Legends Can Be Murder

by Shelton, Connie

  On Broadway a wagon passed, the poor horse struggling to pull its heavy load through deep ruts in the mud. Spring weather created havoc. Warmer temperatures had begun to thaw the frozen ground, then a fresh storm would leave a few inches of new snow. Within a day, the snow melted to mush and the muddy ground became even more slippery, the mud churned into mounds with the steady flow of traffic from the nearly fifteen thousand residents. Every time a ship arrived, it disgorged a new crop of fresh-faced young men, eager to join the stampede, and the population had grown by a good thirty percent since Joshua’s arrival.

  A council of leaders had convened and ruled that at least one side of each street should be lined by a board sidewalk. Joshua noted that the side chosen for the walk on Broadway was the same side where three of the men’s businesses happened to be located. Unfortunately, his rooming house was on the opposite side and there was no way to avoid the ankle-deep mess once he stepped off the small porch. Mrs. McIlhaney had installed scraping boards and shoe brushes in a small attempt to get the boarders to clean their shoes before entering, but it was a losing battle.

  Joshua spotted Harry Weaver fifty yards up the street, entering a saloon. He hurried through the crowd to catch up with his friend. The Red Onion was quiet this time of morning, but it was one of those establishments that could get rowdy at night. Harry turned from the bar, a glass of beer in hand, as Joshua entered.

  “I’m sitting with some men over here,” Harry said. “Join us.”

  Joshua had hoped for a private conversation and some advice from Harry, but perhaps they would have a chance for that later.

  “Alastair Connell, Peter Gariston, Mick Thespen ... my friend Joshua Farmer.” The others had near-empty glasses in front of them but Joshua hesitated to spend money for liquor. He would wait and see how long the others stayed. He nodded a greeting to each and took the chair Harry had pulled out for him.

  “Next week,” said the man named Mick. “That’s when I’m heading out. Got on with Riley McDonald’s team.”

  The others nodded appreciatively at this news.

  “What about you—Joshua, was it? You heading out soon?” asked Alastair Connell.

  “I’m not certain,” Joshua admitted. “I’m hoping to join with some others as well.”

  “Maybe we should talk,” said Gariston. He drained his glass. “Anybody want another?”

  Joshua felt a surge of hope. Connell and Gariston looked fairly well fixed, both with an air of confidence. “Let me buy a round,” he said.

  Before anyone else could override the offer, he walked to the bar. Each coin he handed over felt like one less pound of flour or sugar to fill that supply list, but he justified the drinks as an investment in getting on with a good team.

  “… last fall, made a mint!” Connell was saying as Joshua came back, his hands full. “Summer’s the only time to do it, though. Did you see that photograph somebody put up at the barber’s shop? A string of men hiking the Chilkoot last October, like a line of ants on sugar, steady up that trail without hardly a spot of white space between ’em. Snow’s up to their knees and at the base of the trail section, there’s literally tons of goods. They say if you go it alone, you’ll make thirty, forty trips to move your gear. It’s thirty-three miles, Dyea to Lake Bennett but you figure out the math, you’ll walk close to a thousand—with sixty pounds or more on your back.”

  Joshua swallowed. The most weight he’d ever carried was probably fifty pounds. Still, he supposed a man would get used to it in short order.

  “What about the White Pass Trail?” he asked. “Save the ferry ride to Dyea, just start out from here?” Truthfully, he didn’t know much about either route.

  “No choice about that now. It’s the only way,” Thespen snorted.

  Connell gave Joshua a hard look. “You didn’t hear about the avalanche on the Chilkoot last month?” Fool. “They’re still up there, digging out bodies and gear. You’d go miles out of your way, if you can even find a way through. The Chilkoot might be shorter but it’s a helluva lot steeper.”

  Joshua covered his embarrassment by taking a long sip from his beer. Harry sent him a sympathetic look.

  “Too bad the railroad ain’t done yet,” Mick said. “I’d be going that way myself.”

  “Hell, it ain’t even started. Be lucky if it can get you halfway there by next summer.”

