Beyond the Wild River

by Sarah Maine

  ‘The Chicago of the North, eh?’ Dalston appeared behind her, blocking her way. ‘Some little way to go, I think. Are you feeling better?’ She was, she said, and thanked him then tried to slip by. ‘Wait. Don’t go,’ he said, and reached out to take her arm.

  ‘Papa will be here directly, I need to—’

  But he pulled her back towards the deck rail, holding on to her arm. ‘I feel a chill, Miss Ballantyre’ – he mocked her gently with his smile – ‘and believe I have offended?’ Evelyn remained silent, not knowing how to respond. Had he really considered kissing her yesterday when she felt so ghastly? Surely not. But he confused her. ‘The truth is, I was feeling the motion myself and took refuge in rather too much brandy. Works at the time, but devilish afterwards.’

  It was difficult to sustain a coolness in the face of such candour, so she smiled and murmured that she was not offended. ‘I should hate to think you were,’ he continued, looking at her with those intense blue eyes, ‘because, you see, our good Mr Larsen has hinted I might join your fishing expedition, and I wouldn’t want a black mark against my name.’ She looked aside to where floating rubbish trapped between the yacht’s hull and the wharf was lifting and falling on the oily swell, and considered whether this news was welcome or not. ‘Blame the spirit of the deep seawater, if you like, for roughening the waves.’ She laughed a little, and his eyes gleamed. ‘That’s better. Will your papa mind if I join you, do you think?’

  She looked again towards the waterfront, scanning it for signs of him, but saw instead that Mr Larsen’s man was crossing the tracks and approaching the jetty. He was carrying an envelope in his hand, and Dalston’s question was forgotten.

  … more or less a waste of time, I’m afraid. I’ve managed to miss Kershaw on two occasions and now he’s gone back out into the bush, still looking. He left me a message saying that at this time of year the man is likely to be out hunting in the Lake Nipigon area, so he’s gone that way. That being the case I might as well go on ahead and see what I can learn from your Mr Skinner. There are lots of prospectors in town and wild talk of big strikes to the north, so the sooner we can resolve matters the better.

  Your rooms are reserved at the Northern, I confirmed them before I left. Catch your breath for a day or so as I’ll be quite content fishing at Skinner’s lodge until you come. Just send me word when you’re ready and I’ll meet the train. Give my regards to the Meltons and my love to Evelyn.

  Larsen folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. His old friend was unstoppable, but this news would not please his daughter. He sat a moment, running his fingers along the fold, perplexed again by the man; this gold-mining venture was not essential for the bank, he had surely made that clear! Money was still flowing freely from South Africa, although he knew the unrest out there was making investors uneasy. But he also knew that Ballantyre did not like being thwarted.

  Evelyn appeared at the door of the saloon, her hand on the jamb. ‘What has happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I was just coming to find you, my dear,’ he said, beckoning her in and waving the letter at her. ‘This is from your father. He’s gone on ahead and—’

  ‘He didn’t wait?’

  Larsen registered her tone and added quickly: ‘His business took him in that direction, you see, so it made no sense for him to come back here. We’ll have a day or two to assemble ourselves, and then join him.’

  When she had gone Larsen went and stood, looking out of the window, chewing the edge of his moustache. Evelyn’s face had assumed that rigid look again, so like her father’s, and now he was in a hole himself. Damned awkward— He had depended on Ballantyre being here to either confirm or scotch the idea of Dalston continuing as part of the party. The current confusion was George Melton’s doing, although all done unconsciously. During conversation over cigars and brandies last night he had simply assumed that Dalston would be coming along to the fishing camp. Dalston had not corrected the mistake, and he had the look of a man who hoped that he would be included. Larsen had hinted that he would not wish to delay Dalston’s journey out west any longer, and then Melton had compounded the misunderstanding by imagining that Dalston was simply undecided, and had pressed him to come. Larsen had managed to prevaricate, intending to discuss the matter with Ballantyre today, but now, of course, that was not to be.

  He turned away from the window, remembering that he needed to ensure that the steward had correctly interpreted his wishes regarding the luggage. Dalston seemed to have fitted in very well, his wit a little sharp at times perhaps, but he had been kindly solicitous of poor Evelyn’s mal de mer yesterday, and the child did seem to enjoy his company, and Clementina had raised no concerns. But, even so, he thought as he pushed open his cabin door, if Ballantyre did disapprove it might prove rather awkward.

