They were seated at one of the windows, the big man bent over his plate, his baldish head gleaming in the lamplight, the jaws moving. His eyes lifted at my entrance and he said something, his companion turning on the instant, so that I was conscious of the two of them watching as I crossed to an empty table. By the time I was seated they were bent in silent concentration over their food again, both of them dressed in the clothes they had worn the night before, but now their calf-length boots were muddied to the tucked-in denim of their jeans. The only sounds were the murmur of the generator and the strum of a guitar from a back room. The hunters didn’t talk even over their coffee, the smaller one facing me and smoking a cheroot in complete silence. They left before I had finished the main course, which was venison pie.
It was after the meal that I met Tony Tarasconi, in the back room. It had a bar counter and a big log fire; McKie and several others were sitting at a table drinking. The Italian, wearing a bearskin poncho, was balanced on the wooden back of a chair, a guitar slung around his neck. He was drinking beer from a can while he strummed, his feet beating out the time in a worn pair of carpet slippers. At the mention of my name he stopped, his dark eyes staring, the glow of the fire reflected in his glasses. ‘You the guy wanting a lift up to Ice Cold?’ His voice was a little slurred, the perspiration beading his high-boned features.
‘You keep out of it, Tony.’ McKie’s voice was quiet, but firm. ‘Your claim is down on the Squaw.’
‘Okay, okay, but if he’s Tom’s lawyer …’
‘Just get on with the music, Maestro, and stop worrying about the Gully.’ McKie said it jokingly, but I caught an undercurrent of command in his voice. And when I told the Italian I’d been given to understand it was all fixed for him to take me in, he shook his head. ‘I don’t go up there. Not any more.’
I asked him why, but he didn’t answer, his eyes on McKie. ‘You took Mrs Halliday,’ I said.
There was a long silence. That was quite a while back. Nice lady.’
‘Was Epinard there?’
‘Jonny? No, he wasn’t there.’
‘You mean it was deserted?’
‘Except for Jack-Mac.’
‘Who?’
‘Mac. The Indian who helps Jonny.’
‘Do you remember what they talked about?’
‘Course not. I had things to do, didn’t I? I just left her there with him, then came back for her later.’
‘How much later? How long was she up there?’
‘Couple of hours. Three maybe. Hell!’ he said. ‘You want to know what she had for lunch, why she came visiting, where she was going next? I can tell you that. She was going back to Whitehorse to see Jonny, then taking the ferry out to Vancouver.’ And he added, ‘What’s a bloody lawyer doing up here, anyway? You going to sell the claims?’ His eyes were suddenly bright like a bird’s. ‘Is that it?’
I didn’t answer that, but I did indicate that I was trying to find out what value should be put on the mine.
‘Jonny is the man to tell you that,’ McKie said quickly. And he made the point once again that the mine hadn’t produced anything much in the way of gold for a long time. ‘Jonny ran it at a loss. Ask anybody here.’ He looked round at the others, most of them local men with woollen shirts and muddied boots. They nodded, and one of them said that whether Tom Halliday was alive or dead didn’t make any difference to the mine because it wasn’t worth a cent anyway. ‘The claim’s worked out, and Jonny knows it, poor bastard.’
A hand touched my shoulder. Eddie had come from behind the bar. ‘On the house,’ he said, thrusting a drink into my hand. It was a large Scotch and I looked across at McKie, who nodded and raised his glass. The log fire, a moose head above it with a huge spread of plate-like antlers, the weathered faces and the outlandish clothes - I was very much the stranger from outer space. And Tony Tarasconi, a bright red scarf tied in a knot round his neck, his hair very black, not straight like an Indian’s, but running back across his narrow head in waves, his eyes bright, his appearance birdlike. He began playing again, softly now and crooning to himself. Several times he glanced at me curiously as though trying to make up his mind about something. I had the feeling he would have talked if we had been on our own.
I bought a round of drinks and shortly afterwards I went to bed. Half dozing I heard voices, the slam of car doors, then the sound of engines fading into the night. The murmur of the generator ceased abruptly and the verandah lights went out. A moment later there was a knock at my door, and when I opened it I found Tony Tarasconi standing there. He was swaying slightly, a dim shadow only recognizable because of the guitar still slung from his neck.
