The Great Alone

by Janet Dailey

  “You’ve never been in a rough-and-tumble gold camp before, have you?” Deacon remarked.

  His comment made Glory suspect that her expression had revealed her dismay at the surroundings. “It’s hardly a sight to cheer the soul.”

  “Let’s go look it over.” His hand cupped her elbow.

  “What about my trunks?” She glanced back at the luggage being unloaded off the barge and set on the beach.

  “Believe me, they aren’t going anywhere,” he assured her dryly.

  Winding trails weaved among the scattered tents and log shacks. If the town had a center, Glory decided it was well disguised. She didn’t know how Deacon knew which meandering trail to take, but she trusted his instincts. Ragged, unshaven men stared at them as they passed dingy canvas tents pitched along the beach. The slop of footsteps in the mud and the low murmur of voices sounded behind them. Glory glanced back at the straggling bunch of men following them.

  “Everyone’s following us. We must be going in the right direction,” she murmured, holding her skirts high to keep the trailing hems out of the muck.

  “They are following you, my sweet,” Deacon dryly informed her. “Who knows how long it’s been since some of them have seen a white woman—especially one such as you.” He paused on the trail, the grip of his hand checking her progress. His attention was centered on a large canvas tent. A carved wooden sign, weather-beaten and worn, was propped against its front wall. Its mud-splattered lettering was difficult to read, but the carved emblem, its yellow paint faded and chipped, resembled a twenty-dollar gold piece. “The Double Eagle. I wonder …” Deacon murmured, then tightened his grip on her arm and propelled her toward the tent flap. “Let’s go in.”

  There were only a few customers in the saloon, but they stopped talking when Glory and Deacon walked in. The furnishings were as crude and makeshift as the structure itself. Barrels, kegs, and crates served triple duty as chairs, shelves, and supports for the tables and the long wooden plank that was the bar.

  A gray-haired man straightened from the bar, his dark suit and brocade vest setting him apart from the more roughly dressed men in the saloon. His glance shifted from Glory to Deacon and stopped. A frown flickered across his forehead as his gaze narrowed. He took the cigar from his mouth.

  “Deacon,” he said hesitantly, then a smile broke across his face. “I’ll be damned if it isn’t you.” He strode across the tent with a vigor that belied his gray hair. “I should have known no one else would show up here sporting a lady like this on his arm.”

  “I see you’re still carting that sign around with you, Ryan.” Deacon warmly shook hands with him.

  “It’s my good-luck piece. Haven’t gone broke with it yet. Last I heard you were in Skagway.” But his eyes strayed to Glory.

  “Last I heard you were in Dawson,” Deacon replied, then turned slightly to include Glory. “Meet Ryan Colby, proprietor of the Double Eagle saloon. I dealt faro for him in Juneau a few years back. May I present Miss Glory St. Clair.”

  “I’ve heard of you, Miss St. Clair.” Colby bowed slightly, smiling. “But then, who hasn’t heard of Skagway’s famed demimondaine. May I say that you are more beautiful than you have been described.”

  “You may.” She smiled.

  “This calls for a drink—on the house, of course. Let’s go over by the stove.” He directed them toward the coal stove near the center of the tent. “Hey, Pete, bring us some whiskey from my private stock,” he called to the man behind the crude bar. “And get my chair from the back for the lady.”

  Glory stood close to the heavy iron stove, enjoying the warmth it radiated after the briskness of the outdoor air. The number of kegs and crates positioned around the stove indicated the popularity of this particular area of the tent, even though none of them were occupied at the moment. The bartender came with the whiskey, and Ryan Colby passed the glasses to them.

  “Welcome to Nome.” He toasted them, and Glory politely sipped her drink, appreciating the fire that warmed her insides, but not liking its taste. She had never quite figured out what men found to like about alcohol. “Although, I admit it doesn’t look like much of a town.”

  “Let’s say it’s unusual—like its name.” Glory cupped the small glass in her gloved hands. “I presume there’s a Mr. Nome.” In her experience, new towns in Alaska were always named after someone.

