Snow Angel (16 page)

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ELIZABETH'S LEGS WERE trembling to the point that she thought she would have to get out of line and rest. She'd done that once before, and it had taken her an hour to get back in. No one, not even a woman, got any breaks on the Chilkoot Pass. It was just too hard to make it yourself. There was nothing left inside a person to help another. So instead she lectured herself. It's only a little further. Don't look. Never look at how far it is to the top. She'd learned that lesson the first two times up. If she just kept her eyes on the man directly in front of her and mindlessly put one foot in front of the other, she could make it. She was only carrying forty pounds, as opposed to the men's sixty, but still, it grew heavy and became increasingly hard to climb the icy steps. Her lungs felt ready to burst from the exertion.

Their group had made a total of seventeen trips up the pass, cached their goods in designated piles, prayed it was too late in the spring for a sudden snowfall to cover their supplies, and slid back down to do it all over again. After this, the backbreaking work of panning would seem like child's play. Charlie was helping her with her gear since he was staying on at Sheep Camp and hiring out as a packer. She had a new appreciation for the endurance an occupation such as his required and privately thought Charlie was crazy.

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AFTER TWELVE DAYS and no sign of Elizabeth, Noah and his gear had reached the other side of the pass and had entered Canada. Here, the North West Mounted Police could be seen all along the road, ready to help the flood of gold-seekers to reach the creek beds around Dawson City. Noah was glad for their presence.

Next up was nine miles of sloping land to Lake Lindeman, then a treeless, windy valley. It was quiet here. All that could be heard was the sound of heavily loaded sled runners skidding over the snow. A hush had descended on the group of men Noah was traveling with. He felt his sixth sense, the one refined from years of living in the wilderness, rise up and demand notice. His eyes scanned the area, but nothing … then in the distance he spied the prints of a bear. The beast was just out of hibernation and looking for food, no doubt. Noah wished him well. He had met up with a bear once and would never forget the fear and awe. He'd had his gun at the ready, but man and bear had only stared at each other, both surprised, both interested. Then the bear had sniffed the air and turned, wandering away, his backside swaying back and forth as if to say, “I'm not sure what you are, but you don't smell good enough to eat.” Noah had chuckled silently.

As they cleared the valley and the bear, his traveling companions became increasingly loud and excited. They had a destination and couldn't wait to get there. Noah seemed to be the only man in these parts not suffering from gold fever. What he had was just as bad, though. In one sense, he was glad to witness and be part of such a grand event, history in the making.
While he enjoyed the hiking and camping and living off this great land, he knew he was different from the others. He didn't share their passion for gold. They were single-minded in their avarice, but that didn't dim his respect for them. They had a code that they lived by and a flame of hope—a dream that, after meeting Elizabeth, he was beginning to understand.

Upon reaching Lake Lindeman, Noah copied his fellow hikers and rigged up a sail on his sled. The waters of the lake were still frozen solid, enabling the heavy-laden sleds to glide across the hard surface. Ice boats, they called them. Rigging up a sail of sorts with a movable boom, one could steer and speed along with the aid of the strong winds whipping over the lake. After a short portage the prospectors would reach Lake Bennett and wait for it to thaw, if it hadn't already. Lake Bennett fed into the mighty Yukon River, its very name meaning “great river.” There they would begin the 550-mile journey on the Yukon to Dawson City and the gold.

It took five trips to haul his provisions to Lake Bennett, but Noah thought they were the easiest of the entire trip. Finally, three weeks from the time he had left Juneau, he was ready to make camp on the shores of Lake Bennett in what the miners called the boat-building camps.

