Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  The old man nodded, and then they were gone, leaving only the movement of the bush behind them and the cry of a raven.

  “Wow,” Angus said.

  “What’s that nonsense about a forbidden zone?” Donohue said, tapping ash out of his pipe. “Probably don’t want anyone going into the good hunting grounds.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Sterling said. “They looked highly uncomfortable talking about it.”

  “Primitive superstition.”

  Sterling said nothing. He simply picked up the Winchester and set off down the trail. Angus grabbed Millie and followed.

  “Sir,” he said, when he caught up to the Mountie. “How did you know they were there? The Indians I mean. They were so quiet.”

  “Bear fat and woodsmoke and tobacco. If the wind hadn’t been coming this way, I wouldn’t have known.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Judging by the light, we stopped to make camp much earlier than we had the day before. Perhaps even Paul Sheridan was running out of steam. Or maybe he just wanted to tuck into those geese.

  He was collecting wood for the fire and tent poles, and I was trying to remember how best to get feathers off birds, when a breaking branch caught my attention.

  A man stood under a small spruce, watching me.

  I got to my feet slowly.

  He was a white man, short and thin, with a grey-and-black beard that hung over his chest and long dirty grey hair tied back from his face by a bandana. He was very dark, but it was difficult to tell if the colour came from the sun or was simply dirt. He carried a rifle and had a hunting knife stuck in the belt at his hip.

  “Good day,” I said. “I do hope we won’t get any rain this evening.”

  He grunted.

  Sheridan heard the voices and hurried over. He thrust out his hand. “Hi. Sheridan’s the name and this is my fiancée, Fiona.”

  The man looked at Sheridan’s outstretched hand for a long time. Then he extended his own and the two men shook. His hands were caked with dirt, the yellow nails alternately broken and overgrown. Two fingers on his left hand were rounded stumps.

  He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, it sounded like an instrument that had not been used for a long time. “Nothin’ around here for city folks.”

  “We’re just passing through,” Sheridan replied. “Too many people in the Territory these days for my liking.”

  “Nowhere to pass through to,” the man said.

  I’m not accustomed to being ignored. “Indeed,” I said, “then perhaps you can direct us to the nearest mounted police fort or other government officials.”

  The man looked as surprised as if Soapy the horse had spoken. Then he laughed, showing two brown teeth in an otherwise black and empty cave. “Your woman ain’t gonna last long in the wilds.”

  “She’ll be fine,” Sheridan said. “We’re prospecting. I’ve heard word there’s a good strain of quartz up north and west some. Might mean gold.”

  “Don’t know ’bout that,” the man said, studying me. He did not look too terribly impressed. He obviously thought Sheridan was out of his mind to bring a woman such as me into the wilderness.

  We had something in common.

  “Do you, uh, live around here?” I inquired.

  The man spat a load of chewing tobacco into the ground. I took that to be an affirmative.

  “If so,” I continued, “I’d appreciate the opportunity to clean up and have a night’s rest. We have two fresh geese as you can see, and would be happy to share.”

  “Be quiet, Fiona,” Sterling said in a loud whisper. “The man’s a trapper. Probably doesn’t like company.”

  “Don’t usually. But I figure you folks need some help. For one night anyway. Sorriest couple of folks I ever did see.” He shook his head. Something flew out of his beard. “Where’s the rest o’ your stuff?” He peered around our makeshift camp, seeing one horse, one rifle, and three saddlebags.

  “We’re travelling light,” Sheridan said.

  The man laughed. “Plumb crazy. But folks have been sayin’ that ’bout me for years. Figure you’ve got me beat, Sheridan. Name’s Edmund.”

  Edmund?

  “You c’n come home with me, spend the night. Figure your lady might find some things she c’n wear. Proper clothes, like.” He looked at my feet. “Maybe even shoes. Then in the morning you c’n be on your way.” He turned his head and shot another glob of tobacco onto the ground.

  I doubted that Mr. Edmund’s accommodation would be any more pleasant than sleeping out, but if he had clothes I could wear, perhaps he also had a wife and family. I would pay very handsomely for an escort to the nearest government office. “What an excellent plan,” I said. “Lead on, Mr. Edmund. Not too far, I hope?”

