Mine!

by Natalie Hyde

  “You want him to impersonate your dad for the claim, huh?”

  How did she do that? Could she read minds or something? “Well, yeah. Do you think he would?”

  Shard didn’t answer right away. Instead she asked, “What will you do if he doesn’t?”

  Good question. Right now I didn’t have a Plan B. I didn’t know anyone else in Dawson — especially anyone I could trust.

  “I’d have to figure out a way to do it myself,” I said.

  Shard made a face. “We both know how that would turn out.”

  Yeah. Not good. “So, will he?”

  Shard shrugged. “How should I know? Ask him.”

  “I will, but what’s the best way to go about it to, you know, win him over?”

  “I don’t know. Just ask him straight up. He doesn’t have the longest attention span.”

  Great. I hoped if he agreed to do it his attention would last long enough for him to remember to answer questions as “Francis Dearing.”

  I didn’t want to do anything in front of Fiona, in case it all fell apart and then she wondered why she bothered to bring me up here. So I waited until she headed off to the bathrooms to brush her teeth and Vinnie was alone by the dying campfire.

  “Hey, Vinnie, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I kind of need a favour.”

  “Okay.”

  “You see, my dad was supposed to meet me up here.”

  “But he’s still in prison.”

  “Yeah, how’d you know that?”

  “Shard told me.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s going to be out in a week or so. He was supposed to hand over some papers in Dawson. I’m too young to do it.”

  “The registration for the claim,” Vinnie said, matter-of-factly.

  “Right,” I said, wondering how to word the next part.

  “And you want me to pretend to be your dad.”

  Did psychic mind reading run in the family? “Uh, yeah.” There was a long, awkward silence. “So, do you think you could help me out?”

  “Sure.”

  Was it really that easy? Was Vinnie so kind hearted, or was there some other reason he agreed so quickly? I shook my head. I had to stop being so suspicious. But I wondered, should I remind him it was illegal and that he could get in trouble for this? Nope. Because I didn’t have a Plan B.

  “Great. Thanks a lot. ’Night,” I said, heading back to the truck.

  “’Night.”

  Well, at least there was some hope now that I could pull this off. All I had to do was get to Dawson, have Vinnie register the claim and wait for my dad. Totally doable.

  As long as nothing else happened.

  CHAPTER 20

  STICKY FINGERS

  I was impatient to get going the next morning, but everyone else seemed to be moving in slow motion. And then Vinnie mentioned that he was out of money again and needed to stop and sell a few muffins when we got to Whitehorse. I would have banged my head against the truck wall in frustration if it would have done any good. I reminded myself that I owed Vinnie a lot for getting me up here, but to be so close and still not get on with the job of getting the claim drove me crazy.

  We made good time to Whitehorse and I was eager to see what the capital city of the Yukon looked like. It wasn’t a city like I was used to — it was too clean. A lot of the buildings were painted bright colours and there were banners on the street light poles. The sky had cleared and in the distance were mountains still covered with snow, making the whole thing look like a postcard.

  Vinnie parked the truck across the street from a statue of a gold miner and his dog. I told myself it was a sign that everything was going to work out for me and my dad. Knowing that he didn’t have a licence, I was a little nervous now about Vinnie selling on the street. If the cops came by, I would have to hide somewhere.

  Vinnie got busy mixing and measuring, and before long the smells started coming out of the vent and wafting down the street. Shard pulled out the whiteboard sign again and wrote: Golden Ticket muffins (carrot-walnut muffins that were a beautiful orangey yellow), Nugget muffins (peanut butter muffins with big chunks of chocolate) and Strike It Rich! muffins (lemon, coconut and pecan muffins).

  You know, Vinnie looked and acted a bit goofy, but he was a marketing genius. People smelled those muffins, and when they came to the window they loved the names of the muffins so much, most people walked away with a box of six — two of each.

