Barkerville Gold (10 page)

“And,” Rusty said, “she might have been in the wrong spot. Think about it. Three Finger counted 253 paces from the trail. But you gotta remember, he was a small man, even for back then when the average person was shorter than today. Besides, he had three toes missing from one foot and a gimped-up leg.”

“Which means,” Sheila said, “his paces would be shorter than Ms. Evans'.”

“So,” Katie considered, “all we have to do is walk like we have a two-toed foot and a bad leg. Right?” She started to hobble toward the overgrown path.

“Both on the same side?” Sheila asked.

“Don't know,” Rusty admitted. “But it doesn't really matter so long as we take smaller steps.”

Sheila watched Katie slowly disappear up the streambed. “I have an idea,” she said. “How about we each count separately and then search wherever we end up?”

“Okay,” Rusty agreed. “You go now, and I'll wait a couple of minutes.”

While he waited, Rusty searched the ground until he found a good stout stick the perfect size for a walking stick. Then he returned to the creekbed.
Okay. I need
to concentrate now. If I lose count, I'll have to come all
the way back.
He started up the hillside, thinking how lucky he was to have a heel that rubbed against his shoe and hurt more with every step so he didn't need to fake a limp. He stopped, turned around and limped the few steps back to the start of the trail. “Okay, here goes,
concentrate:
one, two, three, four, five, six…”

“…249, 250, 251, 252, 253.” He stopped and looked around. The land here sloped steeply up from the creekbed.

The only sound was the rush of wind in trees high above his head. His heel hurt so much now, he decided to take a brief rest, leaning on the walking stick. He realized there was no point in searching here, because no one would build a cabin on such a steep slope. Just ahead, though, the ground leveled off. He hobbled to that spot, turned right, away from the stream, and counted fifty-seven paces. Here was the perfect spot to build a log cabin. Flat ground, water close by—even if it was only a trickle. Rusty removed his backpack and, using his walking stick to push aside dry leaves and prod through undergrowth, began his search.

Back and forth, up and down, he covered every inch of level ground. He found several good-sized, flat-sided rocks, perfect for building a chimney, but never more than two or three together. He wondered if the girls were having better luck, but decided that if either of them found anything, they would let him know. Discouraged, he sat down on a fallen tree to take a drink from his water bottle.

The trunk he sat on was about two feet in diameter and covered in moss. Young trees sprouted from the old bark. A ball of gnarled and twisted roots reached high above his head. Rusty gazed idly up at the roots as he drank. Wedged tightly among them were dozens of rocks of various sizes, rocks that had been yanked out of the ground years earlier when the tree toppled over. He wondered how long this tree had been lying here. He wondered how old it was. Eighty years? One hundred? He had no idea. All he knew was that none of the trees up here grew as big as the giant cedars and Douglas firs on the coast. Could this tree have been a young sapling when Three Finger built his cabin? He stared.

The wood of the one-room cabin, smaller than their trailer, would slowly deteriorate over time. When the cabin collapsed, its chimney would likely tumble down. Seedlings would sprout in the rotten wood, moss would creep over the chimney rocks. Seeds would land in that moss and also begin to sprout. If a tree started growing on a pile of rocks, its roots would eventually break up the pile. But the tree would be at a definite disadvantage with its roots above ground, searching around rocks to find nourishing soil and water. Eventually, outgrown by surrounding trees, it might simply topple over and die, lifting the chimney rocks up with its roots.

Rusty slid off the fallen tree trunk and ran to the bottom end of the root ball.

12
A Map and a Curse

R
usty brushed his fingers over one of the rocks stuck among a tangle of roots. A grayish blue soil clung to his fingers. When he rubbed them together it felt soft and chalky. Excited now, he recalled Mustache Man mentioning a layer of blue clay below the gravel of Williams Creek. Could Three Finger have used the clay as mortar for his chimney?

