January passed. February passed. March passed. So did April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November and December. Every time Goldie heard that Scrooge was in town, she got all dolled up and waited for him to show up at her door. She waited…and waited…and waited. He never came. She never saw him, for that matter. He obviously steered clear of the Blackjack on purpose. And rumor had it he got most of his supplies in Whitehorse now. Whitehorse! So far away! Just to avoid her?

Goldie went through denial, anger and despair several times before resigning herself to the fact that he simply wasn’t coming back to her. Perhaps her letter was worded too strongly. Perhaps she had misread signals. Perhaps he was simply unwilling to forgive her for her deeds. But he could have at least replied!

The Cold Flame of the Yukon sat in her bedroom late one night…well, it was actually morning, now, but she wasn’t being picky. It was January again. Precisely one year since she had last seen Scrooge…spoken to him…touched him.

She rose from the table and put another log on the fire, trying not to think about the bitter wind outside. Time and time again, through the years, she had vowed never to fall into this trap. She had seen it happen to so many girls around her, and she swore she would never become moony-eyed, lovesick and weak like them. But it had felt so… so… right.

Well, never again.

Goldie snuffed out the candle and made another attempt at sleep.

Scrooge McDuck used his hunting knife to carefully carve another notch into the log above the fireplace. Another month had passed. Another year. January of 1899 had arrived. His cabin was now two years old…twenty-four notches. It had been twelve notches since he had seen Goldie. A year. But he could still see the shine of her hair in the firelight when he closed his eyes…hear the music of her laughter in the stillness of the Klondike wilderness…

He sighed and buried his bill in a hot cup of coffee. Wonderful memories, but little more. A gold pan sat on the table beside him, holding small bags full of gold dust and nuggets, all carefully sorted and ready to be put in his safe-deposit box in the Whitehorse Bank. His claim was by no means played out, but the supply of gold was dwindling. And how much money did he really need, anyway? How much money did he have? He wasn’t even sure, but the bank would be able to tell him. Better make a run down to Whitehorse soon. He might even splurge on some fresh coffee.

"Ya stunned the poor sourdough! Tell ‘im again!" said a bystander.

"I said that with the ore you just brought in, you now have one million dollars in this bank!" exclaimed the teller.

Scrooge blinked again. Yes, that’s what he said. "A million dollars! I…I can’t believe it! That’s more money than there is in the world!"

"Whadya’ gonna do now, McDuck? Go after your second million?" asked the man in line behind him at the bank window.

Scrooge wandered out the door with a stunned expression, hardly watching where he was going. "I hadn’t really thought about it! A million dollars is all I’ll ever need!"

"Buy some land an’ settle down, Scroogey!" said a man on the boardwalk.

The thought had occurred to him, too, of course. But what would be the point of settling down somewhere alone? Goldie’s deep green eyes crossed his mind, and he sighed wistfully. After all this time, she probably didn’t even remember him. Best not to think about such "could-have-beens".

Scrooge looked around at the soupy stretch of mud that served as the main street in Whitehorse. "Maybe I’ll become a philanthropist! I could pave these streets, for starters!"

"I’d shore appreciate it!" came a voice from under his feet. He looked down to see that, in his daze, he had stepped onto the top of a man’s head. "So would muh hoss! Giddiyap, boy!" Scrooge hopped off with a startled look as the man galloped off on a horse hidden completely by the deep mud.

Casey Coot walked up, seeing in his friend a sympathetic listener. "Gosh," he said with a sigh, "I wish I’d made a lucky strike like you!"

"Luck had nothing to do with it!" Scrooge scoffed. "I worked hard for every grain of gold dust I panned!"

Casey looked down with a bleak expression. "Well, I’m just another sourdough who’s sour on the Yukon and without enough dough to get home!"

Scrooge cast a sympathetic eye at him. "Maybe I can help you! Got anything to sell?"

"Only some land my family left me back in the States."

"Yeah? Where abouts?"

"Calisota! My pioneer grandpa built a place he called Fort Duckburg on a ten-acre hill there!" Casey pulled a rolled-up deed out of his buckskin coat.

Scrooge wasn’t one to buy real estate sight unseen, but Casey had been a good friend, so he made an exception. "Never heard of it, but I’ll bite! Can you get home on two hundred dollars?"

