Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  It ain’t easy moving fast with a sloshing pot of coffee, but I hustle best as I can. Them voices grow louder. The Therouxs’ saw pit’s in a clearing with no one nearby, no one but Mel, who’s down below, watching, near a pile of wood that’s been hacked to pieces. I think them things are meant to be planks, but they look more fit for a campfire. The elder Theroux stands on the raised platform, high as if he balanced on another man’s shoulders. He’s got a log between his feet. A whipsaw hangs from one hand, and he points with the other at the younger Theroux beneath him. “It ain’t acceptable to force an old man to do all the work. And me with my rheumatism.”

  Stanley grips the saw’s other end. “Are you saying I don’t do my share?” He jerks it hard enough that the saw flies from Mr. Theroux’s hand and clatters to the ground. “You sure wouldn’t get much done if I weren’t here.”

  Oh, what is Stanley Theroux doing? He ain’t much younger than Mel, so why’s he talk to his uncle like that? Even I’d never dare be so ornery with Pa.

  In all my days, I ain’t never seen a family like this one.

  Stanley strides off, his long arms swinging. Mr. Theroux shouts for him to come back, but it ain’t until Mel calls out that he turns around. Them two talk together for a moment, and Mel says something to calm him down. Keeping the peace. Mel’s had lots of time to practice that at home with Pa.

  Mel sees me coming. “Coffee’s here!” he calls. Them Therouxs dip their cups into the cook pot. Sawdust falls from their arms and floats across the coffee’s surface, which don’t bother them at all.

  Mel waits to take a drink. He don’t talk with his mouth, but his eyes speak plenty. No wonder nobody in this whole camp wants to work with the Therouxs, they say. Them two are awful to each other. ’Course Mel would use his fancy words, ones Miss Stapleton would approve of.

  Stanley climbs the stand, set to take his uncle’s place and yank the whipsaw upward. Mr. Theroux fills in below. Mel stays near them pitiful boards piled on the ground. He looks like he ain’t sure what to do. They push and pull that saw maybe four times more before the crowing starts again, this time in reverse.

  “You got sawdust in my eyes!” Mr. Theroux yells.

  “Put some muscle in it,” Stanley throws back.

  “It’s been like this all morning,” Melvin whispers. “No wonder nobody else set up saw pits near them. I don’t know how they did anything before I came along. It’s only when I took up the saw earlier that any real work was done.”

  Two weeks to build a boat is what Mel says it takes, a couple more to sail from Lindeman downriver to Dawson City, if them Therouxs let us stay on. That’s a lot of bickering between now and then, a lot of soothing ruffled feathers for Mel.

  “Soup and biscuits will be ready in a couple hours,” I call out.

  I’ll do all I can for them to keep us on from here till Dawson City.

  • • •

  Each morning over the next two weeks the sun arrives a little later and sets earlier than before. While daylight lasts, men labor in the saw pits. Come sunrise, some gather at the shore to sail off in fresh-made boats. And every day, more men trail down from the Chilkoot Pass, add to the numbers camped along the lakeside.

  When I ain’t doing chores, I walk as far around Lake Lindeman as I can. I search the ground for anything that feels out of place, that could have once been Riley’s.

  The only things I’ve found have been a rusty razor and an empty flour sack.

  Mel’s done his best to hold them Therouxs together, and if all goes well, today they’ll finish the raft, the only type of boat they’ve been able to make. It took three tries and a lot of Melvin’s coaxing to get them this far along. Mr. Theroux has rested these last few days while Mel and Stanley cut and carried and lashed them logs together. It’s real interesting how his rheumatism kicks in just when heavy labor’s needed.

  The Mounties here in Lindeman City urge everyone to build their boats long and strong and sturdy, and the sorry raft ain’t that, but it’s all we got.

  Tomorrow, we’ll be the ones leaving for the Klondike.

  It’s rained off and on all morning. Still I’m right occupied with laundry. After two weeks sleeping in the Therouxs’ fouled-up tent, I finally persuaded the mister to let me wash that slimy kerchief he keeps wrapped around his neck, and oh, I’m looking forward to a night without my nose tucked in the crook of my arm. Mel and Stanley, their clothes ain’t too much fresher, from all their boat work, and I take pride in how everything washes so clean. Once them things are strung up to dry, they serve as good advertising. It ain’t long before other folks, including a couple ladies and even a Mountie, ask for my services.

