12. Coffin Bone Creek
From there, we crossed Lake Laberge, then floated down the Yukon, borne along by its rapid pace. Ice gushed into the river from the smaller tributaries we passed, and ledges of ice formed along the shores of the river itself. They crept further and further out each day, or else broke free and became floes we had to fend away from the boat lest they stave it in. A howling snowstorm cost us two days, forcing us to shelter on shore until it passed.
Eventually, the character of the river changed, the bed widening and twisting until it formed a delta. Small branches and creeks tangled together into a wandering maze, splitting off and coming back together around islets covered in firs. The hills hemming us in were now blanketed in snow.
But at last, on October 20, 1897, we came to Coffin Bone Creek.
It wasn’t much to look at, just one more stream flowing down from the heights, already frozen solid. We beached the Golden Belle and left Eleanor and Anna to watch over our supplies. Steve tried to talk his father into remaining as well, but Roland refused, saying his leg was nearly healed. Even so, he was limping badly by the time our destination came into view.
The small cabin looked even tinier than it actually was, ringed in by the brooding hills. Already the sun threatened to vanish behind them. Sluice boxes ran alongside the creek, accompanied by a winch with a bucket hanging over a pit. All of the nearest trees had been chopped down to build the cabin and sluices, or for firewood.
A great stillness hung over the site. The hills blocked the wind; any bird that could had long ago fled south. Not even the hardy ravens croaked from the shadowy woods. The snow on ground and branches seemed to suck up the sound of our footsteps, our breathing.
No smoke rose from the chimney, and the recent snow around the cabin appeared undisturbed.
Worry stirred in my chest, but I pushed it aside. Perhaps Clarke’s friend—Bill, that was the name—was out hunting. Or had taken his gold and hiked into Dawson City to officially claim the site.
There was no need for concern.
Steve’s brows drew down, and Doug and Roland also looked uncertain. Then Steve seemed to shake it off. “Let’s take a look.”
We began to make a circle around the cabin, looking for any signs of occupation outside before sticking our heads in the door. I peered into the pit as we passed it—the permafrost walls showed signs of burning in places, where the miner had built a fire to soften the earth enough for digging. A pile of muck sat beside the pit, and farther away there was a second pile that looked to be made from scattered…branches? But no, the brown curves were too smooth, and wasn’t that a bit of hide hanging loose?
“What the hell?” Doug muttered as he edged closer to it.
Steve’s eyes lit up, and he hurried over to the pile before lifting up a strange, lumpy object. “A mammoth tooth! And look, here’s part of a bison skull, and a tusk. And a coffin bone.” He nudged a spade-shaped bone with his foot. I could imagine the hoof that had once covered it; the horse it belonged to must have been quite small.
Roland eyed them uncertainly. “Where’d they come from?”
“The digging, I presume.” Steve gestured at the nearby pit. “These animals died thousands of years ago, and have been trapped in the permafrost ever since. There could be all sorts of fascinating creatures just under our feet, ready to be discovered!”
“Are they valuable?” Doug asked.
Some of Steve’s enthusiasm waned. “Valuable to science, perhaps.”
“Mmph. Let’s remember why we’re here, eh?”
I glared at Doug, annoyed at him for dampening Steve’s spirits so needlessly. He didn’t notice, merely continued around the back of the cabin. The rest of us followed, with Steve reluctantly dropping the tooth back into the pile.
There was little to see, other than the whipsaw frame used to cut lumber for the sluices and cabin. As we began to circle back, however, my foot caught on something buried under the snow. I fell heavily, swearing as ice jammed up my sleeve. Steve turned to help me up, then froze, his eyes widening. At his expression, I twisted quickly to see what I’d tripped over.
A human hand protruded from the snow.
* * *
We rushed to clear the snow away, only to find a ragged stump at the elbow.
I stared at it, frozen in horror. My throat constricted and my mind filled with images of blood glistening on iron rails, the scream of a train whistle. The bracelet in my pocket felt hot enough to sear through cloth.
“What could have done this?” Doug whispered, as if afraid to raise his voice and draw some misfortune to us.
I blinked, tried to focus. There was no train whistle; the bracelet was cold and inert.
Steve squatted down and peered at the ragged flesh. “A bear?” he said, not sounding sure about it at all. “This could have happened before hibernation. They don’t usually attack humans, but if he got between a mother and her cubs…”
“But they’re hibernating now, yes?” his father asked.
“Most certainly.”
“Then we’ve nothing to worry about,” Roland stated, as if he could make it true just by saying it with enough conviction.
My unease didn’t depart, but after a moment of consideration, Steve nodded his agreement. “Assuming it was a bear, we’re in no danger until the spring, and likely not even then.” He paused. “I’m confused as to where the rest of the body is, though. Unless scavengers dragged it away.”
“Or he stumbled inside to die, after losing the arm,” Doug said.
We left the arm in the snow for the moment and trekked back to the cabin door. It swung open, revealing a single small room. A sheet-iron stove stood at one end, long gone cold. Frost covered the walls. Two bunks stood against one wall, and a table and two chairs rounded out the furnishings. A bucket of water, long frozen, stood by the stove, and foodstuffs and other stores were tucked away in the rafters. On the table sat a small scale for weighing gold, a coffee can beside it.
“No blood on the floor, or any other sign of an injured man coming inside,” Steve observed.
We poked around the room, looking for any indicator as to what might have happened to Bill, who was presumably the owner of the arm outside. I went to the table and reached for the coffee can, only to be shocked by its weight. Confused, I opened the lid and looked inside.
My gasp alerted the others. “What’s wrong?” Doug asked.
“Nothing at all,” I said, and poured out the contents on the table.
Nuggets, dust, flakes—the can was packed solid with gold.