Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  “The coot—One-Eyed Riley is his name—he made a fancy five-line riddle that leads a soul straight to it. Only the lines—clues, really—you have to search for them. They ain’t easy to find, even harder to figure how they fit together.”

  “Where do you get these clues?” I ask.

  “That part ain’t exactly clear,” Pickle Barrel says. “Some say Riley told one to each sourdough he passed when he left his claim that final time. Folks who’d always called him crazy didn’t think to listen. You bet they wish they had now. Others say he wrote the clues down and sailed them on the Yukon as he left Dawson City. If that’s so, they could be scattered the whole length of the river. A few men swear he whispered them into the wind, that if you listen careful on a summer evening, you might hear them. Whatever he did, word is them sourdoughs have searched for his mine near about eleven months now.”

  A breath of wind ripples through the crowd, sets everyone to murmuring. I shiver. It ain’t from the cool ocean air, but the promise of a mine guaranteed to make its owner rich.

  “Clues sailed down the Yukon and whispered into the wind.” The man in the gray suit shakes his head. “That sounds a little ridiculous, don’t you think?”

  “Not any more ridiculous than some other things we’ve heard,” Mr. Horton says.

  It sure sounds like Mr. Horton’s open to Riley’s story being true.

  “If there are five clues,” a lady asks, “how do you know which one comes first and which is last?”

  Pickle Barrel shrugs. “I’ve told you everything I know. Except this.” He clears his throat. “I’ve got it on good authority nine below’s the way to go.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Horton tilts his head.

  I wonder the same.

  “I said.” Pickle Barrel punches up the words a bit. “Nine BELOW’S the way to GO.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” a fellow asks.

  “It’s one of them Riley clues.” The whole crowd turns to me, a mass of curious faces. “At least that’s what I reckon.”

  “The boy’s right,” Pickle Barrel says. “But what’s it mean?”

  Could be Riley’s gold is buried in a hole nine feet deep. Or maybe nine below’s a temperature. It might even be the name of a far-off place. Everybody’s talking about ideas, but no one knows what’s true.

  Over near the railing, someone catches my eye. Sandy hair, dark coat, like so many others. But there’s a bright blue patch sewn crooked over his elbow, and his feet move so fast, he’ll soon be out of sight. Melvin.

  “Mel!” I don’t think about what might happen next, I just call out. “Melvin! Over here.”

  “That’s the boy, Ma, that’s him!” A flash of yellow moves through the crowd. Miss Prissy Lips pushes through, drags her mother behind. “He’s the one who snuck on board.” Her finger points right at me. “He’s the stowaway!”

  Mr. Horton’s nostrils flare. “Stowaway?”

  The crowd shifts and closes in. Their faces ain’t friendly no more.

  Mel turns at the ruckus.

  I shove the bucket hard as I can. Sudsy water flows everywhere. Them folks step aside, and I race past Prissy Lips and her ma. I’ve almost made it to the stairs when someone grabs my arm.

  “Oh no, you don’t.” Mr. Horton’s got ahold of me. “It’s the captain you’ll be seeing.”

  He walks with quick and measured steps and bangs on the wheelhouse door. “I’ve got the stowaway.”

  The first mate opens up, nods curtly at Mr. Horton. “Thank you, that will do.” He grabs my collar, yanks me across the deck, and dumps me in a tiny room no bigger than a closet. I slump against the wall.

  Caught as a stowaway two days out from Skagway, thanks to that prissy girl. My bag and washboard are still on deck. The only light I got comes from beneath the door. For the first time since I boarded the Queen, my stomach turns. What’s gonna happen to me?

  I don’t got no company here but my own thoughts. What did Cyril do when I didn’t show up to fish a couple days ago? How’s Pa faring with the whole house to himself, without them suppers I served up every night? Did Mel hear when I called to him on the deck? I pull off my cap, wipe my sweaty forehead with my wrist. The thought of him watching Mr. Horton march me to the wheelhouse twists my belly even more. He’d be shocked, that’s for certain, and real disappointed I’d done something as reckless as run away from home. “I’m here for us, Mel,” I say like he can hear me. “I’ve kept your promise.”

