Zachary's Gold (21 page)

I was able to make myself a very comfortable spruce-needle bed, and I felt one step closer to rejuvenation when we started off next morning.

Up to that point, we had not met up with anyone, although in several spots we saw or heard evidence that mining was taking place close by. Beaver Pass was populated to some extent, and several active claims were strung along its five-mile length, but since it was also a fairly well travelled route of passage to the main road south, I thought we could slip past anyone we found there without raising suspicion by being unsociable.

The closer we were to Barkerville, the more dangerous it would be for me to be seen. My notoriety may or may not have seeped from town into the hills, but here it would be disastrous if someone was to recognize me and note my passage, especially in the company of a Chinaman—an unusual enough thing to make me easily followed, should the law choose to do so. Once I was south of Quesnelle Mouth, I would achieve the anonymity of the highway traveller, but until then, I would avoid speaking to any man, and I would keep my face in the shadows.

Where the pass met with Lightning Creek and the main road south, there stood a roadhouse that sold meals and provisions. I would have paid a hundred dollars to wash up in a basin of hot water there and eat a plate of potatoes and eggs, but it was out of the question. We thought it best to leave the path a quarter mile before this, so we cut across the hillside and avoided coming within sight of the place. It might have been the hardest mile of travel on the whole journey, for we did not follow even the faintest game trail but simply burrowed through bush as dense and tangled as spiderwebs. We had to fight with the mule every step as well, so it was not surprising that we were less than alert when we stumbled out onto the main road. Crashing and cursing, we blundered out about twenty feet away from a man on horseback who had paused to see what the commotion was about.

As had been my habit of late, I chose the worst possible course of action and ignored the fellow completely. I could have bettered the situation by nodding to the man and handing him even the flimsiest lie, but instead I adjusted my hat, scrambled out of the ditch and kept walking, while he stared at us in bemused fascination. He was going north, so I didn't need to speak to him or see him again, but I had a terrible apprehension that our brief meeting would be elaborately described to anyone the man met.

The road from Barkerville to Quesnelle Mouth was a poor one, but any road at all was an improvement over the rough trails and creek beds we had followed to that point, and the countryside was pleasant—solid forest of pine and spruce, with enough birch and poplar to bring variety and give scattered tokens of autumn colour. The weather in the afternoon was cool but not cold, with solid high, dark cloud cover threatening rain but never delivering more than an occasional spatter. My mood brightened, and I soon forgot the man on horseback.

We had travelled for fifteen uneventful miles past Beaver Mouth, hurrying past Wingdam and the workings there along Lightning Creek, when just before sunset, as the prospect of stopping for the day was already beginning to appeal to me, I spotted three deer grazing where the forest met the road. I saw them before Rosh did and stopped him with a raised arm. For a moment we stared at them, and they returned our gaze, wondering if we were something to be feared. I pondered how long it had been since I last ate real meat, then motioned to my partner to come around to my side of the mule and take the .30-.30 and shoot. I did not think it wise to use my tender arm any more than absolutely necessary, but Rosh frowned and shook his head. I wanted to persuade him, but he stubbornly refused to look at me, and I couldn't count on the game to stay put much longer, so I slowly unslung the rifle and pumped a shell into the chamber.

Still looking behind them, the three whitetails started into a quick stroll away from us, and I shot the smallest one just behind the shoulder. I wondered whether Rosh was uncomfortable with guns, or was he perhaps squeamish about the business of killing animals? As if to answer my question, even before the echoes had died away he was on one knee beside the young doe, slitting her throat neatly, then dragging her by her hind legs farther into the bush, where he began to gut her. He wasn't squeamish, but he evidently could not or would not use a rifle.

