Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  The horse and the people with it had come down from the high banks, where the trail wound among the tress, to travel on the packed earth of the drying riverbed. The ground had hardened quickly after the latest rain, but it was soft enough to record the passage of any large creature. Small clumps of earth had stuck to feet and hooves before being kicked lose, and damper spots showed the edges of shoes in muddy outlines.

  They’d only walked for about an hour when Sterling stopped. He walked toward the riverbank, and Angus could see that a patch of earth on the bank was smoothed down. “Someone sat here,” Sterling said. He pointed out the outline of a bottom, the depression of their weight, and handprints where they’d pushed themselves back up.

  “Hey!” Angus shouted. “What’s that?” An unnatural shade of purple lay on the ground. Sterling knelt as Angus peered over his shoulder.

  Sterling put his fingers around the object and lifted it up. It was a clump of grapes. He tapped it with his fingernail. It was hard, not real grapes. The sort of fake object used to decorate a lady’s hat.

  “My mother bought a new hat for the wedding,” Angus said. “It has grapes, just like that.”

  “So it does,” Donohue said. “I thought it a most attractive hat.”

  Sterling cast around for a few minutes, but didn’t find anything else Fiona might have dropped.

  Angus watched him, thinking. Had the grapes dropped off her hat, or had his mother left them here deliberately? The creek floor was mostly rocks at this point, gravel and small stones. Hard to see any prints. Sterling waded into the creek, the water scarcely coming up past his ankles. He climbed the bank. Then he turned and waved for the others to follow.

  Angus’s boots were not waterproof. The shock of the icy water almost took his breath away. But in a couple of steps he was standing on the far side. The bank was disturbed where a horse’s hooves had scrambled for purchase.

  “Two people,” Sterling said. “One climbed here, and the other,” he pointed a couple of feet downstream, “over there.”

  “Can you be sure we’re still following Fiona and Sheridan?” Donohue asked. “Not someone else?”

  “The trail’s mostly unbroken from where we picked it up outside town, but other than that, these are definitely not Indians. Indians wouldn’t leave a trail as obvious and clumsy as this one. Could be trappers, prospectors, sure. But coming the same way, in the last couple of days, with a bunch of fake grapes? Safe enough to assume not.”

  Footprints, human and equine, led into the forest.

  “Far as I remember,” Angus said, pulling out his map, “there should be a place where the trail branches off from the river. Do you think this is it? Those mountains in the distance could be the triangles here.”

  “They left the river here, at any rate.” Sterling gave Angus a grin. “Your mother gave us a sign. If I hadn’t seen that ornament we might have carried on up the creek for a spell before realizing the trail had stopped.” He handed the grapes to Angus, who tucked them into his jacket pocket with the map.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The next time I awoke, it was by a frightened horse. Branches broke and Soapy screamed. Something fell to the ground, and I heard metal clanging against rock. Sheridan yelled, sounding genuinely frightened. The rifle was lying against the sides of the tent, where he’d left it in his haste last night. I picked it up and scrambled outside. It was daylight, and the sun was a cheerful yellow ball in the soft blue sky.

  Sheridan was backing away, heading into the bushes. The horse reared up in terror, its front hoofs thrashing, trying to break free of the rope tying it to the tree. A loud grunt came from the vicinity of the campfire. I got to my feet, holding the weapon as though I knew how to use it.

  A bear was sitting on the ground, the frying pan in front of its face. Eyes as small and black as currants watched me without much interest, and a pink tongue moved in and out of the mouth. It was licking the pan.

  It wasn’t a very big bear, not that I know what a big bear looks like, and it was black, not brown. I tried to remember what Angus had told me about the wildlife of the Yukon. Grizzlies were the big ones, the dangerous ones. They were brown in colour with a hump on their back. At least I think that’s what Angus said. I sometimes don’t pay as much attention as I should when my son tries to educate me about things he finds fascinating. I gripped the rifle and glanced around. No sign of any cubs. I assumed that was a good thing.

  “Off you go,” I said, waving the rifle in front of me. “There’s a good boy.”

  He tossed the pan aside and lumbered to his feet.

  “Shoot, Fiona,” Sheridan cried from behind a tree. It was more of a sapling than a tree. The bear would be able to rip it up by its roots if it so desired.

  “Shoo.” I lifted my skirt with my free hand and waved it in the air. “There’s nothing for you here.”

  The eyes studied my face. Looking for a meal? I tightened my grip on the rifle. I might be able to use it as a club if necessary. I thought I saw a flicker of understanding deep within the impenetrable black eyes. The bear grunted once. It turned and lumbered into the woods. Trees bent and branches snapped, and then it was gone.

  “Why didn’t you shoot?” Sheridan shouted at me when he’d crept back into camp.

  Best not to tell him that I didn’t shoot because I didn’t know how to operate the rifle. “Why didn’t you wash the dishes last night, as I instructed you?” I replied. “Go and settle poor Soapy before he succumbs to heart failure.”

  At least the bear had cleaned the frying pan. I nursed the fire back to life and dug into the sacks, looking for coffee. The bag containing the oatmeal had been ripped open and the precious grains scattered across the ground. My heart sunk as I uncovered a couple of cans of vegetables and a single package of bacon. Our supply of food was getting perilously low.

