Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine

by Caroline Starr Rose

  I near about skip down them stairs to Mr. Smalley’s room. I don’t bother to knock. I’ve earned my space in there, fair and square. The other two misters stir in their bunks.

  “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t barge in like that,” the man in the lower bed growls.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’m your new bunkmate.”

  The man in the bed above rubs his eyes. His mouth stretches in a yawn, gapes big as a fish.

  “Mr. Smalley says I can use his bed when he’s on deck.”

  The man above swings his skinny legs over the side of his bed. They’re so long, it don’t take much for him to reach the floor.

  I plop my bag at my feet. “I’m Jasper.”

  “Mr. Horton,” the long-legged one with the fish face says. He pumps my hand up and down. “That’s Reuben over there.”

  Mr. Reuben is as short as Mr. Horton is tall. He buttons a checkered vest pulled tight across his middle. His eyelids droop like he don’t trust me. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here alone, son?”

  Best stick with the story I told Mr. Smalley. “I’m an orphan boy. I mean to strike it rich, same as anyone.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Mr. Horton says. I like him already.

  I stretch out on Mr. Smalley’s bed. It sags a bit, but it’s a whole lot better than that pile of straw where I spent the last two nights. I shut my eyes, let out a great big sigh.

  “I’m not sure I want to pass the day on the deck again,” I hear Mr. Reuben say. “It’s about as crowded as Seattle’s been.”

  “Bet that was good for business,” Mr. Horton says.

  “I can’t deny that,” Mr. Reuben answers. “Soon as the Portland arrived, people flocked to my shop. They were all after Klondike gear.”

  Maybe Mr. Reuben was the fellow who sold his goods to Melvin. I open one eye to give him a look. He tugs at his checkered vest, but that don’t help it cover the bottom half of his belly. Nope. He ain’t familiar.

  “Sold out of all the tea and beans and bacon I’d thought would take me through December,” he says.

  “I was on the newspaper boat that met the Portland,” Mr. Horton says. “Saw those miners and their gold myself.”

  I sit up, both eyes open now. “You’re a newspaperman?” I ain’t exactly been invited in on this conversation, but the words slip out anyhow.

  “Sure am.” Mr. Horton nods. “The Post-Intelligencer has sent me to write articles about the journey from Seattle to Dawson. Did you know folks already call us Stampeders?” Mr. Horton’s lips quiver like a fish that nibbles a worm. “This is a stampede, all right, straight into parts unknown.”

  “Stampeders,” I say. The name sounds important. And I’m one of them. “Mr. Horton, what’s the gold like?”

  “It can be fine as sand or the size of a pebble stuck in your shoe. Some miners had nuggets in their pockets as big as a robin’s egg. They carried it from the Portland in sacks and trunks and jam jars.”

  Soon I’ll be just like them, my pockets fairly busting with gold. “Did you get to touch it?” I shout in my excitement. “Is it heavy? Does it shine?”

  Mr. Horton grins. “You’ve got gold fever, all right.”

  “I need it bad,” I say. Me and Mel both do. With gold we’ll be able to eat anytime we’re hungry. We won’t be separated ever again.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to stick around when I heard Mayor Wood had up and quit,” Mr. Reuben says. “If the mayor of Seattle can get in the gold business, then by golly, I can, too. Put my oldest in charge, kissed the wife, and told her and the kiddies not to expect me to return till next year.”

  Sounds like Mr. Reuben’s got gold fever, too. And even though Mr. Horton says he’s going to the Klondike for the stories, I caught that look on his face when he talked of all that gold. The hunt for riches, that’s what he’s about. Except for Mr. and Mrs. Yellow Dress and their Skagway restaurant, everyone on this boat is here for one reason only. To get rich fast as they can.

  “You think you’ll get much gold, Mr. Reuben?” I ask.

  He waves a hand, dismissing me. “I won’t prospect. I’ll run some kind of business. Whatever sort is necessary. Those miners will have nothing but gold and time on their hands. I’ll find a way to help them ease their loads.”

