Mystery at Chilkoot Pass (Mysteries through History)

by Barbara Steiner

  “Not much, only gold dust. ’Course, I’m pretty unlucky. At least, I have been up till now.” Andy Nickerson looked at Mrs. V and smiled. He was definitely courting, Hetty thought.

  “I’d say anyone who’d been kicked by a moose is unlucky,” Alma added. They had gotten used to Mr. Nickerson’s face.

  “Or dumb.” Andy Nickerson tossed his head back with a big, deep roar of a laugh. Once you heard it, you felt like laughing yourself. Even Hetty, with all she had on her mind, smiled.

  The second day they spent at Pleasant Camp was the most leisurely of the trip so far, Hetty decided. Despite her worry about a thief among them, she and Alma wandered around watching the hundreds of people. The sun came out in full force, which helped cheer them up.

  Belinda Mulrooney rode by them on a fine black horse, followed by several men and a string of pack mules.

  “Miss Mulrooney, hi,” Hetty called. “What happened? Did you find the man who cheated you?”

  Miss Mulrooney waved and turned her horse toward Hetty and Alma. “I most certainly did find him—back in Dyea, getting ready to cheat other travelers.” She smiled. “This is his horse.”

  “His horse? Did you steal his horse?”

  “No, I took it and told him he’d get his horse back when his men have gotten my supplies over Chilkoot Pass and on their way to Dawson.”

  The spirited horse danced in circles. Belinda Mulrooney laughed, and Hetty and Alma clapped their hands. “Good for you, Miss Mulrooney.”

  “By the way, Miss Mulrooney, did you notice anything missing from your belongings when you returned to Finnegans Point?” Hetty asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” Hetty said. “Good luck.”

  “She has so many crates,” Alma said, watching Miss Mulrooney ride away, “she might not notice if something is missing.”

  That night, there was a small Wild West show put on by the couple Uncle Donall had met in Dyea. The man, Arizona Charley Meadows, and his wife, Mae, had been star performers in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Mrs. V had urged Hetty and Alma to go see the show while she and Moosejaw cleaned up supper dishes. Holding hands, Hetty and Alma skipped and ran toward the noise of town to find the crowd that was gathered around the two entertainers.

  “Look at Mr. Meadows’ long curly mustache,” Alma whispered. “And his wife is so pretty.”

  Arizona Charley wore leather pants and a leather vest. All along the outside of the pant legs and the vest ran leather fringe. When Charley moved, the fringe moved.

  For their first trick, Arizona Charley stood some distance from his wife, who was wearing a pink dress with masses of ruffles and petticoats. Mae held up playing cards one at a time. Charley took careful aim, then shot the pips off each card. The crowd oohed and aahed with every shot.

  “What if he misses?” Hetty whispered to Alma and to Eddie, who had found them.

  “Then he’ll be looking for another wife,” Eddie said. “Want to volunteer?”

  “Not me,” both girls agreed.

  “Where’s Carl?” Hetty asked Eddie. She knew she couldn’t always keep track of Eddie’s brother, but she wondered why he never seemed interested in having fun.

  Eddie shrugged. “He started out with me. I guess I lost him.”

  They watched until the show was over. As the crowd drifted away Hetty spotted Uncle Donall talking with Arizona Charley and Mae. They ducked inside the Meadowses’ big tent.

  Hetty didn’t have to guess what they were going to do next. They’d get out a new pack of cards, one without holes, and start a game. Hetty couldn’t help but think that Arizona Charley might be as skilled at playing poker as he was at shooting.

  Even though it was early evening, Hetty and Alma hurried back to their camp. Weaving between tents, they caught sight of Moosejaw.

  “Good night, Mr. Nickerson,” Hetty and Alma called.

  “Girls, stop for a minute. I need to ask you a question.” Mr. Nickerson stepped closer, holding up his candle. It cast flickering shadows over his misshapen face.

  “This evening, Alma’s mama sent me to my tent for my big knife so we could skin out some squirrels I bought from an Indian man.”

  Hetty had seen Andy Nickerson’s knife. She knew the one he meant. She had a sinking feeling all over that didn’t come from being tired.

  “Seems my knife is missing,” Mr. Nickerson continued. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen it anywhere.”

  “No. No, we haven’t, Mr. Nickerson,” Hetty answered.