  Chapter 10

  Nipigon River, 1893

  Drips fell from their paddles like diamonds, catching darts of sunlight, as the canoe carrying James and Louis cut its way through the water in the lower reaches of the Nipigon River. Nearly home. Their strokes had fallen into a well-worn rhythm as they made their way across Lake Helen, aiming for the rocky headland beyond which lay the final stretch to Skinner’s lodge. Marcel had left them yesterday at the place where they had hidden the canoe on their way north, giving no reason for his departure, saying only that he would join them in a day’s time; Louis had stood and watched him go, and then shrugged. ‘Maybe he has a woman somewhere—’

  James stopped paddling to slap the back of his neck, wiping away the smear of blood and mosquito, then he rested his paddle for a moment, moving his shoulders to ease their stiffness, and let the current carry them forward, glad of an easy ride. ‘Fresh meat,’ Louis had mocked when James’s face had swollen like a turnip on the first trip of the summer. Marcel had offered him an obnoxious concoction of bear grease, pounded roots, and God-knows-what until gradually his body had adapted to the daily dose of venom. There were fewer bugs now as it grew colder, and before heading north this time he had dared to shave again.

  He flexed his shoulders, then relaxed. It had been a gruelling few days, but what could be lovelier now than to drift across the lake where autumn colours lit the shoreline like a ring of flame. And he marvelled again at the strangeness of it all, of meeting Achak at his hunting camp, circled by his dogs and watched by his dark-eyed sons while he considered their proposal.

  A pair of ducks lifted from the surface of the lake to make dark silhouettes against the low sun, and a distant honking floated down to them on the breeze. More geese— The sound was eloquent of the changing season, and James found himself wondering where spring would find him. Back here with Skinner? Or with Louis, knee-deep in gold—

  Fool’s gold.

  Knee-deep in muskeg, more like—

  ‘Am I doing all the work, eh?’ Louis called from behind.

  James laughed and took up his paddle again. And in two days they would be heading back upstream with this last group of anglers, portaging tents, tarpaulins, blankets, cook pots, pails, stores – and God knows what else besides. A bloody washstand, Skinner had said.

  Skinner’s lodge came into sight as they rounded the headland and Louis angled his paddle to bring them closer to the shore. They could see Skinner himself on the jetty, talking to another man, a stranger in city clothes. An early arrival? At a gesture from Skinner the man turned to watch them approach.

  James lifted his paddle.

  And then held it, suspended in midair.

  An odd thudding had started in his head, for no reason except that there was something about the set of the man’s shoulders that had made his guts twist. And his stance— Impossible, of course. A trick of the eye, a spectre conjured by his restless mind.

  Then his stomach lurched as they came closer, and his brain froze. The man on the jetty was looking back at him, rigid and intent, while the distance between them shrank. And then a live charge seemed to zigzag across the water to fuse his senses.

  Instinc
tively he dug his paddle deep into the water, driving the canoe away from the jetty, back into the flow of the current, away from the figure who stood there.

  ‘Jackass!’ Louis countered quickly and brought the canoe back on course, seized the jetty’s end post, and clung on while Skinner stepped forward and grabbed the side of the canoe, hissing his scorn at them.

  But nothing registered with James. Blood was pounding in his ears and he sat, staring in front of him, his paddle lifted clear of the water, paralysed by the presence of the figure who stood at the other end of the jetty, a cigar held loosely between his fingers.

  And his incredulity became an active force, pulling the man towards him, his footsteps sounding hollow on the wooden jetty. Louis jumped ashore, gesturing to James to pass up their packs, and in a sick daze James obeyed. He was eye-level now with the well-shod feet above him on the jetty, thinking madly that if he had not shaved he might have had a chance, but a three-day stubble offered no protection.

  The feet had stopped just in front of him, but James kept his eyes low, knowing that if he lifted them he would meet with recognition as surely as he had done that day in Ballantyre’s study ten years ago after a night spent in the outbuilding.

