Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  Angus guessed the woman had just arrived in town. She’d find out soon enough that prices in Dawson bore absolutely no similarity to prices in the Outside.

  And Mr. Mann’s shop bore absolutely no similarity to stores in the Outside. It consisted of a couple of lengths of canvas strung up between logs so unfinished they still sprouted crumbling leaves, and a roughly-planed plank served as the counter. A tent next door was the warehouse.

  Stores no fancier than this one were packed along the waterfront. They not only sold, but also bought. And there was a lot to buy. The trip to the Yukon had been so spirit- and back-breaking, the town travellers had given their all to reach so disappointing, that many simply sold everything they had the moment they arrived and turned around and headed back south.

  Mr. Mann was negotiating the price of a rifle. Its owner had been up and down the line of tents, increasingly incredulous at the low price he was being offered. In Dawson the weapon had no value at all — the Mounties outlawed carrying firearms in town.

  With a burst of curses that would have had him arrested if a Mountie were in earshot, the man shoved his rifle at Mr. Mann, took his money, and left. Expressionless, Mr. Mann made room on the counter for the new item by moving aside a pair of long johns that had seen better days.

  He glanced over to see Angus watching him. He shook his head. “Foolish, such men,” he said.

  Angus sighed. Miss Witherspoon had told him that every experience was fodder for the writer’s pen. He reminded himself that he would write about the Klondike some day, and all of this would then seem worthwhile.

  “Angus, my boy. Wouldn’t have expected to see you here.”

  Angus stared at the newcomer, open mouthed. The man thrust a hand across the counter and instinctively Angus accepted the handshake.

  “Surely, your ma hasn’t fallen on such hard times that you’re forced to take work as a shop clerk. Why, I saw her last night, as lovely as ever.” His eyes opened wide, “Don’t tell me that rat-faced weasel Walker cheated her out of her money, and you’re forced to labour here. Why I told her ...”

  “No, Mr. Sheridan. Mr. Walker hasn’t cheated anyone. The Savoy’s the most popular dance hall in all of Dawson.” Angus slid a glance at Mr. Mann, now helping a lady sort though a box of sewing supplies. “I’m ... I’m ... I’m uh, learning a business. So I can help Ma with her own business affairs someday. It’s a great honour.”

  Sheridan looked dubious at that. As well he might.

  “What are you doing here, anyway?” Angus said. “Last time I saw you, you said only fools and easterners went chasing gold.”

  “So I did, my boy.” Sheridan tapped the side of his nose. “I have my reasons. I’m having supper with your mother tonight and I’ll tell her my plans then.”

  Angus laughed. “You’re having supper with my mother? Not if she has anything to say about it.”

  Sheridan took no offence. As Angus remembered, the man could be totally blind to anything that contradicted his view of the world.

  Sheridan studied the line of goods for sale. His eyes came to rest on the Winchester. He picked it up, balanced it in his hands, lifted it, and peered down the length.

  “One dollar, fifty cents,” Mr. Mann said.

  “A buck fifty?” Sheridan said. “What, doesn’t it work?”

  “You can’t use it,” Angus said. “Mounties’ll confiscate it if you have it in town.”

  “Not planning to stay in town.”

  “Can’t take it to the Creeks either.”

  “Not planning to go to the Creeks. Didn’t I tell you, Angus, man’s a fool who goes where every other man goes. Gotta strike out on your own. I’ll take it. And a box of cartridges.”

  Mr. Mann looked to Angus for an explanation.

  “Cartridges, bullets.” Angus mimed loading the weapon.

  Mr. Mann shook his head. “You wants gun? Is one dollar, fifty cents.”

  “What the hell? Rifle ain’t much use without cartridges. Damn strange town you have here. Does anyone else sell ammunition?”

  Angus shrugged. “You can ask.”

  “I’ll do that.” Sheridan handed a tattered American dollar bill and a couple of coins to Mr. Mann, who tucked them away in the small apron he wore around his waist for just that purpose. “Your ma will probably tell you about our plans later tonight. I think you’ll be pleased.”

