Before we took to the river I showed the map to Eli and tried to get him to indicate where we were. He stared at the sheet in puzzlement and when he turned it over to look at the other side I knew I wasn't going to learn anything useful this way. I was tempted to open the pouch, which I'd kept so close to my skin the whole way, that it smelled very bad. But Eli's eyes missed nothing and although he was silent most of the time I had the feeling that he knew exactly how much money I was carrying (not much) and how many bullets and shotgun shells I had (not many). I left the pouch alone.

  The first few days were peaceable enough. I seem to remember four canoes but it might have been five. The able-bodied were distributed so that each of the Indians' canoes had at least one capable paddler. Our canoe had two – Eli and one of the young women. At first I was hopeless, dipping the thing in at the wrong time and nearly getting it wrenched from my hands by the current. This occasioned mirth among the savages, particularly Warm-Woman-With-Hot-Breath, the female in our canoe who had the ringside seat. After having her fun for a morning she crawled back from her position in the centre of the canoe to the stern where I was flailing away and showed me how it was done. There was a lot of wrist in it as I recall and a peculiar rhythm which she imparted to me by clicking her tongue. She was very close to me and her smell was distinctive. Shutting my eyes, I can bring it back now – a smoky odour with a nutty tang. Her breath was warm and not at all disagreeable.

  At times the river was in shadow and it was very cold under the overhanging trees and high, rocky banks, but for long stretches we seemed to be heading directly into the sun and we had to peel off our heavy clothing and even mop our brows. The paddling was pretty hard work and you had to stay alert for currents, mudbanks and the like – it wasn't like punting on the Cam, I can tell you.

  When she took off her buckskin overshirt and sat a couple of feet away from me in a red woollen shirt with her single braid hanging down her back and her brown arms plying the paddle like a conductor with his baton, Warm-Woman was the best looking creature around by a mile. She looked beautiful in fact, and Browning has always been an admirer of beauty. We made camp by the stream, cooked some fish the Indians had caught and stretched out in our blankets to smoke before sleeping. I couldn't get the woman out of my mind. I looked across to one of the other camp fires and there she was, looking at me.

  It had been a long time since I'd touched a woman and, free of the Mounties, feeling fit and well and on my way to a fortune, I was in fine fettle and raring to go. Warm-Woman was giggling and looking at me. She'd whisper to her companions, look across the fire and giggle again. You're in, Browning, I thought, and I beckoned to her, holding up a cigarette I'd just rolled as an enticement. She whispered and giggled some more and then came around the fires and the sleeping old people to squat down beside me. She had a blanket wrapped around her but, as far as I could see, not much underneath it except the woollen shirt. She accepted the cigarette which I lit with a taper from the fire.

  She held my hand as I lit the cigarette, just as a woman might in an LA singles bar, and I slid my fingers through her long, dark hair which was now unbraided and hanging loose. As I've said, I had a smattering of Kutchin which I'd learned from Sergeant Fraser and Eli and she had a little English which she'd picked up here and there. Since we both had the same thing on our minds, conversation wasn't really a problem as I recall, although it took some strange twists.

  'You are beautiful,' I said, using one of the many Kutchin words for spring flowers (not that I knew them, but Fraser had told me this was the case) to get the idea across.

  'You are so ugly,' she said.

  'Eh?'

  It turned out she meant I could be beautiful too but there were a few things in the way, notably hair. Your Indian males are almost hairless, you see, and the Indians put hairy people a little over towards the animal kingdom. But make no mistake, she could tell a man with the right equipment and intentions when she saw one and she wasn't about to let the opportunity pass by.

  There was a deal of giggling along with some coffee drinking and tobacco smoking and the upshot was that she went to work on me with a pair of trade store scissors and cut-throat razor. The result was that, using the razor and a bit of fat and some hot water, she shaved me as smooth as a baby's bum. She also plucked my eyebrows and plaited my hair into a thick braid. When she'd finished she let me look at myself in a small mirror she carried in her bag of tricks. She'd stopped giggling. I looked and nearly fell into the fire: it had been a good while since I'd seen myself without hair on my face. With my head hair drawn back, with the squinting dark eyes and the flattened nose, I looked like an Indian.

