Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  Mel groans. I reach him as his eyes flicker open. “My feet hurt.” His voice still scratches. The bump on his forehead has swelled up big and red and angry.

  “Here, drink some of this.” I offer him my cup. Mel makes a face as he swallows. Could be the funny taste or that his throat is raw. Then he settles back on the pillow. I hold my fingers to his cheek. It ain’t as gray as it was earlier, but he’s still awful hot.

  Spare-Rib opens the cabin door and hurries outside.

  “Where are we?” Mel says.

  “In a cabin on one of those little creeks west of Bonanza. A fellow named Spare-Rib has taken us in.” I tell him he’s real sick, that he fell and we were rescued.

  Mel shivers like he ain’t wrapped in a blanket but is still out there in the cold.

  Spare-Rib returns and brings in a bowl of snow. He lifts the blanket at the foot of the bed and pulls off Mel’s socks. Spare-Rib studies Mel’s toes, which are red and puffy. “Good. I don’t see any white patches on the skin. Your toes ain’t frostbitten, I can tell you that. Long as you feel pain, there’s life in them yet.”

  Then he does a real strange thing. He takes a handful of snow and rubs it on Mel’s feet. Mel don’t pull away, like I expect. “Feel better?” Spare-Rib asks.

  Melvin nods.

  When Spare-Rib’s done, he dries Mel’s feet and wraps them in a cloth.

  “You boys need some sleep.” Spare-Rib tucks the blanket under Mel and gives me a lopsided grin. “I’d offer you the bed, but it’s already occupied. How about we set you up in front of the stove instead?”

  I lie down on the dirt-packed floor, my coat spread over me like a blanket, Mel’s bed along my back. My head’s against the tree-stump stool, and my toes reach to the wall. The cabin’s so tiny, Spare-Rib’s camped out underneath the table. I could walk the whole length of this place in five strides flat.

  Pretty soon Spare-Rib’s breath falls in line with Mel’s. I’m glad Mel got to see that his Miner Code is going strong in this part of the Klondike. The fear that grabbed me when Mel fell and hurt himself, I’ve pushed it so far away, it can’t touch me here.

  I drift near the edge of sleep, but something Spare-Rib said rubs like a pebble in my shoe. Soon prospectors will hunker down for the winter. They’ll work their claims but not as much as before. Sounds like that Riley clue from Stanley Theroux: Hunker down but not too much. Maybe it ain’t about getting low to the ground to hunt for gold, but about when to search for the claim. When everyone hunkers down, holed up in their cabins, maybe that’s the best time to find it.

  But I ain’t even sure the story of Riley’s mine is real anymore.

  The fire pops in the stove. That funny whistle of Mel’s starts in, and oh, I’m happy to hear he’s resting easy. It ain’t long before sleep comes for me, too.

  • • •

  Spare-Rib stokes the fire and moves about the cabin not much later. It’s so dark, it ain’t true morning, more like the backside of night. I lift Pa’s watch to the firelight that spills from the open stove. It says it’s a little past six.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Spare-Rib says as he buttons his flannel shirt.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Mel feels cooler than yesterday,” he tells me.

  I sit down beside my brother. Mel’s cheeks ain’t gray no more but are awful pale, with hollows deep as Spare-Rib’s. A bruise now runs from the angry bump to his tangled mess of hair.

  Spare-Rib sits at the table. A bacon-grease candle casts an eerie light over his biscuit breakfast. “You ready for some food?”

  I nod.

  “Come here, then.”

  I hold the cold biscuit Spare-Rib gives me in one hand, spread my map out on the table with the other, and with my pencil add in the creeks I’ve learned since last night. Edwin and Spare-Rib found me near Adams. Next to it is Little Skookum, the creek we’re on right now. Must be named for Skookum Jim, one of the men who found the thumb-sized nugget last summer.

  “What’s that you’ve got?” Spare-Rib asks.

  “A map. Me and Mel, we want to learn all the goldfield creeks.”

  He looks over my shoulder. “That’s quite a map.” Spare-Rib reaches for his boots. “Make sure Mel gets plenty of sleep, and fill him up with tea. I’ll be out at my diggings if you need me.”

