Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  They’re crusted with dirt and sweat and too much wear. Even when I dunk them into the water, they keep their stiffened shape. “Can I ask where you’re from?” It’s polite to talk to customers, but I’m also itching to know where this fellow’s found his gold.

  “Virginia, though I ain’t been there for twenty years,” he says. “I’ve mined since I left, first in Dakota’s Black Hills, then in Colorado’s Cripple Creek. Four years ago I traveled north to mine along them streams folks now call the Klondike goldfields.”

  My fingers prickle, and it ain’t just from the cold lake water. “Your name ain’t Riley, is it?” He’s old, all right, but this sourdough’s got two eyes, not one.

  He looks me over, careful-like. “That story’s made it down here?”

  I can’t hardly believe this. Here’s an old-timer who knows of Riley, who’s come straight from them goldfields where he mined. “I heard about One-Eyed Riley on a steamer from Seattle.” I dunk them socks still shaped like feet into the lake and crush them against the washboard.

  “Seattle. That’s where you should have stayed,” he says.

  “What’s that?” I stop my work. Surely I ain’t heard him right.

  He pulls a knotted handkerchief from his pocket and holds it in his palm. Inside the hankie is a bundle as big as a scoop of flour or a handful of dirt. “I gave my life to mining. This is all I got to show for it.”

  A huge shadow passes over me from behind. “Well, look who’s here.”

  My heart jumps because I know that voice.

  The sourdough nods curtly. “Frank Hazard. It’s been a while.”

  I look from the sourdough to Grizzly. These two know each other?

  “Old Joe. Last time I saw you was in them Colorado mines. So you’re heading to the Klondike, too,” Grizzly says.

  But he ain’t Grizzly, he’s Frank Hazard. That name suits him better than fine.

  “Oh no,” Old Joe answers. “I’m leaving. I’m done with prospecting.” He touches my shoulder with his gnarled hand. “Well, son, I’ll be back in a little while to get them socks.” Old Joe stomps his bare feet into his boots.

  “If you’re leaving your things with this boy, don’t expect him to return them,” Grizzly says.

  “Now, why’s that?” Old Joe asks.

  “The boy’s a thief. That’s why.”

  “I ain’t!” I bite down on my tongue to keep a flood of words from pouring out.

  Old Joe runs a hand through his silver hair. “There ain’t no reason for him to take my only pair of socks.”

  Frank Hazard watches after Old Joe as he shuffles off, then sets his eyes on me. “I don’t know what you think you saw in that canyon on the Chilkoot Trail, but you’re going to forget it.”

  I nod to show I’ll disremember him dragging around a bald fellow who shouted he’d pay up for the food he stole.

  Only what’s so important that I need to forget?

  “Did he pay you back?” I want my words to sound brave, but they hang in the air, crooked and wrong.

  Frank crosses his arms over his chest. Them meaty things bulge like ham hocks. “He returned the side of bacon.”

  That ain’t what I mean. “The man said he knew some things that might interest you.” I regret them nosy words soon as they’re out of my mouth.

  Frank grabs me about the neck and swings at me. Fast. His fist slams into my arm, hard as a hammer driving a nail.

  His eyes stare straight into mine. I can’t hardly breathe. I shake bad as a wet dog.

  “What he told me ain’t your business. Don’t you ever forget that.”

  “I won’t.” I can’t barely speak, Frank holds me so tight. When he lets me go, I crumble to the ground.

  Even after he’s long gone, I feel his big hand at my throat, the throbbing place he punched me. My fingers shake as I push up the sleeve of my underdrawers. There’s a knot, red and angry. Memories spark of how awful the last two years have been, recollections I thought I left in Kirkland.

  “Excuse me,” someone behind me says.

  I near about jump out of my skin.

  “How much for laundry?” The man’s face is covered in mosquito bites, and where they haven’t gotten him, the sun has baked him red.

  I pull myself together best as I can. “Twenty-five cents an item,” I say, because a few months from now we’ll all be rich. What’s a few more pennies to a man who’ll soon be swimming in gold?

