by L. A. Witt
“You’re . . . you’re serious.”
He nodded, and a grin played at his lips. “Normally I wouldn’t try to bribe a man of the law, but given the chaos that ensued thanks to their inspection . . .” He shrugged.
“I thought they were worried about riots.”
“For letting us go before the hundred or so men ahead of us, yes. But keeping Sidney’s men back?” He winked.
I chuckled. “Good work.”
The brutal cold worsened as we neared the pass. The terrain was steeper, rockier, and icier, and our mech slipped and slid, as did those around us. By the time we reached the tiny settlement at the base of the Golden Staircase, the snow was high and I was exhausted.
At the base of the pass, an outfitter had set up a small shack and sold what reminded me of a logger’s climbing spikes, but instead of a single long spike in front, they had many shorter ones beneath the sole.
“Interesting.” John turned one of the boots over and over in his hands. He tried to flex the stiff sole. Touched the spikes with his gloved—and then bare—fingertips. Wiggled the spikes. Tugged at the straps.
The outfitter sighed impatiently. “I got people waiting, sir. You gonna buy ’em or not?”
John handed back the boot. “Four pair, please.” Before I could ask why we needed so many, he turned to me. “Find the saw, if you would.”
“The—” I blinked. “Uh, all right.” While he and the outfitter handled the exchange, I went back to the mech and dug through a pack until I found the small hand saw. “What’s this for?”
“Giving our mech some traction.” He handed the money to the outfitter. “We’ll each wear a pair, and we’ll cut the others in half for the mech to wear.”
The outfitter blinked. “Pardon?”
John grinned. “You’ve never thought to put them on a mech?”
“I . . . no, I can’t say I have. Does it work?”
“Don’t know yet.” John handed me all but one of the pairs he’d just bought. “We’ll find out in a moment. Put a pair on your feet, and cut the others in half. I’ll secure them to the mech.”
Though the mech’s eight legs made it somewhat clumsy, it did offer a slight advantage for this task—John could easily pick up one leg to lash on the cleats, much like a farrier picking up a horse’s hoof to put on a shoe.
Once the machine had been shod, John switched on the engine and tested it, letting it walk across the frozen ground. It moved slower than usual, having to work harder to pick up each foot, but it didn’t slide, even when it hit a patch of ice.
“You really think this will work on the slope?” I asked.
“I think it’ll work better than taking it up there barefoot.” He glanced at the Golden Staircase and the men and mechs slowly making their way over the pass.
The outfitter shook his head. “Can’t believe I never thought of that.”
John chuckled and clapped the man’s arm. “Well, if we don’t come tumbling back down, assume it worked and sell the same to the men who come after us.”
Shortly after we’d fitted our mech’s feet with the spikes and lashed a pair to our own boots, it was our turn to head up the pass. Teams were sent onto the staircase a few at a time to ensure space between them and, I guessed, to keep damage and injury to a minimum if something happened. With clumsy, heavily-laden brass spiders creeping up the ice, that seemed wise to me. There wasn’t much room for error—the stairs were narrow, having been carved before the mechs had become commonplace on the trail. The snow on either side was nearly to my chest, and any time the mech wobbled even slightly, it scraped the packed snow.
John walked in front of the mech, facing it and steadying it when it tried to wander, while I brought up the rear. As we started up the steps, my heart thundered, and it wasn’t only because of the ice and the mech. Surely even the most desperate thieves wouldn’t be foolish enough to try to attack us up here unless they wanted to be crushed by a mech for their trouble, but after the last few days, paranoia had become as natural as breathing.
“Doing all right back there?” John called out.
“Going slow, but doing fine. You?”
“Good here too. Slow and easy’s the way to do it—I want us both over this pass in one piece, not over it first.”
As it turned out, it was slow and easy or not at all. Every step up the Golden Staircase was more difficult than the last. We’d barely left the base camp before we were both out of breath. I was bundled against the cold, but couldn’t avoid breathing in the frigid air, and my lungs ached as I worked my way up the ice stairs.
The mech was a blessing in disguise. Though it kept a fairly brisk pace on level ground, we’d been advised to put it in a lower gear for the climb. Since it was crawling up the stairs at a snail’s pace, I had no choice but to go slow myself—much to the relief of my burning legs. For that matter, the team ahead of us had sleds instead of a mech; they moved even slower than we did, struggling to pull their heavy gear up the steps.
John’s idea of putting spikes on the mech’s feet proved to be brilliant. All along the staircase, men shouted and scrambled as they tried to keep their mechs from slipping and sliding. More than once, the entire caravan ground to a halt while a couple of teams untangled their mechs after one slid into another.
Ours, though, stayed sure and true. Its steps were slower, since the engine and gears had to work to pull the spikes out of the ice, but it didn’t slide.
Step after step, we trudged upward.
Ahead of us, someone shouted.
I looked up just in time to see one of the sleds break loose. “John! Look out!”
He turned, and I thought I heard him curse as the sled and its pile of packs barreled straight toward him. Instead of trying to get out of the way, though, he crouched down, shoulder out like he was ready to catch a charging horse in the chest.
