Fighting Alaska (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  “I do.”

  “Excellent. We’ve come to collect his gear.”

  “You’ve what?”

  Pete spread his hands on the bar. Jean watched how the four men on Pete’s left began to take greater interest in his story as he told it. “Tim left his belongings and tools here.”

  “Sure,” George said. “When he went outside.”

  “Pardon?”

  “When he left the gold fields,” explained the man to Pete’s immediate left. “When Tim went home to California.”

  “Ah,” Pete said with a smile of thanks. He turned back to George. “Tim left his traps here under Charley’s care.”

  “Sure, I know that,” George said.

  “So Jean and me bought Tim’s claim. Up on Anvil Creek. That and all the stuff he left here with Charley.” Pete smiled again, just like when he was sealing the arrangement for a fight. “We’ve come to pick up Tim’s gear.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  There was no malevolence in George’s voice nor in his expression. He had the face of a helpful, over-aged choirboy giving directions to an address a customer sought.

  Pete still smiled, but he stared at George several moments before he spoke. “What?”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “What do you mean?” The smile was gone. Jean saw the other men at the bar each take a half-step away from Pete, but their gazes at him grew in intensity.

  “I mean I can’t give you Tim’s things.” George put his hands on his hips. Jean decided this was a slightly aggressive stance, because the bartender’s elbows spread out from his torso and gave the impression of greater size. But Jean also noticed George’s hands weren’t clenched into fists. Yet.

  Pete frowned now. “Why not?”

  “They don’t belong to him anymore.”

  A look of relief came to Pete’s face for a moment. “Of course,” he said. “We bought it all, Jean and me. See here.” He pulled the papers from a pocket inside his coat and spread them on the bar, flattened their creases with his hands. “Here’s where he signed it all over. There’s his signature. There, that’s the witness.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” George said. “He can’t do that.”

  “Of course he can,” Pete insisted. “He owns it. Owned it. We bought it.”

  George shook his head. “He doesn’t own it anymore. Didn’t own it. The court took it over.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The four strangers near Pete now took several steps away. Jean watched as they drifted toward the card tables.

  George remained patient. “The court took over Tim’s claim. Took over several claims on the Anvil. After Tim went outside.” The bartender shrugged. “Guess he didn’t know.”

  Pete’s expression didn’t change, but he stared at George with a ferocity Jean had seen only a few times. Pete gripped the edge of the bar. He spoke very carefully. “That can’t be right.”

  George showed his palms to the tin ceiling and shrugged. The choirboy expression remained.

  This mild display infuriated Pete. A low growl started in his throat. Jean had been watching him and was prepared to step forward and take his arm when another voice spoke up from Pete’s left.

  “What’s this noise about?”

  The voice was deep, gravelly, and loud. It came out of a broad-shouldered man in a blue-striped shirt whose straight collar was open and whose tail was tucked into black wool trousers held up with leather suspenders. The trousers, Jean noted, showed not a speck of mud.

  The stranger spoke again. “I asked what the noise is all about?’” A frown concentrated the features of his oval face. His jaws were pink as from a fresh shave, and he sported a black waxed mustache and sharp-trimmed chin whiskers.

  Pete had turned when the stranger first announced his arrival. He jutted his chin out. “Who are you?”

  “Kearney, if it matters to you.”

  “Butt out,” Pete waved him away. “This is private business.”

  “It’s so private the racket disturbed my card game. Leave George alone. He’s just giving you the lay of the land.”

  “I don’t care for the geography.”

  Jean surveyed the room. From the way the other customers had arranged themselves inside The Northern to watch the shouting match, no one was going to step in. Kearney clearly was accustomed to getting his way, even in a country of rough and bristly men, Kearney’s size alone would be intimidating. Jean’s height was about five eleven. Kearney overshadowed him by four or five inches at least.

  The big man sneered at Pete. “What’s your belly ache, Irish?”

  Pete stepped forward. “My partner and me bought Tim Barlowe’s claim, fair and square, and George here says we can’t collect.”

