At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  “Quite a city, ain’t it?”

  A young man had quietly approached and now stood beside her, observing the traffic. He was pleasant looking and fairly well dressed, though the edges of his sleeves were worn. Not rich, not poor, she thought, aware that’s how she appeared as well.

  “It certainly is,” she replied. “Though I don’t know if I’d call it a city. More of a sophisticated camp.”

  “A camp in the process of becoming a city,” he said pleasantly. “Construction and commerce from all over the world meeting right here. It’s an exciting place to be.” He flashed a roguish smile and extended a hand in greeting. “Maxwell Somers. Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Miss Elizabeth Peterson,” she said. “Have you been in Dawson City long?”

  “I arrived a few weeks ago from Boston.”

  “You speak from experience, then. This is my first day, and I am just getting my bearings.”

  The corners of his mouth dipped. “Pardon my impertinence, but I’m curious why such a lovely young lady is alone on this crowded street. Have you a husband nearby? Perhaps a brother or father?”

  “I am on my own,” she said, leaving it at that. He might be friendly, but Stan had told her enough stories about swindlers for her to know she couldn’t trust strangers.

  “Surely you’re not planning to mine, Miss Peterson.”

  She laughed despite herself. “No, no. I have laboured hard enough just getting here. I’m opening a shop. That is my family’s business.”

  “Excellent! I am in the supply business, so perhaps we shall be partners at some point. In any case, I shall look forward to frequenting your store. Where is it?”

  If only she had an answer. “I actually don’t have one yet. That’s the trouble. I am embarrassed to admit that I was unprepared for the high cost of rentals here. I have sought out funds from pawnbrokers, but they don’t pay well enough for what I need. And their interest rates are shameful.”

  “Ah, yes. The generous nature of Dawson City.” He scratched his throat thoughtfully. “I might know of a place that would suit you.”

  Her heart flipped. “Oh?”

  “It isn’t much, but still.” He paused. “It might be good enough for starting out.”

  That’s all she needed, she thought, daring to hope. A place to start from, then once the business was underway, well, the sky was the limit. Only—

  “I imagine it would be far too expensive for me to afford,” she said.

  “That’s the best part, Miss Peterson.” His face broke into a wide grin. “I own the building, and I’m sure you and I . . . You have collateral, I assume?”

  “I have a full inventory, I just don’t have shelves to put it on.”

  “Let me show you the place, then you can show me what you have. After that, I am certain we can work out some sort of deal that will be agreeable to both of us. Do you have time to see it now?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, trying not to appear too excited. But how serendipitous this was!

  She glanced eagerly from side to side as she walked down the street beside Mr. Somers. Soon her shop would match these flashy, painted window displays—no, she decided, her shop would have much brighter windows.

  “I think you’re going to like this place,” Mr. Somers said, filling the silence. “It has a little surprise that will make it even more worth your while.”

  Liza nodded, but she was starting to feel a niggling of doubt. The farther they went from the city’s core, the dingier the buildings became.

  “And here we are!”

  The lopsided little building he was indicating stood as far from the hub of downtown as it could, but when he swung open the door, she saw that it was, as he’d said, a good place to start. Though the space was small, it had shelves and a counter already installed. With a little ingenuity, she could make it work. She was delighted to learn Mr. Somers’s “surprise” was a small alcove off to the side, and hidden behind its curtain was a cot. This would be more than just a shop, it would be her home, and the best part was that her things would never be out of her sight.

  In a gallant gesture, Mr. Somers agreed to accept the necklace she’d offered the pawnbroker as a first instalment, as well as a few more small items. He gave her two weeks to make up the balance, then provided her with a wagon and an extra pair of arms to help her transport her things. It took them the bulk of the afternoon to unload all the boxes, and when they’d finished she turned to her new landlord with a smile.

  “Mr. Somers, I can’t thank you enough for this. Is there a lease I should sign?”

  “Dear Miss Peterson, you will soon learn that Dawson City does not work that way. Everything here is done with a handshake.”

