I didn’t answer that, but I did indicate that I was trying to find out what value should be put on the mine.
‘Jonny is the man to tell you that,’ McKie said quickly. And he made the point once again that the mine hadn’t produced anything much in the way of gold for a long time. ‘Jonny ran it at a loss. Ask anybody here.’ He looked round at the others, most of them local men with woollen shirts and muddied boots. They nodded, and one of them said that whether Tom Halliday was alive or dead didn’t make any difference to the mine because it wasn’t worth a cent anyway. ‘The claim’s worked out, and Jonny knows it, poor bastard.’
A hand touched my shoulder. Eddie had come from behind the bar. ‘On the house,’ he said, thrusting a drink into my hand. It was a large Scotch and I looked across at McKie, who nodded and raised his glass. The log fire, a moose head above it with a huge spread of plate-like antlers, the weathered faces and the outlandish clothes — I was very much the stranger from outer space. And Tony Tarasconi, a bright red scarf tied in a knot round his neck, his hair very black, not straight like an Indian’s, but running back across his narrow head in waves, his eyes bright, his appearance birdlike. He began playing again, softly now and crooning to himself. Several times he glanced at me curiously as though trying to make up his mind about something. I had the feeling he would have talked if we had been on our own.
I bought a round of drinks and shortly afterwards I went to bed. Half dozing I heard voices, the slam of car doors, then the sound of engines fading into the night. The murmur of the generator ceased abruptly and the verandah lights went out. A moment later there was a knock at my door, and when I opened it I found Tony Tarasconi standing there. He was swaying slightly, a dim shadow only recognizable because of the guitar still slung from his neck.
‘You still want to go to Ice Cold Creek?’ His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘I’m going back in to my claim tomorrow. I can take you up — if you like.’ He sounded uncertain.
It was freezing cold standing there in my pyjamas, but he wouldn’t come in, his eyes on the restaurant entrance. ‘What time?’ I asked.
Ten, or a little later perhaps.’
‘What about the slide?’
‘I don’t know. You may have to walk a bit. We’ll see. But you be ready by ten, okay?’ He wanted me to set off walking towards Haines and he’d pick me up. ‘That way Kevin won’t know I’m giving you a lift, see. Nobody will know.’
I asked him why it had to be done so secretly, but he shook his head, giving me a perfunctory goodnight and staggering off to his cabin.
I was shivering with cold by then so I didn’t try to stop him. I was now so convinced that it was the Gully and the gold that might lie hidden in the ground there that motivated them all that I hardly gave it another thought. Tomorrow I would take a look at Stone Slide Gully and the Italian would doubtless make some sort of offer that would trigger off a bid from McKie and the others. Perhaps I wouldn’t need to do anything about the trees Tom’s father had planted. A few moments and I was asleep, and when I woke the sun was coming up over the lake in a great red ball of fire that had the whole vast expanse of water lying like molten lava against the black outline of the distant mountains over towards Whitehorse.
I dressed quickly and went out. The sky was clear, the sun bright and my breath smoking in air that had a tang of frost in it, not a breath of wind. A few hours now and I should know why they didn’t want me to go up to the mine. Was there gold there that Tom hadn’t known about? A workable mine? But then Miriam would have written. And if there was nothing — nothing of value… but the question seemed burned into my mind — why hadn’t she written? It rankled. I suppose that was it. A blow to my manhood, though God knows the frosty air hadn’t done it any good either, and the chill remoteness of that flat calm lake had the effect of making me seem very small, the long high rampart of the Front Ranges stretching into the distance, the autumn colours flaring lemon in the sun, and along the tops the new snow shining crystal white. It was a fairy scene, so brilliant and so beautiful that on the instant I knew why sensible urban businessmen would give up commuting for the hard life of a northern settler. I reached the lake, the heron watching me from a bed of reeds, still as a sentinel expecting snipers.
