by Nikki Tate
“You poor beast,” Joshua murmured, giving the sorrel mare a pat on the neck. “Let’s give her a hand,” he said.
Nigel and Bill held ropes attached to either side of Honey’s halter to hold her head up out of the water. Careful not to plunge into the deep spot where Honey had sunk, Joshua eased his way to her rump with another rope in hand. Reaching down into the water behind her, he passed the rope over to Mr. Emerson, George and a fellow by the name of Louie on the far side.
The rest of us watched, swatting at the cursed insects swarming everywhere. They crawled over our skin and into our noses, eyes and ears. Some were flies so small you could scarcely see them, though their bites were almost as bad as those of the monstrous horseflies.
“Ready?” Joshua asked.
The men at the mare’s head nodded. Mr. Emerson’s eyes narrowed.
“One. Two. Three.”
The men heaved on the ropes and the exhausted horse, still fully loaded, struggled out of the deep hole and staggered forward to come to an unsteady halt just a few feet farther on.
The mare didn’t even bother to shake herself but stood, head down, panting.
“Good girl,” Joshua said.
I raised my hand to shade my eyes from the sun. The swamp stretched in all directions as far as we could see. The only way to get through this horrible place was to try to step from hump to hump of drier grass. But the humps were often small and unsteady, and unless one were quick and nimble, sliding off into the swamp was a regular occurrence. The going was painfully slow, made all the worse by the clouds of insects that buzzed, hummed and bit.
It was bad enough to drive a good man to drink. It was so bad that we lost a horse, which was unable to get up after he slid into the mud, despite three ropes and eight of us hauling on him to get him going again.
Joshua cut the horse’s pack free and, without speaking, we divided up as much of the load as we could carry and continued on, not even looking back when the crack of a rifle signaled the end of the horse’s life.
“I wouldn’t have believed that anything could make me think the swamp looked good,” Bart said. After hiking up and around a steep hill thick with trees and down into a ravine on the other side, we had come to a dead stop at the end of a rickety log bridge. The water was so high it licked at the bridge, splashed and spilled over the slick logs, white bubbles frothing and foaming as we stood and stared.
“We could stop here,” Louie said, though it was impossible to make camp on the narrow ledge beside the angry creek.
“Don’t be a damned fool, Louie,” Mr. Emerson said. “Get on over the bridge.”
At that moment we heard a shout, and four men, bedraggled, bearded and carrying little more than their bedrolls on their backs, staggered out of the trees on the other side of the ravine.
“Hold up!” the first in line shouted at us over the roar of the raging torrent below.
It seemed that nothing could stop those men as they ran across the bridge.
“Turn back,” the first one urged as he moved past us. “Ain’t nothin’ there worth dying over.”
Bart took hold of my forearm and watched the four men pass us without even a backward glance. I knew he wanted to go with them. I could feel it in the way he gripped my arm. The very idea that Bart might leave filled me with a dark dread.
Two men from our party turned and trotted after the retreating miners.
My mouth went dry and my heart raced, as if I were the one running back down the trail. If Bart turned now, would I stay or would I go?
“Bart,” I said, “we’re almost there—” I choked back the pleading words that threatened to flood the space between us. Bart knew as well as anyone the risks as well as the rewards. He had to make his own decision, just as I had to make mine.
“Boys—help Joshua get these animals over the bridge.” For once I was glad to do as Mr. Emerson commanded. I turned away from Bart and back to the bridge, my heart skittering and jumping beneath my ribs.
Bridge. To call it a bridge was madness. To think horses could get across was insane. If Mr. Emerson thought it was such a fine idea, he should lead the animals over.
“With respect, maybe we should see if there’s a better place to—”
“Who’s paying your wages, Joshua?”
“Sir, these animals —”
“These animals will do what you tell them.”
Joshua’s hand closed on the lead rope of one of our four remaining horses. He looked skyward and his lips moved in silent prayer.
“Come on then, Laddy,” he said, giving the rope a gentle tug.
