Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  Mel gets his ticket awful quick, faster than I’ve been able to cook up a plan as to how I’ll get my own. My brother lifts the first part of his gear onto that little sled he’s held since he bought his Klondike outfit. I think on last winter, when me and Cyril lugged a sled up the ridge behind the wool mill. We called out to Mel, but he brushed us off, too old and important for one quick ride. Now Melvin, so set on being a man, pulls a sled of his own.

  My hands get sweaty. Pa’s watch is slick in my fist, as trip by trip Mel moves his entire Klondike outfit on board. I wipe the tiny clock clean with the flannel wrap. It sure is fine, with them twirly lines carved into its cover. There are three hands inside, with one that keeps time down to the second. I can’t part with it just yet, not until Mel sees, till he knows he left it and I’m the one who remembered, the one who thought to bring it along.

  My brother loads the last of his mining outfit on his sled, heads to the Queen one final time. I press close to a fellow about to board and hope I might slip past the man collecting tickets. But it don’t work. The ticket man’s hand shoots out. “Where you think you’re going, son?”

  “On the Queen.” I point to the steamer to jog his memory.

  The ticket man’s cap sits low on his forehead. I can’t hardly see his eyes. “Show me your ticket.”

  That sets my heart to beating fast. I empty out my pockets, pretend to check the ground. “I don’t know what happened. It was right here a moment ago.”

  “No ticket, no ride.” He pushes me aside.

  “Maybe my brother’s got it,” I say. “He’s already on board. Just paid for passage.” And ain’t it the truth?

  But the ticket man don’t care. Already he’s helping the next person in line.

  “Wait.” I elbow my way back in. “I lost my ticket. But there’s this.” I hold out Pa’s watch. It’s the last idea I got.

  Now I see his eyes, clear as green glass. “You trying to bribe me to get on board? Get outta here, kid.”

  I wasn’t really gonna trade Pa’s watch. I just meant for the ticket man to have a little peek. Surely a boy with such a fine timepiece can be trusted when he says his ticket’s gone.

  But if the ticket man wanted the watch for himself, well, I would have worked with him.

  I’ve gotta get on board. I just gotta.

  What I’m gonna do, I don’t know, Mel on the Queen and me on the dock. I walk through the crowd to the building where Mel bought his ticket, drop my bag, and sit on top. Mama’s washboard juts to one side, a reminder of home when I’m so far away. Guess one choice I have is to go on back. I’ve been quick enough to keep out of Melvin’s sights. He’d never know his little brother followed him to Seattle.

  But the ferry ain’t anywhere nearby. Even if I could find where it’s docked, I’d have to persuade the ticket man to let me board. I don’t got no money, but maybe he’d let me on the ferry if I promised to pay him later. It might take me a while to earn fifty cents more, but I’d be good for it.

  But what if Pa’s already found my note? There ain’t no way he’d welcome me back after reading that. He don’t usually come home in the afternoon, but he also don’t hold to any sort of schedule. What was that the man at the ferry said, only one boat to Seattle and back each day? So even if Pa ain’t seen my note yet, he’d find it for sure before I made it there.

  The more I think of it, the more I’m downright certain there ain’t nothing left for me at home. I can’t abide that sorry place, not without my brother’s company. But it ain’t just that. I can’t imagine that house without my brother bringing me an apple someone at the mill gave him or pushing me to finish my lessons, much as I hate it. And I won’t let go of our plan to escape together, even if Mel’s gone and ruined everything.

  Someday soon my life won’t hang on finding money for a steamer ticket. When me and Mel get some Klondike gold, we’ll have just what we need.

  The crowd of people at the wharf ain’t let up, an ocean of men in blue and gray and brown. But then I catch a bit of brightness fluttering in the crowd. A lady’s dress, a yellow one, like Mama used to wear. She walks arm in arm with her husband while seven kids trail behind. Seeing them, it gets me on my feet. If this family has booked passage for the Queen, they might be my ticket on board.

  Sure enough, the family moves in line. It’s easy to hover on the edges, and when they near the ticket man, I shadow the tallest kid. A girl. Her lips get pinched when she eyes me, like she ain’t fond of what she sees, but she forgets when one of her brothers pulls her hair.

