Gold Mountain

by Vicki Delany

  Sterling approached the roulette table as Sheridan was placing the chips the old miner had given him onto number seventeen. The croupier lifted one eyebrow when he saw the police.

  “Mr. Paul Sheridan,” Sterling said.

  The man didn’t look up. “Yes.”

  “I’m Corporal Sterling and I’d like to have a word with you.”

  “Can’t right now, Officer. My luck’s about to turn.”

  “A night in jail and your luck will definitely be turning.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Glad to hear it. Then we can just talk. Randy, give the man back his chips.” The croupier pushed them over.

  “Keep them,” Sheridan said. “And save my place. I’ll be back.”

  “Free with your money, aren’t you?” Sterling asked, as he led the man though the bar and out to the street.

  “I’ll be getting plenty more soon.”

  Sterling didn’t bother to ask where. Half the men who arrived in the Klondike seemed to expect gold nuggets to be lying on the ground or hanging from the scruffy pine trees like fruit ripe for the picking. But some people were starting to leave, giving up the dream, heading back to the south. Telling others they passed on the trail there was no point in carrying on. No more gold was to be found, no jobs except hard work on another man’s claim.

  Still they came. Optimistic to the end.

  “Where’d you come from?” Sterling asked. They stood on the wooden sidewalk, a few feet down from the Monte Carlo’s doors. McAllen watched the street.

  “Told you about me did she?” Sheridan shook his head. “Naughty minx. Or was it her boy?” His eyes darkened. “You wouldn’t have a personal interest in this would you?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Where was your last place of residence?”

  “As you know, Skagway. And yes, I was in the employ of Soapy Smith. Although I never did anything illegal, you see. I worked in one of his establishments. All above board, of course.”

  “Of course. Did Smith send you here?”

  “Nope. These days, Soapy isn’t sending anyone anywhere. He’s losing control, Soapy is. I could see the writing on the wall. Time to get out of town.”

  Sterling believed the man. Rumour drifting over the passes said Soapy was running into trouble. On one hand criminals, new arrivals, weren’t about to take orders from anyone, and on the other hand Skagway townsfolk were muttering about taking the law into their own hands.

  “Planning to stay in town for long?”

  “Nope. I’m getting married and then my lady and I will be heading north.”

  “North? There’s nothing north of here.”

  Sheridan tapped the side of his nose. “Not telling. These men,” he nodded to a group of grime-incrusted, long-bearded, probably lice-infested miners, heading out of town carrying equipment and supplies, “they’re wasting their time. Bonanza Creek. Eldorado. Child’s play. There’s a mountain of gold out there. And I’m the only one knows where it is.”

  “If you say so. Be sure you keep your nose clean while you’re here, will you.”

  Sheridan tipped his hat and sauntered away, whistling, hands in pockets. He didn’t go back to the Monte Carlo.

  McAllen lifted his hand to his head and drew circles in the air.

  Sterling laughed.

  Chapter Seven

  The word chaos had been invented to describe Skagway in the late summer of 1897.

  Angus and I had arrived in Alaska aboard the good ship Bristol out of Victoria. The town didn’t even boast a dock; ships had to anchor at sea and ferry passengers and cargo to shore with boats. Horses — scrawny, terrified beasts, every one — were shoved overboard to sink or swim. We humans, along with all our possessions, were unceremoniously dumped on a muddy patch of rocks and seaweed. Fortunately, I was possessed of sufficient charm, plus the proceeds of the sale of Mrs. NcNally’s jewellery, to hire a man to ferry our trunks to the best hotel in town. I tried to barter down from the outrageous $50 an hour the foul-breathed man wanted to charge, but he shrugged and said, “You want to wait a couple hours, lady, rate’ll go down to twenty. ’Course by then tide’ll be high.”

  I paid.

