Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  There ain’t much room left on my paper, though there’s one more thing I gotta get down. It’s the truest thing I’ve ever known.

  Me and Mel need Riley’s mine more than anyone.

  Who else out here’s got no supplies, no money, and no home? I gotta find all them clues. I gotta convince Mel that Riley’s mine is our best chance to make it on our own.

  Chapter 6

  “Jasper.” Mel touches my shoulder. “It’s time to leave if we want to beat the snow.”

  Did Mel say snow? Maybe I’m still dreaming, because when I went to sleep, it was summer outside.

  The floorboards rattle underneath me and voices boom above, like near about everyone hopes to make an early start.

  “When you sit up, go as slowly as you can.”

  I raise myself up on one elbow. It’s more than I can take. “Feels like a wagon rolled over me and shattered all my bones.”

  Mel don’t look like he’s slept a wink. “Once we’re moving, it won’t be so bad. At least that’s what I hope.”

  I sit outside the Palmer House as Melvin gathers up his things. The farmer said Sheep Camp’s the last place we’ll see any trees on this side of the mountain, that from here on out it’s too high for them to grow. For a moment, the fog clears off the peaks, where men tiny as ants trail through the snow.

  That’ll be me and Mel later today. We don’t got any provisions, and aside from Melvin’s piece of canvas, nothing to protect us when night falls.

  Mel signals it’s time to go, and we fall in with them who leave Sheep Camp. Twelve miles scaling the foothills of a mountain and a night on a wooden floor have left me sore all over. It takes a good mile before my legs loosen up enough that not every step is awful. At first the air is sweet, and here and there purple flowers hang on tight to the mountain’s rocky side. But that’s as welcoming as it gets. What we walked yesterday ain’t nothing compared with this steep climb. Snow ain’t falling yet, but patches of white already dust the ground. We get a little higher, and it ain’t long before everything is blanketed in a smooth, clean layer. It’s hard to know where to step. Yesterday, when the rain let up, I was downright hot. Today the fog’s so thick, water droplets cling to my hair. It’s cold enough that my teeth chatter.

  “Here’s the plan.” Mel’s words come short and choppy as he fights to catch his breath. “We’ll reach the summit. Spirits will be high. Surely someone will want to partner with us.”

  His voice holds the kind of hope Mama’s offered when I first got the influenza, when she hummed a lullaby and promised the aches would pass. Later, I called and called for her, but she weren’t the one who answered. Someone unfamiliar with a cool, damp cloth tended to me instead.

  The memory hits so fast, I gotta shake my head to knock it loose. It ain’t something I want to dwell on. I gotta focus on what’s here in front of me.

  It’s near impossible to see through fog when my glasses are fixed up normal, but with this broken lens, things are double hard. I stay close enough to Melvin I can grab his coattails when I start to slip. The men ahead of us weave in and out of my vision, like shadowy forms. It’s the crunch of their boots on the snow that reminds me they’re here, that we ain’t alone.

  “Everybody on the Queen was so excited to leave Seattle,” I say, my breathing jagged. “I wonder what they think now.”

  “Bet they’re glad they didn’t know how hard it would be,” Mel answers. “Otherwise they never would have gotten on that steamer.”

  That talk last night about One-Eyed Riley, it’s still got me pepped up. “How come you didn’t tell me you’d heard about Riley’s mine, Mel?”

  “I didn’t see a reason. It’s a good story, but that’s it.”

  “We should search for it. It’s got what we need.”

  Mel holds out his hand to help me over a tree that’s fallen on the path. “I’d rather stake my own claim than chase after some dream.”

  I stop once I’m on the other side, determined Mel will hear me out. “We don’t got a tent. If Riley had such a wealthy mine, don’t you think he’d have a cabin all set up from his years there? And if he’s through mining, don’t you figure he’d leave his gear behind?”

  Hard work and luck. Mr. Horton and Melvin say that’s what it takes to make it in the Klondike. Don’t sound no different from what’s needed to find a mine already stocked, one guaranteed to have plenty of gold.

