Books by Sue Henry Read online

  The bold flight of a camp-robber jay, swooping in to snatch a scrap of pancake from the edge of the fire, caught his attention and he lifted his head to notice that the sun had risen as he read and set the ripples of the river alight with gleams. Time to go, if he was to reach the Forty-Mile that evening before dark.

  He closed the book, replaced its waxed wrapper, and shut it in the tin. Carefully he sealed it and the boot full of bones in plastic bags, packed them in his daypack, and placed it in one of the larger waterproof bags. Using the coffee mug to dip water from the stream, he drenched the fire and buried the remains with gravel and rocks. Glancing around his campsite, he made sure it was as close as possible to the clean wilderness condition in which he had found it.

  Prepared, he suddenly found himself reluctant. Turning away, he decided to have a last look at the place where he had stumbled over the boot the night before and, making sure the canoe was secure, headed for the willow-crowned bank. The early sunshine backlit the yellowing leaves, turning them into a shimmering wall of glowing gold, which he clambered through again.

  The clear space beyond seemed smaller than it had in the growing darkness of evening, but now he could see where the boot and square tin had shielded the scrub grass from light, inhibiting color, leaving pale spots in the places they had occupied. A third such spot caught his eye almost at once. He leaned over to pick up an object lying beside it, one he had probably struck and shifted as he fell. It was recognizably a small pouch of thin dried leather, so ruined and disintegrating that it fell to pieces as he handled it, allowing a few pebbles to drop into his palm. A closer, curious look told him immediately that they were not pebbles, but nuggets…gold nuggets. Fourteen of them, all approximately the size of his little fingernail, lay in his hand. Gold, by God. Riser had probably found it in Dawson and carried some of it with him. Could there be more?

  A swift visual search of the area showed him nothing. But he went over it anyway, on hands and knees, moving aside any grass that might conceal a further prize. Nothing. Moving to the longer grasses of the uneven circumference of the space, Hampton conscientiously examined the roots of them as well, with no positive result.

  Almost around to where he had begun, he parted one section of grass to find a white, rounded object the size of a small melon half embedded in the soil. Without touching it, he knew immediately it had to be Riser’s skull. With extreme care, he dug around it, pulling away grass and weeds till it came loose without pressure.

  As it came from the ground, it fell into two pieces in his large hands, the back of the cranium from the front section with the jaw attached. But it was complete, as if it had been held together until the flesh disappeared. Weathered and dirty, the top part was bleached white from exposure, the rest, which had been buried, was yellowish tan, covered with clumps and streaks of dark earth; still it was all but whole. The fracture that divided it ran across from temple to temple, and on the right, a hole clear through the bone. Several deep grooves marred its surfaces. Hampton frowned thoughtfully and narrowed his eyes at the idea of a predator. It certainly looked as though something had chewed and broken this skull. The hole would closely fit a tooth. Bear? Wolf? He laid the two pieces back together and turned the skull to face him.

  “Well. Hello, Riser,” he said to the empty sockets and teeth that grinned at him, silently guarding their secrets. “What happened to you, old man?”

  And, as it stared dumbly back at him, “Never mind. I’ll read the rest of your book soon.”

  Four hours later, on another sandbar, he was back at the journal, munching an apple, having gulped down a can of cold beef stew to save himself the time and trouble of heating it.

  SEPTEMBER 21, 1897

  LAKE BENNETT, YUKON TERRITORY

  We have reached Lake Bennett at last, after more than a week on the trail. All that time to travel thirty-five miles, but the longest miles in the world. In actuality much of it was traveled not once but more than a dozen times, as we brought our outfits ahead one load at a time, then went back for another. And it is impossible to walk any speed but slowly with sixty to eighty pounds of goods on your back, over mud, rocks, roots, and all uphill. From the beach to the top of the Chilkoot Pass the trail rises, 3,740 feet in a series of steep, step-like ascents, interspersed with level areas.