"You bet!" Casey said with a grin. "Here’s the deed!"

They wrote up the particulars right there on the street, and the deed to Fort Duckburg changed hands. "Thanks, Mr. McDuck!"

"Thank you, Mr. Coot! This has helped me make a big decision!"

Casey headed off to buy a steamer ticket to Calisota, leaving Scrooge to study the deed. It was an impulsive thing to do, buying some property he knew nothing about, but in the last five minutes he had come to a conclusion: a million dollars was only cold money without someone to share it with. He still loved Goldie. It was probably stupid and hopeless, but he did, and perhaps if he showed up on her doorstep, a millionaire with a homestead ready and waiting for her in the United States, proclaiming his affections…well, just maybe she’d forgive him and give their relationship another try.

He turned to gaze up at the distant mountains and smiled. After I put this deed in the bank and buy a few things, I’ll make one last trip to my claim on White Agony Creek, he thought. Then on to Dawson! He could already see himself walking to the Blackjack Ballroom, sweeping Goldie off her feet, and leaving the Yukon in triumph, one of the lucky few to tame this wild land. Then, on to the Land of Opportunity, to start a new life with the woman he loved. This is the beginning of a new life for Scrooge McDuck, he told himself gleefully as he strolled down the street, toward the place he left his dog sled.

As he passed the wharf, Soapy Slick spotted him and yelled, "Hey, McDuck! You’ve got plenty of money now! How about a riverboat ride to Dawson?" The loan shark and gambling czar had stayed downwind of the law for long enough that he Mounties had allowed him back into Canada. Since Scrooge paid back his loan in full last year, he had stayed as far away from him as possible.

Scrooge shot him an annoyed look. "Only softies and suckers waste money on your gambling barges, Soapy Slick! I’ll stick to the overland trail!" he sneered before walking off in the other direction.

He found his cabin as he had left it. The fresh snow of White Agony Valley had only been disturbed by wildlife in his absence. By the time he reached his claim, however, it was well past dark, and he needed a good night’s rest before turning around and heading into Dawson. He would need his wits about him to face Goldie again. And there was still the matter of the letter.

On the way out of the Whitehorse, he had stopped at the general store to buy a box of fine chocolates…a rare splurge, but she was worth it…and a stationery set. Now he sat at the table in his cabin, warming his frozen feet by the fire, tapping a pen against the side of the ink well. He couldn’t possibly say everything he wanted to say to her out loud, so he thought it best to give her a letter in a box of chocolates, and simply let her read it. Then he’d just have to wait and see her reaction.

Scrooge frowned in concentration and dipped the pen in the ink well. At least he knew the first line. "Dear Goldie," he wrote. The rest of the blank page stretched menacingly before him. Hmm…

He tried for nearly an hour to come up with a good opening line, but all he succeeded at was wasting half a box of stationery. Finally, he decided to give up on poetry and simply write whatever came into his head. It couldn’t possibly be worse than the tortured verses he had already constructed.

Taking a deep breath, he refreshed the ink on his pen and tried again.

"Dearest Goldie,

"I love you. There I said it. Or at least, wrote it. I loved you before, and I still love you now. I thought I could go on and forget you, eventually, but you haunt my dreams and cross my mind about a hundred times a day. I want to hold you again, and just listen to your heart beat, and give you every pleasure you ever dreamed of.

"I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, and I can’t imagine feeling this way about anyone else, ever again. You’re the one. I know we’ve had our differences in the past, but I’m willing to apologize for the stupid things I’ve done and said and move on, if you can do the same. We’re so much alike—pride and stubbornness are just two of the traits we share—so I figure you must be feeling the same things I’m feeling. I don’t think I’ll ever be truly happy until we’re together again.

"I’m leaving the Klondike. My claim is just about played out, and I have a million dollars in the bank in Whitehorse. That’s right. $1,000,000. More money than I ever dreamed of! So I’m leaving, but I want you to come with me. I just bought some land down in Calisota, in the U.S.A., where we can settle down. Start over again, just you and I. First, I’ll book us a first-class passage to Scotland, where you can meet my father and sisters, and see my family’s ancestral castle, and its Great Hall…where I want to marry you.

