by Vicki Delany
Men were bent over tables and the bar counter, sketching out copies of the map Angus had tried to reproduce. They got further and further from reality. Some had paths heading west to Alaska, some due north to the Arctic Sea, some back down the Chilkoot to just outside of Dyea.
Old Barney was regaling the crowd with stories of other great treasure hunts. He told a fresh-faced cheechako that, once his glass was refilled, he’d tell them about the crystal mountain he’d seen years ago, far in the distance. Pure glass it was, as clear and brilliant as a jewel around a lady’s neck. The man ordered another whisky, and when his back was turned, Barney gave Ray Walker a cheeky wink.
“Bad business,” Joe Hamilton said.
“Mounties have set out after her,” Ray said. “They’ll be back soon.” He wiped the mahogany counter with his rag.
“I’d like to help,” Hamilton said. He leaned across the bar and lowered his voice. “I went after them, yesterday. But Sterling told me to get back to town, tell you he’s found her trail. I know where they’re going.”
“Do you now?” The man beside Hamilton turned. He was alone and drank his whisky very slowly. He looked Hamilton up and down, taking in the rotten teeth, the filthy clothes, the hat with half the brim missing, the acrid odour of rough nights and hard-working days. “The corporal was right. Man can’t go rushing off into the wilderness, friend, unprepared. How about I provide everything we need in the way of supplies, and you show me the way? Finish your drink. We’d better be going now, before anyone else gets the same idea.”
Hamilton grinned. Ray started to say something but at that moment the dancer Betsy came through the doors. Fiona didn’t allow the girls onto the premises when they weren’t working. Not only was having women in the bar a shady matter of the law, but she thought it reduced the value of the dollar-a-minute dance if men could drink with them any time they liked. Ray crossed the room to tell Betsy to get out. The man offering to travel with Joe Hamilton called to Murray, “Bartender, I’ll purchase two bottles to take with me.”
But Betsy wasn’t here to drink or to meet friends. She spoke to three men sitting at the big centre table. She didn’t bother to sit, and the men did not stand. She put her hands on the table and talked in low, serious tones. As Ray approached, she straightened and scurried out. The men at the table stood as one and followed her, leaving unfinished drinks in front of them.
When Ray turned back to the bar, Hamilton and his new friend were gone.
Chapter Twenty-Six
We walked along the dry edges of the creek bed, and both Sheridan and the horse seemed to find the going easier than yesterday. As the day progressed, the trees got increasingly small and scruffy, the spaces between them growing. The tops of the distant mountains were draped in white, and a strong wind was blowing, bringing the scent and chill of snow with it.
Had I made a mistake, once again, in not taking my chances and fleeing while Sheridan slept? We were heading toward nothing. We would not round a corner and see a white church steeple in the distance; we would not happen upon a welcoming inn at the crossroads (there being no roads); we would not see a smudge of yellow smoke marking a town or village on the horizon; we would not encounter a cheerful, ruddy-faced farmer bringing eggs and cheese and vegetables to town for market day.
Nothing lay ahead except the endless forest, distant mountains, and the frozen sea beyond.
The elevation rose, gradually but steadily, as we travelled. Suddenly, the woods cleared and the path broke open on the left. I could hear the welcoming sound of water moving swiftly, and the horse needed no encouragement to follow it. A flock of geese lifted into the air and flew low overhead, honking loudly as they settled into formation. A Kingfisher came from the opposite direction. Its wings didn’t move, but it travelled fast above the water, drifting on the wind. The clearing was full of wildflowers in shades of yellow and white, and low bushes were thick with clusters of dark purple mossberries.
I was opening my mouth to mention the berries, when a flash of movement caught the corner of my eye and I looked downstream. A moose stood knee-deep in a patch of gently moving waterweeds. It lifted its head and looked at me, a long strip of grass dripping out of both sides of its mouth. It was the most ungainly, ugly beast, all knees and joints and ribs beneath a massive head, but its eyes were beautiful, huge and liquid brown. Sheridan had put his rifle on the ground and was bending over the water, filling his bottle. I didn’t draw his attention to the animal.