  Outside the window made of jars, it’s still black as night. “Do you always start this early?” I ask.

  Spare-Rib tucks his gray hair behind his ear. “Well, now, the last few years I have. I’ve been mining most of my life, and I ain’t as young as I used to be. It takes me twice the time to do the things I did back then. And once my partner left, I had double the work to do alone.”

  I think of me and Melvin on a claim, what a great team we would be. But the chance of that ever happening is slim now. “Is the work real hard?”

  “It is. Some years have been better than others, but I ain’t never found much gold,” Spare-Rib says. “Still, I wouldn’t give up this life, not for anything.”

  “Why not?” It seems like a whole lot of trouble without much reward.

  “I’m my own boss in the prettiest place I’ve ever seen, where mountains scrape the heavens and creeks rush through narrow valleys, where snow’s as soft and beautiful as it is mean, and the Northern Lights dance across the nighttime sky. Nothing beats it.”

  When Spare-Rib puts it that way, it makes more than perfect sense. Being in charge of myself in an untamed world like this, that would suit me fine.

  Spare-Rib points to the edge of my newspaper. “What have you written there?”

  “It ain’t nothing, really. Just some things about a mine that probably ain’t true. You ever hear about a fellow named Riley?” I ask.

  “What’s that?” Spare-Rib says. He looks at me real strange.

  “One-Eyed Riley. Supposedly he gave up a mine worth millions.”

  Spare-Rib sinks onto the tree-stump stool. “That’s what I thought you said.” He sets his bony elbows on his faded blue jean trousers. “I ain’t heard about Riley’s mine since last October, about a year ago now. A big crowd searched for weeks.”

  The back of my neck prickles. Oh, this I can’t believe. “The story’s real?”

  Spare-Rib nods. “It’s real, all right, though no one ever found it. A few souls still poke around, but nearly all work their own claims again.”

  “Jasper?” Mel sits up. His eyes ain’t glassy anymore, though that bruise over his eyebrow has darkened and spread.

  I rush to his side. “How do you feel?”

  “Better than yesterday.”

  Spare-Rib smooths Mel’s blanket best he can. Icy snow plinks against the jam-jar window. “Sure is getting nasty out there,” Spare-Rib says. “Maybe it’s best I stay inside.” He pours Mel a mug of tea. “The company in here’s real fine.”

  He may be rough looking, but Spare-Rib’s a good fellow. If Mama had met him, she’d have called him a gentleman.

  Spare-Rib drags the tree-stump stool near the bed. I sit down with the two of them.

  “Mel, Spare-Rib says Riley’s mine is real. And no one’s found it yet.”

  Mel’s eyes grow big.

  “Last time I saw him was about a year ago,” Spare-Rib says.

  “You know One-Eyed Riley?”

  “Sure do. We were partners back in Fortymile.”

  “Partners?” I ain’t sure about that, not after them stories from Mr. Theroux.

  The cabin walls groan as the wind whips around.

  “Me and Riley mined together a good three years,” Spare-Rib says. “Then Riley set his sights on the creeks around the Klondike. He was one of the first to go, a year or two before the Bonanza discovery. Folks had figured for a while gold must be in these parts, but it wasn’t until Carmack and Jim Skookum found that nugget in Bonanza that most of
Fortymile up and left. The whole town emptied overnight.

  “I left about a month later myself, lucky to find a claim so close to Bonanza still open. I set to work, like I’d always done, when I heard my old partner had been in Dawson, crowing that he had a claim worth more than anyone had ever seen. Fellows tried to follow him out of town, but he was clever enough to give them the slip.”

  “So no one ever tracked him down?” Mel asks.

  Spare-Rib shakes his head. “But I saw him one more time. Last September there was a knock on my door. Riley stood on the other side, dressed in a heavy parka and moccasins, a bag over his shoulder. There was an early snow, the first of the season, with wind so strong it made his leather eye patch flutter. I invited him in out of the storm, but he said no. He was going ’round the dome, he told me, and was here to say goodbye. It was the last time I saw him. Then those rumors started that Riley had quit his mine and it was up for grabs. For a few weeks claims stayed empty as folks searched everywhere. But the frenzy died down when nothing was ever found.”

