“I ain’t never seen anything like it.” But pretty don’t make the going easy. The climb gets tougher, and oh, my legs throb. My clothes are soaked clean through.
The sun moves out from behind the clouds, and with it comes the heat. Around the next bend in the river is a little canyon with a mishmash of rocks, shiny and black and sorely out of place. I wait till Melvin catches up. “I need a rest.” We ain’t stopped since we left Dyea around six o’clock. Now it’s almost three. I’m also curious about them shiny rocks.
Mel finds a shady spot and sits on his sled. “Ten minutes,” he says, “and then we’re moving on.”
“I’ll be right back.” I leave the trail and walk a stretch along the riverside. Them rocks I saw ain’t rocks at all, but a mound of rubber boots dumped by someone who don’t want them no more. I grab two pairs and turn around.
My pair fits fine over my river-soaked shoes. Mel sticks his in his pack. “I’m gonna get a couple more sets.”
Mel’s mouth quirks up on one side. “What for?”
“Maybe I could sell them. You never know when they’ll come in handy.”
This time through the canyon’s quick. I dig in that pile of boots to find two matching sets.
Voices echo off the steep rock walls, a tangled mix of sounds that’s faint but grows louder.
I peek from behind the mound. On the other side of the river comes a man who drags another by the arm. Though it’s August, the first man wears a long fur coat clear down to his shoes. He’s as big and hairy as a grizzly bear. A horseshoe mustache dangles past his chin. His face is flush and shines with sweat.
“You’ll pay up, all right, taking my supplies like that,” he says to the man he pulls along.
The smaller man stumbles like he can’t keep up, like if Grizzly let go, he’d fall over. He holds his derby to his head. “I gave back the bacon I took. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t bring in the law.”
Grizzly jerks the man in the derby off the ground, holds him so close, the fellow has to lift his chin to meet Grizzly’s eyes. That derby hat of his slips off, and underneath he’s got a shiny bald head. He’s maybe a little older than Mel, but he don’t got any hair at all.
“What’s in it for me if I don’t turn you in, you no-good thief?”
Baldy scrambles to get loose, but Grizzly’s got a mighty grip. “I said, why shouldn’t I turn you in?”
“I know. A couple things. That could be. Useful,” Baldy chokes out. He twists his neck to catch his breath.
I drop to the ground so he don’t see me, but I ain’t quick enough.
“Who’s that kid over there?” Baldy says.
Grizzly’s face takes on a thunderous look. “What do you think you’re doing, kid?” He drops Baldy fast and strides through the water, straight toward me. My heart pounds with everything it’s got. I ain’t gonna let him scoop me up like he’s done to Baldy. I snake my arm out till I reach them boots, push off the ground, and run faster than I ever have before.
“You’d better watch it if you know what’s good for you!” Them last words of Grizzly’s ring through the canyon. I only stop once I find Mel.
Mel eyes me curiously. “Why’d you run over here like that?”
“There was a big grizzly and—”
Mel’s on his feet. “A grizzly bear?”
“Well, no, not a bear.” I breathe deep to settle my racing heart. “A man in a long fur coat and just as big as one. He had another fellow by the arm. He hollered when he saw me, would have nabbed me, too, if I didn’t take off running.”
Mel’s eyebrows pinch together, same as they did back home when Pa would shout. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought you here.”
I lash them boots to Mama’s scrub board and swing it over my shoulder. “I got here all by myself, remember?”
“There’s all sorts of men going to the Klondike. A lot of fine ones, sure, but there’s got to be others that aren’t up to any good.”
Oh, I’m certain of that.
“If ever you see that man again, promise you’ll be careful. And, Jasper?”
I meet Mel’s eyes, which go serious.
“Promise me you’ll watch what you say.”
Old Mel still thinks I can’t control my tongue? Well, I’ve gotten good at that. I open my mouth to fuss at him, then close it right on back. Maybe that ain’t the best choice right now.
So I nod my head.
“Good,” Mel says. “Let’s go.”
