by Stan Krumm
We spread our packs and baggage around the back of the little enclosure, although they could hardly have gotten any wetter if we had left them outside. The mule was tethered on his long rope fifty feet away, under the pines.
It was hard to say which was worse—plodding through the fog and the cold rain, or the deadly boredom of waiting in a cramped little stone prison. Such tedium compounds when one is impatient to accomplish something, and while we looked in vain for a break in the clouds, we were conscious that the cashing in of our riches was not getting any closer, but a group of pursuing law officers might very well be.
Rosh passed the time by whittling little pieces of wood into rectangular pieces the size of poker chips. If anything, I became even more irritated to see that he had found a way to distract himself. Then I remembered the single diary and the few letters from Ned’s booty that I still possessed and had brought along.
The little red volume was wet around the edges, but the pages were only slightly wrinkled and none of the ink had run. The entries began a year and a half previously when the writer, who never gave his own name, arrived at the goldfields and staked a claim somewhere on Lightning Creek. After a description of what he did to set up, his notes were mostly brief accountings of his gold findings to date. I skipped over much of this to the longer, more interesting journals written during the winter months, when he turned his pen to more philosophical jottings. He hated the north country, it seemed, with the ten and twelve feet of snow and the freezing winds, but he resolved throughout his writings to last another full season for the sake of a woman named Andrea.
Reading this, I felt a sense of disquiet, for I knew that the fellow did not in fact last the season, and I now carried Andrea’s inheritance somewhere on my mule.
If I had turned the gold over to the government to distribute as they saw proper, would Andrea have received any share? I doubted that very much. For that matter, did she have a valid claim to the murdered man’s gold? Even I had worked for it more than she.
I closed the book and pushed it back into its place in the baggage. I had never intended Andrea or her gentleman any harm, and there was now no way to offer either of them redress. It made no sense to unsettle myself further.
Rosh called for my attention and drew something in the soft sand of the cave floor—a sort of grid of lines with a box around it. He had manufactured a game. He gave me a pile of sticks six inches or so in length, then took the same number of shorter twigs in a pile before him. The little chips that I had seen him making were inscribed with a single slash on one side and these were thrown, five at a time, like dice. The object of the game seemed to be to get one’s pegs spotted on the board before one’s opponent could do so. After my turn at throwing the chips, Rosh would indicate how many pegs I could place, and which ones I was allowed to move around. It had something to do with the number of slashed sides and the number of blank sides that showed up.
After ten minutes or so, it appeared that I was winning. I had more pegs on the grid, nicely aligned along one edge, and my opponent wore an expression of amused concern. Then he took his turn at throwing the chips, laughed gleefully, plucked three of my markers off the board and threw them back on my pile. When I next took my turn to throw, he simply shook his head to state that I was not entitled to place any pegs at all. He threw again, laughed loudly, and placed four markers on the grid, rattling off some incomprehensible Chinese maxim as he did so. He now had more pegs in place than I.
It was my turn, and I shook the little chips for quite a while before I dropped them on the cave floor. Four blanks and one slash. I was entitled, Rosh said, to one peg, and reached for the chips. I waved him back, though, and shook my head. Then I placed five of my pegs on the board, picked off four of his, broke them in half, and threw them out into the rain.
He shuffled away and sulked, while I leaned against the baggage and pretended to sleep.
For three or four days after this, we travelled across undulating ranges of forest and rough meadow, skirting boggy lowlands and wearing our feet raw on rocky highlands. Both of us suffered from severe chafing and blisters, for it rained sporadically every day and we were never completely dry. It is on sore feet and numbing monotony that I blame the stupidity I exhibited when we next came near the company of other men.
While we did not dare to travel on the road itself any more than necessary, it was necessary for us to stay relatively close to it for a source of direction, and we came within sight of it more than once each day. It was somewhat unexpected, though, when we trekked over a sage-speckled bluff and found ourselves looking down onto the yard of a roadhouse. It may have been the 150 Mile House, or we may at that point have been a little farther south. Initially we did as common prudence dictated and diverted our passage out of sight and away. As we walked, however, my spirit and resolve drained quickly away.
We had been travelling a miserably long time. Moved by a sudden rush of self-pity, I was overcome by the temptation of a proper meal, a glass of ale perhaps, and a hot stove by which I might dry my socks and boots.
It would take only an hour, I thought. We were a long way from Barkerville, and there was no reason that anyone should consider me anything other than a simple travelling miner, even if the description of Mr. Beddoes had already been circulated. I would further minimize the risk by employing subterfuge, and profess to speak no English. As a dockhand in San Francisco I had once worked with a Russian come down from the north coast settlements, and I had picked up a bit of his language. In truth, my knowledge consisted of only four words, but I thought that if I repeated them in varying order and invented a few more plausible phoneticisms, it should pass for a language of its own. I didn’t worry that I might run into another Russian in that neck of the wilderness.
Rosh paced and muttered nervously as he watched me preparing myself—trimming my beard shorter than it had ever been and pomading my hair back with boot grease. He did his best to make his objections clear, but I exercised my prerogative of understanding nothing. Backtracking to join the road and enter the compound from the south, I trudged up to the roadhouse feeling invigorated by my own nervousness.
