by Vicki Delany
Eleanor handed her card to anyone who showed an interest (which was just about everyone they met), and Angus recorded appointments in the book he carried for that purpose. The boy was clearly fascinated by this photography thing, and he sent a constant stream of questions Eleanor’s way. She answered with equal enthusiasm. Sterling felt like a child trailing behind his elders, not quite sure what they were talking about.
Eleanor was a good businesswoman, no doubt about that. She wasn’t the first photographer to set up in Dawson, but her enthusiasm for her business and the obvious passion she had for the art attracted people who’d not seriously thought about posing for a photograph before.
It didn’t hurt that she was very pretty and her tiny delicacy made men feel large and powerful.
He walked Eleanor and Angus back to the road. She thanked him for his help. Angus hoisted the camera box and stood in the dirt of the road. Sterling’s tongue felt too big in his mouth. He cleared his throat. “If you, ah, need any further assistance, feel free to call upon me.”
“How kind of you,” she said, blue eyes wide. “Mr. Donohue has been suggesting I visit the Creeks. Do you think that would be wise, Richard?”
“It’s an interesting place.”
“I’m not sure about having Mr. Donohue as my escort.” She crinkled her pert little nose in thought. “I’ve an idea! Could you, perhaps, see your way to accompanying me?”
Sterling shifted his boots and avoided Angus’s grunt of disapproval. He wasn’t quite sure what had come over the lad the last couple of days. Angus had never been sullen before. Onset of puberty, perhaps. “I have my duties here, in town. But I might be able to be excused.”
“You have an appointment at four o’clock,” Angus interrupted. “We’d better be going.”
“Plenty of time,” Eleanor said. Her eyes remained fixed on Sterling’s face.
“Yeah, well, I have to get home,” Angus mumbled.
“Until later, Richard,” Eleanor said in a soft voice. She turned and walked away. Angus threw Sterling a filthy look and followed, kicking up clumps of dirt.
Sterling rubbed his face and watched until they rounded the corner.
When he got back to town detachment, Constable McAllen was waiting. He had a man with him, a dirt-encrusted, heavily bearded miner who looked like he’d been living in the bush for years. As he might well have. His right cheek bulged so much he resembled a chipmunk collecting nuts in anticipation of a hard winter.
“This is Lou Redfern.” McAllen made the introductions. “He knows something about that Stewart fellow.”
“Glad to hear it. Come on in. Constable, bring Mr. Redfern a chair.”
The three men crowded into Sterling’s office. He’d never had an office before, and was rather proud of this one. Until he had to hold a meeting in it.
Sterling sat behind his desk. Redfern took the chair McAllen brought in, and the young constable took his place up against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looked rather pleased with himself.
“Tell me,” Sterling said.
Redfern spat a lump of tobacco onto the floor. He cleared his throat. When he spoke it sounded like the instrument didn’t get used often. “I recognized the picture you’ve been showing around. Not a good likeness, mind, but good enough. Stewart. A cheechako. Green as the grass on my father’s grave. He had an accent so strong it was hard to understand him sometimes. But my old granny on my mother’s side, bless her, was from the Highlands, so I could make out most of what he said.”
“What was it he said?”
“Not a lot. Asked questions mostly. Listened a lot.”
“Where was this? Where did you meet him?”
“The Yankee Doodle.”
The Yankee Doodle was a bar in Klondike City, a rough, makeshift settlement on the other side of the Klondike River, which gloried in the nickname of Louse Town. The bar, as its name suggested, was frequented almost exclusively by Americans. A strange place for a Scotsman who’d been in town for less than three days to find himself.
“Where are you from, Mr. Redfern?” Sterling asked.
“Toronto, once. Left twenty or more years ago. Been prospecting ever since.”
“Had much luck?” Not if you judged by the man’s appearance, he hadn’t. But these old timers didn’t change if they did strike it rich. They spent their money on women and drink, not on improving themselves.
Redfern shrugged. “Enough.”