  I certainly passed muster with Warm-Woman. By word and gesture she got me to move my blankets a little way from Eli and the others. The fires were embers when Warm-Woman and I settled down. We had a few differences to get around. Kissing was a new thing to her but she picked it up pretty quickly, as I found out about certain kinds of biting. It was cold and we took off only the clothes we needed to and we had to keep several layers of wool and skin over us. It didn't matter: when it comes right down to it, everyone does it the same way. She was warm and smooth and had a muscular suppleness you don't find in civilised women. After some very interesting preliminaries, I was deep inside her and she was scatching my back and whimpering and I was plunging away and burying my face in the warm, smoky, nutty odour of her hair.

  13

  I have to admit river travel had some advantages over foot-slogging through the snow, but it wasn't all beer and skittles. When the weather was bad we got soaked through in the canoes and the wind seemed to freeze the water. Then there were the rapids – nasty stretches of white water where I shut my eyes and did what Eli and Warm-Woman told me to do and didn't look again until we were through. The portin', as Charley Moon had called it, wasn't too bad. We had to carry the canoes over short distances, to get around impossible barriers and to make a few changes of direction, but the Indians were experts at distributing the loads, sliding the boats and lowering them by rope so the work wasn't back-breaking.

  The food was boring but plentiful and the nights were fun. Warm-Woman and I got along famously, mainly because we didn't have much to say to each other, nothing to fall out over, and we knew how to please each other under the blankets. I can't say I took much to Indians in general though. Eli seemed to get more sullen as the trip went on; some of the oldsters disapproved of what Warm-Woman and I were up to and made no bones about showing it. There was a certain amount of spitting more or less in my direction and once I'm sure I was given some rotten fish deliberately. I couldn't swear to it, but it was my firm belief that the time the canoe nearly dropped on me from twenty feet above, wasn't due to an accidental slip of the rope.

  I never knew whether the Dawson City Mounties made enquiries about me or not. I suppose they did and they may have sent telegraph messages out on the subject, but I passed through a couple of Mountie-controlled river settlements without attracting any attention. I didn't give my mind to washing, I must admit, and my skin darkened with dirt and exposure. I kept my face shaved smooth, mainly because it pleased Warm-Woman, but also because it helped me to pass as a Kutchin or at least a half-breed of whom there were plenty around in those backblocks. We met people on the river – timber workers, prospectors and fishermen – and no one said boo to me.

  I had no idea of distance and direction and had to rely on odd scraps of information I picked up, like overhearing conversations between the sort of people I've mentioned and the names of some of the tiny river hamlets we passed through. Most weren't marked on the map but a couple of the names fitted in – Fellows Hole might be a miserable collection of shacks not on the map but Fellows Falls, a drop in the river that required some porting, might be marked. From these clues I judged that we were making slow progress south-east.

  But things started to feel uncomfortable – Eli was getting into pow-wows with the old men and one of the women attacked Warm-Woman over nothing at all. I tried to talk to Eli but got nowhere and Warm-Woman couldn't or wouldn't tell me what was going on. Under the strain, my thoughts began to drift to alcohol as they always have and that's what brought things to a head. We fetched up at a little place called Kennedy's Crossing where the river was wide and there were a few cabins, a logging camp and a ferry. The ferry was just a barge which was pulled across by a team of mules turning a kind of winch arrangement on either side. I was sorely in need of white companionship by this time, preferably accompanied by whisky and tobacco, and I wouldn't have minded a chance to try out some of Warm-Woman's biting tricks on a plump blonde either. There was nothing like that in Kennedy's Crossing of course, but there was a small store and it did sell whisky.