  “Good afternoon,” the ticket man says, friendly-like. “Taking the whole family to hunt for gold?” He laughs like he’s told a joke.

  “We’ll stop in Skagway. I’m opening a restaurant,” the mister says. “My wife here makes the best pies in Seattle. And we’ve got plenty of hands to make light work.” He waves toward his kids. I duck my head.

  The ticket man nods as the missus shoos her brood on board. She pauses for a moment to unwind Miss Prissy Lips’s braid from her brother’s fist. That’s when I shoot on past the rest of them, up the gangplank, and straight onto the deck. I don’t stop till I’m at the front of the steamer. I made it. I could reach down beneath the railing and touch them big letters that spell out Queen. Even though it’s tethered with ropes, the ship still rocks a bit. But I’m steady on my feet. After that ride on the ferry, I know how boating works.

  This has been some day, and I’m right hungry. Thankfully, I still have the hunk of bread I brought from home. It’s hard as tree bark and about as tasty, but it fills me up. Wherever Mel is, I ain’t seen him on this part of the deck, and I’m grateful for that, since as long as the Queen’s still docked, he could use that clever head of his to find a way to send me back.

  I stand at the railing, shake the last few bread crumbs overboard, which swirl as they drop. Seagulls scream and snatch them, as pushy as the folks I’ve spent the day with.

  It feels good to settle on top of my bag, lean against the railing, far enough from others that I ain’t underfoot. From what I heard on the ferry and here in town, we’ll be on the Queen almost a week before we reach a place called Skagway, Alaska. The Klondike’s north of there. By then, Mel will know I’ve come along. We’ll walk the next leg of the journey—or a fellow could ride something called a Klondike bicycle, if he thought to buy one.

  Once we reach some lakes, we’ll have to build a boat, then sail beyond them down the Yukon River till we arrive in a place called Dawson City, where the Yukon and Klondike Rivers meet.The newspaper said Dawson’s a city that’s just one year old, as brand-spanking-new as the gold found last summer, where them miners spend their time when they’re not on their claims. Dawson’s gonna grow quick, now the whole world’s rushing up there, set to try to find some gold.

  All around, folks gather in bunches and talk about their plans. If they ain’t known each other before, they’re right friendly now.

  “Just a little camping and some paddling down a river,” one man says to another. “It won’t be so hard to reach that Klondike town.”

  “Anybody can get there,” his new friend answers, “without much effort at all.”

  I’m glad to hear that, but truth be told, I’m kind of lonely for old Melvin.

  Sometimes in the evening we’d sit on the porch steps and listen to the frogs sing to the early moon. Of course the last few weeks that ain’t happened any. Mel’s avoided Pa, and he’s sure steered clear of me. What’s running through his head right now, I’d like to know. Does he regret leaving me behind? Or is Mel so focused on himself, he ain’t spared me a single thought?

  The sun’s finally ready to take its leave as day rolls into night. Those onshore don’t budge, just keep up with their shouts, “Hurrah for the Klondike!” They don’t need to make plans on where to spend the night, with their homes to return to. But I do.

  I squeeze through them
that stand near the rooms along the outside deck. Open doors mean space to sleep, I reckon, but the first room I enter, five men are fighting over three beds. In the second I spy the yellow-dressed lady and all them kids that got me on board. Three little ones squabble about a rag doll, and when I back away, Miss Prissy Lips sets her glare on me.

  “There’s that boy I told you about, Ma.” Her finger shakes, like I’m a dangerous sort. “The one that snuck on board!”

  Her ma’s too distracted with them little ones to pay me any mind. I shut the door behind me, but not before I give Miss Prissy Lips a little bow. Farther down all doors are closed. I take a set of stairs to the level below, where lamps cast ghostly shadows down a hallway. The crowd has thinned considerable, but maybe that’s because most doors down here are shut, the beds probably taken. Rooms farther from the stairs stand a better chance of holding empty beds, so I walk to the very last one and knock bold as I can.