"Please, Goldie. Accept my love, my life, and my apologies, and I swear we’ll never have to be apart again.

"All my love,

"Scrooge"

He signed his name and sat back, his hands shaking. There. It wasn’t the most poetic love letter ever written, but it would have to do. He was a miner, not a bard.

Scrooge stood and attempted to clean the ink off his hands with a handkerchief. Writing that was the last and most important thing he needed to do before he left White Agony Valley. Now that it was done, he was free to go to sleep. As soon as the sun rose, he would hitch up his dogs and go back to Dawson…back to her.

He blew out the candle and crawled underneath the blankets for one last night in this cabin…and, hopefully, one last night alone.

There! he thought happily when the sled was packed. I couldn’t leave behind what’s on this sled. He looked up and ahead at the rugged scenery. Now my path takes me over Moosehide Mountain to Dawson…wildest boomtown of the Yukon Territory. He smiled nervously, then signaled the dogs to start the journey. He looked back just once, waving to the small log cabin he had built with his own two hands. "Farewell, White Agony! You’ve made me rich, but I fought you for every nugget I dug out of you!" He returned his eyes to the trail ahead, enjoying the scenery. And I enjoyed every minute of it! I love this land! What was it that poet in Skagway said…? Robert something… ‘There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting, it’s luring me on as of old! Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting so much as just finding the gold! It’s the great big, broad land ‘way up yonder! It’s the forests where silence has lease! It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder! It’s the stillness that fills me with peace!"

Even the three sled dogs seemed rejuvenated by his recitation.

"Mush, you kyoodles! Get this cargo to Dawson by nightfall and it’s caribou steaks all around!" He snapped out of his reverie and looked at the breathtaking scenery with a more practical perspective. Uh oh! Either I made a wrong turn somewhere or the snow is covering my trail markers! Then it clicked. Jumpin’ Jacksnipes! I’m on Mooseneck Glacier! This is no place for poetry!

Even as he realized this, a huge fissure opened in the ice beneath his sled with a resounding CRACK! The icy maw took a tight grip of his sled, and, try as he might, he couldn’t pull it free. The fissure began to grind shut, and at last he realized it was hopeless. All he could do was pull out his hunting knife to cut the dogs loose. No sooner had he cut the harness than the ice fissure crunched shut again, leaving no trace of his sled.

Stricken and panting, Scrooge knelt by the crack in the snow, staring helplessly downward. "Gone! My sled is sealed so deep in that glacier it’d take me ‘til 1910 to dig it out!" Snowflakes began falling at a greater rate, and he faced into the wind, studying the ominous cloudcover. And a blizzard is kicking up! How will I make it to Dawson now? He reached down for the only valuable item that had fallen off his sled: his rifle. My ammunition was on the sled, so I might as well use my rifle to mark this spot. He jammed the gun tightly into the crack in the ice. Someday I’ll find my way back here…someday… he thought as he walked off into the driving snow. His sled dogs had already disappeared. My best bet is to head for the Yukon River and try to hail a boat.

AAAAAAOOOOOO!

What’s that? He whirled around to see shadowy but unmistakable animals running toward him. "’Zounds! A pack of timber wolves is on my trail!" he yelled. He ran pell-mell to get away from the wolves, who nipped hungrily at his heels and coat. "And this day started out so promising! What went wrong?"

Suddenly, he ran out of glacier. He dashed out into thin air and began to fall. The wolves had better traction, and managed to stay put. "Oops! I found the river!" he gasped. At least the end will be quick! I won’t last a minute in these icy waters! he thought, putting a hand over his eyes as he fell.

*CRASH!*

He hit something dry and hard, and landed with a thump, dazed. There were voices around him.

"Misdeal! This stupid duck scrambled my chips!"

"Get this varmint outta here! He got snow in muh Red Eye!"

"What happened?" Scrooge mumbled. "Why is the river so hard?"

A tall chicken helped him off the table. "You fell smack on top of a riverboat! What fantastic luck!"

He moaned and tried to clear the swirling stars from his vision. "I’d hate to feel any bad luck!"

"What’s all the commotion in here?" came a distressingly familiar voice. He looked over to see Soapy Slick approaching. "McDuck! Decided to take a trip with us after all, eh?"

