Gold Digger: A Klondike Mystery

by Vicki Delany

  “Fiona, God chose not to bless me with children. But if I had a fine son like Angus, I’d be so proud, I’d not worry about my hat.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Take a good look, Angus,” Constable Richard Sterling said. “In all the rest of your long life, you’ll never see the likes of this again.”

  Millie whimpered. Man, boy and dog walked down into the valley.

  Only fifteen miles lay between Dawson and the start of the gold fields. But it was slow going; the trail was scarcely a trail at all, just a path hacked out of the wilderness, scarred by the footsteps of hundreds, thousands, of men and women, animals and equipment. Underfoot, every patch of vegetation had long ago been crushed into mud. But on the hillsides rising sharply above the trail, white and yellow and purple flowers covered the ground in a gentle mist. Higher up, the tips of the mountains and the bottoms of ravines that the sun never reached were covered with dirty grey snow.

  Millie’s tail was beginning to droop, and the straps of Angus’s pack dug into his shoulders like the fingers of an angry housemaster when at last they reached sight of the town at the joining of the Bonanza and Eldorado creeks, the place the miners called Grand Forks.

  The hillsides were bare of trees, except for a few lonely growths high up. There was scarcely a blade of grass to be seen. Every tree had been cut down, and every inch of ground dug up. The hills were white with piles of gravel pulled from the mines and discarded, the riverbeds black with mud. Steam belched from beneath the earth and, instead of trees, the hillsides were crossed with ditches carrying water to the claims where men worked the sluice boxes, washing away gravel and clay, hoping to find a lump of shining gold left behind. White canvas tents and rough log cabins dotted the hillside, a few with lines of laundry stretched out on the ropes and cooking fires in front.

  Miners, their faces streaked with dirt, their clothes ripped and ill-repaired, their beards full, their hair uncut, and their eyes blank, watched them pass.

  “Everyone looks so…” For once, Angus found himself at a loss for words.

  “Tired,” Sterling said. “They’re tired. Men and nature both. Can’t imagine what it must be like to work underground most of the day, or bent over pile after endless pile of muddy gravel.”

  “But isn’t the gold running in the water? You only have to scoop it up and wash away the dirt, right?”

  “Some of it was like that. But not much, and no longer. Most of the streaks of gold run through rock. And the rock is buried deep, under the permafrost. These men spent all winter melting the permafrost and digging into solid rock. And now that it’s summer, they have to wash the tons of gravel in the sluice boxes before they can pan for gold.”

  “But soon they’ll be rich, right? That’ll make it all worthwhile.”

  “The good claims were taken, Angus, long before most of these poor fellows even got news of the strike. Most of these men’ve been hired to work someone else’s claim. They’ll break their backs and nothing they find’ll come to them. And those who do own the ground they’re working and strike it rich? They’ll hand their gold over to your mother or one of the other dance hall owners for a chance to play the tables or dance with Irene or Ellie, or to sit in a private box wearing an ironed white shirt and buy champagne at forty dollars a bottle.”

  Angus said nothing more for a long time. Millie, who up till now had seemed to enjoy the walk from Dawson, kept her head to the ground and her ears flat.

  “What do we do now, Constable Sterling? How do we find this man, Mr. Walker’s friend?”

  “We ask around. But first let’s have a rest.” Sterling sat down on a rock at the side of the trail and rummaged around in the saddlebags draped over Millie’s broad back. He found a chunk of dried meat and tossed it at the dog’s feet. She swallowed the food, licked her lips in appreciation and looked over at Angus wondering what he had to share.

  Seeing that Sterling was unwrapping a sandwich for himself, Angus pulled out a hunk of bread and a slice of apple. He broke a corner off the bread.

  “Don’t feed Millie,” Sterling said. “She’s a working dog, not a pet.”

  Angus munched on his bread and apple, trying to ignore Millie’s expressive, pleading brown eyes.

  A steady stream of men walked by, paying the newcomers no mind. One fellow had a dog tied to a sled piled high with his belongings. Millie pricked up her ears as they drew close, but the dog gave her no more attention than the men did Sterling and Angus. Angus could see the outline of ribs beneath mangy fur, and the dog’s eyes were red and weeping, too over-worked and underfed to sniff at a strange dog.