It took another mouthful of grass before turning and walking away without a sound. It disappeared into the bush with only a gentle sway of branches to mark its passing, and I wondered that such an apparently lumbering beast could move so silently and gracefully.
“Tomorrow,” Sheridan said, “I’ll do some fishing. For now, I want to keep moving while the weather’s good.”
“Do you know if the berries on that bush are safe to eat?”
He eyed them. “Better not try. Anyway, we don’t need them. I’ve enough food to last until we get there.”
I doubted that. I’d seen what he had in the saddle bags. After the tent, bedroll, blankets, dishes, frying pan, and coffee pot, almost no room remained for food to sustain two people for more than another day or two.
Sheridan might be able to live on his obsession, but I could not.
I might come to regret not mentioning the moose.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
If he hadn’t been so worried about his mother, Angus would have enjoyed his adventure in the wilderness. On their way to Dawson a year ago, as they’d travelled down the Yukon River from Lake Bennett in a boat hastily made of green logs, with a sail which the day before had been a tent, it had taken his breath away to see how completely empty — how vast — this land was. They’d stayed on the river, and all he’d been able to do was watch the countryside moving slowly past. They heard the howling of wolves at night and had seen moose several times, wading in the long grasses. At one spot, a grizzly bear, a gigantic creature of flashing teeth and claws, was fishing in a stream that fed into the river, tossing fish onto the rocks as easily as a woman might pick berries. In Dawson about all anyone seemed to want to do was dig up and cut down the wilderness as fast as possible.
He lay awake for a long time, listening to the night and watching the glow of the fire as the men took turns keeping watch. Mr. Donohue had gotten lost when out searching for wood and blundered around, bellowing. Sterling had refused to let anyone go after him, figuring that he’d have two lost people, so they kept shouting until Donohue followed the voices and eventually found his way back. He’d not been pleased, covered in scratches and insect bites, and he’d lost his cap. But Sterling said nothing, and Donohue tucked into his supper quick enough. Supper had been good, too. Beans and thick slabs of bacon with bannock cooked over the fire and strong sweet tea. Mrs. Mann had packed a seed cake for Angus, and he was pleased to be able to pass it around after dinner while the men smoked their pipes.
Other than worrying about his mother, the only thing spoiling the grand adventure was the mosquitoes. Dratted creatures got into everything. After they’d eaten, Sterling passed the frying pan around and told them to rub cold bacon fat on their faces and hands. Whether it was that, or just that it was late, the insects hadn’t bothered him too much once he’d lain down and pulled his bedroll around him. The spruce bows Mr. Donohue had gathered made a surprisingly soft and comfortable bed.
Angus woke to the scent of coffee. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up. Corporal Sterling crouched over the small camp stove.
“Morning, sir,” Angus said.
Sterling turned with a smile. “Morning, Angus. Get water, will you. Porridge for breakfast.”
“Will we find my ma today, sir?”
“You know she hates being called ma, so don’t say it just because she’s not around to hear.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“In answer to your question, I don’t know. But the trail’s good and clear. Get t
hat water. The sooner we eat, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”
They had breakfast and packed up without wasting time. As yesterday, Corporal Sterling went ahead, moving slowly, head bent and eyes on the ground. Angus chafed with impatience. He wanted to run up the trail, yelling and calling out for his mother. Where else would Sheridan have taken her but along this track? Nothing but solid wilderness lay around them, other than the river, getting smaller and smaller as they went upriver, and a rough path beside it.
They rounded a bend, and Sterling let out a low whistle. Angus put on a burst of speed, pulling Millie along after him. A wooden cart lay on its side, the single wheel sticking out at an angle.
