“Hetty, where are you?” Alma called, sticking her head into the tent. “Mama needs us to serve supper and then clean up. She’s going over to help Mrs. Jacobson. Rosie is awful sick.”
CHAPTER 8
ANOTHER THIEF
Rosie Jacobson had typhoid fever. Hetty and Alma wanted to go to the Jacobsons’ tent with Mrs. Vasquez, but she said no, there was nothing they could do to help.
“What’s wrong?” Sarah Lancaster asked. She and Uncle Donall surprised Hetty by coming back for supper. They watched Mrs. Vasquez hurry away.
“Little Rosie Jacobson has typhoid,” Hetty explained, dishing up beans and rice for everyone.
“Lots of people are sick with one thing or another.” Andy Nickerson placed one of his sourdough biscuits on each plate. “But this is the first case of typhoid I’ve heard about on the trail this autumn. I’ve seen many a feller die of it with no doctor available.”
Hetty felt her stomach tighten. “You think Papa has typhoid?”
“No, I think he just has a bad cold. He should be careful it doesn’t turn into pneumonia, though,” Andy Nickerson said.
Hetty thought about how sweet little Rosie was, how she loved to hold Rosie and tickle her and watch her giggle.
“If it’s possible, Mama will make her well, Hetty,” Alma said, just as Hetty was thinking the same thing. The two girls had been together so much, they seldom had to explain thoughts, knowing they were often the same.
“I’m so glad you came on this trip, Alma,” Hetty said softly. “I can’t imagine being here without you.”
“Me, either,” Alma agreed. “I was so afraid we’d have to turn back after Mama’s restaurant money was stolen. Mama is worried about your father paying our way.”
They ate in silence until finally Uncle Donall set down his dish for Hetty to wash and held out his hand to Sarah. “Coming, Sarah? There’s a great game going together at the saloon.”
“I don’t think so, Donall.” Sarah sounded tired, or sad. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.” She watched Uncle Donall leave without her.
“You aren’t getting sick, are you, Sarah?” Hetty asked.
Sarah shook her head, but she got up, leaving her food half eaten, and walked toward the tent. As she raised her hand to lift the tent flap, a gleam caught Hetty’s eye. She looked harder at Sarah’s hand.
“What a beautiful ring, Sarah,” Hetty said. “I haven’t seen you wear it before.”
“It’s new, Hetty. Your Uncle Donall gave it to me. Isn’t it pretty?” Not waiting for an answer, Sarah ducked into the tent.
“You think they’re engaged?” Alma whispered as soon as Sarah was gone.
“I don’t know. Where would Uncle Donall get such a ring, Alma? It looks expensive. I can’t bear the thought that Uncle Donall is a thief, but the idea won’t go away. If he gets caught, he’ll be flogged or—or sent back home. Well, back to San Francisco.”
Hetty didn’t sleep much that night. She turned over and over. Usually she was so tired that she didn’t notice the hard ground, but now a list of worries she could count like sheep kept her awake: Little Rosie being sick. Uncle Donall being a thief. He and Sarah being engaged. Hetty could hear Papa coughing in the next tent. Mr. Nickerson said that with no doctors up here, a lot of people died. She couldn’t imagine Papa dying. What would she do without him?
The next morning, Eddie Jacobson slapped the side of their tent to wake them up. “Hetty, Alma, get dressed. Come on. Some Klondikers caught a thief. There’s going to be a public flogging in a few minutes.”
A thief? Was it Uncle Donall? It didn’t take long for Hetty and Alma to yank off their nightgowns and throw on their clothes over the underwear they always slept in.
“Who is it?” Hetty sat on a stump outside the tent to pull on her boots. Her fingers trembled so badly that she could scarcely tie the laces.
“I don’t know Tom just came and told me a man was caught.”
“How is Rosie?” Alma asked, making Hetty ashamed not to have asked about that first.
Eddie bit his lip and his face lost its excitement. “Mama made us come and sleep in your papa’s tent last night. It’s so quiet in our camp, I’m afraid to ask.”
Hetty peeked back into her tent. Mrs. Vasquez’s bed was empty, as was Sarah Lancaster’s.
