Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  “They’re not genuine pearls,” I said, understanding. “No value. Like a toy.”

  She nodded at the girl and the child grabbed them and dashed across the room. She buried herself in the blankets to examine her prize.

  Breakfast was lumpy porridge and powdered milk. I added a several spoonfuls of sugar to give myself a boost of energy. Edmund was his typical scowling self. If he noticed his daughter proudly wearing new jewellery, he didn’t mention it.

  Sheridan excused himself, saying he had to pack up our things, and Edmund and the children followed him. I heard the trapper explain that if he found us in his territory after today he’d shoot us.

  Pleasant host.

  Josie cleaned away the bowls and then, to my considerable surprise, brought out a large fruit to serve as dessert. I hadn’t seen anything like it before. It was about the size and shape of two cricket balls lying together and had a thick, lumpy green skin.

  Rather than take a knife down from the shelf by the stove, she picked up a good-sized hunting knife from Edmund’s place at the table, pulled it from its sheath, and sliced into the fruit, revealing bright green flesh surrounding a single large brown pit. She dug out the pit, scooped out the flesh, and placed a generous slice onto a plate, which she passed to me.

  “Try,” she said. “Very good.”

  I expected it to be crisp and clean, like an apple, instead it was as soft and creamy as butter. Absolutely delicious.

  “Where did you get this?” I asked, picking up the discarded rind and studying it. I could not imagine anything this wonderful growing in the near-Arctic. I thought about the lemon I’d enjoyed with yesterday’s tea.

  She shrugged. “Strange people pass by in the night. They don’t come to the door, but they leave food and small things for the children.”

  She got up from the table, pressing her hands into the small of her back, and went to a shelf over the beds. She sorted through it, pulled out a sweater, and held it out to me. I almost declined, but didn’t. She was offering me a gift, and it would be unkind to refuse it. I had quickly discovered she had no clothes or shoes that would come near to fitting me, but this sweater was very large and well knitted.

  If the nights started getting cold, I’d need it.

  “Ready Fiona,” Sheridan yelled from outside.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Josie returned to the table and picked up the knife she’d used to slice open the strange green fruit. With a quick glance toward the door, she shoved it back into its sheath, and then handed it to me. “Take. Hide.”

  I grabbed it and wrapped it in the sweater. “Tell me where your people live. I’ll go there. I’ll send them to you.”

  She shook her head and rubbed her giant belly. “They will not come,” she said. “Go now. Do not return to this place.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  There had been no sign of any other pursuers since they’d managed to ditch Sergeant Lancaster, but Sterling still insisted they maintain a night watch. He wasn’t worried about Lancaster. Mouse O’Brien would steer him down the trail, and they’d soon find themselves back in town. Lancaster would pretend to be annoyed, and then head off to the mess to relate how he’d gone in pursuit of the fair Mrs. MacGillivray and, after giving orders to Sterling, had reluctantly decided his duty was at the fort with his men.

  Richard Sterling sat by the fire, smoking his pipe and listening to the soft breathing and snores around him. Not too far away, a wolf howled and the undergrowth rustled. Firelight flashed on a pair of small yellow eyes. He was sorry to have lost Mouse. The man’s size alone could be counted on to pretty much put the fight out of anyone so inclined. He wasn’t much for the wilderness, none of them were, but he had a good head on his shoulders.

  Despite his earlier attempts to sound positive in front of the others, they were not making good enough time. Sheridan was moving faster than Sterling had expected, and if Fiona was riding the horse she wouldn’t be slowing him down. He’d have to hope Sheridan would take a wrong turn and double back or at least stay put for a while so they could catch up.

  Hope. Was that all he had? Even if he did catch up to them, it might be too late. The wilderness was not a safe place for people who didn’t know how to use it. He thought about Fiona’s soft voice, the way she said his name — always very proper, with rank and surname. About the way she kept her beautiful face stern and impassive as she went about her business, but sometimes she’d look at him out of the corner of those amazing black eyes and the ghost of a smile would touch the edges of her mouth, and he might even think she had winked.

