by Vicki Delany
I had decorated with what little options were available. A large portrait of Her Imperial Majesty hung behind the bar. Her visage was so sour it was a wonder she didn’t poison the whisky stored below. So as to beg favour with the primary nationalities making up the population of the Yukon, we had stuck a Union Jack into the right of the frame and the Stars and Stripes into the left. On either side of the Queen’s portrait hung two nudes, one fair-haired, one dark.
Unlikely Her Imperial Majesty would approve. I had very briefly had the acquaintance of her fat, indulgent, womanizing son, Edward, the Prince of Wales, and knew he would most definitely approve.
The walls were covered in heavy red wallpaper with a pattern of gold crowns, making the place look like a bordello. But farmers and miners and labourers seem to think red-and-gold wallpaper equals class, so I’d bought the hideous stuff. Ray and Angus had hung it, covering themselves and everything around them in paste. They hadn’t done all that good a job, and strips of paper were beginning to come unstuck from the upper corners. The Savoy was always thick with smoke, not only from cigars but from the kerosene lamps used to provide light, and the wallpaper was already turning a sickly yellow.
The bar itself was sturdily constructed of good mahogany and ran the entire length of the room. We were required by law to provide safe drinking water, and a big barrel of it stood in the corner. A few tables and chairs were scattered throughout the room, although most of the men seemed to prefer to stand at the bar.
Better to hear the gossip, I suspect.
Men can be so naive — which makes it all the easier to fleece them. They crowded around Barney now, buying him drinks, begging him to tell them stories of Snookum Jim, Taglish Charlie, George Carmacks, and the day they discovered gold on Bonanza Creek. As if hearing Barney tell the story, again, would mean they’d have a similar story to tell someday.
Few, if any, of them would. The best claims had been staked before word of the strike reached the teeming, depression-plagued cities of the south. It was men like Barney, old timers who’d wandered the north for years, who made it rich. Whereupon most of them quite simply proceeded to spend it all in a series of sprees that would shame a drunken sailor. Barney had gathered together sixteen of his biggest gold nuggets and had a belt made for a dancer at the Horseshoe. She’d accepted the gift, thanked him with a kiss on the cheek, and gone home to her husband.
A year later, all Barney had left was his reputation. He spent his nights, and most of his days, propping up bars in dance halls up and down Front Street, trading stories for drink.
I gestured toward a round table in the centre of the room. Three cheechakos — newcomers — were seated there, celebrating their arrival in the Klondike. They were dressed in what they probably thought of as mining gear, but the clothes were spotlessly clean, their hands pink and uncallused with neatly trimmed nails. They’d probably not even come over the passes, but paid for passage on a boat from St. Michael.
They were planning on heading out to the Creeks tomorrow.
They would be in for a very rough surprise.
It was not my place to disabuse them of their dreams. No doubt on the way back they’d need to drown their sorrows in more whisky.
“We will sit here,” I said to Paul Sheridan. “Gentlemen, if you please.”
They grabbed their glasses and began to rise.
“No!” Sheridan almost shouted. He clutched his hands to his chest. “I can’t have anyone overhearing.”
The three would-be-miners remained frozen, trapped in the act of standing.
“Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “I have agreed to listen to your plans. If this isn’t a convenient place, then I have business to which I must attend.”
He leaned his head toward me. I bent forward also. “What I have to tell you, Fiona, would have this entire town in an immediate uproar were word to escape.” He patted his jacket pocket and gave me a wink. “I have something to show you, and it must remain unknown.”
“Very well. We will go upstairs to my office.” I gestured to the three men to resume their seats, caught Murray’s eye and pointed to the ceiling. He nodded.
I led Paul Sheridan to the back of the saloon and upstairs to the second floor. I could almost hear the necks of the men standing beneath the stairs creak as they tried to get a peek at my ankles. Angus had tested the view and told me nothing could be seen.
Not that I mind men looking at my ankles, why, I’ve even been known to swirl my skirts enough to display a flash of lower leg. But I’ve found that, as the part owner of this dance hall, it’s preferable to maintain an aura of mystery and unavailability.
