by Vicki Delany
Sterling let them go. “This woman. Was she ... awake?”
The man shrugged. “Can’t say. She weren’t moving, not that I saw. I figured she was a drunken whore being carted off by her pimp or a customer. None o’ my business. Sorry, Corporal.”
Sterling and Mouse O’Brien exchanged glances. No need to say that Sheridan might have been taking a dead Fiona as well as a live one out of town.
“Can you describe the man?”
“He was walking beside the horse, leading it. Tall, taller than the horse’s head but right skinny, just a bag of bones. He didn’t say nothing to me, and I didn’t say nothing to him. Like I said, none of my business what a man’s doing with a drunken whore. Might even o’ been his wife, all I knew.”
“Thanks,” Sterling said. “Any one got anything to add?” The men shook their heads.
“Hope you find ’er, Corporal,” the bearded one said.
Sterling did not reply. Angus and Donohue were up ahead, moving fast, as if they expected to come across Fiona around the next bend.
Well beyond the tents and cabins that made up the town of Dawson, the forest had been stripped of lumber for building, but eventually all signs of humanity faded away and the wilderness returned. Aspen and birch, pine and poplar closed in around them; the underbrush was thick, and the forest floor covered with leaves, branches, and twigs. Traces of woodsmoke from town faded, to be replaced by the scent of mulch and rotting humus. Birds flew overhead or called from the tops of trees, small animals rustled in the undergrowth, and Millie’s ears lifted for no reason the men could discern.
Sterling moved slowly, eyes fixed on the ground. He’d ordered the others to stay behind him, particularly an impatient Angus and eager Millie. They were on the north bank of the river. The path to the gold fields was south; no one had reason to come this way.
Before long, he found what he’d scarcely dared hope he’d find: hoof prints. Boot marks were beside them, and the jagged line of a wheel being dragged across rough ground. The weather was on his side. It had rained a couple of days ago, sufficient to make the ground soft enough to take prints, not too muddy to make the going difficult. Nevertheless, the trail was hard to follow, crossing rocks, stepping into the river, rounding trees, circling back on itself.
Sheridan would have a minimum of twelve hours on them, more if he’d left town immediately. Which was probably the case. The longer he kept Fiona subdued, the more likely someone would come across them or she’d kick up a fuss that could not be ignored.
Say they’d left shortly after midnight when Walker and Betsy had seen her last. It had been close to four in the afternoon before Sterling and his party followed. He should be able to move faster on foot than Sheridan, with horse and cart and reluctant woman. But Sheridan presumably knew where he was going, whereas Sterling had to search for tracks. If he hurried, as Angus kept insisting, and lost the trail, he’d waste a lot of time getting back to it.
He was positive now that Fiona was alive. If Sheridan had killed her and was taking the body out of town to dispose of it in the wilderness, he would have done so by now. But the weight of the cart seemed to remain the same, and they had not come across any signs of the ground being disturbed or the cart unloaded.
They were heading east, following the north bank of the Klondike River. The going wasn’t easy: no one came this way. A bit of a deer track cut through the bush, which no doubt Indians also used. Wisely, Sheridan had stuck to that. Get turned around in the deep bush and a man might never find his way out again. According to the map as Angus remembered it, Sheridan would be heading north soon.
Sterling heard it before he saw it: water rushing over boulders in a hurry to meet up with the larger river. Another few steps and they came across a small river coming south, spilling into the Klondike.
“That’s odd.” He thought back to the big map in McKnight’s office. It showed Thomas Creek, a small river not far out of town, which they’d crossed some time ago, and then Twelve Mile Creek, which should be a good bit further east.
“Let’s have another look at that map,” Sterling said to Angus. The boy came over and unfolded it. Everyone, including Millie, gathered around. “This is the river,” Sterling moved his finger down what they’d assumed to be the Klondike. “And right here,” he tapped on a small blue line, “seems to be this creek. But it isn’t on the gold commissioner’s map. I’d assumed Sheridan’s map was nothing put a mess of squiggles. Maybe there’s something to it after all.”
