White Silence (11 page)

They were cheechakos, these three, like all the rest. Yet Si-wash Sam knew, in the way that he knew where best to look for the winter hare when all the land was white, that they were somehow different.

But for now, he kept those thoughts to himself.

Chapter 6

From AN ARGONAUT’S JOURNAL

My party left Skagway on a Thursday morning near the end of August. We numbered five—my two companions, our two guides, and myself. We had with us roughly two tons of supplies. Most are lashed on two flat-bottomed sleds drawn by two teams of seven dogs apiece. But each of us also has to carry a huge pack, carefully balanced on our backs.

To the gear that we had purchased in Seattle—the tents, blankets, cooking utensils, tools, ropes, saws, lanterns, coal oil, soap, candles, matches, baking powder, lard, and salt—we added more foodstuffs. Tea and coffee, chocolate (an excellent source of energy), dried potatoes, mincemeat, cornmeal, bacon and beans, dried fish for the dogs, various kinds of dried fruit, sugar, and condensed milk.

We left behind all but one good suit apiece. It is said that some of the hotels in Dawson City rival those of Seattle, so we felt that we should be prepared in case the tales are true. We wear the uniform of the gold seeker now—mackinaw trousers, a flannel shirt, a heavy coat, and rubber boots. We have each purchased a broad-brimmed hat, designed to protect the head and neck from damp and drips.

The going is slow. The White Pass, though well marked, is narrow. And so many have come here to seek their fortune that at times, we must walk single file, like schoolboys on an outing …

“Fitzcairn,” Duncan called, “take care.”

Up ahead, Fitz half turned. To his right, the narrow trail dropped away five hundred feet to the rocky ground below. The bottom was littered with carcasses, animals that had fallen to their deaths. Horses mostly, lying sprawled and broken. Carrion birds covered the freshest, intent upon feeding before the corpses froze. It was a pitiful sight, Duncan thought. He’d seen the like in battle, where arrow or shot and shell had struck down horse as well as rider. But never so many, in heaps along the way.

“Why should I worry, MacLeod?” Fitzcairn said. “Don’t you remember? This is the easy way across the mountains!” He threw his arms wide, nearly losing his balance. Only the steadying hand of Sam’s brother kept him upright.

Duncan did not bother to reply. The White Pass, forty-five miles of switchbacked trail that sometimes would lead them across the same river twice,
was
the easy way. Even at its highest—the aptly named Summit Hill—travelers still had only a thousand-foot climb, over ground that was difficult, to be sure, but not impossible. The Chilkoot was more direct, but it was thirty-five hundred feet up from the town of Dyea. And the top of the always snow-covered mountain could only be reached by climbing a single trail, so narrow and steep that men and beasts had always to go single file.

He’d been in mountains like this before. Fitz’s complaints notwithstanding, the terrain was no more rugged than some he’d encountered in the Northwest Territories.

No, the true challenges of the White Pass were twofold. Dealing with the hundreds of others on the trail. And coping with the difficulties of moving five men, fourteen dogs, and two flat-bottomed sleds loaded with close to two tons of supplies.

Could such a task ever be said to be easy? Until he’d met Darius on that snowy battlefield, he’d always been a warrior. And as a warrior, he’d never given a thought to those in charge of the wagons with the food and the blankets and all of the equipment that kept the army alive—until the army could die for the cause, whatever it might be. He was beginning to consider that fighting and dying were perhaps the simpler jobs.

He stepped carefully around a fall of loose rock. Sam, who was in the lead, had stopped again, pulling his dogs to a halt with a grunted command. It was the third time in the past two hours. Once more, they waited while the group ahead—a half dozen men who had all been neighbors back in Boston—struggled to negotiate a particularly difficult section of the trail. Their overburdened pack animals were weary and skittish. It was obvious to Duncan that their experience with horses had probably been confined to riding in streetcars. Yet the way was too narrow for him, or any of their party, to be of assistance.

So they waited, Duncan and the Indians, with various degrees of patience, Danny as sullen as he had been in the two weeks since they had left Skagway, and Fitz with many a loud complaint. Duncan passed the time remembering with some fondness the moment, centuries before, when he had run Fitz through.

Finally, Sam whistled the dogs to their feet. And the long journey continued.

