Gold Web

by Vicki Delany

  Sterling wasn’t inclined to gamble, and couldn’t afford it at any rate. His father had been a failed farmer and a dirt-poor hell-and-brimstone preacher. Father and son had departed on bad terms, surrounded by words that could never be taken back. But if one lesson of his father’s had stayed with him, it was the evils of gambling.

  He didn’t mind the hardscrabble miners who’d spent the last twenty, thirty years alone in the wilderness searching for gold, and when they at last struck it rich, pretty much spent it as fast as they could on women, liquor, and cards. For most of those men, there was no place in the Outside for people such as them.

  It did bother him sometimes to see men step off their makeshift boats, expecting to find gold lying on the ground like windfall apples, turning to the roulette wheel or poker table for consolation when they realized all their dreams were for naught. Those who’d left dirty-faced children, pregnant wives, hard-scrabble farms or back-breaking factory jobs behind to try and make something of themselves, to provide for those families. Instead they spent their time throwing away what little they did manage to earn in a night at the Monte Carlo or the Horseshoe or the Savoy, or any one of the number of dance halls and casinos that had spring up along Front Street.

  But he wasn’t anyone’s father, or even their preacher. If a man wanted to squander a months’ wages or the last of the money he had to spend on food on a spin of the wheel, Richard Sterling wasn’t here to lecture him.

  Sterling had his back to the door leading into the dance hall, but he didn’t have to see to know when Fiona MacGillivray entered the room. Everyone but the hardiest gambler sat a bit straighter, adjusted his hat or tie, dusted off his sleeves.

  He felt the air move, heard fabric rustle, smelled good soap, and she was beside him.

  “Quite a fuss, that photography business,” he said.

  She sighed. “I can’t bear to watch any longer. Either the girls are strutting like peacocks because they were in the front of the photograph, or pouting and sulking because they feel slighted. They’re tripping each other, stepping on toes, blocking sightlines. It’s a disaster. The audience absolutely loves it.” She threw up her hands, and he laughed. Some of the tension in his shoulders melted away.

  “Mr. Turner?” the dealer said.

  “I’m out, getting too rich for my blood.” The badly dressed man at the poker table threw down his cards.

  “Call,” Roland the Magnificent said.

  The Russian laid down his cards. He had a pair of nines. Roland laughed as he displayed his hand. He swept up the pot. Several hundred dollars.

  Turner swore heartily.

  “Watch it,” Sterling said. “Consider this a warning. I hear that again, you’ll be down at the fort for use of vile language.”

  Turner rose to his feet. His chair crashed to the floor. He stood with his feet apart. Hands clenched. Face reddening. “Sure you’re not sending signals to that fellow? You’ve got a mighty nice view of my cards.”

  Sterling repressed a sigh. “You’ve lost. Don’t make anything of it, friend.”

  “I’ll make something of it if I want.”

  Sterling was conscious of Fiona’s breath beside him. The roulette wheel clattered to a halt. Jake, the head croupier, came out from behind the faro table. Conversation in the room stopped. Men clutched their cards, or protected their chips, and watched.

  In the dance hall, Ellie shouted, “Lay on MacDuff, and darned be he who first cries, hold enough.”

  Unfortunate timing for that particular line, Sterling thought. He wasn’t armed; the police didn’t carry firearms in the normal course of their duties. But neither did the citizenry. The man was about his age, big with what appeared to be a good set of muscles under his tattered and filthy clothes. Sterling never considered himself to be much of a street fighter, although he knew how to hold his own if he had to.

  “Do you have a name, sir?” said a voice beside him.

  “Stay out of this, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Sterling said. “Please.”

  The man looked at her. He blinked, and then his shoulders relaxed fractionally as he said, “John Turner.”

  “Mr. Turner, the stage show is well underway, but I believe seats are still available. We will be open for dancing shortly.”

  “I’ll dance with you. Now.”

  “There is no music.”

  “I’ll hum.”

