Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  We went to the edge of the trail and peered down in the direction from which we’d come. Through the swirls of white mist we could see movement far below. A man and a dog, ascending. No, two men. My heart moved into my throat. A man and a boy and a big white dog. The man was dressed in a red tunic and black boots and wore a broad-brimmed hat. The boy had a shock of too-long blond hair. Their heads were down and their backs bent as they concentrated on climbing.

  Angus. It was Angus. And Richard Sterling.

  He’d come for me.

  “My escort,” I said. “It’s time for us to part, Mr. Sheridan. I’ll not be continuing, but I truly wish you well.”

  The man’s eyes were as round and white as Soapy the horse’s when he’d refused to cross the creek.

  Sheridan swung the Winchester off his back. “You belong to me. I’m not letting you go.”

  “No!” I yelled. “Don’t shoot. Angus, run.”

  Sheridan lifted the rifle to his face, laid his cheek against the barrel. I saw his finger inch toward the trigger.

  I launched myself at him and threw my entire body against his left side, throwing him off balance. He staggered and the weapon fired. From below came cries of alarm and increased barking. Sheridan braced his legs and brought the rifle back up. I grabbed the barrel and we wrestled for it.

  “You’re mine,” he hissed, the sound like a snake moving through grass, “mine.” His eyes were very cloudy.

  He managed to wrest the weapon out of my hands. Shifting it, he struck the side of my head, hard, with the butt. I staggered backwards; stars moved across my eyes and my head swam. I dropped my forearms to the ground and broke the fall before my skull could strike rock. I pulled myself to a sitting position and sat on the hard ground, blinking. Paul Sheridan moved in and out of focus. There were two of him, and then three, and finally just one. But that one was bracing the rifle barrel against a rock and settling back into shooting position.

  I clambered to my feet, pulling the trapper’s knife free with one smooth movement. I again threw myself at Paul Sheridan. All the while I was screaming, trying to gather strength for myself as well as warn Richard and Angus. And, hopefully, frighten Sheridan.

  He swung around and lifted the rifle in defence. I raised the knife high and brought it down, slicing it across his arm, wrist to elbow. The blade was very sharp, and it cut deeply. Bright red blood spurted. Sheridan said not a word, but threw the rifle to the ground and faced me. His mouth was set, his eyes so round, the surface so white, I wouldn’t have recognized them. He was breathing very deeply and hissed as air passed in and out of his mouth. He moved fast, sending a fist toward my jaw. I pulled back in time and thrust the knife forward, but he leaned aside and my blade sliced cold mountain air. We circled each other, eyes fixed, hearts pounding, hands up.

  All I had to do was to keep him away from me and from that rifle, give Richard time to get to us. And Angus. Oh, heavens, don’t let Angus be the first to arrive. I could hear shouting from below and the dog barking. Richard would be moving carefully, not sure if the shooter was reloading or if he had another weapon. Angus would be scrambling up the hillside pell-mell, heedless of danger to himself.

  I dared to glance toward the trail. That was a mistake. Sheridan saw my attention shift and he came in low, his left arm up and out, prepared to take another cut if he could get his right fist though my defences.

  I ducked down and slipped under his arm. I was aiming for the centre of his belly, but he slid to one side at the last second and the knife cut only his jacket. His fist crashed into my face and I fell. I landed hard, once again, but kept my grip on the knife and held the blade pointing up and out. Sheridan swung his foot at my face, and I brought my weapon up, slicing into his calf, just above his boot.

  He stepped backwards. Blood was pouring down both his arm and leg now. He stared at me through those crazed eyes. His chest heaved and his breathing was ragged, but he’d not said a word.

  “I’m not going with you,” I said. “You will have to kill me, and you do not want to do that.”

  The white cloud faded from his eyes. He blinked. “Fiona,” he said, in a voice full of sadness and of pain. “Fiona. I will always love you.”

  He headed for me, and I braced myself for another attack. Instead he dodged and ran around me. I swivelled on my rear end, and the last I saw of Mr. Paul Sheridan, he was standing in the stone doorway, surrounded by a blaze of golden light from the setting sun. He took one step, and then another, and disappeared.