  He loved her. He’d never dared to express the thought before, but now it came into his head fully formed. He loved her. And he couldn’t bear to lose her before he’d had the chance to tell her so.

  Foolish thoughts. Half the men in Dawson wanted Fiona MacGillivray. Sergeant Lancaster had asked her to marry him and she laughed and barely tolerated his attentions. What did he, Richard Sterling, a preacher’s son, a farm boy from Saskatchewan, a corporal in the Mounted Police, have to offer a woman such as her?

  He would save her life, if he could. That would be enough.

  He tapped out his pipe on a rock, stirred the embers of the fire, and woke Donohue to take the next watch. Sun-up these days was around four o’clock; he wouldn’t get much sleep tonight.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  And so we set off once again. I fastened all the buttons on the sweater and wrapped it tightly around me, although it was too warm. Not only was my dress shredding in some most inappropriate places, but I was able to tuck the knife Josie had given me into one of the sweater’s voluminous pockets. As I led Soapy over to a rock I could use to clamber aboard, I’d heard the trapper give Sheridan one last piece of advice.

  “Turn west, there’s nothin’ to the east o’ here.”

  “Nothing? Can there be more nothing than what’s around here?”

  The trapper didn’t answer, and when I’d hoisted myself onto Soapy and looked up, he was staring at Sheridan. He spat a lump of chewing tobacco onto the ground. The little girl stroked the horse’s soft velvet nose. She was wearing pearls around her neck and in her ears.

  “River not far from here,” Edmund said at last, pointing toward the rising sun. “Small river, movin’ slow most o’ the time.”

  “What’s on the other side?”

  The trapper shook his head. “Don’t know. Never been across.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve set out to, but somehow always seem to change my mind. Blast it, man, go where you want, just so long as you stay away from my traps. And don’t come back here with your fancy woman.”

  He spat out a lump of wet brown tobacco and stalked into the house.

  When we crested the hill, I turned and looked back. Smoke was rising from the roof and the dogs were barking. Josie stood in the dusty yard watching. I lifted my hand but she did not wave back.

  I could read the passage of time on Paul Sheridan’s face. His dark stubble was getting longer, his clothes torn and stained by sweat, grease, and dust. His face and hands were covered in scratches and infected insect bites. The bags under his eyes were heavier and darker every day, but the fire in them didn’t let up.

  I looked no better. My hair was a tangle of knots, sticky with the residue of pine sap, and I’d given up all attempts to keep it under some sort of control. It hung down my back and across my face, and my hat, which should perch attractively on top of a carefully arranged bundle of hair (and be secured by a hat pin, I might add), was pulled down low on my head in an attempt to keep it on. My dress was torn in a hundred places and the skin of my legs and arms as well. The trail was now so narrow, Soapy could barely fit through in places. The lower branches of pine trees die and snap off as the trees grow and make a formidable barrier. My face was scratched by numerous broken branches. I had to remain alert, constantly, otherwise I might get a pointed stick in the eye.

  Sheridan walked ahead, laden down wi
th our packs. As he was breaking the trail he was having a rougher time than I, but he never seemed to mind. He chatted about his plans for his new kingdom. First thing, he’d send to the Outside for workers and supplies. Then he’d build me a grand house with a big front porch so I could sit out and catch the cool breezes. The house would, of course, have hot water, piped in from the hot springs. He asked if I wanted gold faucets for my bath, or would that be too pretentious. I didn’t answer. I wasn’t interested in playing his games. I was thinking about the contents of our packs, and getting quite worried about the amount of food left. Then it occurred to me for the first time that something was lacking in the things Sheridan had brought for his venture.

  He had no mining equipment.

  Not even a pan for sifting river gravel.

  “Mr. Sheridan!” I cried. “We must return to Dawson immediately.”

  He spun around. “What? Why? Are you ill?” Soapy took advantage of the break to lower his head and search for something tasty.