The main room of the place was large, warm and dark, as are all log buildings. It took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust. Coats and baggage were on the right, and I dropped my pack there, as one of four men stood up from the big central table and came to face me. He appeared to be the owner, so I addressed my best Russian greeting to him. Once the other three heard the jangle of my foreign speech they returned to their own discussion, and I prepared to mime out a request for the biggest platter of hot food available.
Before I could do so, I recognized the voice of the speaker holding forth at the table two steps away from me, and I became immobilized with shock. Hec Simmonds, sometime deputy of Sheriff John Stevenson, looked me full in the face. It was only a single glance, after which he turned his back to me, but I was quite sure that if he looked again, he would have no trouble recognizing me, particularly since I was the reason that he was now installed at the roadhouse. I stared silently at the trio for a long second. A tall, thin man across the table stared back. The innkeeper likewise waited for me to express myself. Hec Simmonds droned on about nothing.
The fact that he was a fool was beside the point. Hec Simmonds was no doubt employed in hunting for Zachary Beddoes. He had guns, friends, and some level of official authority, and he was six feet away from me in an enclosed space.
“Bah!”
I tried to say it in a tone of voice that implied that for some reason or other I was deeply offended, then I sounded a sort of low growl, simply because my Russian acquaintance had been wont to do so, and headed for the door. The proprietor, bewildered by my actions, called for me to wait, but I stomped on out as if I had been unforgivably insulted.
“Would you hang on a minute there, brother, give me a chance. I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he protested. I never slowed my pace. Swinging my pack angrily at my sid
e and muttering variations on my three Russian words, I strode up the dirt bank to the level of the roadway and turned right, out the north end of the clearing. All the way I could feel the burning sensation of eyes on my back. I expected to be shouted at or even fired upon at any moment by Simmonds and his cohorts, but I was giving them credit for too much alertness. Perhaps sometime later they realized just how strange my appearance and disappearance had been—I cannot say. I was satisfied to escape with my skin intact, and when once again I reached the spot where I had left Rosh, we were gathered and gone within two minutes. Our poor communication was most convenient for me at that point, for although I could easily convey the need for speed and caution, I was not forced to describe what had happened at the roadhouse.
We made camp that night after dark, without a fire. I crawled into my bed hungry, but I could stomach no cold rations.
Next morning we wasted a certain amount of time regaining our bearings. Travelling quickly through the previous twilight, we had wandered a bit too far from the road, and it took us until nearly noon to ascertain exactly where it was. My map, now so badly worn that it fell into two pieces, had once again proved to be unreliable. When we finally came upon the twin wagon ruts of the main road, we rested, for the last quarter mile had been across steep ground. Rosh inspected the mule and cleaned its hooves, while I spread out some of our foodstuffs to take inventory. In those few moments we were approached unawares.
We had not moved far enough off the track, and when the stocky little man with the long rifle came over the rise he could hardly miss us. Unfortunately, he did not have the good grace to walk on by with only a nod and a greeting; he had to stop for a chat.
I was immediately uncomfortable with the man. He reminded me in both his physical appearance and mannerisms of a man I had tracked down and turned over to the police in a town west of Chicago when I worked for Pinkerton’s, and I should have trusted my instincts more.
He was older than I was, round in the belly and dirty—even by the standards of long-distance travellers—with hair and beard somewhere between blond and brown. He had the habit of glancing around continually, even while he spoke, and he didn’t seem to accept our unwillingness to respond to his chatter as any reason to continue on his own way.
“Sore feet, so it is, eh? My oh my, that’s bad. Nothing worse for a traveller than sore feet. My oh my. Don’t you look sad, all barefoot and hobbling. Wet boots, that’s it, isn’t it? Dry those boots, man. Dry those boots. New socks, do you have new socks?”
“No.”
“Too bad. Nothing more important for a traveller than dry boots, good socks. Chinaman don’t talk, eh? Don’t talk English? That’s strange. My oh my. Beautiful day though. You’re going north? ’Course not—you’re going south, just like everyone else. Quittin’ Barkerville for the winter. I’m going north, but not far, not far. I could take a rest myself, though. Man like me can always take a rest on a beautiful day.”
“We’re about ready to get moving again,” I said. “Have to move when the weather favours you, of course.”
I was trying to bundle up the food and tie the blanket around it as quickly as I could without revealing my nervousness and impatience, and I had my back to the stranger. Rosh likewise was turned away, lacing up his boots.
Suddenly the Chinaman shouted, and a commotion ensued behind me. Rosh had stood up to find the stranger casually undoing one of the strings on our main baggage bundle to peek into our belongings. By the time I had fully stood up, the brief altercation had begun and ended. Rosh slapped the man across the side of the head, and the stranger swung clumsily back. His momentum caused him to stagger forward when his punch came nowhere near the target, and Rosh took advantage of this, grabbing him by the collar and launching him onto his belly. The fellow cursed loudly as he tried to scramble to his feet, but the words were knocked out of his mouth by a carefully placed kick to the side of his jaw. He had the bad sense to stand up again, and Rosh again flicked a heavy foot out, as quick and graceful as a French dancer, and sent the man sprawling.