  The barking was getting closer. “I’m here,” I yelled. “He’s gone. It’s safe.”

  I staggered to my feet, thrust the knife behind a boulder, gathered up the rifle, and dashed a few yards down the path, whereupon I fell to the ground and arranged myself so I was draped across the trail in a dainty swoon.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  They were nearing the top of the mountain. The trail was steep and the going difficult. Angus would have run on ahead had Sterling let him, but he cautioned the boy that they didn’t need another twisted ankle — or worse. Thick damp mist spun around them, and visibility wasn’t much more than a few feet. Rock, sheer steep black rock, rose up on either side.

  “Mother,” Angus cried, and Sterling looked up. The mist had cleared, for a moment, and they could make out a figure standing above them. It was tall and thin and ghostly, dressed in rags, topped by hair as tangled as brambles and the remnants of a hat. Richard Sterling’s heart knew who it was.

  Angus dropped Millie’s lead and put on a sprint, and Sterling barely had time to reach out and grab the boy by the arm. “Caution,” he warned. “We don’t know what’s up there.”

  Angus fought against the restraint, but he wasn’t strong enough to free himself. “It’s mother. My mother. She’s alive. Let me go.”

  “No. Wait. I’ll go first.”

  As if to underscore his point, a shot rang out. The noise bounced off the rocks around them, echoing across to the plains far below. Sterling heard rock shatter as he dove behind a boulder, dragging the boy with him. Millie launched into a chorus of barks.

  “Stay down.” Sterling swung his own rifle around and raised it. “I’m going up and you are to stay here, Mr. MacGillivray, until I call the all clear. Make no mistake, that is an order.”

  Millie bounded on ahead. Sterling paid her no mind. He moved cautiously, only moving from the cover of one rock to another when he could see a safe path. Sheridan had the high ground, never a good thing in any battle, whether entire armies were clashing or it was one lone man against another. Sterling kept the back of his mind focused on Angus. How long would the boy be able to remain in place?

  If his mother called out, not long at all.

  It was quiet now, up above. He could hear nothing over the dog’s barking. The mist drifted across the path like curtains, constantly opening and closing. An advantage, he knew, as the shooter above would have to wait, nervous and anxious, to get a good shot. Fiona had disappeared, stepped back from the edge. No doubt she lay cowed in the shelter of a boulder, shocked at the sudden display of man’s violence.

  Acid spurted into his gut. He tightened his grip on the rifle and broke cover, gaining another two or three feet. Then he rested, back against the mountain wall, weapon in front of him, finger resting on the trigger, barrel pointing up, listening.

  Millie had disappeared. Unafraid, she’d rushed on, still barking.

  A woman’s voice broke the silence. “I’m here. He’s gone. It’s safe.”

  Sterling lost all the vestiges of caution. He broke cover and ran at full speed up the twisting mountain trail.

  He rounded a corner and there she was. Fiona lay on the ground while Millie jumped on her and licked at her face. Her long black hair was a rat’s nest trapped in the wreckage of her church hat; under a homemade sweater, her green dress was so thin and torn it wouldn’t serve to make rags; her arms and legs and face were covered in streaks of dried blood, ugly scratches, and purple bruises.

/>   She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  He wanted to do nothing but drop to his knees and take her into his arms and hold her forever. But Sheridan was still up there somewhere, despite Fiona saying he was gone. There was no place the man could have gone.

  Richard Sterling bent down and grabbed the rifle that lay on the ground.

  Angus’s footsteps pounded against the bare rock, and the boy almost shoved Sterling aside in his haste to get to his mother. Fiona burst into tears and wrapped her arms about her son.

  Keeping his eyes on the path ahead, Sterling said, “Mrs. MacGillivray. I trust I find you well.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Millie reached me first and spread warm sticky drool all across my face. She was followed by Richard Sterling, who took one look at me, saw I was alive, and scooped up the rifle. Then came Angus. He fell to his knees beside me, crying, “Mother.” I touched the top of his blond head and I didn’t have to pretend to cry.

  “Mrs. MacGillivray,” Richard said. “I trust I find you well.”