“You mean there really is a gold mountain?” Donohue said.
“I mean nothing of the sort. It’s possible whoever drew this map was here at one time. Trappers and prospectors have been in the wilds for twenty, thirty years or more. Just seems odd that the official map doesn’t show this river. Wait here. I’m going to have a look up ahead.”
Angus looped Millie’s lead around a dwarf willow, Mouse O’Brien pulled out his pipe, and Graham Donohue collapsed to the ground with a groan.
Sterling placed every foot with care. The banks of the river were not steep here, and the rough trail came close to the water. The cart tracks entered the water and disappeared. Sterling cursed. He walked along the bank, eyes on the ground. If he couldn’t find where they came out, he’d have to decide which way to go. Carry on following the Klondike, or turn and go north beside the unnamed river. It would have to be north: Sheridan would be following his map. He found no sign of anyone’s passage for about a hundred feet. Then Sterling spotted a branch snapped off a young poplar. It was a fresh break, the exposed wood clean and white. Beneath the tree, the earth was churned up, doubtlessly by feet scrambling for purchase. Another few steps and he found the print of a shod horse. Sterling let out a breath and turned to shout at his followers. “I’ve got it. This way.” He didn’t wait for them to catch up. Better if one by one they gave up and returned to town.
He heard running feet and the sound of Millie panting. “Did they teach you to track in the Mounties, sir?” Angus said. “Will you teach me?”
“No, and perhaps. When I was a boy we lived in the Carrot River Valley in Saskatchewan. Not many white families around, so my friends were mostly Cree. They taught me a lot — to hunt, to track game.” He was quiet for a long time. He did not say, “To be a man.”
“That must have been grand, sir,” Angus said.
“It was. When I was young.” In his mind’s eye he saw a flash of long shiny black hair, liquid eyes, white teeth, and golden skin. Her name was Many Birds, and he had not thought of her for a very long time. Richard Sterling shook his head and noticed a scrap of grey wool caught on the branch of a black spruce, at about the height of a horse’s back. He lifted it gently away from the tree and showed it to the others without a word. From a blanket, probably. It was reasonably clean and dry. It hadn’t been there for long.
The shadows were getting long, and it would soon be necessary to stop. No point trying to track a man in the near-dark. Lose the trail, and he could waste precious hours trying to find it again.
They were tired now, not talking much, stumbling on the rough ground. Once they’d left the noise of the bigger river behind them, Sterling had become aware of another sound. A sound that didn’t belong here.
“McAllen,” he said, not breaking stride or lifting his eyes from the ground. The young constable trotted up.
“Someone’s following us.”
McAllen’s head whipped around. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Nevertheless, they’re there. When we round that bend up ahead I want you to duck into the woods. Wait and see who it is. If it’s an Indian party, leave them alone and catch us up. If it’s someone from town, who has no reason to be here, shout out for me.”
Sterling kept walking, slowing his pace. O’Brien, Donohue, and Angus caught up before he reached the curve of the river. They rounded the bend and McAllen slipped behind a tree. Sterling hissed at the others to keep moving.
Two minutes passed, and then he heard McAllen sho
ut, “Stop. You’re all under arrest.”
Sterling ran back. Voices rose in argument.
“We’re not doing anything wrong. Just out for a walk.” Joe Hamilton had his hands in the air. Two men who’d been in the Savoy in the morning were with him. They carried thin packs on their backs and gripped stout walking sticks.
“What the hell are you lot doing here?” Sterling growled.
“Nothing,” Hamilton said. He looked at his companions. “Right boys?” The man’s mouth was a mess of broken and rotted teeth and it stunk to high heaven.
“Figured you’d need some help rescuing Mrs. Fiona,” one of Hamilton’s companions said. His hat was worn and dusty, most of the buttons were torn off his jacket, and Sterling could see bare flesh through the thin fabric in the knees of the man’s trousers.
“Well, I don’t. Go back to town.”
“Don’t know the way.”
“Follow the river.”