  He don’t question my price, just hands me some socks and shirts. “Bet my partner has some things he’d like washed up, too. You’re the only person with a scrub board I’ve seen for weeks.” He steps a little closer and peers at my arm. “Say, what happened to you?”

  It’s swollen good. “Nothing,” I mumble.

  I soak his things and tell him to come back in an hour. Finally, I got a moment to myself. I can put on my trousers, still damp but clean and fresh.

  • • •

  “Frank Hazard did that to you, didn’t he?”

  The question startles me. I nearly drop the clean shirt I’m setting out to dry. I thought I was alone. I glance over my shoulder to see who’s there.

  Old Joe. He’s so light on his feet without them crusty socks, I don’t hear him till he’s right next to me. I roll down my sleeve right quick. There’s no reason to tell him what happened. I don’t need any more trouble from the likes of Frank.

  “Frank’s a nasty fellow. I’d stay clear of him, if I was you.”

  Oh, he can count on that.

  “In Cripple Creek, Frank felt cheated by any man who found more gold than he did.”

  “It’s kind of strange you ran into him out here in Alaska.”

  “Not strange at all,” Old Joe says. “When news of a gold strike hits, a lot of prospectors leave their claims in search of a better opportunity. I’ve known men every place I’ve mined.”

  I hand him his socks, real pleased with how they’ve softened. When Old Joe gave them to me, I thought they were brown, but they’re closer to the color of fresh cream.

  “You’ve done a good job.” Old Joe unties the corners of his hankie and dips his fingers into a fine gold powder. I ain’t never seen anything so amazing. “Is there something you can put this in?”

  All I got is my newspaper. I tear off a corner and hold it out. Old Joe sprinkles a pinch of gold right in, and I twist that bit of paper tight. It looks a lot like Old Joe’s knotted hankie.

  “Why are you leaving the Klondike?” I can’t help but ask.

  “Mining’s hard and I’m older now. Like most men, I never found much.”

  “That can’t be right,” I blurt out. “What about all them prospectors on the Portland fairly weighed down with gold?”

  “It most surely is, son. Those men on the Portland were the lucky ones.” His blue eyes keep with mine. “It’s best you know that going in.”

  I watch Old Joe as he walks away, hoping he might turn and say he got things mixed around, that almost every fellow finds more gold than he needs. I wait till he ain’t nothing but a tiny speck, his back the last part of him I see.

  • • •

  The sun reaches far across Lake Lindeman before I’m through with all my work.

  It’s been a long while since I’ve seen Mel, and the more time passes, the lower I feel. He ain’t found someone to partner with, otherwise he’d have come and told me. I can’t shake them words of Old Joe, neither, that it ain’t usual to find a lot of gold. That makes Riley’s mine all the more important. Oh, why didn’t I ask him if he’d heard any clues?

  I strap on my washboard and leave the shore, walk from tent to tent to see if someone might sell some supper for a couple coins or a pair of rubber boots. But no one’s home. Not one cook pot’s boiling, because them fire pits are cold ash. Though it’s gotten late, the sun’s still up, and that me
ans everyone’s still working on their boats.

  I leave the tents, head to the woods where folks cut down trees and assemble boats. It don’t take long to spot Mel wandering from one crew to the next. He says something, and they listen respectfully, but when he’s finished, they shake their heads.

  I don’t got the heart to hear just yet that Mel’s found no one to take us in. So I search for a place that ain’t too damp under an enormous pine and clear branches from this spot where we’ll spread the canvas for another night alone.

  Chapter 7

  Smoke rests low in the valley and morning sunlight stretches through the pines as Mel folds the piece of canvas. The smoke drifts from nearby cook fires, carrying with it the smell of frying bacon. Our last meal was supper at the Palmer House two days ago.

  “I’ll buy us breakfast,” I say, and trust that Mel follows me through the tents packed tight together in messy rows.

  My laundry money gets us two biscuits stuffed with bacon from a fellow who’s right friendly, but as soon as Mel brings up partnering, he shakes his head. “Everyone in Lindeman City has found someone to team with or has hired on some help, far as I can tell. But seeing as you’re desperate, you could try the Therouxs.” He points down the crooked path between the tents.