The morning was terribly cold. Hetty wrapped her muffler around her stocking cap and over her face, leaving only her eyes showing. Suddenly all her worries overwhelmed her. She kept blinking tears from her eyes, wondering if tears could freeze. Twice she stumbled, and Eddie and Alma had to help her up.
“I—I’m just so cold.” That wasn’t her problem, but that was all she wanted to say.
A huge crowd had gathered near the saloon. Hetty, Alma, and Eddie pushed and wove their way into the middle of the crowd. Eddie jumped up and down to see what was happening. Finally, Hetty stood on tiptoe and got a glimpse of the scene in back of the saloon. A stout, bearded man stood near a wooden pole, holding a whip. Another man was tied to the pole. His shirt had been removed so that his back was bare. When Hetty saw him, she stifled a scream. “Oh, that poor man.”
The man was turned away from her, but his hair was the exact dark color of Uncle Donall’s. He was so far away, Hetty couldn’t be sure it was him. People pressed in on her, trapping her. Why did everyone want to see this? Why had Eddie brought her and Alma to see it? Hetty wanted to run, but she could hardly move. She looked again and caught a glimpse of several red coats near the front of the crowd. Some Mounties were watching, but they didn’t seem to be interfering.
Hetty watched the bearded man raise his whip and bring it down on the thief’s back. Once, twice. Again and again. The crowd murmured or spoke in soft voices. Otherwise, all Hetty could hear was the crack and thud of the whip, and the man’s groans.
Soon Hetty was sobbing. “I don’t want to see this. Let’s go back.” She tried to turn around, but the crowd kept her from leaving.
Alma hugged her. “You can’t be sure it’s him, Hetty,” she whispered.
“You know who it is?” Eddie asked.
“No, of course not.” Hetty’s anger helped her get control. “It’s just so terrible.”
“So is stealing,” Eddie said. “Look, there’s your Uncle Donall right up front, watching. Him and Miss Lancaster.”
When the flogging was over, the crowd broke up and onlookers began to drift away. Hetty was so thankful to find the thief wasn’t Uncle Donall, she hurried to her uncle and hugged him. He held her tight, and Sarah laid her hand on Hetty’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry you came to see that, Hetty,” Uncle Donall said. “Go back to camp.”
Just then a young woman near Sarah screamed, “My ring! Here’s another thief!” The woman was pointing right at Sarah’s finger.
Sarah’s face turned as white as fresh-fallen snow. She clasped her hand over the ring. Stepping back, she would have fallen had not Uncle Donall put out his arms to hold her.
“This woman is wearing my ring,” the young woman screamed to anyone who would listen. “It disappeared two nights ago.”
The man with the whip moved close to Sarah. “Is this true?” he asked. “Where did you get that ring?”
“I—I—” Sarah stepped out of Uncle Donall’s arms and stared at him. “It was given to me.”
Uncle Donall looked straight at the man. “I won the ring fair and square in a poker game.” Then he looked at Sarah, his face as red as hers was white. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I didn’t want to tell you.”
A young man stepped up beside them. He turned to the angry young woman, looking as if he might cry. “Trudy, I’m so sorry I—I lost it. Donall McKinley is telling the truth. I lost the ring in a card game. I’d planned to win it back for you.”
“This is terrible!” Sarah Lancaster twisted the ring round and round until she could slide it off. She handed it to the woman, Trudy, then glared at Uncle Donall. “I can’t believe this, Donall. You told me the ring belonged
to your mother.” Sarah stomped off, leaving Uncle Donall staring at her back.
Hetty caught his eye. He was as dismayed as Hetty had ever seen him. He had lost more than money or a ring. Hetty didn’t offer any condolences to her uncle. If he had lost the woman he seemed to care about, especially with such a blatant lie, it was his own fault.
“Come on, Alma,” Hetty said, turning back toward their camp. “I’m not hungry, but Papa needs to eat. I’m going to cook some oatmeal. You’d better eat breakfast with us, Eddie.”
“Thanks, but I’m not very hungry.” “When they reached the campground, Eddie left them, walking slowly toward his tent.
Mrs. Vasquez had built a fire and was boiling water. At the same time, she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. She looked up at Hetty and Alma, her eyes red.
“Mama, what’s wrong?” Alma asked, but both girls knew.