  “Well, if you see it, let me know. I’d hate to lose that knife. Good night, girls.” In a moment he had disappeared into the shadows.

  Hetty grabbed Alma’s hand and squeezed. She had a new idea, and it frightened her. Maybe there were two thieves coming to their tents—one who took trinkets, one who took knives and money. But if someone was sneaking around with a big hunting knife, Hetty knew she had better be more careful about asking questions.

  CHAPTER 7

  SHEEP CAMP

  When Hetty and Alma got back t to the campsite, they found I Jack London sitting at the fire with Mrs. V and Papa. Hetty put aside her fear about a thief with a knife.

  “Jack,” she cried, “I thought you’d be in Dawson by now.”

  “He was,” Mrs. Vasquez teased. “But he walked all the way back here to get some of my good cooking.”

  “That’s right.” Jack went along with the joke. “I don’t know anyone else who can bake desserts on a sheet-iron stove.” Jack held a dried-peach pastry from the evening’s dinner and was stuffing it into his mouth. When he’d eaten the last crumb, he said, “Have you been writing, Hetty?”

  Hetty knew Jack was going to ask her that. She wished she had the nerve to read him some pages from her journal, but what she’d written was too personal and mostly about the thief in their midst.

  “A little. But I’m awfully tired at night.”

  “If we get a snowstorm, you can catch up. I admit I’m not writing my thousand words a day, either. Some nights I’m too tired. But I’m always writing in my head, aren’t you?”

  Before Hetty could say yes, she was surprised to see Sarah Lancaster show up out of the darkness. Why wasn’t she in town with Uncle Donall?

  “Oh, Jack, would you sign your autograph in my own journal?” Sarah slipped into the tent and returned with a flower-covered book. “I’m just so sure you’ll be a famous author someday. I can say I knew you. And I’ll already have your autograph.”

  “Famous?” Jack laughed at the idea. He shook his head, but he signed his name in a sprawl across a blank page. “Rich, maybe—though I can already see that searching for gold is going to be hard work. I might settle for being rich with stories.” Jack looked at Hetty and smiled. His sea-blue eyes, dark in the evening light, sparkled.

  Jack stood up. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Vasquez. I heard that a poet was reading some of his verse tonight at the saloon. You want to go with me, Mr. McKinley?” Jack hooked his arm through Papa’s and pulled him away from the campfire. Hetty knew it didn’t take much persuasion to get Papa to go hear someone else read.

  “Sarah?” Papa invited. “Go with us?”

  “No, thanks, Glen. I’m a bit tired.” Sarah slipped into the tent, making Hetty wonder if she and Uncle Donall had had a falling out.

  “Good luck, you cheechakos.” Jack waved as he and Papa left.

  Hetty laughed at Jack calling them cheechakos, the name the native Indian people had given to those making the trip to the Yukon for the first time. Cheechakos, Sourdoughs, Yukoners, Klondikers. Nicknames caught on fast here. Hetty got her journal from the tent and sat beside the campfire to write down all the names. Then she wished she’d gotten Jack’s autograph.

  The next morning, Hetty and Alma helped Mrs. Vasquez finish packing while Papa, Uncle Donall, and Sarah Lancaster started on the trail to Sheep Camp with their first loads. Sarah had bought two sleds in town—one for her and one for Uncle Donall. She sa
id that a sled should be easy to pull and they could move larger loads again. Hetty wished she had a camera to take a photograph of Sarah Lancaster pulling her sled by two leather straps strung over her shoulders. Sarah still wore her big picture hat, although the violets looked a bit forlorn and the tulle roses weren’t as puffy.

  The air got colder the higher Hetty and Alma climbed onto the mountain, and the trail became steeper. Hetty pretended to stop and look up at the cliffs for mountain sheep. Really she had to stop to catch her breath. The trail still followed the bed of the Dyea River. Here the river widened out again, so the fast-moving water was shallow and they could cross on stepping stones. Earlier, they had had to cross the river on slick logs tied together. Hetty always struggled to keep her balance with a pack on her back. She surely didn’t want to fall and get wet. Then she’d really be cold.

  All the trees alongside the trail had been cut down for firewood. The trees they could see in the distance didn’t grow as high as the ones in the lower elevations. The sky was solid gray-white. Clouds drifted low and foggy. Snow fell off and on all day as they moved load after load closer to Sheep Camp, their destination for the night.