  But maybe if I’d shouted his name one last time, Mel would have looked past all that. He’s my brother. It’s his job to take up for me.

  Oh, what was I thinking not to call for him again?

  The Queen’s engines hiss and clatter from somewhere below, and I hear the horses fret.

  This room’s so hot I ain’t hardly able to breathe. A couple times loud voices from the hallway boom through the walls, and my spirits rise, like this could be my chance to escape. I pound my side of the door, but the voices fade. I’m as stuck and forgotten as I was before.

  Sometime much later, when I fall into a restless sleep, the door swings open and just as quickly slams shut. A piece of bread’s been left on the floor. I tear right in. The sour taste means it’s moldy, but what my eyes can’t see my belly don’t need to know. The sea grows rough and the bread in my belly ain’t too happy there. So I focus on them things Pickle Barrel said. An old coot with a rich claim up for grabs, free to the first person who finds it. I ain’t ever heard of anything so grand.

  Chapter 4

  The closet door thumps against the wall, startling me awake. Outside stands the first mate, his uniform as neat and clean as if it’s freshly pressed. “Let’s go,” he says, and grabs my shoulder. He pushes me ahead of him, through the deck where folks are gathering. The air crackles with excitement as the Queen creeps toward the muddy shore. The steamer shudders, belches out its last smoky breath. “Hurrah!” Voices rise from all around. “Hurrah for the Klondike!”

  Oh, how my feet itch to get on dry land.

  If only the first mate would let me go. Where’s he taking me?

  Until a minute ago, I weren’t sure the first mate would let me out of that closet where I’ve spent the last couple days. I’d near convinced myself he’d keep me there until the Queen docked again in Seattle. So I’m right surprised to be out here near the railing, with them who wait to go ashore.

  The first mate releases me from his grip. He’s got a patch of whiskers near his jaw where his razor didn’t reach. Somehow them whiskers give me hope. Under the captain, he’s the most important member of this crew, but he’s also a fellow who don’t always shave just right. Maybe he’ll be kind to me.

  “Normally I hand stowaways over to the authorities, but Skagway is a mess. Crooks and no-goods run this town.” The first mate shoves my shoulder hard. “Get on with you. And keep out of trouble.”

  A smile stretches across my face. He ain’t gonna send me home. I don’t got my knapsack or Mama’s washboard, but I’m free.

  In the distance, snowcapped mountains grow wild. There’s a circus in the water and onshore. Canoes and freighters and cargo boats fight to get as close as they can in them shallows. Sheep bawl mournfully as a man drives them from another ship right on through the water. A wooden box lifts over the Queen’s side and opens from the bottom. The horse inside crashes into the bay. It flops around, finds its feet, and falls in line with the sheep.

  On board, folks surge forward, set to be the first to leave. My bag and washboard could be anywhere, but I don’t got time to search. I’ve gotta find my brother now.

  The gangplank don’t connect to any land, but runs straight into the bay. Men start down and have to trudge through water clear to their knees. Others who’ve paid an extra fee ride to shore in flat-bottomed scows filled with mining outfits. The gold-crazy bustle in Seattle, that was only a tas
te of the commotion here in Skagway.

  I fight hard to keep my place next to the railing, but get pushed by folks who jostle to be the next in line. Mr. Reuben passes by, bits of dried food decorating his checkered vest, and the lady whose handkerchief I washed.

  Then I see him.

  “Mel!” I shout.

  He still hugs that little sled of his, his knapsack slung over one shoulder.

  “Melvin Johnson!”

  He mustn’t hear me, for he don’t look or turn around.

  I’m stuck behind a broad fellow who won’t budge, who watches a canvas bundle as it sails through the air and crashes into the shallows. A mining outfit, same as all them others.

  In just a few steps, Mel’s on that gangplank lickety-split.

  If this big fellow ain’t gonna move, if he aims to stand here and watch the gear go overboard, then I’ll have to work around him. I get on my knees, crawl right between his feet.

  He stumbles back. “Hey, kid!”

  But I’m already down the gangplank, gone. My shoes plunge into water cold as Christmas. I lift my knees and walk on through.