  Mel’s eyes brighten in a way I ain’t seen for days. “How will we know who the Therouxs are?”

  “You can’t miss them. I promise you that.”

  • • •

  We pass folks who’ve just woken up and others who’ve gathered around fires set to have a meal. All’s hush and quiet.

  Then there’s an awful clang and solid thunk. A cook pot rolls in front of us, bumps against Mel’s shoe. Brown water thick as mud clings to its rim.

  “Boy, didn’t your ma teach you anything?” someone shouts. “That ain’t how you boil coffee.”

  A man leaves a campsite set back between the trees. He’s got a graying beard, the out-of-control kind that’s kissing cousins to the hairs that sprout from his ears. His belly sits right on top of his trousers. Suspenders bend around it on their way to his shoulders. Though he’s an old codger, he snatches up the cook pot like a spry young man. “What are you boys staring at?” he says with a scowl.

  “Mr. Theroux?” Mel asks.

  “I’m Theroux. What of it?”

  Here’s our chance! “We really need to partner up.” Them words of mine leap out before I even know I’ve said them.

  “What my brother means,” Mel says, “is if you’d consider partnering with us, I’d help you build your boat. I’ll pay you for your trouble once we stake our claim. And Jasper here could cook and do some laundry.”

  “We don’t got gear to weigh your boat down, neither,” I say.

  “Jasper.” Melvin squeezes my wrist. “Let me handle this.”

  But it’s me Mr. Theroux inspects like a farmer after a brand-new cow. “Them’s some strange glasses you got there.”

  I push the frames back up my nose. “They broke in Skagway.”

  “You know how to boil coffee?”

  That’s something Mama taught me years ago. “Yes, sir. I’m right good at it.”

  Mr. Theroux moves on to Mel. “You ever worked in a saw pit before?”

  “Well, no,” Mel says, “but I’ll learn quick.”

  I ain’t sure what a saw pit is, unless it’s them platforms set up all over camp meant to hold a log off the ground. One fellow stands on the platform above and one below, and both grip the ends of a long whipsaw between them. They push and tug the whipsaw through that log with all their might. It ain’t easy. Sharp words fly thick as sawdust between them who work the pits.

  “Hmm,” Mr. Theroux says. Around his neck is the filthiest kerchief I’ve ever seen, stained with tobacco juice and who knows what else. Probably been there since he left home, keeping that scraggly beard of his company. “Follow me.” He heads beneath them pines. “Stanley!” he calls. “You’d better come out.”

  We skirt around the coffee splattered on the ground. Mel wears a goofy smile, and I bet I look the same. Finally, someone’s willing to take us on. Oh, we’re fit to burst.

  A boy with a jumbly set of arms and legs stands at the entrance of their tent. His cheeks are covered with them pimples some fellows get. He’s a couple years younger than Mel. “Who are these two, Uncle?” he says, real wary.

  I best speak up, since Mr. Theroux don’t even know our names. “I’m Jasper, and that’s my brother, Mel.”

  “These boys want to pair up with us.” He puts a hand on his hip, which makes that belly of his poke out as round as the cook pot he still clutches. “Listen here,” Mr. Theroux says. “If Stanley and I like what you got to offer, we might let you stay around till Dawson City.”

  That don’t sound promising. Do them Therouxs plan to let us start the journey down the Yukon River only to leave us on the bank whenever it strikes their fancy?

  I glance at Mel, but he’s still grinning. “We thank you kindly,” is all he says. Could be he’s so happy we’ve finally got a partner, he ain’t focused on the fact it’s on a trial basis. Or maybe he’s been hypnotized by that strange beard on the mister’s face.

  “You’re in charge of coffee now.” Mr. Theroux thrusts the cook pot at me. “Get some boiling. We’ll want it soon.” He throws his arms around Mel’s and Stanley’s shoulders. “Well, boys, we best get to the pit.”

  The three of them disappear beneath them stately trees. Mr. Theroux tries to whistle “Oh My Darling Clementine.” He don’t get one note right.