Sterling glanced over the man’s shoulder. McAllen was rubbing his thumb and index finger together.
The miner might have money, but he clearly wasn’t interested in spending it on laundry or baths.
“You’re wondering what I’m doing in the Yankee,” Redfern said in answer to Sterling’s unspoken question. “I don’t go there for the company. There’s a lady works there I’m fond of. They call her The Stallion.”
McAllen made a sign to indicate a female of substantial proportions.
“I see,” Sterling said, keeping his face neutral. He’d seen the woman around. She occupied the bottom rung of Dawson’s prostitution ladder. Must weigh three hundred pounds. He couldn’t imagine how she got all that bulk over the Chilkoot Trail.
“Anyway, I came in from my claim on Monday. Went to the Yankee Doodle straight away. The Stallion was busy so I had a drink or two while waiting. All the talk was about duties, as it usually is.”
Sterling nodded. The Americans complained constantly and vociferously about having to pay a tax of 10 percent on the gold they dug out of the frozen Canadian ground. The remaining 90 percent they spent as they liked or sent to their families or banks back in the U.S. They didn’t bother to consider that if the shoe was on the other foot — if the gold was in the States — other nationalities weren’t even allowed to claim it.
Redfern pulled a tin of tobacco out of his jacket pocket and tossed a wad into his mouth. His teeth, what few remained, were stained brown. He chewed thoughtfully. “I didn’t think much of it at first. Usual talk, usual moaning and groaning about how hard done by they are. Poor babies. They talk a good talk, mind, when they’re in their cups, but they go back to their claims happy enough once they’ve had a couple of drinks, a good meal, and the services of a good whore. Or a not so good one.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, tobacco juice spraying across his shirt front. And Sterling’s desk.
“I was minding my own business, mind, drinking their lousy liquor. Then I realized one guy was there what didn’t belong. No American this, sounded like my dear old granny. Hard as nails she was, tougher than any man I ever met.” He paused for a moment. “Raised me, she did. My mother was a drunk; my dad scarpered long before I was born. If my mother even knew who he was.
“But you aren’t interested in all that. This Scottish guy was talking to the Americans, egging them on, I thought. Asking why they weren’t doing something about it. He asked them why they were handing over ten percent of what they worked darned hard for to a foreign government. Now it seems to me they’re the foreigners, not the Canadian government. But I’ve got no interest in politics, so I didn’t say anything.” He chuckled. “Besides, if I had, I’d have been lucky to escape with my scalp. The Americans were getting mighty riled up. Your Stewart had money to spend; he was buying rounds. Even bought one for me. It was a busy night. Had to wait a long time till The Stallion was free.” He grinned at Sterling. “And well worth the wait it was.”
Sterling kept his face impassive. “Did anyone seem particularly interested in Stewart?”
“Aside from getting their free drinks? Not that I noticed. The talk was all about taking the Yukon for the Americans, pushing out the Yellow Stripes and their laws. A couple of fellows started talking about forming a miner’s meeting.”
Sterling groaned. Miner’s meetings were what passed for authority in the gold camps of Alaska. A group of miners who set themselves up as the law and passed judgement as and when they liked. Precisely the sort of vigilante justice the NWMP was in the Yukon
to prevent.
“It’s all talk,” Redfern said. “That bunch isn’t gonna organize themselves. They come to town to get drunk and to buy supplies and then head back to their claims. They’re not going to start a rebellion for ten percent.”
Sterling wasn’t so sure. The boundary between the Yukon and Alaska wasn’t settled. The Americans complained, but by and large they weren’t going to stop working on their digs to get involved in politics. Add a political agitator to the mix? Who knew where that would lead?
“Did Stewart leave with anyone?” Sterling asked.
Redfern shook his head. “Didn’t see. He was still there when my lady came in. Later on, he wasn’t.”
“Thank you for taking the time to tell me about this. I appreciate it. If you can remember anything more, let us know will you.”