  Onshore, mud runs in all directions. Men scale a mountain of crates and ropes and trunks. Even more piles of gear are dumped onto the mess. It’ll take hours to unload, even longer for each Stampeder to find which outfit is his own.

  Mel lifts flaps of canvas and shifts some crates around. He must not see anything that’s his yet, because he glances at the Queen and all the gear still coming, then joins the other passengers who cross the mudflats, past a collection of mismatched tents set up in a cottonwood grove, toward mountains, layers of them, as pointy as teeth on a metal saw. Mel heads straight toward Skagway.

  I follow behind a whole bunch of folks, close enough to call for Mel, but all of a sudden, my belly cramps like I’ve swallowed spoiled milk. What exactly will Melvin say when he learns I trailed him these past five days? Maybe it would be best to let things play out natural-like. Once Mel’s found some breakfast, once his gear is accounted for, maybe I can walk over and greet him like I might back home.

  A few steps ahead, a line of kids weaves behind the lady in the yellow dress. My eyes dart to Miss Prissy Lips in the rear, the one whose shouting got me locked up in the dark. Oh, I’d love to knock her over, see her frilly skirt spoiled in the mud. I push in close to tell her what I think and see she’s got ahold of something. Her bony arm is wrapped around my mama’s washboard!

  I grab on tight and yank hard as I can.

  She yelps in surprise, but her eyes squinch when she sees it’s me.

  “Give it,” I say. “That washboard’s mine.”

  “I know that.” She wears a twisty little smile. “That’s why I took it from the deck this morning. I’m looking for the perfect place to dump this junk.”

  Oh, she gets me steamed. This girl’s worse than a weeklong rash. I pull and pull on the washboard. It don’t bother me that she hollers, because what she’s got is mine. When she lets go, I take real satisfaction that she falls on her bottom. Right in the mud.

  I leave her howling there for someone else to worry about.

  The mudflats stretch from the shore to the mountains beyond. They don’t really end, just turn into the road that leads to town, if this place can be called that. A couple buildings and a whole load of grungy tents are scattered on either side of a slick, cramped street. I’m nearly knocked over by a pack of stray dogs rushing past. The strays dodge men and horses, just missing the tree stumps left in the middle of the road, and cluster around a busted barrel of salt pork that must have fallen from a wagon. A couple men lay the first few planks of a wooden sidewalk, but that’s as nice as Skagway gets.

  Some town this is.

  I step over a puddle and move to the side of the road, where the ground ain’t so sloppy. “Outta the way!” a pointy-chinned man shouts as he stumbles from a tent, and its canvas door flaps in a puff of wind. Inside music tinkles from a sorry old piano. I gotta lean against the tent to keep from getting stepped on. The canvas wall sags under my weight. Above me hangs a placard: BONANZA SALOON. Bonanza’s that creek Mr. Horton talked about, where the first Klondike gold was found. Even though the saloon don’t look like nothing I’ve ever seen before, I know this kind of place real well. It’s the sort where Pa don’t think twice about drinking up the money meant for supper.

  Ahead, Mel trudges through the filthy street, past a wooden building called RELIABLE PACKERS and a tent with a painted board that reads PAINLESS TOOTH EXTRACTION. The road swerves right and narrows so much, a wagon passing through would run into some trouble.

  Mel stops in front of an old pair of trousers that hang from a string, MEALS painted across the seat, an advertisement for the open-air restaurant nearby. I’m close enough he’d see me if he turned around, and boy, am I hungry. Last time I ate was yesterday, when the first mate gave me that awful moldy bread. Maybe this would be a good time to let Mel know I’m here and—

  That pointy-chinned man slams into Mel, sends him sprawling in the mud. His cap, his trousers, his patched-up coat, everything is splattered.

  Another fellow holds out his hand and pulls Mel off the ground. He’s a broomstick of a man, like a twig that wears clothes.

  Mel uses his heel to scrape off the mud glopped around his knees.

  Broomstick points to the restaurant and Melvin nods. The two of them walk in together, like they’re the best of friends.