  Twigs broke behind me as I gathered up what I could of the oatmeal. “You’ll have to fish today. We’re almost out of supplies.”

  “If I see any more geese or ducks, I’ll shoot them. I’m not wanting to delay by going hunting.”

  I lifted my eyes to the heavens. An eagle flew overhead, circling on outstretched wings. No doubt checking us out for size and weight. “You’ll delay a lot more if we starve to death.”

  “We’re almost there. Come and see, Fiona.” He unfolded the map. Almost against my will, I looked.

  He punched his finger against the paper. A blue line led north from what was supposedly the Klondike River; a black line broke off from it heading east. “That mountain range.” Sheridan pointed to the peaks in the distance. “Would be here.” He tapped at a row of triangles on the paper. The triangles could be the Black Cuillins of Skye or the Himalayas for all the detail on this map. “And the valley,” Sheridan pointed at the red circle before the triangles, “is here.”

  He had taken down the tent and was rebalancing the load in the packs prior to readying the horse for the day’s travels, and I was attempting to comb some of the knots out of my hair with my fingers when I announced, “I will not be able to walk any further. My feet are a mess. I will ride Soapy.”

  “The horse has to carry our things,” Sheridan protested.

  I smiled at him. “You’ll have to do that then.”

  The sun was touching the tops of the trees when we broke camp. Paul Sheridan walked ahead as he had before, but with the largest of the saddlebags slung across his back beside the rifle, the bag containing the knife draped over his front, leading the horse upon which I balanced precariously. The third bag had been tied to the horse, resting against the back of its neck so I had something other than the mane to cling to, and the dull axe was fastened to its side. I had expected the horse would give me difficulty as I tried to mount, but like me it no longer seemed to be able to be surprised and had stood patiently beside a fortuitously placed boulder while I clambered aboard.

  I could almost pretend I was a fine lady out for a Sunday excursion in High Park.

  The train
at the back of my hat caught on a tree branch and I grabbed for it. A length of lace ripped loose. Fortunately, enough was left behind that it would still provide a veil to offer some protection from ravenous insects.

  Before folding his map and putting it away, Sheridan had said, “Another day or two if we make good time.”

  I would attempt do my best to ensure we did not make good time.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The days were beginning to blur into each other. By my account today should be Tuesday. Then again, we might have fallen off the world into a place where time moved in a different rhythm and there really was a tropical valley and a mountain made of gold ahead of us.

  The question then would be, could I ever get back to my world?

  The mountains in the distance did seem to be getting closer.

  In the early afternoon, the trail met a small river, and we stopped there for something to eat.

  I simply could not sit on that horse another moment and slithered down from Soapy’s back, not bothering to hide a groan. That morning, I’d taken the last of the bread and put it in the smaller saddlebag. I fished it out. It was all we would have for lunch. The banks of the creek were lined with bushes fat with blue and purple mossberries. If they were poisonous, too bad. I began gathering the fruit while Soapy stuck his head into the water and drank silently.

  I looked over the creek at the bright blue flash of a kingfisher, gliding low above the water. Its wings were stretched out and not moving. As I watched, a hawk dropped from the sky. Both the kingfisher and I screeched in shock. It headed for the trees, the hawk in close pursuit. The two birds dodged and weaved in the air above the creek, swooping and feigning and soaring in a three-dimensional chase of life or death.

  The kingfisher turned sharply, almost directly in front of my face, and raced for the treetops. The hawk overshot, pirouetted in the air without slowing, turned, and followed.

  And they were gone.

  “Wow,” Paul Sheridan said. “That was something.”

  I placed the heel of bread and the berries onto a rock, and we sat down to eat. The fruit was tart and delicious. It left purple stains on my fingers and hands. Sheridan was quiet, and I wondered if he had any doubts at all about the viability of his mission.

  The sun was very warm and the air very still. Slowly, I became aware of the silence. A bird chirped, water brushed against the banks of the creek, and the horse munched on grasses and shifted his feet. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so aware of silence. In Dawson the racket never stopped; the Chilkoot trail groaned with the effort of men stretched beyond endurance; in Skagway, trees were constantly being chopped down and buildings built up; the boat from Vancouver had been packed so full some people didn’t even have a cabin.

  Even when I’d walked the hills of Skye with my father, we couldn’t go far before we’d come across a crofter wanting a chat, his wife cooing over the bonnie wee lass, their rambunctious children chasing each other and screaming in delight.

  I leaned back and drank in the silence. I felt my chest rise and fall, and for perhaps the first time in my life, I was aware of my own breathing.

  “I’d knew you’d come to love it,” Sheridan said. His face was soft and round and dreamy. For a very brief moment, I found myself almost liking him.

  I stood up and brushed off my torn, tattered, mud-encrusted skirt. “I prefer my dance hall, thank you. As those berries appear not to have done us any harm, I’ll collect more for supper.”

  Before I could move, a flutter of wings and the sound of many bodies hitting the water had us looking once again at the creek. Geese, seven or eight geese, large and fat, had landed on the water, and more were streaming in behind them.

