Ashes and Ice (8 page)
Karen shivered. “What are you suggesting?”
“Retribution,” Peter stated flatly. “I suggest we find Paxton and exact our revenge.”
“But what if he isn’t guilty?”
“He’s guilty. If not of the fire, then of much else.”
Karen saw a blatant hatred in Peter’s eyes that gave her reason to fear. He was serious. He meant every word. He had no qualms about seeing Paxton dead. There was a part of her that found his words intriguing, but there was a greater part of her that cautioned her to forget the scheme, to return to her faith and let God deal with the sordid details of her life.
“I think we should move with caution and consideration,” she finally managed to say. “Paxton is revered in Skagway. People believe he’s quite beneficial to their community.” She remembered Adrik’s words as if he’d just spoken them. “We can’t just rush in with accusations and no way to prove his guilt.”
“I don’t plan to rush in with accusations,” Peter said, meeting her gaze.
Karen saw a coldness in his eyes that reminded her of Martin Paxton. The lifelessness of it frightened her. Perhaps she had said too much—encouraged too much.
“Peter, this is very serious. You must remember Grace.”
“Grace doesn’t care about me. She’s driven a wedge between me and my family. Taking care of Martin Paxton will return respect to me—at least in the eyes of my family.”
“But it may destroy Grace’s trust, her feelings for you,” Karen countered.
“Those feelings are already destroyed,” Peter said, refusing to look away. “Grace cares only for her God and nothing for me.”
“I find that hard to believe. She’s loved you from almost the very first moment you met. I can’t believe she would put those feelings aside simply because you have differences of opinion where religion is concerned.”
“Well, believe it.” He narrowed his eyes and his tone took on an accusing nature. “I suppose you will defend her now—take her side?”
Karen realized that in order to see Paxton punished for what he’d done, she’d have to align herself with Peter. But in order to do that, she would have to put aside her friendship with Grace.
But Grace wasn’t here. No one was here. Karen was left alone to fight her battles.
I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee
. The verse of Scripture seemed to speak from her soul, reminding her of God’s constant faithfulness.
But if you truly cared
, Karen thought,
you’d never have allowed
us to suffer so much
. Her anger resurfaced as she thought of the fire and of her aunt’s death. She wanted revenge. She needed revenge.
“Grace is wrong,” Karen finally said. She felt torn, as if she’d just put an end to something very special, but now that the words were out of her mouth, she couldn’t take them back. Worse still, she didn’t want to.
ADRIK IVANKOV FOUND himself the voice of reason in a vast sea of gold-hungry travelers. The only trouble was, no one wanted a voice of reason. Gold fever made men do things they’d never otherwise consider. Adrik had seen grown men climb the trail with broken limbs and raging fevers. He’d also seen them die far from the goal that had brought them so far.
For over a week, Adrik worked alongside his Tlingit friends to pack goods from the Scales up to the summit. The Scales were so named because it was there the packers reweighed the goods they were packing and increased their fees in accordance with the steep climb to the top of the Chilkoot Trail. Adrik found the extra money he earned transporting goods a much surer guarantee than looking for gold in the ground. He had saved an impressive amount of money, even while sharing much that he had with his friends and Tlingit relatives.
Money wasn’t everything. In fact, Adrik had rarely even considered the stuff over the last week. His thoughts were more easily assigned to a pretty woman living in Dyea. Karen Pierce was more than just a pretty woman to him, however. She was the daughter of a man he greatly respected—a man whose death he felt somewhat responsible for.
“We’re quitting,” Dyea Joe said, releasing the pack frame he used for carrying goods.
The announcement didn’t surprise Adrik. For the last two days the sky had been devoid of clouds, and with the sun bearing down on them in its April splendor, a new problem had arisen. Adrik’s sense of the situation was confirmed as he listened to his friends speak out.
“Snows are very dangerous,” one Indian told him.
“There’s gonna be slides,” another muttered. “Ain’t gonna stay up here. Goin’ back down.”
Adrik nodded. He knew as well as his friends did that the trails were threatened by avalanches. The warm temperatures were making the newer snows less stable.