  “I don’t want to rely on someone else,” Mel says. “I’ve had enough of that.”

  Well, I ain’t gonna give up on Riley just because Mel ain’t with me yet. We got a long trip ahead of us with plenty of time to think. I’ll do my part to make him come around.

  • • •

  The snow’s been falling for an hour by the time we get to the Scales, where everything a body hauls is weighed before going on. Those who’ve used packers to carry their gear this far ain’t gonna bail out now, and the packers, they’re smart about it. Their rates go up to a dollar a pound. The place swarms with mules and horses turning back because they can’t climb any higher. Outfits crowd up every space. The wind blows so hard, the snow blasts sideways. A fellow’s gotta work just to keep his balance.

  Has Mr. Shaw even made it to that first camp, Canyon City, with all his gear? Once he carries his whole outfit here, he’ll have to break it up again, carry it bit by bit to the top of this mountain. Up there he’ll have to find a place to stack his cache, then slide back down through the snow and mud. Over and over. Could take him months before he’s through.

  But he can afford to travel slow. He’s got everything he needs.

  We move past them who weigh their outfits and join in the snaking line of people that heads to the Chilkoot Pass. There ain’t nothing gentle about this part of the mountain. It ain’t just steep. From where we stand, it looks as straight as a wall.

  How are we ever gonna get to the top? We should have taken that White Pass Trail, the one that’s longer but don’t climb as high.

  The man in front of Melvin scoops up his dog, and even with it crying and wiggling around, he’s able to carry it over his shoulders as he climbs. Guess even dogs can tell this journey is a load of trouble. The snow comes down fast, a swirling curtain of white, which cuts across my sunburned cheeks.

  A slab of rock’s embedded in the mountain’s side, so flat and smooth beneath my feet, I can hardly keep from slipping. A few folks bend forward under the weight of their packs to hold their balance. Some take to crawling.

  We’re all so close, if one man was to stumble, he could knock the rest of us clear off this mountain.

  “Mel!” I grasp his coat as my feet slip from under me.

  Before I fall, Mel’s got his hand wrapped around my wrist. “Let’s get down on our knees,” he says.

  Rocks cut deep into my palms. Through my trousers and my union suit beneath, stones tear up my skin enough to turn it slick and bloody. After a time, I ain’t able to tell what’s blood, what’s sweat, what’s melted snow.

  That dog ahead of Melvin whimpers. His owner stops to shift him on his shoulders and stroke his head, and like that we pass the both of them. The man’s lost his place. He’s left alone while the line of men moves on.

  “Someone let me in!” I hear him shout. No one pays him any mind because manners and decency ain’t part of climbing up a mountainside as steep and slick as this. He’ll have to go down and start again.

  I wish I knew how long ago we left the Scales to start this climb. The sky’s so thick with clouds, the sun won’t give me any clues, and I don’t dare reach for Pa’s watch when I’ve got need of both my hands.

  It feels like all I’ve ever done is crawl up this mountain, dig in my toes to keep the wind from knocking me over. I shut my eye behind the broken lens to help me focus on Mel’s shoes right in front of me, but one good eye ain’t no match for all this blowing snow.

&n
bsp; Finally, I stumble the last few steps to the summit. My feet sink deep in snowdrifts up to my knees. Somehow the wind up here is even fiercer than it was below.

  This mountain ain’t no friend of mine.

  “You okay?” Mel has to shout for me to hear him.

  “I ain’t going any farther, if that’s what you’re asking.” I gonna rest right where I am, no matter that folks gotta step around me and ain’t too happy about it. I won’t take one step more.

  “We can’t stay here,” Mel says. “There’s no camp on the pass.”

  “I said I ain’t going any farther. I gotta rest.”

  Mel points toward a pile of mining outfits heaped together. “Settle over there for now, out of the wind. I’ll see how far the next camp is.” He disappears into the crowd.

  Bandannas and ratty socks whip around the ends of wooden poles, the only way to tell one cache from another. I slump against a pile, worn out worse than my holey socks. Pa’s watch says it’s nearly five o’clock, almost six hours since we left the Scales below, almost eleven since we left Palmer House in Sheep Camp.