Everywhere, men were chopping down trees, whipsawing the wood with a long, large-toothed saw. Some had moved on to the next stage. Noah watched two men argue about the best way to nail the lumber together to form a boat. Noah casually scanned the crowd as he was accustomed to doing. Among the thousands of men in this place, a woman should be relatively easy to spot, he thought, so why was he having such trouble? Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the swish of a skirt.
Nodding to one of the men he had been walking with, he said, “I'm going check out the lumber over there.” The man nodded back, and Noah made his way to where he thought he'd seen the woman. His heart sped up as he rounded a semicircular camp and came upon a woman stirring something in a pot. She turned toward him and Noah's face fell. It wasn't Elizabeth.

“Well, it's nice to meet you, too,” she said to him tartly. Tilting her head, she smiled at him and said, “You were hoping for someone else?”

Noah slipped his hat off. “Yes, ma'am.”

He fumbled for the words to explain his mission. The woman just kept staring at him in that odd, direct way, until he flushed.

She held out a hand and said briskly, “The name's Mary-Margaret Sinclair.”

He cleared his throat. “Noah Wesley.”

“Are you a miner?”

“No, I mean, sort of. Heading to Dawson City like everyone else.”

She looked around and smiled. “If you're looking for lumber to build a raft, good luck. I think these boys have chopped down just about every tree for ten miles.” She pointed to a hodgepodge pile of wood that resembled firewood and said with disdain, “That's all my husband has been able to round up. After supper, I'm planning to go and saw my own wood. We would sink within a mile on those sticks.”

Noah nodded, agreeing with her, looking around the clearing. He'd never seen so many different types of homemade boats in all his life. Some looked like big wooden boxes; others were supposed to resemble canoes; most were just pine logs roped
together to form rickety rafts. If folks made it through the rapids on those things, it would be a miracle. He remembered someone calling them “floating coffins.”

“I'd be glad to help you. I haven't joined up with a group yet, but I'm something of a carpenter, and I know how to build a good, tight craft. Would your husband be interested in the help?”

She lowered her voice and planted her hands on ample hips. “My husband's a handsome devil but drunk most of the time. I doubt he'd even notice you.”

Noah nodded and felt bad for her. She was a handsome woman who obviously deserved better than she'd gotten. “It's settled then. I'll go get my gear.”

A week later the three of them boarded one of the finest-looking crafts in the camp. Mary-Margaret had helped him whipsaw the lumber but had not been able to help him much with finding Elizabeth, except to say that she'd met her once and that Elizabeth had appeared to be just fine at the time. So with little choice and like the hundreds of others, Noah had dug a hole in the ground and set up scaffolding. After constructing the craft, they waterproofed it with tar. Within a week, they had a good, watertight raft, wide and flat with plenty of room to lash down their supplies and a shade screen, like a small lean-to, providing shelter from the elements. From now until Dawson City, the journey would be by water.

They left the dark-blue waters of Lake Bennett and headed out on the Yukon River, which wound 2,300 miles from British Columbia to the Bering Sea and the north Pacific Ocean, with numerous lakes, streams, and tributaries branching from it. The journey would take more than a month, requiring them
to traverse several rapids to reach Dawson. Noah took in the sight of the hundreds of boats and smiled, his emotions rising with hope. It was like being part of an expedition, a fleet even. So many men, so much excitement, you could feel it in the air. A small, bowl-like boat passed them and three men from inside waved. Noah grinned. They looked like the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker from his mother's nursery rhymes. The air was crisp, but the sun was shining and the sky was blue. It felt good to be alive today.

“Look up ahead!” Mary-Margaret shouted some time later with glee in her eyes and a big grin on her face.

Noah followed her pointed finger and his eyes widened. Not a half mile away was Miles Canyon. Canyon walls shot straight up in the air, blocking out the light. A rush of white, foamy water squeezed through the narrow opening.

“Hold on!” Noah warned as he shook Pierre awake.

Mary-Margaret yelled in excitement as the boat sped into the dark canyon amidst the frothing water. They were swept along like dead leaves over roots and outcroppings and hidden clusters of rocks of all sizes waiting to topple them. Suddenly, they broke out of the canyon into the bright daylight and the rocky Squaw Rapids.

