The Garrets met back at the forge house just in time for supper. Pius Garret had spent most of the afternoon looking for Jake, and they were all beginning to worry.
Eliza hoped against hope that Jake would appear for his supper, none the worse for wear. She and her mother had gone back to where she’d last seen Jake, but there was nothing there, and when they called Jake’s name there was no one to hear. Eliza said nothing.
Mrs Garret and Eliza had then gone to find Horace at his aunt’s house. Nathan McKenzie’s wife had died during childbirth, so his aunt, Priscilla Sykes, had raised him.
‘Eliza says you were with Jake this afternoon on the way home from school, Horace,’ said Mrs Garret.
Eliza tried not to catch Horace’s eye, or her mother’s, or his aunt’s.
‘So?’ asked Horace.
‘Was he all right?’ asked Mrs Garret, an edge creeping into her voice.
‘I didn’t do nothing,’ said Horace.
‘How many times do I have to tell you,’ said his aunt, ‘“I didn’t do anything.”’
‘Well, I didn’t,’ said Horace.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Garret,’ said Horace’s aunt, ‘but Horace came home, alone, right about his usual time.’
‘You didn’t see which way he went?’ Mrs Garret asked Horace.
‘Left him right by the rhododendrons,’ said Horace. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Go wash your hands ready for supper,’ said his aunt, ‘and mind your manners in front of people.’
On the way back to the forge, Eliza wanted to tell her mother what had really happened. She knew just how much trouble she’d be in, even though she hadn’t really lied, not properly. Horace was horrible, but he wouldn’t really hurt Jake, surely?
Eventually, the Garrets sat down to supper, but none of them ate very much, except the twins. Eight-year-old boys’ appetites aren’t spoilt by anything, and David and Michael tucked into the meal with gusto.
Later, when Mrs Garret was clearing supper away, she noticed that the bread was missing and the ham had disappeared off the dresser. The Garrets searched the rest of the house frantically and found that the spare blanket had gone, and a knife and compass, as well as one of Garret’s old jackets.
‘He’ll be warm and fed at least,’ said Mrs Garret.
‘He’s not the sort to run away,’ said Garret.
‘I don’t see what else he can have done,’ said Mrs Garret.
‘It’s going to be cold out tonight,’ said Garret, ‘and he hasn’t taken a tinderbox. A boy won’t survive out on his own for long at this time of year, and if the weather turns …’
‘Jake’s got his wits about him,’ said Mrs Garret, ‘and your jacket and the good blanket. He’ll be safe until we find him.’
‘First thing in the morning, I’ll round up some help and we’ll get looking for him,’ said Garret.
‘I won’t sleep a wink,’ said Mrs Garret.
‘None of us will,’ said Garret, ‘but there’s nothing else for it.’
Eliza Garret felt about as wretched as she had ever felt in her whole life. She had been taught to say her prayers every night, and most nights she said the same old thing without even thinking. That night, Eliza thought hard about what she’d done to Jake and asked the good Lord to protect him and to forgive her part in his disappearance. It did not make her guilt go away.
Eliza tossed and turned, until she decided to confess to her father first thing in the morning. She would accept any punishment, if only Jake could be found safe and well.
Jake fell into the deep sleep of the exhausted, but, as dawn broke, his mind filled with dreams, just like the ones he’d dreamed at the Native settlement.
Jake saw clearly, in his mind’s eye, the lie of the land. He saw the shapes of the indigo mountains on the eastern horizon. He saw the meandering curves of the river below the high plateau where the Natives made their home, and he saw the height of the cliff. He saw the shape of the treeline and the angle of the sun. He even saw the configuration and colours of the rocks on the path Yellow Cloud’s horse had taken when he’d been slung over its back. He saw thunder and lightning in his dream, against a milky sky the colour of moonstones, and he thought of White Thunder.
