Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  Donohue laughed. He’d taken the opportunity of a break to dig a heel of bread and some cheese out of his pack. “I wonder what she had to say to that,” he said around a mouthful.

  “She’s thinking it over.”

  “I bet.” Donohue offered Angus a piece of cheese, which he declined.

  Angus wanted to yell at the fool of a man. Lancaster was a good boxing instructor, and Angus was learning a lot (although the lessons were kept secret from his mother, who would not approve), but otherwise he was useless. Sterling had told him something of Lancaster’s story. He’d been a good policeman once, tough but fair. Then he led a group of raw recruits into the open prairie and lost them in a sudden snowstorm. None of the men had died, but they all gave up fingers or toes to frostbite, and Lancaster had never forgiven himself. Since then, he’d never been able to make an effective decision. He stayed on in the NWMP because the officers respected his past, although he wasn’t given much in the way of responsibility.

  “No,” Sterling said. “Go back to town.”

  Lancaster turned purple. He grabbed a low hanging branch and pulled himself upright with much effort. “Young man,” he said to Constable McAllen, “I’m placing Corporal Sterling under arrest for insubordination. You will escort him back to Dawson.”

  “Are you crazy!” Angus shouted. “How’s that going to help my mother?”

  “Don’t interfere, Angus,” Sterling said.

  Mouse O’Brien spoke for the first time. “How about you share my things, Sergeant.” He threw a glance at Sterling. Angus saw the corporal give a slight nod in return. “I’ve more than enough food. You can walk with me. Tell you the truth, my old leg is acting up and I might need a hand if the trail gets much rougher.”

  “Very well.” Lancaster sighed heavily to show everyone he was doing O’Brien a big favour.

  Without another word, Sterling turned and marched back down the trail, his back stiff and his step firm enough to shake the forest floor. They all fell into step behind him. Lancaster said to Mouse, “Fine wedding, old chap. Your bride was most beautiful.”

  “I’m missing her, I can tell you. In fact,” Mouse shouted so loudly a hawk sitting at the top of a dead spruce took flight. “I’m almost regretting coming on this venture.”

  Sterling lifted a hand in acknowledgement without turning around. Angus wondered if something was being said that he didn’t understand.

  They walked for about another hour. Angus was beginning to regret not accepting Mr. Donohue’s cheese. Sterling had quickened his pace and disappeared long ago. Lancaster was complaining about his foot while telling Angus to keep his chin up and be brave. The old sergeant’s breath came in rasps as he told Mouse he’d travelled all night hoping to catch up with them. He suggested they stop for a rest, and Mouse said, “A few more miles I think.”

  Eventually they caught up with Sterling. He was standing in the middle of the trail, his face a picture of confusion. Another track broke off from the main one, disappearing into the trees. It looked very new, the ground only lightly disturbed, tree branches freshly broken. The larger trail, continuing along the river, was scuffed and the tracks were erased.

  “This might be the old Indian trail marked on Sheridan’s’ map,” Sterling said, rubbing at his chin. “I’m not sure which way we should go.”

  “It looks like someone deliberately ...” Angus began.

  “Angus,” Sterling said, “take the dog down to the water and let her have a drink while we decide.”

  “But.”

  “Now, Angus.”

  Grumbling, Angus slipped the packs off Millie’s back. She shook herself free and jumped down the bank into the cold water. She swam in circles, her mouth open and tongue moving.

  “As I recall,” Mouse said, “from the map, the path branches away from the river and heads inland. Might be this one.”

  “No,” Angus shouted, “on the map it ...”

  “Hey!” Donohue cried, “Watch that dog.”

  Angus whipped around. Millie was paddling happily.

  “Close one,” Donohue said. He scrambled down the bank and put his arm on Angus’s. “Better keep a close eye on her, boy. Those rapids can be deceiving.”

  “Rapids? What rapids?” The green water drifted gently past. Angus could see stones and pebbles resting on the bottom. Small fish darted in and out of the crevices.

  “Shush,” Donohue whispered. “Be quiet and play along.” Angus had no idea what he was getting at.