  “Somewhat the worse for wear,” I replied, “and in desperate need of a bath. But I will live.”

  “Sheridan?”

  “He’s gone.”

  Richard started up the trail.

  “No!” I shouted. “No need to go there. He, uh, fell over the cliff. Yes, he fell over the cliff. Lost his footing. It was a long way down. A terrible accident.”

  The sun had descended behind the mountain; the swirling mist was cold and damp. I couldn’t see Richard’s expression. No doubt he was checking out the marks of the fight on my face. I pulled Angus close and buried my head into his chest.

  “Do you have anything you need me to fetch?” Richard asked.

  “No. We came on this impossible journey with few possessions as it was, and nothing’s left.”

  “We have to get my mother to help,” Angus said. He stroked my hair, and I felt time shift. My child was mothering me. Millie nuzzled my hand, hoping for a scratch.

  Richard hesitated. He looked up the path. “What’s up there?”

  “Nothing. A dead end. A wall of sheer rock on one side and a sharp drop-off on the other.”

  “We’d better get you down before dark. Can you walk, Mrs. MacGillivray?”

  “With Angus’s help, I’m sure I can.”

  Thus, we descended the mountain as long shadows wrapped themselves around us. I leaned on Angus while Richard carried both rifles. Millie was allowed off her lead because no one had a free hand to take her, but she didn’t wander far from our legs.

  “We have a horse waiting for you, Mother,” Angus said.

  “A horse? How lovely.”

  “I suspect you know him,” Richard said. “Small, thin, brown thing.”

  “Soapy?”

  “Soapy?” They chorused.

  We were making surprisingly good time. It was almost as if the mountain wanted to be rid of us. My head most definitely did not feel right, but I leaned on Angus’s arm and said nothing about it. I wanted to get out of the shadow of this strange mountain as fast as possible. It was dark when we reached the plains, but the storm clouds had passed, and the moon was full and it cast enough light for us to walk by. I stopped for a moment and looked back. The mountain was a black shape bathed in white moonlight.

  Had there really been a green valley with trees with broad flat leaves wrapped in vines as fat as my arm? Had the air truly smelled of oranges and lemons? Had the hills glowed with specks of gold?

  Totally ridiculous. A figment of my rattled head, stressed nerves, and empty stomach.

  In the fight with Paul Sheridan, the two stones I carried in my pocket had not been dislodged. I fingered them. No doubt in the light of day they would turn out to be nothing but hunks of worthless rock.

  We came across a couple of packs abandoned at the side of the trail, and Richard announced we would rest here for a few hours.

  I was suddenly ravenous and devoured a tin of cold corned beef with three dry, stale biscuits before Angus could get a fire started. Richard handed me a blanket with a shy smile, and I wrapped it around me. I closed my eyes and knew nothing more until sunlight was warm on my face.

  Angus’s long, lean body was curled around me, and time was set right. He was my child once again. I touched his tousled head. Richard Sterling sat by the embers of the fire, his pipe clenched between his teeth. He turned, although I hadn’t made a sound. “Feeling better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” I coughed and studied my fingers. “I mean, thank you. For coming after me.”

  He concentrated intently on patting down the tobacco in his pipe. “My duty, Ma’am.”

  “Of course.” Nothing more than his duty.

  Angus started and sat up abruptly. His hair was dishevelled and his eyes bleary from sleep. “Ma. I mean, Mother. You’re here. I was afraid I was dreaming.”

  “I’m here,” I said. “And I also am not sure what was a dream and what was not.”

  “Most of our equipment’s a few hours back,” Richard said. “If you don’t mind having a biscuit for breakfast, when we get to the stove I can make up some coffee and oatmeal.”

  “That would be delightful.”

  I watched Angus feed strips of dried fish to Millie. “I must say, Corporal Sterling. I’m surprised you brought my son on this journey.” I smiled. “Although I’m glad you did.”

  “Can you imagine trying to leave him behind,” Richard replied. “We didn’t come alone.”

  That was a somewhat cryptic statement, but rather than explain, he hoisted his pack and set off down the trail.

