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days’ time, bound for the port of St. Michael. There they were to take further passage on a boat that would travel down the Yukon River. Their final destination was the place the newspapers called “the Eldorado city of Dawson,” just over the Canadian border in the Yukon Territory.
    If they had any hope of making it to the gold fields before autumn, they had to reach St. Michael before this month was out. Duncan had closely questioned those who sold them their supplies. From what they had said, he’d gotten some sense of how short a time the river was passable.
    So far, however, the fact that they had documents guaranteeing their passage had not impressed the man. Their names, he insisted, were not on the passenger list.
    The sound of cursing, screaming, and thundering hooves increased. Duncan’s instincts, honed by centuries of life-and-death confrontations, took over. He jumped to the right just as a thousand pounds of runaway mule swept by.
    The beast was braying in terror, kicking out randomly as it ran. The wharf area was jammed with men and women. Some were bound for the gold fields. Some had come to see the adventurers off. And some were there to exploit them. Not everyone was as quick as Duncan. Bodies tumbled about in the mule’s wake.
    A few yards away, Fitzcairn planted himself firmly. He dodged as the mule swept past, and grabbed for the frayed rope dangling from its halter.
    He caught it all right, but Duncan saw at once that one man’s weight was not going to be equal to the task of halting the animal’s panicked flight.
    “Hang on,” he hollered, sprinting toward man and beast.
    Fitzcairn was leaning backward, hauling with all his strength. The mule circled him, kicking furiously.
    “Have I a choice, Highlander?” he said through clenched teeth as he tightened his hold on the rope.
    A vicious kick narrowly missed Duncan as he ran to Fitz’s side. He grabbed the rope above where Fitz held it, and joined his weight to his friend’s.
    A crowd was beginning to surround them. Duncan heard shouts of encouragement, and advice. One voice, rising above the rest, cursed the mule with an astonishing variety of obscenities.
No doubt the owner,
Duncan thought.
    Men and mule struggled mightily. Duncan heartily wished Danny was there. A third man would make the difference. But the young Immortal was back in their hotel, guarding their possessions. Though the Rainier Grand Hotel was a first-class establishment—that reservation at least had been honored—they had been warned by the desk clerk himself not to leave valuables unprotected even in a locked room. So until they could arrange an account at a local bank, one of them had to be watchman.
    Still, even without Danny, he and Fitzcairn were winning the battle. The mule was tiring, its frenzy decreasing. Duncan’s arms ached. He would be glad to be done with this little adventure soon.
    At that moment, the crowd around began to stir. Shouts rang out, and people milled about.
    Another runaway?
Duncan wondered.
    The crowd parted to reveal a well-proportioned closed carriage drawn by a matched pair of sleek white horses. While they were not at a gallop, they were definitely being driven at a pace faster than conditions on the crowded dock warranted.
    Duncan, Fitzcairn, and the mule were directly in their path.
    “Bloody hell!” Fitz shouted. They had no choice but to drop the rope and leap aside.
    The coachman, seeing them, pulled up sharply. The white horses reared. The mule, loose once again, spooked anew. Rather than running off, it continued to move in a circle, braying furiously, kicking continuously.
    Like a wooden pull toy with a mad child at the string, Duncan thought, as he scrambled out of range of the flying heels.
    Fitzcairn had fallen backwards after letting loose the rope. As he rose to his knees, the iron-shod hooves caught him squarely on the rump. He was sent sprawling, headfirst, into several stacked crates of chickens, part of some gold