I led the mule and carted the backpack up the hillside into the trees until all was well out of sight of the road. Then I found tinder and kindling, started a fire, and flopped exhausted onto the ground. Rosh arrived, carrying the animal's heart in one hand and a good part of a hind quarter under his other arm. I drifted off to sleep. When I awoke, I was presented with a birchbark platter covered with two or three pounds of meat, all of which I ate. I knew I would probably feel ill and develop the trots, but I thought it was worth the discomfort, and I noticed that my travelling companion took a portion nearly as large as my own.

We slept well but began the next day in haste. The smell of snow was unmistakable in the cool breeze, and the grey wool clouds above us veritably bulged. We hadn't travelled more than a mile before the first wet flakes began to fall. Soon the air around us was thick with floating, swirling snow, and within ten minutes the ground began to whiten. I tried to remember what the date was and guessed that it must still be only in the first half of October, but in the mountain country, high above the plateau, any month can bring a blizzard.

I had hoped to make it down from the mountains and past the river junction and the settlement at Quesnelle Mouth, but it soon became obvious that it would be a short day and poor passage. It was small comfort to know that the snowfall would disappear, probably within a day, for the chilling wetness soaked our clothes and blanketed the trail with an inch of slop that made the track difficult and treacherous. Even the mule looked miserable—head back, ears down, trudging along at half his usual pace.

Once we were completely soaked, mind you, we didn't feel any inclination to stop and rest, so we carried on almost without a break through the morning and early afternoon.

We saw no one else on the road that day. As we passed Cottonwood House we kept to the far side of the clearing and were chased briefly by a trio of loudly barking dogs, but I was little afraid that anyone would brave that weather just to see what had stirred up the obnoxious beasts.

At about two o'clock the weather cleared, or at least the snow stopped falling for a few hours, and I thought we might have a chance at making it down from the higher elevation before nightfall, but just when the contours of the land began to suggest that we were starting our long last descent to the plateau, the sky opened again, this time with a steady downpour of freezing rain.

Darkness fell early, so we were delighted when around five o'clock we saw, at the edge of a field, perhaps fifty yards from the road, a sort of hay barn or large open-walled shed. It was only a feed station for range cattle, but to us it resembled a grand hotel.

The sheltered area was about twenty feet by twenty, but three-quarters of this was covered by hay—loose and in bundles. The unused space was liberally spotted with droppings—from both pack animals and deer—so our mule was definitely not the first four-footed creature to gorge himself at the unknown rancher's expense. I would have been quite content to squirrel down into the hay until I was warm enough to sleep, but Rosh had sufficient energy left to make a clear spot on the shed floor and pull together the makings of a fire.

Being officially still in the process of recuperation, I was permitted to stretch out on the hay and watch while he did all this, then cropped together a pot full of slush from the grass outside to heat for tea. The only drawback was that Rosh therefore felt it expedient that I should continue being dosed with his vile elixirs. I believe he derived some sort of perverted pleasure from forcing these noxious liquids on me, for he brewed them even before he cooked supper. The odour that lingered on my body made my rice and venison taste like rotting weeds.

We had finished our meal and were just scrubbing pot, bowl, and cup, when I heard voices from out in the evening gloom. Someone else was arriving at our crude hostel. There was no chance to hide. We could only hope that whoever had found us would not cause us trouble.

Down from the high hills and in from the darkness and the sleet strode a group of Indians—three adults and a baby. They seemed to carry little in the line of baggage, although I got the impression that they were some distance from home. The woman carried the child in a sort of sling against her stomach. The old man had a single light bag over one shoulder; the younger man who walked in the lead and sat closest to our fire carried an old army-issue carbine.

This fellow, obviously their leader, gave us a friendly smile as he dragged a hay bundle closer to the circle of warmth, but gave no other greeting or sign of deference. He was tall, dressed like any miner or trail hand, with long black hair and a broad-brimmed hat, bedraggled now with the rain and snow. He had about half his teeth.

Two Indians had travelled part of the way in the company with which I had come north eight months previously, and I knew enough about those people to be unsurprised at the casual way he made himself at home.