Noah had heard of the rapids they would traverse on this trail, but for some reason he hadn't visualized just what they were. The reality was a jolt. Pierre was clinging fearfully to the side of the boat, staring in stultified shock as the world whirled by them. Mary-Margaret, on the other hand, was worrying Noah more by her excitement. At a sudden dip, they were all drenched with frigid water. He heard a crash to the right and looked just in time to see the three men in the bowl wreck into
a jagged wall. The craft split like a melon and the last thing he saw before they were swept on was the man he'd called the baker, clutching a piece of driftwood. Everywhere were pieces of wood and disintegrating bundles of supplies whirling in the water around them.

Just when they thought they were safe and nearing the end, they were shot forward into the Whitehorse Rapids. Pierre was crouched low in the bottom of the boat, his dark hair drenched, darker eyes terror-filled, but Mary-Margaret was glowing. Noah didn't know if he admired her or thought her crazy. He was in the back, operating the rudder and trying to navigate the craft with what little control he could muster. He would not fully breathe until this rushing ride was over. He was jolted out of his thoughts by a sudden swing to the right. They collided with another raft, which promptly tore off two of their logs. Noah looked toward Mary-Margaret to find her … gone! Searching the water, he saw her bobbing like a cork in the foaming mass. Diving for the rope, he fashioned a quick lasso and threw it at the next rocky outcropping they passed.

“Pierre, for God's sake, get up! Your wife was thrown over,” he yelled at the cowering man. “Hold the rope! Try to keep us steady until I can reach her.”

Pierre finally snapped into action. His pale face strained with the effort to hold the raft against the current, curled mustache wet and drooping, while Noah threw another rope to Mary-Margaret. He soon realized she wasn't going to be able to grasp hold. She was doing all she could just to keep her head above water. As she came closer, Noah dove into the water. Fighting the current with his powerful arms and legs, he fought his way to the woman. She was sinking, her body limp
and languid by the time he reached her. Grasping her around the waist, he searched for their boat. It had disappeared among the swirling mass of the wreckage around him.

An unfamiliar voice called out to him. Someone in another raft had thrown out a rope. Noah struggled toward it, reached it, and hung on for dear life. They were dragged along behind the raft for several minutes while their rescuers struggled to reel them in. Finally, just when Noah thought he had swallowed too much water to go on, someone lifted Mary-Margaret from his arms. He was heaved on board where he lay on his side, choking up water for several minutes while someone beat him on the back. He sat up to find Mary-Margaret's body stretched out beside him, eyes staring blankly into the sky. Her face was pale with a water-logged look to it. “Sorry, fella, but she didn't make it.” The voice sounded a million miles away, and Noah had to shake his head to see if his ears were clogged.

Scooting up to her, he laid his head on her chest. There was nothing, no heartbeat, no breath. He put his hands together and pressed on her chest. Water spilled from her mouth. Her lungs were full. He pushed again and again, until there was no longer any water coming out. Leaning down, he said, “Come on, Mary-Margaret, breathe, breathe.” He tried again and again until finally someone reached for his arm and pulled him back.

“You did all you could,” someone said.

Noah turned away, feeling sick. “Close her eyes,” he said harshly. He rubbed his hands over his face. Anger overtook him. Women didn't belong in a place like this. Nobody did. What were they all doing out here risking their fool necks for the promise of a little gold? It was crazy … deadly. If a woman
with strength and endurance like Mary-Margaret could be taken down so suddenly, so swiftly, how was his little Elizabeth going to make it? For the first time, he let himself think it.
She
might already be dead.
He should have found her by now, should have caught up to her. The thought of her buried in some shallow, unmarked grave took hold of his mind until he thought it true. His shoulders started shaking with pent-up sobs.

Someone patted him on the shoulder. “I'm real sorry, fella. Was she your wife?”

Noah gazed up at the man with bleary eyes. “No, but she could have been. She could have been.”

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