The easy way,
Fitz muttered under his breath. Over a month of up one bloody steep hill and down one bloody soggy valley after another. The White Pass Trail. Porcupine Hill. The horror of Dead Horse Gulch.

They’d nearly lost a sled in a mudhole just after they crossed the border into Canada, right at Summit Hill. Fortunately, one of the Royal Canadian Mounted Policemen on duty there had come to their aid. He’d gotten himself quite mucked up doing it, too, Fitz remembered.

The Mounties, with their colorful uniforms and rigorous sense of duty, fascinated Fitz. He’d shared a smoke and some conversation one night with a party camped nearby at Summit Lake. From them, he’d learned that the Mounties were
the
law in the Yukon Territory. The old-timer prospectors—the ones called sourdoughs—and most of the Indians were in awe of them. But the thousands of newcomers pouring into the country were straining their resources—and their patience.

After Skagway, it pleased Fitz to know that there
was
law in the Yukon. Although, of course, that was Alaska and this was Canada.

Well, it looked just the same to him. More rocky hills, more endless bogs. More piles of supplies, left behind by those who had given up. They’d seen dozens of them, weary, defeated men headed back to Skagway, their dreams abandoned with their gear.

And, he would swear on his sword, they had seen one of the horses that belonged to the fools from Boston commit suicide. The poor creature, whipped past the point of exhaustion, had simply walked off the side of the trail, falling to the rocks below.

But they had kept on, through the icy rain, the wet flurries of snow, and the gray gloom that only lifted at the very top of the mountains. They were now, according to their map and Si-wash Sam, in the Tutshi Valley, a day away from journey’s end. They’d camped for the night at the base of a wooded hill beside a small lake, on a spot of land that was almost dry. Campfires dotted the valley, though none were nearby.

Fitz was glad of that. He was gregarious by nature, but for the past several months he had scarcely had a moment of solitude. The journey so far had been from one crowded place to another. Even this supposedly vast wilderness was teeming with gold seekers. They were loud. They were raucous. They were competition.

And, worst of all from his point of view, there was not an available woman to be found among them.

Fitz stood outside the large tent in the misty gloom of early dusk. The night was silent, the camp quiet. Vixen, the light brown-and-white bitch that was the swing dog for Siwash Sam’s team, whined softly and pawed at his foot. She was a handsome beast, Fitz thought. Most of the dogs were mixed breeds, a bit of this, a bit of that—even a bit of wolf here and there. But she was a husky, purebred from her mix-matched gold-and-blue eyes to the tip of her plumed tail. Her bark was a high-pitched yip, her small size belied by her prodigious strength.

She’d taken a fancy to him from the first. And he, never one to disappoint a lady, had reciprocated. She sat, ears pricked, tongue lolling out. He smiled and tossed her the bit of salted fish she’d smelled in his pocket.

Rip, Sam’s lead dog, came over, wagging his tail. Though the black-and-gray was the dominant male of the pack, even he deferred to Vixen. She snarled. He stopped, then turned away, wandering over to where the rest of the dogs were staked out. Some had already curled up, asleep after their day’s labors.

Sleep. He’d be for that soon himself. There was hardly a stir from inside the tent. MacLeod, Danny, even the two Indians, all had turned in soon after their meal. Early to bed, early to rise would bring them all the more quickly across the one last bloody mountain to their destination. He’d wanted a moment or two with his thoughts and his pipe before joining them.

Vixen growled, a low rumble in her throat.

“Now, my pretty,” Fitz said, reaching down to ruffle the fur on her neck. “Don’t be so demanding. I’ve nothing left that you can eat.” He stopped. The dog’s ruff was up, her ears back. He raised his head, peering into the foggy darkness.

A shot rang out. Fitz felt a hot pain in his side. As he fell face forward into the embers of the campfire, he heard first Vixen, then Rip, then all of the dogs fill the night with barking.

In that darkness, in that time before he breathed again, Fitz remembered the first time he’d been shot. He had died many a time before then, by the blade for the most part. And once, when he’d jumped out of a window just as someone’s husband came in through a door. But he’d not died from the gun until one summer’s dawn. There had been a duel, fought over the honor of a lady, of course. And he had lost.

The ball had taken him in the chest. The pain was like some hideous flower blooming, spreading through his lungs. A sword, a dagger—those were bright, swift pains. Over and done, until the light returned. This gunshot—quite something else again.