There had been some hostilities between white men and these Indians in the past few years. A few of the early gold seekers had lost their lives, in fact, but that was farther south and some time ago, when the Indians were still confused and worried by the unknown pale-skinned invaders. As a culture, the Indians of the interior were gentle and easygoing. Far from considering their land a harsh one, they were almost lulled into lazy indifference by the ease with which they could survive. They seemed to be basically nomadic, but wherever they tethered their pony and propped up their tepee, they knew that ample fish and game would be at hand, so they lived a leisurely, undemanding life, with the men doing the hunting and the women covering all other forms of work.

The little group had been seated for some time, with the younger man close to the fire, and the others back in the shadows in what seemed to me a subservient pose, when the first words were finally spoken.

“I'm Red Antoine.” It was said with another ingratiating toothless grin.

“Pleased to meet you. I'm Beddoes. He's Rosh.” I realized after I said it that I probably shouldn't have supplied my real name, but I thought it wouldn't matter in this case anyway.

The conversation ended there for another half hour. The Chinaman and I watched the fire, dozed, and let our clothes dry, and the three Indians did much the same.

They are a great people for sitting still without a word, those inland natives. They seem to be able to squat down and pass any amount of time, punctuating the wait only with a shuffle of the feet and a chuckle at some unspoken thought. Orientals are generally considered difficult to understand; the red men are nearly impossible.

“I suppose you wonder why I speak such good English.”

Since our new friend Red Antoine had not actually spoken more than his name, that question had not, in fact, been troubling me, but he offered an explanation anyway.

“I did a lot of guiding for the Englishmen.” He whispered it as if it should really be kept secret. “Englishmen are kind of funny, you know. They get lost real easy, but they can always find an Indian. Then they try to get the Indian lost. They usually want you to take them to places that aren't really there, and then, when they don't get there, they get mad as dogs.” He shrugged. “Anyway, they taught me the language plenty good.”

I couldn't think of any way to respond to that line of conversation, and in reality I felt much too tired to try.

We returned to silence for a few minutes, then I went to the mule and got the bottle—Ned's Scotch whisky. I knew it was unwise, perhaps even illegal, to give liquor to an Indian, but I had been looking forward to that draught of internal warmth for the past four hours or more, and if Antoine decided to ask for a turn at the spout, I was not ready to refuse him. He was a big fellow and I hoped he would not take offence one way or the other.

I took a good mouthful and passed the mug to Rosh, who accepted a swallow appreciatively and smiled thanks. Sure enough, Antoine reached for the cup, took it, and drank thoughtfully. He offered none to his friends but drained the cup, reached past me for the bottle, and refilled it to the brim. I glared at him, which I don't think he noticed, and removed the container to the pile of packing beside the mule. The big Indian drank down another few inches and passed the mug back to Rosh.

“That's very good whisky,” he judged. “You must be quite rich.”

That startled me. As usual, I could not read his expression at all. When the mug reached me, I kept it until I finished it, and again we sat in silence. It wasn't yet eight o'clock but I felt exhausted, and I moved outside the building to relieve myself preparatory to sleep. When I returned, Rosh had his eyes closed and was singing quietly. I grimaced, thinking that he sounded like a goose trying to imitate a robin, but Red Antoine looked at me and said, “It always makes me and my old brother happy to hear music. At first we only stopped just to be friendly. My brother always says we have to be friendly. I'm glad we stopped though, because of the music, you know.”

I shrugged and yawned—almost, but not quite, sure that he was joking. As he continued speaking, I concluded that he was quite serious and was enjoying our company in his own way.

“Weather like this makes people happy to see each other, no matter what. Life is good when one person builds a fire and five people get warm. I don't know who made this fine wood building either, but I think I like him too. Maybe he was an Englishman, but that's all right. You aren't an Englishman I don't think, but I can't always tell with you white men.”

I was dreadfully tired and just about to inform him that I had had enough of his frivolous meanderings, when he said something that demanded more of my attention.