  Kearney’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Barlowe? I recall that name. Up on Anvil Creek?”

  Pete nodded.

  “George is right. The court seized several claims on the Anvil. Barlowe’s among ‘em.”

  “For what bloody reason?”

  “The law came into Nome after the rush had been established by a crowd from Dawson. There is some concern about some of these claims, concerns there are irregularities with the titles. The law is sorting it out, see. If the title is all clear, you’ll end up with your claim, no problem at all.”

  “But I need the money from working the claim!”

  “The season’s short, so the claim is still being worked. If your title is clear, you’ll get the earnings from the diggings.”

  Pete sputtered. “Working! Who’s working it?”

  “Barlowe – or you, in this case – was enjoined from working the claim until everything is settled. It so happens the court has appointed me as receiver to operate those mines in dispute until the matter is clear.”

  “You! Who the hell are you?”

  The big man’s frown was back, twice as fierce. “I am Samuel Kearney, and I am telling you to clear out!”

  Jean glanced at George, still behind the bar, but standing far from it. An expression of pain was ruining his choirboy looks.

  Pete uttered a strangling sound, then leapt for Kearney.

  The big man stepped forward and swatted Pete with a backhanded blow. Pete went sprawling to the floor, and a brass spittoon clattered around his head.

  The moment his partner flew backwards, Jean rushed to Kearney while the big man’s arm was still slung out from the blow that had sent Pete reeling. Jean brought a swing up from his knees that drove his fist just below Kearney’s sternum. A blast of hot breath flew past Jean’s ear. As Kearney’s right hand went to his chest, Jean hooked his left over that arm and thumped the big man in the throat.

  Kearney made gargling noises as he collapsed against the bar. His pink face had gone red. He remained standing with his left elbow on the bar. His right hand reached around to his back and came into Jean’s sight carrying a revolver.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” One of the men who had been at the bar when the partners had entered now darted to Kearney’s side and clutched his gun arm. “Sam! Sam, there’s no need to shoot a couple of cheechakoes for being foolish. Let ‘em go! They’ll find out what’s what.” He turned to Jean and Pete. “G’wan, get out of here while you can.”

  Jean helped Pete to his feet. The latter snatched his papers from the bar before walking out the door. Jean followed him, but didn’t turn his back to Kearney until they were on the sidewalk.

  The two started along the street. They had taken fewer than a dozen steps when a sheet of mud flew up from a passing wagon and splattered both men, crown to toes. Pete scrubbed his face with both hands. “Ahhhg,” he sputtered.

  “Welcome to Nome,” Jean said.

  ROUND 7

  Once the shock of what he’d learned wore off enough for Jean to speak, he stopped Pete on the sidewalk. He suggested they reconnoiter and see what more they could learn, then meet up and compare notes. He pointed across the street. “That place looks good.” A frame building with three floors.
Double doors centered in the face of the building. Over the entrance, a large square window on which was painted:

  SECOND CLASS

  SALOON

  Pete was already sitting alone at a corner table when Jean walked in two hours later. An empty bottle sat on the table. There were no glasses.

  Jean ordered a beer and carried it to the table. He studied his partner before he pulled out a chair and sat. Pete’s eyes had a glassy look, just as they’d had when the two men separated on the street. Jean wondered whether Pete had gone anywhere except straight to this saloon.

  “Hello, Jean.” Pete spoke quietly. He seemed to have no energy. His face was pale except for a bruise on its left side, where Kearney had back-handed him.

  “Hello, Pete.” Jean sipped his beer. He had experienced a sort of panicked breathlessness since taking leave of Sam Kearney and The Northern Saloon. It was the feeling he’d gotten when once he had accidentally taken a step off a porch expecting a set of stairs, but instead his foot encountered only yielding air and he had taken a tumble. Other times, Jean had awakened from nightmares of falling with a similar feeling.

  But clearly his friend had taken the news about the claim harder than Jean – at least more immediately so, and that was a puzzle. Perhaps, Jean reckoned, it was because Pete had committed them to the adventure by purchasing the claim before even talking to Jean. Pete probably felt responsible for getting them into this jam, particularly since he knew Jean hadn’t been one hundred percent settled with the idea when they left San Francisco.