I threw the switch for the brake and vaulted onto the mech to try to pull John out of the way before the sled hit him. I wasn’t quite fast enough, though—the sled collided with John and nearly knocked him off his feet. He grunted, digging his spikes into the steps and pushing back against the sled.
I stepped over our provisions and dropped down beside him in the narrow space between the walls of snow. I leaned into the sled, taking some of the weight off him, and he released a breath.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.” He looked over his shoulder. “The mech. Is it—”
“Brake’s on. It’s not going anywhere.”
“Good.” He exhaled again. “Good work.”
Above us, hurried footsteps came down the slope and skidded to a halt. “You all right down there?”
“Just get this damned thing off me,” John threw back.
The weight on our shoulders lightened. With some more grunting and tugging from above, the sled moved back.
John dropped onto the step, rubbing his shoulder and grimacing.
I knelt beside him. “How bad is it?”
“I’ll be . . . I’ll be fine.” He closed his eyes and released a long breath. “Doesn’t feel like anything’s broken.”
“Thank God for—”
“Are you boys all right?” A bearded prospector appeared on the step above us. “We’re terribly sorry. Lost a grip on a rope and—”
“We’re fine.” John slowly got up, keeping his hand on his shoulder the whole way. “We should get moving. Longer we stand here, colder we’re all going to get.”
The prospector hesitated, glancing at me. “You’re not hurt?”
“Nothing that won’t heal.” John offered a tight smile as he carefully rolled his shoulder.
“We’re fine,” I said. “No harm done.”
The man hesitated again, but then nodded and continued up to rejoin his team.
Once we were alone, I turned to John again. “You should’ve just gotten out of the way.”
“That thing could’ve immobilized our mech.”
“And it could’ve crushed you
against it!” I narrowed my eyes. “John, for God’s sake, I know you don’t want anything happening to your device, but just remember, the damned thing doesn’t do anyone any good if you’re not around to use it.”
He eyed me as he dusted the snow off his trousers. “And a crippled mech won’t get the rest of our provisions to the top of the pass.”
“No, it won’t, but—”
“If the mech had slipped, it would’ve hit you.” He held my gaze. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
I glanced around, and then touched his waist. “Just don’t get yourself killed, all right? I’m not going to get very far without you.”
“I won’t.” He brought my hand up and kissed the back of my glove. “We should get moving.”
We exchanged a brief look, one that sent a warm tingle through my cold, exhausted body. We didn’t dare risk a kiss out here, but that glance alone would hold me over until the next time we had a warm, private place to touch.
I climbed over the mech and took my place behind it again. We switched off the brakes, and the mech resumed its upward climb.
With every step, the ascent became more difficult. I found myself stopping to rest after just four or five steps. Soon, it was every two or three. Even when I stopped to rest, I never quite caught my breath. It wasn’t just me either. The other teams huffed and puffed. John stopped to rest as often as I did.
But at long last, we reached the top.
After we’d cleared the final step, I almost dropped to my knees in the snow. There were still plenty of miles between us and Dawson City, but we’d made it to the top of Chilkoot Pass.
John leaned against the mech. “You have to admit—” He paused to take a few breaths. “—it’s almost worth it just for the view.”
Still panting, my lungs aching and my whole body hurting wherever it wasn’t numb, I gazed out at the scenery. John had a point. The snow-covered mountains and forest-blanketed hills were beautiful from here.
I clapped his shoulder. “Yes. Almost worth it.”
From the Diary of Dr. Jonathon W. Fauth — October 15, 1898
Though danger still has us warily glancing over our shoulders, Robert and I have left the encampment and at last gained ground on our journey. We’ve arrived in Canada, thank God. Crossing into it via the Chilkoot Pass was quite the ordeal—mostly uneventful, but hardly an easy ascent.
Oftentimes the tales men tell of places turn out to be nothing more than fanciful exaggerations. London is a fog-choked, congested city, not the glamorous mecca of cosmopolitan society. Likewise, New York and Chicago are cold, crime-riddled places instead of the beating hearts of civilization as many men are led to believe.
As such, I fully anticipated Chilkoot Pass to be far less than what had trickled south by way of stories and rumors. Imagine my surprise then, when we arrived at Chilkoot’s foot early yesterday morning. I can testify to anyone who should ever read this—the tales are true. Chilkoot Pass is a monstrous, snow-blanketed peak, and to say its ascent is a daunting task would be to deny it the credit it deserves.
Mangled, half-snowed-over mechs are strewn across the land at the bottom of the pass. Along the trail itself—the fabled Golden Staircase, one and a half thousand steps carved right into the ice for ease of travel—abandoned and crippled mechs dot the terrain like wads of tobacco spit. Those at the bottom are nearly skeletal, having been picked over and stripped clean of any parts that might still be useful. Brass clangs, men curse, animals protest, and mechs slip and slide across the icy ground.
If there was one story of Chilkoot Pass that I am convinced is pure exaggeration, it is the tales of the ease with which mechs whisk provisions over the mountain like a Clydesdale carrying a kitten over a bluff. I firmly believe now that we, like every man en route to Dawson City, were gullibly swindled when we purchased these things.