• • •
We’ve walked all morning and most of the afternoon. The trail twists away from the river, climbs ever higher, then dips low through a valley, and then we’re here, at Canyon City, a camp eight miles from Dyea, where Mr. Shaw, with his whole outfit, will arrive a few days from now. It’s got a fancy name, but Canyon City is just a clearing where folks set up tents beneath the trees. I’d love to get these boots off, rinse out my gritty socks.
While Mel asks questions of a couple men as they set up a tent, I spy that Grizzly fellow and a crowd of Tlingit packers carrying all his gear. He ain’t loaded down with one thing except that enormous coat he wears. Must be some way to travel. He talks with big gestures and a booming voice, like everyone’s real interested in what he’s got to say.
I move behind a clump of trees. There ain’t no way I want to catch Grizzly’s eye.
“The next stop’s Sheep Camp,” Mel says when he finds me. “It’s five miles farther on. Think you can make it?”
It’s so good to sit here in the shade. “Can you?” I ask.
He nods. “If we push hard, maybe tomorrow we’ll reach the Chilkoot Pass.”
Mel means the part of the trail that goes right up the mountain, the one with snow on top, where folks who carry gear, according to Mr. Shaw, sometimes take four months to cross over into Canada.
How will we manage without food and proper shelter? The truth is I ain’t sure. I think of them Mounties Mr. Shaw talked about, how they don’t want to deal with the bodies of men who don’t got enough gear. We gotta be quick, otherwise we could end up just like that.
“Let’s keep moving, then,” I say, “so tomorrow we can climb the pass.”
• • •
Though it’s almost nine o’clock when we reach the waterfall right outside of Sheep Camp, a little sunlight lingers. Tents in the camp are packed so tight, there ain’t no space between, and in the only open spot, folks gather around a rickety foldout table where someone sells whiskey.
“Climbing’s thirsty work. Hit me up again,” one man shouts.
“Arizona Charlie Meadows,” another slurs, “you got the best whiskey in all of Alaska.”
Without a word, me and Melvin move away. We know that sort of talk. It starts off light, but it don’t take long to turn mean and ugly.
Besides the tents, Sheep Camp has a hotel called Palmer House, which ain’t nothing but a squatty, rough-board building. It sure ain’t much to look at, but it’s the only thing here made of wood or stone, the best option we got.
“We’re gonna stay at the Palmer.” I gotta get these boots off and my wet shoes underneath.
“And how will we manage that?”
“I’ll use my last few coins,” I say, “and if that ain’t enough, I’ll offer to do some laundry.”
Mel don’t argue, he just takes a seat in front of the Palmer House. Guess he’s as tired as I am.
I stick my head inside. The Palmer don’t got any windows. A curtain makes an extra wall so the Palmer family can have some privacy. Tobacco smoke hangs thick over the dinner table. The room buzzes with conversation. And, boy, a crowd’s still eating at this hour.
“Excuse me.” I step inside and wave to a woman who rushes about. “I’m looking for Mr. Palmer.”
She uses the edge of her apron to wipe her hands. “What do you want with my husband?”
The missus. Even better. “Mrs. Palmer, how about I wash your bed and table linens?”
She smiles at me. “What’s it you’re after, young man?”
“Some supper. A place for me and my brother to stay the night. I got a little money. I’d pay for the rest by washing up.”
At the table behind us, two fellows begin to argue.
Mrs. Palmer dips forward so I can hear. “We don’t have table or bed linens. Or even beds, for that matter. Folks sleep on the floor. This place holds forty if they squeeze in close enough.” She wipes her hands again. That apron of hers ain’t got a clean spot anywhere.
“How about I wash your apron and the dishrags in the kitchen, then?”
“Now, that I’d be grateful for.” Mrs. Palmer don’t resemble Mama, but even so, I find I think on her, how she’d stay calm no matter what kind of fuss was kicked up, how her smile could soften even Pa.
Mrs. Palmer lends me a washtub, which after the buckets I’ve used is a treat. I carry it outside and fill the tub with water from the stream. Melvin sits on a stump to keep me company. My sleeves are pushed up high, and still the suds climb to the cuffs of my shirt. There ain’t much light to work by, but I trust them rags are cleaner than they was before. With Mel’s help, I string them up to dry.