  All I felt on my arrival in Alaska was sheer horror. Angus, on the other hand, stared at everything with wide-eyed wonder and boyish enthusiasm. Viewed from the boat, the town was nothing but a disappointing cluster of white canvas tents, immediately beyond which a dark line of trees loomed. Snow-capped mountains filled the sky. At low tide, the air stank of rotting fish and vegetation and mud. To one side of the scattering of tents lay wilderness, on the other the ocean, and I wondered uneasily what I had gotten myself into.

  My unease only grew when we set foot on land.

  The town boasted no more than a couple of actual buildings. Everything else, commerce as well as housing, was in tents. The main street, grandly called Broadway, was nothing but a line of tents. Why, tree stumps stuck up from the middle of the muddy roadway!

  Nevertheless, I was here, and I immediately set about establishing my business venture. I’d made the acquaintance of a large number of people — first among those waiting for ships in Vancouver and Victoria and then aboard the Bristol — whom I might be able to employ. Women, for the most part, who called themselves actresses or dancers. Those I suspected were heading for the Klondike for another line of work, I avoided. On board the ship, I auditioned a group of male musicians and a vaudeville entertainer and offered them employment. They were all enthusiastic, and I felt confident about the venture.

  I had plans of renting a building to use as my theatre, but now that I saw the town, I was beginning to have doubts I could locate anything suitable.

  There was hope, however. Buildings were rising from the forest, virtually before our eyes, the air full of sounds of sawing and hammering.

  “Isn’t this absolutely grand, Mother,” Angus said happily while we ploughed our way through the mud after our porters, there being no room on the cart for passengers.

  I had taken two steps on so-called dry land and already the muck dragged at my skirts. Propriety be damned, I yanked my skirts up, folded the excess fabric into my belt, and stalked after my son and our worldly belongings.

  Immediately upon checking into our hotel, I stripped the bed, bundled the sheets into a ball, threw them (and all their occupants) into the hall, and remade the bed with sheets I’d brought. With a considerable degree of foresight, I’d packed expecting conditions not to be entirely of the sort I am accustomed to, so I dug out a bottle of ammonia and a couple of rags and set Angus to wiping the entire place down. I changed out of my travel-stained clothes and put on a light blue day dress and matching hat that wouldn’t have been out of place on Pall Mall. I then wrapped a length of fake pearls, of good enough quality to appear real on not-too-close inspection, around my neck and completed the costume with pearls in my ears. Ordering Angus to remain in our room until I returned, I set off to explore our new home.

  The grand tour took about five minutes.

  A gambling parlour looked like a good place to begin scouting out the territory.

  I knew better than to hesitate and walked directly into the tent that called itself The Pack Train Saloon.

  It was the middle of the day, yet the establishment was busy. Every man in the place looked up as I entered. The roulette wheel clattered to a stop. Hands of cards were dropped and dice lay abandoned.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “I am Mrs. MacGillivray and I am here to do business.”

  “Ma’am.” A man came out from behind the bar. “We don’t allow that sort o’ business here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. Through a stroke of considerable fate, I happen to speak with a cut-glass aristocratic English accent. I find that the proper use of the Queen’s English reduces Americans and Canadians to bumbling fools. “I will be opening a theatre, a place of respectable stage entertainment. I am in search of premises to rent.”

&nb
sp; The men glanced at each other.

  It did not escape my notice that one particularly sallow-faced fellow slipped out the door.

  “If you would be so kind,” I said to the bartender, “as to direct me to the real estate office.”

  “Theatre?” he said. “What sort of theatre?”

  “We will perform a selection of stage plays, have musical interludes, some dance performances, a comedian. Accommodation such as this,” I waved my hand to indicate the tent and all the men in it, “would be suitable. Until a proper building can be erected.”

  “You thinkin’ of serving liquor?”

  I was, but decided it would be best not to let this fellow know, yet. I would be setting up in competition with him.

  “No.”

  “Good,” he said. “Cause it ain’t legal to serve liquor in Alaska. Ain’t that right boys?”

  They nodded at the bartender’s words. Every last one of them clutched a dirty glass. I eyed the bottles displayed on the plank serving as a bar and on the shelves stacked at the rear. There was even a keg of beer.