  Relieve them of their gold, he means. I know a schemer when I see one, mainly from being one myself. A body can’t never be sure what’s gonna happen next, so it’s always best to be a step ahead of everyone else.

  There’s no chance I’ll fall asleep, not with how my mind whirls with gold talk and my belly rumbles. “Anybody here want their socks freshened?” The room stinks of sour feet. Maybe I could make a bit of money and buy myself some breakfast.

  Mr. Reuben, who pulls a comb through his wavy hair, stops quick. “You a washer boy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Think you can take care of this?” He unbuttons his vest and shows me a rusty gravy stain.

  “Sure can.” There’s no reason for them to know Mr. Smalley’s laundry is part of my bunk-sharing deal. “Just five cents an item,” I say, because my mind’s worked on a few things. There ain’t many women here, and since Mama taught me to scrub like a regular girl, maybe I can make some money with a laundry service.

  Mr. Horton hands over his socks. I grab our slop bucket, Mama’s washboard, and Mr. Reuben’s checkered vest, whistling as I climb the stairs to the deck above.

  The slop bucket needs to be dumped and rinsed a few times before I can fill it for washing. Though the deck’s right full of folks strolling about, there ain’t one fellow wearing Mel’s brown jacket with the blue elbow patch. I’m able to find a spot to work over near the railing. I sit on my heels, the slop bucket between my knees, and push the clothes beneath the water, till they soak clean through. Then I scrub them over the washboard’s bumpy metal middle and dunk them again. I scrub and dunk and dump the dirty water over and over, washing the daylights out of them things.

  Even though the water sloshes as the steamer sways, the rhythm’s as familiar as the morning Mama first taught me. Mel was in school. It was just the two of us at home. Maybe she got tired of all them questions I asked about what she was doing and how long it would take. She held her soft hands over mine and placed them on the scrub board as she hummed “Through the Long Days,” a sappy song about love, but in Mama’s voice it was kinda nice. Now anytime I wash up, I feel her near.

  On account of me forgetting soap, them clothes smell like a cross between wet sheep and fish guts, but they’re passable for now.

  The vest drapes nice over the bench I sat on yesterday. The socks, if I let them go, could take flight in a gust of wind and sail off with them seagulls that have been following us since we left port, so I flap them around as long as it takes to shake off their wetness. Once the clothes quit dripping, I take them to the misters, who hang them over the bunk rails. They’re so pleased, they pay up quick.

  That’s how, an hour later, I spread out on that same bench and eat a buttered bun with seven cents to spare. I take the smallest bites I can, chew that bread to nothing, but even so, it don’t last long as I’d like.

  A bell rings out from near the smokestack. Folks gather around the black chimney that towers overhead as though they’re waiting for something, and the crowd only grows bigger when the bell rings again. I walk over to better see what’s happening. In the middle of all them people a man in a blue cap pulls a bell rope. He’s a member of the crew.

  “What’s going on?” I ask a lady with a lacy shawl.

  “The first mate has news from the captain,” she says.

  A man looks at his timepiece. “When will you tell us why you’ve called us here?”

  “In a minute,” the first mate answers, “once I get the attention of as many people as I can.” He rings the bell a third time, then faces the crowd.

&
nbsp; All talk stops.

  “Earlier today the captain learned we have a stowaway on board.” The first mate holds a scrap of flannel and a long gray sock high overhead.

  My cheeks burn hot. This ain’t news I want to hear.

  “The stable hand found these as he mucked out the cargo hold.”

  I feel for Pa’s watch. It’s in my pocket where I left it, but sure enough, the flannel wrap is gone. My ankles feel real fresh and airy in the ocean breeze. I don’t dare check to see if other folks have noticed I ain’t wearing socks. Oh, why didn’t I remember to put on another pair? Slowly I back away, scan the crowd for Melvin and Mr. Smalley. Much as I want to see my brother, this would be a rotten time for it to happen, when any second I could be called out as a stowaway. Soon as the mister hears a fellow snuck onto the Queen for free, and no one’s supposed to be down there with them horses, he’ll know I’m the one.

  “If any of you have any information, you are to report to the wheelhouse immediately.”