  “As a matter of fact, there isn’t. The popular opinion around here is that the name was derived from an Eskimo phrase—Kn-no-me, which means ‘I don’t know.’ Supposedly, it was the reply an Eskimo made when someone asked him the name of this area. Actually it acquired the name quite by accident some years ago. An officer on a British ship in the area noticed that no name had been given on the map for a prominent point of land. So he wrote down on the map a question mark followed by the word ‘name,’ with the intention of later supplying one. Only he forgot. When a draftsman made a copy of that map, he misread it, thought the question mark was a ‘C’ for Cape, and the ‘a’ was an ‘o,’ and wrote down ‘Cape Nome.’ ”

  “That sounds more unbelievable than the Eskimo story,” Deacon remarked.

  “The truth usually does, I’ve found.” The aging saloonkeeper tapped the ash from his cigar onto the tent’s dirt floor. “It won’t be long before the name of this town will be on everyone’s lips. Those three lucky Swedes struck pay dirt on Anvil Creek. All hell’s gonna break loose here—and soon, too. The lumber for my new saloon should be on the ship that brought you here. I’ll be needing a good faro dealer again, Deacon. Pay’s a hundred dollars a week.”

  “It’s a generous offer, Ryan, but I have to decline. You see, I’ve persuaded Miss St. Clair to become my business partner. We’re going to build our own establishment here.”

  “And I was hopeful that I could convince Miss St. Clair to operate out of the Double Eagle. Considering how many have already shown up just to look at you, you could have been quite an attraction in my place.” He indicated the increased number of customers in his saloon, all standing at the bar and staring in Glory’s direction. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into changing your minds.”

  “No.” Ever since Deacon had suggested it, Glory had been intrigued by the idea of owning a place of her own. She had learned a lot working for Miss Rosie, and observed a few things she would do differently. Thanks to the big pot Deacon had won at poker and the money she’d managed to save despite her extravagant spending, they had the funds to do it—although she wasn’t sure she would have picked Nome as the site if she’d known what it was like. Still, compared to what was here, their place would be a palace. And she’d never yet met a man who didn’t like his comforts. If there was as much gold here as Ryan Colby intimated, they were bound to become rich.

  “As a matter of fact, our building materials and supplies are being off-loaded from the ship,” Deacon informed him. “If you have any suggestions on a possible location, we’d be interested in hearing them.”

  “Take your pick. Just about every lot in town is up for grabs. There’s as much lot jumping going on as there is claim jumping. A man’s supposed to have forty days to make improvements on the lot he staked or lose it. But few people check to see if the time’s expired. They just build where they want and worry about who rightfully has claim to it later—like any boomtown. You know the way it works—possession is nine-tenths of the law. He who has, usually keeps.”

  “I’d rather have title to the land than trust the law to give it to me,” Glory said. There had been too many occasions in her family’s past when they’d lost property because of the law—or the absence of it.

  “It was just a suggestion.” Ryan shrugged indifferently. “I know Deacon’s a gambler who likes to play the odds. I know a few who’ve staked out lots on speculation. In the meantime, you’ll be needing a place to stay. Nome is short on accommodations. You’re welcome to my private sleeping quarters in the back of the tent until you get your place built, Miss St. Clair. You’re liable to find
it a bit noisy at night, but I expect you’re used to it.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Colby.”

  “Not at all. It won’t take long for the word to spread to those women-starved miners in the hills that Glory St. Clair is at the Double Eagle. They’ll be coming here to spend their gold. This place is going to be so full you won’t be able to turn around.”

  “Then Deacon and I will have ample opportunity to advertise our new business.”

  “So you will.” He saluted her quickness, then looked beyond her. “At last, here comes Pete with your chair. A ship’s carpenter-turned-prospector made it for me to settle his account. I think you’ll find it’s very comfortable.” As Glory turned, she noticed a portly white-haired man walking toward them before her attention was distracted by the bartender carrying a finely crafted leather-upholstered chair. “I’d tell you the man’s name, but I’m afraid you’d steal him from me, and I need him to build my new bar,” Ryan said. “Set the chair by the stove, Pete.”

