hundred and thirty-five-mile route!
She and Smith had been scheduled to meet at his downtown office on her arrival in Dawson late yesterday afternoon, but the black Ford Explorer began having carburetor problems outside a place called Pelly Crossing, sort of a wide spot in the road, and it had taken several hours for the attendant at Selkirk’s Gas, Bar, and Grocery to fix it.
By the time Charity reached Dawson, her back aching and her eyes burning from so many hours behind the wheel, it was raining. It was dark and cold and all she wanted to do was find a place to sleep. She bought a slice of pizza at a restaurant called The Grubstake and checked into the Eldorado Hotel. It wasn’t until the following morning that she actually got a look at the town.
“Well, what do you think of Dawson City?” Boomer’s words conjured a memory of her first glimpse of town through the windows of her motel room: a gold-rush-era city like something out of a paperback western. Muddy, unpaved streets lined with wood-frame, false-fronted, Old West buildings bordered by weathered, uneven board sidewalks. It was a little like Whitehorse, but smaller, and everything here looked older, as if Dawson had stubbornly endured rather than give in to change.
In fact, the place looked a great deal as it must have a hundred years ago and just thinking about it made Charity smile.
“It’s quite a town,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a city that still had dirt streets.”
“We try to keep things authentic. This town is special, you know. Chock-full of history. This is the way Dawson looked during the Klondike Gold Rush and we try our best to keep it that way.”
He motioned her over to his cluttered oak desk and Charity sat down in a slightly rickety, straight-backed chair. Like most of the town, the office was done in the style of the late 1800s, with oak-paneled walls and hooked rugs, and kerosene lamps sitting around for decoration here and there.
They went through the necessary paperwork, but most of it had already been taken care of through the mail. “I believe I told you on the phone the equipment and furniture was minimal. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure what’s still there.”
“Yes, you explained that.”
“Good, then I guess we’re all set. Mrs. Foote should be here any minute. I sent an associate out to her place yesterday after you called to say you wouldn’t be here until today. Maude doesn’t have a phone.”
“I see.” And she was actually beginning to. Coming to Dawson was like stepping back in time a hundred years, and apparently some of the people in the area still lived as they did back then.
“Ah, here she comes now.”
The bell rang above the door as Maude Foote pushed her way in and Charity stood to greet her. She was older than Charity had expected, a woman perhaps in her early seventies, her wrinkles smoothed a little by the extra pounds she carried. She was at least four inches shorter than Charity, who stood five-foot-six, but the woman walked with her back straight and kept her shoulders squared.
“You must be Charity Sinclair.”
“That’s right.” Charity smiled and extended her hand, liking the woman’s straightforward manner. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Foote.”
“Maude’ll do. Been called that round these parts for nigh on fifty years.” Maude looked her up and down, taking in her designer jeans and the sweatshirt with the red-checked collar. “So what makes a city girl like you come all the way from New York to Dawson?”
Charity shrugged as if she wasn’t really sure—which, in fact, she wasn’t. “It’s kind of a long story. Let’s just say I wanted a change of pace. I wanted to get away from the city and experience a different sort of life.”
“It’s different, all right. But you ain’t the first greenhorn to come here lookin’ for gold, and it’s for sure you won’t be the last.”
Boomer Smith had recommended Maude Foote as someone who might be able to help her get started in her mining endeavor. Maude had prospected Dead Horse Creek, where the claim was located, for the last forty years and lived on a piece of property just down the road from the one Charity had purchased.
“Whatever my reasons for coming,” Charity said, “the fact is I’m here. I intend to make the gold claim I purchased pay for itself. The question is, are you interested in helping me?”
Eyes a watery shade of blue took in the straight blond hair Charity had pulled back and secured with a tortoiseshell clip at the nape of her neck, traveled down her jean-clad legs to her brand-new Hi-Tech hiking boots.
“You got ‘city gal’ stamped all over you, but I guess you’ll do. Money you offered is more than fair and I got nothin’ better to do. ’Sides, that claim you bought ain’t never really been worked. We just might find ourselves some gold.”
Charity bit back an urge to whoop out Yippee! This whole thing was crazy from beginning to end and yet she had never felt more alive, more sure that in coming on this adventure she had done exactly the right thing.
“Mr. Smith also mentioned a man named Johnson who might be willing to help us. He said you would speak to him for me. Has he agreed to take the job?”
“Buck Johnson owns the property that borders yours to the north. He’s been dredging for gold for twenty-odd years. Early on, he had considerable luck, but not lately. He knows what he’s doin’ and he needs the money. He says he’ll sign on.”
She bit back a grin. “Great. When do we start?”
“I ain’t been out to the Lily Rose since old Mose Flanagan packed up and moved. It’ll probably take some rightin’ to get the place in order. We’d best pick up supplies before we head out of town. Might not get back here for a while.”
At Maude’s instruction, they stopped at the Dawson City General Store to buy groceries, cleaning supplies, and bedding, including sheets, towels, and blankets. They bought a four-place set of dishes, silverware, pots, pans, and utensils. Maude suggested she buy an air mattress till they found out what sort of bed was there—if any. They would pick up whatever else they might need after Charity had seen the cabin and what was inside.
Once the place was livable, they could talk to Buck Johnson, decide what equipment they would need to start the dredging operation.
As they loaded their purchases into the back of the Explorer, Charity found herself grinning. Her adventure had truly begun. She couldn’t wait to see her new home.
McCall Ryan Hawkins paused at the edge of a line of firs at the top of the rise and slung his backpack down on the ground. Below him, Dead Horse Creek looked no bigger than a narrow white ribbon, tumbling over boulders and winding through rocky crevices on its way down the hill.
Call squinted through the binoculars that hung from a strap around his neck. From where he stood on the border of his wooded, two-thousand-acre property not far from King Solomon Dome, he could see old man Flanagan’s dilapidated cabin perched just above the creek.
The place was even more run-down than it was before ol’ Mose left. One of the front-porch steps had a hole punched through it and a shutter tilted down beside the window, creaking in the wind.
Funny how forlorn the place looked. Though Call and ol’ Mose had never gotten along, so
