by Vicki Delany
“Fiona!” Through the haze of pain and confusion, I heard Sheridan shout my name. “Oh, save us, Fiona! My beloved.”
Water splashed as he stumbled across the creek. I’d rolled onto my back, after checking the knife was still in place, when Sheridan dropped to his haunches beside me. “My darling, I’m so sorry. Where are you hurt?” His hands began to explore my body.
I swatted them away. “Everywhere. Help me up, you fool.”
“But, but,” he said. His eyes were wide with fear as they studied me. He reached out as reverently as if he were touching a holy relic, took my forearms, and turned my palms up. They were dotted with tiny stones and flecks of blood.
“Oh, Fiona. I thought ... I can’t bear to imagine what I thought. If I lost you ... I don’t know how I could go on.”
He thought he’d shot me.
And he’d forded the creek, which for some reason seemed to terrify him, to get to me.
Another chance lost.
I wasn’t shot, but my hands hurt like the blazes, my wrist screamed in protest at any movement, and my knees were torn and bleeding.
After Sheridan settled me on a patch of moss, apologizing profusely for frightening me, and went back across the creek to collect our things. He seemed to have no further trouble with the water.
As I watched him go, I felt a touch of almost-affection for the man. He was trapped in the grip of sheer madness and nothing, such as my unwillingness to be his consort, would dissuade him from following his goal. Once we — I should say, he — got to this mountain and found that it was nothing out of the ordinary, would he recover his senses? Or descend completely into insanity?
I brought my wandering sentiment under control sharply. As much as Mr. Paul Sheridan might care for me, I must never forget that he did not have my best interests at heart. I was alone in the wilderness with a madman.
A large ragged hole had been torn in my dress at about the level of my knees. Propriety be damned. I tore off a strip from knee to hem, dipped the cloth into the water, and used it to clean blood from my hands and legs.
Sheridan’s eyes almost popped out of his head at the sight of all that exposed flesh. I glared at him and he blushed to the roots of his hair. He began piling twigs for our morning fire. I settled my back against a not-too rough tree and watched him work. For breakfast he served me coffee and the last of the oatmeal.
After we’d eaten, Sheridan repacked our possessions — a pathetically small bundle — and politely asked if I’d mind carrying some of the lighter things. He put the coffee pot and the frying pan into a sack. They made a tiny lump at the bottom of what had once been our food packs. I considered telling him we might as well leave them behind, as we had no more coffee and nothing to fry. He gave me a sheepish smile that would have been attractive had he had a full set of teeth, and I reached out and took the offering.
His own knife, he kept to himself.
Chapter Forty-Two
They walked most of the night, stopping only for something to eat and a few hours sleep when it was darkest. Angus chafed at taking even that short break, but Sterling reminded him, once more, they would do his mother no favours if they missed signs in the darkness. Fiona and Sheridan had left the trapper’s cabin not more than eight or nine hours earlier. If they stopped to sleep a full night, the pursuers should catch up to them today.
Angus was in charge of supper tonight. They were having rabbit, roasted over open flame, and the smell was making his mouth water. Of like mind, Millie was attempting to edge closer to the meat. He wished he’d been able to bag a rabbit or ptarmigan, something to contribute to dinner. McAllen had been patient and helpful, showing the boy how to steady and aim the Winchester, how to squeeze the trigger, to anticipate the recoil, how to reload. Despite not killing anything, he felt like a man, proud of his newly learned skill.
“Do you think we’ve been particularly lucky,” Angus said, struggling to open a can of beans, “that the trail’s been easy to follow and people have seen my mother?”
Sterling puffed on his pipe. Firelight danced on the sharp bones of his face and illuminated the depths of his eyes. He’d placed his broad-brimmed hat on top of his pack, and dark hair curled around the back of his neck. The stubble on his face was coming in black and thick. Angus had checked his own face this morning — to his great disappointment there were still no signs of whiskers.