  The watching men began to murmur. Was the man stupid, or just a braggart? Mrs. MacGillivray was very popular in this town, and the men didn’t like the tone Turner was taking.

  He stepped toward Fiona. She didn’t move. Sterling placed himself between them. He saw Jake signalling to one of his men to get Joe Hamilton, the bouncer.

  “You’re a right pretty lady,” Turner said. “Speak nicely, too. So I’ll take your advice. Have a drink maybe, come by for the dancing later.” He turned suddenly and faced the watching room. He held his hands open. “No trouble. I have a couple of dollars left, anyone wants to join me in a drink. You, Yellow Stripe, I’ll be seeing you later.” He sauntered out of the room, heading into the saloon.

  Joe Hamilton stood in the doorway, glancing at Fiona for orders. She waved her hand. Let him go.

  On stage, a woman cried, “You bitch.” Richard Sterling wasn’t a Shakespearean scholar, but his mother had ensured he and his sisters had some knowledge of literature. He didn’t recall that line being in Macbeth.

  The men returned to their cards, their chips, and their whisky. The roulette wheel began to spin. The croupier called out, “Place your bets, gentlemen.”

  “You should have let us handle it,” Sterling said. “That’s why you have employees. Not to mention that I am with the police.”

  “There would have been a fight and someone’s nose broken and blood on the floor.” Fiona smiled and he found himself smiling back although he intended to be cross with her.

  “That’s a girl!” A man in the dance hall roared.

  “Speaking of blood on the floor, I suspect the Battle of Dunsinane is about to get rather fierce if I don’t step in.” She made no move to leave.

  “Fiona,” he said, his voice dropping, “you do sometimes place yourself in more danger than is wise.”

  “So I have been told. I’ll try to remember your advice. Good evening, Corporal.”

  “Good evening, ma’am.”

  * * *

  The box was heavier than it looked and Angus was having trouble keeping up with Miss Jennings. She was small, but she could sure walk fast. She came to a stop at the street corner, waiting for a cart to pass. The cart was pulled by a horse so thin Angus could count every rib. The animal struggled against the mud gripping the wheels as the driver yelled and flailed his whip. The cart reached the duckboard, placed across the street to provide some passage over the muck, and the wheels stuck fast. The driver screamed louder and the horse strained. Three men waded into the road, got behind the cart, laid their shoulders to the boards and shoved. With a groan, and the suck of sludge, the cart wheels began to turn. At last they jolted onto the duckboard, and the journey continued.

  “If that man gave his horse a bit of food now and again, the animal might be of some use,” Miss Jennings said, watching the vehicle lumber away.

  “No fodder,” Angus said. “No hay, no grass, and most of the trees are pines or spruce. Not that there are all that many trees anyway.”

  The town of Dawson waged war relentlessly against the forest. Every tree for miles around had been chopped down, to clear the growing town site, to provide lumber for construction and wood for burning. Even on the far side of the river, tents crawled up the mountainside where a short time ago trees had grown and animals had lived. Over the long quiet winter Angus sometimes heard wolves howling and had seen tracks of moose in the deep snow. Come spring and summer, nothing remained but what man brought in.

  They crossed the street and arrived at Miss Jennings’ photography studio. She’d taken, she informed him, the rooms above as her residence. She
unlocked the door and held it open for Angus. He staggered in and gratefully placed the camera case where she indicated. The room was full with what would be clutter in anyone else’s home. He assumed she used the jumble of odds and ends for props. Mining equipment, shiny and unused, snowshoes, a fur hat, a lady’s cape and a long pink boa, empty wooden boxes stamped with the names of foodstuffs.

  “You won’t need some of that, ma’am,” he said, indicating a pick, without a speck of dust on it, leaning up against a table. “No one has any illusions left about the glory of gold mining, not once they get here.”

  “Perhaps you can be of help to me, Angus. What sort of pictures do you think people want?”

  “Of themselves. Pictures to send back home to their wives and children. Showing they’re okay.”

  “May I take your photograph?”