To my amazement the horse followed him over the bridge like a giant dog. He placed each foot cautiously, warily balancing himself and his burden one step at a time until he reached the other side.
The other three horses lifted their heads to watch.
“Come on—one of you has got to come over here and hold Laddy.”
I hesitated for only as long as it took to decide that this was not the end of the trail for me. If Bart followed, it would be on his own account and not because of anything I might have said. Even though I knew this was how it had to be, it took every ounce of willpower I possessed to step onto the bridge and cross without looking back.
Honey was next, followed by Louie. Heart still thumping, I watched the progress of the horses and in silence offered a quick prayer that Bart would choose to continue.
Jacko, the third horse, made it over. One by one the other men wobbled and swayed across the bridge, arms out for balance, faces stern with concentration. When, at last, it came to Bart’s turn, he too stepped onto the log and I muttered, “Thank you.”
At last, only Tucker and Joshua remained alone on the far side.
Convinced he was going to be left behind, Tucker snorted anxiously. “Steady now,” Joshua said to the horse. “Watch where you’re going.” They stepped onto the bridge.
At first I thought it was going to be all right, but when yet another group of men burst through the trees, Tucker threw his head up, his nostrils flaring.
That was all it took for one back hoof to slip off the side of the bridge. His heavy load and exhaustion did the rest. He slithered backward into the churning water, and Joshua threw himself in the other direction so the rope snapped taut over the edge.
Bart and George grabbed for the rope, and the three men yanked and hauled against the weight of the thrashing horse. They did everything they could to hold the panicking animal. Mr. Emerson pulled a length of rope from a pack and scrambled down the steep bank.
“Stop!” I yelled when he landed the first blow on the horse’s back.
If he heard me over the roar of the churning water, he didn’t let on. He lashed the poor beast over and over again, as if by sheer brute force he could will the animal to rise from the water.
Tucker gave one last mighty spasm and then went limp, the water buffeting his hindquarters where they hung in the raging stream.
I turned away, sickened.
“I can’t take no more of this,” Louie said. “You fellows got room for one more?”
The men who had startled Tucker nodded and then, as if nothing untoward had happened, made their way over the bridge, Louie right behind them. Without a word of discussion, several more men from our party followed.
“Cowards!” Mr. Emerson said, gasping. He was bent over at the waist, puffing as if he had run a mile. He straightened up, coiling his rope as he did so, and looked over the rest of us. “Anyone else want to go? Do it now. There is no place in this godforsaken land for weaklings.”
Beside me, Bart stiffened, but he held his ground. If the circumstances hadn’t been so grim, I might have smiled.
As Joshua struggled to cut the dead horse’s burden free, I no longer thought only of my dreams of gold. Yes, gold lay hidden in the rivers and mountains, but in that moment, watching the men salvage what goods they could from the dead horse, I knew that I could leave Mr. Emerson without a shred of guilt. I also
knew that I would not abandon Bart. If he decided to return to California, I would travel with him and see him safely back to Emily Rose.
“We’d best be going,” I said, sternly keeping the quaver from my voice. “We’ve got to get these horses a place to rest and eat. Bart? Will you come on ahead with us and find a place to camp?” I turned to Joshua, who was still struggling at his grim chore on the bridge. “We can leave Jacko with you so you can pack on a few extra things.”
Joshua nodded, and Mr. Emerson, having coiled his rope, pulled out his pipe for a smoke.
With one last look at the place where the deserters had disappeared, Bart took the halter rope and we trudged off, leading the two exhausted horses away.
Chapter 12
“Where are they?”
The next morning I jerked awake to the sound of Mr. Emerson yelling like an injured moose.
“Don’t stand there and tell me you had nothing to do with this, you lousy good-for-nothing —”
“I don’t know where they’ve got to.”
Apparently Joshua was the target of Mr. Emerson’s rage.
I nudged Bart, pulled on my boots, and staggered outside into the bright early morning sun.
