Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  “I heard of him,” Stanley says. “He’s the one who left the Klondike and said a lot of funny things. A man at Lindeman told me about him.”

  I’m real interested in that. “What did he say?”

  “For one, Riley sure liked creeks.”

  Gold on the bottom of the creek. That clue fits with Stanley’s words. I nod, hope he’ll keep on.

  “And he was fond of the end of the week. He thought Friday was lucky.”

  I nod again. That clue’s familiar, too.

  “For some reason, Riley fancied things low to the ground.”

  “Well, ain’t that something,” I say, because I noticed the same.

  “He said hunker down but not too much.”

  I sit up straight. I ain’t heard this clue before.

  “Riley said those words?”

  “He sure did. I remember because I wondered what that means. How much hunkering down would be too much?”

  “If anyone should hunker down, it’s you,” Mr. Theroux says, just as cranky as can be. “The more you talk, the slower you row.”

  Stanley dips his oar and works to hold the same pace as Mel.

  Mel, he ain’t said much, but that’s probably because he ain’t too fond of Riley.

  When it’s my turn at the oar, the sun reflects off the water in patches so bright, I have to squint to see where we’re headed. No matter how hard I pull, no matter how far the raft glides forward, it feels like we’re getting nowhere. Me and Mr. Theroux row till we can’t make it any farther, then Mel and Stanley take over. I’m pretty sure this is the longest day since the world began.

  “How about we stop there, Uncle?” Nobody’s talked for hours, and Stanley’s words sound strange in this great big empty wilderness. He points ahead where the mountains slope gently to the shore. The trees are colored in reds and yellows and greens, like a bundle of paintbrushes that ain’t been rinsed.

  “That’d be fine,” Mr. Theroux says.

  Mel and Stanley work them oars, and soon the raft thumps over the shallows. Mel wades out, and with a rope he guides us to the bank.

  I’m ready to settle in and let my body rest, but Melvin won’t have none of that. “Jasper and I will fetch some firewood,” Mel calls to the Therouxs, “while you two set up camp.”

  On second thought, collecting wood’s a great idea. Could be I’ll get the chance to see if a Riley clue has washed ashore.

  But Mel ain’t interested in staying near the river. He heads toward the forest to gather twigs and broken branches. Soon we’re deep in the woods. Trees blot out the setting sun. It’s grown dark awful quick. We can’t see camp no more.

  “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” Mel says, “but Mr. Theroux sure loves to talk.”

  “I’ve been on the same raft as you, Mel. Caught every single word.”

  “What I mean is he doesn’t always make a whole lot of sense. Don’t be quick to believe everything you hear.”

  “What he said about wintertime, it don’t quite sound right. And also,” I say, though I hate to do it, “that story about gold nuggets on the trees.”

  “That’s it exactly,” Mel says. “Just be aware.”

  Mel picks up branches scattered near his feet. “Get as many as you can,” he says. “No sense in coming out again tonight if we don’t have to.”

  My load’s so big, I can’t barely see around it, so I rely on Melvin’s footsteps to lead me back. The wood clatters as I dump it near them Therouxs, who are bickering again. It seems they don’t remember how to set up the tent. That buys me a little time to search for Riley clues once we get to camp.

  “I’ll just be a minute.” I take my chance to race off to the shore. Oh, it’s good to stretch my legs and be on my own, if only for a little while. The last rays of sunlight sparkle on the water, and pink clouds stream overhead, the same shade as a bonnet Mama once wore.

  Mama. An ache rises in my throat.

  I’ve gotta find Riley’s mine. It’s what’s gonna make things right. Mama wanted the two of us to be taken care of, and his mine will do just that.

  Though I turn over stones and kick aside some broken limbs, I don’t find nothing out of place.

  “Jasper!” Mel calls. “The fire’s ready. You need to get supper on.”

  So I return to camp. I ain’t found nothing yet, but my list of clues has grown to four. Less than three weeks from now, when we reach Dawson City, we’ll be a short walk from the Klondike goldfields and One-Eyed Riley’s mine.

