey.

  “Good luck,” the dog handler called out.

  Next stop was the kitchens, where he asked the cooks to pack him five days’ worth of food. He would take supplies only for himself and McAllen. The civilians would have to bring their own. Next stop was the barracks. He tied the dog to a railing and went inside to pull his bed roll off his bunk and dig spare clothes out of his trunk. The non-commissioned officers’ barracks were empty and he was glad of it. He didn’t want to waste time while advice and useless good wishes were offered.

  Back outside he untied the dog. About forty-five minutes had passed since he’d left the Savoy. No sign of Donohue or Angus yet. Angus, he didn’t mind taking. The boy was smart and quick although somewhat impulsive. Donohue on the other hand. What did he have to offer? If he wasn’t coming along to write it up for his newspaper, then it was to get into Fiona’s favour. Sterling didn’t realize he’d growled until he saw the questioning look on Millie’s face.

  McKnight stood behind his desk, the surface almost invisible under mounds of papers and books, when Sterling knocked and walked in. The office was a mess of papers, winter clothes, spare boots, and wood — chopped, stacked, ready for the stove. A Winchester rifle rested on the table next to the bookcase.

  “Let’s have a look at young Angus’s sketch again, shall we.” McKnight took the map off the wall and spread it across his desk, the papers underneath creating mountains and valleys. It was an up-to-date map of the Yukon mining district. Unfortunately, everything north of the Klondike River was marked “unexplored.” Sterling unfolded his own map. The two men studied them.

  “This line here,” McKnight said, “might be this river. I can barely make out the name. What’s it say?”

  “Thomas Creek.”

  “Is it this blue line on Sheridan’s map, do you think?”

  “I think, sir,” Sterling said, “it’s irrelevant if it is or not. Chances are good Sheridan expects to come across a river feeding into the Klondike from the north, so he’ll take the first one he comes across that white people haven’t reached yet. If the Gold Commissioner doesn’t know what’s there, then no one else does. Except the Indians and they don’t need to make maps. Least not ones we can read.”

  McKnight peered myopically though a thick layer of glass. The man must be as blind as a bat, Sterling thought, without his spectacles. The inspector stroked his moustache. “You’re in the boss’s favour at the moment, Sterling. But favours come and go. You want to take care you don’t get ahead of yourself. And get busted down. Again.”

  Sterling felt his gut tighten. “I’ll remember your advice. Sir.”

  “See that you do. Now, I’m sending you on this excursion, better to say I’m letting you go, because the NWMP has to be seen to be doing something to affect the return of one of the town’s most prominent citizens. Do you expect, honestly, to accomplish anything? Why not just wait until Sheridan sheepishly returns to town?”

  “In many cases, I’d agree with you,” Sterling said, trying to sound reasonable. It was no secret he and McKnight didn’t get on: they’d butted heads too many times. “But I sense a madness in the man. To attack Mrs. MacGillivray, provided that’s what happened, and carry her off.” He shook his head. “She’s not a, shall we say, compliant woman.”

  “No.”

  “My fear, if I may say so sir, is that they’ll get lost. Unlikely Sheridan has much, if any, experience surviving in the wilderness and Mrs. MacGillivray ...”

  “Is a lady, of course. Completely out of her depth.”

  “If they get lost, they might not be able to find their way to town or to the Creeks if even the man decides to turn back.” Sterling thought of the Yukon as it had been before the rush. As most of it still was. A vast space teeming with life, if you knew how to look for it. To city eyes it seemed as empty and inhospitable as a desert. “The Indians around here are not aggressive. If they come across any lost people, they’ll be more than happy to bring them to us expecting a reward. But Sheridan might not know that. He’s an American and they’ve been fighting Indians down there until not so long ago. He’ll try to avoid them.”

  “Do you honestly think you can find them?”

  “I have some skill in the bush, yes. If they make it as far as the tundra? I’ve never been there, but tracking is tracking.”