He was thinking of her when he began to wake. He rolled over in his blanket, forgetting that he was in the forest and not in Eliza’s bed at the forge house. Then he woke up enough to remember where he was, and, despite the cold, despite the fact that the sun was only just rising, and despite his little fire going out in the night, Jake smiled.
He suddenly knew what he was looking for. All the clues were in his dreams, and all he had to do was find them and follow them. For the first time since he’d left McKenzie’s Prospect, Jake honestly believed that he’d find the Natives and that all his questions would be answered.
He kicked over his fire and picked up the ham and bread. He dropped them again suddenly when he saw they were covered in insects. It looked like various rodents had eaten most of the meat in the night, and the bread was soggy and dirty. It was at least twelve hours since Jake had eaten and he was more than ready for a hearty breakfast.
He wrapped his blanket around his shoulders, stuffed his clothes into the front of his jacket and checked the other things were in his pockets. Jake knew he needed to travel west, so he stood with his back to the rising sun. He also needed to head for high ground, since the Native settlement stood on a plateau above the valley.
Jake wove a path between the trees. The ground underfoot was mulchy and slippery with fallen leaves and dew, and a low, heavy mist cut down on visibility. His initial confidence began to subside, and Jake found himself humming his mother’s favourite hymn as he picked his way through the forest. More than once, he found himself ankle-deep in squelchy mud, and, several times, he tripped over exposed tree roots. He had been walking for half an hour and had covered only a few hundred yards, but he had already scraped his legs and scratched the back of his right hand falling into something that felt like a bramble, and he was cross and fearful.
Jake clutched at saplings as he clambered up a slippery slope. He had almost reached the top with its mass of rhododendrons, when his left foot slipped out from under him. He thrust out a hand for something to cling to, but found nothing but fresh air.
Suddenly, he was falling.
This wasn’t the same as slipping and sliding up the slope; this was actually falling through the air at an alarming speed.
The ground had crumbled under Jake’s feet and, surrounded by trees and mist, he had not realized that he was on the edge of a precipice. He finally grabbed a tree trunk. The top of the slope fell away abruptly to a depth of ten or twelve yards, and Jake’s feet were dangling out over the escarpment. He could see a broad, slow-moving river that glinted in the warm, grey morning light, and the low, boulder-covered bank that trickled down to it. It would have been a beautiful scene, like an illustration in an H. N. Matchstruck novel, if it wasn’t for the fact that Jake was clinging on for dear life.
He kicked his feet, trying to find some solid ground to stand on. He quickly realized that was impossible, and he twisted his body so that his right side was against the slope. Unable to hang on any longer, he let go of the tree, turning his body so that he could grasp at handholds on the way down. When he realized there were none, he turned so that his face was out of the wet mud and leaned his back into the slope.
Jake’s feet finally hit firm ground, his knees buckled, and he stopped. He was covered in filth, and his blanket had been pulled from his shoulders and was clinging to the muddy slope. He checked that he hadn’t hurt himself and then pulled at the muddy blanket, wh
ich came down on top of him. Once he had untangled himself, Jake folded the dirty blanket and tucked it into a hollow at the bottom of the slope where he’d be able to find it again.
The rising sun still hung low, casting flashing white lights across the water in front of him. A twist of curling smoke rose grey-white against the blue and orange sky away to Jake’s right. Then he noticed a small camp with a fire and a tent. Keeping close to the slope, Jake tiptoed towards the tent, and, before long, he caught a whiff of coffee and frying bacon on the air.
Jake’s mouth watered, but the campfire must belong to someone, and the tent, the coffee and the bacon too. He didn’t like to steal, but, from the size of the pan and the strong smell in the air, Jake was sure that a lot of bacon was being cooked. Surely one slice wouldn’t be missed.
Jake could see no one in the camp, and the tent was only big enough for two people at most. Beyond the fire and the tent, he caught sight of a mule tethered to a shrub that was growing at an angle out of the slope.