  As Glory admired the chair’s intricately carved back, highly polished to bring out the wood’s grain, she heard someone speaking to Deacon behind her.

  “I don’t mean to intrude,” the man said. “But I’m afraid I’ve been eavesdropping on your conversation. I heard you mention that you were interested in purchasing a lot on which to build. Permit me to introduce myself. My name’s Gabe Blackwood, attorney at law.”

  If a thunderbolt had struck her, Glory couldn’t have been more stunned. Everything stopped. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She was numb with shock, wondering if she had heard correctly. Had he really said he was Gabe Blackwood? Could there possibly be two men with that name? She’d always been led to believe her father had left Alaska and gone back to the States, taking the Tarakanov family treasures with him. Could it be him? Was this man the father she’d never seen?

  She turned slowly, tightening her grip on the shot glass of whiskey, surprised she hadn’t dropped it. The man wore a billed fur cap with the ear flaps turned up, revealing the white hair she had noticed earlier. His clothes looked well made if slightly soiled, although the latter was to be expected in this town.

  Her father would have been in his late fifties. This man could be that—or more. It was difficult to tell. Excessive consumption of alcohol had a way of aging a man beyond his years, and there were indications that this man drank heavily. But, then, her father had drunk a lot, too.

  “Excuse me.” Glory interrupted Deacon’s conversation with the man. “Did I hear you say that you knew of some property for sale, Mr. … Blackwood, was it?”

  “That’s correct, ma’am. Gabriel Thornton Blackwood, attorney.” He doffed his hat.

  “Miss Glory St. Clair.” She extended her hand, and he bowed over it. Glory recalled that her mother had often remarked about how gallant her father was.

  She searched his face, trying to find a resemblance to an old tintype she’d once seen. She’d found it while going through a trunk of her mother’s things shortly after she’d died. It had been a picture of her father with Secretary Seward and several townspeople. Her aunt had subsequently destroyed the tintype, but that image of her father—the only one she’d ever seen—had remained in her mind. She tried to match it to the man in front of her.

  His fair skin was flushed with drink. She could smell the liquor on his breath. His hazel eyes were bloodshot with wrinkled, saclike pouches weighting the lower lids. A network of blue veins crisscrossed his nose, running close to the surface of his skin. His cheeks were round, and a pointed yellow-white beard covered his chin. Maybe it covered a receding chin, Glory couldn’t tell. The man in the tintype had been younger, thinner.

  “Are you from Alaska, Mr. Blackwood?”

  “No. I’ve only recently arrived from San Francisco via Council City. I’m representing some clients with mining interests in the area.”

  “Then this is your first trip to Alaska.”

  His hesitation lasted no longer than it took for him to glance at some person behind Glory. Ryan Colby was the only one it could be. “No, I’ve been to this great land before. The Juneau area mainly.”

  Something stopped her from asking if he’d ever been to Sitka, even though she was certain in her heart that this man was her father. After all these years, she’d finally met him. But she didn’t know what she felt. Confused mostly. Did she hate him? How could she love someone she had never known?

  According to her aunt, this was the man who had wanted her dead even before she was born. This was the man who had abandoned her mother, left her penniless and alone with a baby on the way—the man who had stolen all the silver objects her great-grandfather had made, who had never come back to see the child he’d fathered.

  Glory remembered her mother’s great loneliness, the way she had always blamed herself for his desertion. Glory resented him for that—and for her years of growing up without a father, with little food on the table and clothes stitched from her mother’s worn-out dresses on her back. She hated that life, the starkness of it, the lack of warm, tender feelings, and the misery of not being allowed to love or laugh.

  If he had stayed, how different it all might have been. With a father to love and care for her, she’d probably never have come to this Godforsaken place in the wilds of the north.