  • • •

  I stroll toward the big blue lake, the cook pot under my arm. For once, things are looking up. Me and Mel, we got full bellies and a couple brand-new partners. Tonight we even get to sleep in a tent.

  The air’s spiced with pine needles, and the clear sky’s spread wide over Lake Lindeman. I ain’t ever seen a more perfect morning. Surely Mel and the Therouxs won’t need coffee straightaway. They’re just getting started in the saw pit. So I got some time to explore and get back to them Riley clues.

  The thing is, I’ve got an idea. Write down what I learn. Think and think what it might mean that Riley whispered clues into the wind and sailed them on the Yukon River. Because here’s something that’s a fact: stories can get knotted up like thread, but if you’re patient, you can pick them apart, unravel them until you find the truth inside.

  How did Riley sail them clues? Did he write them out and drop them in the currents? Paper ain’t nothing but a soggy mess once it touches water. Maybe Riley sealed his riddles in jars or bottles before he set them free. The guidebook Mel’s been reading says the Yukon flows north. So there ain’t no way those clues could be down here, south of Dawson.

  Unless.

  Maybe One-Eyed Riley traveled upstream when he left town. Maybe he waited till he was far from Dawson and released his clues along the way. Didn’t Pickle Barrel say something like that when we were on the Queen? Riley could be like them kids in that fairy story Miss Stapleton told us who left a bread-crumb trail. Could be he dropped his very last clue right here, in Lake Lindeman, before he hiked over the Chilkoot and on to Dyea.

  On my hands and knees, I search for an object that might have washed up onshore. A glass jar’s what my mind’s set on, but I’ll take anything that feels out of place.

  Them Riley clues run through my head as I push aside the branches of them thorny bushes near the lake. Nine below’s the way to go. Gold on the bottom of the creek. Friday’s the last chance to be lucky.

  They don’t make any sense. What I gotta do is think of patterns in them clues, let my mind work over them as my eyes are busy exploring.

  Nine below. Gold on the bottom. Below and bottom are words that are almost the same, but them two clues don’t fit together. One’s about a temperature and one’s about a creek.

  Something’s stuck under a piece
of wood that don’t look like it belongs. I dig it out, but it’s just a dirt-caked spool with the thread long gone. It could float, all right, but there ain’t no message on it, no way to prove that it was once Riley’s.

  I search the bank while I go over them clues. Nine below’s the way to go. That one’s got the number nine. Friday’s the last chance to be lucky. That one ain’t about numbers, but if I look at it different, flipped over and turned inside out, I could count from Sunday until I landed on Friday. The sixth day.

  Below. Bottom. Nine. Six. Do them patterns mean something?

  I’m so wrapped up in what I’m doing, I don’t notice how far I am from camp. I check Pa’s watch and see over half an hour’s passed. Besides that spool I ain’t found nothing other than a broken button.

  The coffee should be boiling, and I ain’t even gotten water yet. My first task for the Therouxs, and already I’m behind.

  I run to where I first reached the lake and fill the cook pot to its brim. Once I’m at the Therouxs’ tent, I set it over the coals and dig through their supplies in search of coffee. Oh, they’ve got a fine stash of food. Bacon, flour, cornmeal, rice. Oatmeal, butter in a can, and even dried-up fruit. There’s also something called compressed soup, which I set aside. That’s gonna be the first thing I’ll make come dinnertime.

  Soon the pot of coffee’s boiling, its rich, warm smell right homey. I carry the Therouxs’ cups in one hand, the cook pot in the other. Their saw pit’s set back a ways, and I pass a fair number of men who tug their sharp-toothed saws through sturdy logs, thirsty fellows who call out for a taste of coffee.

  “I’d give you a dime for just one swallow,” says a fellow with his sleeves rolled up, his forearms damp with sweat and coated in layers of sawdust.

  It’s awful hard to shake my head. “It ain’t mine to sell. It’s for the Therouxs.”

  “Pull harder!” A shout rings out, as mean as poison. “I can’t saw this log alone.” The words are loud enough to set a flock of geese to flying high above the treetops.

  “You’d better hurry, then,” says the fellow with the rolled-up sleeves. “The Therouxs have been howling like that all morning.”