As well as the fire with its skillet of bacon and coffee pot, there was a tin bowl full of gently steaming soapy water and a shaving brush and mirror. A pair of good boots stood a few yards away, the sort that came all the way up to the knee, like a military man might wear.
With no one in sight, Jake edged out around the boulder that separated him from the camp and took the two paces to the fire. He snatched up a piece of bacon and tossed it from hand to hand so it wouldn’t burn his fingers.
‘Can I help you, young man?’ asked a voice, just as Jake was stuffing the bacon into his mouth.
Jake forgot for a moment that it wasn’t a good idea to breathe and swallow at the same time. He found himself choking on the bacon and turned to the stranger, pointing to his reddening face.
‘Righto,’ said the stranger, turning Jake squarely by the shoulders and pounding him on his back. The half-chewed piece of bacon leapt out of Jake’s throat and landed in the fire, where it spat and sizzled as it burned to a crisp.
‘Thank you,’ said Jake, gasping for air.
‘For the bacon?’ asked the stranger. ‘Or for saving your life? I should think you might thank me for both, given the circumstances. Heh?’
Then the stranger thrust out his hand and said, ‘Masefield Haskell, geologist and surveyor, at your service.’
Jake looked down at his hands and then showed them to Masefield Haskell. Haskell looked at them and said, ‘You might wipe them down your …’ By this time, the boy and the man were both looking up and down Jake’s very dirty body. It seemed to have no clean spot on it where he might wipe his hands before shaking with Mr Haskell.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Mr Haskell.
Jake wasn’t sure what a surveyor was, but he knew that a geologist was a kind of scientist who knew about rocks and things. Jake thought that if he’d ever had to guess what a geologist looked like, it would be nothing like Mr Masefield Haskell. Mr Haskell looked more like a poet to Jake.
Haskell was wearing trousers, rolled up, and his feet were bare. His jacket matched his trousers, and they were sewn from very fine, checked cloth that looked like the sort of tweed that came from England and was sold in the smartest shops in St Louis. He was also wearing a linen shirt that was as clean as a new pin. His hair was thick and curly and flopped about all over his head. He had a pair of field glasses hanging around his neck, the likes of which Jake had never seen before, and he was holding a sketchbook and pencil. His face still had patches of soap on it where he had not finished shaving.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Masefield Haskell, ‘you can wash in my water when I’ve finished shaving. Then you can tell me all about whatever it is, over breakfast.’
Listening to Haskell, Jake thought that the cloth for his suit wasn’t the only thing that had come from England. He’d only heard an English accent once before, but he was sure it was the same.
Mr Haskell threw the sketchbook and pencil down and took up his razor. ‘You might wonder what a geologist is doing out west,’ he said as he shaved. ‘Working for Nathan McKenzie, out of McKenzie’s Prospect, that’s what. Heard of him?’
Jake nodded, but Haskell was too preoccupied with shaving his neck and had his head tipped back.
‘He thinks there’s gold in those hills, or gems anyway,’ he went on, gesturing with the blade of his razor, which glinted alarmingly in the sun. ‘Of course, in a year or two, we’ll all be working on the land survey for the railroad companies. Imagine it, from sea to shining sea, or ocean anyway, from north to south and back again, a railroad, the envy of the world.’
‘Not birds then?’ asked Jake when Haskell was at work on his moustache and couldn’t talk lest he cut himself. Jake was looking at the sketchbook where it had fallen open at a page with a rather good drawing of a bird of prey.
‘Hobby,’ said Haskell, flicking the soap off his razor. ‘I saw a goshawk,’ he said, waving the razor again as the last of the soap slid off it. ‘I had to draw it before it flew away and hence halfway through a shave.’
He wiped his face and pointed at the bowl of water to indicate that it was Jake’s turn. Once they were both cleaned up, they sat on either side of the skillet of bacon and ate from it. Haskell fed himself from a penknife, having given Jake his fork. ‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘What brings you out into this wild country?’