"What? Are we headed for Dawson?"

"Nope. This is the return trip to Whitehorse. Have business in Dawson, do ya?" Soapy asked, leaning on the bar.

Scrooge’s heart sank, thinking of his carefully-written love letter entombed in the glacier. "Not anymore. Not after what I lost in that glacier."

Losing interest, people drifted back to drinking and gambling. Scrooge stood alone, staring into space. He was utterly lost, and still a little dazed. Things went fine while I worked my claim day and night, never resting, making myself a rich man! Why did everything turn sour as soon as I decided to settle down, go to Dawson, and… He paused contemplatively. It had to be a sign. He apparently wasn’t meant to marry Goldie. He hadn’t seen her in ages, after all, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms. It had been foolish to think she still cared for him. Besides, he could never recreate that letter. It had taken all his courage just to write the silly thing the first time! And he was out of stationery, and getting farther from Dawson by the minute.

He stood with a blank expression for a moment, then scowled. But if that’s the way it is, I won’t stop with a million bucks! I’ll work and keep working until I don’t measure my money by the million, but by the…the acre! he vowed. "And I’ll start by buying the bank in Whitehorse!" he said aloud, attracting curious stares.

"Hey, McDuck! Whadja’ lose in that glacier? Huh, duck? Hah?" jeered a half-drunk card player.

Scrooge’s body tensed, and he whirled around. "None of your dang business!" he shouted. Surprisingly, the man and his cronies backed off. They knew his reputation, and weren’t keen on having the riverboat torn apart around them.

He wandered out on deck and stood at the back railing, watching the whirling snow fall into the Yukon River and melt on contact. It was the beginning of a new life, but not in the way he had intended.

Before the paddlewheeler was even properly moored, Scrooge hopped out onto the pier and headed for the Whitehorse Bank. The same teller from the day before was at the window. "Oh, hello, Mr. McDuck! Back with more gold already?"

Scrooge stifled a sigh. Why did that metal and her name have to sound so much alike? "Not today. I need to make a withdrawal." As the teller readied the paperwork, Scrooge looked around. It was a nice little bank. Tidy and successful. Hmm… He put a hand to his chin and ran a few calculations through his head. Why not? "Who owns this bank?" he asked.

The teller thought for a moment. "Fella by the name of Beaubien, I think."

"Is he here?"

"Nope. I can leave a message for ‘im, if you want."

Scrooge hesitated. He didn’t have an address where mail would reach him. "No. I’ll look him up later."

He merely withdrew fifty dollars from his million. Enough to get a hotel room and a hot meal. He could have afforded the best suite in town, of course, but it hadn’t really sunk in yet. Him, rich? He was a poor shoeshine boy from Glasgow, an unlucky prospector…no, a lucky one. At least, lucky as far as prospecting went. Overall…things weren’t quite as wonderful.

He sat at a table in the hotel’s dining room, staring into the steamy tendrils rising from his coffee cup. Fresh coffee…now there was a real luxury! The weight of the Goose Egg Nugget tugged at his pocket reassuringly. At least that had been in his coat, safe from the glacier’s appetite.

It had been a rotten day. A horrible, rotten, miserable day. All he wanted to do was go to sleep. And in the morning, he would march over and buy the Whitehorse Bank. If his million dollars couldn’t bring him love, it would have to bring him…well, more dollars. That’s what he had started out pursuing, anyway, all those years ago. How long had it been since he had seen the misty moors of Scotland? The moor adjacent to Castle McDuck, where he mother was now buried…

Well, this line of thought wasn’t helping to cheer him up. Scrooge finished off his coffee, paid his bill—not thinking to leave a tip—and headed for the general store down the street. There, he did something he never imagined he would do. He splurged. In an attempt to cheer himself up, he bought a fine black coat—complete with tails! He grinned into the mirror. At least now he looked like a millionaire, even if he didn’t feel like one yet.

Scrooge did indeed purchase the Whitehorse Bank the next day. The previous owner was more than happy to retire to Vancouver, where, he assured his successor, the weather was much more reasonable. Times in the Klondike being what they were, the bank did a booming business. Things only improved as Scrooge tweaked the operation here and there, taking advantage of his latent business skills.