  He looked into my face. The corners of his mouth turned up and he sniffed. I felt the small hairs at the back of my neck rise, and a line of ice water moved down my spine.

  Sheridan was gathering up the things I’d unpacked. “I promise you, I don’t have plans to remain in this area,” he said.

  “See that you don’t,” the trapper said, his eyes on mine.

  I scrambled to mount Soapy once again. It was not a very dignified performance.

  Edmund led the way, not looking back to see if we followed. Scruffy bushes of Labrador tea and dwarf willow, punctuated by the occasional spruce or birch tree, closed in around the almost non-existent trail. If the trapper decided to abandon us, we really would be lost. I bent low over Soapy’s neck and felt branches breaking against my back.

  We hadn’t gone more than a few miles before I caught the scent of woodsmoke in the air. The trees spread out, and I could sit upright again as we climbed a gentle hill. Below, the woods had been hacked down to create a clearing beside a small lake. A single log building sat in the clearing, masses of purple and white wildflowers growing out of the sod roof. A high cache, a shack mounted on tall poles, was behind what I took to be the house, and a patch of earth had been dug to create a vegetable garden, green plants laid out in neat rows. About ten large white dogs were chained in an enclosure next to the woods. As we descended the hill, the dogs, straining against their chains to reach us, set up a hysterical chorus and two children ran out of the cabin, squealing with excitement. One stretched out a hand and touched Soapy’s neck. The horse stamped its feet but didn’t shy away, and I gave the child what I hoped was a friendly smile. It was a girl, face smudged with dirt but her hair was clean and her clothes didn’t smell too bad and her brown eyes shone with curiousity and intelligence. A black bruise darkened her left cheek. The other child, a younger boy, stood back and stuck his thumb into his mouth. I guessed he was about two years old.

  By the time we reached the house, a woman had come outside. She waited for us by the door, hands wrapped in a faded pink apron. She wore a brown homespun dress that once would not have been out of place on the streets of Dawson. Now the fabric was thin to the point of transparency in places, and the dress was so many-times-mended, it seemed to be held together by nothing but patches and neat stitches. Her hair was black, hanging down her back in a thick braid. Her eyes were very dark, her face round, her cheekbones flat, and her skin brown. She was an Indian and she was hugely pregnant.

  She didn’t smile as I rode up to her front step. I slid down from Soapy and held out my hand. The woman did not accept it, and I wiped it on my hip. “Good day,” I said cheerfully, “how kind of you to offer us hospitality. It’s been a most exhausting journey.”

  She said nothing, and I wondered if she spoke English.

  Edmund handed the woman the two geese with a grunt. She scurried back inside. Most of the buttons at the back of her dress were undone so that her stomach would fit into the garment.

  I ducked my head and followed. The outside of the cabin was a jumble of fishnets, snowshoes, wooden crates and barrels, animal hides and traps, but inside it was clean and tidy. There appeared to be only one room, with a pile of blankets against the side wall, a lumpy horsehai
r sofa against the near wall, a hand-carved pine table in the middle of the room, and a big iron stove at the back. Nailed to the wall beside the stove was a board that served as a counter. Clean dishes, pots, and pans were stacked beside a bucket of soapy water, and the shelves were piled high with cans and packages of food. A tea set, with a blue and gold pattern on a white background, sat on the table. Spode, if my memory served.

  Uninvited, I sat on a rough-hewn tree stump that presumably served as a chair. I pulled off my socks and studied my feet. They were raw and weeping — quite disgusting. The rough wool had rubbed against the blisters and re-opened them. My left sock was thick with blood, old and new. The floorboards creaked, and I looked up to see the Indian woman standing in front of me. She held out a bowl containing a lump of yellow paste as foul-smelling as it looked. I tried not to shudder as she pushed the bowl toward me.

  “For sore,” she said, making rubbing gestures. “Good.”

  I accepted the offering. “Thank you. My name is Fiona.”