  “I’ve been told Ruth’s Hotel is the best place to start,” Sterling said, stuffing his sandwich wrappings back into his bags.

  Refreshed by the snack, Angus got to his feet and hoisted his pack onto his aching shoulders. He could see no sign of any hotel. A few canvas tents and rough wooden shacks climbed the lower slopes of the naked hill or cluttered the barren valley where, presumably, the creek had once run. The waterway still tried to keep to its ancient course, but it was stuffed with silt, packed with mountains of gravel, and overrun with mile after mile of sluice boxes.

  A woman, dress streaked with dirt, filthy hair falling out of its pins, hands red and raw, eyes rimmed with fatigue, stood in the doorway of a grimy tent watching with scant interest as they passed. Rows of men’s underwear, trousers, and shirts fluttered in the wind coming from behind her.

  She glanced at Sterling’s uniform, still neat and tidy, and Angus’s clean coat, and went back to her work.

  “There it is,” Sterling said, as they passed the laundry.

  “What? Where?” It took Angus more than a few moments to understand that they’d arrived at the hotel. It was a hut, backed up against the hillside, made of green wood held together, and not very well, with packed mud. A single rusty stovepipe poked through the ceiling. A few wildflowers grew directly out of the roof, adding a nice touch of colour to the endless brown and grey of mud and gravel surrounding them. A single bench, made out of a rough plank wobbling on top of a boulder, sat at the doorway. Even in Dawson Angus had never seen anything quite as bad as this. But Sterling hadn’t made a mistake: a crudely drawn sign stuck into the mud beside the front door boasted Ruth’s Hotel.

  Sterling led Millie to the side of the hotel, where he unloaded her packs and ordered her to stay. She stretched luxuriously before turning three times and rolling herself into a furry white ball.

  “You can leave your bag, Angus. Millie won’t let anyone take it.”

  Angus placed his pack on the ground beside Sterling’s. One brown eye stared at him from under the dog’s bushy tail.

  The door to the hotel stood open. Sterling had to duck as he stepped through the doorway. Angus stretched to his full height and was pleased that he grazed the top of the doorframe.

  The building had no windows; the only natural light came in through the door. It was just one cramped room, with benches around the walls and a stove in the centre. Lamps, clothes, boots and bags hung from the roof posts. Sterling didn’t have enough headroom to stand up straight.

  The air was rank with the smell of unwashed clothes and the damp mud of the building itself.

  They were greeted by the broad behind of a plainly dressed woman. The rest of her was bent over a basket sorting through a pile of clothes. She straightened up and turned, one hand supporting the small of her back.

  “Afternoon, Constable. Looking for a bed?”

  “Just information, thanks. Are you Ruth?”

  “I am.”

  “Constable Black says hello.”

  She might have grinned, but Angus couldn’t be sure, so poor was the light.

  “Well, if it’s talk you’re wanting, let’s go outside where I can see better.”

  Sterling and Angus backed out of the hotel. Ruth sat on the bench, placed her basket beside her and pulled out a sock. She found a sewing needle in the collar of her dress and pushed one finger thro
ugh the toe of the sock. “How is the old fellow?”

  “Not missing Grand Forks.”

  “Don’t imagine so. What do ya wanna know?” She began darning the sock. Her eyes squinted, and she pulled her head far back from her task. Angus wondered why she wasn’t wearing glasses. There was no place to sit, and he felt most uncomfortable looming over the woman. But she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Looking for a fellow name of Johnny Stewart. Scottish, cheechako, passed by here yesterday.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Small, about five feet five or six, clean shaven, although that won’t last for long, hundred and twenty to hundred and thirty pounds. Mid to late thirties, not much hair left. Probably has a strong accent. He hasn’t done anything wrong. I only want to ask him a few questions about a friend of his.”

  Ruth broke the thread with her teeth and put the mended sock to one side of the basket. “You want coffee? Only thirty cents.”

  Thirty cents for a cup of coffee! Angus couldn’t believe it.