  Knowing little about the Chilkoot Trail, Hampton was fascinated with the long and arduous process of getting to the summit, and it had not taken just one trip up. He remembered seeing pictures of an endless chain of heavily burdened men climbing steps hacked into a snow-covered hillside so steep it required a rope to hold on to for balance, and hearing that if one of those packers stepped aside to rest, he might wait hours to rejoin the upward climb. Once there, he turned around and went down for another load. This, it seemed, was only a small part of the Chilkoot experience, but Riser had evidently climbed through the pass before the snow fell that year.

  The first nine miles from Dyea had been accomplished with the help of Indian packers and their canoes, with which Hampton could sympathize. Poling heavily laden canoes upriver was not his idea of a vacation. Riser, Warner, and the Indians had used not only poles but ropes to pull the unstable craft along from the bank. After that, however, they had been on their own.

  Where they left us the real effort began. We divided our outfits into manageable-size loads and started early. It did not aid us that, after two days of good weather on the river, the skies opened and poured rain for the next three.

  Horses, wagons, and packers all moving up the trail had turned it to a quagmire of mud and water. As bad as it was on the trail, it was worse off it where branches of spruce, cottonwood, and hemlock clawed at your pack and the rocks and mud were wet and terribly slippery. Without my rubber boots, I would never have made it and I was glad for the rubber-lined coat Polly insisted I bring. With the collar turned up, my broad-brimmed hat kept the worst of the rain from running down my neck and soaking me immediately. Still, we arrived at the first stop on that trail as wet as if we had been plunged into the river before starting our tramp.

  Landmarks on the trail had names that amused and fascinated Hampton: Canyon City, Sheep Camp, Stone House, The Scales. Riser mentioned them as they were passed in the relays required to transport all his gear. At one of these locations, he described a rough building where they paid fifty cents to sleep on the floor and seventy-five more for a meal of beans, bacon, and tea, a fortune in those days.

  Not all who started the trip finished it, according to Riser. He told of…abandoned goods, where some had simply given up the fight and left what they were carrying to go back to Dyea to await the next boat going south…and said he…picked up two good wool blankets and some nails from one such pile that had been left with a scribbled note which read, “Help yersef if yer loony enuff.”

  Days of uphill packing finally brought Riser and his partner to the summit, which…was a maze of heaped up goods that looked like a city of low buildings with spaces between for streets. Their last look from the top of the Chilkoot was to witness a disastrous icefall from a nearby hanging glacier. Its collapse released a flood of water that poured into the valley, sweeping away anything in its path, including the hundreds of stampeders still on their way up.

  Riser’s journal entry mentioned…Arizona Charley Meadows and his wife, Mae…who were caught in the flood and lost part of their outfit. Meadows, he said, was…a flamboyant character in buckskin jacket and high boots, with a pistol at his belt, who was once a star in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show as a rider and crack shot with a rifle. His wife was a rider and chariot racer in Meadows’s own show, which they had left to go to Dawson. Among other things, they were transporting goods for a restaurant, a saloon, and a general store. At each stopping place, he would set up the bar and sell liquor to the stampeders, at ever-increasing prices as they moved away from a source of supply. The flood carried off the saloon, her clothes, his favorite pistol and supply of western hats. She bought what clothing she could from
those leaving for the coast and the two came on to the pass, through the knee-high mud, to join the rest of their party.

  As Riser described the trials of the Chilkoot, Hampton wished he had gone to Skagway and Dyea before starting his canoe trip. This was a part of the gold rush he would like to see, perhaps even hike the trail. With her interest in history, Judy would enjoy it as well, he thought. Maybe this winter they could read up on the route to the Klondike and come next summer to see it.

  It would be a good idea to know more about it and there must be books with pictures like the one of the snow steps that he remembered. Judy would know.