  “Time to go.” Sheridan started to stand.

  “Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “Speaking of supper.”

  “What?”

  “For heaven’s sake, man. You may not need to eat, but I do. I will dine on goose tonight.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Good idea, Fiona.”

  His first shot missed, but before the geese were aware they were in danger, Sheridan had killed two.

  I refrained from clapping my hands.

  Fortunately, the creek was shallow enough that Sheridan was able to wade in and capture his prize.

  He tied the two geese to the largest saddlebag, and once again we set off. He made a strange sight, moving up the trail ahead of me, back bowed under the weight of the packs, horse lead in hand. Two dead geese flapped against his legs.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  They walked all through the day as the sun moved in an arc overhead. This track didn’t appear to be much used. It was narrower than the other path, and the bush crowded in close. In places, they had to walk in single file. Angus’s feet were aching and Millie was dragging on her lead, and he was about to ask if they could have a rest, when Corporal Sterling stopped abruptly. He lifted his finger to his mouth and gestured to Angus and the men to be quiet. The wind rustled the tops of the trees. Sterling sniffed the air. Millie barked.

  Donohue said, “What’s up?” and Sterling shushed him. Angus shifted his weight. Millie gave a low whine.

  Moving slowly, Sterling laid the rifle on the ground beside his feet. “The White Queen sends her greetings,” he said in a loud voice.

  The bush separated and men were standing there. Three men. Indians. Two of them not much older than Angus, and one who looked to be about as old as time. The old man nodded. The young ones did not move.

  Sterling reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe, bag of tobacco, and matches. He extended the tobacco. The old man nodded again and dug out his own pipe. Without a word, they squatted to the ground. Sterling lit a match and held the fire out. Only when the old man’s pipe was breathing smoke did the Mountie light his.

  Donohue threw a look at Angus and got out his own pipe while McAllen crouched beside Sterling.

  The two boys studied Angus. One was in overalls, more patches than original fabric, the other wore trousers and a yellow waistcoat. They both wore dusty and torn broad-brimmed hats. They looked enough alike to be brothers, cousins at least. The old man wore a woollen cap and had a blanket wrapped around his stooped shoulders and a moose-skin shirt beneath.

  Millie sniffed the young men’s feet. Angus remembered the last of Mrs. Mann’s seed cake. He looped the dog’s lead around a tree and brought the food out. The Indian boys accepted. “Thank you,” the taller one said. They smiled at him around mouthfuls of cake.

  Sterling and the old man exchanged greetings. The old man did not speak English, but they seemed to make themselves understood with smiles and hand gestures.

  “Will you please ask your grandfather,” Sterling said to the boys, “if he has seen a white man and woman. They travel with a horse, and were on this trail no more than one day ago.”

  The taller boy said something, and the man answered.

  “My grandfather says I can answer your questions. The white people came through the woods. They made much noise. We are hunting, and Grandfather said the game has been disturbed and so we must go to another place.”

  “My mother, did you see my mother?” Angus shouted.

  “Shush!” Sterling said. The old man moved his hand, and the shorter of the Indian boys said, “My grandfather says your son may speak. She is your mother? She is very beautiful. My grandfather has never seen a white woman. He wondered if she was your queen. I told him your queen is very old.”

  “When was this?” Donohue asked.

  “Yesterday. Late in the day.”

  The old man spoke and the younger ones answered. Sterling puffed at his pipe. “My grandfather asks if this man has stolen your woman,” the taller one said.

  “Yes,” Sterling replied. He did not explain.

  The old man muttered darkly and shook his head.

  “Very bad to steal from the Redcoats,” the boy explained. He pointed to the Winchester lying on the ground. “You should know the man you fo
llow has a rifle like that one.”

  The old man rose to his feet with a smooth grace that belied his age. Sterling and McAllen stood also.

  Sterling held out his hand. The old man took it. “Mahsi Cho,” Sterling said, giving his thanks. “Before you go, can you tell me what’s up ahead?”

  The old man shook his head. He exchanged sharp words with his grandsons.

  “One more day will take you to the place where the trees end,” the boy said, shifting uncomfortably.

  “And beyond that?”

  The Indian boys looked at each other. The old man grumbled deep in his chest. No one said anything for a long time. Millie whined.

  “It is forbidden,” the taller one said at last.

  “What’s forbidden?”

  “There is a small river on the flat land beyond the trees. It is forbidden to travel beyond the river. We do not cross the river.”

  “Why?”

  The boy shrugged. “When our people first came to this land, a hunting party went there. They did not come back, and another party went to find them. They also did not come back. Many years have passed, but no one from our people has crossed that river and returned.”

  “There’s a white man who knows no better, a trapper,” the other said. “He lives at the edge of the forbidden zone. If you want to know what lies beyond he might be able to tell you.”

  The old man muttered.

  “When I was very small, a woman from our tribe left us to be with the white trapper. My grandfather says she will never be allowed to return. Her family will never speak to her or to her children. She is gone too close to the forbidden.”

  “Thank you,” Sterling said again.