Afterward, he’d made it a point to learn to shoot straight. But since then, he’d tried to avoid pistol duels.

And, he thought as he gasped back to life,
I’d also prefer to avoid being set upon in the dark by armed brigands, thank-you-very-much.
He rolled over, his face covered with ashes, and struggled to his knees. Now the night was filled with sound. The dogs were still barking. Gunshots could be heard and seen, as rifle muzzles flared.

“Hugh!” Danny was by his side. “You’re back, then.”

Fitz nodded.

“Here,” the young Immortal said, thrusting a rifle into his hands. “We’ve got them pinned down.”

He disappeared into the night. Fitz followed, cautiously. Though a pale moon had risen, it would be hard to tell friend from foe in the darkness. He had no desire to be shot again, by either.

He found the two Immortals huddled together in the shelter of a boulder. As he approached, MacLeod stood and fired up the hill toward a stand of trees. An answering shot followed, barely missing Fitz’s head.

“Why don’t ye just stand atop this rock and be done with it, ye great idiot?” MacLeod muttered. “Haven’t you had enough of dying tonight?”

Fitz crouched beside them.

“According to Danny, you have our assailants pinned down.” He ducked his head as a bullet struck the boulder. Small chips of rock flew through the air. Danny jerked back, a thin rivulet of blood running down his cheek. “If they’re pinned down, then why are we the ones kneeling in the mud, being shot at? Is there some great strategy here that I’m missing?”

“Sam and his brother have gone up the hill.” Duncan replied. “They should be in position soon. We’ll have them then on two sides.”

“It’s a good thing that the dogs made such a fuss when you were shot, Hugh,” Danny said. “It was a warning to us.”

“Hugh Fitzcairn at your service,” Fitz said, through gritted teeth. “Always glad to die in a good cause.”

Danny lowered his gun. “I didn’t mean—”

“Quiet.” MacLeod said. Farther up the hill, a light appeared briefly.

“Sam and his brother, I presume.” In the dim moonglow, he could just see MacLeod’s nod.

“Now!” MacLeod shouted. He rose and began a volley of shots. Danny joined him. Fitz, keeping his head carefully down, fired also, aiming toward the flashes of muzzle fire that flared in the trees.

Though the three Immortals could not see the Indians, the results of their attack were quickly evident. Cries of pain echoed down the hill. A body fell from a tree, rolling like a rag doll down the slope. To Fitz, the exchange of gunfire seemed an endless series of explosions in the night. The smell of sulfur hung in the air.

In truth, it was over in a moment. Two men appeared out of the trees, holding their hands above their heads. They called out their surrender, fairly running down the hill in their desire to give up.

A short time later, they were securely tied up, sitting back to back at the entrance to the tent. Vixen, her head on her paws, lay not far away, watching them intently. Rip circled them several times, then lifted his leg. A stream of urine soaked the men. They cursed the dog. Rip walked away, and settled down close by.

MacLeod smiled. It was not, Fitz decided, a smile that anyone with any sense would care to see, even in the light of day.

“They not go anywhere,” Siwash Sam said. “You all come with me.”

He led them back into the night, and up the hill. Three more bodies lay under the trees. The Indian’s brother bent down and rolled one of them over. Sam shone the lantern in the dead face. The man was as ugly a specimen as Fitz had ever seen. Broken nose, scarred eyebrows, and a wart on his chin that his scraggly beard could not quite hide.

Fitz thought he had seen the face before. But where?

MacLeod rarely swore. So Fitz was startled when he did so now. He followed the oath with a name.

“Zimmer?” Fitz repeated. “Zimmer! The heinous thief who stole our money!” Now he recalled the brief glimpse he had gotten as the man snatched the wallet from his hand.

“Did you not tell us, Mr. MacLeod, that he was one of Smith’s men?” Danny asked quietly.

Duncan confirmed the fact. Fitz was astounded. “You’re saying that Soapy Smith sent his men after us? That we’ve been followed for all these weeks, clear across that trail of infamy?”

“These all Soapy’s men,” Siwash Sam said. “I know them to see.”

When they questioned the two prisoners, they found that the Indian was right. The six were indeed all in the employ of Soapy Smith. Zimmer had volunteered to lead the group, anxious for the chance to settle his score with MacLeod. But the plan had been Smith’s. He’d wanted them all dead, argonauts and Indians alike. “For the principle of the thing,” he’d said.