“They say,” Sterling said slowly, “in the far north, where the sun never sets at all in the summer and never rises in the dead of winter, a man can travel hundreds of miles without coming across another human being. Whole ships, great sailing ships, and all their crew have disappeared into that empty land, leaving not a trace behind to tell of their fate. Here, there’s usually someone around, in summer anyway. Indians, trappers, prospectors, not to mention whisky traders and missionaries. Sheridan hasn’t been trying to hide his tracks. If he had, then we might well not be able to follow them so easily.”
Angus was about to announce the rabbits were ready when Millie’s ears shot up and she leapt to her feet with a bark. Sterling grabbed the Winchester and stood up, pipe clenched between his teeth. Donohue and McAllen froze in place. Angus stopped breathing. Within the dark forest, leaves rustled and a branch broke.
“North-West Mounted Police,” Sterling shouted. “Lower your weapon and come forward.”
They heard a sharp puff of air. A horse whinnied and the trees parted. A thin brown horse walked into the clearing. It was wearing a bridle, and a rope trailed between its front legs. Sterling lowered the rifle. McAllen stepped toward the animal and spoke to it in low soothing tones. The horse pawed the ground and allowed the constable to stretch out one hand and stroke the soft nose.
“McAllen,” Sterling ordered, “tie it up. Angus, pull out a handful of oatmeal and give it to him while McAllen gets it secured.”
The horse sucked up the offering and allowed McAllen to grab the rope and loop it around a tree.
“Where do you suppose he’s come from?” Donohue said. Millie returned to guarding the dinner.
“No wild horses in this part of the world,” McAllen said, studying the animal. “And this one isn’t wild in any event.”
“Fiona?” Donohue said. “She was riding a horse, Whiteside told us. Is this it?”
“I’ll assume that’s the case until I know otherwise,” Sterling said.
“How do you suppose ...” Angus said.
“No point in supposing anything,” Sterling interrupted. “We don’t know what it’s doing on its own. At a guess, probably got loose and wandered away from your mother’s campsite and then decided it didn’t want to be out here on its own after all. The horse is clearly unharmed.” It ripped up vegetation and munched happily, ignoring the watching men.
Angus stroked the long neck. “Wish he could talk.”
“McAllen, load some of our gear onto the horse when we’re ready to go. Give us a bit of a break. It smells as if those rabbits are starting to burn. Mr. MacGillivray, better see to your duties.”
Angus wanted to leap on the horse’s back and gallop off down the trail. Surely they were close now. He curbed his impatience and began serving supper.
He fell asleep listening to the horse’s breathing, the stamp of hooves on the hard ground, and the tearing of leaves and grasses. He awoke when Sterling poked his blankets with his foot. “Time to go.” The sun was low in the east. Angus didn’t have to look at his watch to know it was only about four o’clock.
The horse seemed happy enough to have a couple of packs slung over its back, and they set off without bothering with breakfast.
After all, it had only been three hours since supper.
A strong wind had come up during the night, bringing with it high, fast-moving clouds, and the temperature had dropped noticeably while they slept.
Two hours walking brought them to the edge of the forest. Before them stretched the tundra, empty and beautiful. They stood at the top of the hill for a long time. Even
Angus felt the urge to pause and stare.
“Wish I’d thought to bring glasses,” Sterling muttered.
“Do you think that’s it?” Donohue slowly lifted his hand and pointed at the single peak rising out of the plain. “Gold Mountain?”
“It might be where Sheridan’s heading,” Sterling snapped, “but it sure isn’t any gold mountain.”
“Does that mountain have a name?” Angus asked. “The one standing all on its own. It must be quite a landmark.”
Sterling rubbed at his chin. “Don’t think it’s on any map. Least not any map I’ve ever seen. McAllen?”
The constable shook his head. “Never even heard anyone talk about it, and there are Mounties and traders with Taylor and Drury who’ve been up this way.”
They soon came to a small creek. Once again there were signs of a fire and camp. The creek was only a few feet wide, and on the other shore they could see more evidence that someone had been there very recently.