So, while they ate, Jake told Haskell his story. He watched the scientist’s face for signs of wonder, but it remained mostly calm, although he was clearly fascinated by the dragons. Jake was confident about calling them dragons, and he didn’t stint on his descriptions of the beasts. He even showed Haskell his tattoo, to verify his story, even though Haskell seemed to believe him.
‘That settles it,’ said Haskell when the skillet was empty and the story told. ‘We’ll have to get you back to McKenzie’s Prospect at once.’
It was the last thing that Jake wanted to hear, and he tried to protest, but Haskell was adamant.
‘The blacksmith and his wife … the Garrets, is it?’ he asked. ‘It sounds like they’ve had enough sadness in their lives without you running away and causing more upset.’
‘But –’ began Jake.
‘But me no buts,’ said Haskell, ‘as my mother, Mrs Haskell, would say to me when I was a boy your age. But me no buts. I wouldn’t be a responsible sort of chap if I didn’t take you home. It’s far too dangerous for a young man out alone in these parts, especially if your stories are to be believed. They are very, very good stories.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jake.
‘For taking you home or for the compliment?’ asked Haskell. ‘I should think you might thank me for both.’
‘I should think I might not,’ said Jake.
Haskell glared at Jake and the boy sat heavily back down, apparently resigned to his fate.
‘Have you any luggage?’ asked Haskell. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘I stuffed Mrs Garret’s blanket …’ Jake began to say, and then thought better of it. He might need it if he got a chance to slip away from the geologist.
‘What?’ asked Haskell.
‘No,’ said Jake. ‘No luggage.’
‘Give me a hand to load Jenny then, and we’ll be on our way,’ said Haskell. Jake assumed that the mule must be called Jenny.
Jake helped to load the mule after Haskell stowed his belongings in various canvas bags, which all bore his initials in dark, glossy ink: M. N. H.
When Jenny was ready to go, Haskell straightened his jacket, pulled on a hat and kicked over the traces of the fire on which he’d cooked the bacon. While he was busy, Jake planted a good hard slap on Jenny’s rump, and the mule began to trot merrily off along the river p
ath. Jake darted back along the slope and ducked behind the boulders, collecting Mrs Garret’s blanket on the way. Two minutes later, Jenny brayed, and Haskell looked up to see that she was a hundred yards away and picking up speed. Waving his hat at her, Haskell chased after the mule, without a second thought for the boy. He eventually caught up with the mule, but, by the time he’d led her back to the campsite, Jake was long gone.
Haskell looked for the boy for a few minutes and then sighed at his unhappy fate. Jenny was loaded, however, so he made the decision to go back to McKenzie’s Prospect. The boy needed help, and Haskell would make sure that he got it.
As usual, Pius Garret awoke before the first cock crowed. The sun would soon be up, and the blacksmith wanted to waste no time hunting for Jake.
As he and his wife walked around McKenzie’s Prospect, Garret decided they’d need a much broader search to find the boy. If Jake had got lost in the forest, he could be in all kinds of trouble.
Everything that mattered in McKenzie’s Prospect happened at the mercantile. That’s where people went when they needed help with just about anything. So the Garrets packed the children off to school and headed straight there. When they stepped into the emporium, they were surprised to find Nathan McKenzie standing at the counter with his sister and Horace, and Trapper Watkiss. Lem stood quietly behind the counter.
‘We’ve been waiting for you, Garret,’ said Nathan McKenzie.
‘Waiting for us?’ asked Mrs Garret. ‘Why?’
‘Horace has got something to say,’ said McKenzie, shoving Horace forward. The boy’s head was down and he was clutching his hands together so that his knuckles were white.
‘Speak up,’ said his father. ‘It takes a man to ’fess up and take the beating he deserves.’
Mrs Garret put a gentle hand on Horace’s arm.
‘If you could help us find Jacob, we’d be very grateful,’ she said. ‘“To err is human”, Horace, “to forgive divine”, and I plan to do a whole lot of forgiving today.’