The bank flourished, but something was still missing. Scrooge invested a little money here and there, and soon he owned a lumber company, a fish oil operation, a shipping company, and, to keep himself occupied on weekends, a lemonade stand. He simply kept buying businesses, testing the waters of economics, and always searching to fill that empty place deep in his soul.

Five years after first breaking Yukon soil with a shovel, Scrooge McDuck became a billionaire. He figured out the milestone himself, poring over the books late one night. He re-checked his figures, re-counted the zeros…yes, one billion dollars, give or take a few. He took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. It was far too late for any rational person to be awake. But what did it matter? No one was there to scold him. Or, to take a different slant, to be concerned that he wasn’t sleeping. Nothing was wrong, exactly. Except…he had just become a billionaire, and he had no one to tell. No one to congratulate him. It felt somehow anticlimactic. What now? Another billion? Would two billion feel any better than one billion? It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He should be turning handstands in the street, not nodding approvingly to himself at figures in a ledger. Well…perhaps he was just too tired to turn handstands. Maybe some sleep would help. He blew out the candle and wandered off to bed, led by the flickering of a particularly vivid aurora.

Goldie slouched at the bar, trying to stay awake. There were only three people in the entire ballroom, and two of them were drunk past caring about her singing. She didn’t feel much like singing, anyway. The gold rush was dying, and she knew her business wouldn’t be far behind. Those who were going to strike it rich had already done so, and those who were destined to leave penniless were swiftly realizing it.

Scrooge’s words echoed in her head. "I’ve seen it happen all over the world. People stampede in, strip the ore, and then desert a place. Mark my words, in five years Dawson will be a ghost town."

She went to the window. Not quite a ghost town, but…things were definitely quieting down. This was about the time she had once planned to sell the ballroom and settle down someplace with Scrooge. Since it appeared that wasn’t going to happen, she really didn’t know what to do.

Lulu strolled in, skimming the Klondike Gazette. "Hey, Goldie, take a look at this!"

She took the paper from her friend and stared numbly at the headline: "McDUCK A BILLIONAIRE."

"Good for him," she said with a sniff of disdain. Before Lulu could press the matter, Goldie turned and headed up the stairs. She wanted to break something or have a good cry, or perhaps both. She’d decide when she got to her room.

In time, of course, Dawson did dry up, its population shrank, and at last the day Goldie had dreaded arrived. There was no point in keeping the Blackjack Ballroom open any longer. She settled all her debts, sold off some of the furnishings, and boarded up the building. She should have sold it. It was silly to keep it. But even if she could have found a buyer, she simply couldn’t bear to part with it.

Rodney, Lulu, Snake Hips and the rest of her employees helped her board up the place, then made their good-byes on the boardwalk out front.

"Where will you go?" Snake Hips asked.

Goldie sighed. "I’ve got plans," she said cryptically.

"Scrooge?" Lulu hinted.

"Of course not!" she snapped.

Lulu shrugged with a small smile.

"No, if you must know, I’m going to Nome to visit my sister." She allowed herself a sad smile. "I’m going to miss all of you. Good luck with whatever you end up doing next."

They finished their good-byes, and Goldie pulled on a fur-trimmed parka. She made a show of packing her belongings onto a dog sled, waiting until the others left. When the coast was clear, she headed out of town—not via a steamboat to Nome, but over Moosehide Mountain.

White Agony Creek was frozen over, and the snow of the valley was undisturbed. It appeared no one had been there in years. The snow was drifted high against the door of the cabin, but eventually she managed to get it open. Choking and coughing on the dust, Goldie attempted to clean up, making good use of the broom packed on the sled. Before sunset, she had the place looking reasonably clean—at least, as clean as a rude log cabin could ever be. She shook out the blankets, got the stove working, and chased out a number of spiders and other vermin. It wasn’t glamorous, but it did have a homey sort of feeling. And, of course, this had been their place. It was here that they had lived for one incredible month. The shadows of those memories filled the one-room cabin, both strangely comforting and saddening.

Goldie settled in for the night: the first of many nights alone in White Agony Valley.

Every month she would hitch up the dogsled and head into town for supplies. Within a year, however, it was simply too painful to return to Dawson, and see its former glory fraying to tatters. It was a far longer journey to the next trading post, but it was worth it to avoid the dreary reminder of the irretrievable past.