Sterling slapped Angus on the back. “Not much longer now, son. We’ll find your mother.”
“Poor Mother,” Angus said. “She swore she’d never set foot in the wilderness again, and now look where she is. I really do want to get her home.”
“I’m supposed to be going to Forty Mile next week,” McAllen said. “Hope we’re back in time.”
“We will be,” Sterling said. He stared across the land and saw Fiona in his mind’s eye. He swallowed the lump of emotion that threatened to choke him. “We’ll get your mother back to the Savoy, Angus, where she belongs.”
“Gold Mountain.” Donohue’s voice was dreamy. “Perhaps it really is true. There are hot springs around, everyone knows that. Why not one so big it can heat a valley? And gold. A mountain of pure gold.”
“No point in standing here talking,” Sterling said. “Let’s go.”
McAllen went first. He crossed quickly, checking for deep spots or places where a man might lose his footing. But the water was very shallow, and he gestured for the remainder of the party to follow.
Graham Donohue put one foot into the water. Then he took it out again. Angus watched as he put it back. And then took it out. Donohue shook himself, all over, and retreated a couple of feet. “I’m awfully tired. Let’s have a rest before we carry on.”
“Are you crazy?” Sterling said. “We stopped for coffee less than an hour ago.”
“I have to catch my breath. You go ahead.”
Sterling was leading the horse. He got several feet across the creek when the rope jerked tight. He looked back. The horse was standing at the water’s edge, its feet locked, eyes wide with terror. “What on earth?” Sterling waded back to the animal. He gathered up loose rope so his hand was under the horse’s neck. “Come on, fellow.” The horse refused to budge. It took a step back, pulling Sterling along with it.
“What’s the matter?” McAllen called.
Sterling studied the clear water beneath his feet. Tiny silver fish darted around the pebbles. Nothing that should frighten a horse, but no matter how hard he pulled on the rope, the animal refused to take a step forward.
“Get over to the other side, Angus,” Sterling said.
Angus stepped into the water. Millie put her front paws in and stopped dead. Angus pulled on the lead. Millie pulled back. She whined and the short hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “Come on, Millie,” Angus said. “I’m not going to carry you.”
The dog growled at him, her teeth bared. Angus blinked in surprise. “Mr. Sterling, she doesn’t want to come either.”
Sterling looked around. McAllen was on the other bank, his young face curious as to what was taking everyone so long. Donohue had sat down, removed his right boot and sock and was rubbing his naked foot with a look of mind disinterest.
“Never seen anything like this before,” Sterling said. “It’s as if they’re mutinying. Donohue, will you get the heck up. We’re not waiting for you. This is obviously the way. Mrs. MacGillivray was here last night and I suspect they’re not more than a few hours ahead of us, if that.”
Donohue shook his head. “Sorry. Don’t know what came over me.” He put his footwear back on and stood.
“Don’t you show me your teeth,” Angus said to Millie, pitching his voice deep and low and giving a growl of his own. He pulled hard on the dog’s lead. “Now, come on.” She snarled and resisted. “Don’t you want to help Mother? You helped her before. She needs you again.”
The big white dog looked at him for a long time. Angus stared into her eyes, wondering what thoughts were going on behind them. Then she gave a single loud bark and ran across the creek with such speed it seemed as if her feet didn’t touch the surface of the water. It was all Angus could do to keep his own feet from being pulled out from under him.
Graham Donohue stood with one foot in the water. His face was lined with strain as if he were involved in a game of tug-of-war and his side was losing. Then all the tension drained out of his face and he stepped back.
“Not today,” he said. “You men carry on. I’ll catch you up later.”
“Are you nuts?” Sterling said. He was still in the creek, still gripping the horse’s lead. Icy water was beginning to find its way through the stitching in his boots. Unlike Millie, the horse wasn’t budging. “Stay here, then,” he said, swallowing a string of curses. With short, angry movements he untied the bags from the horse’s back. All Donohue was carrying were his own things. Sterling threw the rope to the newspaperman. “Mrs. MacGillivray may need to ride. Be sure you’re here when we get back or I’ll see that you get a blue ticket. Hear me, Donohue?”