  Her eyes darted around the room. Sheridan was settling down at the table; Edmund had slipped outside, unbuttoning his trousers as he went. The children watched us, wide-eyed.

  “Josie,” the woman said in a whisper before hurrying back to her kitchen alcove.

  I dipped my finger into the muck and applied the ointment to my feet.

  Edmund returned and got a stone pitcher down from the top shelf. He slapped it on the table, Josie brought him two mugs, and he sloshed liquid into the cups. I smelt raw liquor. Clearly, I was not going to be offered any, but that suited me perfectly well.

  “None for me, thank you,” I said, loudly. “Do you have tea? I’ll make it if you like.”

  I did not care for Edmund and I did not trust him. He looked to me like the sort of man who could smell weakness a mile off. I’d betray no weakness in front of him.

  I wanted to be on our way, and soon, but I did want to rest my feet and have a cup of tea and some goose for dinner. Good heavens, was that a bag of rice on the top shelf?

  “Tea,” Josie said. “I make tea.”

  “Thank you.”

  Josie served a piece of — could it possibly be — lemon with the tea. I stared in amazement at the thin yellow slice. “Where on earth did you get that?” I cautiously poked it with my finger, fearing it would disappear into a puff of smoke. I lifted my finger to my lips and tasted. Lemon, for sure.

  “A traveller,” Josie said with a shrug, turning back to the stove.

  The tea was hot and wonderful. She served it in one of the delicate blue-and-gold china cups, and when I’d finished I snuck a surreptitious peek at the bottom. As I’d suspected: Spode.

  Such a tea set being here was no odder, I supposed, than Fiona MacGillivray drinking from it in a trapper’s cabin in the Yukon wilderness.

  Edmund didn’t talk much, but Sheridan chatted away about his plans to become a gold prospector. He kept touching his hand to his chest, the pocket where he kept the map, and I knew he didn’t trust Edmund either.

  Josie took the geese outside and returned in minutes with two naked birds. The little girl sat at my feet, staring up at me with awe, and the boy clung to his mother’s skirts while she cooked.

  For dinner we feasted on goose and rice and berries. Best of all, we also were served carrots and chard. The carrots weren’t fresh, probably stored from last year, but the chard was green, crisp, and absolutely delicious.

  Being raised in a proper British household, I attempted to make conversation over the meal, but everyone stuffed food into their mouths so fast there was room for nothing else, and I soon gave up.

  Dinner over, Edmund leaned to one side, farted with gusto, and stood up. “Goin’ ta feed the dogs,” he said.

  “I’ll help,” Sheridan said.

  Edmund grunted. The children followed them outside.

  Josie had refreshed the water bucket and was wiping the dishes. I stood beside her. She pushed her sleeves up prior to plunging them into water, and I could see a line of deep purple bruises running up her left arm. Her hands were red and chapped, her nails broken and cuticles torn.

  “I need your help,” I said, my voice pitched low. “I don’t want to be with this man.”

  She kept her eyes on her task, hands moving.

  “I have money, friends, influence in Dawson. In town. I have a son.”

  “In the town you have these things. Here you have nothing.”

  “Will you help me?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “If you don’t know the way to the nearest government post, an Indian village will suffice. You must know the way to the nearest village.”

  Nothing.

  “You can come with me. Take me there. I’ll look after you. You won’t have to come back here. You can ride the horse.”

  “I won’t leave my children.”

  “Help me,” I repeated.

  “Mrs. Fiona. I cannot help you. I cannot help myself.” She jumped as Edmund’s voice rounded the corner of the cabin and she scurried into the corner like a rat.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  They came across the second camp not long after leaving the three Indians.

  Branches had been chopped from a small poplar, a fire pit laid, kindling collected, and a square of ground cleared of rocks and pebbles. Buds on a willow had been snapped right off, almost certainly by a feeding horse. Sterling poked at the remains of a campfire: cold and wet.

  “They spent the night here,” he said. He leaned over a rock and lifted something into the air with a big smile on his face. Angus and Donohue studied it.

  Hair. Three strands of long black hair.

  “Mother,” Angus whispered. He held out both of his hands and Sterling placed the strands into them.