  “I scouted around some,” Jean said. He couldn’t tell if Pete was really listening, but he thought he might draw his partner out from his funk if he started talking to his friend as if he expected Pete would respond.

  “What I learned,” he continued, “is that it’s all true. Nome was wide open when the gold was found. We’ve seen that kind of place before. Then the law came in and sat down on the action. Some judge hit town – Judge Noyes – with your new pal Kearney and started all this business about miners having clear titles to their claims. The judge just jumped the claims, handed everything over to Kearney, and said the miners could appeal. All the while, Kearney’s paying boys to pull money out of the mud like it’s his own.”

  Pete’s face had turned red. That, Jean thought, is a better sign.

  Jean had scanned the room while he was talking. The saloon was crowded and noisy. He didn’t think he and Pete would stand out, but he didn’t want to be caught unawares by Kearney or his confederates.

  So when he noticed a sturdy fellow in a mackinaw and a woolly hat, and a hedge-worth of beard jutting out between the two enter the room, Jean thought for a moment the man looked familiar. The newcomer surveyed the room, looked right at Jean, and started toward him.

  When the stranger was within fifteen feet, Jean pushed back his chair and stood. He didn’t care to meet trouble while sitting on his hands.

  The stranger motioned for Jean to sit. “Howdy,” he said. “Mind if I join ya?”

  “Who are you?” Jean challenged. Neither man had raised his voice. Jean didn’t want to catch any extra attention.

  “Mexico Mullins. I met you earlier.” He was pulling up a chair in a nonchalant manner, as if he’d run into friendly faces he’d known for ages.

  A flare of recognition lit Jean’s memory. “You’re the man…”

  “Who kept you from getting shot, yeah, yeah. Sit down.”

  Jean did so. Mexico studied Pete a moment. He turned back to Jean. “Sam Kearney’s got bear muscles, so I couldn’t have held him back if you hadn’t already whomped him. You got yourself to thank as much as me, youngin’.” Jean thought he saw a grin within Mexico’s brush pile of a beard. He almost returned the smile. It had been a long time since anyone had referred to him as a youngster, and Jean hardly felt like a boy. He wondered whether the grizzled fellow across from him was really so much older than Jean’s age.

  Instead, he asked, “What do you want?”

  “I been lookin’ for you fellers all over.” Mexico glanced around the room. “I bet Sam’s got boys scourin’ for you, too. It wouldn’t do for folks to know someone got his goat.”

  “He swings a big hammer here, I guess.”

  “He’s got a lot of folks here buffaloed. They feel kinda like your pal here looks. Mainly ‘cause he’s in with the law, and the law’s got…well, the ring in the buffalo’s nose. But you need to take cover until the boilin’ pot cools down. Got a place to stay?”

  Pete spoke, finally: “Tim had a camp on Anvil Creek.”

  “Tim Barlowe, I know him. Good man. But you need to stay clear of that place. The claim, the camp, everything is under Sam’s control. He may even expect you to show up there. He may be plannin’ to grab you there.”

  “So where do we go?” Jean asked.

  Mexico scratched in his beard. “There’s plenty of folks would give you a bed and a meal and the shirt off their back if they knew you stood up to Sam, even if you are a couple of cheechakoes. But I am a quieter sort of feller and not given to braggin’, so I won’t give you away. You can bunk with me tonight, and then we’ll go from there.”

  Jean studied this man called Mexico Mullins. He wondered how far he could be trusted.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked.

  Mexico cocked his head. His blue eyes glittered. “I pan a little. Hell, you can’t walk on the beach without a little fortune stickin’ to your boots. But I ain’t a mud-worshippin’ gold digger like most of these miners. I’m a gamblin’ man. I earn my gold from them’s already dug it. And I look at you two and think there might be a way to put a hoodoo on the way the game’s been rigged here by the big shots.”