  What happens to a stowaway, I ain’t sure. Maybe he’s gotta pay for passage on the spot or mop up after passengers who feel poorly.

  Or it could be he’s thrown overboard.

  Whatever it is, I ain’t gonna be caught.

  Soon as I can, I pull on another pair of socks, then creep downstairs to hide out in the bunk. I try to rest, but every footstep in the hallway makes me start. What if Mr. Smalley heard what the first mate said, and he’s just waiting for me to come here so he can corner me? What if the other misters want a nap themselves and, when they see me, ask a flood of questions about exactly how an orphan boy got money for a ticket? I ain’t interested in facing that.

  Once I’m sure the hallway’s empty, I grab my things and follow the stairs to the cargo hold. What kind of a stowaway would be fool enough to return to where he was found out? But I got nowhere else to go. This time I cross to the side with the lumber and roof shingles. The floor’s a whole lot cleaner, but it ain’t cushioned with straw. The lumber still smells of sap, but the scent ain’t strong enough to cover up the horse stink.

  I sit on my knapsack behind a stack of wooden planks. I ain’t ever been away from my family like these days on the Queen, and I miss Melvin something fierce. Lately we ain’t seen each other much, but even so I always fell sleep knowing he’d whisper good night once he got home, and in the morning he’d leave me the last hunk of bread in our secret stash if there weren’t any left in the cupboard. I’d put up with his nighttime whistle just to have him near. Oh, Mel. When am I gonna see you again?

  • • •

  It’s hunger that wakes me. I ain’t sure how much time has passed, though I think I’ve been in the hold a good long while, as when I check Pa’s watch in the hallway it says it’s after eight o’clock, but I ain’t sure if that means morning or night. Oh, my belly’s hollowed out, but seven cents is all I got. I climb the stairs, and it ain’t until I reach the deck I see it’s morning after all. The bread man stands near my regular bench and calls out his price. I wait till he’s distracted by a customer, and swipe a buttered bun. It ain’t right, what I done. Even Pa would disapprove. So I set the seven cents on the edge of the bench and hope he sees it.

  I circle the deck for an hour, question folks about a skinny sixteen-year-old with sandy hair, but no one remembers Mel. There are eight fellows who kind of look like him but ain’t. Maybe Mel’s been seasick and ain’t left his cabin. Or maybe he changed his mind about the Klondike before we left Seattle and I’m out here all by myself. My heart’s as hollow as my belly was.

  Smoke from the engines trails overhead, spitting soot and grime so thick, it sets me to coughing. Ash settles on my sleeves and leaves ugly smudges. Everyone’s covered in a fine black powder, which makes me think of laundry when I aim to focus on Mel.

  The truth is, I ain’t thought too much beyond the seeing-Melvin part. Because once Mel knows I’m here, he’ll move right into the scolding part of things. My brother likes to remind me how the five years he’s got on me makes him right on near about everything. I know he’ll think following him is the wrongest thing I’ve ever done.

  I ain’t the only one with clothes covered in ash. Looking around, it seems a whole bunch of folks could use some freshening up, and I could use some money. So maybe I should forget Mel for now and do some laundry.

  A gentleman whose room opens to the deck lets me use his slop bucket in exchange for some washing. I kneel down near the front of the Queen and get to work. By the time I’ve finished with his trousers, a crowd has formed.

  “What do you charge?” a fellow asks.

  I think fast.

  “Nine cents a piece.” The new price is steep, but with the soot and grime, so’s the need. I hope my voice sounds sure and strong. Even so, I tug my cap. Could be someone saw me sneak on the ship. I don’t want no one to recognize me as the stowaway.

  “You got it.” He hands over his jacket.

  A lady offers me some soap if I scrub her handkerchief, and suddenly, it’s all I can do to keep up with demand. And my, how the dirt collects in the slop bucket. Folks wait for me to wash and rinse, then hold their wet laundry. Talk turns to the gold we all hope to find once we reach the Klondike.

  “What’ve you heard?” one fellow asks another.

  “Gold up there, it grows on trees.”