  Skinner introduced his guest, dispelling any last shred of doubt. ‘Mister Ballantyre has come on ahead,’ he was saying. ‘These are two of the river boys, sir. Louis Valencourt, one of the best.’ Louis wiped his palm on his thigh and shook Ballantyre’s hand. ‘And this is James MacDonald, who, puttin’ aside that odd little stunt, had been shaping just fine …’ Skinner glowered as James heaved himself up onto the jetty, saying nothing, waiting for the words which would unmask him.

  Should he run? But where to this time—? He glanced towards the forest but Ballantyre’s figure blocked his path. ‘MacDonald, you said?’ Those familiar tones, smooth and mannerly. And so damned assured. ‘A fellow Scot, perhaps?’ James straightened to find Ballantyre’s hand outstretched towards him.

  The mild tone and the words unbalanced him and he looked up, meeting a look of polite interest. Nothing more— He grunted assent, briefly touched the proffered hand, and looked aside. ‘And where do you hail from, James MacDonald?’ Ballantyre asked.

  What game was this?

  ‘Kelso,’ he replied.

  Ballantyre turned back to Skinner with raised eyebrows. ‘Well. How extraordinary! Kelso is not twenty miles from my own house.’ Skinner was not interested and continued to eye James sourly, ordering him to take the packs to the lodge, but Ballantyre still blocked the way. ‘We must talk, James MacDonald, and you can tell me how you come to be so far from home. There must be quite a tale to tell.’ James looked back at him, schooling his face to blankness, and this time he encountered a message, a warning. And something else, swiftly gone. Skinner repeated his order and James bent to pick up the packs. Ballantyre moved away, walking slowly beside Skinner, and his words drifted back. ‘Canada provides a sanctuary for many of my countrymen, you know—’ Then James became conscious of Louis, holding the paddles and watching him, so he scooped up the packs and headed blindly for the bunkhouse.

  Louis followed him in, letting the screen door slam behind him, whistling through his teeth and glancing across to where James stood beside his bunk, distracted and thinking furiously. Ballantyre! Here— It could not be! Louis had begun to say something when the door was flung open again and Skinner strode in. ‘Where the hell is Marcel?’

  ‘He’ll be here by tomorrow, with the others, like he agreed,’ replied Louis, unfastening the leather thongs on his pack.

  ‘And, you, what happened down there?’ Skinner flung at James. ‘You gone crazy or something? A stunt like that at Pine Rapids and we’ll be pickin’ corpses out of the river.’ James shrugged, but Skinner continued in the same vein until his patience snapped.

  ‘Leave it, Skinner.’

  The old man snorted. ‘Yeah? So who runs this outfit?’ James shrugged again, turning a dismissive shoulder, and Skinner swore. ‘Anyway, the gentleman wants to go fishing this evening, and he wants you along to show him where. So take him down the trail to the rocks; maybe get some walleye.’

  ‘Why not Louis?’

  ‘’Cause he asked for you, that’s why, and he’s paying. Be ready in half an hour.’ Skinner left, letting the door slam behind him. A woodpecker began hammering at a dead tree outside the window.

  James started turning out his pack, ignoring Louis. Not even Louis knew his story.

  The silence stretched out. Then: ‘Ça va?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Just dead beat, I need some sleep.’ And he threw himself down on his bunk and turned on his side.

  Half an hour later he sat waiting on the bottom of the lodge steps, picking at the splintered wood of the treads, his mind still racing. His first instinct had been to flee, but now that the initial shock was receding, he knew that would not be an answer.

  He was no longer eighteen, running scared.

  A moment later the screen door creaked open and Ballantyre came out onto the wooden veranda, Skinner behind him. James rose and looked up at them. Ballantyre blandly returned the look as Skinner described the place where they might cast a line. ‘Jest along the trail a ways, out on that little headland. See it? It’s a good spot. James knows where I mean, he’ll look after you.’

  Or maybe he’ll drown you there. Their eyes briefly met, and Ballantyre’s showed a fleeting gleam as if he had read his mind. That old trick—

  ‘Excellent. I’m at your disposal, young man.’

  ‘Give ’im yer gear, mister, that’s what he’s paid for.’

  Silently James took the rod and fishing basket from Ballantyre and led him towards a break in the trees which marked the beginning of the trail. He did not look round, but he knew that Ballantyre was following right behind.