  “Won’t that be something? Get all your provisions aboard and make it in one haul ...”

  “Don’t waste your time dreamin’. That gold’s all gonna be gone. You just gotta get your stuff together and go with a buddy or two. Somebody watches the gear at the bottom of the hill, the others carry as much as they can. Trade off so each guy gets a break now and then. Besides, you don’t guard your stuff, somebody’s gonna steal it. Only way to go.” With that, Mick got up and left the table.

  Joshua let the others talk. He felt like a rube; it seemed everyone in Skagway knew more than he did about this venture. He glanced hopefully at Gariston and Connell but got the feeling they’d already written him off as a greenhorn. They finished off the drinks he’d paid for and left the saloon. At least he finally had Harry to himself for a conversation.

  “Harry, I’ve been thinking. What Mick said. It makes sense, going with a partner. So, what do you say? You and me on the trail?”

  Harry tapped a fingernail on the tabletop. “I haven’t changed my mind, Joshua. I can’t go.”

  Joshua felt like a pitiful, whining boy as he asked why.

  Harry pulled a small piece of paper from a pocket. It was a newspaper clipping, folded twice, which he held out to Joshua. The man in the grainy photograph had a thin face and a scar across his left cheek; his eyes were nearly obscured by the low brim of a western hat.

  He lowered his voice. “The company I work for, the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, pays me a good salary to find criminals. This one—Jessie Durant—he’s robbed two banks in Washington. Witnesses saw him getting on one of the northbound steamers and we know he didn’t get off at Ketchikan, Wrangell or Juneau. I’m fairly certain he intended to lose himself in the crowds of Skagway. He may try to ambush men coming back from the Klondike and steal their gold.”

  “Detective?” Joshua felt a newfound awe of his friend.

  Harry discreetly touched his lips with an index finger. “I’m keeping that information very quiet. Hoping to spot Durant and apprehend him. Don’t say anything, please, and don’t utter that name. It’ll give me away.”

  “How will you catch him? Every street and saloon is packed with men.” One glance around the room showed any number of men who might have been the robber, especially if he had grown a beard to cover that scar.

  “Durant has a distinctive limp from a wound he received during the second robbery. So many witnesses described it to me that I feel sure I will know him if I see him on the street. In addition, I’ve showed the picture to both of the barbers in town. If Durant goes to one of them for a shave or haircut, they will notify me.”

  “And you can nab him! Then you’ll put him in handcuffs and take him back?”

  “That’s the plan.” Harry folded the paper and put it back into his pocket. “At any rate, that’s the reason I can’t go with you.”

  Joshua struggled for a compelling argument. “Maybe he’s gone up there—you would see him on the trail.”

  “Sooner or later, every man who goes up that trail has to come back down. My chances are better here.” He downed the remainder of his beer, then held the glass between his palms. “Joshua, if I might offer some advice? The stories that tell of the amount of gold coming out of the gold fields ... they’ve been vastly exaggerated. Most of the men are coming back dead broke.”

  “That can’t be! I’ve read the papers. I’ve heard them talking around town.”

  Harry shook his head. “In a boom town like this, be careful what you believe. I know you will always hold out hope. But please consider this a friendly warning.”

  Chapter 8

&n
bsp; By our second week things were beginning to fall into a routine and with blackout curtains in the bedroom I was actually getting some sleep. Drake and I took turns flying to each of the three cabin sites, although I must admit to skirting the work a few extra times in favor of browsing the shops and trying out Mina’s favorite lunch spots. Roberta had joined us twice and I found the mother-daughter interaction interesting. I spotted a few slight digs, motherly advice not taken, daughterly cracks about her mother’s lack of formal education and career. But they shared a lot of inside jokes, something which I must admit made me more than a little envious.