The missus is real pleased. “You boys come get some supper,” she says when I return her washtub and hand over them last coins in my pocket. She leads us straight to the table. The crowd has cleared out some, but a couple folks still eat. I take the empty seat near a lawyer in a dark suit who plans to live in Dawson City. Mel sits between a farmer from South Dakota with a head of hair bright as a pumpkin and an English nobleman called Lord Avonmore. The lord’s brought a whole pile of servants to haul champagne clear to Dawson. Seventy-five cases of it.
“The lord also has one hundred pounds of toilet paper, whatever that is,” the farmer tells me.
Lord Avonmore’s got tiny, close-set eyes and a long sloping nose. He looks down that nose of his and sniffs. “It’s certainly not a topic to discuss at table.”
That’s how he says it: “at table.” Wonder what Miss Stapleton would say if she could hear him, this fancy fellow who skips words like that. Maybe he don’t know it ain’t a proper way to talk.
“I bet them servants and all that gear must have cost a pretty penny,” the farmer whispers. It ain’t easy to catch all his words in this noisy place. But the lawyer don’t miss a thing he’s said.
“You mean a pretty sovereign.” He breaks apart the piece of bread Mrs. Palmer hands him. “Isn’t that what they call money in your country, Avonmore?”
Lord Avonmore sniffs again. I guess money ain’t a topic to discuss at table, neither.
The curtain behind us shivers as someone bumps it from the Palmer family’s side. Forty people crammed in this part of the building, with just a sheet to separate us from the Palmers’ home. It’s gotta be a tricky way to live. That Klondike gold sure has made folks do some crazy things.
Mel don’t talk, just shovels food into his mouth while it’s still hot. I gulp my tea, try to wash down a fatty piece of bacon. Oh, it tastes fine.
“What gold stories have you heard so far?” the lawyer asks.
The table heats up with answers.
“I heard them prospectors that arrived in San Francisco had flour sacks crammed with nuggets,” the farmer says. “Was the same in Seattle.”
Lord Avonmore parts his skinny lips. Now he’s set on talking. “Some had suitcases that weighed hundreds of pounds, overflowing with gold.”
The lawyer fills his pipe with tobacco and strikes a match. Wisps of smoke join the hazy cloud above. With no windows in this place, I reckon that cloud’s been hovering overhead since supper first was served.
“Anybody heard about a secret mine worth millions, whose owner is ready to hand it over to the first person who finds it?” Mel’s the one who says it. He ain’t never mentioned the old coot’s mine before. If he sat closer, I’d thump him under the table. Sure, I want to learn all I can about Riley, but that don’t mean I plan to give up what I know.
The lawyer shakes his head. Smoke swirls around him. “That’s a bunch of malarkey.”
“Well, I’ve heard about it, and I think it’s true,” the farmer says. “One-Eyed Riley’s his name. Claims he’s got more than enough gold. Now all he wants is to live a life of solitude.”
I can’t help but join in. “I heard Riley ain’t been seen these last eleven months.” Them fellows at the table set their eyes on me, including Melvin. I shrug a little. “I learned it on the Queen.”
“What’s the story on his claim?” Lord Avonmore says.
“There are many.” The lawyer flicks a bread crumb from the table. “It’s hard to believe any hold a thread of truth.”
“What I’ve heard is Riley’s happy to give it up, but first he wants a little fun,” the farmer says. “The claim goes to the first person who can find it, but that’s the hard part. There’s some tricks, see? Riley’s left some clues. All riddles.”
“They’re nothing but nonsense,” the lawyer says. “One’s about the temperature come sunrise.”
So that clue Pickle Barrel spoke of really is about the temperature. Nine below’s the way to go. Must get right cold on a Klondike morning.
The farmer cuts a hunk of bacon and wipes his knife on his sleeve. “Give us another clue. We’ll decide if it’s nonsense or not.”
“Gold on the bottom of the creek. That’s one. What sort of clue is that? Of course that’s where the gold is. At the bottom of creeks. That’s why we’ve got mining pans, to separate the gold from dirt and water.”