  I didn’t have to package this time because Fiona was inside helping Vinnie. She had bungeed the Ducati to the open back doors of the truck. The two of them were laughing and nudging each other all morning. Gave me hives. I stayed outside on a bench, acting as lookout. Truth was, if a cop did come around, I planned on giving the alarm whistle we’d arranged and then taking off. I hadn’t come this close to be caught now.

  There was a steady stream of people, and at this rate, we’d be back on the road within the hour. I scanned the area looking for white cars with narrow red, yellow, white and blue stripes down the side — the local RCMP cruisers. It was a pretty good camouflage — all that white probably made the cars practically invisible in the winter.

  “I can’t stand it anymore.” Shard had come out to the bench and flopped down.

  “What?”

  “Uncle Vinnie and Fiona: all the inside jokes, the smiley faces. There’s just something weird about Fiona smiling all the time.” Shard shuddered.

  “Why have you got Fiona’s phone?”

  “I promised my mom that I would call every day or so.”

  I was about to tell her to say hi from me when something caught my eye: a silver car driving slowly down the street toward the Muffin Man truck. I pulled Shard off the bench and behind a shrub in a small garden bed.

  “What are you doing?!” Shard asked, rubbing her arm. “You nearly pulled my arm out of the socket.”

  “It’s that car again, the silver one I saw two days ago. And look, the driver is Randy. I wasn’t imagining it. He’s following us.”

  Shard stared at the car and driver from behind the shrub branches.

  “I know him!” she said.

  “You know Randy? From where?”

  “Let me think. It was at the track.”

  “The racetrack?”

  “Yeah, Dad used to take us there when he was supposed to be babysitting us — until Mom found out that he was gambling again. I haven’t been in a while, but me and Merle and Reese would sit in the seats and share a pop while Dad did his betting thing. One time there was this big commotion. Security guards swooped in and arrested this guy for pickpocketing. It was better than a TV show. And the guy they arrested was him — Randy. I’m sure it’s the same guy.”

  “A pickpocket? Well, that fits. I thought my dad must have left his wallet on the chair or table in the bar, but Randy probably lifted it right off him. And now he’s up here, after my granddad’s claim.”

  “One thing’s for sure — that guy’s bad news,” Shard said.

  “So what are we going to do? I can’t just lead him right to the claim.”

  Shard was quiet for a minute, but I could almost hear her mind whirring as she thought. “One thing I’ve learned is, people rarely change,” she said finally. “Randy obviously still has sticky fingers. Once a pickpocket, always a pickpocket.”

  “So?”

  “Let’s see where he goes.”

  “We’re on foot — he’s in a car. We’ll never keep up,” I said.

  “Look, Whitehorse isn’t that big and if he is checking you out, he’s not going to go far.”

  I shrugged. It’s not like I had a better idea. We followed the car, which luckily was still going fairly slowly, by staying behind other pedestrians. The silver car came to a stop at the lights at the end of the street, then turned left. We hurried ahead to try and keep an eye on it. Luck was with us, because just down the street, it turned into a doughnut shop.

  We jogged to get closer and saw Ran
dy go inside the shop. From behind a parked pickup truck we could see him clearly through the floor to ceiling windows, standing in line.

  “He must have realized from the lineup outside the muffin truck that we won’t be leaving for a while and decided to grab a coffee,” I said.

  “That’s not all he decided to grab,” Shard said. “Look, he just lifted a wallet from that woman in front of him. I told you, once a pickpocket …”

  “I didn’t see anything.”

  “Well, I did.” Shard pulled Fiona’s phone from her pocket and started dialling.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The cops, dingbat. This is our chance to stall him, at least long enough for us to head down the road without him following us.”

  She dialled 911. “Yes, I’d like to report a robbery … yup … at the doughnut shop on Main and—

  “What street is that?” Shard whispered to me.

  “Third Avenue.”

  “Main and Third.” She gave the dispatcher a detailed description, then said goodbye.