  “You can tell me some day where you got this skill. But for now ...” McKnight stopped at a knock on the door, shouted, “Enter,” and Constable Fitzhenry came in. He gasped for breath, his face was flushed, and Sterling knew the man had news before he even opened his mouth. “Sheridan left his lodgings Saturday night. Cleared out all his things and told the landlady he’d not be back. He’d originally taken the room until Thursday, then changed it to Sunday and left on Saturday.”

  He paused to take a breath and McKnight asked, “Did he say anything about where he was going?”

  “No, but he kept hinting he’d be back some day, rich as a king of the Orient, he said. She paid him no mind. They all say that, don’t they?”

  Sterling and McKnight nodded in unison. Fitzhenry continued, “She told me something interesting. Sheridan bought a horse last week. The landlady said it was a miserable creature. And then,” he paused for effect, “he made a wagon.”

  “A wagon?”

  “More of a cart, she said. With one big wheel at the back and two poles about six feet long at the front, and a leather harness of some sort.”

  “Like a travois?” Sterling asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Plains Indians use a travois. Fastened to the back of a horse or dog, it pulls a load. Like a wagon without wheels.” Being a white man, Sheridan probably thought he was improving on the native design by adding a wheel. Not realizing that a wheel was a liability, not an advantage, where there were no roads. Even the best designed travois was not meant to penetrate bush or manoeuvre over hills and gullies.

  “I don’t suppose anyone saw this horse and travois in town on Sunday?” McKnight asked.

  Fitzhenry shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Shall we ask around?”

  “What an excellent idea, considering we are attempting to locate the person who made this vehicle,” McKnight snapped.

  Fitzhenry flushed. McKnight waved his hand and the young constable fled.

  “I like the sound of that,” Sterling said. “A horse and a wheeled contraption will leave a clear trail.”

  “Better get on with it then,” McKnight said. “You’re to take that.” He gestured to the rifle. It was a Winchester Carbine, polished to a high shine, a box of cartridges beside it. Sterling raised one eyebrow. “Let’s hope you don’t have to use it. At best it might provide some food if you’re out longer than expected.”

  Sterling picked the weapon up. He balanced the weight in his hands, laid it against his cheek, and stared down the barrel. He looked at McKnight, nodded, and headed for the door. The inspector’s voice stopped him and he turned back. McKnight coughed. Sterling waited. McKnight cleared his throat and said, “Good luck, Corporal. Take as much time as you need.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Donohue and Angus were seated on the steps beside the dog. McAllen leaned against a post, but he snapped to attention when Sterling came out of the office.

  Mouse O’Brien was with them, pack on his shoulders.

  Sterling groaned.

  Angus let out a low whistle when he saw the rifle.

  “Mouse, what are you doing here?” Sterling said, fearing he knew the answer.

  “I heard the news, figured you needed some help.”

  “I don’t need any more help and I’m not leading any more city folks into the wilderness.”

  “Sure you do,” Mouse said. “You got a lot of stuff for that one little dog to carry.”

  “Thought you’d want
to spend the time with your new bride. And aren’t you going back to the Creeks tomorrow?”

  “Mrs. O’Brien.” Mouse tasted the words on his tongue. “Insisted that I come. A man’s first duty, after his country and his family, is to his friends, she said.”

  Sterling did not want to argue any more. Best get moving before anyone else came to join them. Next it would be Mrs. Saunderson and the dancers.

  He eyed the packs at the men’s feet.

  “It’s grand that you’ve got Millie,” Angus said, rubbing the big dog’s head. “She’ll find Ma, won’t you girl?”

  Millie barked her agreement.

  “The dog is the property of the NWMP and will carry McAllen’s and my supplies,” Sterling said. “Donohue, O’Brien, you and Angus are to carry your own. Do you understand?”

  Donohue said, “Yup,” and Angus nodded enthusiastically.

  “That’s why I’ve come,” O’Brien said. “I can take some of Angus’s things.”

