Chapter 4: The Lost Outpost

Early the next morning, in the pre-dawn twilight, Kodiak and Mosley stepped out of the Sitka Hotel and walked down the Lincoln Street boardwalk. Moving through the fog of their own breath, they reached the wet gravel beach near Katlean Street, where heavy cedar dugout canoes lay turned along the high-water mark. A few Tlingit men stood among the craft, making ready for the morning ebb.

As the sun’s first rays broke over the horizon, Kodiak led Mosley toward a pair of men attending to a long dugout. The older of the two was using a heated iron to smooth warm pitch into the seams of the hull, his canvas coat slick with morning dew and spruce resin.

Kodiak raised a hand in greeting. “Good morning, Mike.”

The older Tlingit man didn’t look up immediately. He ran a calloused thumb along the hull, checking the pitch seal before setting the iron aside. Then he raised his eyes toward the two men. “Kodiak. Wind’s turning west with the dawn.”

Kodiak nodded. “Mr. Mosley,” he began, gesturing toward the man, “this is Mikhail Kakoor. We call him Mike. He’s a local trader and guide.”

“Nigel Arthur Mosley,” Mosley said, extending a gloved hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Kakoor glanced down at Mosley’s hand, then settled his gaze on Kodiak. “What brings you out this morning?”

“Need to hire a boat for the day, out toward Silver Bay. There’s an inlet trading post Mr. Mosley needs to inspect. Haven’t heard from them in a while.”

Mosley withdrew his hand and rested it on his walking stick.

Kakoor’s gaze drifted toward Mosley, then back to Kodiak. “The both of you?”

“Yes."

“Five dollars,” Kakoor said, his voice flat and deliberate. “Me and my nephew. We leave soon. The tide runs hard at midday. You try to row against it, you end up on the rocks.”

“Four,” Kodiak said.

“Five,” the Tlingit man repeated firmly. “The Englishman can afford it.”

“Indeed,” Mosley said, raising an eyebrow. “Five it is.”

Kodiak reached into his coat, the Morgan dollars clinking in his pocket. He fished two out and offered them to Kakoor. “Two now, three when we return.”

Taking the coins, Kakoor looked down at his canoe. “Wait while we get our boat ready.” He turned toward his nephew and began giving him instructions in Tlingit.

Two hours later, the party of four was out in the middle of Sitka Sound. At the bow, Kakoor’s nephew plied the water with his pad-le. Behind him sat Mosley, keeping his back straight as the dugout bobbed in the ocean chop. Kodiak occupied the third seat, dipping a middle pad-le to add extra pull when needed. In the stern sat Kakoor, working a broad steering pad-le like a rudder. Reading the swell and currents, the older man called out low commands to his nephew, who adjusted his stroke to pull the narrow cedar vessel through the windswept fjord.

They made their way past the evergreen-clad hills of Sawmill Cove and into Silver Bay, where the chop smoothed and the air grew quiet. Cries of bald eagles echoed through the valley over pale water. They pad-led past Herring Cove, where a few small skiffs dotted the surface—pairs of fishermen hauling in nets slick with oily herring while harbor seals surfaced nearby, waiting to snatch a meal from the catch.

After a while, Kodiak raised a hand toward the shoreline. “Up ahead is Bear Cove,” he called to Mosley. “Your trading post should be in there, on the northern bank.”

Mosley nodded, reaching into an inside pocket of his coat. He drew out a compact telescoping brass spyglass, snapped it open, and brought it to his eye.

“There it is,” he pronounced after a moment, scanning the treeline. “Looks to be about a hundred feet back from the shore.” He passed the optic back to Kodiak.

“I see it,” Kodiak said, looking through the glass before turning toward the stern. He pointed with his left hand toward the dark outline of a log cabin set against the hemlock and spruce near the bank of a creek. “Over that way, Mike.”

Kakoor’s eyes narrowed as he picked out the structure. With a quiet nod, he issued a command in Tlingit to his nephew. The yo-ng man shifted his stroke, and together they turned the dugout into the cove, picking a careful line to avoid the submerged rocks.

As the canoe entered the cove, the water flattened in the lee of the shore. Kodiak handed the spyglass back to Mosley. Aside from the breeze in the treetops and the drip of their pad-les, the bay remained still. A black-tailed deer picked its way up the creek bank, heading away from the outpost. The cabin stood dark in the shadows, without a wisp of smoke rising from the chimney.

Mosley lowered the optic, scanning the tree line with bare eyes. “I say... shouldn’t there be a skiff?”

“Could be out checking traps,” Kodiak offered. “Though the stove’s cold.”

Mosley scanned the homestead a moment longer, snapped the spyglass shut, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Damn,” he muttered.

“We’ll go see what’s what,” Kodiak said.