  Spare-Rib ain’t fibbing. I can see it in his eyes.

  “It’s gonna pick up again. Lots of people me and Mel met while traveling to Dawson have heard about the mine. With no claims left, everyone will try to find it.”

  “That dome Riley talked about. What did he mean?” Melvin asks.

  Spare-Rib leans forward on his bony knees. “Oh, I don’t know. The man always talked in riddles. I figured since he said he was leaving, he meant Midnight Dome in Dawson City. You can’t get out of town without passing it by.”

  “I have some clues about the mine, but I ain’t sure what they mean. Maybe you could help me some?”

  “Tell me what you got.”

  I read from my list so far. “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.”

  Spare-Rib studies the map. “That’s a whole lot of creeks.”

  There’s many me and Mel ain’t labeled yet. It’s plain discouraging. “I wish I knew all their names.”

  Spare-Rib trails his finger along the Klondike east of Dawson. “There’s Hunker and Gold Bottom and Too Much Gold.”

  That don’t make sense. “What did you say?”

  “Them clues of yours. They’re a list of creeks.” Spare-Rib writes in the names of those that up till now have been left blank.

  Mel rubs his upper lip. “Those are far from the creeks we passed yesterday.”

  Too Much Gold, Gold Bottom. Those names fairly promise riches. They’ve got to lead to Riley’s mine. I point to the map. “What if Hunker down but not too much means to follow Hunker Creek down a bit, but not as far as Too Much Gold?”

  I imagine a line that runs the length of Hunker but not all the way to Too Much. It turns off at Gold Bottom Creek. “Hunker down but not too much. Gold on the bottom of the creek. Them two clues, they fit together.”

  “Last Chance is the first creek that runs into Hunker,” Spare-Rib says, “but Friday and Lucky Creeks ain’t close by at all.”

  “Maybe Friday’s the last chance to be lucky isn’t a real clue, then,” Mel says.

  “If I’m right about those first two clues, where do I go after Gold Bottom?”

  Someone knocks at the door. “Spare-Rib. You in there?”

  “Come on in,” he calls.

  Edwin opens the door. His shoulders are dusted with snow. Behind him, the sky is thick and gray. “You ain’t going to believe this,” he says.

  Spare-Rib jumps to his feet. “You found the fellow who’s stolen from the claims?”

  “Not yet,” Edwin says. “This is something else. Folks up and down Adams are talking about that old partner of yours again. Some fellows over on Queen Creek are selling clues to Riley’s mine.”

  “You know I never bothered with all that,” Spare-Rib says, “but it is awful strange. We were just talking about Riley and his mine.”

  “Why are they selling clues now?” Edwin says. “Riley left more than a year ago.”

  “Because plenty of new folks have heard about them, that’s why.” My eyes meet Mel’s. “I gotta get to Queen.”

  I got four clues. At least one of them might be a fake. And here’s a chance to learn one more.

  Spare-Rib puffs out his hollow cheeks. “Sounds to me like a sham.”

  Spare-Rib’s got his own claim. He can afford to think like that. But me and Mel have staked everything on One-Eyed Riley’s mine. “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Be careful,” Melvin tells me.

  I nod and with my coat and muffler race out the door.

  • • •

  Three miles north of Little Skookum, a line of men climbs Queen Creek Hill, then weaves through the trees. Them fellows wait real patiently, but I don’t got time to waste. The snow comes hard and frigid, and I dash ahead to see what’s going on. What my eyes take in at the front of the line I can’t hardly believe. Behind a table made of crates stands them Therouxs.

  Mr. Theroux hovers close to the man who’s first in line.

  “I knew Riley for a good ten years,” the man says. “I was friends with all his friends. But I’ve never seen you before. So how is it you claim to have his clues?”

  Mr. Theroux waves his hand. “Me and Riley met a long time before that. As for his clues, you can judge for yourself.” Then he leans in and whispers something in the man’s ear. Stanley pays careful attention to his uncle and writes something down.