Keeps them hoping.
We operate neither a hotel nor a restaurant, but we keep a couple of bedrolls and wash basins in the rooms on the second floor in the event a big spender needs a place to rest up before spending again. Helen Saunderson has a small kitchen in a corner of the broom closet behind the bar, in which she can quickly whip up bacon and beans and bread should a gambler make noises about going in search of something to eat. A gambler who is losing, that is. One who is winning is welcome to find sustenance elsewhere.
Today, the rooms were unoccupied. Our footsteps echoed on the uncarpeted floor. I unlocked the door to my office and gestured to Mr. Sheridan to proceed. I did not shut the door behind me.
I settled into the chair behind my desk and edged open the drawer where I kept a billy club of my own.
Not that I expected to have to use it. I would not have brought Sheridan up here if I had. I sensed he meant me no harm; he only wanted to declare his undying love for me and wait for me do so in return.
But some men, as well I knew, have a way of turning violent when thwarted.
He leaned over my desk and pushed a jar of pencils aside. Then he pulled a bulky piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. With great ceremony, he unfolded the paper and spread it out. It was about two feet square, the edges curled and torn, paper fading into shades of yellow.
No words were on it. Just a mess of black and blue lines, a bunch of small triangles, and a big circle, which might once have been red, near the top right corner.
Sheridan stared at the paper, his eyes alight. “You’re the only person I’ve ever shown this to,” he said in whisper.
“Is this an art work of some sort? I’ve heard there’s experimental art happening in Europe, but I’ve never seen a ... painting quite like this.”
He laughed. “This is no painting. It’s a fortune. My fortune. Our future.”
“It is?” The man really was out of his mind. I’d attempt to have a word with the doctor, the real doctor, and see if something could be done.
“Look closely,” he said. “Tell me what you see.”
“I see lines. Scribbles. A red dot.”
He tapped one dirty finger on the bottom left where two blue squiggles intersected. “The Yukon. The Klondike. They meet here, just like this.”
“Oh. I see now.” Ray had a map of the Yukon, and as we made plans in Skagway to set out for Dawson he had shown it to me. I recognized the angle of the two rivers, but nothing else was at all familiar. If it were a map, it was a useless one. It didn’t even show the trail to the Creeks.
“Most interesting.” I opened another desk drawer and pulled out my ledger. “Thank you for showing it to me. Now, if you don’t mind, I have some work to catch up on.”
“I haven’t explained. This is Dawson.” He tapped the joining of the rivers. “And this,” he said, his finger moving slowly across the page, going north east until it reached the dot, “is the most valuable place on earth.”
“It is?” I peered at the once-red blotch.
“There’s a valley, here. Where hot springs flow. Because of the layout of the valley, it’s very deep and surrounded by high mountains as straight up as a wall. The hot water from the springs is contained in the valley. It’s as warm as California. All year around. Palm trees grow and the water’s warm enough for bathing and all manner of crops will thriv
e. And flowers.” He pointed to the fireweed I’d plopped into a jar. “Big lush flowers, orange and red and brilliant. Of course, being so warm there’s plenty of game to be had.”
For a moment, he almost had me. I leaned closer, imagining this valley of riches.
Then I remembered where I was: The Klondike. Where dreams died in the face of reality. And who I was: Fiona MacGillivray, gamekeeper’s daughter. My father loved to tell me tales around the peat fire in our neat white croft on a dark winter’s night. The old Scottish legends of the Green Isle and the Princess of Land-under-Waves. He always finished the stories with a kiss on the top of my head and a reminder that we were simple folk, and many a man had been ruined chasing after fairies.
“Sounds perfectly lovely,” I said to Mr. Sheridan. “Although I suspect someone is taking you for a fool.”
I doubt he even heard me. “I haven’t told you the best part, Fiona.”
“You haven’t?”
He leaned over. I put my head closer. He did have a way of seeming to share a secret that was somehow alluring. I shook my head and leaned back in my chair.