“Something must have spooked them—bear, maybe?”
“I’d say it was you who spooked them. I want my money back.”
“You know that ain’t possible. My partner’s got it back in Lilloet.”
Lilloet. Seemed like Lilloet was a thousand miles and a couple of lifetimes away.
Mr. Emerson stalked off, flinging cuss words this way and that way until I thought the grass would wilt beneath his feet.
Our remaining three horses were gone, and a lengthy search on foot turned up nothing—not even a tail hair to remember them by.
An evil mood descended on us as we divided up the goods and hoisted packs heavier than ever onto our own backs.
Three days of hard marching later, Joshua stopped in the middle of the trail and pointed off down a canyon.
“Hallelujah,” Mr. Emerson added.
Our missing horses stood together, snoozing in the sun. They looked none the worse for wear and gave us no trouble when we caught them.
In record time we set off with lifted spirits. Joshua’s whistling stopped soon enough when, just beyond Little Lake, we found ourselves in another stretch of swamp and dead trees.
“What the —”
Halfway through the maze of fallen trees, Joshua stopped and pushed back his hat, shading his eyes so he could see better.
Strange-looking creatures stumbled and stopped, heading slowly toward us. Our own animals froze, horrified at the sight of these peculiar animals with their huge humps and curvy necks. The horses pulled back on their lead ropes, determined to flee from the bizarre creatures.
I rubbed my eyes because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Sure enough, when the pack train drew closer, there was no doubt that these weren’t huge mules or strange horses, but camels! Their big soft feet were hopeless in the swampy ground, and their attitude reflected their misery. The men who drove them were beside themselves with fatigue and frustration.
It’s hard enough to get a stubborn horse to move, but an unhappy camel? The great beasts stopped dead, sometimes lying down with their legs folded underneath then. They closed their huge brown eyes and seemed oblivious to the men pulling on their lead ropes or poking them with sticks. A hideous stench made our horses snort and dance sideways as we passed the camels, and we all covered our noses with our sleeves and sucked air in through our mouths so we would not have to smell them.
With the loss of several horses and many of our provisions, we had no choice but to purchase supplies at the Forks of Quesnelle, even though the size of our group had dwindled to just over a dozen.
“How much should we buy?” Mr. Emerson asked Joshua, standing outside one of several general stores in town.
“Buy what you want. I’m resting the horses another two days and then heading back to Lilloet.”
“Like hell!”
“Look —”
Joshua pointed at two men, who shuffled like whipped dogs down the main street. One of the men wore a bell around his neck.
“I talked to those two a little while ago. That bell is from the neck of their lead mule.”
I didn’t want to hear the rest of the story.
“They left here with thirty mules—heading for Antler Creek.”
Antler Creek was only twenty-five miles away.
“Thirty mules. More sure-footed and level-headed than any horse. And all they’ve got left now is a bell.”
Mr. Emerson worked his mouth but said nothing.
“You think the trail so far has been bad? The worst stretch lies between here and Antler Creek.”
Mr. Emerson slapped a mosquito on the side of his neck, leaving behind a bloody smear.
“Very well. You are dismissed. Though I refuse to pay you another penny. Your contract was to get us to Antler Creek—not twenty-five miles shy. Hell—not two miles shy. I was going to reward you with a healthy bonus once we had arrived.”
Joshua shook his head. “I’m certain you were. I’ll take my life and my animals—that’s bonus enough for me.”
Bart squatted beside a fuzzy brown and black dog that had run up to say hello. He stayed beside the dog, stroking his head while Joshua led the horses away. No fewer than seven more men turned to follow. As I watched them go, a thousand thoughts twisted and turned in my head. Without horses, without Joshua, what would the rest of the journey be like? We were so close now—three or four days to go. That was nothing after all we’d been through.
Bart watched Joshua retreat down the street, glanced once at me, and then bent back over the dog.
My heart ached with sadness when Joshua and the other men turned a corner and disappeared. The ache was so strong it nearly pushed my legs down the road after them.