  “You neglected to bring mining utensils.”

  “Won’t need them.”

  “Why on earth not? I thought the purpose of this expedition is to mine for gold.”

  He walked back to stand beside the horse. He put his hand on Soapy’s neck and looked up at me. “Don’t you trust me yet, Fiona?”

  I didn’t bother to answer.

  “The gold’ll be easy to collect. Nuggets so large I’ll have trouble lifting them out of the stream. No need for a pan. I’ve got the axe, that’ll loosen the mountainside enough to reach in and pull out handfuls of gold.”

  I shivered in the warm sunshine and the thick sweater. Until that moment, I’d thought Mr. Sheridan had an excess of gold fever but was confident he’d soon come to his senses and turn back. My only worry had been that we might, by then, be hopelessly lost. Now I truly understood the depths of the man’s madness.

  He wasn’t the only one: Dawson overflowed with men who believed they were about to make it rich, to become one of the legendary Kings of the Klondike. No matter how many times they were told no good claims were left and all that waited for them at the Creeks was relentless labour on behalf of someone else, they refused to give up the dream.

  Mr. Sheridan had taken the obsession to an absurd degree.

  “There’s a clearing up ahead,” he said. “I think we need a rest.” He slapped the horse’s rump. No doubt he would have liked to give me a hearty pat as well. He hadn’t tried to touch me since that night in the tent. I felt the weight of the knife beneath my new sweater.

  If I had to kill Mr. Paul Sheridan, I would.

  We reached the clearing, and as he was swinging the rifle around to rest it on the ground, a bird broke from cover. It looked very much like the grouse back in Scotland, but was quite a bit smaller. It was brown with a small head and a line of red above its eyes. It stopped. Blinked at us. Lifted its wings to take to the air. Sheridan finally got command of his senses and shot the little creature.

  We drank a mouthful of water and chewed on dry biscuits and wrinkled carrots the trapper’s wife had provided. As I ate the miserly lunch, I thought happily of the meal of roast ptarmigan to come.

  The vegetation was getting sparser; what trees there were, stubby and stunted. We climbed a low hill late in the day, poor Soapy barely able to put one tired foot in front of the other. And the other, and the other.

  Sheridan reached the top of the hill and stopped dead. Glad of the break, Soapy stopped as well. From my higher vantage, I could see what lay ahead. My heart leapt into my mouth.

  It was an open plain, almost completely bare of trees. Dwarf willows turned the rolling hills the colour of ripe plumbs. The hills stretched toward a row of mountains, sharp-toothed and topped with snow reflecting shades of pink and purple in the long light of the western sun. The wind blew toward us, carrying fresh snow and the heady scent of wildflowers and berries.

  “Do you see it, Fiona?” Sheridan said, his voice low and full of awe.

  One mountain stood alone, closer than the distant range, rising up from the plains like a pointed hat tossed onto a table. A blanket of snow was draped over its top and upper flanks. Sheridan pulled out his map. He pointed to the red circle near the uppermost corner. “Here,” he said. He stretched out his hand in front of him. “Here,” he repeated. I looked down at the map. It did show a line of triangles marching behind the round red dot. Was he right after all?

  I shook my head. Heaven’s sakes. That map could be of any place. Some child scribbled on a blank piece of paper and his father decided to have fun and perhaps make a bit of money selling the treasure map. No shortage of mountain ranges in the North. Simply a coincidence we’d come upon one with a single tall peak.

  Without another word, Sheridan pulled on the horse’s lead and descended the slope of the hill at a fast clip. The ground was soft, thick with moss. A golden eagle circled overhead, and off to my left, the long tail of a fox disappeared into a clump of shrub.

  Sheridan broke into a run in his eagerness to push forward. Soapy trotted behind and I clung to the horse’s mane. At the bottom of the hill, we came to a river. It was a creek really, moving lazily across the vast tundra. The banks were shallow and the water so fresh and clear, I could see gravel sparkling on the bottom. Small fish darted between the stones, silver bodies glistening in the sun.

