Black Pine Creek

by David Haynes

  Draper took a pen out of his bag and signed the contract without pause. He would probably need to sign it again in front of one of Burgess’s lackeys but it felt good to put pen to paper. He was back in the game again but there was one thing for absolute sure – if he didn’t have a crew to work Black Pine Creek with, he wouldn’t last long.

  His cell phone and laptop were on the other bed, exactly where he had left them two days ago, untouched. He had them here for one reason and one reason alone. If he managed to sweet-talk his way into leasing a claim, then there was only one man he wanted by his side – Ray Mercer. The trouble was, he hadn’t spoken to him in more than two years.

  He reached over and grabbed the cell. Mercer’s number was one of only ten contacts on it and he knew that at least three of the other contacts were dead. His heart hammered in his chest as he tapped on Mercer’s name. It rang, which was a positive sign, but after an interminable time it switched to the answering machine. There was no message, which didn’t surprise Draper. Mercer was a man of few words and those few words were usually all business – gold-mining business.

  “Ray, it’s Draper.” He paused. “Scotty Draper. Listen, I know it’s been a while and things were...”

  A mess, that’s what they were the last time they had been together. A big stinking pile of shit. He left it unfinished.

  “But I’ve got us something, something good. Real frontier place and everything’s ready to go. I’ve got the reports in front of me and they’ll give you a hard-on, Ray. Look, it’s... Just give me a call if you’re interested.”

  He ended the call. He should have rehearsed what he was going to say to hook him in, but he felt like he did the first time he ran his own claim, twenty years ago. All the old-timers said he’d quit before the season was out, quit and run home with his tail between his legs. He might not have made it that long if it hadn’t been for Ray, but he stuck it out and covered his costs and then some. He’d felt like a king and Ray had been with him ever since. At least until...

  He pushed the thought out of his head and switched the television on. It was gone eleven, and if he wanted to get up to Black Pine Creek before nightfall he’d have to set off early. He set the alarm on his cell for 3am and stripped off.

  He watched the news for about ten minutes before he started drifting off. The loons called to each other and the wind rattled the windows in their frames, but neither sound could jar him awake.

  3

  Draper hauled his duffel bag onto the passenger seat and walked around to the driver’s side of his pickup. He opened the door and placed Burgess’s contract carefully on top of the bag. He’d attached a note on top of the papers which said he would be back in a couple of days and if he needed a witness signature it would have to wait. He hoped Burgess would be happy with that.

  This was the first time he had signed a contract without actually seeing the claim first. If Mercer came on board he wouldn’t be too happy about that, but hopefully by the time he called, Draper would be on the way back from the site visit.

  It was a little after three-thirty by the time he posted the contract. The sky mid-way between black and blue but the cloud cover kept the stars hidden. The windshield wipers started up as the first few spots of rain turned into a persistent downfall. Nothing moved in the town and even the loons were quiet as he slipped out of Haines, heading north-west on Highway Seven.

  Like the town, the highway was deserted and silent, except for the low thrum of the Ford’s V6 engine. The Sitka spruce and pine grew tall on the side of the road and stretched into the dark sky. Even with his main beam on it felt claustrophobic, like driving through a long dark tunnel. Nevertheless he was glad he was the only one on the road, and within an hour he passed through the border and into British Columbia.

  At Haines Junction, his headlights turned off and the windshield wipers stopped. He took it as an omen and found a diner that was just opening. He bought three freshly baked cinnamon rolls and a strong, dark coffee. He didn’t stop to eat all of them though, he saved two for the road and carried on driving.

  When he was twelve, he came up this very same stretch of asphalt with his dad and grandpa. Dad had sold it to Mom as a history field trip and said that Scott would learn more in two weeks on the road with his grandpa than he could in a year at school. He was right about that. They camped in Kluane National Park where Grandpa had told him elaborate stories about the Klondike gold rush of 1896. He told him about the men who tried to strike it rich in the mines, men who had traveled from as far away as San Francisco with just a shovel and a head full of dreams. His great-grandpa was one of them.

