Louis cleared his throat. “This is where you can get a bite to eat,” he informed us. “After that, you have rooms set aside for you in the hotel across the street.” He pointed to a two-storey, rough-hewn wood building with an elaborate sign in white scrolling letters declaring The Ritz Hotel and Saloon.
“I’ll have the stagecoach ready for you tomorrow morning. One more thing,” he said, turning to Sarah and me, his eyes resting on Sarah for a moment longer. “You two should not leave your rooms till the stage is here. It’s a rough town, no place for ladies.”
We had not even made it to the door of the restaurant before the sudden boom of a firearm caused us all to jump nervously and instinctively huddle together. The door to the Ritz burst open, and one man backed onto the street, his revolver drawn, while a second, taller man followed with his pistol pointed squarely at the first. A fellow traveller from our group spread his arms wide and pushed us backwards, through the door of the restaurant, where we huddled, peering through the windows to see what would happen next.
“Where are the constables?” I asked the stout proprietor.
“New Westminster,” he replied.
“But how can they police the town from there?”
He shrugged. “They can’t. There is no law here. Men get away with all kinds of bad things—no punishment. The cemetery’s the fastest-filling hotel in town.”
The men in the street were clearly both extremely inebriated, and they were having trouble holding their firearms steady as they waved them in each other’s faces.
“I did not try to steal your goddamned business, you ignorant dim-witted hornswoggler,” the first man shouted up at his fair-haired nemesis.
“You tried to, but I put a stop to it, you two-faced lying Yankee,” the other man rejoined.
As he said this, the first man seemed to tip forward, losing his balance. In an attempt to steady himself, he desperately shuffled his feet and tripped, waving his hands in the air for balance, and the gun he was holding went off. Sarah gripped my arm, and we watched in horrified silence as both men peered at each other, obviously unsure what had happened, until a dark, seeping stain appeared on the left shoulder of the Yankee. He slowly curled forward, falling into a pile at the feet of his hapless assailant.
I turned to the restaurant owner. “We must do something. Is there a doctor in town we can send for?”
He gestured to the duellers, seemingly unruffled by the scene. “Them two be the only doctors in this town, ma’am.” Sarah and I looked at each other with wide eyes, and I silently prayed that Barkerville would not turn out to be lawless and violent like Yale.
Though the stagecoach offered more comfort than the wagon, the second leg of our journey was not for the faint of heart, but Louis promised us he was an experienced driver. The route through Fraser Canyon was a narrow roadway cut into the granite cliffs of a steep-walled canyon. Sarah and I settled in together and took turns holding Jacob. The three quiet businessmen sat stone-faced across from us. I was pleased to have an empty seat beside me, but at the last minute a new traveller joined us.
He ignored the men and offered Sarah and me his hand. “Jack Harris, ladies,” he said with a slow, flat drawl. “Out of California. And you are?”
We politely introduced ourselves. He was handsome in a severe way, with tight skin over sharp cheekbones and a square jaw.
“Where are you from and what brings you two lovely ladies to Barkerville?” he asked, his broad shoulders knocking against mine as the coach set off.
“We’re from England and have offers of employment in Barkerville,” I said dismissively, glancing at Sarah. The truth was we had no idea what jobs Sarah’s father had in mind for us. We knew that options were pretty limited in a restaurant, none of them terribly interesting, but we were thankful for the opportunity to start somewhere new.
“Don’t take my question the wrong way,” he said, his dark eyes holding mine in a cool, level gaze. Then he winked. “I didn’t take you for Hurdy-Gurdy dancers.”
I had no idea who these dancers might be, but they didn’t sound respectable, and I tried to ignore Mr. Harris by focusing on the sights outside the window. After all I had witnessed, I planned on being cautious.
The coach started its slow climb from the river valley up the canyon walls, and Sarah and I were forced to look away many times, as the sheer drop to the raging waters below got higher and higher. At one point, one of the horses stumbled, and the coach lurched. I let out an involuntary gasp. Beside me, Mr. Harris chuckled.
“First time on this road?” he asked.
Not wanting to be rude, I nodded. This was going to be a long journey.
“I’ve come this way many times for business,” he said. “Don’t fuss. This road is an engineering marvel thanks to the Royal Engineers. Wait till we pass over the part built out on stilts.”
“Stilts?” Sarah and I echoed in unison.
“When they couldn’t find a way to blast a road surface into the granite, they built sections on wooden stilts.”
When we passed over the wood-surfaced section an hour later, my stomach began a series of somersaults, and Sarah tightened her arms around Jacob. He sensed our tension and began to fuss. Turning away from Mr. Harris, I closed my eyes for a long while until we entered a long, dark tunnel.
“Sometimes the engineers used dynamite to make these tunnels,” Mr. Harris said, continuing his commentary unfazed by the sheer blackness around us.
The horses whinnied, fearful of what beast or reptile might lurk in the dark, dank shadows. Finally, we emerged into daylight once more, but the roar of water was so loud Mr. Harris had to shout.
“Hell’s Gate,” he yelled, pointing down.
Below were dizzying rapids. By some freak of nature,