“Little Rosie Jacobson died this morning. Wasn’t anything we could do for her. We’ll be burying her this afternoon.”
“Here?” The word flew out of Hetty’s mouth.
“Yes. There’s no way her family can take her back home, or take her on to Dawson either.”
That afternoon Hetty and Alma found their best dresses, the ones they had last worn when they served meals at the tent restaurant. Mrs. Vasquez put on her black wool dress, and Sarah Lancaster dressed in her navy-blue corduroy suit. Papa got out of bed and put on his best suit. They all wore heavy coats, since the service was outside.
Hetty couldn’t remember if the sun had been out earlier, but as they walked across the snowy ground to a site behind Sheep Camp for the service, gray clouds piled up and up and a few flakes of snow floated down. A small crowd gathered around a shallow grave dug from the frozen ground.
Mr. Jacobson, Eddie, and Carl carried a tiny coffin built from wood they had bargained for in town. Setting it down near the grave, they opened the lid one last time. Rosie was dressed in a yellow dress with ruffles and ribbons. Ringlets of red hair framed her face. She looked as if she were sleeping. Hetty found herself leaning against Sarah Lancaster. Sarah put her arm around Hetty and held her tight.
Uncle Donall was at the service, too, but he stood on the other side of the grave, beside Papa, and never looked at Hetty or Sarah.
The Jacobsons had found a minister who had been on the trail with them, the Reverend Christopher Mortimer, to preach a short service. His words blurred together and all Hetty could think was how short Rosie’s life had been. But happy. She had been a happy baby, and everyone had loved her.
After the Reverend Mortimer’s words, Mr. Jacobson picked up his accordion and played “Amazing Grace.” At the sound of the favorite hymn, Mrs. Jacobson started to weep. Tears slid down Hetty’s face, and she made no move to stop them.
Just before Carl and Eddie closed the coffin, Sarah took her hand from Hetty’s shoulder, reached up, and tugged a clump of cloth violets from her hat. She stepped forward, leaned, and placed the violets in Rosie’s folded hands. The gesture touched Hetty and she sobbed.
Mrs. Vasquez pulled both Alma and Hetty to her soft bosom and held them tight until Mr. Jacobson, Eddie, and Carl lowered the coffin into the shallow grave. Then Hetty and her family walked the short distance back to camp, leaving the Jacobsons alone.
Mrs. Vasquez built up the fire, no longer trying to save wood. She did what she did best—cook. No matter how sad they felt, they had to eat or they’d all get sick. Papa sat close to the fire, quiet but looking a little stronger.
Hetty needed to be alone. She slipped away, heading for the few trees left on the opposite side of town, away from the gravesite. The sun sank low, all warmth gone from its rays. Shadows gathered around huge boulders that had rolled off the mountain years in the past. She sat on the cold granite, thinking she had no crying left in her, so she was surprised when tears streamed down her face again.
“Hetty?” A hand gently touched her shoulder. She took some deep breaths, sniffed, then found her handkerchief and blew her nose. She turned enough to see shiny black boots. Then, through her blurry tears, she saw a red coat, a Mountie uniform. She looked up at Colin Brandauer.
“What are you doing up here, Hetty?” Colin asked.
“I needed to be alone. The Jacobsons’ baby died this morning. I’ve just come from the funeral service.” She paused, not knowing what else to say.
“I’m sorry,” he answered. “Lots of people will die before they get to Dawson.”
“That doesn’t make it all right.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I—” He paused and took a deep breath.
“I thought I saw you this morning.” Hetty filled in the silence. “Have you been over the pass already?”
“I’ve been walking the trail back and forth, helping people where I could. The Mounties don’t have any authority to enforce laws here, but I watched the thief being flogged this morning. I’m sure you heard about it. We do the same thing in Canada.”
“I was there. I saw it. Flogging seems harsh punishment.”
“It takes harsh measures to keep law and order up here, where there are thousands of people half mad with the idea of getting rich.”
Colin knew about thieves. How could she get information from him without telling him there was a thief in her own camp?
“What do you think makes people steal, Colin?”