“Happy to. I’m making good money now. Men start causing trouble, getting all political, does no one any good.” He grinned. “I’m getting married.”
“Is that so?”
“Yup. The Stallion’s coming to my claim. I’m going to make an honest woman out of her. Winters have been getting mighty cold last couple of years. It’ll be nice to have something to keep me warm at night.” He smiled. It made him look almost human.
“Congratulations,” Sterling said, meaning it. “What’s the lady’s name?”
Redfern looked puzzled. “Do you know, I never asked.”
* * *
Helen had been led away, limping but whole, her leg heavily bandaged, complaining she couldn’t afford the time off work. Ray had instructed one of his men to see her home. The carpenter had arrived at a fast clip, dollar signs dancing in his eyes.
For the remainder of the afternoon, the front rooms of the Savoy shook with the sound of hammer and saw. Ray had sent Murray to give the carpenter a hand and worked the bar by himself, his scowls getting deeper and darker with every hammer blow.
I remained downstairs, chatting with the men, until Graham Donohue took his leave, muttering something about a story to write.
When the door swung behind him, I let out a long deep breath. The man standing next to me swallowed and tossed back a full glass of whisky. He was young, shiny faced, and perhaps not used to consuming such a prodigious quantity all at once. He broke out in a round of coughing. I left Barney to slap him on the back and bellow for water.
The door opened once again. Angus. He caught sight of me, and we met in the centre of the room. “I’ve finished with Miss Jennings for the day, and thought I’d walk you home for supper, Mother. If you’re ready?”
“What a nice idea.” I slipped my arm though his. He was only twelve years old but already reaching my height of five feet eight inches. His father had been very tall. I pushed that thought aside. It was replaced by Graham’s description of Eleanor Jennings and Richard Sterling.
Fond was the word he had used.
“What’s all that noise?” Angus asked.
“Helen put her foot through a board on the stage. We have to get it repaired and the others checked out before show time. Ray’s not happy at the cost. I’ll be a couple of minutes. Go and have a look, if you want.”
Angus wandered off. I couldn’t imagine anything less interesting than watching boards being checked in the back room of a dance hall, but everything fascinated Angus.
It was a trait I hoped he’d keep for a long time.
The Savoy was beginning to fill up. Barney sat in his usual stool, regaling, as usual, a crowd of eager cheechakos with the story, considerably embellished, of the discovery of gold at Bonanza Creek. At another end of the bar, Gerry Sullivan was recounting the saga of Helen Saunderson’s mishap in the back room. I caught enough of the story to learn that her leg had almost been sliced right through and only the rapid intervention of he himself had saved the unfortunate lady.
Roland was in the gambling hall, waiting for a poker game to begin. Count Nicky arrived, dressed to impress as always. He took off his hat and approached me. “Madam. Good afternoon.”
“Here for a game of cards?” I asked.
“Most certainly. Our English friend wants to get in a hand or two before he’s needed on the stage.” He looked around the room, studying the men and activity. He indicated the portrait of Queen Victoria behind the bar, clearly disapproving of everything she saw. “You hang an American flag.”
“A proper hostess makes all her guests feel welcome.”
“The stripes on their flag are effective,” His voice drifted off. “A Russian eagle in the corner perhaps, where the stars are. The joining of two great nations. Do you think that would be impressive, madam?”
“What? Oh, yes. Most impressive.” Whatever it was supposed to be. “If you’ll excuse me …”
“Most of these people are Americans, no?”
“Yes. Here searching for gold.”
“Will they stay, do you think?”
“Stay? You mean in the Yukon? Heavens no. They’re leaving already, many of them. The best claims are taken, not many new ones being found. These aren’t settlers, Nicky. Only a few brought families with them. No gold, no reason to stay.”
“But surely there is gold? Much of it. Nuggets the size of apples, lying openly on the ground.”
Far be it from me to disabuse anyone of their dreams. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about gold mining, sir. I’m just a dance hall hostess.”