  The gentleman who answers has got a mustache that fits neat over his upper lip like a little rug. The story comes to me quick. “I’m a poor orphan boy. Had to spend my last penny to get on board.” Blinking makes my eyes tear up. I take off my glasses so the gent can get a good look at them. “Any way you could spare some space? I ain’t particular.”

  Behind him, two other fellows bustle about. If they caught my sad tale, they act like they ain’t heard a thing.

  “Well,” the gentleman says. His hands hang strange at his sides, like he ain’t quite sure what to do with them or what to make of me.

  “What are you called, sir?” It’s something I learned from Miss Stapleton. She got down every kid’s name quick as she could. When someone uses your name, you can’t help but listen.

  “Smalley.” He still stands there funny-like.

  “Mr. Smalley, I’d be grateful if you’d let me stay.” Two tears spill from my eyes right then, which makes the whole act pretty convincing.

  Mr. Smalley sure appears to be kindly, but my story don’t tug at his heart any. “This room’s full. You’ll have to find a bunk elsewhere.”

  I ain’t gonna find a bunk elsewhere, not if a family with all them kids has to squeeze in one room. Them men on the dock must have sold more tickets than there are beds. Some folks will have to sleep on the floor or even in those chairs on the deck. But I got another idea. I go down one more set of stairs to the cargo hold, deep in the ship’s belly, till I swear I’m as far down as the ocean fish that glide past the Queen’s undersides. There’s a sign at the bottom of the stairs that says NO PASSENGERS ALLOWED, but I slip inside the door, anyhow. On the left are stacks of lumber and roof shingles. On the right, rows and rows of horses are packed in together. There’s gotta be at least a hundred of them. The engine’s somewhere toward the back. It stinks to high heaven down here, what with all them creatures, and the air is still and hot. I pick the side with the horses since at least it’s got some hay to settle on.

  I don’t mind saying I’m a little low. This ain’t exactly what I imagined when I started out. But it’s just one night, I tell myself. Once the Queen’s left port, I’ll find Melvin. After I put him on the spot, make him answer for the way he up and left, and show him the watch he forgot, he’ll invite me to share his bunk. He’ll have to.

  The horse next to me flicks his tail. I know exactly what he means. This place ain’t much, cramped like it is and awful dark, but at least it’s secure. It’ll have to do for now. I shut my eyes, take a deep breath—thick and hot and a whole lot like a barnyard. The horses keep on with their regular noises, with a couple snorts saved up for special times, like when they’re crammed tight in the belly of a steamer. Even so, they’ll be easier to sleep near than Pa. Mel, too, come to think of it, with his funny nighttime whistling.

  I pull out Pa’s watch, unwrap the flannel cover, and though I can’t see it, its ticking is familiar. I aim to give the watch the best care I can. I’ll wind and polish it, make sure it stays as perfect as it was when Mama first showed it to me.

  Mama. My throat clenches tight. It’s been a long two years without her, but now that I’ve left home, missing her has come back extra strong. I wonder what she’d think of her boys heading to the Klondike. “I got Pa’s watch,” I say into the darkness. “We’ll use it if we need to.”

  The guts of the Queen moan something terrible, like the ship’s come to life. The walls shudder and the horses complain as the boat roars loud enough to rival them that surely cheer out on the shore.

  This is it. The steamer’s under way. I can’t help but slap that nearby horse like we’re old friends. I’m through with Miss Stapleton and her chiding and my temperamental pa. Me and Mel, we’re headed for something better in the Klondike.

  Chapter 3

  The door crashes open and with it comes a shining light. I burrow in a pile of straw that ain’t too stinky yet. “Breakfast,” a scratchy voice announces, and I imagine eggs and bacon fixed up nice, not the feed and water that’s poured into the troughs. What if the man spots me, the kid-sized lump buried underneath the straw? I shut my eyes and hardly breathe, hope he won’t notice, and that he don’t stick around to clean. Pa’s watch ticks off the minutes that pass, slow as lessons on a sunny afternoon. Finally, the door slides shut. I count out one minute more before I grab my bag and go.

