The Ancestor

by Lee Matthew Goldberg

  “I see a lot of myself in you when I was younger,” he says, and I wince at that thought.

  “I’m no con man.”

  “Oh really? There’s a long life ahead of you hopefully and conning will be imminent.

  I guarantee.”

  “I want to provide for myself. My son, he’s sick.”

  “So did I. At least at first, I told myself that. But once you start taking, it becomes hard to justify. It simply becomes a part of you.”

  “I haven’t taken anything that’s not mine.”

  “What about the gold? That’s the Earth’s, I believe. It’s spent many years to refine that gilt to what it is now. No different, sonny.”

  Soapy and I stay quiet for the rest of the journey. Maybe what he’s said has gotten to me, I don’t know; I feel guilty as all heck. For being selfish, I guess. But maybe he wants to mess with my mind and I decide to keep him close in my sights, as much as Frank.

  With the sun high in the sky, we arrive at Frank’s spot, a burbling creek bed with slab runoffs that have a golden reflection when the light hits it right.

  “I had walked and walked and walked,” Frank says, getting off his horse and scurrying over to the creek bed. “The way the light catches the water, you can almost see fine bits of gold.” Panning the stream, he wipes away sand and sure enough a golden knob shines back.

  “See!” he says, holding up the evidence.

  None of us wait for him to prove there’s any more. We get our pans ready and spend the next few hours repeating the same motions over and over until magically each of us has a pile of gold as large as a small child. The sun dips, casting the land in purple lights.

  Soapy mops his brow and whips out a cigar.

  “Stole this down in California off a Cuban so it’s the real shebang. I say we share.”

  He lights it and passes it around. I’ve never smoked a cigar before. It burns my throat, but I play it off like I’m used to the burn. Even Kaawishté partakes, coughing out smoke rings.

  “Hold on, hold on,” Soapy says. “I got a flat folding Kodak I took from a gentleman in Juneau. He asked me to take a photograph of him and his wife and I got on my horse and rode away before they even realized!” He slaps his knee. “Get together, you guys.” He motions for me to get close to Frank and Kaawishté. “Let’s make sure the gold is in the frame too.”

  I inch close enough to Frank to smell his sweat, Kaawishté on my other side. Mountain tells us to put our arms around each other so we do it while Soapy sets up.

  “Oh, what a fine photograph,” Soapy says, deliriously excited. “We’ll trade addresses and I’ll make sure to send it to you.”

  This reminds me that I still need to mail Adalaide’s letter, having been thwarted earlier. “Even closer,” Soapy bellows. “We’re all friends.”

  I have my arms firmly around Frank and Kaawishté neck when I hear a pistol being cocked. Mountain points his gun right at us. At first, I think he’s selling us all down the river, but then Soapy tosses the Kodak aside and raises his own pistol.

  “It doesn’t even work,” he says, kicking the Kodak into the creek bed. “But I’d say it’s certainly come in handy.”

  Soapy and Mountain share in a momentous laugh that carries on for too long.

  “Since you’ve already got your arms out, let’s keep it going and raise ’em to the sky.”

  We do so without hesitation. I can tell Kaawishté silently simmers. He probably never wanted to trust Soapy and his men and only went along with it because of me.

  “Were you always aiming to turn on us?” I ask.

  Soapy scratches his chin with the butt of the pistol. This man is not careful. And if we are to survive this, that will be his downfall.

  “Yes, this was a takedown from the start,” Soapy says. “We needed Frank to get us to the spot and you two rubes to do most of the work. And look, three extra piles Charlie and I wouldn’t have been able to pan on our own. Now we can tie you up and push you down the river, or leave a bullet in each of your heads. But I don’t really like to waste bullets.”

  Soapy gets in our faces, his breath reeking of old jerky.

  “So, what’s the verdict?”

  “Duck,” Kaawishté says, under his breath. He eyes bore into mine, even Frank notices.

  “What was that, you goddamn Injun?” Soapy asks.

  “DUCK,” Kaawishté yells, and in one quick move, he whisks the knife from his belt, swings down low and slices at Soapy’s ankles. Frank and I dive for the ground as a bullet zings by our ears. Blood spurts from Soapy’s boots. With the pistol in one hand, he tries to suture the bleeding with the other, sniveling like a lost puppy.

