In the Land of Gold

by Angela Christina Archer

  “Yeh are as stubborn as he was.”

  “And, I’ll take that as a compliment.” With a smirk on my lips, I cocked my head to the side. “Are you ever going to leave me alone?”

  “Not until yeh understand that you’re in danger, Miss Colton.”

  Chapter 9

  “What are you talking about?” I snapped.

  “A man by the name of Ethan Sullivan is after that claim. I warned John about him several times, but he never listened.”

  “Perhaps, he didn’t listen because he didn’t see a reason.”

  Flynn shook his head. His eyebrows furrowed together and he growled. “He didn’t listen because he was a fool.”

  Anger boiled through my veins. “How dare you insult my father. You told me you considered him a friend.”

  “I do . . . I did, but if friends can’t tell yeh when you’ve made a mistake then they ain’t no friend.”

  “Good day, Mr. O’Neill.”

  “Miss Colton, wait. Yeh don’t know what you’re dealing with. Mr. Sullivan is a dangerous man—not to be messed with.”

  “Then why would you want to mess with him?”

  Flynn gaped at me for a second. “What do yeh mean?”

  “If Mr. Sullivan is after my claim, then it would stand to reason that any owner would be in equal danger. If I sold the claim to you, as you’ve so generously offered as solution to my problem, then you would be in danger.”

  “I have no interest in that claim,” he bellowed.

  “Then why—”

  “I don’t know why I said those bloody words, but I didn’t mean it. I have no interest in that claim. I’m only trying to warn yeh.”

  I squared my shoulders and brushed my hair away from my face. “Warn me? First, you try to convince me a lady doesn’t belong here, and now you’re trying to scare me into selling my claim. You’re a swindler, Mr. O’Neill. You ought to be ashamed.” His audacity was outrageous and I couldn’t believe I ever thought he was handsome. “And, I don’t believe you were ever a friend to my father. Good day, Mr. O’Neill.”

  Stomping away, I glanced over my shoulder. Thankfully, he wasn’t following me this time.

  The weight of his words brought overwhelming fury. Was there no line he wouldn’t cross to obtain what he wanted? For a moment, that one fleeting second on the boat when my eyes locked upon his, I thought he was someone he wasn’t.

  I should have known better.

  The path gave way to the muddy streets of town, and I stood at the beginning of my adventure. Surrounded by canvas tents and people walking in every direction, I’d finally arrived in Skagway.

  A dog loped past me, nearly knocking me to the ground as he collided with the back of my leg. His matted fur smelled of mud, manure, and an awful moldy smell like death or mange.

  Another dog joined him, sprinting past me as they both headed for a horse tied to a post outside a canvas tent.

  Panicked, the horse pawed at the ground and jerked on the rope that bound him. Barking between growled snarls, the hounds surrounded the horse and nipped his legs.

  As the horse reared, the rope broke at the halter clasp, and the horse nearly tumbled over. With his new found freedom the horse bolted, nearly trampling a man strolling by the tent.

  From inside the tent, another man started yelling, scrambled from the tent’s opened flap, and nearly fell into the dirt thanks to his unbuttoned pants that had fallen down around his ankles. In the middle of dressing, he dashed, shoeless after the horse, cursing as he chased him through the muddy streets.

  My heart pounded as I pressed my body tight against the pole of a tent and caught my breath. Was this a normal occurrence—horses galloping through the streets, plowing over anything and anyone in their path?

  Flustered, I slowly made my way, cautiously peeking around every corner before I continued.

  Two wood buildings rose above the cluster of canvas—one, a dance hall and the other, a saloon where both men and women seemed to be enjoying themselves. Their raucous boasting echoed.

  Scantily clad women lingered outside the building, fanning themselves with lace fans and batting their eyelashes at every man that passed by. Every so often one would reach out and grab a man’s arm or step in front of him, asking if he was looking for a good time.

  For the most part the men continued on their way, prying the woman’s fingers from their arms or skirting around them quickly and avoiding eye contact. Only one man took notice to the voluptuous women and after tipping his hat, followed one of them into the building, beaming.

  “Well hello, darling,” one of the women purred as I passed by. She batted her eyes and tossed her hair. Her breasts nearly burst over the top of her corset. “You lookin’ for work?”

  I shook my head.

  “You sure about that, honey?” Another woman winked at me, then strode over to her friend, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and kissed her neck. “With your looks you would be very popular.”

  “And, could make a fortune,” the first agreed while wiggling from the second’s embrace. She sauntered to my side and her fingers playfully grazed my arm, beginning at my wrist and tracing up to my shoulders. She brushed my hair over to one shoulder and leaned into my body. “Men would pay thousands to have you in their bed.” Her whispered breath warmed my exposed ear.

  Without saying a word and holding my breath, I brushed her hand away, then fled down the street and around the corner, covering my ears to drown their laughter.

  Tears welled in my eyes as I leaned against the building, pressing my forehead against the wooden boards.

  No, Cora. You will not be weak. You can do this.