  “Naturally, I would not be interested in breaking the law,” I said.

  “Right glad to hear that,” a lazy voice said from behind me.

  I turned. The sallow-faced man was back, breathing heavily. Beside him stood a heavily-bearded man with well-oiled black hair. He was perfectly dressed in a white silk shirt and satin waistcoat. A diamond pin pierced his tie, and a wide brimmed hat was in his hand.

  The men cleared a path, and the newcomer walked toward me, his eyes fixed on my face.

  “Ma’am. My name is Jefferson Smith. How may I be of assistance?” He gave me a broad smile. His accent was deep and slow and sounding of warm honey.

  “Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray.” I held out my hand. Mr. Smith took it in his. His nails were neatly trimmed and clean. He bowed over my hand, and I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if he’d kissed it.

  At last, a gentleman of culture and refinement.

  I repeated my business.

  “Why don’t we go to my office and talk in private,” Smith said when I’d finished.

  That didn’t sound like a good idea. “Do you have a place for rent?” I asked.

  “You see, Mrs. MacGillivray,” he said with a sad shake of his head, very sorry at being the bearer of bad news. “I don’t know what things are like where you come from, but here in Alaska, ladies cannot own businesses.”

  I turned to the bartender. “I’ll have a glass of lemonade, please.”

  He blinked. “I don’t got lemonade.”

  “In that case, I’ll have whatever that gentleman is having.” I pointed to a large man without a tooth in his mouth or a hair on his head, clutching his glass of mud-coloured liquid.

  The bartender looked at Mr. Smith. Smith nodded and I was poured a drink. The glass didn’t look too clean, but I hoped the strength of the liquor would kill any infection before it could kill me. I accepted the glass, held it to my mouth, took a quick sniff, threw back my head, and swallowed it all.

  Gut-rot. Highly watered gut-rot.

  The men stared at me, no doubt expecting me to spit it back up and turn red with coughing. I handed my glass to the bartender. “I’ll have another, please. Not so much water this time.”

  “That’ll be fifty cents for the two.”

  “Quite expensive for flavoured water, I’d say.” I pulled the coins out of my reticule and slapped them on the counter. “Mr. Smith, being a newcomer in your fine town, I wouldn’t dream of breaking any laws. Fortunately, I am not a lady. Just as the refreshment served here contains no alcohol.”

  The bartender handed me my second drink. I put it on the counter. “Mr. Smith, gentlemen. Good afternoon.” I made my way to the door, and men cleared a path in front of me. When I reached the tent flap, I turned around. Every eye in the place was on me. I had not the slightest doubt that Mr. Jefferson Smith was the big man in this town. “The first evening of theatre will be offered free for everyone. To thank you all for your hospitality.”

  A wave of men’s voices followed me down the street.

  * * *

  When I returned to what laughingly passed as the best hotel in Skagway, Angus was not there. I felt a moment’s panic.

  Had I made a terrible mistake, bringing my child here? In England he’d lived at home with me until he was seven, first in the care of a doting nanny and then a governess. On arriving in Toronto, I found him a place in a good Episcopalian boy’s school, where he was to be prepared for the life of a proper gentleman. He wasn’t entirely an innocent. At one time, I’d been called by the headmaster, who was threatening to expel Angus and his friends for escaping the school at night by climbing down a drainpipe.

  But nothing they would have done there could prepare Angus for the Alaskan wilderness.

  I took off my hat and looked around the room. Angus had done a decent job of cleaning up. He’d unpacked some of the food and opened a tin of peaches, one of potatoes, and one of corned beef. The tins were half-empty, indicating he’d had some supper.

  I hoped we wouldn’t have to live on tinned food, served cold, for long. I located a fork and dug into the peaches.

  Whether they had some ridiculous regulation in Alaska about women owning businesses or not was neither here nor there. Mr. Smith had quoted me the law in a place where any casual glance showed that the law was something to be ignored.

  He was clearly telling me he didn’t want me setting up my business.