“I’ve tried to explain the situation to our rather ignorant—perhaps shortsighted—employers,” Adrik told the men, “but they don’t care. The fever has them and gold is all they can think on. Safety means nothing.”
“We won’t pack their goods,” Joe announced to his friend. “Money isn’t worth a life.”
“I agree,” Adrik said in a tone of exasperation. “I don’t blame you for sitting this out. I’m not risking my life, either. The next few days are going to prove the situation one way or another. Look, it’s Saturday night. Why don’t we put our lots together and feast. We’ll let the cheechakos figure this one out for themselves.”
Dyea Joe nodded and picked up his things. “There’s gonna be big trouble if they keep climbing to the summit.”
“Plenty big,” another man joined in.
Adrik knew the risks. Already the weather was changing. As was typical of the area, the changes came quickly and dramatically. Heavy clouds had moved across the sky to blot out the sun. He could only nod and lend his silence to signal his agreement. Adrik greatly admired their knowledge of the land and their seeming sixth sense for danger. He had worked hard to learn from them, to take their bits of wisdom and use them to better his own existence. Now, as he tried to share such wisdom with others, he was met with disbelief and total disregard.
No one cared that the threat of an avalanche was so great that the Tlingits not only refused to move goods up to the Scales, they were heading well out of the established gathering and down to Sheep Camp. Adrik was moving as well. He knew their advice to be sound, and he cherished his life too much to risk it in pride or greed. Sheep Camp sat in the narrow valley between impressive mountains. The canyon offered no real place of escape, as was evidenced in earlier floods of Sheep Camp. But if the snowslides came from the summit, almost three thousand feet above them, they’d most likely not cause problems that far down the trail. He hoped.
Gathering his tent and a few supplies, Adrik followed the small group down the trail. The going was tough because the snow had started up again and the wind blew bitterly against their faces. Adrik didn’t mind the hard climbs and descents, but he generally refused to travel when the weather was difficult. The heavy clouds stole the light from their path, and as night came upon them, Adrik was more than ready to pitch his tent and take his rest. The lantern light from the Seattle and Golden Gate restaurants perked up his spirits. He didn’t plan to pay the exorbitant price for a meal there, but the light meant civilization and the end of his journey.
As if they’d prearranged the setting, the Tlingits and Adrik worked to put the camp in order beside the Taiya River. Soon a blazing fire warded off the night’s worries and the chill. Sheltered among the fir, pine, and aspen, the winds and snows seemed less threatening. Adrik ate heartily, grateful for the dried reindeer meat and beans offered to him by Dyea Joe. Canned peaches were passed around the camp, and Adrik lanced a half peach with his knife and stuffed it into his mouth. The juice was icy cold and trickled down his face into the stubble of a newly growing beard, but nothing had ever tasted better.
“Say, I’ve got some biscuits left over from morning,” Adrik suddenly remembered. Unwrapping a bundle from his coat pocket he added, “They’re soaked in bacon grease and ought to warm up nice.” He skewered several of the hard biscuits on a branch and held them out over the fire. The grease began to melt and popped and sizzled on the flaming logs. The aroma filled the air with an anticipated promise of filling their bellies.
“How is your mother?” Adrik asked Dyea Joe. The two were distant relatives. Joe’s mother was in fact second cousin to Adrik’s now deceased grandmother, and their families had always been close.
“She is well. She does not like the fuss over gold.” Dyea Joe’s English bore witness to his forced attendance at mission schools.
“I doubt any Tlingit or First Nations people are going to find the rush very appealing,” Adrik said, shaking his head. “The cheechakos are ruining the land. They run right for the gold, never seeing how priceless the land itself is.”
“You speak the truth.” Dyea Joe’s dark eyes seemed to glow in the light of the fire. “People often throw away the gold in their hands for the promise of the gold hidden from them.”
“Amen.”
Adrik pulled the browned biscuits from the fire and pushed them from the stick onto a pie tin. “Help yourself,” he said, passing the tin to Joe.
The tin circulated around the fire, the biscuits being taken up quickly by the hungry Tlingit packers. Adrik took the last biscuit and leaned back on his elbow to enjoy the rest of his meal. Thoughts of tragedy and mishaps from the trail threatened to put a damper on his mood. Determined to raise his spirits, he pushed aside the threat of snowslides and instead thought of Karen Pierce.