  “Looks like no one’s been following the main trail for a few days at any rate,” Sterling said. “But someone did turn here, and recently.”

  “Sure looks like it,” O’Brien said. “What do you think, Sergeant Lancaster?”

  Lancaster peered myopically up the trail. “Those tracks are fresh all right. We’ll go that way.”

  “I’d hate to make a mistake,” Sterling said, sounding more unsure of himself than Angus had ever heard. He wondered what was the matter with the man. Was he so unnerved at the thought of being charged with insubordination he’d lost his common sense? The map showed the trail leaving the river and going north from the east bank. This trail went west. Why, it might even end up taking them right back to Dawson.

  “This is the way we’re going,” Lancaster said, very firmly.

  “I don’t know,” Sterling said.

  “Perhaps we should split up,” O’Brien offered.

  “Good idea,” Lancaster said. “Sterling, you continue along the river. As this path looks the mostly likely, I’ll go there. McAllen’ll accompany me. Where’s McAllen anyway?”

  Sterling looked around, as though the constable might pop out from behind a tree. “Gee, I don’t know. He must have gone on ahead, not realizing we’d stopped.”

  Angus noticed Sterling was no longer carrying the rifle.

  “Never mind, Sergeant,” Mouse said. “I’ll come with you. We’d better get along. Why, we might catch up with them before nightfall.” He plunged into the woods.

  “You’re a good man, O’Brien,” Lancaster said. “Angus, are you coming?”

  “Uh,” Angus said, “I uh ...”

  “The boy’s only slowing us down,” Mouse shouted. A couple of steps off the main trail and he’d disappeared, but they could hear branches breaking and ground trembling. “My god, I see something.”

  “Send McAllen after me when you catch up with him,” Lancaster shouted over his shoulder as he dashed into the woods.

  Angus climbed the river bank and Millie followed, shaking off a gallon of water. They stood and watched the path, saying nothing for a long time.

  “Where,” Angus asked at last, “does that trail go?”

  “No more than 100 yards east and then it circles around to join up with the main trail south of here. Turn right, and follow it all the way back to town.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Sterling chuckled. “Made it myself. We’ve lost precious time. Angus, get the dog ready and we’re off.”

  They rounded the next bend and the horse and boot and shoe prints returned. Angus turned and looked back. Something had been brushed over the ground to make the trail disappear.

  Constable McAllen was sitting on a bolder. He had the Winchester resting on his knees and his pack on the ground. He got to his feet and held out the rife to Sterling.

  “Anyone else following us,” Sterling said with a growl. “I’ll shoot them on sight.”

  Chapter Thirty

  In the great cities to the south, it would have been well after dark. Both the horse and I were asleep on our feet when Sheridan finally decided it was time to make camp for the night. We’d stopped only once, for a quick meal of dry bread and meat cold and grey and as tough as the legs of the horse.

  I’d decided the horse, who was bearing our belongings so uncomplainingly, needed a name. He would henceforth be known as Soapy.

  The path we were following spread out into a small clearing, where there were traces of a fire circl
e and the tramped earth was clear of rocks. We were not the first people to make camp here. I hoped the regular inhabitants would return, and I could beg an escort to Dawson or the nearest NWMP post.

  Sheridan cleared a space of pebbles and twigs for the tent while I gathered fuel for a fire. I hobbled about in Mr. Sheridan’s socks and knew that tomorrow I would scarcely be able to walk. Supper was again a totally unsatisfying mess of fried corned beef and tinned potatoes.

  We sat around the fire after our inadequate meal, saying nothing. I never thought the time would come that I’d miss Mrs. Mann’s plain, practical German cooking, but this night I did. No need to worry about Angus going hungry under her care. I watched sparks drifting into the trees, rising up into the sky like an offering to ancient gods. I wondered where Angus was and what he was doing.

  By my reckoning, it was Monday night, the early hours of Tuesday. No doubt my absence would have been noted. The question that nagged at me was what would anyone do about it? Angus would be sure to remember Sheridan had told him about taking us in search of his Gold Mountain. Angus would alert the police. Would they charge into the wilderness in pursuit?