  “Soapy!” Mountain booms, trying to aim his gun but Kaawishté acts too fast. He leaps upon the giant man, knife swinging. The blade catches Mountain’s cheek, opening up a wound like a fish’s mouth. The two hit the ground hard, wading in a pool of new blood.

  Kaawishté large and relentless, slicing at every exposed limb while Mountain attempts to line up another shot.

  I scramble to get my knife but adrenaline has taken over and I’m shivering from the intensity of the last minute. The knife is slippery and becomes lost in the creek bed, floating away. Soapy crawls on his elbows over to me, presses the pistol into my nose. I hear a click.

  “Go to hell,” Soapy says. There’s blood dripping from his mouth as he gnashes his teeth, close enough to give me a peck.

  I wrap my fingers around his neck, squeezing with all my might to choke the life outta him. The cusses keep flyin’ from his lips as his face bloats and turns blue. He lets out a bloody hack in my face. Now with the strength of two men, I grasp his neck with one hand while the other latches onto his gun. I attempt to direct it away from me, but he’s tough for an old crook.

  “Today’s the day you die,” Soapy tells me, but I disbelieve this proclamation. My story will go on for a lot longer. This will not be my end.

  The sun gets sucked up by the night as everything goes black, the moon a paltry replacement. This phantasm of evil hovers over me, and all I have left is my will to keep going, to return to my beloved, to cheat death.

  And then the moon becomes blocked by a figure with a heavy branch. The figure swings the branch and knocks Soapy off me. The gun scatters across the earth. The figure picks up the gun and fires a shot. I close my eyes, expecting the bullet in my guts, but when I open them, I’m facing Soapy’s dead expression, a nickel-sized hole in his forehead. The figure steps into the moonlight and I see my savior is Frank. He lends a hand to pull me up.

  “You saved me?” I ask as a question because I’m confounded beyond belief.

  Frank gurgles the phlegm in his throat and spits out a yellow glob. “That I did.”

  Two shots ring out and we swivel over to Kaawishté who stands over Mountain after firing the bullets in his chest.

  “Let’s get to the third one by morning to decide his fate,” Kaawishté says.

  With the little light we have, we collect the piles of gold, replacing most of what we carried in the pack. We swear to one another to take care of the last of Soapy’s men without turning on ourselves. I have to believe Frank, since he already spared my life.

  In the night, the only sounds we make are the quiet clops from our horses. None of us has anything to say, as if words have been exorcized from our bodies, too stunned and tired to make sense of it all, except that nothing makes sense in this lawless tundra world.

  October 13th, 1898

  By morning, we reach the lean-to. The plan being for me to go in first and explain that Soapy’s gotten hurt. Then with Tree disarmed, Kaawishté and Frank can come in with guns ready. Sure enough, when I enter, Tree sleeps beside the booty so I wave for them to come in and we stand over him with two guns and one knife poking his neck. It takes a few kicks to rouse him, since he’s gone to sleep with a bottle cradled in his arms.

  “Aw hell,” he snorts, rubbing the crust from his eyes. He gets to a sitting position and
we take away the gun in his holster.

  “I’m sure you can guess what’s happened,” I say.

  His chin quivers. “Soapy and Charlie are dead.”

  “’Fraid so. The question remains what we should do with you.”

  At this, he begins blubbering. “I had no idea what they were planning…”

  I’m tired of his bawling so I hit him over the head with the butt of a knife.

  “Now listen. Soapy gave us two choices, so I’ll give you the same. But while he wouldn’t spare our lives, we will.”

  His eyes light up. He clasps his hands together in prayer.

  “You all are too kind.”

  “It involves tying yourself up,” Frank says, and tosses him rope from one of the rucksacks. “Get it good and tight.”

  “Then what?” Tree asks.

  “You will see,” Kaawishté says.

  Tree starts tying the rope around his feet.

  “So the booty is ours to decide what to do with it. We debated on turning you in to the law, but the truth is we don’t want to deal with them,” I say. “Empty your pockets too.”

  Tree appears hesitant, but Kaawishté slices at his neck so he complies. A few coins and dust balls fall out along with a folded-up map.