  “That would be nice, thank you, Ruth,” Sterling said. The woman struggled to her feet with a groan. Sterling gave Angus a wink. “If I don’t buy a coffee,” he whispered, “she won’t answer my questions.”

  Ruth returned with the hot drink in a battered tin mug. She handed the coffee to Sterling, resumed her seat with an uncomfortable grunt, rooted through her basket, and came up with another sock. The heel was worn so thin, there was almost no wool left. Sterling took a sip of his coffee and tried not to grimace.

  “How come you got your son with you?” she asked, squinting at Angus through one eye. “Ain’t seen the Mounties do that before.”

  Angus flushed, thinking that he should correct her, but proud of her misunderstanding. He rarely thought of his father, who’d died in a riding accident before Angus was born. His mother never talked about him, and she didn’t have a picture.

  Sterling ignored the question. “Did you see Stewart?”

  “Might have. Yesterday, round suppertime, bunch of cheechakos comes down the trail. They was speakin’ English, but you wouldn’t know it by me. Musta got all the way to Dawson by boat, ’cause they thought that trail were a tough one.” She chucked. “They was lookin’ for accommodation, but my place weren’t quite up to their likin’. Hard to believe, ain’t it boy?”

  “What? Oh, yes, ma’am. It seems perfectly acceptable to me. Ma’am.”

  She chuckled again. “Don’t be so polite, boy.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean no, ma’am.”

  “They won’t be so fussy comin’ back.” Sterling laughed.

  “No, they won’t. Did you see where they went from here?”

  Ruth nodded down the creek. “That way, but I can’t say much more. One fellow asked where they could get somethin’ to eat. I told him ta try Mary’s. She does good food, Mary. Expensive though.”

  “Where can we find Mary’s?”

  “Just keep walking that way. Couple hundred yards or so. If’n you don’t see it, ask anyone.”

  “Thank you for your time.” Sterling drained the contents of his mug and handed it to the woman, along with thirty cents. “If you should see these men again, tell Stewart I’m looking for him. But only because I want to help a friend of his.”

  Ruth took the money and returned to her mending without giving them another glance. Sterling woke Millie and loaded her up.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As I was up, dressed and mad as a rattlesnake, I might as well go to work. Today was Tuesday. Tomorrow I’d have to face Sergeant Lancaster and try not to laugh as I told him I wouldn’t marry him. I’d worry about that tomorrow. Today, all I could think about was my son and what he might get up to in the gold fields. Although, once I calmed down, I realized that the worst that was likely to happen was that he got gold fever and decided to become a miner. That would last about a week at the absolute outside. Richard Sterling would be as angry at Angus’s antics as I, but he’d keep my boy safe.

  Until I could kill him! I arrived at the Savoy to find that Helen had all the chairs in the saloon piled on the tables in order to wash the floor. Sam Collins’s wife, Margaret, nursed a cup of tea on the single chair remaining upright, her feet resting on the table to let Helen mop around her. Her skirts were bunched up to her knees and I caught a glimpse of wellmended but spotlessly clean stockings and shoes with the soles almost worn through.

  Seeing me, she dropped her feet to the floor. “Put your feet back up, Margaret,” I said. “Can’t interfere with Helen’s mopping.”

  “Keep to the wall,” Helen said. “Can I go upstairs?”

  “No, floor’s wet.”

  “I want to get to my office. I won’t leave a mark.”

  “You stay right there, Mrs. Mac,” Helen ordered. I wondered if she’d ever been housekeeper in a girl’s school.

  “I’ve done washing these floors, and just ’cause you comes in early, don’t mean I want to do ’em again.”

  “Sorry,” I said meekly.

  “You wipe your shoes at the door, and you can come sit here.”

  I did as instructed then crept, suitably chastized, into my own establishment. I flipped a chair off the table and sat across from Margaret Collins.

  “How’s Sam doing?”

  “Very well, thank you for asking, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “He’s recovered from his brush with fame?”

  I’d meant the comment as a joke, but Margaret’s eyes darkened. “Sam doesn’t want fame. He did what was right, what any decent man would have done. That’s all.”