  Frank drags his boat to the shore nearby, a fine-looking scow. Word is he paid a couple of his Tlingit packers to stay on a little longer and help him build it. He’s still wrapped in that fur coat. Sure, it’s cooler than when we got here, but not enough to stay dressed up like a bear. I ain’t seen him in a while, and I’ve been better than fine with that.

  “I see you paired with them fool Therouxs,” he says when he notices me. “No one else in camp can abide being near them.”

  It ain’t just their fighting nobody likes. It’s the way Mr. Theroux treats the other Stampeders, like he’s an expert and they don’t know a dern thing. But I don’t want to talk with Frank Hazard, not now, not ever.

  The Mountie whose wash I’ve done hurries over. “I’ve called a meeting everyone must attend. The whole camp’s to report to the shore five minutes from now.” When he rushes off, he don’t even remember to take his laundry with him.

  Soon dozens of men cram in close, where a few moments ago it was only me and Frank. Where’s he gone? Being so tall and thick it’s usually hard to miss him, but I don’t spy him anywhere.

  Mel and them Therouxs stand on the outer edge. I can’t quite tell with my ruined glasses, but it seems like Melvin’s searching for me. When our eyes meet, he gives a little nod.

  The Mountie hoists himself on a fallen log so all might see him. “I’ll get right to it. We’ve had a theft reported in camp. This gentleman here is missing gold.” He helps an old man step up, his gray hair slick and shiny. It’s the sourdough who quit the goldfields to go home to Virginia. Old Joe.

  Fellows shift on their feet and glance at their neighbors, the ones they work alongside every day and camp by at night, because the truth is anybody could have taken Old Joe’s gold.

  I crane my neck. Where is Frank Hazard?

  The Mountie says if he has to, he’ll search every tent in camp.

  I ain’t seen that bald fellow in the derby since Frank pulled him through the canyon, but I know he’s a thief, a hungry one, if he stole a side of bacon. Maybe he’s lurking at Lake Lindeman, waiting for the chance to get his hands on other people’s things.

  After the meeting ends, the Mountie keeps his word. He goes from tent to tent, starting near the shore and moving farther back. It’s almost dark when he reaches ours, but he’s prepared for that. The Mountie’s got a lantern to rely on as he combs through all the gear and makes us empty our pockets. Mr. Theroux pulls out a couple nails and some chewing tobacco. Stanley holds a broken twig and a hankie. Mel’s pockets don’t got nothing.

  I didn’t steal Old Joe’s gold, but I’ve got a pinch of it. Will the Mountie believe me? I hold the twist of paper in my cupped hand and hope he’ll hear my words as true. “I got this from Old Joe himself when I washed his socks. He paid for his laundry in gold dust.”

  The Mountie nods. “What else is in your pockets?”

  I show him the soap, the newspaper and pencil, and Pa’s watch. If it weren’t for Melvin vouching for me, I ain’t sure the Mountie would believe the timepiece is my rightful property.

  Mr. Theroux’s eyes flash with surprise and something else when he sees what I got. Soon as I can, I shove everything deep into my pockets. Here we are, two boys
who said we don’t got much, with an extra-fine timepiece and a pinch of gold. I ain’t comfortable with our partner knowing we could pay him for his troubles now.

  But Mr. Theroux don’t ask about it. “Come, boys,” is all he says. “We best turn in. We’ve got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  I ain’t sure if that gold is ever found. But I do know this. When we cast off in the morning, the boat that belongs to Frank is already gone. I ain’t saying Frank Hazard stole Old Joe’s gold, at least not outright. But it’s real strange how quick he was to disappear yesterday, when the Mountie called that meeting. And now his boat ain’t here at the shore.

  • • •

  Melvin and Stanley start the first shift of rowing. The Therouxs shout farewell and wave to them that labor back at camp in a way that’s downright friendly. If I didn’t know better, I’d think them old chums with everyone at Lindeman. Mr. Theroux must be so excited to get going, he ain’t as prickly as normal. And Stanley, well, he’s relaxed. He don’t cringe like he’s waiting for a scolding. He’s got no reason to talk back. It’s a peek at what he’d be like if Mr. Theroux were a different kind of man.