  My eyes ache as I pass beneath the lamps brightening the hallway. The Queen rolls and pitches, and I bump from one side of the hall to the other. My feet don’t behave right, like I learned to walk only yesterday. The rocking grows even stronger as I climb the stairs to the deck above.

  I stumble as though I’m wearing skates on a frozen pond, thump against the Queen’s railing, and gotta grab on tight. Below, green water foams and breaks and stretches wide in all directions, farther than I ever imagined the ocean could go. Mountains run forever to the east and west.

  This ain’t nothing like the ferry ride from Kirkland to Seattle. Even though we crossed the middle of Lake Washington, the boat never felt too far from shore.

  I fight against the blasting air, the lunging motion of the steamer just to stand up straight. Folks who got their sea legs stroll the deck; men with their hands clamped on their hats, some ladies with their skirts held tight at their sides, and even a couple young ones who laugh and dart about. So Mrs. Yellow Dress ain’t the only lady here. There are other kids besides Miss Prissy Lips and her clan. That gets my shoulders to relax some. I won’t stick out as much as I feared.

  At least a couple hundred people are on this ship, but I ain’t seen no sign of my brother anywhere. Mel’s here. I know he is. I saw him board the Queen with my own two eyes. But knowing it don’t bring him any closer. If I could catch a glimpse of him, I’d feel a lot less lonely.

  A man walks the deck with a tray before him, and my stomach growls when I catch a whiff of bread. “Ten cents for buttered buns!” he shouts. “Come and get your breakfast!”

  Ten cents. That’s three more than what I got. There ain’t nothing to do but sit on a bench near the railing, imagine the gnawing in my belly ain’t hunger but a stomachache from a breakfast so big, I weren’t able to finish. I watch the never-ending row of mountains, the waves that race across the ocean, the folks parading past, happy and content to be together.

  I feel like the only one who’s on this ship alone. For a time I circle the deck and keep in step with them ahead of me just to hear them talk, to pretend I belong. But two fellows eye me suspicious-like, and a lady with a frilly bonnet tells me outright to find somewhere else to go. So I return to that bench and sit there until the sun begins to set and folks turn in.

  No food. No Mel. I got nothing but a sunburned face, a starving belly, and a whole lot of lonesomeness as I travel them stairs to them horses in the cargo hold.

  On the second morning, no amount of wandering brings me to Melvin, but I do spy that gentleman Mr. Smalley toward the back of the ship. He sits tucked along the Queen’s side, out of the sun an
d wind, a blanket in his lap. He’s got a pipe clenched between his mustache and his bottom lip. I touch my head, hope a few scraggly pieces of straw still dangle from my hair, then set myself before him and blink real sorrowful-like.

  “Mr. Smalley?”

  He studies me, surprised I know his name. “You’re that stray,” he finally says.

  “Yes, sir.” I’m glad he remembers my poor orphan state. “I had to stay with them horses in the cargo hold last night”—I try to make my voice wobble a little—“since I don’t got a soul in the world.”

  “Well.” He holds his pipe and clears his throat. Mr. Smalley’s softening up some, I can see it.

  “I ain’t hardly had any sleep. Down there the engines hiss and clang, and them horses get real scared, it’s a wonder I ain’t been kicked. Last night it was so hot, I stripped down to my underdrawers, and now I can’t find my socks anywhere.”

  Mr. Smalley observes my naked ankles. He don’t need to know I’ve got three other pairs.

  “I wondered if you might reconsider sparing me some space. Maybe I could take your bunk when you ain’t got use for it.”

  “Well,” he says a second time. I’m beginning to wonder if Mr. Smalley knows many words at all.

  That’s when I notice his shirt’s soiled around the collar and dirt’s settled in his sleeve cuffs. I can’t help but smile, because I’ve remembered Mama’s washboard strapped to my pack. I swing my bag around so he can see it. “If you let me share, I’ll wash up your shirt for free.”

  Mr. Smalley runs his fingers over his grimy sleeve like he’s just seen it for the first time. “Well.” There’s that word of his again. “No harm in you using my bunk when I’m awake,” he says. “Better get a move on, then. I’ll leave this shirt with you when I return.”