  I held up one hand. “I know, Margaret, and I’m sorry trouble came of it. But, well, Mr. Ireland isn’t around to cause any more of a disturbance, now is he?”

  “And praise God for that,” Helen said in a firm voice.

  She placed a cup of coffee in front of me and pulled up a chair to join in the conversation. “Ain’t right to speak ill of the dead, but that Mr. Ireland…”

  “The Lord works in His own way. But I can’t pretend to be sorry Jack Ireland has gone to meet the devil,” Margaret said primly.

  I stumbled around, searching for something to say. “You have a lovely accent, Margaret. Quite distinctive. Where are you from?”

  She smiled. “Pennsylvania. God’s own country.” Her teeth were good for a woman of her age and class, and her smile took years off her work-lined face.

  “Second only to Missouri,” Helen said.

  An old argument between friends.

  “Why did you leave God’s Country to come to the Yukon?” I asked. Not that I was particularly interested. But I had to pass the time somehow until the floor dried.

  “I left Pennsylvania a very long time ago indeed,” Margaret said. “I haven’t been back since.” Something had always seemed out of place with Margaret, and now that I paid some attention to her, I understood what it was. She spoke much, much better than one would expect from a bartender’s wife.

  I sipped my coffee. I would ask no further questions. Even in the Yukon we were capable of some degree of good manners.

  “Tell Mrs. MacGillivray,” Helen said. She looked at me. “Margaret’s had ever such an interesting life.”

  Mrs. Collins sighed, reluctant to repeat the story.

  “Come on,” Helen urged.

  “My family didn’t approve of Sam,” Margaret said. “We had a big farm, by far the largest in the county. My younger brother studied to become a doctor. Sam’s family were homesteaders. They dug themselves a hardscrabble farm out of rocks and dirt and had a mess of boys to split the land between one day. My father forbade me from having anything to do with the Collins family.”

  “You disobeyed him.” Everyone of us in the Yukon has a story to tell; we wouldn’t be here otherwise.

  The corners of Margaret’s stern mouth twitched as she savoured the memory. “Sam and I ran away. He had a cousin homesteading in North Carolina, who offered us a home if Sam would help around the farm. We arrived in March of ’61
.” The smile faded.

  “Wasn’t North Carolina nice?” I asked, wondering at the sense of doom with which Margaret had filled the last sentence.

  “Spring of ’61. North Carolina,” she repeated. “Yes,” I said, smiling. What was I missing? Was North Carolina, wherever that might be, not a pleasant place in the spring? It couldn’t possibly have more mosquitoes than the Yukon, could it?

  “War broke out just weeks after we got there. Lots of farming people in North Carolina quite sensibly, in my opinion, didn’t want to take sides or have anything to do with the war. But not Sam’s cousins. They were so dreadfully eager to go and fight for secession, and they got Sam all caught up in the excitement with their talk about freedom.”

  “War,” I repeated. “Nasty business.” Was there a war in 1861? I hadn’t even been born yet, what did I know or care?

  There was always a war going on somewhere. Seems to me that it never did anyone any good. So why do men keep having them? Because it must be doing someone some good, of course. Although not the poor men who have to fight or the poor women who stand to lose everything they hold dear.

  Margaret fell silent, but Helen picked up her story. “Sam left for the war in May ’61, and he didn’t come back home till it was all over. Ain’t that right, Margaret?”

  “I thought he was dead. Didn’t hear a word for months. Then we got a letter from Sam’s cousin Jake saying that Sam had been captured by the Yankees. Yankees. My own brothers were Yankees.”

  I settled back into my chair. “Then it turned out all right then. Sam was safe, out of the war.”

  Margaret looked at me.

  “The Yankees weren’t nice to their prisoners, Mrs. Mac,” Helen Saunderson said.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Sam came home in ’65,” Margaret said. “We’d been married for four years, and we hadn’t been together more than a couple of weeks in all that time.”

  “That must have been difficult.” I knew I sounded about as shallow as the dregs of coffee left in the bottom of my cup. But what else could I say: You’ll get over it one day?