“The greatest gold deposit on earth.” He tapped his finger. “Which is one of the reasons the warm air stays in the valley, even in the middle of winter. This mountain acts as insulation. It’s gold. Almost pure gold. Gold Mountain.”
I looked into his eyes. They were as bright as with a fever.
And it was a fever, of a different sort. Gold fever.
“Are you telling me this is a map to this Gold Mountain? A treasure map?”
“Exactly.” He straightened and threw his arms into the air. “I knew you’d understand, Fiona. Soon as you’re ready we’ll be off.”
“We?”
“Angus can come, of course. We won’t need many supplies, just a few days’ worth to see us safely there. I’m going to be a king. King of Gold Mountain. And you, my beloved Fiona, will be my queen.”
Chapter Twelve
When it came to delusion, the three clean-cut, hopeful miners below had nothing on Paul Sheridan.
The beautiful, warm valley I might almost believe, but the mountain of pure gold was nothing but another mad fantasy.
I laughed.
He grinned at me, misunderstanding. “Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”
“Regretfully, I am not planning to travel at this time. Good day, Mr. Sheridan.” I picked up my pen.
I should have known he wouldn’t take the hint.
The fellow was a lunatic.
But he was wise to keep the map secret. Plenty of men seemed to turn lunatics at the very thought of gold. He ran his fingers across the paper.
My curiously got the better of me, and I found myself, rather than showing him the door, asking Mr. Sheridan where he obtained this map. His eyes focused on the paper and he lovingly traced a line with his finger, from the point where the two blue lines intersected — Dawson — up toward the red dot.
He’d befriended a man in Skagway, he said, over the winter. The man was from Bavaria and had been in possession of the map for many years, but he didn’t know where to even begin looking for the legendary Gold Mountain. That is, until he’d seen a drawing of the Yukon in a German newspaper and recognized the coordinates immediately. He had spent all his money getting to America, crossing the continent, and buying the required year’s supplies. He didn’t want Soapy to hear of the map, of course, but he and Sheridan had struck up a friendship, and so he told Sheridan about its existence.
Sheridan’s glance slid to one side. The German had died, knifed in bar fight in Skagway. With his last breath, he told his good buddy Paul where the map was hidden. Then he let out his death rattle, a sound terrible to hear, and expired in his friend’s arms.
Sheridan was not a very good liar. He’d either been responsible for that death rattle himself or had simply stolen the map.
If the latter, he’d done the German a favour. Save the man disappearing into the wilderness with nothing but a foolish dream to sustain him. I wondered if Sheridan had told his boss, Soapy Smith, about the map and if Soapy treated it with the derision it deserved, or if Sheridan thought he was pulling one over on Smith.
I could sit here all day arguing with Mr. Sheridan as to the validity of his plan. Better, perhaps, to keep my opinions to myself. I put on my regretful face and told him I had pressing matters to attend to. I would, of course, consider his proposition.
He re-folded the paper with great care and returned it to his pocket.
“Today’s Monday,” he said. “I have a few purchases to make, and then we can be off. Can you be ready on Thursday?”
“Martha and Reginald’s wedding is Saturday. I cannot possibly fail to be in attendance. I am the matron-of-honour. Why don’t you go ahead of me,” I suggested. “Make me a copy of the map and I’ll follow.”
He looked so shocked, I might have suggested he publish the map in the Klondike Nugget. “There’s only one copy of this document in existence, Fiona. I intend to keep it that way.” He tapped his chest. “This paper doesn’t leave my person. Never. We’ll leave Sunday morning. I’ll be round to your place to get you and Angus at eleven. Be ready.”
He gave me a wink and said, “I’m trusting you with this secret, Fiona. Be sure not to tell anyone, including Walker, where’re going.”
At last he stood up. The colour rose in his face, and he shuffled his feet. “I’m glad I’ve found you, Fiona. I’ll make you very happy. You’ll be more than my queen. You’ll be my wife. Thank you.” He headed for the door, but just as I began to exhale with relief, he turned. “We don’t want gossip floating around town before we leave, so I’ll keep my distance. Let Walker think he’s scared me away from the Savoy. Until Sunday. Be ready.” He left, closing the door behind him.
