This is a work of fiction. Little is known about the 50 Mile House, which was located at Siska, six miles south of Lytton.
Snow, thick and blinding, obscured the Cariboo Waggon Road. It had been in the air when he departed Boothroyd House, his destination Lytton and the comforts of the Globe Hotel; it had begun falling in deceptively gentle flakes when he passed the 42 Mile House; by the time he reached Kanaka Bar House it was heavier.
The handful of people there had advised him to stop and wait, but with the confidence of the cheechako he had pressed on. He could still make Lytton and the Globe, with its fine meals and warm beds.
Now, however, he was on foot, leading his horse as they stumbled through drifts that had accumulated with terrible rapidity. He had no idea where the road lay, and was contemplating turning back when the snow eased for a moment and he spied, to his left, a building.
Heartened, he turned towards it. The snow closed in once more, and for a moment he doubted his own eyes, but after a few faltering steps he saw more clearly a weathered two-storey building, crudely made, with a worn sign over the door: “50 Mile House”.
There was no light from within. He pounded on the door, but no one answered. A rough stable stood close by, and he led the horse to it. A few inches of water covered in a skim of ice stood in a trough outside the entrance, and within there was some hay, so after seeing to his mount he returned to the house and pushed open the door.
There was no sign of an inhabitant, and all was in darkness save for the faint light coming in from outside. Much of the main floor was given over to a common room, with tables and chairs; a door led to another room which, on inspection, proved to be a kitchen. An open staircase led to a gloomy second floor, which he had no desire to investigate.
He lit a lantern, then sparked a fire, which grudgingly flared up in the grate. His dreams of Lytton gone, he settled down in the least uncomfortable chair he could find, consoled himself with a pull of whisky from a bottle in his pack, wrapped his coat more closely about him, and gradually drifted into slumber.
He did not know how long he slept, but when he woke the lantern and fire had both burned low. Still, they gave enough light to show that he was no longer alone.
A man slouched in a chair across from him, a half-empty bottle clutched in his hand, while a woman stood near him, half-bent as if in supplication. The man’s face was dark with rage, while hers was stained with tears, and a vivid red mark, as from a blow, that stood out with sickening clarity.
The traveller started to apologize for his presence, but stopped when, without warning, the man threw the bottle at the wall, where it shattered without making a sound. He turned to the woman, clearly yelling in rage, but not a sound could be heard.
The traveller watched, horrified, as the dumb-show played out: the man passionate in his anger, the woman clearly in a state of terror which only grew stronger when he rose, grabbed her by the wrist, and struck her another blow.
She pulled away and ran towards the front door, but he blocked her path. She looked for a way of escape, and in desperation started up the stairs, the man in pursuit. Her fear made her fast, but he was faster, and reached her near the top.
Their struggle played out in full view of the traveller, who was as one paralyzed. He could only watch as they struggled, still without a sound, for a few moments. Then, with a strength born of desperation, she gave one tremendous push, and her attacker, surprised, staggered back. His arms flailed as he tried to regain his balance; then he tumbled down the stairs to the floor below, where he lay motionless.
All of this was carried out in a silence that was more terrifying than any noise could have been. The woman crept down the stairs and crouched by his side for a few moments. Finally, with a look almost of relief on her face, she made her upstairs, to descend a few minutes later dressed in a heavy coat and carrying a pack. Without a backward look she opened the door and departed.
The traveller was not far behind. Skirting the body that lay on the floor, and without stopping to see if the man was dead or alive, he stumbled out of the building and made his way to the stable, where he saddled his horse with trembling hands.
The snow had stopped, and a nearly full moon illuminated the road. Without hesitation he set the horse’s head northward, but not before noticing that there were no other tracks but his in the snow which lay all about, deep and crisp and even.
He was half-dead with cold and shock when he finally arrived at the Globe, where they took him in and furnished him with the warm bed he had dreamt of only a short time before. When he woke he told his story, imploring his listeners to send someone to the 50 Mile House and the scene of the tragedy.
“Won’t help,” said one of his listeners. “Been no one there for nigh on two years, not since Matheson, the owner, was found dead. He was a brute and a bully, and we all felt sorry for his wife. He was found dead of a broken neck at the bottom of the stairs, and she was found dead in 50 Mile Creek soon after. It was reckoned they’d been dead for a day or two.
“We all thought there had been an accident, and she had gone to find help, poor woman. There were a bad storm that night — same as last night — and we thought she’d got blinded in the snow and lost her way.
“When was it? Roundabout this time of year. They were found on All Souls’ Day, I remember; Nov. 2. What’s today? Hallowe’en? You don’t say. Well, well; perhaps things didn’t play out quite the way we’d thought. Get the man another whisky, Joe; he looks like he needs it.”