  “I don’t have anyone to send it to. My father died before I was born. My mother doesn’t communicate with his family, and her own parents are dead.”

  “Something to keep for yourself perhaps. To show your grandchildren some day.”

  Grandchildren. What an impossible notion. Still, Angus thought, it would be nice to have a photograph. His mother had two pictures she’d brought from England. A formal portrait of him as a baby and another in which he was a fat thing dressed in a sailor suit on a day’s outing in High Park.

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “In thanks for your assistance today.”

  If Miss Jennings hoped to make a living at this she shouldn’t be so quick to give her services away for free. The Savoy dancers and then Miss Davidson. Now him. Maybe, he thought, she was a rich lady indulging her hobby.

  “Sure. I can give it to my mother as a present. She’d like that.”

  “Your mother doesn’t want to have her photograph taken. She has an interesting face. Excellent bone structure. Striking colouring.” She tilted her head to one side and studied Angus to a degree that made him uncomfortable. “Quite different from yours. Resemble your father do you?”

  “So she tells me. She doesn’t have a picture of him. My father was blond, like me. Tall.”

  “Perhaps you could have a word with her. I know I could do her justice.”

  “Don’t bother trying to change my mother’s mind. Once she makes her mind up, nothing will change it.”

  “Tell me about Corporal Sterling. Is he friends with your mother? Close friends, I mean?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m surprised at the number of Mounties I’ve seen about town. Quite a strong police presence, it seems. And a substantial fort. What do you suppose they’re afraid of?”

  “Afraid of? Nothing. They’re keeping the peace, that’s all. Some people say they have a machine gun up at the Pass. That’s to keep Soapy Smith and any other American criminals out of Canada. Soapy’s losing control, though, even in Skagway. The townspeople are tired of him controlling the town and driving business away.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “My mother told me.”

  “Your mother knows what’s going on? Politics, the police?”

  “Sure. She has to. She calls it keeping her ears to the ground. We were in Skagway for a while. Just a couple of days, and she realized Soapy wouldn’t let her run her business her way, so we came to Dawson.”

  “I suppose she hears a lot of things in the Savoy. News, rumour.”

  “Oh, yes. She tells me men say things around her sometimes that they shouldn’t. Because she’s a woman they think she doesn’t understand.”

  “Your mother’s an Englishwoman?”

  “People think she’s English because of the way she speaks. But she’s Scottish, originally. She’s from Skye. That’s in northern Scotland.”

  Miss Jennings’ eyebrows lifted. “Scottish, is that so? I have biscuits in a tin somewhere, would you like one?”

  “Great, thanks! Why are you asking about my mother?”

  “No reason. I’d like to make friends, that’s all.” She pulled a battered cake tin out from under an assortment of men’s hats. “I’d also like to make friends with Miss Davidson. Tell me about her.”

  “She’s stepping out with Ray Walker,” Angus mumbled around a mouthful of a surprisingly good cookie. It was packed full of raisins. Angus loved raisins. “Mother doesn’t approve, but I don’t know why.” He shoved the last of the cookie into his mouth. “I’m sorry, Miss Jennings, but I’d better be going home. Mrs. Mann will have my supper ready.” Angus looked around the room. “I can help you, if you like. With your cameras and stuff, I mean. I’d like to learn about photography.”

  Miss Jennings smiled. “That would be an excellent idea indeed, Angus. You can be my assistant, and I will pay you a good sum.”

  His face fell.

  “You don’t want to be paid?”

  “It’s not that. I work at Mr. Mann’s shop, down by the waterfront, every morning. Ma — I mean, Mother — says I’m old enough to contribute to the family income.”

  “Then I shall arrange my schedule so I do private portraits in the morning, and in the afternoons, when you are able to escort me, we will go outside. Take photographs of the streetscape and capture people unawares as they go about their business. Daylight lasts so long here, I won’t have to rush to get the pictures I want.”

  “Does it matter? You have that magnesium to make light.”