  But, likely as not, she never would have had all those trunks of beautiful clothes or the sack of money tucked in the bodice of her corset. Truthfully, Glory didn’t know whether to thank him or to slap him. So she did neither.

  “You have already met my partner, Mr. Cole, haven’t you?” But she talked right over his affirmative response. “We are interested in acquiring a lot in Nome on which to build. I think it is very fortunate that one of the first persons we meet turns out to be a lawyer. I feel it is so important to have legal title to land, and who better to insure that than an attorney. You will help us, won’t you, Mr. Blackwood?”

  “I should be delighted.” He stood straighter, his chest puffing slightly, obviously flattered by the importance with which she regarded him. “You are very wise to engage legal counsel in this matter, Miss St. Clair, especially here in Nome. As is the case in so many boomtowns, the letter of the law is frequently disregarded. In my opinion, most of the mining claims filed around Nome are invalid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the Swedes that supposedly discovered the gold and filed claims on all these gold-bearing creeks in their own names as well as those of their friends and families are not American citizens. They’re foreigners and therefore not eligible to locate mining claims on American soil. As I have told many of the American miners here, it is my belief that these aliens have no right to the gold here. The land and its minerals belong to Americans.”

  “How very interesting,” Glory murmured. “Are you married, Mr. Blackwood?”

  “Gracious no,” he answered quickly, startled by her question. Then he assumed an expression of deep regret. “I am a widower. My wife died many years ago. A beautiful woman she was, of Russian descent. God rest her soul.” The words sounded rehearsed to Glory, with no feeling behind them. She wondered if he even knew her mother was dead. “Why do you ask?” He frowned.

  “I wondered if you would dine with Mr. Cole and myself this evening. From what you have said, there is much we need to know about our new town and many matters on which we’ll need your advice. Since we have only just arrived and aren’t familiar with the dining facilities in Nome, perhaps you would be kind enough to select a place.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Good. We will meet you here at seven.” With a half-turn, she smiled at the saloon’s proprietor as he rolled the cigar in his mouth. “Mr. Colby has graciously offered us accommodations here.” She glanced at Deacon. His features were too well schooled to show any expression, yet she knew he questioned her actions and her interest in Gabe Blackwood, but she had no intention of enlightening him. “I will want to change for dinner, Deacon.
Perhaps we should return to the beach and make arrangements to have our trunks transported here to the saloon.”

  “Perhaps we should.” His tone indicated a concession to her wishes rather than an endorsement of them.

  She faced Gabe Blackwood again. “Until seven, then, Mr. Blackwood?” She gave him her hand.

  “Seven.” He continued to hold her hand as he stared at her with a vague look of puzzlement. “Have we met before, Miss St. Clair? I have the feeling I’ve seen you somewhere.”

  She experienced a little rush of satisfaction. “If you’ve ever been in Skagway, it’s possible you’ve seen me, but I’m sure we haven’t met before, Mr. Blackwood. I would have remembered you.” She withdrew her hand from his grasp and turned, setting her drink on top of a wooden keg. “Gentlemen.” She nodded to both men, then took Deacon’s arm and walked at his side to the tent flap.

  Everyone watched her leave, including Ryan and Gabe. At the bar, several men gulped down their drinks and hurried after her, not wanting to let her out of their sight.

  Ryan lowered his cigar, smiling wryly. “There goes my business. Not that I blame them. She’s quite a beauty.”

  “She looks so familiar to me,” Gabe murmured as if thinking out loud. “It’s something in the way she holds her head … or carries herself like—”

  “—like a princess.” Ryan missed the startled look Gabe threw at him. “As prostitutes go, I suppose she is a queen of sorts. One thing I do know, though, when the gamblers and whores arrive, that’s a sure sign this place is going to prosper.”

  He glanced at the man he’d journeyed to Alaska with so many years ago and absently wondered why a woman like Glory St. Clair had been so captivated by Gabe Blackwood, practically hanging on his every word. He had to concede that neither age nor alcohol had dulled the glibness of Blackwood’s tongue. He could still fire a man’s sense of injustice with his oratories.