  Our raft skids past a fellow who floats in a mess of nailed-together packing crates, and them Therouxs don’t crack a joke about how long the thing’s gonna last (not even the seven miles to Lake Bennett, we find out soon enough). They don’t even snicker about them ladies who’ve rigged up petticoats as a sail. There ain’t many women Stampeders, and most of them have husbands. But these two are out here on their own. Even with their laundry dangling from their mast, their boat glides as grand as the Queen compared with our sorry raft.

  My mind keeps drifting to Frank Hazard and how he lit out like he did. Maybe he didn’t steal that gold. He could have forced Baldy to steal it for him and the two took off together. Baldy sure acted like he’d do anything for Frank as long as he didn’t turn him in. But that don’t make a lot of sense. With that fancy coat and string of Tlingit packers, Frank ain’t hurting when it comes to money, far as I can tell.

  But Old Joe did say that Frank couldn’t stand it when a fellow found more gold than him. What if seeing Old Joe and his hankie full of gold was enough to set Frank off? He could have swiped it out of spite and left Lindeman quick as that.

  I spread out as much as I can on the crowded raft, tuck my arms behind my head, study them slender trees along the shore with leaves that flame yellow and the endless parade of folks who stream through the Chilkoot Pass. We’re lucky to be leaving in the middle of September, a week or two before winter creeps in. With a couple weeks to build a boat, how many people only now reaching Lindeman will make it out before ice forms on the lakes and rivers?

  Mel whistles as he pulls the oars. Stanley tries to follow, but he don’t hold a pucker right. Them two ain’t exactly friends, but they get along together fine, almost as good as Mel did with some of them fellows at the mill.

  Stanley ain’t the quickest boy. Mel said it sometimes took a few tries for him to understand how to build the raft, but there ain’t no harm in that. I’d take a heap of Stanleys any old day over his uncle Theroux.

  We ain’t had much sun for days, just spitting rain and misty clouds, and this bit of sunshine is a treat. I wonder what Cyril’s up to back at home. Surely he’s at school. Miss Stapleton’s probably got him practicing elocution, say-ing-ev-ery-syl-la-ble while she taps along with her ruler for them words with extra-long parts. That work Miss Stapleton had us do, it never meant nothing to me but words and nonsense, stuff that don’t matter in the least. Adding turnips, saying isn’t instead of ain’t, finding Belgium on a map, none of that did me a lick of good. I’m finished with schooling, and that’s a fact.

  Oh, I wish Cyril could see this place. We’d bring in loads of fish from Lake Lindeman if we ever had the chance. Out here in the open is a hundred times better than some stuffy old schoolhouse. The rain these past few days has given the air a crispness like the whole world’s been washed clean. I ain’t tied down. I get to decide what’s important and what’s not, and it sure ain’t Miss Stapleton’s silly lessons or tiptoeing around Pa.

  No one’s ever gonna be the boss of me again. Riley’s gold will see to that.

  “When I get some gold,” Stanley says, “the first thing I’m gonna do is pay someone to draw me a nice, hot bath.”

  That sounds real fine. The closest any of us have come to washing up these last two weeks is a bowlful of water from Lake Lindeman.

  “And then I’ll order me a sandwich and a plateful of eggs. That’s what I miss most about home, a good plateful of eggs cooked up over easy.” Stanley’s eyes go dreamy, like them eggs are set before him now.

  “When me and Mel get rich, I’m gonna celebrate by taking the whole day off. Imagine an entire day without a bit of work.”

  “What about you, Mr. Theroux?” Mel asks. “What do you want to do with your gold?”

  “My old partner, he always said, ‘Don’t count your gold before you got it, Theroux,’ so I try not to think like that.”

  “Where was it you mined?” I ask. “Was it in Colorado, at that place called Cripple Creek?” I’m proud I remember where Old Joe and Frank met. For once Mel ain’t the only Johnson boy who knows a little something about the mining life.

  He strokes his grizzled beard. “In Fortymile, I partnered with Salt Water Jack. You boys ever heard of him?”

  Melvin shakes his head. “You were in Canada before?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  I wonder why Mr. Theroux’s never told us that.