  My belly rumbles, but somehow it don’t feel right to jump in now. Mel and Broomstick sit at an empty table near the road, right next to a store with a broad canvas shelter. I move under the shelter and crouch between some crates stacked outside the store. Both Mel and Broomstick have their backs to me, but I’m close enough I can hear what they’re saying.

  “Don’t want you to think we’re all as rude as that man who knocked you down,” Broomstick says. “Let me buy you some breakfast.”

  Broomstick signals to a lady who carries trays from the cook tent, and she places two bowls before them. The peppery scent of stew tickles my nose. My belly growls again. I don’t remember when it’s ever been this empty.

  The store behind me is really a tent that brims with mining gear, but I also spy a barrel of apples near the counter. Bet I got enough money for a couple. I dig through my pocket for the coins I earned on the Queen, step inside, and pay for the biggest two I can find. They’re withered and kind of wormy, but do they ever taste fine.

  I eat my breakfast behind them crates as Mel works on his at the table. Mama would have hated how he shovels stew into his mouth with that dirty cap of his on, that knapsack still across his back. He puts the whole bowl of stew away before I start my second apple, like he never learned no manners.

  “You want another?” Broomstick asks.

  “That would be awfully kind,” Mel says slowly. His forehead wrinkles like he’s got a couple questions he’d like to ask but ain’t quite found the words for yet.

  “It’s the least I can do. I’d hate for you to get the wrong feel for Skagway, is all.”

  Old Broomstick, he sure is friendly, but why lay it on so thick? What’s it to him if some boy new to town gets knocked into the mud?

  “It’s a good thing you met me,” Broomstick says. “Because fine as Skagway is, there’s some here who ain’t the decent sort.”

  The wind picks up. The man with the stew pot runs to secure the MEALS trousers as their legs kick higher with each gust. A couple diners point at the sky and make to leave. Wind snaps the canvas shelter overhead, and I crane my neck to get a look at what’s going on. Black clouds boil over the mountains, all set to burst with rain. Next to me, the store clerk tugs the tent flaps closed.

  Broomstick shifts a little closer to my brother. “So many folks are new to town, and most don’t know the rules on how to keep safe. Have you ever heard of the likes of Jefferson ‘Soapy’ Smith?”


  “No, sir,” Mel says, his brown eyes careful.

  Broomstick spoons up his last bit of stew, wipes his face on his shirtsleeve. “Soapy runs this town. He figured those who want to mine for gold have only a few ways to get to Canada, Skagway being one. Came up from Denver with five of his con men. They run games that poor, unsuspecting greenhorns like you—beg your pardon—fall for. Some lose all their money before they even set foot in Canada.”

  The tent door rustles beside me, and out steps a man who looks mighty familiar. He’s got one shoulder hitched up higher than the other and his chin juts out just so. And then I remember where I seen him. He’s the one who rushed from the Bonanza Saloon and knocked Mel into the mud. He stays beneath the canvas shelter, watching the storm clouds that tower even higher than before, but he’s also real interested in Broomstick and Mel. He steps out into the open, one hand in his pocket, the other limp at his side. Then quick he flings that limp hand out and plunges it into Mel’s knapsack. Mel whips around, but he’s too late.

  That man filched from my brother!

  The fellow takes off running, and I fly out from behind the crates. I ain’t gonna let him out of my sight.

  “He’s got my wallet!” Mel shouts from behind.

  I run so fast, I barrel into the thief, hold on to his legs as strong as I can.

  “Get offa me, you little rowdy!” He kicks me hard in the chest. My glasses fall. There’s an awful crunching sound as he rushes off.

  Another set of footsteps pounds past me through the slippery muck.

  I can’t see a dern thing without them glasses, the ones Mama saved her egg money for so faithfully. And now they’re broken. Busted up and in the mud. Bent into a brand-new shape with one lens smashed. I polish what’s left and put them on. It’s like seeing half the world through a smudged-up window.

  I gotta shut one eye to see right. It must have been Mel I heard race by. He’s far down the road when he slows to a walk, leans forward with his hands on his knees.

  That man got away with Mel’s wallet. Two years of savings gone.