  She hesitated, wondering what her father might have thought of this arrangement, but she didn’t have much choice other than to accept. Ignoring the voice of caution in her head, Liza shook Mr. Somers’s hand and thanked him for his generosity.

  The moment the door closed behind him, Liza began to unpack everything she had. Too excited to sleep, she kept working late into the evening, using the light of the northern sun beaming through her crooked doorway to finish. Besides her front counter, the store had plenty of shelves—they had needed only a little hammering to make them level—and there was a good, sturdy table in the middle of the room. When she’d run out of shelves, she’d used her travelling crates to hold and display more items. Finally, all the wares they’d lugged up the mountain were in their rightful place, and she stood back to admire the shop. Her shop.

  Yawning, she hung up her apron, and as she leaned down to untie her boots a small package landed at her feet with a dull thud.

  “Oh, George,” she murmured, clutching the parcel to her chest.

  A few days before the river disaster, George had written a letter to his family and wrapped it in a package along with his camera film. He’d given it all to Liza, asking her to post the package when she made it to Dawson, as he would be going straight to the goldfields. Or so he’d thought.

  She traced his neat printing, picturing his long fingers curled around the pen. Of course she would mail it as he’d asked, but after all that had happened, that hardly seemed like enough. After all, he had been her only friend. With a sigh, she pulled out a piece of paper and tried to think of what to write. She knew the Mounties would have notified Olivia immediately by telegraph, so what she would write now would be the words of a friend, something that might help George’s family smile again. She owed him that at the very least. After a moment of thoughtful reflection, she let her pen glide over the paper writing about George’s indomitable and inspiring spirit on the trail and how he had helped her through a very dark time. When she was done, she tucked the letter inside the package and set it aside to take to the post office. After that, she briefly considered taking the time to write to her friends in Vancouver, but she decided to put the paper away instead. No looking back, she told herself.

  She lay down on her cot and pulled an old blanket to her chin. In the quiet, her thoughts unspooled. After months of struggle and grief, she’d established her very own shop in the middle of the Yukon, a place where her father had declared anything was possible. She should feel happy, even celebratory, but a heavy sense of loneliness had descended on her instead. What was the point of all this hardship when no one else was here to share in the rewards? She didn’t even have her dog anymore—though it was comforting to know that Blue was alive. Her mind flitted back to the day at the rapids and the wrenching betrayal that had twisted her heart when she’d seen the black, heart-shaped patch on the dog’s chest. How on earth had Blue survived the avalanche then ended up with Constable Turner, of all people? Why him? Every time trouble found Liza, he had been there as well. A terrible coincidence, of course, but a fact she couldn’t easily navigate around.

  She took a deep breath then let it out, needing to clear her mind. Because against all odds, she had made it to Dawson at last. Here she had a chance at a fresh start.
She hoped, and not for the first time, that she’d seen the last of Constable Ben Turner.

  Ben

  TWENTY-TWO

  At the crest of the hill, Ben reined in his horse and dropped off the saddle. From here he had a view of the junction of the Klondike and Yukon rivers, as well as the creeks and valleys of the goldfields. The echoes of men’s voices drifted up to where he stood, broken only by the hammering of picks and shovels.

  It was hard to imagine what this place had once looked like. From what the old-timers at the mines said, where Ben was now standing, there had once been a forest of willow, birch, and pine, all of it unaware of the thick vein of gold that had solidified far beneath its roots. Since the discovery of gold, the forest no longer existed. Its timber had been chopped and used, its ground hacked and cut, until it was no more than a bald wall of rock streaked with white paths of panned gravel.

  The valley below Ben had served as a small fishing camp for generations of the Hän, but like the hillside, the camp had been stripped for use and was unrecognizable now. Gold mining required water, so streams had been bridged or dammed, and the creeks which had once brought fish to the people had been forever altered. Nothing about the clean, clear water at the top was recognizable in the mines’ murky runoff.