  “What’s this?” I open the map to the same Yukon territory I’ve locked into my memory, except this map details farther out west to The Unknown I’ve heard about where a giant red X has been drawn over a particular spot close to Anvil Creek near St.

  Michael. “This where Soapy was headed?”

  “Yes, sir. We were gonna make a try for it. Although the terrain is rugged and hasn’t been traversed by many before. No telling what exists out there.”

  “I guess that’s why they call it The Unknown,” I say.

  After Tree finishes tying himself up, we get the rucksacks sorted with a fair amount of gold for each of us. We decide since the booty has been stolen, it should be returned to the post office. Frank isn’t too gung-ho about this decision, but gives in. Tree still blubbers, asking to take him with us, and I’m sick of him so I stuff a rag in his mouth and tie the end of the rope around that too.

  “We should go for The Unknown,” I tell Kaawishté, who seems off in another world.

  “What about me?” Frank asks. “I’m going too.”

  “Who’s says we’re allowing you to join?”

  “You don’t own The Unknown. I could very well go if I wanted to.”

  “The deal was to take care of Soapy’s last man and then go our separate ways.”

  “We make a team, the three us,” Frank whines. “Look at what we’ve accomplished.”

  “I am not going,” Kaawishté says, and I turn to him in disbelief. “This is enough gold for my tribe. I do not want to be greedy.”

  “But Kaawishté, there could be so much more.”

  “There is a chance you do not return from this Unknown. I have a family back home.”

  “A family? You never told me that.”

  “You never asked.”

  “But I’ve spoken about my wife and child. George did too. You never once thought to chime in?”

  “There is a lot I keep close to my heart, more so than white men do. We Tlingit are humble and pensive. We do not share much about ourselves to outsiders.”

  He takes the booty from out of its hiding spot. “I will return this to the post office. It doesn’t make sense for you both to travel back to Dawson City.”

  I get in his ear. “Do you really think I should align with this man to The Unknown.”

  “Wyatt,” he says, in his sobering tone, “you have changed since we first met, but you still are restless. I believe you should go back to your family with the gold you’ve found, but I know that you will not. You will always wonder what lies in The Unknown and it will eat at your insides.”

  “I know.” I’m tearing up now, a little embarrassed, but I just let it flow. “I can’t go back yet.”

  “Then your decision is made.”

  I go into my rucksack and pull out the letter to Adalaide.

  I wipe the drips from my nose. “Will you mail this at the post office? My wife, I would like her to know I’m all right.”

  He stuffs the letter in his sack. “I will do this for you.”

  I give him a strangling hug. I don’t know why I’m so overcome with emotion, but this Indian and I have been through a lot. I’ve never had such a unique friendship before and will be hesitant to bad mouth an Indian in any way. They are a great people, wise and brave, and I will never be the same now that we’ve met. Kaawishté doesn’t hug me back,

  likely because it’s not a part of his customs, but he lets me continue the hug until I’m ready to release.

  “Good luck,” he tells us as we head outside. Kaawishté gets on a horse and gallops away without saying goodbye. I watch until he’s swallowed by the white wash of the horizon. I know I will never see him again.

  “So, we partnerin’ up?” Frank asks. I turn to the new man I’m supposed to rely on, all fat and greasy with a missing tooth. Hardly a comparison to Kaawishté.

  “We better get a move on while we have the light on our side,” I say. We tie our rucksacks to our horses, slap their hides, and shoot off. Over my shoulder, I see Tree hopping out of the shack and likely cursing at us through his tied-up mouth. I’m pleased that we didn’t decide to kill him, my murdering days hopefully finished for good.

  37

  THE UNKNOWN

  October 13th to October 21st, 1898

  The weather decides to be as tortuous as the terrain once we leave the area surrounding Dawson City. Providence is telling us not to continue, and for a moment Frank and I remain hesitant. Neither of us is a good rider and if our horses get ill, we’ll be done for since it’s hundreds of miles to our location. After a moment of warmth in the lean-to, I’m resigned again to the bitterness of the cold that nips at my fingertips and ears like tiny evil bugs.

