Gold Fever (28 page)

She nodded, and relief flooded back into her face as she realized she wasn't fired. Not this time.

Ray was standing by the front door when I came into the saloon. “I give up,” I said, heading upstairs to check that the money bag was secure for the night.

I was taking off my hat, looking forward to a couple of hours of sleep, when a knock sounded at the back door.

Sure that our visitor was none of my concern, I pulled a pin out of my hair. The walls of our house were so thin, Mrs.

Mann's greeting and the sound of Richard Sterling's deep voice might have been coming from the room beside mine.

Stuffing strands of loose hair into the few remaining pins, I went to see what on earth could be the problem now.

Richard filled the doorway, twisting the broad-brimmed hat in his hands, scraping mud off his high black boots. Angus and Mr. Mann held spoons full of steaming oatmeal halfway to their open mouths.

“What brings you here so early, Constable?” I asked.

“Good morning, ma'am. I wonder if I might borrow Angus for the morning. On a police matter.”

“Sure,” Angus shouted.

“Ahem,” I said. “I believe you have responsibilities, young man.”

“Go,” Mr. Mann said. “You have duty to help police. We all have such duty.”

Without even asking if he'd had breakfast, Mrs. Mann ordered Richard to sit and placed a bowl overflowing with hot oatmeal on the table. After pouring her visitor a cup of coffee, she took out a loaf of yesterday's bread and began making sandwiches.

The constable pulled up a chair, picked up a spoon and dug in with enthusiasm.

“Now that that's decided,” I said, somewhat miffed at the overriding of my parental authority, “perhaps you can tell me what this is about.” I sat down. Without asking, Mrs. Mann handed me a cup of coffee.

“I'm going to Moosehide,” Richard said around a mouthful of hot liquid. “This is wonderful coffee, Mrs. Mann. The porridge is good too. Any more of that toast?”

“Moosehide?” I encouraged him.

“To the Han village. Inspector McKnight wants me to talk to the Indian who was beaten up by Jannis the other day. Angus was there, and it seemed to me that the fellow might be more responsive to the boy than to a man in uniform.”

“Angus was there!” I said in horror. “When a man was being beaten?” I glared at Richard.

He swallowed an overlarge mouthful of hot coffee and, trying not to spit it out, suffered as it went down his throat. I didn't have any pity for him.

“I wasn't involved, Ma…Mother. I hardly even saw what was going on. It was all over the minute Constable Sterling got there. Isn't that right, sir?”

“Uh, right.”

Richard and Angus gave me identical, innocent smiles.

I huffed, not believing a word. “Will you be back by nightfall? Or, in the absence of nightfall, what passes for a reasonable hour? Angus cannot ask Mr. Mann to give him another day off work.”

“Is okay for police business,” Mr. Mann said.

“Is not okay for Angus's mother,” I said.

“More oatmeal, Constable?” Mrs. Mann said.

“Yes, please,” Richard said.

A dog barked outside.

Oatmeal pot scraped clean, coffee pot drained, they set off. Mrs. Mann pressed an enormous packet of sandwiches and slices of cake into Angus's arms.

I followed the Mountie and my son into the backyard. Mrs. Mann had already been out to get the fire started, and clouds of steam were licking around the door of the laundry shed. The brilliant blue sky promised another hot, sunny day. A raven called to us from the washing line strung between the laundry shed and the roof of the house. A big white dog lay in the scrap of weeds beside by a laundry tub. As we came out, the solid body unfolded and stretched languorously. Saddlebags were draped over the dog's back.

“Hey, you brought Millie. Great.” Angus threw himself on the ground and began to scratch every available inch of the furry white body.

“Mrs. Miller, how nice to see you.” I showed the dog my hand and let her sniff. I don't care for dogs—disgusting, filthy beasts. I made an exception for Mrs. Miller, usually called Millie, because she'd once saved my life.

Richard untied the dog's lead and stuffed their lunch into her saddlebags.

I watched as my son, the Mountie, and the white dog walked up the road into the yellow ball of the rising sun.