  As he read on, Riser and Warner went down the other side of the pass and eventually carried all their gear to the shore of Lake Bennett, where they made camp and prepared to build a boat, with hundreds of other people. There, Warner met a man…an old acquaintance of his…with whom Riser was not completely comfortable…His surname is Wilson and Frank calls him Ozzy, so I think his Christian name must be Oswald. They worked together in the lumber camps before Frank became a streetcar man. I am not sure that I would have joined up with him, but Warner took it for granted and I really had no chance to refuse. Since it will be easier and faster to build a boat with three of us, I think it will be fine, but this Ozzy is rather taciturn and perhaps a little sullen compared to the loquaciousness of his friend. I am probably just used to having only two of us and we will all soon grow used to each other, but time will tell how we shall fare. He is a large man, with arms and shoulders that show the result of swinging an ax.

  Together, they built a scaffold and began to saw rough lumber for their boat with a rig called a strong-arm mill, an arrangement where…one man up and one down pull the whipsaw through the length of the log from one end to the other…quite an efficient method of cutting boards, but the sawyer on the bottom gets a shower of sawdust on the downward stroke, which sifts into eyes, ears, and shirt-neck, and is a constant irritation.

  At this point Riser related a story that made Hampton laugh aloud, startling a squirrel that had crept close to inspect a bread crust laid out for his consumption. It went scampering off, but not without its prize stuffed in one cheek.

  This sawing of lumber can cause disagreements as to who is and is not doing his share of the work. Yesterday at noon two fellows near us had such an argument they decided to split up their partnership. They carefully divided up their supplies, down to and including the halfbuilt boat, which they cut exactly in two. One took the tent, the other the stove. It rained like blazes in the night, so the one with the tent was dry but couldn’t sleep for the cold and the other huddled by the stove all night, trying to dry out his wet clothes. By morning they had made up their differences and put the vessel back together again, giving us all a good laugh.

  The temperature was growing colder and Riser worried about getting started on the last of their journey to Dawson before they were frozen in for the winter…Water on the lake is already looking slick in the mornings and a rim of ice can be found where it meets the shore. Like almost everyone else, I am growing a beard. It is not always convenient to shave and whiskers will keep my face warmer this winter.

  Hampton rubbed his chin and wondered about growing a beard himself. He had never had one. Maybe…well, maybe not. Leaving Riser at Bennett Lake, he got up to put his canoe back in the river. The squirrel watched from a safe distance, hoping for more scraps, but doomed to disappointment.

  Chapter Three

  ONLY WITH RELUCTANCE HAD HAMPTON put the journal away. Miles of river lay ahead before he would reach the Forty-Mile, then three miles of upriver paddling to Clinton Creek. He knew the journal must wait. With the book returned to its protective coverings, he was set to shove the canoe back into the river, when the sound of an engine made him pause. Almost immediately, a powerboat appeared, headed upriver, making good time against the current. It was similar to many other boats he had seen in the area, though larger than most.

  Two men rode in the aluminum craft, one at the wheel, another seated beside him, both too far away to see clearly. A pile of some sort of cargo behind them was covered with a blue plastic tarp. The second man rose and moved to the side to look when he saw Hampton, who smiled and lifted an arm. Neither responded in kind, though they both watched him closely as they passed. In a minute or two they vanished around a bend in the river, the roar of the engine dying slowly in their wake. The sound of their passing seemed an unusually loud and unwelcome intrusion, fragmenting the pleasant stillness of the uninhabited stretch of the wild river.

  Their lack of response seemed decidedly unfriendly to Hampton. His impression of the people he had met on this trip was one of welcome helpfulness. It was strange to find men who exhibited none of the usual recognition and empathy of fellow-travelers. During the morning he had passed two other boats, a smaller aluminum one and an inflatable rubber Zodiac, and all those riding in them had waved as they went by.

  He had also passed several Indian families subsistence fishing along the river. They almost always took a minute from their set nets and fish wheels, or from splitting and hanging fish to dry on racks, to nod or wave. One man had even offered him a fresh trout when he swung close to examine the construction of the water-driven wheel that so effectively scooped fish out of the water and into a wooden box. Three children had run along the bank, calling and waving until they passed from sight.