Rusty started yanking moss by the handful away from the ground at his feet. He stopped and stared, scarcely able to believe his luck. Beneath the moss lay a cluster of smooth, egg-shaped rocks, roughly the size of baseballs. He lifted one out, then another and another. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! I think I found it!”

Someone might have answered, he couldn't be sure, but he was too excited to call again. He picked up rocks, one after another, expecting underneath each one to find a tin box bursting with gold.

“What makes you think it's here?”

Rusty jumped. He had not heard the girls approach.

“There's blue clay here, not the usual soil for a forest floor. And look at all these smooth river rocks piled in one place. This used to be a chimney, I'm sure of it!”

The girls got down to help.

Ten minutes later, Sheila shouted, “Look!” She pointed at a large rock below Rusty's foot. The corner of something poked out, something bright and shiny. Rusty tugged at it, but it wouldn't come loose.

Sheila helped him roll the rock aside. Wedged in a space between two lower rocks lay a disappointingly small, rather battered hunk of tin. Rusty dug his fingers into the clay holding it, but the tin was firmly stuck. “My Swiss Army knife!” he yelled. “It's in my backpack.”

When Katie handed it to him, Rusty carefully worked the blade around the tin until it came free. The tin box was about four inches long by two inches wide and a half inch deep. “It must be a really small fortune,” he said, working at the lid. When it wouldn't come off, he pried it with his knife. His heartbeat quickened as he reached inside, expecting to find gold nuggets. Instead, he pulled out a neatly folded sheet of paper. His fingers shook as he unfolded it. Although it was obviously old, the paper had been well preserved inside the dry tin box. “It's another letter!”

Katie and Sheila peered over his shoulders. “It's Three Finger's last letter!” Katie said. “The one he was planning to mail from Victoria.”

September 5, 1868

My Dearest Emily:

By the time you receive this letter, I shall not be
far from home, as it will have been mailed from
Victoria the day I arrive. I believe it is safe to explain here what has happened, without fear of my
words falling into the wrong hands on the long
Cariboo Wagon Road from Barkerville. Not being
a brave man, I find it easier to explain in writing
than to your face.

Although the pay for working in the mines is
low, I have found it occasionally possible, over the
past year, to make off with gold nuggets of varying sizes and values. No one knows this other than
you. I don't dare tell even my very good friend,
Kees. You might wonder at this, as I have said I
would trust Kees with my life, but the truth is I am
ashamed of what I have done and fear Kees would
think less of me as a man.

The mine owners are increasingly suspicious,
but whenever they have cause to believe a gold
nugget has gone missing, they blame a Chinese
worker and fire the lot of them on the spot. The
first time this happened, as you can imagine, I felt
horribly guilty. However, they were all hired back
again because they are such good workers and are
paid only half of what a white man makes. This
of course is unfair, but that is how things work up
here.

None of this excuses what I have done in order
to return home safely. Please, my dear Emily, do
not be too harsh in your judgment of me. I have
done this for my family and intend to work until
my dying day if necessary to pay back every cent
I have taken.

Over the past year, I hid my gold nuggets in
two tin boxes, both of which are concealed in the
shaft of that same abandoned mine where I fell
and broke my leg last year. That fall is what finally did me in. I knew then that I would never earn
enough honest money to return home. I began
saving from that time.

On the day I leave, I shall not show my face in
Barkerville again, but simply collect the gold and
continue up Stout's Gulch Trail to begin my long
journey home. Meanwhile, I shall keep this letter
well hidden.

September 15, 1868

I am adding this brief note because I am so excited! Only a few days now. I have needed to borrow a few necessary items from Barkerville's merchants over the past three nights. I cannot very
well walk in and pay for these things with my stolen gold nuggets because the merchants would immediately become suspicious. Already they do not
trust me.

One day, when the time is right, I shall repay
them all and more as well. In the meantime, I expect they will blame the Chinese, and most especially one Eng Quan, for the thefts. For that, too, I
must one day make amends.

Your loving husband,
James

“If he never mailed his letter,” Sheila said, “that means he never made it to Victoria.”