I had not moved. Our hapless visitor gasped and crawled around with a most surprised look on his face. Rosh stood over him, showering him with streams of Chinese verbal abuse.
I tried my best to cool the situation and placate the battered wanderer. I gave him a good swallow from our bottle of Scotch, explained that all Chinese are subject to unpredictable fits of irrational rage, and sent him on his way with my apologies. I considered holding onto his rifle, in case he decided he deserved vengeance, but decided against it. He seemed more confused than angry.
I was annoyed with Rosh. I thought he had overreacted terribly and endangered us by doing so. I should have known better. The man always controlled his temper very well, and I should have trusted his judgment. After all, he saw clearly what the stranger was doing, and he knew more exactly than I what the fellow had seen.
I had the opportunity to ensure the man’s silence and to keep him from causing us any trouble at all, but instead I sent him on his way with an apology I would regret having issued.
OUR SPIRITS WERE LOW AS we limped along beside the mule over the rolling meadows of the southern end of the great Cariboo Plateau. We bypassed the 100 Mile House and could now sense the downwards trend of the land as we began our long, gentle descent to the level of the Thompson and Fraser rivers. This knowledge should have been exhilarating but was not in fact strong enough to buoy our emotions.
We were close to exhaustion. We needed a day of rest.
Around three o’clock we reached a spot where a brook crossed the wagon road and meandered thence down a fairly open little side valley. It looked a promising place to find a decent day camp, and I led the mule downstream, beckoning Rosh to follow. He caught up to me, protesting eloquently in Chinese that Ashcroft was just around the corner, only one or two days away. I shrugged off his entreaties and led on. Ashcroft was just another roadhouse that we dared not visit. Our goal still lay two hundred miles and more distant.
We could greatly improve our chances of making a speedy trip to the coast if we took the time now to revive our spirits and dry our boots. I could not translate this argument, of course, but the idea must have been obvious enough, for the Chinaman soon lapsed into a sulky but cooperative silence.
The campsite we found for our layover could not have been more perfect. The little brook flowed into a small lake only a quarter mile from the wagon road, and here we tethered the mule, laid out to dry those of our goods and clothing that remained damp, and stripped down to bathe in the ebbing warmth of the afternoon sun.
As I saw him without his clothes, scrawny and hairless as a young boy, I once again thought of my companion that if I had had a better chance to examine him originally, I would never have chosen him to help me carry my great burden on this arduous journey. As if he knew my thoughts, Rosh waded into the lake, swam effortlessly into the middle and circled about out there for a half hour or more. I had to admire his strength and ability. I myself can only paddle and flounder.
The little lake was about two hundred yards across and pushed up against the trees along one side. I found a small, deep pocket of a bay where a windfallen tree projected out over the water, and put my fishing gear to use for the first time in many weeks.
I lay there lazily on my log, twitching the thread coiled through my fingers for most of an hour, enjoying the peaceful forest sounds and watching with one eye as Rosh built a fire halfway round the shore. The green waters grew darker, and I was about ready to give up when I felt the faint tugging of a nibble at my hook. Cautiously, I applied a bit of counter pressure and was nearly pulled off my perch into the water by the result. For a moment, I thought I had lost him, then, a second later, I thought my fingers might be sliced off by the pull of the line.
Ten minutes after that, I strolled into our camp with a trout that must have weighed close to three pounds. Rosh was eloquent in his praise, and I was graceful in my nonchalance.
Our first afte
rnoon of leisure had been profitably passed. Sometime in the middle of the night I was brought to full wakefulness by the realization that the campfire was crackling bright, when normally it should have burned to embers by that late hour. I sat up on my bedroll and found Rosh, who had retired before me, sitting up with his blanket draped over his shoulders. He pointed back towards my pillow.
“Are you all right there, man?” I asked.
He mumbled something of a dismissal and gestured once again that I should go back to sleep.
“So you can’t sleep. Are you all right? Are you hurt?” I held my head to try to designate the idea of pain, and he understood well enough, shaking his head negatively. When I continued to watch him sitting there in the firelight, he began to talk in his native language—a long speech with a melancholy flavour, or so I fancied. I thought I heard him mention Ashcroft, but again I could not be sure in the continuous flow of foreign words. At last I lay down again and slept until morning.
I had intended that we should spend the entire next day at rest—a Sabbath rest it could be, although I had long since lost track of the days of the week—but before midday I changed my mind. Our clothes and gear were dry, we were well fed, and we had soaked and rested away any minor aches and pains that had bothered us. Physically and spiritually we felt reconstructed; our good humour and attention were back to their peak, and further delay would only increase our gnawing impatience. We began to pack up.
Feeling relaxed and expansive, I was in the mood for a bit of conversation—something that my companion and I still could not manage. In that spirit, though, I tried my hand at teaching Rosh another word or two of English. It was still not too late in our relationship to facilitate our daily routine with an improved mutual vocabulary. I pointed to the big canvas pack and said, “packsack.”