The dangers of crossing the pass today did offer one benefit, that being relative safety from thieves and bandits. Ever-present Mounties keep a watchful eye over the men making the ascent, and any man on the Golden Staircase would be a fool to be concerned with anything other than keeping his own feet and provisions on the path. We were probably safer out there—from men, at least—than in the encampment this morning.
And now, with our joints aching and our bodies exhausted, we’ve set up camp in a similar encampment on the other side.
We’re in Canada now, the most grueling part of our journey behind us, but I fear there are more dangers ahead than I can even express to Robert. I still worry for his safety. Tomorrow, there will be no more Mounties forming a barrier between us and those who wish to get their hands on my device.
I have no choice but to go on even if it means crossing the lawless no-man’s-land outside these rickety gates. I cannot remain in the safety of this encampment forever. Even if I could, my livelihood—everything I’ve ever worked for—depends upon making it to the gold fields.
Tomorrow, we go on.
A stick cracked.
In a heartbeat, John and I were both wide awake and upright. He snatched his pistol from under his pillow. I pulled the rifle out from under the bedroll.
Snow crunched.
Because of the cold and constant danger, we’d slept in our boots, so we scrambled up and darted outside.
For a moment, I thought we’d just been paranoid again, but then a shadow scrambled away from beside the tent.
“Robert, stay there.” John lunged at the shadow. It changed direction, sprinting past me, but I swung the rifle and hit him hard in the gut. He doubled over and took a knee.
John grabbed him by the back of his jacket and shoved him all the way to the ground. They grappled, but the intruder quickly freed himself and disappeared into the night.
“Damn,” John muttered. “These bastards are getting bolder.”
“They are.” This was the third attempt in as many nights. I set the rifle at my feet and offered John my arm.
He clasped his hand around my forearm, and once he was on his feet, said, “I suspect this won’t get any better between here and the gold fields.”
“No, I don’t think so.” Something twisted beneath my ribs. Though we were nearer to Dawson City with each passing day, the gold fields seemed farther and farther out of our reach. As if the thieves and Sidney’s men and the whole damned world were closing in. Sooner or later . . .
I shook my head and tried not to think of that. The only choices we had were going on or turning back, and neither was safe. Nothing was.
Wincing, John gingerly rubbed his shoulder.
“Still hurts?”
“It’ll heal. I’m not concerned.” He scowled. “Not about that, anyway.”
I glanced at the trail where our would-be thief had gone. “What do we do now? Isn’t like we can have the Mounties protect us out here.”
“I know.”
“Maybe we should sleep in shifts. At least if one of us is awake . . .”
John nodded. “Good idea. You go ahead and sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” He squeezed my arm. “I am so sorry, Robert. I knew this would be dangerous, but I brought you into this and—”
I put my gloved hand over his. “I knew what I was getting into when I came back to you in Ketchikan.”
“Still.” The pad of his thumb drew soft arcs on my sleeve. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Likewise. Wake me if you get tired. I doubt I’ll be sleeping anyway.”
“I will.”
I was right—I didn’t sleep much. By the time I’d started to drift off, John roused me so he could sleep. I sat outside next to the campfire, a book beside me and the rifle across my lap. A few times, I tried to read to pass the time, but my tired eyes couldn’t focus on the printing and my paranoid mind couldn’t concentrate on the words. If not for the cold and the constant certainty our campsite was about to be invaded, I’d have nodded off.
Throughout the night, we traded off every hour or two.
By dawn, neither of us was well rested, but all we could do was continue down the trail. For the next three nights, it was the same routine—alternating sleeping and watching in between chasing off would-be thieves.
By the third morning, I was so exhausted I could barely move.
John finished his coffee and put the cup in the mech with our other gear. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
John lit the boiler, and while we waited for the steam to build pressure, we started taking down the campsite.
As I put our bedrolls onto the mech, I glanced down and froze. A prickling sensation crept down my spine. “Uh, John?”
He looked up from wedging his device between two other boxes. “Hmm?”
“I believe . . . we have a problem.” I gestured at the mech.
“What?” He hurried around the side. “What in the name of . . .”
Two legs were completely encased in a thick layer of ice.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“It’s sabotage. It must be.” He gestured at the icicles and frozen droplets. “Someone’s poured water over it.”
My stomach twisted. “How did we not hear that?” But the noise all around us answered my question. Crackling fires, snorting horses, barking dogs, groaning mechs, laughing men—the sound of someone pouring water nearby wouldn’t have caught his attention or mine.
John swore under his breath. “Well, there’s nothing we can do but remove the ice. You work on that one. I’ll work on this one.”
We melted away the thickest ice with a torch John made out of a stick and a rag, and then chipped away at what was left so we wouldn’t damage the joints with the fire.
By the time we’d finished, most of the other teams within sight had broken camp and begun lumbering north. We wouldn’t get far today—the days were getting shorter as winter closed in.
Still, any progress was progress, and took us closer to those gold fields. With the mech’s legs free of ice, John switched on the engine, and—