  Sheridan gave Angus a wink and walked away, head and shoulders bobbing above the crowd, Winchester balanced on his hip.

  “I have to go to the police,” Angus said.

  Mr. Mann’s eyes quickly travelled across over the jumble of items on the counter, searching for something missing. He knew the location and value of everything on display, as well as all the boxes, bags, and loose items stacked under the counter, against the length of canvas that was the back wall, and piled in the tent warehouse.

  Finding nothing missing, he said, “Why?”

  “That man. Nothing but trouble.”

  “Wees wants no trouble here. Yous go to seh police.”

  Angus came out from behind the counter and took off at a run, heading into town.

  Chapter Three

  Corporal Richard Sterling of the North-West Mounted Police put his feet up on his desk and leaned back with a contented sigh. He puffed at his pipe — a rare indulgence in the middle of a working shift. At about 30,000 people, almost all of whom had arrived in the last two months, the town of Dawson was growing fast. The powers-that-be had decided that, in addition to Fort Herchmer, they needed an office in town, and they set it up in a small building on Queen Street at the corner of Second Avenue. Nice and close to the cribs in Paradise Alley and the bars and dance halls along Front Street.

  Richard Sterling had a staff of four constables, and one special constable to cook, clean, and generally run errands. Life was looking up. He had been a sergeant, once, but was busted down to constable, lucky to still have a job, after punching out an officer. He’d been one of the first Mounties in the Yukon, sent to Forty Mile with Superintendent Constantine in the summer of ’95 when the government in Ottawa, in its wisdom, extended the forces of law and order to the untamed, largely unpopulated territory. It was a tough place to live and work, but he loved it. It beat working on the farm in the Carrot River Valley in Saskatchewan, where he’d grown up.

  The office walls were thin, the wood full of cracks. He heard the front door open and a boy’s high voice greet the constable out front. Sterling dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed a piece of paper off the desk. He was reading an official report when he heard a knock on his door. He hesitated for a moment, before calling, “Come in.”

  As expected, it was young Angus MacGillivray. Angus had hopes of being a Mountie some day and hung around the station — and Richard Sterling — to a point just short of annoying. But he was a good lad, smart and principled.

  It didn’t hurt that the boy’s mother was Fiona MacGillivray, who ... Sterling coughed and sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

  “What brings you here, Angus? Quiet down at the store today?”

  “No, sir. We’re really busy. I’m here on police business. You need to know ...”

  They heard the street door open again. Fabric rustled and sharp heels sounded on the wooden floor. The scent of good soap and light perfume drifted in. Sterling jumped to his feet as a woman’s soft voice asked the constable for Mr. Sterling.

  “Mother,” Angus said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Angus,” Fiona said, her head popping around the corner, “what are you doing here?”

  They both spoke at once. “Someone you should know about ...” Angus said. “Man in town ...” Fiona said.

  Sterling held up one hand. “Mrs. MacGillivray, please have a seat.”

  She smiled at him and sat, arranging her skirts around her. She wore a two-piece white day dress that almost took his breath away. White was a highly impractical colour in Dawson, where mills worked night and day producing lumber for the f
ast-growing town, and the sawdust covered everything. What’s more, even the smallest rain shower turned the streets into rivers of mud. Yet somehow Fiona had managed to keep the hem of her dress immaculately clean. Unlike a lot of women, Fiona MacGillivray wasn’t adverse to pulling up her skirts and tucking them into her belt to wade across the street. Sterling shoved aside an image of shapely ankles encased in high-heeled, buttoned boots.

  She straightened her already perfectly straight hat. “A most unsavoury person of my acquaintance came into the Savoy last night,” she began.

  “Paul Sheridan,” Angus interrupted.

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “He was down at Bowery Street this morning. Stopped at the store and said hello.”

  “Plenty of unsavoury persons in town,” Sterling said. “What makes this fellow of interest?”

  “Soapy Smith,” Angus and Fiona chorused.

  “What?”

  “Sheridan is ...”

  “Soapy must have ...”

  “Hold on. Only one of you talk at once. Mrs. MacGillivray, what does this Sheridan fellow have to do with Smith?”