The Han village of Moosehide was situated on an island in the Yukon River, not much more than a mile downstream from Dawson. The natives had lived at the mouth of the Klondike River for generations out of mind, but as soon as the authorities realized the rush was on its way, they'd moved the Indians. Some of the men found seasonal employment working the mines and the steamships, but to a large extent the Han attempted to keep to the old ways, which in early summer meant preparing for the salmon migration. Under the stern guidance of the Anglican Bishop Bompas, the Han had almost no contact with whites, and few whites had any interest in disturbing them or their village.

Perhaps remembering a young Richard Sterling and all he had learned from the Cree friends of his childhood, Sterling had decided to bring Angus MacGillivray on the trip. The journey wasn't long enough to require a pack dog, but as Sterling was passing the kennels, Millie had cocked her head to one side and looked at him as though she were asking to go on the outing.

A glow of anger, dull now, but like the last ember of a forest fire, needing only a breath of wind to roar back to life, curled deep in his belly at having to go to the village to find the man Jannis had attacked. The presence of the boy and the dog would go some way towards making the trip seem more like a pleasure outing than police business.

They paddled across the river in a few minutes, Millie eagerly leaning over the side as though she were anxious to go swimming, or perhaps catch some fish. Definitely not a good idea with saddlebags on her back. Sterling told Angus to keep a firm hand on her collar.

Millie leapt joyously out of the canoe almost as soon as it touched ground. Sterling and Angus dragged the canoe up onto the shore, and the dog rushed from one wonderful new scent to another. Sterling let her enjoy herself briefly before calling her back and picking up the lead. When he looked up, a gaggle of wide-eyed, blackhaired children were watching him.

“Hello,” he said.

The children disappeared into the bush so quickly and silently, they might not have been there at all.

A path led from the waterline through a patch of scraggly bush that soon opened to reveal the settlement.

Moosehide Village consisted of rows of tiny cabins constructed of rough-hewn wood, packed so closely together that they put Sterling in mind of the cribs of Paradise Alley. Most of the cabins had a single window set beside the door and a compact front porch with a chair in pride of place, where the matriarch of the family watched the visitors through unfriendly eyes cloudy with age. All vegetation surrounding the village had been demolished to build the cabins. A patch of rough dirt comprised the village square.

One by one, the inhabitants of the village stopped what they were doing or stepped out of their homes to stare silently at Sterling, Angus and Millie as they entered the square. There was a large number of women and children, but few men. The women were short and small, dressed in headscarves, skirts and blouses. One woman wore a plum blouse with a frilly bib and leg-o-mutton sleeves that wouldn't have been out of place in the Savoy. The men were dressed mostly in work clothes, the children in a combination of traditional and cast-off European garments encrusted with dirt. No one smiled, and dark eyes were curtained against the outsiders. The skinny village dogs barked in warning but kept their distance.

Sterling stopped in the centre of the square, smiled brightly and held up one hand. “Hello,” he said, to no one in particular. Millie wagged her generous tail. No one moved. Sterling surveyed the onlookers, searching for someone who might be the headman. A tiny, wizened woman, who looked as if she might be older than God, was sitting in a rocking chair on her front porch, puffing on a large pipe, watching everything through eyes that could no longer be surprised.

He was about to approach the old woman and offer his greetings and those of Her Majesty when the crowd of onlookers parted. An elderly white man with a full head of pure white hair and a grey beard, which flared out on either side of his chin, and wearing the long robes of the Church, came hurrying down the hill to greet them.

“Can I help you, Constable?” This had to be Bishop Bompas, long time resident of the Yukon, legendary man of God, translator of Native languages and caretaker of the Native tribes. He didn't look at all pleased at the sight of strangers in the village.

Made bold by the bishop's arrival, children gathered close, sneaking shy glances or hiding behind his skirts. Millie's tail wagged with enthusiasm. She was not a police dog—just a pack animal—and she loved people. She strained at her lead to get her nose closer to one particularly brave little girl who'd edged out from the safety of the group.