“You can’t stop us from going where we want, Sterling,” the third man said. He glared at the Mountie. Hamilton’s face was as guilty as a schoolboy caught laughing in church, the second man was embarrassed at being caught, but this one was defiant. Joe Hamilton might think he was dashing to Fiona’s rescue. His companions were hoping to get to Gold Mountain first.
“Actually,” Sterling said, “I can. You’re interfering with a servant of Her Majesty in the performance of his duties.”
“We didn’t mean any harm, Mr. Sterling. We’d like to help, that’s all,” Hamilton said, with an attempt at a smile.
“Go ahead,” the other man said, “arrest us.” He looked around. “Don’t see no jail. Guess we’ll all have to troop back to town together. Leaving poor Mrs. Fiona in the hands of that villain.”
“Look here, Ralph Green,” Mouse O’Brien said, “I’m not having any of your nonsense.” The big man stepped forward, hands clenched. He loomed over Green, whose cockiness suddenly deserted him. “I’ll take you back to town myself, if I have to. And,” he added, “you won’t be walking.” Mouse lunged forward with a growl. Green jumped back.
Mouse dug in his pocket and pulled out a drawstring bag. “Here,” he said. “Go to the Savoy tomorrow and report to Walker that we’ve found her trail. Have a drink on me while you’re there.” He handed a gold nugget to Joe Hamilton and a smaller one to the second man. He looked at Green. “You going with them, Ralph?”
“Guess so.” Green held out his hand. Mouse dumped a nugget into it. Green looked at the gold, and then stared pointedly back at Mouse. He kept his hand outstretched. Mouse put the bag away. He sighed heavily and started taking off his jacket. “If that’s what you want.”
“Okay, okay. We’re going.” Without another word Green headed back the way they’d come.
“Thanks, Mouse.” Hamilton touched the brim of his cap. The second man grunted.
When the three men had disappeared around the bend, Sterling said, “The NWMP doesn’t bribe men to obey the law. But thanks anyway.”
“Joe Hamilton means no trouble. Everyone in town knows he worships Mrs. MacGillivray. But that Ralph Green. If he cares about rescuing your ma, Angus, then I’m your Aunt Fanny.”
“If word of that map gets around town,” Sterling said, “we’ll have most of the men in the Territory coming after us. McAllen.”
“Corporal?”
“From now on bring up the rear. Stay a good bit behind and keep your ears open. You find anyone else following us, stop them.”
“Right.”
“We can’t go much farther today anyway. Light’s getting bad.”
“We can’t stop,” Angus said. “Not if my ma isn’t stopping.”
“If I lose the trail, it won’t be any help to her. We’re tired and hungry. Men make mistakes, bad mistakes, when they’re tired. This spot looks as good as any. We’ll make camp for a couple of hours.”
Angus stamped his foot and looked as if he were about to argue. Fiona was dark-haired and dark-complexioned, and her black eyes flashed fire when she was angry. Angus was blond and very fair, but his blue eyes had the same intensity and determination.
“Collect firewood,” Sterling said, not giving the boy a chance to continue the argument. “Feed Millie and let her drink. That sky looks clear, so I don’t think we need worry about putting up the tent tonight. Mouse, collect what food we have and get the fire going and make supper for us all. Donohue, gather some spruce bows to provide us with a mattress.”
“I’d suggest ...”
“I don’t care what you suggest. Mind you, don’t wander too far away. Get yourself lost and I’m not wasting time searching for you. In case anyone else from town has a mind to follow us, we’ll take shifts sitting guard. While you’re setting up camp, I’m going up ahead to scout around.”
And he left before anyone could think of another thing to argue about. Damn nuisance bringing a bunch of civilians into the wilds. Have to argue about everything.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ray Walker had never been a lucky man. Born in the slums surrounding the great Glasgow shipyards, where luck was in exceedingly short supply, he’d been raised to use his fists almost from the cradle. His father was a good man but none too bright, out of work more often than not, usually because he didn’t always remember to do what he’d been told. Ray’s mother worked long hours at the fish canning plant and then hurried home to take care of her family. She gave birth to twelve children in twenty years but only three of them survived. Ray and his two wee sisters.
