Chapter Twenty-Two

Richard Sterling followed the excited barking of dogs as he crossed the parade ground of NWMP Fort Herchmer. The Union Jack in the centre of the square snapped briskly in the strong north wind. Men stopped what they were doing to watch him. News had travelled fast, as it always did in the Yukon. Fiona MacGillivray was a well-known woman. She was generally liked, although she did have enemies. Ironically, it seemed as if she was in this mess because of someone who wanted to be her friend, not an adversary.

Sterling glanced up at the sky. The wind was strong but the clouds were not heavy and he didn’t smell rain on the air. Rain now would be a disaster, destroying his best hope of finding a trail to follow. He’d met Paul Sheridan once. His impression had been of a city fellow, small-time crook, and gang-member. Not someone used to the wilderness or to physically covering his tracks. He hadn’t even come over the Chilkoot, but by boat from St. Michael. And Fiona? She’d travelled the Chilkoot trail, up the Golden Stairs, on a makeshift boat down the Yukon, but by Angus’s account she hadn’t even been able to prepare their meals. Nevertheless, she was a highly resourceful woman and Sterling expected — hoped — she’d have enough of her wits around her to leave signs of their passage.

If she were still alive. No one had dared mention, in the crowded back room of the Savoy, that she might not have survived Sheridan’s attack.

Richard Sterling pushed the thought aside. She was alive and he would find her.

He pushed open the door to the NWMP kennels, and the animals set up a round of joyous barking. The dog-keeper was leading a large white dog out of its cage. “Here she is,” he said, “I figured you’d want Mrs. Miller again.”

Sterling shook his head. News travelled faster by mouth in the Yukon than it did by telephone in the cities.

The long-haired dog wagged her tongue and wiggled her bottom. Sterling crouched down. “You’re right there,” he said to the man. “Best pack dog in the Territory.” He gave Mrs. Miller a scratch between her ears and then ran his hands over her body, particularly down her legs.

“She’s in good shape. I’d know otherwise.”

“Just checking.” Her name was Mrs. Miller, after the prune-faced wife of an inspector in the NWMP. Mrs. Miller, the canine one, at seven years old was no longer young, but she was clever and could cheerfully walk a long way bearing a heavy pack. “Good old Millie,” Sterling said. The man took saddle bags down from a row of hooks on the wall and tossed them over the dog’s back. He handed Sterling a small canvas bag containing strips of dried fish, her food.

“Thanks.” Sterling took the offered lead and left. Mrs. Miller trotted happily behind.

At least she, Sterling thought, is looking forward to the journey.

“Good luck,” the dog handler called out.

Next stop was the kitchens, where he asked the cooks to pack him five days’ worth of food. He would take supplies only for himself and McAllen. The civilians would have to bring their own. Next stop was the barracks. He tied the dog to a railing and went inside to pull his bed roll off his bunk and dig spare clothes out of his trunk. The non-commissioned officers’ barracks were empty and he was glad of it. He didn’t want to waste time while advice and useless good wishes were offered.

Back outside he untied the dog. About forty-five minutes had passed since he’d left the Savoy. No sign of Donohue or Angus yet. Angus, he didn’t mind taking. The boy was smart and quick although somewhat impulsive. Donohue on the other hand. What did he have to offer? If he wasn’t coming along to write it up for his newspaper, then it was to get into Fiona’s favour. Sterling didn’t realize he’d growled until he saw the questioning look on Millie’s face.

McKnight stood behind his desk, the surface almost invisible under mounds of papers and books, when Sterling knocked and walked in. The office was a mess of papers, winter clothes, spare boots, and wood — chopped, stacked, ready for the stove. A Winchester rifle rested on the table next to the bookcase.

“Let’s have a look at young Angus’s sketch again, shall we.” McKnight took the map off the wall and spread it across his desk, the papers underneath creating mountains and valleys. It was an up-to-date map of the Yukon mining district. Unfortunately, everything north of the Klondike River was marked “unexplored.” Sterling unfolded his own map. The two men studied them.

“This line here,” McKnight said, “might be this river. I can barely make out the name. What’s it say?”

“Thomas Creek.”

“Is it this blue line on Sheridan’s map, do you think?”

“I think, sir,” Sterling said, “it’s irrelevant if it is or not. Chances are good Sheridan expects to come across a river feeding into the Klondike from the north, so he’ll take the first one he comes across that white people haven’t reached yet. If the Gold Commissioner doesn’t know what’s there, then no one else does. Except the Indians and they don’t need to make maps. Least not ones we can read.”

McKnight peered myopically though a thick layer of glass. The man must be as blind as a bat, Sterling thought, without his spectacles. The inspector stroked his moustache. “You’re in the boss’s favour at the moment, Sterling. But favours come and go. You want to take care you don’t get ahead of yourself. And get busted down. Again.”

Sterling felt his gut tighten. “I’ll remember your advice. Sir.”

“See that you do. Now, I’m sending you on this excursion, better to say I’m letting you go, because the NWMP has to be seen to be doing something to affect the return of one of the town’s most prominent citizens. Do you expect, honestly, to accomplish anything? Why not just wait until Sheridan sheepishly returns to town?”

“In many cases, I’d agree with you,” Sterling said, trying to sound reasonable. It was no secret he and McKnight didn’t get on: they’d butted heads too many times. “But I sense a madness in the man. To attack Mrs. MacGillivray, provided that’s what happened, and carry her off.” He shook his head. “She’s not a, shall we say, compliant woman.”

“No.”

“My fear, if I may say so sir, is that they’ll get lost. Unlikely Sheridan has much, if any, experience surviving in the wilderness and Mrs. MacGillivray ...”

“Is a lady, of course. Completely out of her depth.”

