White Silence (13 page)

But it was. And now they were all, each and every odd craft, headed inexorably toward the “cannon” that lay just ahead.

Not a gun, oh no. A canyon, filled with big water, rushing water.

The sound grew ever louder. It was not music to Fitz’s ears. The rafts picked up speed. The cliff walls seemed to press in, as the river narrowed.

It’s like being poured through a funnel,
Fitz thought.
Or down a drain.

The two Indians wielded their oars and shouted instructions to Danny and MacLeod. Sam’s brother had enough English for that, thank the saints. Thus they steered past the whirlpool in the center of the river, coming so close to the black-basalt cliffs that Fitz saw places where travelers had dared to leave their marks, names scrawled hastily as boats bobbed on the current. As they skimmed along, he was able to make out a few of them: there, in a looping script, the initials J.L. Above it, at a height that indicated some fool had stood to make his mark, a lopsided heart. Farther along, in block print, the name BUCK and a half-completed date.

A small canoe carrying three men had been caught in the whirlpool. It turned in dizzying circles, the men crying for help. MacLeod called to them, but there was nothing that could be done. The rush of the river would not be denied.

They were past the whirlpool now, but not past danger. Si-wash Sam ordered them all to get down low, and lash themselves to the raft. The coils of rope that had been a bother underfoot now were to be put to their intended use. For the river narrowed even more, until it was scarcely thirty feet across. And at the other end of the canyon, it spat the rafts out onto the jagged rocks of the rapids beyond.

As they rode over the boulders, foam rising above them like sea waves in a gale, Fitz could see, here and there, the shattered remains of craft that had attempted the journey before the Mounties had come to impose order. It was not a comforting sight.

He had his right arm locked around one of the ropes that secured the sled and his left around Vixen. The dog lay half in his lap, a look of pure canine delight on her face.

“Well, I’m pleased that you’re enjoying this,” he muttered into her ear. Then he looked back. MacLeod was sprawled at the front of the raft. His face was alight with excitement. The raft dipped, and a spray of water cascaded over him. Even above the din of the river, Fitz could hear his laughter.

“Mad dogs and Highlanders,” he said to Vixen, who yipped in response.

In the next instant, the raft tipped forward, sliding down the face of a huge boulder.

“Whooooaaa!” Fitz exclaimed. He kept his grip on the dog, as the deck became nearly vertical. Danny slid downward, too, headfirst, scrabbling for a handhold.
He must have left too much slack in his rope,
Fitz thought. All he could do was extend his leg to try to stop the young Immortal’s fall. Drowning was not a death he would wish even on the worst of their kind.

But as the raft continued to tip, Fitz realized that it wasn’t just Danny who was in danger of going for an unwanted swim. For a heartbeat, they teetered on the brink of overturning. Then the Indian reached for Danny, pulling him back. The balance tipped again, and the raft skimmed off the bottom of the boulder. The crash of spray when it hit the river soaked them all.

MacLeod’s raft was ahead of them now. Fitz wiped the river from his eyes, and watched it careen along. The Indians used the oars to push away from the larger rocks, when they could, but the way was still a foam-filled chaos.

Vixen whined, and he realized that he was holding her so tightly that she could barely move. He loosened his grip, and she got to her feet. A second later, he was drenched anew, as she shook herself thoroughly. Then the raft hit another boulder. Fitz grabbed the dog and once more held on for dear life.

A breathless few minutes later they were through the rapids, skimming along on the current. The river flowed into another lake, blue-green and peaceful under the cloudless sky. Mountains rose all around. Fitz looked up to see their peaks sparkling white. Then he looked out over the lake. The still, clear water mirrored the mountains and the sky to perfection. Certain now that he would not drown this day, he allowed himself to be transfixed by the beauty of it all.

Siwash Sam was on his feet, oar in hand, moving the raft smoothly across the calm surface.

“Water holds the sky,” he said. “Sky holds the water. They all the same.” Fitz was taken by surprise. Usually, the Indian spoke freely only to MacLeod or to his brother, in their own language. He searched for a response.

But Sam had already turned away. He grunted a command to Danny, and they headed toward the shore.