Sterling put up a hand, and with muttered curses the men crashed into each other behind him. Then they saw the broken cart, and everyone stood, listening to the silence of the forest. Eventually, Sterling said, “I don’t think anyone’s around. Don’t move while I see what there is to see here.”
He studied the cart and then examined the ground. From where he stood, Angus could see people had been here, as well as a horse. The remains of a campfire smouldered in a circle of rocks. Sterling crouched down and put his hand over it. Then he got to his feet and, cursing, kicked dirt onto it. “Coulda burned the goddamned forest down.”
Everyone spoke at once.
“Can you tell how long ago they were here?”
“Was my ma ... mother ... with him?”
“We’re getting close.”
“What do you suppose they’ve done now, without the cart?”
“Think they’re much further ahead?”
Sterling held up his hand once again. “I don’t think I need worry about destroying the tracks. They’re plenty of signs they’ve been here. Have a look around. If you see anything of interest, let me know.”
A couple of empty food cans were on the ground by the fire pit. Horse hooves stamped out a circle at the edge of the clearing and went down the bank to the river. A set of smaller prints, from bare feet, were amongst the booted ones. Sterling let out a long breath. He’d been acting under the assumption that Fiona MacGillivray had come this way although there’d been no sign of her since the man at the riverside camp had noticed a green dress and pretty feet. He felt a great weight lift off his chest.
“Angus,” he called. “Look.”
Angus looked. A smile broke across his face. “My mother?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Why’s she not wearing her shoes?”
“I’d say they were here about twelve to fifteen hours ago. They must have travelled all of Sunday night. Looks like they stopped to eat here, no doubt because the cart broke and Sheridan had to repack his supplies. That much is obvious. There’s a patch of ground over there where it looks like someone lay down, but I don’t see any trace of a tent or otherwise setting up for sleeping. I’ll conclude they didn’t make camp here, but kept on going.”
“I told you we were wasting time stopping last night!” Angus shouted.
Sterling turned to him. “Would you rather have blundered past here in the dark?”
Angus studied his feet.
“So, if they didn’t sleep here, they would’ve stopped later to make camp.” Sterling did the calculations in his head. “Right now we’re a good twelve or more hours behind them. But they have to sleep sometime and that’ll give us a chance to catch up. Don’t worry Angus. Your mother’s a resourceful woman. I’ve no doubt she’ll try to find ways to slow him down.”
Donohue laughed. “Wouldn’t want to have Fiona MacGillivray against me, I’ll tell you that.”
“My mother,” Angus said, giving Donohue a poisonous look, “is only a woman. And she is being held prisoner by that ... that man.”
“Only isn’t the word I’d use,” Mouse O’Brien said. “Corporal?”
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“This must be it,” Sheridan announced.
“Be what?”
“The Indian trail that’ll take us north.”
I peered ahead. There did seem to be a path of some sort on the far bank. The trees were spaced a bit farther apart and the ground was firm, without too many rocks or saplings.
“Must have travelled faster than I figured,” he said. “I didn’t expect to come across this trail until tomorrow.”
Oh dear. He really had no idea of where we were. No doubt any track in the wilderness would serve as a sign to Paul Sheridan that he was following the route for which he searched.
“Only another couple of hours,” he said. “Then we’ll make camp for the night.” The horse and I groaned in unison.
“My feet,” I said, “are not going to take me much further.” I had pulled off my shoe and sock to examine my left foot. It was not in good shape. I held it up as evidence, waving a tiny bug away.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “The going’s much easier from now on.”
I doubted that very much.
I pulled my shoe back on and took off my hat and made an attempt to refasten my hair. At first glance, my wedding hat appeared to be ridiculously impractical, but it was proving to be a god-send. It kept the sun off my head, and I’d bent the black ostrich feather down to sweep across my face and brush the insects away. I’d ripped out the stitches holding the veil up and wrapped it around my neck for protection. Thank heavens this dress did not have a plunging décolletage.