  The men of the Klondike existed here in the thousands, having traded the predictability and comfort of the lives they’d known for a cold, muddy dream of gold. They had struggled to get here from all over the world, and now they staggered daily across a tightrope stretched between misery and euphoria. To Ben, it didn’t seem much more than that—an existence. He sure didn’t think he could call it a life.

  Ben and Keitl headed down to the claims, leaving his mount up top where the ground was more stable. A good horse was worth hundreds of dollars around here, but no one would ever think about stealing a Mountie’s animal, and everyone knew this big boy was Ben’s. He rode this way every few days to check on folks and pass out mail when he could—though most of the time there wasn’t much of that. This morning he was tasked with an extra assignment from Thompson.

  Pay close attention to the men’s packs, he had said. Steele thinks someone might be smuggling guns in, and I think he’s right.

  Who? Ben had asked.

  We don’t know for certain. Listen and watch for now. If I hear anything I’ll pass it along.

  By the end of his rounds, Ben hadn’t seen anything that might suggest crooked deals or guns, but he had helped out a few of the miners and ordered some of the sick ones to head into town and seek medical help. Typhoid was rampant these days, as well as a long list of other illnesses, and they were in a constant race to cut back on contagion. The miners gave Ben an easy greeting as he rode past, and he recognized their eager expressions. They were headed to Dawson City. Time to cash in.

  The trail from the mines to Dawson City was like a river: all the gold dug out of the ground flowed directly into the city, then its tributaries branched off between saloons, dance halls, hotels, and banks. If a man came into town without gold, he had to search hard to find work, because nothing in this town came for free. But if his packs were loaded with dust and nuggets, the tantalizing doors of Dawson swung wide open in welcome.

  Ben figured Dawson City was as different from the Chilkoot Pass as a rainbow was to dirt. The vast whiteness of Chilkoot had echoed with silence. Impersonal, necessary interactions between Mounties, the travellers, and the dogs were the social limit. But here in Dawson, a growing boomtown with over fourteen thousand people, the noise never stopped. Working women with plunging necklines and negligible skirts leaned over balconies, jeering and flirting without shame, and every day new people arrived, keen to start this new chapter in their adventures. Cheechakas, those folks were called—as opposed to the “sourdoughs” who had been there awhile—and they were easy to spot. They were the ones stumbling through the crowds with their mouths hanging open, awed by the sights.

  It had become second nature for Ben to scan the street as he walked through the town on his rounds. Dawson’s citizens hung tight to their belongings, aware that professional thieves and con men slithered among them. Many of those had learned their trades on the often violent streets of Skagway under the tutelage of the infamous Soapy Smith. But Dawson City was nothing like Skagway, in large part because of the Mounties’ enforcement of the gun laws at the summit. That wasn’t to say Dawson was squeaky clean, though.

  “Hey there, Constable Turner.”

  “Good afternoon, Daisy,” Ben replied, tipping his hat to the young prostitute.

  Daisy crouched to give Keitl a scratch on the head and Ben a front-row seat to her impressive cleavage. She blinked up at him from under her lashes.

  “Looking for something to pass the time?”

  Daisy lived in one of the tents on Paradise Alley, which had sprung up almost overnight in an area between Front Street and Second Avenue. Each one had a girl’s name painted on the front. It was part of Ben’s job to check on the area, make sure everyone was all right, but the sight of those tents always made him feel sick. He hated to see girls living and working in such a filthy slum.

  “Daisy, you’re a beautiful woman, but you know you’re talking to the wrong man.”

  “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

  “You be careful out here, Daisy. And keep an eye on the water.”

  The last week had been rainy, and with the snow melting, the river had risen to an alarming level. Steele predicted they would soon be relocating the townsfolk due to flooding.

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” Daisy purred. “It’s Ralph Stevens’s wife you need to worry about.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard she’s in hospital tonight, and that her husband put her there. It’s not the first time.”

  Ben didn’t hesitate. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “She won’t charge him with anything.”