A handful of days later, Duncan sat crossed-legged on the raft, anchored by the lakeside for the evening. The night was still, save for the sound of Danny moaning in his sleep. In a while, if his distress continued, Fitzcairn would wake him.

During the day, the young Immortal seemed to have put Skagway behind him. At night—well, dreams were not where logic ruled. And no matter how good a job Fitzcairn was doing in his role as teacher, he could not go wherever it was that Danny went when he was asleep.

Duncan had a fleeting memory of Connor shaking him awake once. He’d been dreaming of what? His first death? The old hermit in the cave? Debra, falling? He couldn’t remember. But he had woke up screaming in the night.

He put the thought aside and returned to the map that he was examining by lanternlight, tracing with one finger the route they had traveled. The latest of his Argonaut reports lay next to him, half-completed.

“Lake Bennett to Marsh Lake.” he murmured to himself. “Through Miles Canyon and the Squaw and White Horse Rapids. Down the River Lewes to Lake Labarge. From there, to the river called Thirty-Mile.” He made a note on the map. Thirty-Mile had been difficult. Hidden rocks and sand bars had made the going treacherous.

“Then through one last set of rapids. Called the Five Fingers.” He made another note. There was a trick to getting through, a trick that Sam knew. One of the five channels held a whirlpool. It looked dangerous, but in fact it turned the boats right, and set them safe.

“We’re on the Yukon now, just about here.” An X marked the spot. “And tomorrow, we reach Dawson City.”

“This morning, we pass the cabin of Carmack. He the sourdough who made the first strike. I point it out to the Irishman.”

Duncan looked up, though he did not turn around. He hadn’t heard Sam approach. It had been a long time since he’d been taken unaware.

“I’ll write that down. My friend in Seattle would find it of interest.”

Sam sat next to him. He took the map and the pen. “Here,” he said, making another X. “This where it is.”

“George Carmack, wasn’t that his name?” Duncan asked. “And wasn’t one of his partners an Indian?”

Sam nodded. “Both were. They rich now, too. They not Indian anymore.” He made a sound that Duncan recognized as a laugh.

Duncan responded in Siwash. He hoped he was saying something on the order of “lucky bastards.” He’d been listening to Sam and his brother talk, and comparing what he heard to the Lakota that he knew.

Sam laughed again. “Pretty good, for a cheechako. I think maybe story you tell about living with Indians is true.”

“I had a—wife,” Duncan said. “And a son. They are dead now. I wouldn’t lie about that.”

This was not strictly true. Little Deer had not lived long enough to become his wife. Her son had not been his child. But these were things he could not tell Sam, things he had trouble speaking of, even after so many years.

Sam shrugged. “Most squaw men do not belong in the lands where they were born. They can live in the wild. In city places their hearts dry up.” He faced Duncan, his black eyes level.

“You not like that. You different from other men. But not in way squaw men are different.”

Duncan was uneasy. What had Sam noticed?

“If I were that different,” he replied, as casually as he could, “I wouldn’t be here, would I?” He folded the map. “My friend in Seattle thought that all argonauts were fools off on a fool’s journey. She would laugh to see us now. We’ve not bathed in weeks, our clothes are filthy, and we smell of wet fur.”

“But you go on,” Sam said. It was not a question.

“Yes.” Duncan agreed. “When we stood on the top of Summit Mountain, above the clouds—that was a sight meant for the eyes of eagles. I want to see more.” He smiled. “I want to see the lights in the northern sky that I have heard so much about.”

“Scotsman,” Sam said, “there is more. I could show you.” He was silent. Duncan waited.

“Tomorrow, many come to Dawson. Some stop there. Some not. They go along the Klondike. They strike the land with their axes. They sift the waters with their pans.” He snorted.

“They are the fools. The land does not give up the gold to the soft men. It waits. For one like you.”

“If they are fools, then what would a wise man do?” Duncan asked, carefully.

“Ten mile beyond Dawson there is a village. It not Siwash. But the tribe does trade with Siwash. A wise man would go there, to buy more dogs and another sled.”

“And then?”

“A wise man would hire Siwash Sam and his brother. They would take the man and his friends to a place in the mountains. A place where land and water have not been touched.”