  “You all brought food? Enough for five days at least?”

  “Yes.”

  “That should do. If we need more, hopefully we’ll come across some game.” He stroked the rifle butt, then reached into his jacket and pulled out the map. “Angus, you’re in charge of this.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  McAllen had stopped at the kitchen to pick up the provisions and cooking supplies. They packed the dog’s saddle bags as best they could with food, pans, a coffee pot, and a tiny travelling stove. Sterling would carry his bedroll and spare clothes. And the rifle.

  Donohue rechecked the contents of his own pack.

  “If we’re ready, let’s go,” Sterling said. “Angus, you can walk with Millie.”

  “Okay,” Angus said, taking the dog’s lead. “I’ve been thinking about this Gold Mountain. You don’t suppose there’s actually something to it, do you, sir?”

  “No, Angus, I do not. There’s enough strange and wonderful things in this world without making up stories. I suppose there might be a gold deposit, after all there’s gold around here, isn’t there? But if there is, it’s highly unlikely to be marked on a map Paul Sheridan picked up in his travels.”

  Sterling led his small party across the parade square. Mounties and civilians came out of the barracks and offices to watch them pass.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Sheridan unloaded the horse and secured it with a long rope to a black spruce at the edge of the clearing, whereupon it immediately began munching on the soft buds of a nearby willow. The buds snapped easily off the tree, and the horse seemed content. Sheridan rummaged around in the bags, eventually emerging with a tent, bedroll, and blankets. But first he took the knife out of the pack and stuck it into his belt. He then pulled an axe out of another pack and chopped down two small poplars to serve as tent poles. I watched suspiciously as he struggled to erect the tent. It looked quite small.

  Supper was, once again, fried corned beef. This time served with a can of pears for dessert. The pots and plates and cutlery hadn’t been washed from our earlier repast, so I ventured to the middle of the trickle of water and gave them a rinse.

  As soon as we’d finished the totally inadequate meal, Sheridan announced it was time to sleep.

  He read my mind and said that, as he feared he didn’t yet have my complete trust, I’d have to be secured while he slept. Once again, I considered resisting and bolting for it, but that would probably lead to a scuffle with Sheridan that might further damage my head or perhaps get me knifed. I’d thought about making a grab for the rifle, but considering that I didn’t know how to use the thing, he’d be on me before I could figure it out. My head had felt almost normal most of the day, and the lancing pain had settled into a dull ache. My vision had cleared once I’d had something to eat, but nevertheless if I did manage to get away, I was not happy at the prospect of wandering through the bush alone and disoriented.

  With a considerable degree of ill-grace, I lay down in the tent and allowed the man to tie my arms in front of me. He apologized constantly, kept checking that the bounds weren’t too tight, and asked if I was comfortable.

  Finally, he settled down and closed his eyes, and fortunately he kept his distance, what little distance there was in the hot, stuffy tent, smelling of mould and unwashed men. He’d taken the rifle to bed with him. It was tucked inside his bedroll, close to the far tent wall, his arms wrapped around it. He’d returned the knife to the smallest pack, which he tucked under his head for a pillow.

  He fell asleep almost instantly. The man had a snore that would wake a hibernating bear.

  I was hideously uncomfortable. The tent had no floor, and small pebbles and scratchy pine needles poked through the single inadequate blanket wrapped around me. I was very cold.

  It was getting light when I awoke. Yesterday, using what miniscule bit of geographic knowledge I did have, I determined we were travelling almost due north by watching the path of the sun as the day progressed.

  That was not good. North meant farther and farther away from civilization.

  I’d kicked most of the blanket off in my sleep. The rope Sheridan had used to bind me was so long, I’d been able to get moderately comfortable, as comfortable as one can be sleeping on rough ground while tied up. I’d slept in worse conditions, but I’d been considerably younger.

  When Paul Sheridan awoke, I was attempting to stir the embers of the campfire back to life. He crawled out of the tent, blinking and scratching at the cluster of mosquito bites on his face. “What the…?”