The dog twisted his head around and licked Bart’s hand. Bart grinned, and the ache of longing changed to an ache of gratitude. Bart was not going to abandon me.
I moved to squat beside him, and the dog flopped on his back and squirmed with delight when I scratched his tummy. How wonderful to be a dog with no worries about what the next day might bring, no fears that a choice might lead to bitter regret, but only the pleasure of a belly scratch on a rare sunny morning.
And so it was that when we shouldered our packs in Quesnelle Forks to tackle the final days of our journey, there were only six of us left—Mr. Emerson, me, Bart, Nigel, George and another tough old miner from California called Becker. Of the more than forty others who had set off with us from Lilloet, three dozen and more had suffered enough and returned home to wives and families, better weather, and easier ways of making a living.
Chapter 13
To say the trek from Quesnelle Forks to the diggings was difficult would be like saying a tooth extraction was a tad uncomfortable.
After two days of hard climbing along the sides of sheer cliffs we reached Keithley’s Creek, a sad town where the shopkeepers had so little to sell they tried to buy our meager provisions. And while we could have made a pretty profit by selling some goods, we refused to part with even a cupful of flour.
Just past Keithley’s, on the third day beyond the Forks of Quesnelle, rainfall that had begun during the night worsened and became a downpour. Soon the rain turned to sleet and then hail, and still we pushed on. We pulled up our collars and tugged down our hats and slogged on, water dripping everywhere. I fixed my gaze on Bart’s heels and plodded along. The two men from California moved faster than the rest of us and soon disappeared ahead, so close now to the gold that perhaps they felt they were better off without our company.
Creeks swollen with melting snow from high in the mountain passes churned and rolled below us as we crossed over sorry excuses for bridges that swayed and bucked beneath our feet.
It was on such a bridge of rough-hewn planks, slick with rain and spray from the roiling water below, tha
t Bart lost his footing and plunged into a bubbling seething creek.
“Bart!”
I leapt to the other side of the bridge, threw down my pack, and waded out into the strong current as Bart’s head bobbed to the surface and then disappeared under the water, pulled down by the weight of his pack.
I leaned forward, ready to throw myself into the water after him when a heavy hand grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me out.
I tumbled backward on top of Nigel. “Ain’t no need for both you boys to drown!”
“No!” I pushed at his hands, but he held me tight from behind. “Let me go!”
With all my strength I jabbed him in the stomach with my elbow and broke free. Bart had disappeared around a bend in the creek, and I raced to find a route downstream. Splashing in and out of the water, I clung to rocks and tree roots, bashing my knees and elbows with every step. All the while I scanned the water, searching for Bart.
“Bart!” I screamed. “Bart!”
On and on I struggled, not caring about the cold, the rain, the water hissing and gurgling around my legs, pulling at me, dragging me along. I lost track of time and pressed on, long past the point when there was any reasonable hope I would ever see Bart again. Tears wet my cheeks, but I did not stop calling and calling into the rain.
Ages later I threw myself over a huge boulder and found myself in an eddy, sheltered from the angry roar of the swollen stream. And there, half in and half out of the water, was Bart. I splashed into the water, grabbed him under the arms, and started to drag him away from the water. Gasping and panting, I called on every ounce of strength remaining in my exhausted limbs to shift him, inch by inch, to drier ground.
“Bart! Open your eyes!”
His skin was a ghastly shade of blue-white and glistened with moisture. I shook his shoulders and slapped his chest, furious at him for falling in, for leaving me alone in that hideous unforgiving land.
“Bart!”
I threw my head on his chest and gave in to the sobs that wracked my whole body. Sobs for Ma and Pa and my brothers and everyone else who had ever left me behind. When I finally stopped weeping, I was queasy and shivering, but I was able to hear a soft thump-thump, as weak and fluttery as a bird’s heartbeat, deep in Bart’s chest. I rolled him on his side and he twitched, coughed, then vomited water onto the rocks.