  After a few hours of walking, Richard began calling out. I smelled smoke, and wonder of wonders, coffee. Someone answered, and we rounded a corner to come across a canvas shelter held down by rocks, a cheerful fire blazing, and young Constable McAllen holding a tin cup toward me in offering.

  I laughed. “This is a most pleasant surprise.” Angus escorted me to a rock by the fire, and McAllen served coffee while Richard poured water for Millie. McAllen was limping badly and I asked what had happened.

  “Just a sprain, Ma’am. Almost better now.”

  Richard handed him Sheridan’s rifle. “This should do as a crutch. It’s not loaded.”

  We relaxed for a long time. Breakfast was hot oatmeal and fresh flatbread McAllen had prepared earlier. The men enjoyed their pipes, and Angus sat very close to me. I put my arm around him and he didn’t pull away.

  “Is Mr. Sheridan dead?” he asked after a long silence.

  “Yes, dear. He attempted to fire a shot at you and Corporal Sterling, warning you to keep away, but he lost his balance and fell over the cliff. It was a long way down, and I could see his broken, lifeless body below. Probably for the better. The poor man wasn’t entirely sane.”

  “It’s kind of you to talk about him that way, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Richard said. “After all, he did kidnap you and put you through much hardship.”

  “Yes, but he wasn’t quite right in the head. This Gold Mountain, I mean the idea of a gold mountain, disturbed the balance of his mind.” As it had disturbed mine. I decided never to think of that again.

  “Strange place,” Richard mumbled.

  “Where’s Soapy, by the way? You promised me a ride.”

  “You mean the horse?” Angus replied. “He’s on the other side of the creek. Wouldn’t cross, so we left him with Mr. Donohue.”

  “Graham Donohue? Good heavens, you mean he came after me as well?”

  “Yeah,” McAllen said. “When we got to that creek he came over all strange. Said he was tired and couldn’t go any further. Odd that.”

  Odd indeed.

  “Can you walk that far, Mother? Then we’ll get you on the horse and you can ride back to Dawson in style.”

  Fortunately, the path to the creek was flat and mossy. I doubted I could walk through the forest in what remained of Sheridan’s socks. They had been amazingly good socks, but there was a tear in the leather of the right
heel that was threatening to expand, and the ball of the left foot was almost worn through. The precious yellow paste I’d been applying to my blisters had been left at the top of the mountain with the rest of Sheridan’s meagre belongings.

  “Mr. McAllen and I will support each other.” I gave the young officer a radiant smile. He blushed to the roots of his hair. I looked back toward the way we had come. It was just a mountain now, standing alone where it rose out of the plains, snowy top sparkling in the light of the sun, but I needed to be as far away from it as possible.

  “Let us be on our way then. I’m simply dying to get this dress off and have a bath.”

  If it were possible, I’d say McAllen coloured even deeper. Richard Sterling sucked in too much smoke.

  We heard them long before we saw them. For a moment, I thought I’d fallen into such a deep sleep they’d carried me all the way back to town. Someone was playing a banjo and a woman was singing in a voice that cracked on every high note. A man laughed and several dogs barked.

  On the other side of the creek, the one that had given Soapy and Paul Sheridan so much trouble, a mini-town had sprung up. There were several tents, a couple of big fires, and groups of people standing about chatting. I smelled roasting meat and fragrant tobacco. Clothes and blankets laid out to dry were tossed over rocks and three donkeys and a horse searched for grasses at the water’s edge.

  “What the...?” Richard said, stopping himself from emitting a profanity at the last moment.

  I realized my mouth was hanging open and snapped it shut. “Corporal Sterling did all these people accompany you?”

  “No,” Angus answered. “We left Mr. Donohue here with your horse.”

  A man dipped a long spoon into a pot hanging over a fire. Several other men stood with him, holding empty bowls in their hands, and he began to dish out soup. They squatted to the ground and dug in. Another group was sitting on blankets spread out around their own fire. A man strummed a banjo, a woman sang off key, and a man drank deeply from a bottle that looked to contain whisky. The woman was Betsy, one of my dancers, the banjo player part of the Savoy orchestra, and I recognized the man as a regular customer at my bar.