  A fellow in the crowd who’s just made it to the pass stands out, a giant wrapped in furs that thrash his heels with every gust.

  Grizzly.

  He swings around, shouts directions at them Tlingits who carry his gear, and motions them over to the pile of outfits, which stacked as they are form a solid wall, a shelter from the storm.

  Grizzly nearly steps on me with them enormous feet of his. I scoot over, pull my cap down enough to hide my face, but it don’t work.

  He knows exactly who I am.

  “It’s that eavesdropping brat. Should have figured you’d be somewhere underfoot.” His dark eyes glare, the ends of his mustache blow across his face.

  Grizzly points to my hand. “Where’d you get that fancy watch?”

  I squeeze my fist shut. I don’t want to answer, but what else can I do? “My mama gave it to me.” I bite my lips to keep them from trembling.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “You expect me to believe that? This Chilkoot Trail is full of crooks.”

  “You think I stole it?” Like that bald man he nabbed yesterday, like them thieves that work for Soapy Smith. My mind flies to him charging across the river back in the canyon, when he knew I’d heard him threatening Baldy. What would Grizzly have done to me if I hadn’t taken off?

  Grizzly sneers. “That’s exactly what I think. You’re a thief.”

  His words hit sharp. Because easy as that, they could be taken as truth.

  Ain’t no one gonna listen to a kid like me.

  “It ain’t stolen!” I can’t help how fast I say it. A few of them Tlingit packers who rest nearby look over. “It ain’t,” I say again, this time more quiet.

  Grizzly’s face says he don’t believe me. “That’s enough of a break,” he tells his men.

  The whole crowd follows his command. They file past, with Grizzly in the lead. Not until they’re swallowed by the snow do I realize how hard I’m breathing, like I dodged some kind of threat.

  I tuck in between the mining gear, as far from sight as I can get from folks like Grizzly. Farther off, the Mounties in their bright red coats swarm about, but they ain’t come over to where I am. The vicious wind wails between the piles of gear and seeps clear down to my bones. I wrap my green muffler around my face so only my glasses peek out, turn up my collar to hold back the storm. My eyelids grow right heavy. It’s been so long since I’ve had a decent sleep. The next thing I know, Mel’s shaking me.

  “Jasper, you awake?”

  My eyes don’t want to open. I hear a rustling sound, then feel Mel spread something heavy across my body and tuck it at my sides. His canvas wrap. “Lake Lindeman is eight more miles from here.”

  Mel’s voice ain’t hopeful like before, it’s empty.

  I force my eyes open.

  “Not one person I’ve talked to is interested in a partner. All anybody wants is to help himself.” Mel swallows, his gaze set far away on nothing. The wind has turned his cheeks red as radishes. “I can’t force you to keep on, not without food and you so tired out. We’ll stay here until morning.”

  “What about the Mounties, Mel?”

  “We’re still on the American side of the pass. Even if they did come by, all they’d see is a lumpy canvas stashed between these outfits.”

  We got no other option, since I’m too tired to go on. Me and Mel squeeze in together, best as we can.

  • • •

  Come sunrise, the storm has blown itself out. The sky’s so clear, I finally see where we are. The Chilkoot Pass is the littlest dent of land cupped between two mountain peaks, a place that with the storm now gone has fallen silent. A couple clouds drift by, neighbors to the snowy mountains.

  It’s just a short stretch of land between here and Canada.

  Me and Mel gather our things and begin through the pass. I want to remember every ridge and stone, compare them with what’s on the other side, because surely things look different in another country.

  We walk as far as a Seattle city block, and we’re in Canada. Of course the mountain is as huge here as it was in Alaska. It’s the same one we’ve been on since yesterday. But somehow in a few short minutes, we’ve crossed into somewhere entirely new. The snow beneath my boots don’t feel any different, but oh, I’m right proud of what we’ve done, how far we’ve come.