  I stop my work, sit back on my heels. “On trees?” I never would have thought it.

  “Sure does. Must be a special variety.”

  “I heard it sprouts wild in fields,” another man says. “Ain’t that what we’re heading for? Goldfields? I bet it grows as bounteous as corn or wheat.”

  “You don’t have to work none to get it, either. Just grab as much as you can carry, whenever you like.”

  “I heard the nuggets are so plentiful, you could stub your toes on ’em,” a fellow adds. “You can sit down in the middle of the road and shove ’em into your pockets is what my bunkmates told me.”

  “And the best thing is we’ll find gold the day after tomorrow,” the first man says, his thumbs hooked on his suspenders.

  “The day after tomorrow?” That’s when we’ll get to Skagway, not them goldfields. “We’re still months from the Klondike.”

  “Months?” He pulls his thumbs loose and his suspenders snap. “That ain’t what they told me in Seattle! Just get on a steamer to Skagway, they said, and you’ll see gold straightaway.”

  “There ain’t gold in Skagway,” I tell him.

  “That’s right.” The man who says it is thick and round as a pickle barrel. “We’ve got to go on to Dawson for that.”

  Oh, that man with the suspenders ain’t happy. He storms off saying words that would have made Miss Stapleton want to swat him with a ruler if he weren’t a grown man.

  Mr. Horton joins the circle of folks, a pair of trousers folded over his arm. “You can’t believe all you hear,” he says, “but I’ve learned some things that are the honest truth.” He hands me some washing, and I can’t hardly look him in the eye.

  What if he reckons I’m the stowaway?

  “When the Portland docked, I learned the first gold found last summer came from a creek called Bonanza. It was a nugget big around as a man’s thumb. I met a miner named Berry who’d worked a claim with his wife. Together they struck it rich. Mrs. Berry left the Portland with a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of gold wrapped in her bedroll.”

  I don’t remember how many zeros a body’s got to write to reach a hundred thousand dollars, and this Mrs. Berry had that much gold stashed in her blanket alone. What about her husband? Surely he carried some, too.

  “There may be large amounts of gold up there, but you just can’t take any you see,” says a fellow in a fine gray suit who holds a walking stick. It ain’t like he’s old and needs it, either. “First you have to stake a claim. The old-timers say if gold’s nearby, the willow trees will
lean a certain way. The river valley you stake can’t be too wide. It can’t be too far upriver.”

  That Mr. Horton, he says not to believe everything, but he sure is listening careful-like.

  The man with the cane keeps talking. “The sourdoughs—that’s what folks call the old-time prospectors—they say the rivers with gold even have an unusual taste.”

  Special trees. Narrow valleys. Old-time sourdoughs who find gold by wetting their whistles. True or not, I hang on to every word I hear because here’s the thing: the more I learn, the better chance me and Mel got to find some gold.

  When I shake out Mr. Horton’s sopping drawers, the legs are even longer than they were before. “Nine cents,” I say, though last time he paid me five.

  Mr. Horton don’t hesitate. He offers me a shiny dime. “Keep the penny. A few months from now we’ll all be rich.”

  I knew it. It ain’t only stories Mr. Horton’s after. He’s been hooked like a fish dangling from a line. Mr. Horton wants gold bad as anyone.

  “It’s easy to be tricked by fool’s gold, you know,” says a man with a stovepipe hat. “One’s smooth to the touch and the other’s gritty. ’Course, I can’t remember which is which.”

  That man in the fine gray suit thumps the deck with his cane. “There’s so much gold talk flying about, it’s hard to separate truth from rumor.”

  “Well, I heard some information of an important sort.” The pickle barrel fellow holds up a finger. Just like that, he’s got everyone’s attention. “There’s a Klondike claim worth millions, free for the taking. The old prospector who worked it says he’s through. He’s got no need for more riches.”

  “Are you talking about the crazy old coot who’s given up his claim?” a fellow asks.

  Pickle Barrel waves his finger through the air. “One and the same. The claim is free, but a fellow has to find it first.”

  The man with the walking stick leans in. “And how does someone do that?”