‘You still want to go to Ice Cold Creek?’ His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I’m going back in to my claim tomorrow. I can take you up - if you like.’ He sounded uncertain.
It was freezing cold standing there in my pyjamas, but he wouldn’t come in, his eyes on the restaurant entrance. ‘What time?’ I asked.
Ten, or a little later perhaps.’
‘What about the slide?’
‘I don’t know. You may have to walk a bit. We’ll see. But you be ready by ten, okay?’ He wanted me to set off walking towards Haines and he’d pick me up. ‘That way Kevin won’t know I’m giving you a lift, see. Nobody will know.’
I asked him why it had to be done so secretly, but he shook his head, giving me a perfunctory goodnight and staggering off to his cabin.
I was shivering with cold by then so I didn’t try to stop him. I was now so convinced that it was the Gully and the gold that might lie hidden in the ground there that motivated them all that I hardly gave it another thought. Tomorrow I would take a look at Stone Slide Gully and the Italian would doubtless make some sort of offer that would trigger off a bid from McKie and the others. Perhaps I wouldn’t need to do anything about the trees Tom’s father had planted. A few moments and I was asleep, and when I woke the sun was coming up over the lake in a great red ball of fire that had the whole vast expanse of water lying like molten lava against the black outline of the distant mountains over towards Whitehorse.
I dressed quickly and went out. The sky was clear, the sun bright and my breath smoking in air that had a tang of frost in it, not a breath of wind. A few hours now and I should know why they didn’t want me to go up to the mine. Was there gold there that Tom hadn’t known about? A workable mine? But then Miriam would have written. And if there was nothing — nothing of value… but the question seemed burned into my mind - why hadn’t she written? It rankled. I suppose that was it. A blow to my manhood, though God knows the frosty air hadn’t done it any good either, and the chill remoteness of that flat calm lake had the effect of making me seem very small, the long high rampart of the Front Ranges stretching into the distance, the autumn colours flaring lemon in the sun, and along the tops the new snow shining crystal white. It was a fairy scene, so brilliant and so beautiful that on the instant I knew why sensible urban businessmen would give up commuting for the hard life of a northern settler. I reached the lake, the heron watching me from a bed of reeds, still as a sentinel expecting snipers.
When I got back to the lodge Tony and another man were unloading a mud-spattered pick-up truck. He glanced in my direction, then deliberately turned away. The hunters’ truck had gone. I went into the restaurant. No sign of McKie, but Eddie was there, and a girl who mixed cleaning with serving. I bought a couple of postcards of Dezadeash Lake and wrote them while waiting for my coffee and a great plateful of bacon and egg and sausage. The postcards, the brightness of the day, the prospect of a drive deep into the Ranges under whose shadow I seemed to have been for so long gave me the feeling of being on holiday. I sent one postcard to my mother, the other to that tiresome little bitch I had taken with me to Brittany - why I can’t think, except as a sort of flourish, like sticking a pin in the North Pole and saying That’s where I am now, aren’t you impressed? God, how simple, how obvious the needs of one’s psyche!
There was m
ovement on the Highway now, several trucks headed for Haines, a car in for gas, another spilling an American family homeward bound and wanting breakfast, some foresters. I sat over my coffee, watching them all, relaxed and enjoying the strangeness of it. A truck with two Indians, then more Americans, elderly and in a tetchy mood, taking their mobile home down to catch the ferry to Prince Rupert. ‘There’s a ride back to Whitehorse if you want it.’ Kevin McKie was at my elbow, nodding towards a big estate car crowded with children that was just pulling in from the gas pumps. They say one more won’t make any difference.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s too lovely a day,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a walk and stretch my legs.’
‘Okay. But I warn you, there’s not too much going to Whitehorse. The visitors are pulling out of the Yukon, so most of the traffic is going the other way.’ He hesitated, looking down at me. ‘And don’t think you can just head into the Kluane on your own. The law says you got to notify the Park authorities.’
‘Ice Cold is not in the Kluane National Park,’ I said.
His eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. ‘Sure it isn’t, but it’s damn close and you could easily get lost or snowed in or treed by a grizzly, and there’s hunters around, too. We don’t like being called out in the middle of the night to go looking for people.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I told him.
He nodded. ‘Okay, but you remember, we’re on the edge of a lot of mountain and ice here, on the brink of winter, too. The weather can change very fast.’ One of the foresters called to him, a big barrel-bellied man, braces over bright red bush shirt and a hat with a feather in it rammed tight on a round bullet head. ‘Be with you in a moment, Rod.’ His hand gripped my shoulder. ‘If you got some idea of walking in to the mine, forget it. It’s twenty-two miles down to the turn-off to Dalton’s Post, and when you reach the Post it’s another twenty-odd to the mine. There’s two fords to cross, several thousand feet to climb and that’s hard going even for a fit man. And I don’t have room for you after tonight. It’s the start of the weekend and we’re fully booked.’
I thought for a moment he was going to press me to change my mind about the lift, but instead he smiled as he let go of my shoulder. ‘If the worst comes to the worst I guess I can always ring Jean. Haines Junction you’d be all right. Have a nice day,’ he added as he walked away. ‘And if you want a packed lunch tell Eddie or Sue, whoever’s around.’
Through the window I watched Tony Tarasconi and his partner finish the off-loading of their four-by-four truck. When it was empty, and everything neatly stacked with a tarpaulin roped over it, they came in for breakfast, Tony glancing up at me as he passed beneath the window and nodding in the direction of the Highway. Considering the amount he must have drunk the night before, that he had been playing his guitar for at least three hours and had just unloaded a full truck, he looked almost effervescent with health and vigour as he came hurrying in like a bantam cock half-hidden under his poncho. ‘Morning all. Is-a good morning, no?’ He was grinning, teeth showing white in his wind-brown face, the exaggeration of his Italian accent, his bubbling good humour giving an instant lift to the faces around the room. ‘Fame fame — lo bloody hungry. Sue! Mia amorata - the girl virtually fell into his arms as he embraced her. ‘Mia amorata, eh? Due breakfasts gigantico. Subito, subito. That means bloody quick and lots of it.’ He and his partner pulled up chairs to join the foresters, the noise of their talk rising perceptibly.
Breakfast was a meal that apparently went on from dawn till lunchtime. About ten I left my postcards at the counter and picked up the lunch I had ordered. Eddie produced a knapsack for me. ‘When you’ve eaten your lunch you can stuff your parka in it. Could be quite warm by then.’ He offered me the loan of a pair of boots, but his feet were a lot bigger than mine and anyway I had had the sense to wear a stout pair of walking shoes when joining the plane at Gatwick.
It was just after ten-fifteen when I left my cabin and walked on to the highway, turning right and heading towards Haines. I had my camera with me and if McKie wanted to know where I had been I could always say I had hitched a ride and walked the Dalton Trail as far as the old Post. It was the obvious thing for a visitor to do, for Dalton had established his trail as early as 1898 and the previous evening McKie had told me the Post had bunkhouse and stabling, even a two-holer toilet, all built of logs ‘and still in good condition, like the old staging post of Silver City at Lake Kluane’.
A car slowed, going towards Haines, but I waved it on, happy in the freedom of walking the hard dirt of the highway, enjoying the bite in the air, the warmth of the sun. Within the space of five minutes two more vehicles had stopped to offer me a lift, and when I looked round again at the sound of an engine, expecting it to be Tony and once again finding a stranger slowing to pick me up, I thought, What the hell! If he were delayed, or McKie stopped him, I would still have time to walk the twenty-odd miles to Ice Cold and back.
The vehicle was one of those big American campers about the size of a Greyhound bus, a craggy Californian driving it, his wife in the galley brewing coffee, the smell of it filling the cab. ‘Where yah going?’ When I said Dalton’s Post, he nodded. ‘We bin in one of the camping lots close by Silver City looking for Dall sheep on the mountain there. Got some good pictures. Guess we seen quite a bit of that old Trail.’ He relit the thin cigar he was chewing and started the big machine rolling again. ‘You’re from England, are you? Then you probably wouldn’t have driven one of these -‘ He patted the steering wheel. ‘First time May and I have - great way to see the country. Only way, I guess. You know if the Million Dollar Fall campground is still open? That’s at Mile 102.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s all new to me.’