  “What happened to him?” Scott had asked his grandpa. “Did he get rich?”

  “Rich? Well, he came home with a nugget about the same size as your fist, according to my dad. He drank for three days straight, made another baby and gave his wife the nugget. Then off he went again. Next time he came home, he had consumption and three fingers on his right hand were gone. Didn’t bother him one bit when he reached into his pocket and pulled out another nugget though. Not one bit.”

  “Then what ?”

  “Well, once you’ve held a nugget in your hands there ain’t nothing can match it. Not one thing in this whole world. He went off again of course, but things had changed by then and the gold wasn’t dripping off the branches like it had been. It was tougher to find. He found work on a dredge, and that worked fine for a while. But he wasn’t well by then and his body was failing him. He got caught up in the bucket line and it dragged him under. When his body came round on the line, there was more bone than dirt in the buckets. Bits of his...”

  “Dad, I think we’ve heard enough about that for now,” Scott’s dad had interrupted.

  Grandpa had laughed and sipped some of dad’s whiskey. “He never gave up, Scott. You never give up.”

  Far from being horrified about the way the man had died, it ignited something in Draper that still burned today. The thought of making your own way, being master of your own fate and living a life full of adventure was what got him out of bed. Being rich, well that hadn’t happened yet and he doubted it ever would. It had been important at first. Holding that first nugget in his hands had been as magical as Grandpa said it would, and for a while all he could think of was finding more, more, more.

  He’d been on the verge of wealth a few times, but the dice never seemed to land right and each time he crashed back down to earth with a thump. But as important as finding gold was – it was his livelihood after all – he held the adventure of it all in equal regard. There was nothing like it; striking out in the wilderness with nothing but your wits to guide you was exhilarating. That desire was also what got him into trouble.

  Draper stopped the car beside Lake Kluane and got out. It hadn’t snowed for a couple of months now but the tops of the mountains clung to their frosty tips with pride. A belligerent denial of the changing seasons. He took a bite out of the cinnamon roll. It was good but not as good as it had been when it was hot and fresh from the deli. On that trip with Grandpa, they had seen caribou on the shores of the lake. When Grandpa and Dad talked in hushed tones about bears, it had only increased his appetite for adventure.

  He finished the pastry and wiped a hand across his face. Anyone serious about gold mining would already be working on their claims. Some would already be well on their way to breaking even. The season was already short enough and he was late starting. It was going to be tough.

  He checked his cell in case Mercer had called, then climbed back into the Ford. He still had nearly six hours to go before he reached Chicken and then, depending on the track, Black Pine Creek was maybe two or three hours drive on top of that.

  Draper found the local rock station on the radio and jammed his foot down on the gas. Lake Kluane slid away on his right as Haines Highway snaked back toward Alaska.

  On that camping trip, Dad and Grandpa did a lot of drinking and an equal amount of laughing. They didn’t catch many fish, and on the bri
ef hunting expeditions Grandpa seemed to hit a lot of trees and not much else with his old Winchester Model 70. Not that anyone but Grandpa could see exactly what he was aiming at. Each time he’d yell, “I’ll get him next time!” and laugh.

  Dad had never learned to hunt, or to shoot. There really wasn’t much call for it in the suburbs or in the bank where he worked. It seemed like the spirit of adventure had skipped a generation.

  Grandpa had never gone gold mining or exploring in the wilderness. But he had been a tail gunner on a B-17 in the war and in young Scott’s eyes, that made him at least as big a hero as his great-grandpa.

  Some time after that trip, he cycled the three miles to Grandpa’s house one Saturday morning. He had cycled that same route at the same time for the last two years. Each and every Saturday, he would take Grandpa a batch of Mom’s home-made brownies. They would sit together on the front porch, eating brownies and drinking milk. Grandpa would ask him about school and they would argue about whether Joe Montana or John Brodie was the better quarterback. After the trip though, there was only one topic of conversation that Scott wanted to talk about.