They made landfall on the narrow gravel bar in front of the post. Kakoor, his nephew, and Kodiak stepped into the shallows, grabbing the gunwales to haul the heavy dugout high onto the beach. The wet stone was blanketed in sharp barnacles and green bladderwrack, exposed by the low tide.

Once the canoe was secured well above the waterline, Kakoor turned to Kodiak. “My nephew and I will wait here.”

Mosley looked up from hitching his heavy coat, keeping the fur lining clear of the tidal pools. “Are you quite sure you’ll be all right?”

Kakoor’s dark gaze settled on the Englishman. “We will be fine. My nephew and I stay with our boat. We make tea.”

“Tea?” Mosley nodded. “That’ll do. Off we go, Mr. Kodiak.”

Kodiak adjusted his stance, swinging a canvas pack over his shoulder. “See you two in a bit,” he said to the Tlingit men.

Kakoor and his nephew watched as Mosley and Kodiak picked their way up the beachhead toward the cabin, the overdressed Englishman struggling to keep his footing on the slippery slope. The two Tlingit men exchanged a quiet glance.

Kodiak and Mosley approached the cabin cautiously. The British gentleman clutched his walking stick in one hand to keep his balance as he dodged muddy tide pools, holding up the hem of his coat with the other.

“Told you you’d need to get something more practical,” Kodiak said.

“I see that. Never mind it for—” Mosley cut short as his heel skittered across a slick stone.

Kodiak stepped in beside his employer, offering an arm to steady him. Once Mosley regained his balance, Kodiak pointed toward the creek running just beyond the outpost.

“That there is Medvejie Creek,” he began.

“Med-vuh-yee?”

“Med-VAY-yee,” Kodiak sounded out, emphasizing the middle syllable. “Russian word for bear. This creek’s a popular salmon spawn—they swim upriver. A few miles upstream there’s a lake by the same name. Russians did a lot of trapping here. Plenty of bears in these parts.”

“Naturally.”

The terrain dried and evened out as they reached soft earth. From the outside, the cabin site was bare except for the remnants of a seasonal firepit and a small stack of split logs against the wall.

Mosley stopped a few yards from the entrance. “The door’s hanging open.”

“Looks abandoned.” Kodiak stepped ahead and paused.

“Quite right, but look—the latch has been f-rced inward. Somebody broke in.”

Kodiak walked toward the door, Mosley following behind him. “Let's get a look inside. I don’t hear anyone.”

Mosley nodded and pushed the door forward with his free hand, stepping slowly inside onto the floorboards, his heel making a dull thud. Kodiak followed, the hinges creaking as he opened the door wide.

Inside, the cabin was bare except for a heavy pine table and two chairs. In the corner stood a cold cast-iron stove connected to a rusted chimney pipe. Kodiak set his canvas sack down and pulled out a small brass oil lantern and a box of matches. Striking one, he lit the wick and handed the light to Mosley.

Mosley surveyed the perimeter of the room. “No tools, no wood, no furs,” he muttered.

“No food, no clothes, no bedrolls,” Kodiak added. “You sure this place was occupied?”

“Yes. Confirmed it with the magistrate myself. Two trappers came up here on contract at the start of the season. They were seen in town periodically on supply runs, but nobody’s heard from them in quite a while.”

“I see. Maybe they collected the furs and lit out.” Kodiak shrugged.

Mosley frowned. “They received a considerable advance under the terms of our contract, with options to renew for further seasons. If they absconded with their quarry, they’d be blacklisted and never work in the territory again.” He paused, looking down at his boots. “What have we here?”

Kodiak glanced over. “Find something?”

Mosley didn’t look up. He took his walking stick and tapped the floorboards to his right, producing a pair of dull thuds. Moving the tip a foot forward, he repeated the motion; this time, the wood produced a clear, hollow echo.

“Look here,” Mosley said softly. “There’s a break in the dust between these planks. Cold air is pulling up from below.”

Kodiak stepped over and looked down. “You think there’s a hidden cellar?”

“Listen.” Mosley tapped again, firmer this time, sending another hollow knock through the floor. “Hear that difference?”

“You’re right. Root cellar.”

“Indeed. Help me get it open.”

Kodiak knelt and ran his hand along the wood until he felt the seam where a trapdoor had been cut flush with the floorboards. He felt along the crack until he found a spot gouged and worn from being levered open. Unsheathing his belt knife, he wedged the heavy blade into the seam to lever the wood apart, then pried the hatch up just enough to get his fingers beneath the edge. With a heavy groan of timber, he swung the door back, revealing a dark shaft and a rough wooden ladder dropping six feet into a cellar.

“Well, look at that,” Kodiak said, peering down into the cobwebs.

“Do you suppose there’s anything down there?” Mosley asked, leaning over the opening.