  “Are they coming?” I asked.

  “Yup, and we’re getting out of here.” Shard put the phone back in her pocket and started walking quickly back the way we came. I had to jog to catch up with her. I could only hope Randy was still in there when the cops came and that Shard was right and that lady’s wallet was in his pocket.

  When we got to the corner, we stopped. There was already a cruiser pulling into the parking lot. I guess that’s the benefit of living in a smaller town — the cops are never far away. Mind you, that wasn’t a benefit when you were running from the law.

  “Shouldn’t we go?” I asked, nervous that I’d be spotted by the police.

  “Wait. Oh man, look! He’s just strolling out. They’re talking to the wrong guy.” She punched me in the arm.

  “Hey, what was that for?”

  “I’m just frustrated. He’s such a slippery eel.”

  Even from a distance you could see Randy scanning the area. Then Randy looked up, right in our direction.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said.

  “Stop panicking. He doesn’t know we saw him, and Vinnie will make sure we’re not being followed.”

  Oh, how I wanted to believe her, but I knew that Randy must have researched where Cottonwood Creek was. And worse than that, I was pretty sure he had seen Shard and me on the street just now.

  I felt sick to my stomach. We hadn’t slowed Randy down at all. Would he beat me to the claim?

  CHAPTER 21

  VIKINGS IN THE YUKON

  Shard was talking to me over the drone of the truck’s engine but I wasn’t listening. My heart was thudding in my chest. I had just seen the sign that read Welcome to Dawson. We were here.

  “So, where’s this Mining Recorder Office?” Vinnie called back to us.

  “Forget that,” Fiona said. “Take me to Lefty’s garage to get my baby fixed. Who’s more important here?”

  They both laughed at that in the cab. Shard pointed her finger down her throat. I stifled a laugh.

  “We googled it,” I said. “It’s on Front Street.”

  “Do you need me now?” Vinnie asked.

  “No, I have to get the claim tags, find the claim and stake it, first,” I said. It all sounded so normal when you just said it. Doing it was going to be something else again.

  “So maybe just drop me off there,” I said. “And then we’ll drive out to the claim.”

  “Garage,” said Fiona again.

  “We’ll drop you off at the garage,” Vinnie said, giving Fiona a big smile, “Chris at the registry place and what about you, Shard?”

  “I’ll go with Chris. Make sure he doesn’t forget anything.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said.

  “This from the guy who once forged his mom’s signature on a failed test and spelled her name wrong.”

  “Shut up.” I was in grade three when that happened. Would she never let me forget it? “I need to do this by myself,” I said.

  Shard stared at me for a moment and then shrugged. “No probs. I’ll wait with Uncle Vinnie.”

  Dawson City was much smaller than I’d imagined. We drove past a gas station that had a small garage attached to it as we came into town on the Klondike Highway. Vinnie did a quick stop, and he and Fiona went in to see if Lefty could fix her Ducati.

  We helped Fiona unload the bike and both Shard and I pretended not to see the little hug Vinnie gave her before he climbed back in the truck. We continued on into the town, looking for the Mining Recorder Office on Front Street. It turned out to be a two-storey building with brown siding and big wooden double doors.

  “The Bonanza Market is a few blocks over on 2nd Avenue, according to Fiona,” Vinnie said. “We’re gonna grab some lunch and load up on supplies.”

  “I’ll meet you there when I’m done,” I said, hopping out of the truck expecting Shard to beg to come along. She didn’t.

  I walked up to the building and froze. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure I could go through with it. I sat on the step outside the office and pulled my granddad’s picture from the pack. His face in the picture looked solemn, like he was trying to tell me something. The Dearing sour luck.

  Maybe it was time for it to end.

  “Isn’t dat Wally Dearing?” a voice asked.