When she happened to be near civilization, she would always buy newspapers. Little by little, she was able to piece together what her soul mate was up to. He had settled in Calisota, of all places, in someplace called Duckburg. Although she kept a sharp eye on the papers, she never saw any mention of a "Mrs. McDuck." She wasn’t crazy enough to believe he still had feelings for her, but somehow it was nice knowing he hadn’t found someone else.

The reports of his wealth steadily grew. The business section always had some blurb about his expanding financial empire. Goldie was amazed at the variety of businesses he was involved in. He probably hadn’t given her a second thought since leaving the Yukon, but he was rarely far from her mind.

One day, Goldie opened the cabin door to fling out the wash water, and was startled to see a small bear cub just outside. She stopped herself at the last second from throwing the dirty water over the animal. She had lived in the northland long enough to know better than to mess with a bear cub, so she quietly closed the door.

By evening, she had nearly forgotten about the incident, but when she went outside to feed her sled dogs she saw the bear cub was still nearby, watching her. There was no mother to be seen. While she tossed scraps of meat to the dogs, the tiny bear trundled over, eyeing the bucket of food with shining eyes.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him.

The bear came closer.

"Where’s your momma?"

Judging by the cub’s protruding ribs, his mother was no longer in the picture.

"So you’re all alone, too, eh?" She cautiously took a step toward the skinny creature, holding out a piece of meat. One of the sled dogs growled. "Oh, shush," she said over her shoulder. The cub snatched the meat from her hand and devoured it with gusto, then practically bowled her over to get at the rest in her bucket. "Hey, now!" she said with a frown. "Don’t overdo it, fuzzball!"

But before she could even protest, the bucket was empty. The tiny bear turned to her with love in his eyes and licked her face. "Aww…stop that," she said with a grudging smile. The bear licked her again. "You’re welcome! But don’t make a habit of it, okay?" She got up, dusted herself off, and headed back for the cabin. The bear obediently followed. "What? No. No no no. You are not coming inside. Bears belong outside, in the wild. Now scram!" She slipped inside and slammed the door.

A pitiful scratching, whining noise came from outside. Goldie winced. What had she started?

"No more! Shoo! Go away! This is not an orphanage!" she called out.

More scratching and whining.

"Oh, all right! Here!" She opened the door just wide enough to toss out another slab of meat. The cub dragged it off into the bushes. "Good riddance," she grumbled.

The bear, of course, was back again in the morning. And the evening. And the morning and evening after that. It became clear he was indeed an orphan, and he seemed friendly enough. Finally, Goldie relented and let him inside. He snuggled up by her feet in front of the fire and promptly went to sleep. She shook her head, disgusted at her own weakening, and absently scratched the back of his neck. "I suppose you’re here to stay, this time. I’ve never had a pet before, much less a pet bear! And you’re going to grow up to be a giant, too. You’ll eat me out of house and home!" She sighed. "Well, I suppose I don’t have any choice, now. I’ll have to give you a name. Hmm…" The bear twitched in his sleep, enjoying her petting. "I know. I’ll call you Blackjack. That name has served me well in the past." She smiled and continued stroking the soft bear until she fell asleep in her chair.

[ Illustration ]

Decades passed. Scrooge got richer. Blackjack got bigger. Goldie was eventually able to convince him to sleep outside…since he barely fit through the door.

Her niece spent a few summers with her, and Sylvia visited occasionally as well. But for the most part, she was alone. One day blended into the next, one year into the next, one war into the next, and one gray hair into the next. Before she knew it, it was 1947. Five years before she had read of Scrooge’s retirement. It seemed impossible that so much time had passed. She had a drawer full of newspaper clippings about him, and in the latest photo he looked…well, still handsome, but old. She stared moodily at herself in the mirror. She was old, too, of course. And skinny. Good grief, she was skinny. Not healthy skinny, like in her youth. Although she didn’t exactly go hungry, her reserves of money had been depleted in the last forty-odd years. She had long since sold off her dog team, and nearly all of her jewelry. She could have sold the Blackjack—the ballroom, not the bear—but it was so run-down now that whomever bought it would simply tear it down. She decided it was preferable to let the old place age and crumble on its own terms…sort of like herself.