  “Most uncomfortable,” I said. Thinking perhaps that I’d simply lie where told to, and not wanting to tie me too tightly, he’d left the rope so loose I had no trouble at all unpicking the fat knots.

  “You stayed,” he said, as comprehension dawned. Followed closely by sheer joy.

  “So it would appear. I’m not eating any more of that dreadful beef. I found bacon and powdered eggs in the packs. We’ll have that.”

  He dashed behind a bush to relieve himself. When he returned, I was pulling on a pair of thick men’s socks with leather heels, which I’d also found among his possessions. Unfortunately, I had not found a revolver or a spare knife suitable for threatening to cut a man’s throat. Judging by the trouble he’d had chopping down a tree about the width of my thumb, the axe would make a most inefficient weapon.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “I won’t be able to walk in my shoes any farther.” I wasn’t lying about that. My left foot in particular had a couple of very bad blisters. They were plump and oozing blood. Blood caked the inside of my shoe.

  “I’m starving,” he said.

  We ate a quick breakfast of burned bacon, runny tasteless eggs, and coffee so thick and vile I considered spreading it on the blisters on my feet. I have never claimed to be able to cook.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Sterling and his group passed through the eastern end of town to the Klondike River, where they turned to follow the river upstream. No point in looking for tracks with all the horse, dog, cart, wagon, and foot traffic around here. A patch of flatland dotted with white canvas spread open beneath the steep hills of the river bank. Children and dogs ran between the tents, and adults relaxed in the sunshine, visiting neighbours and enjoying a day of rest. They all stopped what they were doing to watch the search party pass.

  “Afternoon,” Richard Sterling said to a cluster of men sitting on recently felled logs and puffing on pipes.

  “Afternoon, Corporal.” The eldest man had a pure white beard and a mane of hair. His eyebrows were grey and so long they stood up as if waxed. “Young Angus. Off after Mrs. MacGillivray are you?”

  “Word travels fast,” Sterling said. Millie plunked her bottom in the only patch of soft grass for miles.

  “That it does. Johnny here was tellin’ us something earlier you might want ta hear.” He nodded to the youngest of the men, who, full of self-importance, rose to his feet and stood perfectly straight as though called upon at sc
hool to recite the alphabet.

  “My wife, she don’t sleep too good.” Colour flooded into his face. “She’s expecting any day now and can’t get comfortable. So I was out having a smoke, see. And I seen the strangest thing coming down the path.”

  “What time was this?”

  The young man shrugged. “After midnight sometime. Before sun-up.”

  “Carry on.”

  “Man with a horse pulling a funny kinda cart. Sort of a half-cart with only one wheel at the back and long poles tying the cart to the horse.”

  Sterling’s heart began to beat faster. He kept his face impassive.

  “Was a woman with him?” Angus shouted. “Was my ma with him?”

  “Be quiet, boy,” Sterling said. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “But ...”

  “I said be quiet. You want to go back to town, say so now.”

  “No, sir.” Angus’s face fell into a pout.

  “Tell you the truth.” The man paused, looking at the men around him, drawing out the story, enjoying his moment in the limelight. Sterling gave him a look. “Yes, there was a woman.” He held up one hand, “I didn’t see her face. She was lying in the cart. With a blanket over her. Only knew it was a woman ’cause she was wearing a dress and had pretty little feet.”

  “Describe the dress,” Donohue shouted. “Was it green?”

  Sterling feared he’d made a mistake allowing a bunch of civilians to tag along.

  “Green, yeah. Pretty green, sorta like ...” the young man looked around, searching for something green with which to compare. Here, in what a year ago had been the Yukon wilderness, he couldn’t find anything the right colour. “Green,” he said at last.

  Angus couldn’t restrain himself. “It must be my mother. We’re wasting time.” He jerked Millie’s lead and started to move off. Donohue followed.