  In the early afternoon, Hetty was surprised when she and Alma caught sight of Papa, resting beside the trail. “Are you all right, Papa?” she asked, worried.

  “Fine, Hetty fine.” But Papa coughed and coughed before he got up and followed the trail again.

  “I’m afraid Papa is getting sick,” Hetty said to Alma. “I think we’d better take another rest day at Sheep Camp so he can get better.”

  “Everyone says we’d better get over the pass before the weather gets any worse.” Alma bent and shifted her load to ride higher on her shoulders.

  The trail got narrower and narrower. Hetty stopped worrying about Papa and concentrated on putting one foot before the other. Her pack seemed to grow heavier with every step. She bent over more and more.

  A while later she looked up to see Uncle Donall and Sarah, pulling empty sleds, heading back down the trail for what they thought would be the last load before they made the push to Sheep Camp.

  “Did you see Papa?” Hetty asked.

  “We told him to guard the supplies and rest,” Uncle Donall said. “He seems awfully weak. We’ve agreed to stay at Sheep Camp until he’s stronger.”

  When something worried Uncle Donall, it was past time for Hetty to worry. She forgot her aching shoulders and walked faster until she found Papa leaning on a stack of flour bags next to the huge piles of supplies everyone had carried that far.

  “Your mother’s taking the first load to camp, Alma,” Papa said. “She didn’t mean to leave you behind, but she wanted to get dinner started.”

  When Hetty and Alma finally crossed the swift-running river to Sheep Camp, bringing in their first loads, they were amazed at how many people were there. Hetty had thought the other camps were crowded, but here she would bet there were forty or fifty permanent tents in addition to those of the Klondikers moving through—a real town by Alaskan standards. Hetty wished she and Alma could look around, but they quickly unloaded their packs near the campfire Mrs. V had started, then went back down the trail for a second load. There were still hours of hauling to do.

  It was after dark when Uncle Donall and Sarah brought in the last loads. Papa, without a pack, walked slowly beside them. He sat by the fire while Uncle Donall and Sarah helped Hetty and Alma set up the tents and put supplies inside. Uncle Donall insisted Papa go to his tent and lie down. Then Uncle Donall and Sarah hurried off, hand in hand, to look around.

  Hetty couldn’t remember Uncle Donall ever bringing a woman home with him for dinner, either when Mama was cooking or when Hetty took over meals. Sarah wasn’t the burden Hetty had thought she’d be when she first joined their party. She was doing her share of the work, and she was always laughing or smiling. Maybe Hetty should worry about Sarah, warn Sarah that Uncle Donall was unreliable. She didn’t think, though, that without proof she could tell Sarah the rest of her suspicions—that he might also have stolen Mrs. Vasquez’s money.

  Hetty hated thinking her uncle was a thief, but the idea came easily. Yet surely the other things that had gone missing since the beginning of the trip couldn’t be wagered in cards, could they? Habit made Hetty reach for the locket around her neck. Maybe Uncle Donall could bet a good knife in a card game instead of money, but the idea of grown men playing cards for Miss Pittypat made her smile, despite her worry.

  “Why are you smiling, Hetty?” Alma asked as they got out tin plates and cups for the evening’s meal.

  “I’m not sure if I should worry about Uncle Donall or Sarah.” Hetty described her image of grown men playing cards for a doll, and the two girls had to laugh. But Hetty laughed to hide her tears as she added Papa to her worry list. They could all hear him coughing from inside the tent.

  “Take Glen this cup of strong tea, Hetty,” Mrs. V said. “I don’t like the sound of that cough. Tell him I put a splash of whiskey in the cup, for medicinal purposes, mind you.”

  Hetty carried the tea into Papa’s tent. He lay on his bedroll. “How do you feel, Papa?” Hetty had never seen Papa look so pale and gaunt. She set the cup beside him.

  “Don’t worry, Hetty My throat just feels a bit raw from such cold air. You run along and let me sleep before dinner.”

  When Hetty stepped back outside the tent, she saw Mr. Jacobson standing at their fire. “Is Glen all right?” he asked her. “He didn’t look good when we passed him earlier. We’re that second tent over if you need anything.” Mr. Jacobson pointed to their camp.

  “Papa needs extra rest,” Hetty said. “We’re going to stay here until he gets a little stronger.”