But thinking of Karen caused Adrik to think of her losses, and again his thoughts turned bleak. First her mother had passed on long before Karen had come north. Then her father had died with only a narrow distance separating them. Her friend had married and moved away, and now Karen had lost her aunt and her livelihood, as well.
Adrik knew, however, that it was the death of her father that gave Karen the most sorrow. She had been so close to reuniting with him. She had felt called to come north—perhaps to even work at her father’s side—and now she was robbed of both seeing him and working with him. And a deep loss it was. Not only for her, but for the people who had come to care so much for her father. Including Adrik.
Adrik held the highest regard for Wilmont Pierce. The man had been both a good friend and mentor. Adrik had guided Pierce on more than one occasion and had been instrumental in seeing that he was accepted among the Indian people. Wilmont had been different from other missionaries. He had come in love and kindness, seeking to meet the people where they were. He lived with them, ate with them, and studied their ways to better understand them. This gave the Tlingit respect for Pierce, and although many of the Tlingit were already baptized into Russian Orthodoxy, they embraced Wilmont’s preaching. In time, Adrik had even seen a change in the hearts of many of the natives.
“Hello, camp!” came a decidedly British voice.
Adrik looked up to find a shivering man, hardly dressed warmly enough for the cold. “Come warm yourself by the fire, stranger.”
“My gratitude, sir.” The man hurried to the edge of the fire and held out his gloved hands. “The night came upon me unaware. I was sent back to bring hot food to our camp, but I’m afraid the restaurants are packed. There’s scarcely room for even one more.”
Adrik lifted the pot of coffee. “Would you like a cup?”
The man sat down on a thick log beside Adrik and nodded enthusiastically. “I would be very grateful. I’m not fond of American coffee, but at this point I’ll take anything hot.”
“Where you from, stranger?” Adrik asked, pouring coffee into a tin cup.
“London, England. I have family in the Canadian provinces. I was visiting there when all this news of gold came. We decided to give it a go. Make our fortunes. And you?”
Adrik thought him a very amicable sort and smiled. “I’ve lived in these parts all of my life.” He handed the man the coffee and saw a smile of satisfaction as the stranger wrapped his fingers around the warmth of the cup.
“How marvelous.” He drank for a moment, then added, “I suppose you already have a gold mine?”
Adrik laughed. “No. I’d say my people found more gold in salmon fishing and furs.”
Dyea Joe passed by in silence, dropped a small package beside Adrik, and entered the tent directly behind the stranger. This drew the man’s attention immediately. “Are these your packers? We hired a few, but the cost was draining our funds and there are still tariffs to pay.”
“No. They’re actually distant family members. And good friends.” Adrik picked up the pack and unwrapped several pieces of dried salmon. Joe was offering the stranger food for himself and his companions. “This is jerked salmon. Eat some yourself and take the rest back to your friends.”
The man nodded and snatched the offering quickly, as if Adrik might change his mind. Eating as though starved, the man alternated between sips of coffee and mouthfuls of jerky. When it was gone, he fidgeted nervously with his mustache, his gloved fingers pulling off pieces of ice that had become encrusted above his lip. For several moments Adrik actually wondered if he’d somehow offended the man. He seemed strangely quiet after having been so lively moments ago.
The stranger took a deep, long drink, then turned to Adrik. “So you trust these Tlingits?”
“With my life,” Adrik replied.
“Our packers told us to stay away from the Scales and the summit. Said the snow is unstable. What do you make of that?”
“I make it as the truth, mister. That’s the reason we’re camped here. The weather has been too varied. We had a fierce snowstorm a few days back, then an icy rain. Then it dumped another few feet of snow. After that it warmed up, melting things a bit. It makes the snow on the mountains unstable. Slides are guaranteed.”
As if to emphasize Adrik’s words, a rumbling could be heard in the distance. It didn’t last long, but Adrik knew it was a slide. “You hear that? That’s the sound of snow barreling down the mountain. You don’t want to hear that sound and be in the path of it. There’s nothing you can do to get out of its way.”
The man stood, looking rather alarmed. “My family—my friends. They’re up there now.”