  Fiona took a deep breath. Underneath the white fabric, her bosom moved. Sterling tried not to think about that and instead to concentrate on the matter at hand.

  “On our way to the Yukon, Angus and I passed through Skagway. Our passage was most speedy, I might add, once I understood the situation in town. Mr. Paul Sheridan is, to put it simply, one of Soapy Smith’s gang.”

  “More than just one of the gang, he’s like a lieutenant or something.”

  “Angus, I believe Corporal Sterling has requested I tell this story.”

  “Sorry, Ma. I mean, Mother.”

  “As Angus so rudely said, Mr. Sheridan is one of Mr. Smith’s top-level assistants. Highly trusted, I believe, in the sense that Mr. Smith and characters of his ilk trust anyone.”

  “Why’s he in Dawson?”

  Angus and Fiona exchanged glances.

  “I have no idea,” she said.

  “He told me he has a plan,” Angus said. “He said he’s having dinner with you tonight, Mother. Is that right?”

  If Fiona hadn’t been a well brought up English gentlewoman, Sterling thought she might have spit on the floor. Instead, she sniffed. “Hardly. Whatever delusions Mr. Sheridan continues to maintain about me are neither here nor there.” She rose in one long, liquid motion.

  Sterling leapt to his feet, knocking his right knee against the underside of the desk. He stifled a groan. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

  “It is no more than my duty,” she replied. He wasn’t quite sure, but he might have seen a spark of mischief in the black depths of her eyes.

  “Before you go, can you give me a description of this person?”

  “Angus will see to that. The boy’s powers of observation are quite astute.”

  Angus preened.

  “He didn’t say anything to you about why he’s in Dawson?”

  She smiled. “No. Ray Walker and Mr. Sheridan did not part on the best of terms. Ray escorted him to the door quite unceremoniously. Good day, Corporal. Angus.”

  They watched her leave and close the door to Sterling’s office silently behind her. Then they heard the street door opening with a clatter that might have had it falling from its ill-fastened hinges, such was the young constable’s haste to assist her.

  Sterling took his hat down from the shelf. “You say this man’s high up in Smith’s organization?”

  “Not that Soapy has an organization as such,” Angus said. “I mean with ranks and all. Just a bunch of men who do what he tells them. But yeah, Mr. Sheridan is pretty close to Soapy.”

  “The last thing we want is Soapy Smith and his gang trying to cross into Canada.” The NWMP kept a Maxim machine gun at the border crossing at the top of the Chilkoot Trail, expressly for the purpose of keeping out Jefferson Randolph Smith, aka Soapy, the gangster who controlled Skagway, Alaska. “I’m going to the Fort to report this. Tell me about it on the way. First, how do you know so much about Smith and his doings?”

  “Soapy wanted my ma to be his business partner,” Angus said.

  Sterling stopped dead. “Your mother ... and Soapy Smith.” He shook his head. “Your mother really is the most interesting woman. This Sheridan, do you think Smith sent him to talk to her about doing business in Dawson?”

  “No. He just wants to marry her.”

  Chapter Four

  I was rather pleased with my performance. If Angus hadn’t been there, I would have told Corporal Sterling all I knew about Paul Sheridan. But Angus could do the job just as well. Of late, I had been beginning to suspect that Richard Sterling was becoming ... fond of me.

  How I felt about him, I was not entirely certain.

  Nevertheless, it is always a good idea to leave them wanting more.

  Regardless of any feelings toward the handsome corporal that I might or might not entertain, I most definitely was not in Dawson to find a man. This gold rush wasn’t going to last forever: some who were in a position to know privately said there wasn’t really all that much gold. I intended to make my money and get Angus and me out in a year or two. I did not need complications.

  Men are always complicated.

  So far I was enjoying living in Dawson. Most of the time. Last winter had been highly unpleasant, as the town slowly began to starve and some unfortunate souls succumbed to frost bite and scurvy. But now that the authorities were insisting that anyone coming into the territory from the Outside have enough food to last them a year, the winter ahead should be easier.