Paul Sheridan’s face and neck, I was pleased to see, were dotted with lumpy red bites.
“Fill up these water bottles, will you, Fiona.” He scratched at the back of his hand. “Might be a while before we come to another river.”
I looked again at the small track leading into the bush. Sheridan was making some adjustments to the horse’s packs. I yanked the clump of grapes off my hat and dropped them into the mud.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Corporal Sterling!”
McAllen, who’d been bringing up the rear, came jogging up the trail. He ran past Donohue, O’Brien, and Angus MacGillivray. Sterling stopped and waited for him.
They’d been walking for a couple of hours since finding the abandoned cart. The path along the riverside was rocky, but every once in a while they could see the horse’s hoof prints, the tread of a man’s boots, and that of a smaller shoe with a dainty heel. Angus was pleased to see his mother had her shoes back on.
The track was clear and easy to follow, as it kept close to the meandering river and the banks were not too steep. Sterling moved swiftly, never looking back to make sure the others were keeping up. Angus’s feet were starting to ache, and Mr. Donohue grumbled every time he tripped over a root.
Only Millie seemed to be enjoying the outing. She walked with her head up and her tail swishing from side to side and occasionally gave Angus a look that he could almost believe was a grin.
Up ahead, McAllen reached Sterling. He pointed back down the trail, and Angus turned to look. He could see nothing. Sterling came back.
“What ...” Donohue began.
“Quiet,” Sterling snapped.
They could hear a bird in the trees to their left. Overhead, a hawk circled. The river gurgled cheerfully as it rushed over rocks. A grayling leapt out of the water, the sun flashing on its dorsal fin and sleek silver scales. Leaves rustled in the light wind. Then a branch broke, and they heard a man shout, “Anyone there? Help!”
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Sterling groaned. “Of all people. I’d much prefer to sneak away, but I suppose we can’t let him wander out here forever. Give him a shout, Constable.”
“Over here,” McAllen yelled.
The others joined in, calling words of encouragement. Angus jumped up and down, trying to give power to his voice. Millie barked.
“I hear you. Keep calling!”
They saw a flash of scarlet and then a man stepped out from behind a poplar. He was old, overweight, and breathing heavily. He’d lost his hat and a bad scratch leaked blood down the side of his face. A twig wa
s stuck in his hair, and the knees of his uniform trousers were thick with mud. It looked as if he might collapse at any moment. Not a pace he could maintain much longer, even though he was not weighted down by supplies.
“Sergeant Lancaster,” Sterling said. “What brings you here?” He hid his surprise that the man had been able to move fast enough to catch them up. People could do anything, sometimes, if they wanted it enough.
Lancaster rested his arms against his legs as he caught his breath. “Whew,” he said at last. “Good thing you were making so much noise. Must of taken a wrong turn somewhere.”
“Good thing McAllen heard you blundering around,” Sterling muttered under his breath. “I asked what you’re doing here.”
“No need to use that tone of voice, Corporal.” Lancaster lowered himself with great care onto a dead log. “Figured you’d need help out here.”
“Did Inspector McKnight send you?”
“Not exactly sent me, mind. He seemed doubtful about your mission so I ... uh ... figured I’d lend a hand.” He gave them all a big smile. Even Angus could tell the sergeant was prevaricating.
“Where’s your bedroll? Food?”
“Well, I uh ... lost it. Came across a bear you see, big grizzly mother with cubs. I had to run for my life.”
“Sergeant Lancaster, with all due respect I cannot take you into the wilderness without supplies. We’ve each brought only sufficient for our own needs.”
“Not to worry. I’ll live off the land.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no. Go back to town, Sergeant. Please, sir.”
“Mr. Sterling, I am here and henceforth I will lead this expedition. Not only do I outrank you, but I’ll have you know that I have asked Mrs. MacGillivray for the honour of her hand in marriage.”