  It simply was not possible—

  Neither spoke. How had the man tracked him down? He had surely left no trail. But why had he come? And why now – after five years? A dead tree had fallen across the track since James had last come this way and he climbed over it, leaving Ballantyre to fend for himself. He looked fit enough, almost unchanged by those years, still tall and erect, as lean as before, leaner perhaps. Or was it simply that his face was thinner, his features more defined, making his eyes appear more deep-set, more hooded, and there were lines now at their corners, white threads amongst his dark hair.

  The trail forked, and James took the path down to the lake. It was all he could do not to stop and confront the man, but he had to be well out of earshot for the things that needed to be said. The trail narrowed, then opened up onto a rocky headland, and they went out onto it. James set down the gear, and only then did he turn to face Ballantyre.

  ‘Prepare the rod as you’d normally do, James.’ Ballantyre forestalled him with a staggering coolness. ‘I imagine we can be seen from the lodge.’ James looked over his shoulder. He was right, curse him, the headland was clearly visible from the porch where Skinner had his rocking chair and kept a pair of field glasses. He bent and picked up the rod.

  ‘You look well.’ Ballantyre was examining him in a sort of wonder as James began fixing split-shot sinkers to the line. He made no reply. ‘Very well, in fact— Tell me. How long have you been over here?’

  James speared a fat dew worm with the hook and held the rod out to Ballantyre, glancing again in the direction of the lodge. ‘Five years.’

  ‘Five years! So you came over straight away?’

  A new start. A safe haven— ‘How did you find me?’

  Ballantyre looked taken aback. ‘Find you? I’d no idea you were here; I’m as surprised by this encounter as you are.’ James said nothing, not believing him. ‘You appear to have thrived, though.’ Thrived? Rage boiled in him at the man’s composure. ‘You’re travelling on false papers, I gather, with an assumed name?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, Mr Ballantyre.’ James straightened, his arms stiff by his sides, read
y again to confront him, but Ballantyre went past him, taking the rod to the water’s edge. He essayed a cast, then looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘And you’ve a few yourself. I know.’ He gave his attention back to his rod and sent the line arching faultlessly over the surface, as unconcerned as if he were standing on the banks of his own river, three thousand miles away. A series of concentric ripples spread from where the baited hook landed, disturbing the surface of calm. ‘They’ll all be answered in due course, I promise you.’

  ‘Then start with this one. Who killed Jacko?’

  Ballantyre focused on his rod a moment, and then began reeling in. ‘Arrogance killed him, my friend. Arrogance and folly.’

  ‘That’s not an answer.’

  ‘No? It’s the truth, though, pure and simple. His killer thought him worthless. Fair game.’

  And James saw again the two men in sporting tweeds on the riverbank, the gleaming gun barrel pointing across the current at him. God’s chosen ones, born to rule. And Ballantyre was no different— ‘And so you covered for him. You closed ranks, and put the killing onto me.’

  Ballantyre looked back at him, his face unreadable, but grave. ‘They’d have hanged you, James, whatever I said.’

  Bile rose from the pit of his stomach, and he almost choked on it. ‘And that’s it? That’s all?’

  ‘Of course not. But it’s the truth. You did well to run.’

  When last he had seen Ballantyre, James had been a youth, inches shorter than his master, but now their eyes were on a level. ‘So who killed him?’

  The question crackled in the air, and then Ballantyre turned aside and cast again. ‘You saw the man.’

  ‘I saw two men, from across the river, with the low sun behind them. Your guests – one killed Jacko and then fired at me. And you were standing there, standing right beside him.’

  Why should he tell Ballantyre that he had seen the killer again that evening? That he had looked down on him from where he was hidden and had studied his features so that he would know him again. It was Jacko who had once shown him where the branch of an oak reached out over the upper reaches of the river, and told him how a hunted man could leave the water and swing up onto it, leaving no tracks and confounding any following hounds, who would lose the scent. And James had remembered the branch that night as he fled splashing through the shallows, sending a moorhen piping into the bullrushes, his breath coming in brittle gasps, in disbelief that Ballantyre had loosed the pack on him. He had scrambled up into the oak’s spreading canopy and had lain close against the trunk in dread of discovery, listening as the baying drew close, then watched the dogs working their way along the riverbank, seeking the place where he had left the water. And he had looked down on the man who was following them, recognising him for the one he had seen across the river, his gun raised to shoot. He had stopped below James’s tree, calling back to McAllister, waiting for the keeper to come to him; and he had heard what was said—