  “We’ve decided to stay a couple of days, too. Sophie is exhausted. And Rosie is awfully fussy.” With a worried shake of his head, Mr. Jacobson turned and walked away.

  The girls had gotten used to seeing Moosejaw sitting at their campfire. Tonight he was stirring flour into some of the fermented sourdough mixture to make biscuits. Smelling the food cooking, Hetty felt sick to her stomach as well as sick at heart. She was worried about Papa, about Uncle Donall stealing money, about him or another thief taking things … about the trip they had thought would be fun turning into the hardest work any of them had ever done.

  “If Mr. Nickerson is going to help you cook, Mama,” Alma begged, “can Hetty and I look around Sheep Camp for a few minutes?”

  Mrs. V nodded, hardly looking up from frying bacon.

  “Come on, Hetty,” Alma whispered. “I know you’re worried, but looking around will cheer you up.”

  Alma grabbed Hetty’s hand and took off before Mrs. V thought of another chore for them to do. Their first stop was the Jacobsons’ tent. Even though Hetty still had Eddie on her suspect list, he was so much fun that she liked spending time with him. Besides, he might let something slip, like “Rosie just loves her new doll.”

  “Psst, Eddie,” Alma called at the front flap, “are you in there? Come into town with us.”

  A crash behind them made them swing around. There was Eddie, laughing at their expense as he stacked up the load of firewood he’d dropped from his arms. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “We were looking for you,” Hetty said. “We wanted to see if you could go into town.”

  Eddie looked around. “Sure, let’s go. Carl can finish helping Mama.” He took off running.

  Hetty and Alma trotted after him. Hetty was tired, but she wanted to see everything and write it down in her journal. Maybe she’d write a story about this trip someday.

  Sheep Camp’s muddy streets were crowded with sweaty men who had walked all day carrying eighty-pound packs. Now they were laughing and shouting at each other. Dogs howled and barked, very few of them tied up. Horses wandered the streets, most so thin that their ribs showed through their skin. Their coats were dull and covered with mud.

  “Who owns these horses?” Hetty asked a boy who was trying to run the horses away from a
wooden building. The front of the building bore a huge cloth sign crudely lettered with the words PALMER HOTEL.

  “No one owns ’em. Folks who started out with horses and pack mules leave ’em here. Horses can’t climb much farther. People who wanted to ride horseback all the way, or have horses and mules carry their packs, took the other route—White Pass Trail. It’s longer, but it’s not as steep as Chilkoot.” The boy stopped talking to shout at a horse, “Go on! Git, I told you!” When the horse trotted away, he turned back to Hetty. “My name’s Tom Palmer. What’s yers?”

  “I’m Hetty These are my friends, Alma and Eddie. We’re from California. Do you live here?”

  “Sure do. Come on, I’ll show you around.” Tom let them peek into the Palmer Hotel, which he seemed to think was some kind of paradise in the wilderness. The hotel was one big room, and Hetty couldn’t imagine sleeping there with the forty people Tom said they had every night.

  Tom led them on a quick tour of Sheep Camp. “There are more hotels here. None better’n ours, but all as crowded. Sheep Camp is the last good place to rest before climbing Chilkoot Pass.”

  Hetty listened to every story Tom told. He was like a walking newspaper, full of information. Eddie, Alma, and Hetty kept the questions flying until they knew all there was to know about the bustling town of Sheep Camp.

  “Is—is there a jail here?” Hetty asked. “A sheriff?” She didn’t know why she was asking, or what she thought she was going to do if Tom said yes.

  “No, the Yukoners keep law and order among themselves. They usually whip criminals.” Tom grinned at Hetty. “Why did you ask that? Are you a thief or a murderer?”

  “Just wondering.” Hetty felt Alma squeeze her hand. “We have to go back to our camp, Tom. Thanks for the tour.” Hetty took off, knowing that Alma would follow. Eddie could stay with Tom if he liked.

  The first thing Hetty did when they got back to camp was to go inside the tent and check on Papa. He was asleep. In the guise of covering him up, Hetty ran her hand along his waist. He wore the money belt under his clothing, and it still felt fat with their grubstake. She was sure that the money they’d lent Uncle Donall was gone, and that, if Uncle Donall had taken Mrs. Vasquez’s restaurant money, it was gone, too. Hetty just hoped they’d all have enough to live on in Dawson until they discovered gold.