  I looked up in shock to see a man towering over me. His eyes were almost hidden by blondish-grey bangs that were so uneven they could have been cut with a chainsaw. His hair was long and straight and he had the same coloured beard. He looked like a Viking straight out of a book.

  I put the picture back in my backpack. “No. It’s just a souvenir,” I lied. I didn’t need any more people knowing what I was doing.

  “So, are you coming or going?” He pointed at the door behind me.

  That was the question, wasn’t it? Was I coming or going? I took a deep breath. Chris Dearing might be too scared to turn things around, but Dirk Stark would be bold, wouldn’t he?

  “Coming.”

  He smiled and nodded. “Then you should be on your feet and pointed in the other direction, heh?”

  I forced myself to my feet, walked to the door, pulled on the handle and went in. He followed me inside.

  There were a couple of men at the tall wooden counter already, talking to the registrar. The Viking man went over to a table by the wall that had trays of forms on it. He sat down in the nearby chair and began filling one out.

  I stood behind the two men. They were talking about the river — how high it was last week, how low it was last year, how many boats they saw on it yesterday, how fast it was running this spring and how small the fish were this year.

  I tried hard not to fidget.

  They moved on to talking about the town dump — how big it was getting, the bear that was spotted there last week, the treasure they found there by digging through the piles, and on and on.

  The Viking finished filling in his form and stood up. “This young man has some business here, I think,” he said.

  The three men went silent and turned and stared at me. The two moved away from the counter.

  “Sorry, Neils, we didn’t see him there.”

  Whoever this Viking guy was, he seemed to be well known.

  “Yes,” the registrar said, glancing nervously at Neils. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need some claim tags.” My voice came out in a squeak.

  “Claim tags, eh? You thinking of staking a claim?” The two guys who had been talking to him laughed out loud at that.

  “Just helping out my dad,” I said, worried that he wouldn’t give them to me because I was so young.

  “Two bucks.” He handed me two small metal tags and a map of the area with the claims marked on it.

  “Here’s a pamphlet with instructions so your dad knows how to properly place the tags.”

  “Uh, thanks.” I left the building and looked at the instructions outside. I had to fix the tags with nails,
not wire, to a post or a tree with a flat side. I needed to make a trip to a hardware store.

  “So, does your father know what to do?” It was Neils again. I don’t know how a guy that big managed to keep sneaking up on me.

  “I think so, but he’ll need some tools. Do you know where there’s a hardware store around here?”

  “Sure, the Trading Post is just down the street.”

  “How far?” I asked.

  “I’ll show you. I need a new axe handle anyway.”

  I followed Neils. Or I should say, I tried to. He took such long strides I had to almost jog to keep up with him.

  “So, what is your name?”

  A simple question like that shouldn’t catch you off guard. But it did.

  “Dirk,” I said. I already told him that the picture wasn’t Wally Dearing — I couldn’t very well now tell him I was Chris Dearing.

  “Fine name!” Neils said. “Sounds like a strong Norse name. And your family name?”

  “Stark.”

  “Stark? That doesn’t sound Norse. Where is your father’s family from?”

  “Uh, Manitoba.”

  “Ah. But there must be some Norse in your background with a great name like Dirk, heh? I am Norse myself. Neils Amundson.” He slowed long enough to hold out his hand. I shook it.

  “Here we are, the Dawson Trading Post.”

  “Well, thanks for showing me, Mr. Amundson.”

  “Call me Neils.”

  We went in together. Neils was greeted by almost everyone in the shop. I guess that’s what it was like when you lived in a small place.

  I wanted to get in and out of there as fast as possible before Neils thought to ask me any more questions, like where my father was, where we live and what claim we wanted to register. I threw six nails in one of the little paper bags near the bin, and grabbed a cheap hammer and a hand saw. Luckily I had enough money to pay for it all, but just. I was down to under a dollar in change.

  Outside, I hurried through a laneway back in the direction of the grocery store, to meet up with Vinnie and Shard so we could get going out to the claim.