“If they get lost, they might not be able to find their way to town or to the Creeks if even the man decides to turn back.” Sterling thought of the Yukon as it had been before the rush. As most of it still was. A vast space teeming with life, if you knew how to look for it. To city eyes it seemed as empty and inhospitable as a desert. “The Indians around here are not aggressive. If they come across any lost people, they’ll be more than happy to bring them to us expecting a reward. But Sheridan might not know that. He’s an American and they’ve been fighting Indians down there until not so long ago. He’ll try to avoid them.”

“Do you honestly think you can find them?”

“I have some skill in the bush, yes. If they make it as far as the tundra? I’ve never been there, but tracking is tracking.”

“You can tell me some day where you got this skill. But for now ...” McKnight stopped at a knock on the door, shouted, “Enter,” and Constable Fitzhenry came in. He gasped for breath, his face was flushed, and Sterling knew the man had news before he even opened his mouth. “Sheridan left his lodgings Saturday night. Cleared out all his things and told the landlady he’d not be back. He’d originally taken the room until Thursday, then changed it to Sunday and left on Saturday.”

He paused to take a breath and McKnight asked, “Did he say anything about where he was going?”

“No, but he kept hinting he’d be back some day, rich as a king of the Orient, he said. She paid him no mind. They all say that, don’t they?”

Sterling and McKnight nodded in unison. Fitzhenry continued, “She told me something interesting. Sheridan bought a horse last week. The landlady said it was a miserable creature. And then,” he paused for effect, “he made a wagon.”

“A wagon?”

“More of a cart, she said. With one big wheel at the back and two poles about six feet long at the front, and a leather harness of some sort.”

“Like a travois?” Sterling asked.

“What’s that?”

“The Plains Indians use a travois. Fastened to the back of a horse or dog, it pulls a load. Like a wagon without wheels.” Being a white man, Sheridan probably thought he was improving on the native design by adding a wheel. Not realizing that a wheel was a liability, not an advantage, where there were no roads. Even the best designed travois was not meant to penetrate bush or manoeuvre over hills and gullies.

“I don’t suppose anyone saw this horse and travois in town on Sunday?” McKnight asked.

Fitzhenry shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. Shall we ask around?”

“What an excellent idea, considering we are attempting to locate the person who made this vehicle,” McKnight snapped.

Fitzhenry flushed. McKnight waved his hand and the young constable fled.

“I like the sound of that,” Sterling said. “A horse and a wheeled contraption will leave a clear trail.”

“Better get on with it then,” McKnight said. “You’re to take that.” He gestured to the rifle. It was a Winchester Carbine, polished to a high shine, a box of cartridges beside it. Sterling raised one eyebrow. “Let’s hope you don’t have to use it. At best it might provide some food if you’re out longer than expected.”

Sterling picked the weapon up. He balanced the weight in his hands, laid it against his cheek, and stared down the barrel. He looked at McKnight, nodded, and headed for the door. The inspector’s voice stopped him and he turned back. McKnight coughed. Sterling waited. McKnight cleared his throat and said, “Good luck, Corporal. Take as much time as you need.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Donohue and Angus were seated on the steps beside the dog. McAllen leaned against a post, but he snapped to attention when Sterling came out of the office.

Mouse O’Brien was with them, pack on his shoulders.

Sterling groaned.

Angus let out a low whistle when he saw the rifle.

“Mouse, what are you doing here?” Sterling said, fearing he knew the answer.

“I heard the news, figured you needed some help.”

“I don’t need any more help and I’m not leading any more city folks into the wilderness.”

“Sure you do,” Mouse said. “You got a lot of stuff for that one little dog to carry.”

“Thought you’d want to spend the time with your new bride. And aren’t you going back to the Creeks tomorrow?”

“Mrs. O’Brien.” Mouse tasted the words on his tongue. “Insisted that I come. A man’s first duty, after his country and his family, is to his friends, she said.”

Sterling did not want to argue any more. Best get moving before anyone else came to join them. Next it would be Mrs. Saunderson and the dancers.

He eyed the packs at the men’s feet.

“It’s grand that you’ve got Millie,” Angus said, rubbing the big dog’s head. “She’ll find Ma, won’t you girl?”

Millie barked her agreement.

“The dog is the property of the NWMP and will carry McAllen’s and my supplies,” Sterling said. “Donohue, O’Brien, you and Angus are to carry your own. Do you understand?”

Donohue said, “Yup,” and Angus nodded enthusiastically.

“That’s why I’ve come,” O’Brien said. “I can take some of Angus’s things.”

“You all brought food? Enough for five days at least?”

“Yes.”

“That should do. If we need more, hopefully we’ll come across some game.” He stroked the rifle butt, then reached into his jacket and pulled out the map. “Angus, you’re in charge of this.”

“Thank you, sir.”

McAllen had stopped at the kitchen to pick up the provisions and cooking supplies. They packed the dog’s saddle bags as best they could with food, pans, a coffee pot, and a tiny travelling stove. Sterling would carry his bedroll and spare clothes. And the rifle.

Donohue rechecked the contents of his own pack.

“If we’re ready, let’s go,” Sterling said. “Angus, you can walk with Millie.”

“Okay,” Angus said, taking the dog’s lead. “I’ve been thinking about this Gold Mountain. You don’t suppose there’s actually something to it, do you, sir?”

“No, Angus, I do not. There’s enough strange and wonderful things in this world without making up stories. I suppose there might be a gold deposit, after all there’s gold around here, isn’t there? But if there is, it’s highly unlikely to be marked on a map Paul Sheridan picked up in his travels.”

Sterling led his small party across the parade square. Mounties and civilians came out of the barracks and offices to watch them pass.