Ray Walker began working on the docks when he was twelve years old, handing over what money he earned to his mother to pay the rent on their stinking tenement flat and buy food for the younger children.
When Ray was fifteen his father died, coughing up blood until there was so much he drowned in it. Ray stayed at home until his youngest sister was safely wed and then left. He sent part of his wages to his mother, visited his sisters and their wee ones on a Sunday, but otherwise could pretty much be counted on to get in a fight on a Saturday night and drink up what remained of his pay packet.
One night, not long after his mother died, finally crushed by life, Ray was with a woman — a cheap slag who prowled the shipyards — in the filthy flat she worked out of. She said something that offended him, he never remembered what, and he beat her until she passed out.
He quit his job the next day, said goodbye to his sisters, and left Glasgow. Not because he was afraid of the police, no one cared about a slag getting herself smacked around, but because he realized he was on a very dangerous path indeed.
He went to London, worked at odd jobs, mostly stayed away from the pubs and the prostitutes, and saved his wages until he could buy passage to the New World. He wanted to go to America, but as it happened, when at last he went to purchase his ticket, the next ship out was bound for Halifax.
Life was still hard, but he never thought it any harder than that of most of the poor people he came across as he made his way across the continent.
He used the last of the money he’d made working on the Vancouver docks to buy supplies and passage to the Klondike.
He got off the boat in Skagway in August of 1897.
And had his first bit of luck in all of his forty years.
He met Fiona MacGillivray.
She’d been like a dream, Fiona. Not because she was beautiful and proper and charming, but because she was as smart and cunning and unscrupulous as ever a man Ray had known.
She reminded him in some ways of his mother. Or perhaps what his mother might have been able to be if she hadn’t wed at fourteen and given birth to twelve children by the time she was thirty-five.
He’d never felt anything sexual toward Fiona. He could rub her feet when they ached at the end of a long day, or watch her arranging her hair in front of the cracked mirror in her office, and find no strain in his trousers or shortage of breath.
She was, quite simply, the best thing that had ever happened to him. She was as tough as they came, tougher
than most, and a true Scotswoman, holding loyalty to family and clan above all. And he, Ray Walker, was part of her new-world clan. He trusted her completely, but nevertheless he checked the ledger every week and popped into the bank on occasion to ensure the business accounts were as they should be. They ran a hugely successful business, and Ray Walker had no worries about the future. He’d stay in the Klondike as long as there were miners to be mined and salt away most of his share of the profits in anticipation of the day the gold rush ended.
And then there was Irene Davidson. Not beautiful, like Fiona, but also a woman with a determination to make a success of the part she’d been given in life. He might even think of proposing to Irene one day.
Today he wasn’t feeling so confident about his future. Fiona wasn’t here and he wasn’t sure how long he could manage the business without her. He tried to cheer himself up by remembering that if anyone could find her and bring her back it would be Richard Sterling. To Ray Walker, it was as obvious as the pack of men shoving themselves toward the bar that Sterling was in love with Fiona. About the only thing clearer was that she was in love with the Mountie. Too bad neither of them were prepared to admit it. To themselves or to each other. Yet.
The Savoy was packed early on Monday morning. The front room full to the point of bursting at the seams. Men lined up at the bar, three deep, elbow to elbow.
Fiona had once remarked that nothing seemed to abate the flood of drinkers and gamblers pouring through their doors, and once news of the kidnapping of Mrs. MacGillivray and the hunt for a mountain of gold had spread through town, everyone gathered, wanting to be part of the excitement.
There must have been a hundred men lined up at the door at ten o’clock, when Ray opened up. All the talk was of a tropical valley full of gold no more than a few days’ hike away. Ray’d been there when Inspector McKnight said he’d give a blue ticket to anyone who whispered word of Sheridan’s map. He should have known someone would tell. Lancaster perhaps, the doddering fool, or young Constable Fitzhenry trying to impress a dancehall girl. Before twenty-four hours had passed, half the town knew about it.