  Before lunch he had spotted a sport fisherman on the bank with a small, neat camp and riverboat. When Hampton waved, the man, Warren Russell, hallooed him in for a cup of late-morning coffee, and they had spent half an hour trading appreciation of the river and its surrounding fall colors. What a contrast with the two who had just passed in their powerboat.

  Shrugging, he stepped into the canoe and pushed off. The fall sunshine was thin but warm on his back and he soon settled into a comfortable rhythm with the paddle. It wasn’t long until his thoughts returned to Addison Riser and his journey.

  It was incredible that hundreds of people like him had simply walked away from whatever they were doing and headed north when they heard of the discovery of gold in the Klondike. Of course, the country was in the midst of a depression and many were finding it difficult to make enough to live on, or to find a job at all, but very few of them had made the fortunes they hoped for by coming here. Hampton had thumbed through a book or two about the area that included information on the rush; now he was determined to find more. There had been a bookstore somewhere on the streets of Whitehorse. When he made it back there, he would find it and see what they had to offer. It would also be wise to have a copy made of the journal, so he could read it without damaging the original. Though it was in exceptional shape for its age and the conditions under which it had suffered for so long, it was old, and handling would undoubtedly do it no good. He would look up someone who knew about old books and ask how to preserve it.

  Thinking of the journal, he suddenly realized that it was beyond his reach if he should overturn. He did not want to lose it in an accident, which was always a possibility, particularly on an unfamiliar river. The idea caused him to swing the canoe closer to the bank, into slower water, take the time to lift the pack and set it behind him, close at hand. Satisfied, he went back to the long easy pulls that sent him ahead faster than the current could carry him.

  Before he reached the midriver flow, he once again became aware of engine sound. Twisting, he saw the same boat headed downriver in his direction. Both the men were standing this time, looking at him over the windshield. The boat was directed straight at him and coming fast.

  A few pulls of the paddle swung him away from midstream, but, looking back, he found they had also adjusted course. For a second or two he waited, expecting them to turn away. They couldn’t really intend to run him down? Why would they? The boat kept coming. He caught his breath and lifted the paddle for an enormous effort, knowing he must move swiftly out of the way or be rammed. Convinced they meant to crush his canoe with the prow of the heavier, stron
ger boat, he was bracing to throw himself into the water when the man at the wheel cut the power and veered off slightly, allowing the boat to drift close, rumbling in idle. They floated with the current, side by side.

  Bastards, he thought. Like smart-aleck drivers who swerve to scare cyclists or dogs. They’d done it on purpose. What the hell did they want?

  Swinging the paddle across, he held it ready to fend off the silver hull looming over him, but it came no closer, remaining perhaps a foot away, rocking slightly in the sudden quiet. Both men stood by the rail, staring down at him with sneers and self-satisfied looks on their faces, obviously amused at the effect of their maneuver and his reaction, like a couple of delinquent children. It crossed his mind that he might need the paddle as a desperate, but probably inadequate, weapon.

  They were not unusually large, but both were well-built, outdoors men. The one who had been at the wheel looked older and taller, perhaps a little over six feet, though it was hard to tell while looking up at him. He wore a billed cap, dirty green, over long tangles of dark hair. A bushy beard hung midway down his chest over a soiled red-plaid shirt. The other exhibited a two-or three-day stubble of whiskers, and his light-brown hair hung in straight greasy strands around his ears, brushing the collar of a grubby blue denim shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a three-cornered tear in one shoulder. He was a kid, really, perhaps in his early twenties, and thinner than his companion, whose beer belly bulged over the waist of his dirty jeans.

  The bearded one leaned over the rail and showed his yellowed teeth in what Hampton could only describe as a grimace, for it was nowhere near a smile. Wolfish was the word that came to mind.

  “Hey, man,” he asked. “You’re not from around here. Where ya think you’re goin’?”