  “I understand.” More than Daisy would ever know. “I’ll talk to him.”

  Ben immediately headed to Stevens’s home: a big house on Sixth Avenue, away from the downtown noise. He’d never met the man, but Ben knew a little about him from the chatter around Fort Herchmer. Stevens was in his early forties, wealthy from his claims and the roulette wheel, but a couple of times Thompson had wondered aloud if he might have another side business that kept him flush.

  As Ben strode up to the house, hot under the collar at the thought of what this man had done to his wife, he reminded himself to keep his temper under control, but when Ralph Stevens answered his knock, a crystal tumbler in one hand and cuts on his knuckles, Ben’s hands reflexively clenched at his sides.

  “Ralph Stevens?” he asked.

  “Yes?” Stevens’s voice was low and gravelly, hardened by whatever was in his glass. “Who are you?”

  “Constable Ben Turner from the North-West Mounted Police. I’m here to charge you with assault.”

  Ben hadn’t planned to say that, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Stevens’s nonchalant arrogance cut through Ben’s calm, and he knew he had to do something, not just make threats. He was tired of people getting hurt on his watch.

  Stevens crossed his arms. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” He studied Ben’s uniform. “Constable, is it?”

  He’d noticed Ben’s lack of officer chevrons, then, but that didn’t deter Ben. “Mr. Stevens, most men worth a rat’s ass give their wives gifts and respect. You, on the other hand, gave your wife such a beating she’s in the hospital for at least a couple of days. And from what I understand, this ain’t the first time. That’s assault, and assault is illegal.”

  Stevens tugged at his collar. “You got proof?”

  “I do,” Ben bluffed. “You’ll have to come with me.”

  “I see.” Stevens held up a finger. “Hold your horses, Constable. I’ll be right back.”

  Ben heard him shuffling around in the next room, and he unclipped his holster just in case. But when Ralph reappeared,
he carried a couple of small moosehide sacks, not a pistol. The sacks were called “pokes,” and Ben knew each one was filled with about sixteen dollars’ worth of gold dust.

  Stevens offered the bags with a knowing smile. “Let’s forget all about this. Let bygones be bygones, as they say.”

  In his hands was more money than Ben could make in a month as a Mountie, but the idea of accepting a bribe sent bile up his throat. He held out his cuffs. “I suggest you tuck those pokes back in your pocket before I charge you for attempting to bribe a policeman—in addition to assault.”

  “Those won’t be necessary,” Stevens said. “I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”

  “We can talk all you want at the jail, Mr. Stevens.”

  “Do you have any idea who I am?” he demanded, his face flushing. “You’re harassing the wrong man, boy.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re someone who’s broken the law, and that’s all I need to know.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Turn around now, Mr. Stevens. Hands behind your back.”

  The cuffs made a satisfactory click! as they were fastened, and Stevens’s large wrists bulged against the restraints. As they walked towards Fort Herchmer, neither man said a word. Only when Stevens slouched miserably on the small bench within his cell did Ben break the silence.

  “I need to know one thing,” he said, locking the door behind him. “When you’re out of here, will your wife be safe with you? Because if the answer’s no, I’m gonna find her someplace else to go.”

  A fleeting expression of annoyance passed over Stevens’s face. “Yeah, yeah. She’ll be safe.”

  “Good, because if I hear that you so much as give your wife a headache, you’re gonna end up back in here, you understand?”

  “She’ll be fine,” he grumbled, “but you might live to regret this.”

  “Keep talking,” Ben said, sitting behind a desk and getting started on the paperwork. “You might get out of here in a month or so at that rate.”

  Ben had neither evidence nor a witness, so in place of a report, he wrote a note to Thompson, explaining why Ralph Stevens was in the cell. What he’d done wasn’t official by any means, and he knew he could get a slap on the wrist for doing it, but it was worth it. This way Stevens would know he meant business in the future. Besides, he might have made an enemy out of Stevens, but by doing so he might have saved a woman’s life. The first he could handle. The second felt really good.