  Within hours, we cross the Canadian border back into Alaska, the first stops being Fort Cudah and Circle City where we take breaks and gnaw on jerky. We stock up a bit with food since this is the last small city we’ll hit, but we know to survive the journey, the land will have to provide. At Porcupine River, we strip down and bathe in the freezing waters to remove some of our stink. Then we start a fire and cook beans and fart into the night trying to outdo each other.

  “I’m sorry about before,” Frank says, mummified in a blanket. “And I don’t apologize a lot.”

  “You talkin’ about on the G.W. ?”

  “It was a rotten thing for me to do.” He twiddles his thumbs. “Can’t tell ya the amount of times some other prospector has taken what deserves to be mine. I got scared it would happen again.” The flames lick at his face, which is rather cherub-like. He whistles though the gap in his teeth. “Anyhoo, I thought you should know this.”

  “I much appreciate, Frank.”

  “Other men would’ve slit my throat first chance they had. But not you, Wyatt Barlow.

  You’re etched from a different kind of stone. Honorable, I’d say.”

  I pour a little whiskey into a metal cup, take a hearty sip.

  “Frank, whatever ill between us is now forgotten, erased, and done away. The two of us are gonna be the first to find this hidden gold, making everything we went through worthwhile.”

  “Hear, hear,” he says, and I swear I can see a trickle of a tear at the corner of his eye.

  We clink whiskey mugs, down our poisons, and sleep the day off, awakening with a freshly sealed bond that should carry us well into The Unknown.

  October 22nd, 1898

  In the middle of the night, I wake from a dream or possibly I am still deep inside one.

  The fire cooks and morphs into the shape of a wolf’s head, ice-blue eyes shining through.

  Frank is still under as the fire speaks and tells me to be careful who I trust. I wonder if it’s speaking of Frank or someone else we will encounter, but it vanishes before
I can inquire. When I wake, it has turned back to a dying flame.

  I’m less conversational with Frank this morning as we set off. He’s telling me a story about his wife Rosalie. I guess he hadn’t been lying about her before on the G.W. Elder, although I’d assumed everything that came out of his mouth then had been a falsity. But he tells me of plump Rosalie who’s always cooking biscuits and usually has a speck of flour dusting her cheeks. That neither of them has any money, and he’s not sure if they’ll still have their house when he returns, since the bank’s been sniffing around to collect its loans.

  “You’re quiet today,” he says. I’m eager to cross the Romantzoff Mountains along the Yukon River. They stand tall and craggily, threatening except it looks like we can swing around them without having to climb. The altitude still rises and I’m a little light-headed when I see what appears to a bear but I wonder if it’s simply a vision. The bear winds from out of a blueberry bush. It’s so massive that it only takes a few steps to be right in our faces.

  “Don’t make a sound,” Frank says, bringing out a rifle.

  “If you shoot, you better hit it, Frank.”

  Frank closes one eye as the bear sniffs. Then it opens its mouth, sending a big roar our way. Frank fires, but due to the kickback of the rifle, he’s knocked off his horse and the bullet sails away. We all watch it become lost in the clouds, bear included. Then the bear charges. Frank’s horse gets spooked and attempts to back up, but the bear roars and swipes at the horse with its claw. Scratch marks bleed from the horse’s body, gaping wounds that won’t heal in the cold. The horse buckles as Frank’s rucksack with his gold flips over the side of a snow bank. We hear it reach the bottom of a cavernous hole many feet down. No way to get to it.

  I’m unsure whether to dismount my horse and try to help, or to save my life by kicking its sides so I can flee. I think of the wolf’s warning from the fire. This would be an easy way to part with Frank for once and for all, but then, it would only be me and the horse traversing this land, surely not good odds to make it out alive. So I dismount as quietly as possible, slip a pistol from out of my rucksack. The bear charges at Frank, saliva dripping from its mouth on his face. He covers himself with his arms pleading to be saved. I fire right into the bear’s behind as it lets out a howl loud enough to cause an avalanche. It spins its head, trying to locate its attacker, enough for Frank to wiggle out from under. When it sees me, we lock souls, each knowing that only one of us will make it out of this fight alive. I fire again, hitting its shoulder, as a burst of blood paints the snow.