  • • •

  That sunny morning five days back when we pushed off from Lake Lindeman was our one bright spot between stretches of steady rain. We ain’t seen a day like it since. Every night when we set up camp, Mel builds a blazing fire for a head start on the nighttime’s chill, and this just three weeks into September.

  We’re one day out from Miles Canyon, the first set of river rapids on the Yukon, when that drizzle turns to snow. It comes heavy and quick, weighs down the evergreens along the riverbank and soaks through our clothes.

  “Looks like my mining book was right about September snow,” Mel says, real pleased with himself as he and Stanley row.

  “Enough about that mining book,” Mr. Theroux says.

  Mel presses his lips together. I bet he won’t say another word.

  “I’m about fed up with this river.” Mr. Theroux scowls at the three of us.

  We got two more weeks of travel. A few days less, if we’re lucky. They’re gonna be real pleasant if Mr. Theroux keeps up like this. But he mellows when he sees something on the shore.

  “Would you look at that fine specimen.” He points to an enormous critter that lumbers through soggy drifts, its shaggy coat made for winter weather. “The cows here sure are big. Never have I had better meat or sweeter milk than from those cows in Fortymile.”

  The animal’s antlers are wide as a wagon seat. Its muzzle reminds me of a horse. I cover my eye behind the broken lens, point my other toward the shore to make sure I see what I think I do. That ain’t no cow. It’s a moose, like the one that crashed past me and Cyril in the woods last fall.

  Mel glances at the creature. Surely he’ll tell Mr. Theroux he’s wrong, but he don’t say a word. Each day he’s gotten more quiet till he don’t hardly talk at all.

  “That’s a moose,” I say for him.

  “What’s a moose?” Stanley asks.

  “A wild animal that’s cousin to the deer.”

  “I tell you, that’s a cow.” Mr. Theroux licks his lips. “What I wouldn’t give for a fried-up steak.”

  I ain’t ever been in Canada, but even I wouldn’t mix up a moose with a cow.

  “What I wouldn’t give if you rowed some more,” Stanley mumbles.

  “Pardon me?” Mr. Theroux says.

  “That rheumatism of yours.” Stanley stops his oar, makes his voice bold and loud. “Never bothers you except when your turn comes around.”

  Mr. Theroux jumps up fast as a man who don’t got any aches. The raft wobbles beneath us, and I hold on tight. “Ungrateful, that’s what you are. And me, going all that way to fetch you back in Omaha. I brought you here to help me out. You ain’t hardly done a lick of work.”

  The little raft pitches and bobs in the Yukon’s mighty current. There’s no room to stretch without bumping into someone, and there’s no space to be alone. Like the sun that disappeared after our first day on the water, the Therouxs’ good spirits dried up in a snap.

  Oh, I’m ready to be somewhere else, without these two nearby.

  When we stop for the evening, we all get to our chores. The Therouxs clear snow to lay out the tent. It took a few nights of fumbling, but they finally remembered how it works. Mel unloads the pots and pans. “Ready to fetch some wood?” I ask Mel long before he’s finished.

  I practically run between the trees and riverb
ank, I’m so eager to talk. Once we don’t see them Therouxs no more, I’m certain they can’t hear. “A cow! Mr. Theroux called that moose a cow!” I can’t hardly hold my laughter in. “He ain’t been here before, has he?”

  “Nope,” Mel says.

  “So why would he pretend he has?”

  Mel tucks a few pieces of dry wood under his arm. “He’s up to something, though what I couldn’t say. Best we play along.”

  I nod. “No sense in encouraging him to dump us on the riverbank.”

  The fading light leaves the woods in shadow. Between a slab of rock and the stump of a long-departed tree, something catches my eye.

  “Wait a second, Mel.”

  I dust a bit of snow from the object. It’s a glass bottle tinted with a hint of blue. Dirt clogs the bottle’s neck and something’s wedged inside! I tip and shake till it tumbles loose.

  “What is it?” Mel asks.

  “I ain’t sure, but I sure hope it once belonged to Riley.”

  “Riley?” Mel says. “Why would he have left a bottle here?”