“Pardon me. Such a topic is not suitable for a lady’s ears. Ah, here he comes now. Let the game begin.”
John Turner crossed the room. “Afternoon, Count. Ready to lose some money?” He turned to me, but he did not smile. His eyes dropped, with no attempt at subtlety, to the front of my dress. “Miss.” He addressed my bosom.
I sniffed and walked away, the feel of his eyes burning into my back. That man made my skin crawl. I’ve encountered plenty of unpleasant men in my life. Some merely impolite, some obnoxious, a few down-right dangerous. I feared Mr. Turner fell into the latter category.
I’ve learned the hard way never to ignore my instincts.
I’d have a quiet word with Richard. See if the authorities had any reason to expel the man from the territory.
Richard. Was he truly fond of Eleanor Jennings?
Angus returned. He’d only been gone for a couple of minutes, but his face was troubled.
“What’s the matter?”
“What makes you think something’s the matter, Mother?” he answered, very quickly.
“Your face is as readable as a book.” I peered closer. “What is it?”
Taking hold of my arm, he steered me toward the door. He dragged me down Front Street at such a rapid pace I couldn’t say another word.
Which, I am sure, was the intent.
23
Angus scarcely tasted his dinner. His mother kept throwing worried glances his way. When he gave her what he thought was a cheerful smile, her expression became even more concerned.
At last the meal ended, and she went to her room to dress. Mrs. Mann poured hot water into the bucket on the counter to wash the dishes while Mr. Mann leaned back with a contented sigh and took out pipe and tobacco.
Angus remained at the table, lost in a sea of indecision.
He hung around the Savoy, visiting his mother, scrounging meals off kind-hearted Mrs. Saunderson, chatting to Ray Walker. The staff knew him and never chased him out. The women wanted to pinch his cheeks and fuss over him. The men wanted to show him pictures of their own children.
So no one minded when he’d slipped behind the faro table and watched the man who’d entered the gambling hall as Angus walked through from the back. The man had gone straight to a waiting poker game. He sat down with Roland the Magnificent and the strange Russian. Two other men joined them. Jackets were unbuttoned, cigars and pipes taken out, money and gold dust and chips laid on the table. The dealer shuffled cards.
The poker player was the man Angus had seen following Corporal Sterling and Miss Jennings. Who Angus and Dave had also been following.
But how could he say he’d seen someone spying on them without letting on that he, Angus, had also been spying?
Perhaps the man hadn’t been following Sterling, but Miss Jennings? A woman alone. No man to protect her.
Did he have unnatural designs on Miss Jennings?
In that case he could be dangerous. It was Angus’s duty to tell the police what he had seen. But he figured he’d be in more trouble for snooping than in anyone’s good books for reporting a non-existent crime.
He couldn’t warn Miss Jennings, not without her asking how he knew this.
If the man was intent on Miss Jennings, then it was Angus’s responsibility as her employee, albeit part-time, to look out for her.
The man frequented the Savoy. Was he at the Savoy only to play poker? Did Angus have to worry about his mother, also? Surely his first duty was the protection of his mother, not a woman he scarcely knew.
His head hurt.
“Are you not feeling well, dear?” Mrs. Mann asked.
He opened his mouth to say he was fine. Behind her he could see the biscuit tin. “I’m a little tired,” he said instead. “Do you have anything that would give me some energy?”
She got down the tin. “I made these for your lunches, but I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to have one now.” The battered tin was stuffed full of cookies. The cookies were stuffed full of raisins.
He took one. Then he took another. “Thanks, Mrs. Mann. You always know what I need.”
She preened.
“I’m off.” Fiona’s head came around the door. Tonight she was going out without a hat. Her long black hair was tied with a red satin ribbon into a loose knot at her neck. From there it cascaded down her back. Even in Dawson a woman never went out in public without a hat, not unless she was of the commonest sort. But Fiona always seemed to be able to get away with more than other women could.
