They spent the rest of the day wandering through Grand Forks, asking after anyone matching Stewart’s description. Most of the men they stopped looked at them with a shake of the head and continued on their way. One miner told them he’d seen a man matching Stewart’s description working a sluice box close by. They followed his directions to find a Scotsman who had arrived at the Creeks only recently. But he stood a good six foot six, with the weight to match and a head overflowing with curly red hair.
“This is hopeless,” Angus said. His feet hurt and his pack was rubbing the skin off his shoulder blades. By the time he crawled into his bedroll, if ever that marvellous occasion happened, he fully expected he’d be able to see bare bone. “There must be ten thousand men here. Stewart could be anywhere.”
“This is police work,” Sterling said, “and we’ve only just gotten here. But it’s time to call it a day. It’s looking to be a nice night, so we can take our chance out in the open ’cause there’s no trees to string a covering from, or we can try back at Ruth’s hotel.”
Angus shivered. “My ma catches sight of that hotel, she’d have a thing or two to say about it.”
“If you ever become a Mountie, Angus, you won’t want to tell your mother about some of the places you have to visit. Or the people you meet. There’s level ground over there. It should do.”
They unpacked their bedrolls. Sterling fed and watered Millie before starting up the tiny travelling stove he’d pulled out of his pack.
“That’s nice,” Angus said.
“The men told me there’d not be much firewood up here. Do you have anything to cook?”
Angus shook his head. “I brought bread and cheese and cold meat and stuff.”
“You can have some of my bacon and beans, and tomorrow I’ll have some of your bread and cheese. How’s that?”
“Good, thanks.”
“Hot food’s important, for the spirits as well as the belly.”
Angus lay down almost as soon as they finished eating. He thought he’d never be able to get to sleep, what with the rough patch of ground he lay on and the noises all around him, but the next thing he knew, Sterling was shaking him awake, Millie was pawing at his chest, and the sun was over the hills to the east.
“Why don’t we have some of that bread and cheese for breakfast?” Sterling said. “No need to start up the stove. We can buy coffee someplace.”
They trudged through the gold fields all day, making their way up Eldorado Creek. They didn’t find a trace of Stewart. Tomorrow they’d backtrack and travel down Bonanza Creek.
That night, as Angus’s weary eyes began to close, he watched Sterling sitting wrapped in his blanket, looking out over the mines to the purple hills in the distance, puffing on his pipe, scratching behind Millie’s ear. He fell asleep wondering if his father had ever owned a dog.
A man came to their rough camp on the morning of the third day, while Sterling was starting the stove to make breakfast, and Angus was eyeing dark clouds gathering overhead. A day of rain and this hillside, stripped of all
vegetation, would turn into a river of mud. He wondered if he was prepared to spend a night in a hotel like Ruth’s and decided that he preferred to endure the mud and the rain.
“Heard you’re looking for Johnny Stewart,” the man said. He was a Scotsman, his accent deep but with a touch of education smoothing out the rougher edges. His face was battered, and his nose flattened as if he’d been a prizefighter, many years before. “What’ve you got to offer for information about him?”
“Nothing,” Sterling said, opening the can of beans. “The NWMP doesn’t deal in bribes. It’s your duty to give me what information you have.”
The man spat. “But I can promise you that I’m not interested in Stewart. He’s in no trouble. It’s about a friend of his. I only want to talk to him.”
“Care for a biscuit, mister?” Angus said, holding out Mrs. Mann’s tin. The scones were getting stale, but he didn’t think this hard man would object to that.
“Why thank you, lad, that’s mighty kind of you.” The man took the scone and bit into it. A look of sheer pleasure crossed his fight-ravaged face, and he devoured the rest in one bite. “Just like my mum used to make, back home in Inverness.” Angus would have sworn that the corner of the man’s eye was suddenly wet. “Johnny Stewart. Working the Number 44.” The man walked away, licking crumbs off his fingers.
“Her Majesty’s North-West Mounted Police do not offer bribes, Angus,” Sterling said, trying to sound stern. A grin touched the edges of his mouth.
“Sorry, sir. I thought he looked sad. Did I do wrong?”
“No. He was sad. A long way from home and wondering what on earth he’s doing in this miserable place. Like all the rest of them.” He stirred the beans. “When my mother makes beans, she puts in a huge lump of pork fat and plenty of molasses. She cooks them all day long, then she puts a pan of corn bread in the oven. She always served me up the biggest bit of pork and a slab of cornbread cut from the edges of the pan. Does your mother make beans, Angus?”
“My mother? She doesn’t cook. Even on the trail, one of the packers or me got the meals.”
Sterling shook his head. “Sorry. Forgot who I’m talking to for a moment. Well, these seem to be ready. For what it’s worth. Eat up, and we’ll find out what your biscuit bought us.”
There were no signposts pointing to this claim or that, so they had to ask all the way. After three days on the Creeks, all the men they spoke to were starting to look the same to Angus. Worn out, dirty, tired, interested in nothing. They came across a group of men taking a break, smoking their pipes, on the top of a slag heap. They were slightly less dirty than most of the others, and the hope hadn’t completely faded from their eyes. The men looked up as Sterling, Angus and Millie approached.
“I’m looking for a man name of Johnny Stewart,” Sterling said, raising his voice to be heard at the top of the makeshift hill. “Any of you know him?”
The men said nothing, but their eyes shifted to a small fellow sitting at the edge of their group.
He drew on his pipe. “I’m Stewart.”
“Constable Sterling, NWMP. Can I talk to you for a moment, sir? Won’t take much of your time.”
Stewart looked at his friends. They looked back without interest or emotion. He stood up, like a man whose every joint protested at the movement. “If ye keep it short. Break’s almost over.”
The man’s accent was identical to Ray Walker’s.
Sterling led Stewart away from the listening group of men. Angus and Millie followed, simply because they had nothing better to do.
“You’re not in any trouble, Stewart, I only want to ask you a couple of questions.”
Stewart puffed on his pipe. His hands were covered in angry white blisters, and he winced with every step he took. Less than a week on the job, and Stewart looked like he’d been underground for twenty years. Men arrived from the south all the time, Angus had heard amidst much laughter in the Savoy, thinking they would dig for gold like they dug for carrots and potatoes on the farm or in their mother’s back garden.
“Sunday last you were in Dawson. Can you tell me what you did there?”
Stewart’s eyes barely flickered. “D’ ye have any food in that saddlebag, laddie?” he said. “Working underground’s mighty hard work.”
Angus