  My cold hands fumble to grab the thing that’s caked in dirt and not much bigger than my finger. “It’s . . .” My heart beats strong. I shut my eye behind the broken lens to get a better look and use the corner of my shirt to wipe it clean. And just like that my heart slows with a thud. “It’s the broken end of a spoon.” I toss it over my shoulder as we move on.

  “Why did you think that bottle could be Riley’s?”

  “Because of them clues. Riley sailed them down the Yukon. Maybe he wrote them on bits of paper and sealed them up in bottles. Could be he left clues from Dawson City to Lake Lindeman.”

  “Jasper,” Mel says, but I cut him off.

  “So that bottle ain’t what I wanted it to be, but even so, I got four clues. Nine below’s the way to go. Gold on the bottom of the creek. Friday’s the last chance to be lucky. Hunker down but not too much. I ain’t sure what they mean yet, and I don’t know if they’re real or fakes, but Riley left five clues behind, and I almost got them all.”

  “Jasper,” Melvin says again, his face set with that practical look he’s so good at.

  “What?”

  “Just don’t get your hopes up.” Mel speaks slowly, like I might not want to hear. “Our best bet is our own claim, not poking around for some old man’s forgotten mine.”

  Mel’s words don’t hold any faith, like there ain’t room for nothing in this world but proven facts.

  “Don’t see why we can’t do both.”

  I focus on my rubber boots, how the snow under them gives gently with every step. “You wait until I find all them clues, Mel. It’ll come together.”

  “You know what this reminds me of? When Mama died—”

  I shove Mel so hard, he stumbles. The wood he holds clatters to the ground. “This is not like that.”

  Mel grabs my hand, forces me to stop. “Jasper, she died. She didn’t leave us. Tell me you remember.”

  “You ain’t supposed to talk about it. You ain’t.” I pound him with my fist.

  Mel don’t speak. He wraps his arm around me, rests his cheek on my head.

  When I was sick, Mama cared for me, all day and through the night. But then she got the influenza, too. She died, Pa said.

  How could I believe him when the quilt, the broom, the coffeepot stayed right where she had left them, as though she’d be home any minute? When her rocker was still angled how she liked it, set to catch the sunlight that raced across the wooden floor? When I never attended a funeral and Pa didn’t cry for the longest time?

  I whisper into Melvin’s chest. “If Mama really died, wouldn’t Pa have acted different?”

  “Sadness doesn’t always look the same,” Mel says. “Remember what Mama told us when Cyril’s mother lost her baby? ‘Sometimes heartache cuts so deep, it tears a soul apart.’”

  I take in the towering trees, the smell of pine sap sharp in the air, how steady Mel is right beside me.

  “Mama would never have left. She loved us too much. Don’t you ever forget that,” he says.

  “Mel and Jasper!”

  The eerie call hangs in the night’s empty spaces, echoes through the trees.

  “Where are you?” Stanley calls.

  We collect our branches and walk toward camp. Stanley happens on us, near the river’s edge. “I thought you two had gotten lost,” he says. The older boys talk together, but I don’t listen. I’m remembering what Mel said. Mama would never have left. She loved us too much.

  “Get over here now,” a gruff voice shouts.

  The three of us pick up the pace.

  Chapter 8

  I hear them river rapids thunder like a thousand horses before I see the canyon. The Yukon’s green waters hurry us toward walls of massive rocks alongside the riverbanks. Last night I tried to picture Miles Canyon, but my head couldn’t imagine these sheer cliffs and the sound of rapids pounding so loud, it thrums in my chest.

  Before they reach the canyon, the boats ahead of us gather along the Yukon’s bank and men unload their outfits. They don’t only unload them, they carry their gear up and over a snowy path, like they did on the Chilkoot Trail. Folks travel back and forth, saddled with belongings or retracing their steps to fetch some more. Mounties wave their broad-brimmed hats to show the new folks where to go.

  “Greenhorns.” Mr. Theroux shakes his head as though he feels sorry for them who walk the trail high above the currents carrying their gear. “Only men without experience on the Yukon choose to portage.”

  “Portage?” Stanley asks.