“Sorry to bother you, Bishop. I'm Constable Richard Sterling, and this is Angus MacGillivray. I'm looking for a fellow name of Charlie Redstone.” Which, of course, was not the real name of the Indian they wanted to talk to, but what he used among the whites and therefore the name he'd given to the police.

“What do you want with Charlie?” the bishop asked. It was not a friendly question.

“It's a police matter, sir.”

The girl edged closer. Millie wagged her tail harder.

“Charlie isn't here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

Angus pulled something out of his pocket and held it out to the girl. It was a piece of candy, covered with pocket lint, but perfectly good. Several other children edged closer, anxious to see what was being offered.

“No,” the bishop said.

“I know he was here on Monday. When did he leave?”

“If you could tell me what this is about, Constable? I'm a busy man, and I'm sure you understand that these people are my responsibility.”

A shriek and a tiny whirlwind of brown cloth and streaming black braids flew past Sterling and the bishop. A woman grabbed the adventurous girl and dragged her away. Angry words came tumbling out in what could only be a scolding. The other children dropped back. Angus looked at the candy in his palm and tucked it away with a shrug.

“I'm not here to do your people any harm, sir,” Sterling said, “but I have some questions for Charlie Redstone. Is there some place we can talk? Away from the crowd.”

“If we must. Come with me.” The bishop turned to the crowd and said a few words. Most of the onlookers stepped back a pace or two, but they all continued to stare at the visitors.

The bishop led the way through the village to a small cabin no different from the rest. Angus couldn't see anything to tie Millie's lead to, so he placed a rock on top of it. He was worried about what the friendly dog would get up to in the company of children who would soon be dredging up the courage to edge closer, but he didn't want to miss anything happening inside.

The interior of the cabin was close, dark and spare. The bishop sat on a plain wooden stool but did not offer his visitors a seat. “Reverend Bowen brought Charlie here on Monday. Someone in town had provided him with liquor, and Charlie drank himself senseless. Some toughs were roughing him up when the Mounties intervened. That's what Bowen told me.”

“That's correct, sir.” “These people are like children, you understand,

Constable, young man. They can't be trusted on their own in the white man's world.”

“Seems to me, sir,” Angus spoke for the first time since they'd arrived in Moosehide, “that it was the men who sold him the liquor who're the ones that can't be trusted.”

The bishop glared at the boy. “Some men are always out to make money, any way they can. That's why it's up to men of the Church to keep these childlike Indians away from temptation.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but…” “Back to Charlie Redstone,” Sterling said with a look that silenced Angus. “What happened after the reverend dropped him off?”

“He slept for a day, then left the village. Gone fishing. The salmon will be arriving soon; they're busy getting ready.”

“Where is this fishing place?” Bompas's shoulders shrugged under his robe. “I don't know, Constable.”

“Could you ask one of the men to take me there?”

“Certainly not!” High pitched voices were coming closer to the cabin. A child giggled and was quickly hushed. Millie woofed softly. “I must insist you tell me what concern Charlie is of yours,” Bompas said, “before this discussion goes any further.”

“The man who attacked Charlie Redstone in Dawson was murdered yesterday. I'd simply like to know where Charlie was at the time.”

The bishop laughed without mirth. “Really, Constable, you don't seriously think Charlie returned to town to take revenge on his attacker?”

Sterling thought nothing of the sort. The idea was ridiculous, and this whole trip a waste of time, but he would never complain, to a civilian, that he'd been sent on a wild goose chase. “We have to consider every possibility, sir.”

Angus watched the exchange with interest, his blue eyes darting from one man to the other, and Sterling regretted bringing the boy. He didn't feel that he was representing the North-West Mounted Police at their best.

“Charlie left Moosehide in the company of his mother and two ancient women he calls his aunts. What their actual relationship is, I don't know, but I do know that the ladies are a good deal older than even I am. The women have not returned, and I can assure you that no man of the Han would abandon his mother and elderly relatives in the wilderness, no matter how dire the reason. When Charlie returns to Moosehide, I'll inform the authorities. Until then, you'll have to take my word that he has gone to fish camp, and not into town.” The bishop stood up, smoothing down his robe, the interview clearly at an end.