  I had countered by appealing directly to the men, offering a free show. That I didn’t have a place to use as a theatre might not matter right now. I could surely find a clearing in the woods, post signs all over town, and hope it wouldn’t rain. One or two successful outdoor performances and I’d be getting offers of rental space in no time at all.

  I put my hat back on my head and checked my pocket watch. I’d go in search of my son now and contact my new employees tomorrow.

  Chapter Eight

  “Psst. Angus. Over here.”

  Angus MacGillivray peered into the Dawson City alley. The buildings on either side blocked the sun, and all he could see were shadows. He heard something rustle and thought it might be a dog. But dogs didn’t know his name. “What? Who’s there?

  A hissing sound. Then, “It’s me. Are you alone?”

  “Yes, I’m alone.”

  A shape broke out of the gloom. Paul Sheridan peered around the corners, as though checking that Angus wasn’t lying.

  “Are you hiding from someone?” Angus asked.

  “I don’t want to run into your Fly Bull buddy, that’s all.”

  “You mean a Mountie?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t nice of you to tell them about me, Angus.”

  Angus started walking. Sheridan followed. “I don’t care about being nice. It was nothing more than my duty to tell the police a known criminal is in town.”

  “I’m completely legitimate now. I’ve left Soapy and the gang. I’m here to find gold. Same reason as everyone else.”

  “Tell them that then, why don’t you?”

  “I avoid contact with the police whenever possible.”

  Angus rolled his eyes.

  “Oh, yes,” Sheridan said, “I understand why you might be suspicious. But I’ve given up my evil ways.”

  A horse and cart were stranded in the intersection. Muck came halfway up the cart’s wheels. The horse was so thin, Angus could count every rib. The screaming driver flayed its flanks, and spittle and mud sprayed in all directions. Men were gathered to watch, and someone laid a bet on how long it would be before the horse dropped dead.

  Angus turned away. “I thought you said you weren’t interested in prospecting. You aren’t going to find gold hanging around Dawson. You have to go to the Creeks.”

  Sheridan tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, boy, there you’re wrong. Let everyone else go to the Creeks and find a nugget or two, a couple of ounces of dust. Me, I have bigger plans.”

  De
spite himself, Angus asked, “What plans?”

  “That’s why I need to talk to your mother. I went to collect her for supper last night, but Walker threw me out. I didn’t even get to see her. I sent word I was waiting, but Walker never gave her my message. I must have stood in the street for an hour or more. I don’t like waiting.” His voice turned hard on the last sentence.

  Remembering he was supposed to be friendly, he gave Angus a smile that was more of a grimace.

  “Why’s the bloody town so quiet anyway? Where the hell’s everyone gone?”

  “It’s Sunday. Businesses are closed.”

  “I’d heard they did that. Didn’t actually believe it. You mean men in this town are lily-livered enough to let the Fly Bulls shut their business down for a whole day?”

  “Not only business, but any work. A man was arrested last winter for chopping wood for his own stove.” Angus debated telling Sheridan that he could also be arrested for using vile language, particularly in the presence of a female or a minor, but he held his tongue. Let the man learn the hard way.

  Sheridan shook his head as he digested the news. “Soapy’s done for,” he said apropos of nothing. “Losing control of the town. Fellows coming in don’t want to do what Soapy tells them. Townsfolk are thinking Soapy’s bad for business. Miners coming back out are avoiding Skagway ’cause they don’t want trouble from Soapy. Business owners don’t like that. There’s talk they’re getting a committee together to force Soapy out.”

  “Can’t say I’m sorry to hear that,” Angus said.

  “So, being the sensible fellow I am, I figured it was time to strike out on my own.” Sheridan pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. Last night’s rainfall had done nothing to cut the day’s heat. “Look, Angus, let’s go round to your house now. I’ll talk to your mother and tell her my plan.”

  “Uh, my ma’s uh, not home. She’s gone for lunch at a … friend’s house. That’s right, she’s having lunch with a friend. A lady friend.”

  “I’ll join her there, escort her home.”