  In our work, the customers became predictable, the flight routes familiar—but the scenery never failed to delight me and the weather was always an unknown. Each of the cabin sites was different: Cabin One with the nearby stream and, of course, that cave (which Chief Branson had insisted be blocked until his investigation was concluded in case some minute piece of evidence might still be there); Cabin Two, a hundred-mile roundtrip flight, sat on a mountainside with bighorn sheep as the nearest neighbors and lure of riches being inside an old mine shaft where only a hint of sparkle revealed that a vein of gold had been dug away in the days before chemical mining techniques of the smash-and-leach variety existed. One client had come back with two decent nuggets of gold and a smile that wouldn’t quit.

  Then there was Cabin Three, another quick flight with enough waterfall side trips to make it interesting. It sat within hiking distance of the colorfully named Dead Horse Gulch. If the customers wished, they could have easily caught the narrow gauge train back to Skagway or hitchhiked the highway back home, but they didn’t know that.

  The places all felt remote and once they settled into any one of the cabins most were thrilled to be away from civilization, and all wanted to believe they might be experiencing something close to what the real gold rush stampeders did. The accommodations themselves were similar in size and amenities. After each set of guests checked out we flew in a cleaning crew and a supply of food for the next batch. The crew left neatly stacked firewood and fresh bedding, something those old stampeders would have given their you-know-whats for. For guests who had opted for the two-week stay, we flew out some more food, any mail they might have had forwarded to Kerby’s office, and we took their trash away—more conveniences those men would have loved in the olden days.

  For myself, I could easily see settling into small town life, preferably one without quite the influx of pastel-clad septuagenarians whose idea of adventure was that they’d booked that cruise in the first place.

  However, life on the fringes of the population—living there but not belonging—left a bit of a hole in the social fabric that we normally enjoy at home. Other than the little get-togethers with Mina and her mom, my chief entertainment had become my nightly peek into the life of Joshua Farmer through his and his wife’s letters. I had taken everything out and looked for some clue as to the ownership of the box itself, but it didn’t have one of those handy tags that read, This School Box Belongs To:_____. I had asked Berta about it, but she had no clue where it had come from and told me I was free to read it, keep it or throw it away. Deciding on the former, I had just settled into the armchair that I’d discovered to be the most comfy when I heard Drake’s truck.

  Where did the time go? I dashed to the kitchen, working on my excuse for why I’d not planned dinner and hoping that a nice dry martini would keep him going until I came up with said plan.

  “Hey, hon.” I heard him call out even though most of my head was in the refrigerator. “Do we have any plans for tonight?”

  Uh.

  “If not, we’ve been invited to a party.”

  Seriously? That certainly saved my rear.

  “There’s not a thing that can’t be saved for later.” Technically the truth.

  I heard him move into the bedroom. “I’m going to grab a quick shower and fresh clothes.”

  I arrived on the scene just in time to catch him dropping his Nomex flight suit on the floor and peeling off every stitch of clothing underneath. Hmm ... nice. But the word ‘party’ still hung in the air and I needed more info. I followed him into the bathroom.

  “Some kind of art gallery thing,” he said as he waited for the hot water to arrive at the shower head. “Kerby invited us, said it’s an informal wine-and-cheese deal. He and his wife know the gallery owner and I thought it might be a chance to get to know some of the locals. Unless you’d rather not go.”

  By this time he was behind the plastic curtain and that last bit got a little lost as the spray hit his face. I wasn’t going to waste a moment, though. When he emerged from the bathroom ten minutes later I was wearing my only non-jeans, a pair of black slacks, and a summer sweater that might be a little too lightweight. I was in the process of rummaging through my clothes to see what type of covering I might add. In another few minutes we were out the door.

  Arctic Art sat at the corner of Broadway and Third, smack in the middle of Skagway’s bustling downtown. Luckily, it was a lot less bustling now that the tourists had returned to their ships to rest their feet, recover from shopper’s sticker shock, and partake of another sumptuous free meal. The gallery owner welcomed us and introduced herself as Donna Rae. She had a warm smile and a certain glow that meant she’d either had a great sales day or a couple glasses of wine. Either way, she told us to look around and help ourselves to food and drink at the long table that stood, conveniently, beneath a wall of breathtaking mountain landscapes.