  “Carry a boat to get around rough waters,” Melvin says.

  Mr. Theroux lifts his scraggly chin. “I’m real tired of them facts from your mining book. I could have explained just fine myself.”

  Mel stays quiet, his brown eyes on them rock walls growing bigger up ahead.

  Stanley’s voice wavers. “You mean we ain’t gonna carry our raft and walk around them rapids like those men over there?”

  The wind and currents are so strong, we don’t need to row. The raft picks up speed, and we fly so fast, it feels like them enormous cliffs ahead have grabbed ahold and yanked us closer. Oh, my belly’s knotted up.

  “I don’t want to stay on the river.” Stanley’s cheeks have lost their color.

  “Well, you don’t got that choice now, do you? We ain’t going to portage; we’re going to ride,” Mr. Theroux says. “It will take them fellows at least a day to travel over Miles Canyon when it could easily take five minutes. A little bumpy on the rapids, sure, but not too bad.”

  “Let me off,” Stanley pleads, and I’m right there with him. I don’t want to stay on this raft a minute more.

  Mr. Theroux acts like he don’t hear a thing.

  We’re stuck on this flimsy raft, forced to ride through dangerous waters just because Mr. Theroux wants to act like he’s sailed down the Yukon before.

  The canyon walls grow steeper the nearer we get. How easily the racing Yukon could slam us into them! It ain’t just the roar of water I hear. I can see white waves churn and thrash.

  I grab Mel’s wrist and don’t let go.

  If we keep on, we’ll be bashed and broken, sucked under and destroyed.

  A boat slips past us, then another, and at first I think they mean to brave the rapids. But both turn off to join the others on the shore.

  “Mr. Theroux,” Mel begins. “I’m not so sure this is a good—”

  The mister points straight at my brother. “You, Melvin Johnson, got no respect for my experience.”

  My fingernails dig deep into Melvin’s flesh.

  “I ain’t gonna drown!” Stanley stands, and the raft sways wildly beneath him. “I’ll swim right back to Omaha if you don’t let me off this raft.”

  “Greenhorns,” Mr. Theroux says, but just befo
re we slip past them boats on the riverbank, in the last moment before the cliffs swallow us whole, he dips an oar and turns. In a few swift strokes we push through the current and reach the shore. I ain’t never been so happy to feel the bank bump beneath us. “Get out if you’re afraid of a couple rocks and some rough water. I’m tired of the lot of you.”

  Me and Mel and Stanley grab our things and scramble out. Once Mr. Theroux pushes off, the raft shoots forward, bounces between boulders before a wave crashes overhead. After that, I don’t see nothing. Did the wave pull the raft under or snap it clean in half?

  Did Mr. Theroux wash overboard?

  Stanley stares at the river. He don’t move at all, like his toes have sprouted and put down roots. Mel has to pull him from the riverbank. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go see what happened.”

  The three of us rush up the snowy path past men who’ve just arrived at the canyon. Some carry outfits and even empty boats. Others who’ve hauled their loaded boats from the river push them over sets of logs, which roll like wheels along the portage trail, and is it ever slow. As the boat inches forward, the last log must be carried to the boat’s front end, so it can keep on with its rolling. We gotta dodge all of them. It’s hard to match the older boys’ pace and even tougher to see with only one good lens which bobbing jackets belong to Mel and Stanley.

  I think I’ve lost the two of them. Mel and Stanley probably ain’t noticed I’m not behind them anymore.

  A man not far ahead strikes me as familiar. He pushes back his derby and scratches where his hair’s supposed to be. Then he walks with hurried steps straight off the trail and disappears into the woods.

  Baldy. The thief who might have taken Old Joe’s gold.

  Old Joe labored all them years just to have the last of his gold snatched away. It ain’t right. My feet move on their own, not down the trail but after Baldy.

  Sunlight filters through giant pines so big they block out the sky. The ground is steep and slick from dampened needles and patches of snow. I keep track of Baldy best I can, my eyes fixed on his hat, my feet quiet as a rabbit’s. Has he robbed someone else and come out here to examine the loot?