  Before Pa lost his job at the mill, sometimes he’d tell stories about when he was a boy, how he loved the mountains, how Mount Rainier felt like a friend. Whether sun glistened on its snowbanks or clouds hid it from view, he took comfort in the mountain being near. Sometimes he’d wonder what it would be like to stand on the highest peak.

  Pa would love it here.

  On this side of the Chilkoot, the steady stream of men is down to just a trickle. Mel drops his pack onto his little sled and I jump on behind. “Catch you down below!” I shout. The sled flies through the snow, and I wish Cyril could see me, up here on the top of this mountain clear over in Canada.

  • • •

  It ain’t too long before we’ve left the snow behind. The trees return, and the trail winds down past lakes and endless slabs of stone pressed firm into the mountain. By afternoon we near Lake Lindeman, a tent camp set up on its shore. This here’s where we’ll stay for a week or two to build a boat, where surely we’ll find a partner to sail with down the Yukon.

  Me and Mel, we sit on his sled on the edge of camp. It’s good to rest awhile.

  Twenty-six miles we’ve hiked the past three days. Melvin says them folks on the Queen, if they make it over the White Pass Trail, will end up at Lake Bennett, seven miles farther on.

  Lake Lindeman’s in a valley with mountains all around. Tents set up on the scrubby shoreline ring the big blue lake. Everywhere there’s pines. Men bustle about, cutting down trees and sawing logs. I wonder if there’s one fellow here who’s ever built a boat before.

  “So,” Mel says, standing up, “it’s time I find us a partner.”

  My brother’s got two scrawny arms and a narrow back. Sure, he worked at the wool mill two years, but he never used his hands. His book learning’s so good, he was hired to keep numbers in a ledger. With no tools of our own, there ain’t no way we’ll get to Dawson and the goldfields just beyond without someone else’s help.

  “You gonna offer to pay him later?” I ask.

  Mel’s mouth is set in a determined line. “I’ll offer what we’ve got. Hard work, and gold, once we get some. And your laundry.”

  I’ll do all sorts of wash if it means we’ll get shelter and a boat ride down the Yukon. “Well, I aim for us to eat tonight. I’m gonna start a laundry by the lake. How about you meet me there once you find that partner?”

  Mel nods. “Let’s hope I find him quick.”

  I weave between the tents
and set up near the lake, where the ground is covered in sticks and brambles. It takes a while to clear a spot. “Want some wash done?” I ask anyone who passes by. Most ignore me. Some laugh. Out loud.

  One man stoops to fill a bucket. “I got one shirt to my name. Not about to leave it with you,” he says.

  I sit back on my heels, keep at my question. “Need some washing?” But no one listens. A whole hour passes. Then another. I don’t mind saying I’m discouraged. Men who surely need some laundry have ignored me. What I wouldn’t give to have some fresh clothes of my own. But with my knapsack long gone, all I’ve got are the dirty things I wear.

  Wait a minute. Maybe folks ain’t interested in my laundering because I ain’t too clean myself.

  There’s only one way to solve that problem. It ain’t gonna be a pretty sight, but if I want supper, I gotta swallow my pride. I strip down to my underdrawers, a gray union suit that’s gone pink around the knees from crawling up the Chilkoot. I dip my clothes in Lake Lindeman and scrub them good on Mama’s washboard. Oh, it’s fine to see them rinse so nice and clean.

  I’m setting my clothes on a sun-warmed rock when an old man happens by. His shoulders are stooped and his silver hair’s so greasy, I bet he ain’t washed it since the days it was its natural-born color.

  I sit up straight, try to act dignified, despite what I wear. “Jasper Johnson’s Laundry Service. One item for ten cents or three for a quarter dollar. See how fine I’ve washed my shirt and trousers?” I point to where they dry. “I could do the same for you.”

  “I don’t got any coins. Will you take gold instead?”

  This man’s got gold? “Oh, I’d be right fine with that.” I hope my voice ain’t gone squeaky like some silly girl’s.

  “Well, then,” the old man says, “how about you wash these socks of mine.” He unties his boots and pulls off his socks right there on the spot.