  “It’s possible the hair’s from someone else, but we’ll assume your mother was here.”

  One set of footprints were considerably different than the others. “Bear,” Sterling said. “Not a very big one.”

  “Might it have been here after they left?”

  “Looks like oatmeal over here, Corporal,” McAllen said. “Scattered around in the dirt. And some threads from a sack. Bear musta gotten into the bag. Sheridan doesn’t know enough to cache the food and cooking utensils. Bear wandered in looking for breakfast.”

  “Gave the horse a good fright,” Sterling said. “He just about pulled that tree down trying to get away.”

  “Is my mother all right?” Angus said.

  “Almost certainly. I see no signs of a fight, no bloody ground, nothing’s been dragged away. If it was a black bear they would have been able to scare it off.”

  Sterling did not mention finding spots of blood on the ground between the tent and the fire. There wasn’t much blood, only enough, he hoped, to have come from a small cut or a nick. Fiona’s shoes were not suitable for a walk in the wilds, so it was possible she’d hurt her feet. He said nothing to Angus.

  Sheridan was not at all concerned about hiding his tracks. Perhaps he didn’t think anyone would follow, or care if they did. Seemed a strange attitude for a man with a treasure map in his pocket to have, but then again, Sterling thought, simply having a treasure map in one’s pocket was strange enough.

  At the edge of the clearing he found a length of lace hanging from a broken tree branch. It had a couple of spatters of mud, but otherwise was clean and pure and white. Angus put it carefully away in his pocket next to the strands of hair, the bunch of fake grapes, and the map.

  Sterling consulted his pocket watch. “It’s shortly after seven now. I’m going to assume Sheridan’s stopping for a full night’s sleep. They’ve put up a tent and made a proper fire. Say they slept until six or seven. The excitement with the bear would have slowed them down a bit, and they’d have to put things back to rights. Say another hour. If so, they might have broken camp around eight or nine. We’re less than twelve hours behind them. We’re gaining. We’ll put in another couple of hours and stop for supper and some sleep. But I wan
t to be on the trail not long after sunup.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Edmund and Sheridan settled themselves at the table and set about downing the contents of the stone jar. Perhaps only I noticed that Sheridan didn’t drink any more than was required to be polite. The children crept into the pile of blankets and lay down, huddled together. Josie pulled a fish net onto her lap and began to sew. Her eyes were round and watchful and, I thought, frightened.

  Before anyone could offer us bedding, I told Sheridan it was time to put up the tent. He looked almost grateful at the suggestion and pushed away from the table, patting his belly and burping loudly. He was not uneducated and not ill-mannered, so I assumed he was putting on this show for the benefit of his new friend Edmund.

  No one came outside with us, and Sheridan erected the tent in considerable haste. “May I come inside tonight, Fiona?” he asked in a most respectful voice. “I promise I won’t lay a hand on you until we’re properly wed.”

  “Very well,” I said with a deep sigh, as though I were making a great concession. I had, in fact, decided this night I’d be safer with Paul in the tent than without.

  I woke to the sound of the dogs barking. Sheridan was sitting up, pulling on his boots. “I suggest we leave immediately after breakfast,” he said.

  I agreed.

  We had nothing to contribute to the morning meal, but it appeared that Edmund kept his family well fed, if nothing else, so I didn’t feel guilty on that account.

  Josie was stirring a pot over the stove when I knocked politely on the open door. Edmund was nowhere to be seen. The girl came over and touched my dress. “Pretty,” she said with a shy smile.

  Pretty was most certainly not the word I would use. The hem was thick with dust, mud splattered all up the back, one sleeve was torn from when I’d fought with Sheridan back in Dawson, the neckline was ripped, and the right shoulder had a gash where the branch of a tree had grabbed at me. It must stink to high-heaven of horse and smoke and unwashed Fiona. The first night on the trail, I’d removed my pearl necklace and earrings and tucked them away in one of the packs. I went outside and found them and presented them to the girl. I held the gifts out, and her black eyes opened wide. She stretched her hand to take them, but her mother hissed at her with a glance at the open door.