  Jean leaned forward. “From where I sit, the odds don’t look to be in our favor.”

  Mexico nodded. “I have to agree. It really makes no sense on my part. A gambler don’t eat often if he plays dumb hunches. But maybe it was seein’ you two lay into Kearney as if it just didn’t matter what happened next. You weren’t held down or held back. I’m willin’ to buck the tiger and see what happens. For a while, at least.”

  Jean thought about how he had recently put his care and safety in the hands of Burl Evans. The farrier had guarded his door when Jean had been incapacitated after his bout in Texas. He’d been paid to do so, and he’d been recommended by someone who had a solid business reason to do so.

  He asked another question. “What’s in this for you?”

  He thought he saw another grin within Mexico’s thicket. “Hell, boy, right is right and wrong is wrong. That’s just a feelin’ a natural born man has in his gut.” Jean thought Mexico’s grin grew wider. “But all this business with the judge and the jumped claims has caused a drop in funds comin’ to the gamin’ tables, and that affects my bread and butter.”

  Jean looked at Pete, who shrugged.

  “All right,” Jean said. He shook Mexico’s hand.

  The gambler nodded toward the bar. “There’s a back door. We’ll go that way, avoid Front Street. Follow me.”

  It was dark in the alley behind the Second Class. A few oil lamps hung at the back doors of buildings along the way, shedding enough light to keep the three men from tumbling over a discarded crate or barrel or a sleeping drunk.

  Night in Nome was as noisy as any other boomtown Jean had visited. Music and singing rang from the entertainment palaces. Shrill laughter, raucous guffaws, angry shouts. Weeping. Shattering glass. Gunfire.

  Mexico Mullins led them southeast. He stopped, motioned, and continued through a narrow space between two buildings. They had to go single file, walking sideways.

  As they came out of the tight passage, Mexico turned left and opened the front door for Jean and Pete. They entered a small, tight lobby. There were no chairs, only enough room for the three men to stand before a counter, behind which stood a pale man with only a few strands of hair on his skull, a pocked face, and narrow shoulders.

  “Billy,” Mexico said, “these boys are stayin�
� with me tonight.”

  Billy kept his face turned down slightly, and to look at the newcomers he rolled his eyes up as though he were peering over spectacles, although he wore none. “Miz Beecher ain’t going to like it.”

  Mexico waggled his hand. “I’ll take care of it with Mrs. Beecher tomorrow. We’ll need some quilts.”

  They were soon climbing the stairs, each bearing a load of linens. “I’m on the second floor,” Mexico said.

  “Kinda tight down there in the front.” This was only the second statement from Pete since Mexico’s arrival at the Second Class.

  “Leaves more square feet for payin’ customers,” the bearded gambler replied. “You gotta understand – it’s all about the money in Nome.”

  He ushered them into a small room with a rope bed and a wash stand. There was no wardrobe, just wire hooks on the walls.

  “Cozy,” Pete said.

  “It’s bigger than the lobby,” Jean said.

  Mexico snorted. “There’s enough room for you to make pallets on the floor.”

  “Just don’t step on me in the dark if you get up,” Pete growled.

  Their host ignored the gruff tone. “You boys got any baggage?”

  Pete hung his jacket on an available hook and began to place quilts on the floor. “I’d arranged to have our stuff taken to The Northern,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll be claiming it tonight.”

  “I know a feller I can trust to pick it up, bring it here,” Mexico said. “Settle in.” He shut the door behind him.

  His bed made, Pete washed his face while Jean arranged his quilts and blankets. “At least we’re off the Excelsior,” the latter said. “We won’t have to worry about any of those fellows jumping us in our sleep.”

  “Yes, this is much better,” Pete said. He toweled his face. “Now we’re just hiding out from the law.” He scowled at the room. “Hell, there’s not even a chair.” He sat on the bed.

  Several minutes later they heard Mexico’s voice and that of another man in the hallway. The clatter of heels on the stairs told them when one of them left. Then Mexico opened the door and brought in their bags. “Good boy, Ned. But no reason for him to see your faces at this point.”