  Quite possibly not.

  The Mounties had their hands full keeping law and order in the town and the territory. They wouldn’t be able to mount an expedition to rescue one wilful female, even if they wanted to. Inspector McKnight would no doubt be quite happy to see the back of me. Richard Sterling, on the other hand ... I thought of his handsome face, stern most of the time, but with a twinkle in his eye he wasn’t always able to control. I heard his deep voice say my name. Fiona, he called me sometimes, when his professional demeanour slipped a fraction. I wasn’t sure what the corporal would do. He seemed … fond of me. Fond enough to go against orders and come after me?

  Angus? Dear heavens, I could only hope that hot-headed Angus — I had no idea from where he inherited that trait — would not rush single-mindedly into the wilds.

  I had some friends in town. Ray Walker for sure. Mouse O’Brien. Big Alex McDonald and Belinda Mulrooney. But Ray had a business to run, and Mouse should be tucked up in bed with the blushing Martha Witherspoon. Big Alex and Belinda would be able to get a search party together, but they were busy people and that could take days.

  I doubted very much Sheridan knew where we were, so how on earth could anyone else find us?

  If I didn’t come back, Ray would look after Angus, with the help of Mr. and Mrs. Mann, Richard Sterling, and Helen Saunderson. They wouldn’t be able to raise him to be the fine gentleman I intended him to become, but they would raise him to be a good man.

  The ground was very cold beneath my bottom. I shifted and glanced at Sheridan. He was bent over the fire, puffing on his pipe, staring into space. Flames reflected in his eyes. When I’d been with the Travellers, we’d once come across a preacher standing on a rock at a crossroads outside Oxford, announcing the end of the world to farm families heading to town for market day. Fire burned in his eyes so intensely I’d thought it might devour him from inside. No rational thought, no logic lay behind the words of the itinerant preacher. Farmers laughed at him and boys threw rocks, but he kept on preaching. No reality could interfere with the commitment, the surety of his vision.

  We’d come across him again, when he stepped out of the night and asked if he might warm himself for a spell. He sat beside our fire eating nothing but a piece of bread and a single slice of cheese. He stared into the flames, seeing visions and mumbling words no one else could understand.

  Like Paul Sheridan, the preacher had been tall and so thin it was as if his body itself was being consumed by the fire inside. Sheridan had that same look now, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

  I groaned and got slowly to my aching feet. “Good night, Mr. Sheridan. Don’t waste water cleaning the dishes. Rub them with a bit of sand. That will take the worst of the dirt off.”

  I went into the tent, took off my hat, and lay down. I was still wearing my green satin dress. When I got home, I wouldn’t even make rags of the thing.

  I heard the horse whinny and the sound of Sheridan relieving himself in the bushes. The flap of the tent opened. He came inside and grunted as he made himself comfortable. I felt his weight beside me, and then his arms slid around me. He buried his face into the back of my neck and began kissing it.

  “Release me,” I said.

  His hands moved upwards, seeking my breasts. He groaned and pushed his hips against me.

  “Mr. Sheridan,” I said, employing my most imperious tone. I struggled to sit up. He pressed me back down, his lips seeking my mouth, his hands moving.

  “If you intend to offer me insult ...” I grabbed his right hand and twisted it. He grunted with pain. I looked directly at him. Outside, the waxing moon was throwing enough light into the tent that I could see the slack face and gaping mouth inches above me. “... Then get it over with. Whereupon I will return to Dawson. If, however, you still want to continue with this expedition and to install me as your ... consort ... be warned that from this moment on you will forever be required to sleep with one eye open. Because I will kill you the first opportunity I have, and it will not matter if that means I will be alone in the wilderness. You said I fight like a man. Be warned, Mr. Sheridan, I carry vengeance like a woman.”

  He jerked his hand out of my grip. “I meant no offense,” he mumbled. His eyes slid off my face and his mouth snapped shut.

  “Ensure it remains so,” I said. “You may take your bedroll and sleep outside from now on. The sky is clear, hopefully it will not rain. Good night, Mr. Sheridan.”