  “Where’s Fortymile, Mel?”

  “It’s a mining town not far from Dawson City. Remember Mr. Shaw back in Dyea? He said hardly anybody stuck around in Fortymile once gold was discovered on Bonanza Creek.”

  Bonanza, that creek where the first nugget was found, the place that stirred up everything.

  Mr. Theroux’s got a wistful look in his eye. “Yessiree, that Salt Water’s one of the best Fortymile’s ever seen. Me and Salt Water mined alongside Buckskin Miller and Pete the Pig. The four of us was right close. I trusted them boys with my life.”

  I gotta bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Mr. Theroux worked with some critter from a barnyard?

  “Last summer when the word got out about that Klondike gold, Buckskin, Salt Water, and Pete rushed over to stake a claim. They promised me a share of whatever they got. On account of my rheumatism, I went home to Omaha to fetch this one.” Mr. Theroux pokes a dirty thumb straight into Stanley’s chest. “My second set of hands. We left Omaha a few days after them steamers arrived in San Francisco and Seattle with the gold. Once we make Dawson, the five of us will work that claim together.”

  “Good thing you’re out here now,” Mel says. “I’d hate to be caught on the shores of Lindeman during freeze-up.”

  “Freeze-up?” Mr. Theroux sounds confused. “What’s that?”

  “You know, when winter starts in.”

  “Could happen in the next few weeks,” I say.

  “Oh, that.” Mr. Theroux nods. “Freeze-up ain’t so bad.”

  What can he mean? Word is them at Lake Lindeman and Lake Bennett better finish their boats quick if they want to reach Dawson before next spring.

  Mel pulls the oars, with his eyes on Mr. Theroux. “I’ve read in my guidebook about Fortymile’s early days,” he says. “How an empty cabin was available to anyone, as long as a person passing through remembered to chop wood for the next fellow. And when new gold was discovered, it was never kept secret. Folks talked about it openly. Everyone kept an eye out for each other and helped when they could. The Miner’s Code, they called it.”

  Mel’s learned a whole bunch these last few weeks. I can’t help but feel a bit of pride in my Klondike partner.

  “So I was wondering,” Mel says, “has the Miner’s Code changed any with the big discovery in the Klondike?”

&
nbsp; Mr. Theroux scratches his gut where the bottom button of his shirt is missing. He stares at Melvin hard, like he ain’t real fond of those facts Mel’s learned. “Here’s the thing, boys. Mining’s easier when you’ve got a team.”

  That ain’t exactly what Mel asked, but I understand Mr. Theroux’s meaning. Like Mama used to say, any task is sweeter with another pair of hands.

  “See,” he continues, “when you got more than one set of eyes on a claim, it’s easier to get the gold. Take me and Salt Water Jack. While he picked the nuggets off the bushes, I could focus on the trees.”

  Oh, I knew it. “I told you, Mel! It’s true about them nuggets.”

  Mel’s oar goes sort of wonky. He lifts it from the water, so for a moment, Stanley’s the only one who rows. My brother leans in close as he can to Mr. Theroux, like he’s waiting for something important. “Say, what are those winters like in Fortymile?”

  “Tell them, Uncle, how it ain’t as cold up north as some claim and how the sun stays out all night. Most of those harsh winter stories are told to keep new folks away.”

  “Sounds like you told them for me,” he says.

  Back home in Kirkland, the sun’s pretty scarce in winter. Most days are cold enough to keep me hoping for the spring. How is it Fortymile stays so mild if Lake Lindeman and the Yukon start to freeze around the end of September?

  Mel don’t say nothing more. Instead he plunges his oar into the water and focuses on rowing. I don’t know what he makes of Mr. Theroux’s stories, but his face says he’s thinking about what he’s heard.

  As for me, I ain’t sure what to believe.

  I’ve got my own question for Mr. Theroux. “Did you meet a fellow named One-Eyed Riley when you were here before?” If Fortymile’s so close to the Klondike, it could be their paths crossed sometime.

  “Riley?” Mr. Theroux says. “I ain’t ever heard that name before, nor seen a man with one eye, neither. And I ain’t one to ever forget a face.” Mr. Theroux glares. “What’s with all the questions, anyhow?”