  The Indians didn't want to stop, naturally enough. The usual reception for them at such places was to have stones thrown at them or even a few shots fired at the canoes for sport. I persuaded them that I'd buy tobacco, of which we were running short, and even old sourpuss Eli could see the merit in that. We passed the settlement, tied up at a secure place by the bank and I walked back. I had my revolver tucked down inside my pants but there wasn't much else of Western civilisation about me. My hair was in a plait, I had a band around my head and Warm-Woman had done some fancy stitching on my jacket. I had a bone necklace around my throat and I wore leggings. I'd taken the precaution of crumpling and creasing the paper money I took with me and also of taking a fistful of coins. As I walked along the river I had two worries: would I make some sort of mistake and give myself away? and had Eli seen the pouch as I was putting the necklace on? I was pretty sure he had. No, I had three worries. Had Warm-Woman told Eli about the pouch? She'd have known about it for sure and he seemed to be looking at me very keenly as I was getting dressed.

  'Breed?' This was the polite enquiry from the proprietor of the store in Kennedy's Crossing. He was a fat, bearded individual who smelled worse than any of the Indians. His store, which doubled as a bar and other things such as a rough laundry (and possibly a tannery as well, to judge from the stink), was just a big cabin with a stove and empty whisky boxes to sit on. The owner stood behind two barrels and did his business on their scarred and battered tops.

  'Uh,' I grunted in the Kutchin manner and took out some money.

  'What d'you want?'

  Two men came into the store and walked over to the barrels.

  'Breed here's got some dough,' the storeman said.

  The two newcomers were timber men, to judge from their cleated boots and the smell of sawdust. 'Big buck, ain't he?' one of them said. 'Don't reckon as I've ever seen a breed as tall as him.'

  The other put a coin on a barrel top. 'He sure is. Mean lookin' too. Give us two shots, Joe.'

  That was where I almost made the sort of mistake I'd worried about. It goes against the grain for a man to stand and be discussed like a piece of horseflesh and to be butted in on as if he wasn't there at all. I nearly slammed my fist down and said something sharp about Canadian bad manners, but I'd spent time in country towns in Australia and I'd seen that the blacks and half-castes were treated like this. Their strategy seemed to be to let it run off them like rain, to stand and wait until they got what they wanted. It looked like I had to do the same.

  Joe served the timber men who took their drinks across near the stove. 'Now,' he said, 'what d'you want?'

  I used the Kutchin word and then corrected myself. 'Tobacco,' I said.

  'Why, sure. You want Bull?'

  I nodded and held up eight fingers. He put eight sacks of Bull Durham on the barrel.

  'Whisky,' I said, keeping my voice low.

  He shook his head. 'Sellin' whisky to Indians is a sure way to get unpopular around here. They get drunk, smash every durn thing in sight . . .'

  I took back the paper money and most of the coins. Joe winked and nodded at me, a nasty sight because it caused the lock of greasy hair he wore pasted across his bald head to fall down over one eye. 'Lin'ment, you say? Why, sure thing, Chief. Couple bottles o' this and I guarantee there won't be a stiff joint in the whole tribe.' He gestured to me to put the money back and reached behind to a shelf. He pulled out three bottles of cheap rye whisky and wrapped them in sacking, taking care not to let the bottles clink. He put the tobacco and the wrapped bottles in a burlap bag and pushed it to me. Three quarts wasn't enough for the thirst I was building up but it looked like it was all I was going to get. I took the bag and he grabbed the money.

  'Now, git!' he hissed.

  I got. I'd paid probably double for the whisky and too much for the tobacco but that's the way it is when you're playing on the losing team. I took a few pulls on a bottle as I walked along the muddy track beside the river. The liquor put me in a thoughtful frame of mind. I was pretty sure that Eli and Warm-Woman were in cahoots and up to no good. It made me think that Eli was near the end of his job and trying to work out how to quit with the most advantage to himself. Maybe I was close to the parting of the ways but I had to know for sure.

  Perhaps the contents of the pouch would tell me all I needed to know but I'd become almost suspicious about the pouch and I didn't want to open it until I had a plan of action worked out. I felt I couldn't risk opening it unless I had Eli off guard. And Eli never seemed to be off guard. I put the bottle back and heard it clink against another; that little sound gave me an idea.

  The Indians had made a half camp – a small fire was burning and a couple of the old people were sleeping – but Eli, Warm-Woman and the other young women plus the children were ready to go on the river again if that's what was decided. I judged we were far enough from the settlement to risk what I had in mind. I took the tobacco out of the bag and gave a sack each to Eli and Warm-Woman and another for the others to share. Indians don't go in for gratitude all that much but their grunts were in the approving style.