What a bother. I’d make myself scarce on Sunday when he tried to collect me. He might not take no for an answer, but he was waiting an extra three days for me as it was. He’d be most anxious to head off and become King of Gold Mountain.
If he came to the Savoy on Monday, I’d tell him to go away.
I can be just as naive, sometimes, as men expecting to find gold nuggets hanging from the trees like apples.
* * *
“Angus, I’m glad I ran into you.”
Angus looked up from sorting men’s trousers. “Where else would I be?” he grumbled.
Paul Sheridan grinned. “Not liking the job, are you?”
Angus felt a tug of loyalty for Mr. Mann. “It’s all right.”
The sun was high in the sky and the river mud was stinking. The woman who owned the next tent over, selling ladies’ undergarments, lightly used she claimed, had taken out her lunch before going to help a customer. Flies settled on her food.
Sheridan glanced to each side. The two women were examining a corset with a broken rib and haggling over the price. A group of cheechakos walked past, laughing and talking loudly. Mr. Mann had gone to inspect a prospector’s goods and there were no customers at the store. No one was paying any attention to them.
Sheridan leaned over the counter. Angus leaned forward.
“Can you keep a secret, boy?”
“Of course I can.”
“Promise.”
“I promise.”
Sheridan leapt back at the sound of Mr. Mann’s booming voice shouting, “Fool. Wans whats hes pays in Seattle for goods. Ha, Ies tell him. Ha.” Mr. Mann pointed at the mining equipment stacked on the counter and piled at the back of the tent. “Then takes back to Seattle and gets yous money back, I says. Ha.” He eyed Sheridan. “You wants help?”
“I’m here to talk to Angus. What time do you get lunch, boy?”
Angus began to say he’d had his lunch. That wasn’t true, but he didn’t want to waste time on Paul Sheridan. Mr. Mann said, “Goes and haves lunch now. Store not busy.”
Angus had no choice but to reach under the counter for the package Mrs. Mann had made up for him.
Sheridan said, “We don’t want to talk where we
can be overheard. You know someplace quiet, Angus?”
“Not in Dawson.”
Sheridan looked a bit taken aback at that. He shrugged and said, “We’ll have to keep our voices low then.”
Angus led the way down the waterfront to where things were fractionally less frantic. He found a large boulder, stopped, and began to unpack his lunch. Truth be told, he was starving and glad of the opportunity to get an early lunch, even if he did have to spend it with Paul Sheridan. He hoped the man wouldn’t want to share.
Sheridan helped himself to the largest of the two bacon sandwiches. He ate quickly, his eyes constantly surveying their surroundings.
Angus took the remaining sandwich with a sigh. Sheridan stuffed the last piece in his mouth and reached for a slice of raisin cake. He picked the pieces of fruit out of the cake and tossed them on the ground as he began to talk.
“I’m going north, Angus, looking for gold. Your mother’s agreed to come with me, and she won’t want to leave you behind. Be ready to leave first thing Sunday morning. You won’t need to take much. No more than a week’s worth of food, a few clothes, tent and a bedroll. I have my own tent of course; I won’t intrude on your mother until we’re properly wed.”
Angus loved raisins. He eyed the little black specks scattered across the ground. He had no doubt whatsoever that his mother was not planning on leaving town in the company of Mr. Paul Sheridan and heading north toward nowhere. If nothing else, the moment they’d stepped out of the boat that brought them from Lake Bennett, Fiona had fallen to her knees, heedless of the mud and the skirt of her travelling costume, and sworn that she would never, ever, leave civilization again.
If she was stringing Sheridan along for some reason, Angus wasn’t going to enlighten the man. “Sure. But I think you ... uh, I mean we’ll need a heck of a lot more food. I don’t have a rifle, and can’t shoot anyway, so we can’t count on hunting. Can’t ask people we meet on their way to the Creeks to give us food, most of them will only have enough for themselves.”