  I spotted Kerby Allen and a silver-haired woman talking to another couple. Roberta Gengler stood over a jewelry display, oohing at something the woman next to her pointed out, and I saw Mina and Chuey strolling in front of a wall of Native Alaskan art but mainly looking at each other. A budding romance—how cute. I was beginning to feel like quite the insider, with my own little collection of friends already.

  Chief Branson was among those at the food table, loading a plate with smoked-salmon appetizers and a big assortment of cheeses, fruit and crackers. We said hello as Drake and I filled wine glasses, deciding to mingle a bit before sampling the food. He gravitated toward Kerby, that tendency we all seem to have where we go to a party and spend most of our time with the people we already know.

  The other couple drifted away as Kerby greeted us.

  “Drake and Charlie, I’d like you to meet my wife,” he said, placing an arm around the silver woman.

  Well, okay, that was my impression. The dazzling cap of boy-short gray hair was played to maximum effect by a silver satin blouse and silver jewelry. Lillian greeted us with a practiced politician’s smile that would always look good on camera. The mayor.

  “How are you enjoying Skagway?” she asked, the first question from the mouth of anyone who lives in a place heavy in visitor traffic.

  I gave the answer she probably expected—the town’s frontier atmosphere was charming and the surrounding scenery stunning. Drake mentioned the ‘little excitement’ we’d encountered our first day on the job.

  Lillian’s gaze slid side-to-side, her smile glued in place, as if she were at a press conference and someone had farted, making sure no one noticed.

  “It was an unfortunate thing, but so long in the past.” She waved away the reference as if the gesture would also sweep the sets of bones off into obscurity. “Have you visited the botanical garden yet? The outdoor plants are already doing quite well, and the garden club is working on producing some of the state’s record-setting vegetables again this year.”

  Nice switcheroo on the subject, but even though it wasn’t one of those chamber of commerce high points, she wasn’t going to make the murders go away. I would simply ask the police chief about the case.

  Lillian was about to go on about gardens and flowers but a lady stepped over and diverted her attention, and the two moved off to confer on some committee subject. I’d already lost interest, anyway. Drake and Kerby talked helicopter, so I moved toward the food table.

  “You have to try this
smoked salmon spread,” Mina said as I stepped in beside her. Chuey had moved to join the other helicopter men, a loaded plate in hand. “Well, assuming you like salmon. Up here we thrive on the stuff.”

  She didn’t have to mention it twice—it’s one of my favorites too. I scooped a generous spoonful of it onto a paper plate and grabbed a handful of crackers as accompaniment. And while I was at it, I added a few pieces of melon and some strawberries ... and then there were tiny meatballs ...

  “Have you talked to Chief Branson yet?” she asked while I basically made a pig of myself.

  I shook my head. She was right about the salmon spread and I stuffed a second cracker into my mouth right after the first.

  “This week’s deadline is tomorrow and I’d like to add to my story on the skeletons if he’s gotten more information from the crime lab.”

  I didn’t dare speak with my mouth so full but I tilted my head toward the other end of the table where the chief had taken up a new plate. I eyed his oversized belly and slowed my own pace. This one plateful had to last me the entire evening. Mina bided her time and soon Branson reached our end of the table. Now that he had another full plate he wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  “Charlie and I were wondering,” Mina began, “whether the crime lab had come through with any new information on the two skeletons in the cave.”

  We were a team now?

  Branson didn’t seem to care that she’d included me. “Is this for publication?” His teeth plucked two of the little meatballs off their toothpicks.

  “Sam, you know I need what I can get for my story, but if you tell me something’s off the record it will stay that way.”

  He nodded and finished chewing. “Okay. On the record: The first set of remains have been DNA tested but without something to compare to, we can’t make an identification that way. If anyone believes he or she might be related to the man and is willing to have us test their DNA as well, that will go a long way toward helping. We don’t have the budget to do one of those clay facial reconstructions so, for now, we’re hoping that friends or relatives will step forward and give us names—a white male in his thirties who went missing in the 1970s. I want to withhold a description of the clothing, as that may help us rule out false claims.”