  “The promised land,” Sheridan said, holding his arms out wide. “Why should I not be king, king of all that lies before me?”

  I rolled my eyes and muttered, “I’d rather go home and be queen of my own bed, thank you very much.”

  Sheridan put his foot into the water.

  He pulled it back.

  “Perhaps we won’t go on today,” he said.

  So surprised was I, I forgot to say, “Good idea,” and instead said, “What? It’s scarcely six o’clock.”

  He dipped his foot in again. “We don’t know when we might find another water source. Best make camp here.” He hesitated, one foot in the water, one still on the shore.

  “Let’s at least get across the stream. That clump of spruce will give us some shelter and you need wood to make a fire and erect the tent.”

  Sheridan seemed to be battling with himself. His body jerked and his legs shook. Was the man having a seizure? I was capable of cold-bloodedly stabbing him in the back if such should be required, but I wasn’t able to stand by and let him die of a fit.

  Legs kicking, I slid off Soapy’s back. I approached Sheridan and touched him on the arm. “Are you all right?”

  He jerked. “Overly tired, my dear.” His smile was sickly and his face white as death. “We’ll rest here.” He pulled his foot out of the water. “Don’t know what came over me. Feel fine now.” Colour flooded back into his face. “Let’s go on.”

  He put his foot into the water again and the scene repeated itself. His body shook and the blood again drained away from his face. I took his arm and pulled. He stumbled against me.

  “As you say. Best we make camp here. You sit for a minute.” I looked around. Not so much as a boulder large enough to provide a chair. Sheridan collapsed to the ground like a rag doll.

  He might look exhausted and seriously ill, but he still had the presence of mind to cradle the bag containing his knife to his chest.

  Soapy watched us with interest. I untied the saddlebag from the horse’s neck and dropped it on the ground. I’d give the beast a drink and then lead him up to a lovely green patch of moss a few yards away. After three days of walking, the horse was looking somewhat thin.

  I took hold of the rope tied to Soapy’s neck and walked toward the water. He followed me willingly enough and put his right front foot into the stream. Without warning he reared back and screamed a scream the like of which I hope never to hear again. The rope burned as it tore out of my hand, and Soapy flailed at the air with his front legs. I fell backwards, crashing down on the rocks and pebbles of the riverbank. My head swum and pain flooded my right wrist where I’d unthinkingly
tried to break my fall.

  When I looked up, Soapy was nothing more than a speck disappearing over the crest of the hill, heading back the way we had come.

  I let out a long piercing scream. Rage at the horse. Rage at Paul Sheridan. Rage at my own stupidity for letting myself be dragged this far.

  “Fiona,” Sheridan said. “Couldn’t you have taken more care? Now you’re going to have to walk the rest of the way. Good thing you got the bag off him first.”

  Using my left arm, I hurled a rock at him. It missed by a very wide margin.

  I clambered to my feet and rubbed my aching bottom. How quickly the trappings of civilization desert us.

  “As you’re up,” Sheridan said. “Take the axe, will you, and cut some branches for the tent.”

  I flexed my wrist. It was painful but not too bad and there wasn’t a problem with movement. I took off my disgustingly filthy socks before wrenching the axe out of its pack. Sheridan was watching me, a stupid smile on his face. I hefted the axe. It wasn’t heavy and the blade was dull and rusty. I looked at my captor. He continued to smile.

  I sighed and, holding the axe high, stepped cautiously into the water. I almost expected it to be boiling hot, but the water felt cool and refreshing on my aching feet. Tiny fish darted forward to nibble at my toes. Stones dug into the soles of my feet, but I crossed the creek in a half-dozen careful steps. The far bank was not as rocky and I could move between patches of emerald green moss, soft and cool. I wiggled my toes. Josie, the trapper’s wife, had given me some of the yellow paste to take with me and it did seem to be doing a good job healing the sores.

  When I looked back, Sheridan was taking the tent and bedrolls out of the pack. He saw me watching and waved.