  “I wanna be a gold miner, Grandpa. I’m gonna find a nugget the size of a baseball up there in the Klondike. Just like the guys in the books did – like your grandpa did.” Scott chewed a mouthful of brownie. It was still warm and gooey on the inside.

  “And how does your dad feel about that?”

  “He says I’ve got to finish college and then we’ll see.”

  Grandpa nodded. “You don’t fancy the bank then? It pays well, it’s safe and more reliable.”

  Scott looked at his grandpa. “You see me working in a bank?”

  Grandpa laughed and licked his lips. “No, son, I don’t believe I do.”

  They sat in silence for a while and basked in the noon-day sun.

  “He’s right though, you need to finish college. If you’re going do it, you need a decent brain to do it with. No use rushing off up there like a mindless fool with nothing between your ears. You’ve got to do it properly. You need a plan and the gold ain’t going anywhere.”

  Scott ran his finger down the condensation on the glass. “You ever wished you’d tried?”

  “Oh sure, but the war was enough adventure for me. Too much, some would say.”

  Since the trip, something had been eating away at Scott. “When we were up there, Grandpa, you said that once you’d held a nugget in your hands you never forgot how it felt?”

  “I did.”

  “So when did you hold one?” He immediately wished he hadn’t asked the question. Grandpa had probably just added that bit to make the story more interesting.

  Grandpa finished the brownie and put his glass on the floor. “Your dad will be mad with me but I can see you’re getting sick, so it’s better I show you.” He stood up and walked back inside the house.

  Scott followed.

  “Sick?” he asked. The house was cool and dark, Grandpa was just a dark shape moving toward the back of the house.

  “You got it bad!” he shouted.

  Scott jogged to Grandpa’s side. “I have?” He was alarmed. Apart from the skinned knee he got from football practice, he felt good.

  Grandpa stopped suddenly beside the cellar and turned to Scott. “I’m no doctor but you’ve got a bad case of gold fever, my boy.” He put his hand on the door. “Now take a step back and watch your head.”

  Grandpa opened the cellar door and started down the steps. Scott had never once been down there and had never wanted to. Whenever the door was open, the musty smell of decay flooded out and it made him cringe. Today though, he had a feeling he needed to go down the steps.

  He stood at the top and watched Grandpa reach the bottom and pull a cord. There was a single bulb above his head, the light bouncing off his shiny scalp.

  “You coming down?” Grandpa was hunched over slightly. It was gloomy down there but there was no mistaking his beaming smile. “Come on.” He beckoned and shuffled off out of view.

  Scott followed, taking the creaking steps with a degree of care.

  The musty smell was much stronger down in the cellar and although it was a fine summer’s day, the air and exposed brick walls felt damp and cold.

  “Come over here,” Grandpa shouted. He was crouching beside a stack of wooden crates and sagging cardboard boxes.

  Scott didn’t really have to crouch, his head just scraped the ceiling, but he did anyway. It felt like the right thing to do.

  “What’re we looking for?” he asked.

  “You’ll know when you find it.” He pointed into a dark corner. “And I wouldn’t go poking around over there. I do believe a rat has made his home under those boxes.”

  Scott took a step away.

  “Hey, if you’re going to mine up in Alaska you better be ready for more than just rats. You got bears, wolves and bugs as big as sparrows up there. All of them will eat you alive and spit out the bones.” He was already searching through a crate. Scott watched as he rifled through the box, discarding things onto the floor. It looked like Grandpa had a touch of gold fever too. There were old books, cushions, some scarves and gloves and two little cars. Scott bent down and picked them up.

  “They belonged to your dad. You can take them to him if you like.”

  Scott put them in his pockets for later and lifted the lid on the closest box. He hoped there wouldn’t be a nest of rats in this one.