  'Anything to eat?' I asked Warm-Woman.

  'Fish.'

  This meant that they'd built the fire over rocks and were roasting the fish underneath. It tastes all right but I was sick of fish and wished I'd bought some food in Kennedy's Crossing.

  'How far to the horses?' I asked. Eli knew what I meant. When we got to the horses he would go his way and I mine. But he just shrugged and looked up over the high pine trees into the cloudy sky. It was cold, threatening to snow, and the place where we were tied up was as good a camping ground as any. I took out the bottle of rye and had a drink. Eli reacted the way I hoped he would: his dark, slanted eyes almost disappeared in the puckered look of longing that came over his face. Got you, you bastard, I thought.

  I took another drink. 'How far, Eli?'

  'Not far. Whisky good.'

  'How far? One day, two days?' I held the bottle as if I might give it to him if he answered. He took a stick and broke it in half. 'Half a day, eh?' I reached for a tin mug and poured him a small slug. 'This river? This way?' I pointed and gave him the mug. He tossed off the drink in one gulp.

  'Red rock.' He held the mug out. I took it, poured again and made as if to drink from the mug myself. His eyes followed me hungrily.

  'A red rock by the river?'

  He nodded and I gave him the mug. Warm-Woman had a cigarette smoking between her lips and seemed uninterested in the conversation but I had a feeling that she was following every word. I passed her the bottle; she took a drink, gasped and drank again. There wasn't a lot left in the quart now which was the way I wanted it. I poured the rest for Eli and put the bottle casually back in the bag.

  'I'm hungry,' I said.

  Warm-Woman produced the fish, three big trout, and the old people woke up and everybody ate. I had a little coffee left from the original provisions and I brewed up a pot. Eli drank some but the other Indians weren't interested. They were all grunting and honking away among themselves and I knew enough of the language to know what they were talking about – firewater. After the meal I went for a walk carrying my coffee mug and the burlap bag. I poured some of the strong, dark coffee into the empty whisky bottle and filled it with water.

  The afternoon wore on and cleared a little. It was cold but I judged it wasn't going to snow. I walked back into the camp to see that they'd built up the fire and even laid in a stock of wood. That suited me. I staggered a little and took a big swig from one of the bottles of rotgut rye.

  'Eli, ol' buddy, an' Warm-Woman, my darlin' girl, le's have us a party!' I tossed the opened bottle to Eli who caught it and handed the unopened one to one of the ancients who gave a whoop and tore at the cap with the couple of teeth he had left. I stumbled and fell down on a blanket near the fire.

  Eli took a careful sip and handed the bottle to Warm-Woman. I reached into the bag, got the other bottle out, opened it and let the cold coffee-flavoured river water run down my throat.

  14

  Old and young, the Indians drank themselves into a stupor within a couple of hours. The children gave up yelling and trying to stir them to prepare food or anything else and crept into the blankets to huddle down with the snorers. Warm-Woman was one of the first to succumb, mainly because she took more drink on board than the others. Eli behaved just exactly as I thought he might. He got good and drunk; drunk enough to make him mean and brave but he didn't pass out. What he did was watch me.

  As for me, I was the life of the party. When we were at the lively stage I was one of the liveliest. I did a war dance around the fire, stuck feathers in my hair and used the few Kutchin words about sex I knew, as loud and as often as I could. I got a few laughs and then everyone got bored with me and proceeded with their own drinking. What I didn't do was ever let go of my bottle. I kept it while I was dancing and while I was staggering off into the woods to piss.

  It got dark early; Eli put more wood on the fire and filled his pipe. I swigged on my bottle, spilt some, made a cigarette and spilled that too. I swore and fell over. Then I crawled into my blankets and drew my knees up. I thrashed about for a while looking like I was trying to get comfortable – in fact I was getting a knife out of its sheaf and getting the long Colt into a position where it would do the most good. In my cavortings I'd managed to ensure that the rifle, shotgun, ammunition, matches and some beans were stowed in one canoe. The moon came up bright and clear over the trees and I lay still and started to snore.

 

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