‘You just visiting then?’ He nodded, slowing for a bend as we began a steady downhill run, his voice droning on, telling me about his family, his house, the car he had just bought and his business, which was electronics.
They were kindly people, but it was a relief when we came to the sign for Dalton’s Post and I was on my own again, the sun warm on my back. I crossed the road to the well-worn dirt track leading to the mountains and in minutes the highway was gone, the bush closing in, no sound of vehicles, just complete and utter silence except for the faint murmur of water far away and the rustle of a small breeze shaking the leaves of the aspens.
The water, when I came to it, was immensely wide for something that was called a creek; more like a river, its bed full of low banks of stone and boulder. A track had been worn to the bank, dipping down into the water, tyre marks visible on the first grey bank of shingle and coarse sand. This was the first ford and no way I could cross it without getting soaked. Ahead of me the Dalton Trail track finished in a clearing of flat grassland where the scattered remains of log huts still stood, sod-roofed and the window openings without glass. The creek swung in to run quite fast along the bank where more tyre marks led down into the water. Standing in the long grass at the edge of the swirling water I tried to visualize the Post as it had been when it was full of men and horses and wagons, and the hot fever of the gold rush. Clouds hung over the mountains ahead, but here the sun was still bright, its warmth cooled by a small breeze coming down the creek.
A horn blared and I turned to find a truck almost upon me, the sound of its engine overlaid by the murmur of the water at my feet. ‘Hi!’ It drew up beside me, Tony Tarasconi leaning out of the cab window. ‘Somebody gave you a ride, eh? I got held up. Didn’t reckon you’d have got this far.’
I took a picture of Dalton’s Post, another of the fording place, then climbed into the truck. ‘That’s our road, over there.’ Tarasconi nodded to the further bank, swinging round and heading back to where the first set of tyre marks led down to the water. He rammed the gear lever into first as the yellow snout of the truck with its radiator guard dipped down into the creek and we began crunching our way across from one grey shingle bank to another until at last we came out on the far side dripping water, the track ahead climbin
g steadily. ‘It’s all right here. To my claim is only about ten miles, pretty good going all the way. But the claim …’ He shrugged. ‘My claim not so good, lot of work, not much gold. Is placer mining, of course. (He pronounced it ‘plasser’.) Reckon the boys who worked it before got the best of it. Anyway, I pay too much royalty. Thirty per cent is too much.’ He grinned at me, his teeth showing white under the hooked nose. ‘Higher up is different. Up above the timber line they got a real “plasser” mine, the benches clearly defined, like raised beaches, a good yield of pay dirt, and down near the bedrock gold that you can see.’
We were doing a steady 30 kph on the clock, the truck bucking and rearing as we climbed towards a hump of land that was like a small pass. ‘Why do you do it if it doesn’t pay?’ I asked, and he laughed: ‘Is a good question. Why do I do it, eh? You ever been a plumber?’ He saw the look on my face and laughed again, beating the side of his door with his hand. ‘Six months’ plumbing, flushing out other people’s shit - you need a breath of clean fresh air then, so six months’ mining. You know Medicine Hat? No? It’s down in the prairie country, Alberta, an old CPR town. Plumbing six months in Medicine Hat is enough. Okay? So now you know why I come here. Some day —’ his eyes were shining again — ‘some day I strike it rich. Not on the claim I work now, but somewhere… Stone Slide maybe -‘ He gave me a quick, sidelong glance, and then we were over the hump and dropping sharply. The gorge is down there.’ He jerked his head to the right and a moment later he was thrusting the truck round a bend, slithering on the slime of frozen mud just surface-thawed by the sun. A side track dropped away to the right and he swung onto it, and in an instant we were bumping our way down a steep hill that looked as though in heavy rain, or when the snows melted, it became the bed of a torrent. ‘Now you see the difference,’ he yelled at me. ‘We’re on the Ice Cold track. Is bad, this one. Nobody do nothing to it for many years now. No gold, no money — that’s the way it is in this goddamned country.’
High Stand Page 10