  There wasn’t. Inside the box was just a collection of junk; a radio without the dials, a chipped vase and a length of ugly flowered fabric. He moved the box aside carefully. It felt like it would collapse at any second. The next box was just the same, except it smelled worse when he opened the lid. He put his hand inside and pushed things aside. In the gloom he couldn’t really see what was at the bottom of the box, but when his fingers closed around something furry he yelped and jerked his hand back.

  He heard Grandpa laughing. “Found a dead one, did you?” He chuckled again but didn’t look up.

  The thought of putting his hands inside another box filled him with dread and starting a new one didn’t appeal to him either. He didn’t want to appear soft though, that would be...

  “Here we are!” Grandpa shouted.

  He didn’t need to worry about looking bad now. Even in the darkness he could see Grandpa was excited. His hands were still deep inside the box but he turned to Scott.

  “Better come here,” he said.

  Scott took the three feet between them in a rush. He was pleased to be away from whatever it was that had died inside the last box.

  “What is it?” He leaned over and looked inside. On top was a photograph but it was too dark to see any of the faces. Beneath that there were dark shapes of all sizes inside but none of them was discernible as anything in particular.

  Grandpa picked the box up. “I think we need some light for this.” He closed the flaps and walked across the cellar to the stairs. Scott followed on his heels. He was glad to be getting out of there.

  They walked into the kitchen and Grandpa put the box on the table. In the light, Scott could see the way it bulged and sagged. It wouldn’t take much for it to collapse and spill out everything it contained. He also noticed with some revulsion that small brown pellets were stuck to the cardboard lid. The rats had been near this box too.

  Grandpa stepped aside. “You open it.”

  Scott looked at him and then at the box. He doubted whether a real gold miner, or Joe Montana for that matter, would worry about opening a box like this. He stepped forward and lifted the flaps, carefully avoiding the rat poop.

  Now the insides were lit by the summer sun streaming through the window. He gasped.

  “Is this what I think it is?”

  “You bet,” Grandpa replied and then added with a touch of mischief, “I don’t think you’ll find rats in there.”

  Scott didn’t react to the comment. All thoughts about vermin had been pushed aside. The black and white photograph transported him to a d
ifferent time and place. It showed four men, two crouching and two standing. The two men at the front were holding gold-pans and they were tilted forward to the camera. Scott supposed the dark sediment in the pans was gold, although none of them looked particularly happy about it. Three of them wore cowboy hats but the fourth man, the only man without a beard, wore a hat that looked like it belonged to a sailor.

  “That there is your great-grandpa.” A finger appeared over his shoulder and pointed to the man with the sailor’s hat.

  Scott held it nearer to look at the man closely. He looked cold, wet and pretty miserable saying he was holding a pan of gold in his hands. He put the photograph down on the table and pulled out the very hat that he had just been looking at. What was left of it was made of wool with a leathery peak across the front. It smelled and felt disgusting, but Scott held onto it for a moment before he placed it beside the photograph.

  Underneath that was a carefully folded woolen sweater. It had suffered the same fate as the cap and the rats had chewed some of it, but to Scott it felt like each thread was made of gold. There were letters too, tied together with a length of dirty cord. The writing was faded and spidery. He put them to one side; he would read them later, every single one.

  There were more documents, some more clothes, part of a boot and a rusty gold pan. There were holes in that too but Scott mimed panning with it. And at the bottom were two boxes, crudely made from pine.

  “Which one first?” Grandpa asked over his shoulder. He sounded close to laughter which was unnerving.

  They were both identical and without any indication or mark as to what might lie inside. He lifted both of them out and put them on the table. One was slightly heavier than the other but not by much.

  “Which one should I pick?” he asked, more to himself than Grandpa.

  “You’re gonna love both of them!”

  Scott smiled and pulled them both closer. There was no catch on either of the boxes so he lifted both lids at the same time, feeling very pleased with himself for his cheat. Inside each one was a brown leather pouch with ragged string pulling each one closed. Again, they were both identical. It was a mystery, a step into the unknown and he felt his excitement go up another notch.