I almost tell the lawyer what I heard, that nuggets also grow on trees and bushes. Mel sure don’t believe it, Mr. Horton neither, but those fellows on the Queen knew all about it, so it must be true. But the thought of saying so makes my ears grow hot. It does sound strange that gold could be picked easy as apples. Maybe it’s best to keep it to myself.
“Oh, and a final one,” the lawyer says. “Friday’s the last chance to be lucky, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“Where did you all learn this?” Lord Avonmore asks.
The lawyer shrugs. “Word gets around. They say the clues fit together in a certain order, a step-by-step guide to finding the claim.”
The farmer whispers them riddles to himself again and again, like he wants to hold them in his memory.
Maybe me and Mel don’t need to stake our own claim. If we could just find Riley’s mine, we’d be set. Of course, we’d have to beat a whole bunch of other folks who hope to reach it first.
Lord Avonmore scoots back his chair. Mel stands when Mrs. Palmer approaches, and helps her stack the plates. I’ve been so caught up in the news on Riley, I got to gulp my last few bites. “Thank you,” she says to Mel. “Could you also help me move the table?” She and Mel scoot it right against the curtain. Already men take off their shoes and settle on the floor.
“You ready for bed?” Melvin says.
Boy, am I ever. Twelve miles of walking, it’s about done me in. We spread out best we can on the wooden boards, under rafters strung with muddy boots and socks that smell worse than a dirty dog. My own clothes have dried stiff as leather and got their own special scent. I can’t get comfortable. Even though I’m tired, my mind’s too busy to sleep.
Mel’s got his nose deep in his mining book.
“I gotta find the outhouse,” I whisper.
“You keep to yourself out there.” Mel must still be thinking about that Grizzly fellow.
“I will. I promise.”
I slip outside, and to keep my words honest, I find the outhouse first, then sit down on an old stump. The crickets sing, and the rain’s let up long enough for the moon to show, just like at home. Except this place, it ain’t nothing like I’ve ever seen before. In Kirkland, the wildernes
s has been pushed back. The woods that run along the mill hint at it, so does Mount Rainier in the distance, but mainly Kirkland’s orderly. Alaska, though, it’s overrun with untamed mountains and giant trees. They don’t follow rules. They do as they please.
I ain’t too fond of rules myself. This wild place fits me better than Kirkland ever did.
I’ve gotta get down everything I’ve learned about One-Eyed Riley and that claim of his, see it laid out plain. The moonlight’s bright enough to work by, and I write on the edge of my newspaper page all I know:
Riley’s an old coot. He’s through with gold and ain’t been seen for the last eleven months.
His claim is worth millions.
It’s free to the person who finds it first. Oh, I hope no one’s got it yet.
Pickle Barrel said Riley left five riddles to help a body along. Maybe he told them to others. Maybe he wrote them down or set them loose on the Yukon River or whispered them into the wind. The details ain’t too clear. But how’s a fellow to know what’s true and what ain’t? Is five the right number of clues, anyhow?
That clue “nine below’s the way to go” is about the temperature.
There’s two more I’ve heard: “gold on the bottom of the creek” and “Friday’s the last chance to be lucky.”
Somehow the clues will fit together and lead a body, step by step, to One-Eyed Riley’s claim.
Mrs. Palmer’s laundry billows in a burst of wind that’s downright chilly for the end of August. It brings me back to where I am. A camp partway up a mountain in Alaska, surrounded by folks eager for gold. I listen hard for words the gust might carry, secrets somehow left for me to find. But there ain’t nothing.
I read them clues once more. A temperature. Gold in a creek bottom, where the lawyer says all gold’s found. A lucky day of the week. What’s so special about Friday? Maybe it’s gotta reach nine below zero before a body can find Riley’s claim. I need to learn as many clues as I can between here and Dawson City, so that once we arrive, I can jump in and find that mine.
On the other side of this darkness is the Chilkoot Pass, the highest point Mel says we’ll have to go. Three steep miles from here in Sheep Camp, at a place called the Scales, is where the climb gets serious. From there it’s another two and a half miles straight to the top. As hard as today’s been, it’s simple compared with what’s ahead.
Jasper and the Riddle of Riley's Mine Page 8