Colin sat on a rock across from Hetty. He thought for a moment. “The usual answer is greed or envy, wanting something someone else has. Maybe for some people, it’s fun—they want to see if they can get away with taking things. Some might steal to tease or to spite someone, to get back at them. Or out of desperation, because they don’t know how else to survive.
“It’s not something you should worry about, Hetty You’re too young to worry about thieves, about criminals. I’m sorry you had to see what you did today. A man being flogged is a terrible sight.” Colin stood up. “Come on, it’s getting dark. I’ll see that you get back to your camp safely.”
Hetty nibbled at her supper, then begged off cleaning duties. Sarah said she’d help clean up. Hetty hurried into the tent, got out her journal, and sat on her bedroll, glad she was alone.
By the flickering light of a candle, she wrote about all the sad and terrible things that had happened today—seeing the thief being flogged, thinking it was Uncle Donall, Sarah returning the ring that Uncle Donall had won in a poker game, Rosie’s funeral. The writing didn’t help her understand everything, but she felt it ease some of the pain.
She wrote about her talk with Colin, and then she turned to the page where she had listed suspects. She added a line about each person, trying to reason out why each would steal: Eddie for fun, Carl for spite or meanness, Uncle Donall out of desperation to pay his gambling debts. Sarah Lancaster had plenty of money and no reason Hetty could think of to steal their knickknacks. Remembering Sarah’s tender gesture at Rosie’s funeral, Hetty crossed Sarah off her list of suspects.
Mrs. V and Alma came into the tent and spread out their bedrolls, so Hetty put her journal under her blankets, blew out her candle, and lay down.
The tent had been silent for a few moments when Hetty heard Mrs. Vasquez stir in her bed and draw in a sharp breath. There was the sound of paper crackling softly, and then the flare of a candle being lit.
“Hetty, Alma, are you asleep? Come here,” Mrs. Vasquez whispered, raising her candle to light their way. “The most surprising thing has happened. My money has returned. This package was under the bundle of clothes I use for a pillow, and I thought—I thought—Come and see.”
Hetty and Alma slipped over to Mrs. V’s space. She was staring at a paper packet, its red ribbon now hanging loosely around it.
“Let us see!” Hetty and Alma said together.
Mrs. V opened the packet again and counted the paper bills inside. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars! I lost only five hundred.”
Hetty hardly knew what to say She was delighted that Mrs. V’s money had been returned. But now Hett
y was positive that Uncle Donall had taken the five hundred dollars. Returning even more money, wrapped like a present, was his style. In Alaska, he couldn’t get candy or flowers to place on top like he had when he returned Hetty’s grocery money. He’d had to settle for a ribbon.
“Girls, I have a tin of cookies I’ve saved for a special time.” Mrs. Vasquez tucked the money back into the packet and placed it under her bedding. “I think this will do. Let’s sneak out and make a cup of tea.”
A party? A party to celebrate the return of something that had been stolen? Hetty was certain that Mrs. V knew who had taken her money, just as surely as Hetty did. But neither of them was going to mention his name.
So much had happened today, but Mrs. V’s money coming back topped the list of good things. However, Hetty couldn’t put the idea of a second thief behind her. She nibbled her cookies and sipped her tea, not able to stop thinking.
The sky had cleared, and millions of stars, more than Hetty had ever seen, looked down on their flickering fire and their tea party. Papa’s tent was quiet, so he was probably sleeping. Neither Uncle Donall nor Sarah had come back from town.
Hetty resolved to talk to Uncle Donall, to ask him about the mysterious return of Mrs. V’s money. He might not want to admit he’d taken it, but she’d make him talk to her.
CHAPTER 9
THE GOLDEN STAIRS
Snow fell during the night, a foot of snow, and heavy clouds threatened more to come. Hetty knew they had to move on right away or risk being snowed in at Sheep Camp.
Papa felt stronger and his cough had eased, which cheered everyone up. And when he said he thought they should push on for The Scales, the last stopping place before they climbed to the pass, the whole party agreed and started eagerly to pack. The last camp was called “The Scales,” Papa told them, because it was where packers weighed the goods they were carrying and determined what to charge their customers. “I’m going to walk over and tell the Jacobsons our plans,” Papa said. “All of you finish packing. Donall, you organize carrying the loads.”
Mystery at Chilkoot Pass (Mysteries through History) Page 7