Donohue waved his hand in the air. “Just need a short rest, then I’ll follow. This seems like a nice spot.” He lay back and closed his eyes. The end of the rope was loose in his hand and the horse stood beside him.
Sterling and McAllen exchanged glances. “Strangest damn thing I ever did see. Begging your pardon, Angus.”
Chapter Forty-Three
The closer we got to the solitary mountain, the quicker Sheridan moved. At times he would practically gallop on ahead and then have to turn around and wait impatiently for me to catch up. Now that we’d lost the horse, Sheridan carried all of our supplies: the rifle, depleted food sacks, tent, blankets, dishes, and the rest of the cooking equipment. I carried only the coffee pot and frying pan. To my delight, my feet were doing better. I continued to apply the yellow paste every chance I got, and although the stuff smelled like the inside of Joe Hamilton’s rotting mouth, it was working.
It had turned cold overnight, and I was glad of the sweater the Indian woman had given me. I was reminded of how soon winter arrived in the North and how dreadfully cold it could get. How long had we been walking? I’d lost track of time completely. I tried to count the campsites we’d set up, but other than the night at the trapper’s cabin, they all seemed to blur into one. It might have been a week. It might have been a month. Was it still July? August nights could turn to frost, and it would snow at the higher elevations. I wouldn’t last long out here in a pair of men’s socks, a tattered dress, and one old sweater.
Then I thought of the food. We had no coffee left, no oatmeal, just a couple of cans of vegetables, some corned beef, and a handful of powdered milk. Difficult to tell how much oatmeal we’d lost when the bear ransacked the packs. When I’d first looked into the food sack after my abduction, I’d figured we didn’t have enough food for a week. Sheridan had shot a small amount of game to supplement our rations, but not much.
Therefore, I surmised, we hadn’t been out here for a week yet.
I heard a sound on the wind. I stopped walking and looked behind me, ears pricked.
Angus?
I sighed, and felt tears well up behind my eyes. Angus.
I hadn’t been a very good mother to Angus, but he repaid me with total devotion. He was a better son than I deserved. Not that I had much choice, as I’d been alone in the world and had to earn our living. But ...
“Fiona, hurry up,” S
heridan called. “Not much further.”
I turned and trudged after him. The mountain did seem to be getting closer. It filled my vision. The sky was cobalt blue, the top of the mountain pure white, snow sparkling in the sun. The ground was mostly soil with lichen-covered rocks scattered in patches. The plain across which we walked wasn’t completely flat. Brown hills, covered with blankets of red, purple, and yellow flowers, spread out gently on either side of a small depression, which seemed to be headed straight for the mountain. Almost as if it were a road.
I had no choice but to walk on. I had nothing to eat, and only Mr. Sheridan and his rifle stood between me and starvation. When we reached this mountain and he discovered it was only a mountain, as cold and barren as any other mountain in the Territory, I would make one last attempt to persuade him to return to civilization. If he refused, then I would simply have to walk away and hope I could reach help before I starved to death.
The sun cast long shadows in front of us as we began to climb, and the sky to the east was heavy with approaching clouds. We’d walked all day, but I felt strangely invigorated. Most of the pain in my feet had gone, as had the ache in my legs, and my wrist had stopped throbbing. We’d rested briefly, long ago, to take a drink from a lazy little stream and eat the last of the stale dry biscuits. Yet I wasn’t particularly hungry. Perhaps now that this dreadful journey was about to end, one way or the other, my body and mind simply wanted to get on with it.
The path climbed gently but steadily, the carpet of green moss soft beneath my feet. Two hawks made wide, lazy circles overhead. A ptarmigan broke from a scrap of undergrowth as Sheridan passed, wings fluttering in panic. He didn’t break stride or swing the rifle into shooting position.
“Mr. Sheridan,” I called.