  Inhaling a few deep breaths, I continued on, in search of the hotel.

  Both, horse drawn wagons and two-wheeled carts pulled by men, rolled past me. All stacked with bags and bundles of supplies. While the horses plowed through with ease, the men struggled with the weight as the wheels sank in the mud.

  A couple of women followed a few of the men, struggling in their own accord through the sticky sludge. One of them held a sleeping infant in her arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket, while the other appeared as though she could have a baby any day.

  If an infant and pregnant woman were thriving here, surely I can.

  With another deep sigh, I carried on—stomping through the muck until finally, to my relief, I caught site of another couple of wood buildings. One of which had a hotel sign hanging off the front overhang of the roofed porch.

  As I scaled the steps of the hotel, two men stumbled out of the saloon next door, and the scent of whiskey perfumed the air as they laughed and slapped each other on their backs. Other men and women shouted from the building, toasting glasses and singing songs I’d never before heard.

  Intriguing and alluring, perhaps after some rest and a hot meal I would venture over there myself to partake in a little bit of celebration.

  I entered the hotel, stepping into a large room with a long table on the left and a bench with coat hangers on the right.

  A few men and women sat at the table enjoying bowls of hot soup and loaves of bread. A large kettle sat over a fire in the corner, bubbling and steaming, and filling the room with the scents of carrots and meat.

  Looking around for the hotel clerk, I passed by the dinning patrons a few times. They watched me, but said nothing until I finally glanced at them.

  “The beds are upstairs,” one of the women muttered, pointing at a ladder on the opposite end of the room. “I believe there are a few that are vacant, but try to find one in the back. If ya don’t there’s sure to be a drunk by your side come morning.”

  “Vacant beds?”

  “Just put your belongings on the mattress.” She waved off my question.

  Was she serious?

&n
bsp; I shook away my confusion and climbed the ladder through the hole in the ceiling. Stepping off as I reached the top, I tiptoed a few steps as panic stole my breath.

  My bag hit the floor with thud.

  I expected a hallway with doors to rooms on each side, but instead found rows of canvas curtains hanging like dividers in between mattresses lying on the floor.

  Surely, this was the wrong place—this couldn’t be the hotel for the town. It had to be some sort of different type of housing for people who sought a free room.

  Cost meant nothing to me—I wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at a few hundred dollars.

  A young woman appeared from behind one of the curtains. She glanced at me and smiled, but didn’t say a word as she passed. As she bent down to step onto the ladder, I turned to face her.

  “Excuse me, but is this the hotel?”

  “Dreadful, isn’t it,” she sighed. “Unfortunately, this is the hotel and the only one in town. A hotel in Skagway is a mattress and nothing more. Good day to you.” She nodded her farewell and continued down the ladder, disappearing with just a few steps.

  “Good day to you, too.”

  Groaning, I reluctantly grabbed my bag and slowly stepped down the alleyway. The large room lacked ventilation—reeking with the sickly stench of stale beer, vomit, body sweat, and perhaps even a patron not leaving the building to relieve himself. My stomach churned with every step down the long hallway, the foul smells growing in intensity.

  Most of the beds were empty, but several had packs, supplies, and coats strewn across the mattresses. One man lay in one of the makeshift rooms, sleeping and snoring, the loud rumble from his throat vibrated through my chest.

  How could anyone sleep next to him?

  Following the woman’s advice, I found a bed in the very back of the long room. I didn’t want to give much thought to the foul odor of the worn mattress, which had seen better days.

  Tears welled in my eyes, then gently streamed down my cheeks and fell to the floor, one by one. To think myself capable of trekking up a wilderness trail and striking out on my own, to some remote cabin in the middle of nowhere, if there even was a cabin, had perhaps been the most foolish choice I could have made.

  The walls of the room began creeping in upon me, haunting with crushing pressure. Unable to escape the feeling, or of wanting to crawl out of my own skin, I threw my bag on the mattress and left the hotel.

  Perhaps, a walk outside would help.

  Boasting voices boomed from the saloon next door as light and shadows flickered from the windows. Hesitating for a moment on the hotel porch, I inhaled deeply and decided to head there instead—figuring a lonely walk wouldn’t improve my mood.

  A few saddled and bridled horses stood tied to posts in front of the building. With their eyes closed and heads hung low, they slept while they waited to return their owners home after a night of merriment.

  A small band of men loitered in front of the saloon door. Deep in conversation, they ignored me and puffed on their cigars as they sipped their mugs of beer. Talk of gold, of the Klondike, and of their recent pack trips were just a few words I understood out of their inebriated slurs as I opened the door.

  Men with shaggy beards, long overdue for a trim, celebrated at several of the tables along with women who were dressed in either rough clothes or fancy dresses that resembled the whores from the street.

  Everyone laughed loudly, jeering or praising each other as they told stories and clanked glasses together in cheers. In the corner, a musician played a piano with gusto. His fingers sashayed over the ivory keys while another scantily clad woman parked her rump on top of the instrument, singing—her dress a mere thread away from untying and exposing her bosom.