  Unfortunately, the police could do nothing about the mud that coated everything, the perfectly dreadful food, and the shortage of accommodations that had Angus and me crowded into three rooms in Mr. and Mrs. Mann’s boarding house. I didn’t even have a lady’s maid, such a creature being rare in the Yukon.

  “Yoo hoo.” I looked up to see a woman on the other side of the street, waving at me.

  I gave her a genuine smile and waved back. It had rained last night and the street was thick with muck. She ploughed across, dragging her skirts behind her.

  “Martha,” I said, “lovely to see you. How nice you look.”

  And she did. She was large and plain and formidable of feature, but her cheeks were pink with pleasure and her eyes glowed with new love.

  It might almost be enough to make a romantic out of me.

  Martha Witherspoon and Reginald O’Brien, whom everyone called Mouse, had fallen head over heels in love almost from the moment of meeting. Martha had come to the Yukon intending to write a factual account of the gold rush. She still clutched her ever-present notebook, but rather than interviewing miners and dance-hall girls, she now intended to produce a volume of tips and hints to assist family women heading north. Considering that her writing talent was practically non-existent, a shopping list of necessary items was more suited to her skills than breathless prose.

  I slipped my arm through hers and we continued walking. She chattered happily on about all the things she planned to buy for her new home when she and Mouse set up housekeeping.

  We parted outside the Savoy. At this time of morning, the place was somewhat less hair-raisingly frantic than in the evening. Our doors opened at 10 a.m., and a crush of drinkers, gamblers, and general layabouts could then be guaranteed to pass through the hallowed portals.

  It was my custom to go home at 6 a.m., when we closed, get a few hours sleep, and come in to do the accounts in the quiet of the late morning, take our loot ... uh money ... to the bank and then head home for a bit more sleep.

  Helen Saunderson, maid of all work, was on her knees in the corner by the water barrel, scrubbing at the floor. She looked up as I entered and I made a gesture of lifting a cup to my mouth. Murray was behind the bar, managing not to look too dreadfully bored at some old sourdough’s ravings of a valley, sacred to the Indians, warmed by hot springs, full of riches beyond imagining. Never to be found by the white
man.

  Better, I thought, than having to listen to the thousandth telling of the tale of the discovery of gold on Bonanza Creek. I climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door to my office, unpinned my hat and placed it on a table, settled myself behind my desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out my accounts ledger. I checked the bottom-most number.

  Highly satisfactory.

  Footsteps coming up the stairs, moving down the hall. My friend Graham Donohue popped his head in.

  “What’s this I hear about Soapy Smith’s gang being in town?” He failed to offer me greetings.

  “Not exactly the ‘gang,’” I said. “But one gang member. It’s true.”

  Graham dropped into the visitor’s chair in front of my desk. “You know this person, Fiona?”

  “Regretfully, yes. Odious man.”

  “Do you think more gang members are following? The Mounties won’t put up with that.”

  “To be honest, Graham, I don’t know. A year ago, I would have been positive Soapy wouldn’t be such a fool as to come directly up against the forces of her Majesty, but who knows what the intervening time has done to him. Rumour has it he’s losing control in Skagway. Perhaps he’s desperate enough to think he has no choice but to move into the Yukon.”

  Graham peered at me. “Are you telling me, Fiona, you know Soapy Smith? Personally?”

  “Regretfully, yes.”

  Graham pulled out his notebook and pencil.

  “Put that away,” I said. “I am not granting you an interview.”

  “An informal interview. Authoritative yet unnamed sources and all that.”

  Graham Donohue was a newspaperman. A reporter with a big American paper, here in the Klondike to report on the hottest story in North America, if not the world. He was no taller than I, lean and wiry, and he sported a ferocious moustache that clashed with his schoolboy complexion, sparkling brown eyes, thick black eyelashes and perfect bone structure. Any one of my dance-hall girls would be more than happy to give him the time of day, but Donohue never seemed interested in them. I patted my hair. Graham, well I knew, had eyes elsewhere. He was always attempting to lure me onto the badly sprung couch in my office.