When I got back to the lodge Tony and another man were unloading a mud-spattered pick-up truck. He glanced in my direction, then deliberately turned away. The hunters’ truck had gone. I went into the restaurant. No sign of McKie, but Eddie was there, and a girl who mixed cleaning with serving. I bought a couple of postcards of Dezadeash Lake and wrote them while waiting for my coffee and a great plateful of bacon and egg and sausage. The postcards, the brightness of the day, the prospect of a drive deep into the Ranges under whose shadow I seemed to have been for so long gave me the feeling of being on holiday. I sent one postcard to my mother, the other to that tiresome little bitch I had taken with me to Brittany — why I can’t think, except as a sort of flourish, like sticking a pin in the North Pole and saying That’s where I am now, aren’t you impressed? God, how simple, how obvious the needs of one’s psyche!
There was movement on the Highway now, several trucks headed for Haines, a car in for gas, another spilling an American family homeward bound and wanting breakfast, some foresters. I sat over my coffee, watching them all, relaxed and enjoying the strangeness of it. A truck with two Indians, then more Americans, elderly and in a tetchy mood, taking their mobile home down to catch the ferry to Prince Rupert. ‘There’s a ride back to Whitehorse if you want it.’ Kevin McKie was at my elbow, nodding towards a big estate car crowded with children that was just pulling in from the gas pumps. They say one more won’t make any difference.’
I shook my head. ‘It’s too lovely a day,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a walk and stretch my legs.’
‘Okay. But I warn you, there’s not too much going to Whitehorse. The visitors are pulling out of the Yukon, so most of the traffic is going the other way.’ He hesitated, looking down at me. ‘And don’t think you can just head into the Kluane on your own. The law says you got to notify the Park authorities.’
‘Ice Cold is not in the Kluane National Park,’ I said.
His eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. ‘Sure it isn’t, but it’s damn close and you could easily get lost or snowed in or treed by a grizzly, and there’s hunters around, too. We don’t like being called out in the middle of the night to go looking for people.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ I told him.
He nodded. ‘Okay, but you remember, we’re on the edge of a lot of mountain and ice here, on the brink of winter, too. The weather can change very fast.’ One of the foresters called to him, a big barrel-bellied man, braces over bright red bush shirt and a hat with a feather in it rammed tight on a round bullet head. ‘Be with you in a moment, Rod.’ His hand gripped my shoulder. ‘If you got some idea of walking in to the mine, forget it. It’s twenty-two miles down to the turn-off to Dalton’s Post, and when you reach the Post it’s another twenty-odd to the mine. There’s two fords to cross, several thousand feet to climb and that’s hard going even for a fit man. And I don’t have room for you after tonight. It’s the start of the weekend and we’re fully booked.’
I thought for a moment he was going to press me to change my mind about the lift, but instead he smiled as he let go of my shoulder. ‘If the worst comes to the worst I guess I can always ring Jean. Haines Junction you’d be all right. Have a nice day,’ he added as he walked away. ‘And if you want a packed lunch tell Eddie or Sue, whoever’s around.’
Through the window I watched Tony Tarasconi and his partner finish the off-loading of their four-by-four truck. When it was empty, and everything neatly stacked with a tarpaulin roped over it, they came in for breakfast, Tony glancing up at me as he passed beneath the window and nodding in the direction of the Highway. Considering the amount he must have drunk the night before, that he had been playing his guitar for at least three hours and had just unloaded a full truck, he looked almost effervescent with health and vigour as he came hurrying in like a bantam cock half-hidden under his poncho. ‘Morning all. Is-a good morning, no?’ He was grinning, teeth showing white in his wind-brown face, the exaggeration of his Italian accent, his bubbling good humour giving an instant lift to the faces around the room. ‘Fame fame — lo bloody hungry. Sue! Mia amorata — the girl virtually fell into his arms as he embraced her. ‘Mia amorata, eh? Due breakfasts gigantico. Subito, subito. That means bloody quick and lots of it.’ He and his partner pulled up chairs to join the foresters, the noise of their talk rising perceptibly.