  A few of the men silenced, gaping at me.

  Well, Cora, at one time, each one of these patrons was the newcomer. Just walk to the bar and sit down.

  A young, blond woman worked behind a long table that stretched across the rear of the building, and was lined by several stools filled with men. She laughed and spoke to them as she poured drinks.

  “Nat, you are as stubborn as your old man,” a man yelled, with laughter in his voice as he raised his glass to her.

  She gave him a wink, laughed, and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a dirty dishtowel before tucking it in one of the pockets of her pants. She grabbed a few more tumblers and poured them full of whiskey.

  Her audaciousness mimicked Grace with the same sense of a carefree young woman living the life she wanted in the exact way she wanted.

  “What can I get you, Miss?” she asked with a beaming smile as I perched myself on the only vacant barstool.

  “Just whiskey, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  In two swift movements, almost too fast for the naked eye to witness, a glass of amber liquid appeared in front of me. I hesitated for a second, remembering the last shot I drank in the old bar in Tacoma.

  Don’t you dare think of him, Cora.

  Shaking off my thoughts, I gulped the shot with my eyes closed. The whiskey burned my throat all the way down to my stomach, warming my entire body as I motioned for a second glass.

  Glancing around the bar full of strangers, my aloneness weighed heavy on my shoulders. Perhaps, casting aside Rhett had been foolish. Certainly, he annoyed me, but considering my circumstances, he was at least a familiar face—someone other than that Irish fool, Mr. O’Neill.

  The second shot flowed down my throat and I studied the glass as I contemplated whether to have the barmaid pour another.

  “Just off the boat, huh?” The man sitting next to me nodded in my direction and belched in between his words.

  Normally, I’d notice a man with so little regard for his own appearance, but he blended in completely with every other man in the bar.

  Dirty from head to toe, his clothes, skin, and even his hair was so greased it hung in chunks around his face. His crooked smile exposed his yellow and black teeth. Well, the ones he had left in his mouth, anyway, as most were missing.

  “Is it that obvious?” I chuckled under my breath and motioned for a third shot.

  “Well considering your dress is a muddy mess, your shoes just tracked in more beach sand than I’ve ever seen, and you’ve just downed two shots without batting an eye, I’d say yes.”

  He winked at me and rolled a cigarette to the other side of his mouth. He took a long puff, blew out the smoke, dropped the butt to the ground, and stepped on it to extinguish the burning ashes.

  “Name’s Sully.” He offered his hand for a shake.

  “I’m Cora—”

  “Cora Smith,” Flynn hissed as he positioned himself in between Sully and me. “Been looking for yeh since we docked.”

  “Mr. O’Neill, what are—”

  “Mr. Sullivan, I see yeh’ve met the lovely Cora Smith from Seattle.”

  “Ethan Sullivan?” I asked, hesitantly.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Known around here as Sully.”

  The three of us locked eyes—first with one, then back to the other—in an odd dance of wary glances. The awkward silence twisted in my stomach, and I clutched my shot glass, sipping instead of gulping to draw attention away from my distraction.

  What if Flynn hadn’t lied to me?

  “Didn’t expect to see you for awhile O’Neill,” Ethan groaned and took a few gulps of his beer. “Course, I never understood why you left. If you ask me, it was just a waste of time taking those worthless trinkets to that fool’s widow.”

  I inhaled a sharp breath and whiskey went up my nose. I coughed and sputtered, and Flynn patted me on the back a few times.

  “Yeh all right, Miss Smith?”

  Still coughing, I covered my mouth and nodded.

  “So, did she have the deed?”
Ethan asked, ignoring me.

  Flynn crossed his arms. “Like I’d tell yeh if she did.”

  Ethan leaned back and spit on the ground, nearly hitting Flynn’s shoe. “I have ways of finding out what I need to know. I haven’t been out of the Klondike in near ten years, but a trip to Tacoma is sounding like a mighty fine idea.”

  My stomach clenched, and I covered my mouth.

  I can’t wretch. I can’t wretch.

  “Don’t yeh dare even think about going to Tacoma,” Flynn warned. His finger inches from Ethan’s face.

  “That claim is rightfully mine, and you know it.”

  “No, I don’t. Seems the Canadian government don’t think so, neither. He bought yeh out. I saw the records myself. Besides, she doesn’t have it.”

  Ethan gulped his beer again, and then slammed the glass down upon the bar once more. “The records lie, damn it.”

  “The records never lie.” Flynn growled through gritted teeth. “Murdering an innocent man will never get yeh what yeh want.”

  Ethan glanced at me. Our eyes locked for a moment before he looked away, chuckling under his breath. “Miss . . . Smith, is it? You might want to watch yourself around this man. Seems he’s mistaken about a number of things.”

  Ethan rose to his feet, threw a few dollar bills on the bar, and strode away with a slight limp in one leg. His footsteps left muddy footprints upon the dry dirt floor.

  “I must say, Miss Colton, yeh really have a knack for finding trouble.”