“Why would Siwash Sam do this?” Duncan asked.

The silence stretched between them. Finally, Sam answered. “Maybe Sam a fool. Maybe he want to be rich Indian.” He looked at Duncan from the corner of his eyes.

“Maybe he curious …”

Dawson City. Duncan would never forget the first sight of the town that had grown, in barely a year’s time, from a few scattered tents pitched on muddy riverbanks to a thriving metropolis. The rafts rounded one last bend. Beyond the turn, the river widened. Already, even in early October, ice chunks could be seen floating along with the current. Here the mighty Klondike rushed into the Yukon. On the right, a snowcapped mountain rose, dominating the horizon. And in the triangle of land formed by the junction of the two rivers, back to the foothills of that mountain, what looked to be a thousand or more buildings were clustered. Ranging from individual canvas tents to a four-story hotel, they were built haphazardly wherever there was space. No city planner had been at work here, Duncan thought. The morning sunlight, shining through the mist that rose from the mudflats, made it seem indeed like an Eldorado. Though they went on, bound for the Indian village, he stood looking back at the odd flotilla that had shared their journey. As the boats came close to shore, men leaped out, wading the last distance, eager to pass through this final gate to the fabled wealth of the Klondike. How many, Duncan wondered, would find what they had sought for so long? And would he and his friends be among them?

Dawson City. Fitzcairn swore he could hear the sounds from the dance halls, the whoops of appreciation as the ladies raised their petticoats and shook their shapely legs to the music of the upright pianos.

Oh, for the sight of a beardless face—and the touch of a soft hand! And a hot bath!

Even better, the touch of a soft hand
in
a hot bath.

If he had known—if he had even suspected—how long this journey would be, how long he would be without the sweet solace of the fairer sex …

But their course was set—so as they floated by, he lost himself in the memory of a certain senorita, and a deep pool of water, heated from the earth. The place had stunk of sulfur, but he’d been too occupied to really notice.

Dawson City. Danny felt a hollowness in his belly that was like a hunger. The gold was
there
. He knew it. He heard the stories. Gold dust and gold nuggets were the currency of the place. Why, a man could find his fortune just by sifting the sweepings from the saloon floors!

Hugh had said to trust MacLeod. The Highlander had lived among the heathens—he knew their ways and their wisdom. If he would follow the Indian called Sam, then they should likewise follow him.

Yet as Dawson came into view, he gazed toward it with longing. A rainbow seemed to shimmer above the town.

The sun on the damp morning air or his imagination? Danny didn’t know. Yet long after Dawson has disappeared behind them he sat looking downstream.

He was there still when Fitzcairn called out the first sight of the Indian village, a rough circle of tents and sheds, scattered on the shore to the right.

Chapter 7

From AN ARGONAUT’S JOURNAL

We left the Indian village in early October with three new sleds and three new dogs. The sleds were a kind with runners. The snows had already begun, and they were, our guide said, better suited to the terrain that lay ahead. The dogs—two bitches and an ill-tempered, burly male—were the only animals he could find that he judged worth adding to their fourteen. So two of the sleds were pulled by teams of five.

At the village, we replenished our supplies, adding to the store of beans and bacon that are the staples of a prospector’s diet. And we laid in fifty more pounds of dried salmon. The dogs thrive on it—even a small amount is a solid source of nourishment and energy.

At the suggestion of our guide we traded some of what he called our Southland clothing for items made by the Indians. Wool greatcoats have given way to sealskin parkas, leather boots to high-topped fur-and-hide moccasins.

Claire Benét had wanted them to take a camera along, to supplement his Argonaut reports with photographs. Photography was all the rage these days. Duncan had demurred, claiming that the contraption would be more a bother than it was worth. In actuality, this invention called the camera concerned him. It was not in the best interests of men and women whose lives spanned centuries for there to be proof of it. Before he’d reasoned that through, he’d allowed a lover to have his portrait painted. A decision he’d lived—barely—to regret.

That had been some two hundred years past. Since then he’d made certain that no image of Duncan MacLeod in the eighteenth century would appear to confound those mortals who knew him now.