  He scurried out of the tent like a rat escaping a sinking ship.

  I lay on my back, eyes open until I heard him settle and the snoring begin. Then I stretched out, enjoying the luxury of space.

  My virtue is of no consequence to me. I have precious little to lose, at any rate. I would most certainly not follow Mr. Sheridan to the ends of the earth to extract revenge and willingly die in the attempt.

  But it did no harm to let him think so.

  I woke to the sound of a soft whisper calling my name and fingernails scratching at the canvas walls of the tent.

  “Fiona. Are you awake?”

  “No. What do you want Mr. Sheridan?”

  “The mosquitoes are real bad out here, Fiona. Can I have your hat to protect my face some?”

  I tossed my new hat, the cream-coloured one with the saucy turned-up brim, the black ostrich feather, the long veil cascading down the back, out of the tent.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Angus woke early. Clouds had moved in, and Sterling suggested they put up the tents in case it rained in the night. He lay on his back with his eyes open, staring up at the grungy white canvas. Fingers of light were stroking the tent walls and seeping through the cracks. Constable McAllen snored heartily. Otherwise, all was quiet.

  Angus crept out of the tent. Graham Donohue had been given the last watch. He was stretched out on the ground, jacket under his head, Millie curled up against his belly. Both of them sound asleep.

  Some watch, Angus thought. He didn’t bother to be quiet as he nurtured the campfire back to life. He put some of the water he’d collected before going to bed into the coffee pot and measured out the beans. He would much rather be having tea for breakfast, but they hadn’t brought any tea, and Angus was trying to pretend he liked the coffee. Donohue awoke with a shout, which startled Millie, and she jumped to her feet with a loud bark. The newspaperman sat up, rubbing his face. He saw Angus watching him. “Just resting my eyes.”

  “Sure.”

  The newspaperman untied the dog. “Might as well take Millie into the bushes with me.”

  Angus fed a bit of kerosene into the stove and lit a match to start it up. He didn’t want to cook breakfast; he wanted to be running down the trail after his mother. He would never say so, but he was getting increasingly worried. He thought they’d come across her the first day, with or without Paul Sheridan, sitting by a fire at the side
of the trail, nibbling on a piece of toast, sipping tea, and demanding to know what had taken them so long. But she’d been gone more than two days, and she and Sheridan were moving at the same pace as their pursuers.

  Suppose Sterling lost the trail?

  Angus’s eyes filled with water. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand and looked around to make sure no one had seen him cry. Sterling was up now, down at the river splashing water on his face. McAllen continued to snore, and Donohue and Millie were out of sight in the bush.

  They’d been walking for two days, and the vegetation was changing. The trees were getting smaller and sparser, although the underbrush was still thick. Sterling had said he’d never been there, but he’d been told that the boreal forest ended not far out of Dawson, and the great empty tundra of the true north began, stretching all the way to the ice-covered sea. On the tundra, Sterling said, a man could see for miles in all directions.

  “We brought food for five days,” Angus said when Sterling joined him by the fire. “We’ve been out for two now, and that means two back. How long can we,” he swallowed, “keep going?”

  “Long as we have to. Don’t worry about that. In this country, least in summer, no one has to go hungry. I’m getting tired of beans and bacon anyway. I’ll try and get us a duck or goose today. Rabbit maybe. Have you ever hunted?”

  Angus wanted to say yes, but he shook his head.

  “Perhaps you’ll get the chance. But right now, I’m afraid it’s porridge.”

  McAllen came out of the tent, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Fish’d be nice. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Not now!” Angus said, “We have to go. We don’t have time for fishing.”

  “We need to make time to eat properly,” Sterling said. “Coffee’s not ready yet. Constable, see what you can do.”

  Angus felt almost guilty enjoying the fresh trout McAllen cooked over the open fire. In only a few minutes, he’d caught enough that they could toss a few fat chunks as well as the guts to an eager Millie. Once they’d eaten, they broke camp, loaded up, and continued walking north. The river had been getting smaller and its banks flatter and broader, becoming a creek and eventually a stream, trickling down the centre of the watercourse.