  Stanley’s the one who’d heard some Riley clues at Lake Lindeman. Mr. Theroux didn’t even know who he was back then. Now he’s acting like Riley’s an old friend.

  Stanley hands over that paper to the man as soon as he’s made his payment.

  So this is why Mr. Theroux wanted people to believe he’d mined here before, to find a way to trick unsuspecting folks out of their gold.

  I don’t got to wait my turn. I can take some liberties, on account of all that time I spent with them Therouxs. I pass folks I ain’t seen before and a few I recognize. A couple men from the claims along Queen Creek, that fellow from Bonanza with the gray-streaked beard, the one who said Riley owed him money—Bill, was that his name?—and a man in a derby pulled low on his forehead. Albert. Who somehow knew the Klondike was all staked out.

  I elbow in near the front of the line.

  “No you don’t.” The sourdough whose turn is next spreads his feet so I can’t pass.

  “I gotta talk to my uncle,” I say, “the one who’s selling clues.”

  I glance at Mr. Theroux. “Riley told me this one over supper when he visited me last spring,” he says before he whispers to the first man in line.

  I blow on my hands, try to warm them up. Sounds just like them lies he told about his Fortymile days.

  “That’ll be ten dollars.” Stanley holds out a slip of paper for the man in front of the sourdough who won’t let me by. “If you ain’t got money, we’ll be happy to take three pinches of your gold.”

  I poke my head around the sourdough, and that’s when Stanley’s eyes meet mine. In a flash he focuses on the man while he measures out his gold. The red spots on Stanley’s face flame across his cheeks as he dumps that gold dust into a jar.

  Boy, Mr. Theroux has drawn a crowd, and has he got everyone’s attention. If I didn’t know better, I might think he really was friends with Riley.

  “What’d Riley look like?” someone shouts from the back of the line. “That’ll settle if this man speaks true or if this is just a con.”

  Mr. Theroux’s head jerks up. He looks around for the man who’s asking, but the man don’t make himself known.

  The sourdough next to me spits a wad of tobacco into the snow. It lands inches from my feet. “Your uncle, huh? What’s his name, then?”

  “Theroux,” I say. So what if he ain’t family. There’s a
few questions I got, and something I want everyone to hear. Mr. Theroux’s a fraud, it’s as simple as that. “Uncle!” I dart around the sourdough. “It’s me. Jasper!”

  Mr. Theroux’s eyes grow wide. His arms fall limp around his bulging middle. “How’d you get here?”

  “On the Yukon, same as you. Those last two weeks on the river, me and Mel ate mighty fine. How’d your soggy flour hold up?”

  Mr. Theroux smiles through his grizzled beard, the spitting image of an uncle right charmed to see his nephew. “Just fine. Now excuse me,” he says. “I’ve got some important work to do.”

  The sourdough steps up.

  Stanley shakes that jar of gold dust and studies it real close. He sharpens his pencil with a pocketknife the whole time his uncle talks. He does everything he can not to look at me.

  I think about what Stanley told me on the raft. “Looks like you two got a good start on your gold,” I say soft enough so only he can hear. “You gonna have that plate of eggs fried over easy you’ve pined for?”

  It don’t matter that there ain’t any eggs in all the Klondike. It’s the meaning underneath them words that I want Stanley to catch. He’s better than this. He’s got some dreams that don’t involve his uncle’s swindling.

  Mr. Theroux whispers his clue to the sourdough, but Stanley ain’t writing it down. “What is it you want, Jasper?”

  “There’s a couple things.”

  “Where’s my clue?” The sourdough taps Stanley’s arm. “Them other fellows got theirs on paper.”

  Stanley scribbles something quick and hands it to the sourdough. He fumbles as he unscrews the jar lid to collect the fellow’s gold.

  Stanley’s occupied, but the mister’s not. I best take the opportunity in front of me. With both hands spread on the table made of crates, I stare at Mr. Theroux, like Miss Stapleton would when she’d had enough of my talking. “I’m real curious how you met One-Eyed Riley, Uncle.”