“Only one way to find out.” Kodiak took the lantern, turned, and lowered himself down the ladder, squeezing his shoulders through the hatch.

From above, Mosley looked down, watching the light flicker as Kodiak descended. A dank smell of turned soil wafted up from the cellar. After a moment, Kodiak's voice echoed from the dark. “Pay dirt! Get a load of this, Mr. Mosley.”

Mosley leaned over the opening. In the lantern light, Kodiak held up a heavy canvas parcel.

“There’s a few dozen mink furs down here and a couple of sea otters. This is where they kept the stash.”

“Finally, some progress,” Mosley said. “Be a good man and bring those up. Let’s see what they left behind.”

After a few trips up and down the ladder, Kodiak hauled up three canvas parcels packed with cured mink pelts and a fourth containing a half-dozen sea otters—all of them thoroughly dried, scraped, and bundled neatly for transport. Kodiak examined the haul.

“You’re right, Mr. Mosley. Looks like they had a hell of a season. There’s at least a thousand dollars in fur here.”

“At least,” Mosley remarked dryly. “The question is: why leave it behind? It is plausible something might happen to one man, but both at once? Highly unlikely—unless foul play was involved.”

“Bandits could’ve come upon the cabin and tried to take their haul. Make it look like they abandoned the post”

“Indeed. And I don’t suppose it would be terribly difficult to dispose of the... ahem... bodies. Certainly not in a place named Bear Creek.”

Kodiak’s mouth set in a hard line as he surveyed the empty room. “No. Out here, a man disappears real easy. If somebody took them out, they might still be working these inlets.”

Mosley clasped both hands over the top of his walking stick. “Our best course of action would seem to be taking these back into town and reporting our findings to the magistrate.”

“I can have a word with Deputy Ford tomorrow. He works for the Marshal Service.”

“Good. Then, after we’ve wrapped up our business at the courthouse, we can take these over to the trading company. There will be more than enough here to help re-establish our trade in Sitka next year. Help me take these back to the boat; perhaps we can enlist the services of Mr. Kakoor’s nephew.”

“Yes, sir,” Kodiak said, retying the parcel lashings and picking one up in each hand. Mosley stepped out the door, holding it open wide for Kodiak before they made their way back down the beachhead.

While Mosley and Kodiak were away, Kakoor’s nephew walked to the forest line to gather dry hemlock twigs while Kakoor retrieved their hide pack from the dugout. Soon a small fire flickered in the shelter of the gravel bank. Using his belt knife, Kakoor carved fine shavings off a hard brick of Russian tea into a tin kettle while his nephew collected fresh water from the creek. They sat back against a drift-log, watching the steam rise as they looked out across the fjord.

When the two men returned to the beachhead, Kakoor and his nephew were sipping tea. Kodiak set the first two stacks of fur down on the gravel near the gunwales.

Kakoor didn't speak at first. He set his tin cup aside on a flat stone, leaned forward, and pulled back a corner of the canvas wrapping. His calloused fingers brushed over the dark, dense guard hairs of a prime sea otter pelt. He lifted the bundle slightly, testing its weight, his brow furrowing as he calculated the prime winter catch in his head.

“Sea otter,” Kakoor said softly, looking up at Kodiak with renewed gravity. “Two men do not walk away from pelts like these to go hunting. Not for a day. Not for a week.”

“I know,” Kodiak said. “There’s two more packs up at the cabin. Need to get them down before the tide turns.”

Kakoor glanced toward his nephew and spoke a brief, sharp command in Tlingit. The yo-ng man stood immediately, set his cup down, and trotted up the gravel slope toward the cabin.

Kakoor turned back to the bundle, smoothing the fur flat before folding the heavy canvas cover back into place. “A thousand dollars in prime skin,” he murmured, his voice low against the lap of the water. “Whoever took those trappers didn’t come for the furs.”

“I know. Have your people noticed anybody strange in these parts lately?”

“Strange? We find all manner of white men strange.” He looked from Kodiak toward Mosley. “Come, we should leave soon. Tide's coming in.”

Kodiak nodded and turned toward Mosley, who sat on a drift-log, sipping his tea. “All right, boss. We’re heading out as soon as the rest of the load is stowed.”

Pushing off the gravel bar required a hard heave from Kodiak and the two Tlingit men to free the weighted hull. Once afloat, the party boarded with measured steps to keep the low-slung vessel from rolling in the surf. The return to Sitka was quiet, the heavy cedar dugout riding low in the water with four canvas parcels of prime fur secured under oilcloth. Kodiak dug deep with his middle pad-le, putting his shoulder into each stroke to help the Tlingit men pull the laden canoe through the tidal chop. By dusk, the slate roofs of Sitka emerged from the coastal mist.