  “Daylight is far preferable to artificial light, Angus. It makes a more natural photograph. Besides, I didn’t bring much of the flash powder chemicals, so I’d like to save it for when I need it.”

  “When do you want me to start? Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow would be perfect.”

  He headed for the door. He stopped with his hand stretched toward the knob. “Hey, I’ve an idea. If you want business, the police use photographers sometimes. A man was killed the other day and they had Mr. Hegg come to the mortuary and take his picture. So they could show it around and try to find out who he was. Mr. Hegg wasn’t happy, said he didn’t want that sort of work. Maybe you could do it?”

  “An excellent plan. You haven’t even begun your first day of employment, Angus, and already you’ve proved your worth. Perhaps you could put in a word for me with Corporal Sterling.”

  “Sure.”

  Angus left, feeling quite proud of himself.

  11

  At the conclusion of the stage show, I marched into the dressing room and gave the girls a stern talking to. I reminded them that they were professionals (stretching the truth somewhat) and were expected to conduct themselves accordingly. Betsy, as is her habit, tried to argue that she wasn’t the one who’d been out of line. I cut her off and reminded her that her employment here was at my favour. She, and all of them, were welcome to seek prospects elsewhere at any time.

  Following my lecture, the dancing segment of the evening went quite smoothly.

  Irene spent most of the night in the upstairs boxes, in the company of the grizzled old sourdough I’d noticed her with on previous occasions. As the headliner, she was free to concentrate her attentions on one man, if she so desired, and considering he was ordering bottle after bottle of the best Champagne, I was happy to leave the two of them to it.

  Getting on toward morning, I noticed a man sitting in the round table in the centre of the saloon. I hadn’t seen him before — nothing unusual about that, our clientele turned over with head-spinning speed. He was drinking heavily, his bulbous red nose testified that this wasn’t the first time, not dancing or engaging much in conversation with the men sharing his table. He was, instead, watching Colleen. Every time she came into the bar after a dance to “let” her escort buy himself a drink (included in the dollar a minute dance), the man scowled mightily and knocked back an extra-large swig of whisky. She peeked at him out of the corner of her eyes, but did not approach. He was considerably older than she, well into his late fifties I’d guess.

  If he was her husband or a jealous lover, I didn’t want him causing trouble on
ce he’d drunk enough to object to her smiling and being charming to our customers. I pulled her aside when her latest dance partner had staggered outside in search of the privy (also known as the back alley or street corner).

  “Colleen, there’s a man in the front room, sitting at the centre table. An older fellow. Do you know him?”

  “You mean my dad?”

  “Your father?”

  She nibbled on her lip with tiny white teeth and nodded. “He’s not causing any trouble, is he, Mrs. MacGillivray?” Her voice was small and low.

  “No,” I said. “But I don’t care for the way he watches you. Or rather watches your companions. Your father is aware that dancing with the men is part of the job, is he not?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.” I stopped as a thought struck me. “Your father isn’t … uh … expecting you to leave with any of these gentlemen at the end of the night, is he?”

  “Why would I do that?” Her expression was as innocent as her words. I studied her. I could see no artifice there. Her face was round, a bit of baby fat clinging still, her cheeks pink from the dancing, her blue eyes wide and liquid, her brown hair tortured into bouncing ringlets (now drooping considerably in the heat of the enclosed room). She was pleasingly plump with a high, generous bosom and long legs. “It might be best,” I said, “if your father doesn’t sit there every night. Doesn’t he have a job to go to in the morning?”

  She studied the floor. “He’s got a bad back. Can’t get work.”

  The man in question waylaid Not-Murray, waving his empty glass in the bartender’s face.

  Not the first man, father or husband, who decided it would be easier to put the woman to work.

  None of my concern.

  “Thank you, Colleen. Please ensure your father doesn’t cause trouble. Now, that gentleman over there appears to be attempting to attract your attention.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.” She pasted on a shy smile and went to join the gangly young fellow waving a dollar bill at her with an excessive amount of enthusiasm.