“He never even left Barkerville,” Katie pointed out, “or he would have taken the letter with him. So something happened to him before he could collect his gold.”

“And it's still sitting in that abandoned mine,” Sheila said, “by Stout's Gulch—wherever that is.”

While the girls talked, Rusty held the tin box to the light and peered inside. Something else was stuffed in the bottom. A piece of crumpled paper? He stuck his fingers in but could not quite reach it. Holding the tin upside down, Rusty used his Swiss Army knife to work the paper out. He unfolded it. “Hey! Look at this!”

It was a small, hand-drawn map that showed the Richfield Trail. About halfway to Richfield, a dotted line veered off to the southwest, up Stout's Gulch. At a place labeled Emory Gulch was a small X, and from there the dotted line continued up Stout's Gulch for “287 paces” to a second X. Then it veered “due west” for “346 paces” and ended at a little square labeled “Abandoned Mine Shaft.”

“Let's go!” Katie said.

“We can't go up there now,” Rusty told her. “The Richfield Trail is on the other side of Barkerville.”

“Rusty's right,” Sheila agreed. “It's too late today and too far to go.”

Katie's shoulders slumped. “All right—tomorrow then. We'll find a way to get up there tomorrow, right after we check out Mason and Daly's store to see if those leather pouches come back.”

They hurried down Lowhee Trail and had just passed the fork when they ran around a bend and saw a small white-bearded figure heading uphill toward them. Head bent, he walked quickly and didn't see the kids until they were almost upon him. Then his thin brown eyebrows raised and his soft blue eyes opened wider. But he quickly put his head down again and scurried past. Rusty recognized those eyes and knew for certain who it was.

They continued down the trail single file, with Sheila in the lead and Rusty, as usual, lagging behind. Ahead, from around the next bend, they heard a muffled sneeze. Moments later a second white-bearded prospector came in sight. Prospector Man's eyes were on the trail and hidden beneath the brim of his hat; the sleeves of his red-and-black-checked shirt were rolled up to the elbows. Rusty took a good look at his beard. It might be a fake, but it was a good fake, and it looked exactly like the other one.

Prospector Man glanced up sharply. “You three! Again?” he growled. They clustered together. Prospector Man was not tall, but he was strongly built with broad, muscular shoulders. “And just what do you think you're doing up here?”

Rusty's heart stopped. His throat seized up.

“Simply enjoying nature,” Katie told him. “This
is
a public trail.”

Prospector Man planted his feet wide apart, placed his hands on his hips and glared down at Katie. “Why are you spying on me?” he demanded.

Rusty noticed red scrapes, cuts and bruises on Prospector Man's arms. No wonder he was so angry. “Why are you following that other prospector guy?” he heard himself ask.

Prospector Man swung around and stepped so close the toe of his heavy boot crunched down on Rusty's sneaker.

“Ow!”

Beneath his dark, bushy eyebrows, the man's slate gray eyes narrowed. He shook a finger at Rusty. “Listen. I will say this only once so you better pay attention!” He opened his mouth, drew a deep breath and sneezed in Rusty's face.

“Oh! Gross!”

“If I ever, I mean
ever,
catch any of you spying on me again, I will teach you a lesson you'll never forget!” Prospector Man pulled a tissue from his pocket and blew his nose with a honk like a ferry horn. “These trails can be dangerous, remember. More than one prospector has been lost between here and Quesnel.” With that he pushed Rusty out of his way and continued up the trail.

“Now what?” Rusty whispered. “I am sure that was Ms. Evans we passed before. He's following her. We need to warn her.”

“He won't hurt her,” Katie said confidently. “He's waiting for her to find the gold.”

“And she won't find it,” Rusty said, “because we will! Tomorrow!”

They hurried down the trail, Rusty limping worse than ever because his toes hurt now as much as his heel.

“There was a letter with the map,” Sheila said when they reached the campground.

Katie frowned. “We know, we were there, remember?”