A Tyranny of Petticoats

by Jessica Spotswood

  “We need to be on the lookout,” murmurs Clara, setting the empty tray on the bar.

  “What for?” I fiddle with the weigh-scale, and my fingertips come away glistening with gold dust, the second currency of Alaska. Sure, we prefer old-fashioned paper dollars, but with so many big spenders wandering around with pokes of gold dust looped through their belts, half our profits are weighed out in ounces.

  “There’s a new con man in town. Name’s Soapy Smith.”

  “‘Soapy’? That doesn’t sound so dangerous to me.”

  “He was here for a spell last fall, running shell games and card scams out on the trails. Left at the start of winter. But now he’s back,” says Clara. “Apparently he’s greedy, ruthless, violent, and completely amoral.”

  “I sure hope,” interrupts a silky male voice, “your sources also mentioned my considerable charm.”

  Clara spins around. The speaker stands just behind her, a man with a thick black beard that hides his mouth and threatens his cheekbones. He has two friends with him, one at each elbow.

  Fear twists my gut. The trio has been sitting near the bar this whole time, quietly drinking spruce beer. I’d written them off as cheechakos in their stiff boots, new coats, and inadequate gloves. We see hundreds like them stumble into town each week, fresh from the Outside, their pockets stuffed with cash and their heads with cotton wool. They roll into our saloon, certain that they’re just a couple weeks away from striking it rich, and celebrate in advance.

  But if what Clara said was true, these three are entirely different.

  “Evening, ladies,” says Soapy, tilting his hat to each of us. “Jefferson Randolph Smith the Second, at your service, although I hope you’ll call me Jeff.” He speaks with a soft southern lilt. “I believe I heard you introduce yourselves as Miss Clara Garrett and Miss Lily Garrett?”

  We nod.

  “Well, on my way up to Skaguay, I heard the rumors about a pair of heartbreakingly beautiful sisters running the most elegant drinking establishment in Alaska. But I confess, the story sounded too good to be true.” The beard stretches sideways, and I realize that he is smiling. “And yet here I am, pinching myself repeatedly to wake from this dazzling dream, and it all seems just as true as true. I’ll bet you can pick up gold nuggets the size of walnuts along the side of the road, too.”

  He’s laying it on way too thick. For one thing, Garrett’s Saloon is far from “elegant.” It’s nice for Skaguay, but that’s only because it’s built of wood, while most of the town is still a row of canvas tents. Furthermore, while Clara is indeed “heartbreakingly beautiful,” I am not. Honey and vinegar, etc.

  Soapy must see the glint in my eye, because he hurries on. “It’s a real pleasure to meet young ladies with so much courage and business sense. Why, neither of you can be a day over eighteen, and here you are, running a thriving saloon, in the wildest frontier on earth.”

  “What brings you to Skaguay, Mr. Smith?” Clara’s arm vibrates against mine and I can feel her thinking at me: Honey, not vinegar.

  The beard ripples again. “Why, business, of course. Just like you two little ladies.”

  I despise coyness in both women and men. “And what kind of business is that?”

  “Well, I have very diverse interests, but certainly one of them is drinking saloons, dance halls, and such.”

  Clara’s lips curve, but her smile stops short of her eyes. “There’s plenty of room in town for another bar or three. And we won’t be competing with any dance halls. My sister and I sell beer and spirits, and nothing else.”

  Soapy smirks at that. “And you’re doing a roaring trade. I believe that’s all down to you as the main attraction, Miss Clara.” His gaze flickers to me. “Not forgetting you, of course, Miss Lily.”

  I forget all about honey. “I’d rather you were honest than polite, Mr. Smith.”

  He grins even wider. “A girl after my own heart.”

  “No, thanks. I’d rather have your wallet.”

  Clara elbows me, hard, but Soapy only chuckles. “In that case, Miss Lily, I’ll put my proposition to you. You and your lovely sister already know it’s a dog’s life, running a saloon in a lawless town like Skaguay. Uncle Sam’s two hundred miles away in Sitka; might as well be two thousand miles, for all practical purposes. Sometime soon, you and Miss Clara’ll need a business partner who can really crack the whip.” His gaze falls to the bullwhip coiled at my waist. “You can keep order among a handful of harmless drunks, I’m sure, but what about the nasty ones? The ones whose pistols are loaded and who aren’t scared to use them?

  “No,” he continues, “you need me. I’ve owned a string of successful saloons and dance halls all through Colorado, and I’m real good friends with the marshal. With me as your business partner, there’ll be no delays in shipments of liquor, no fuss over paperwork, no hassle with the law. I’ll take care of it all.”

  I start to object, but he barrels on. “You’re also not making as much money as you should, with this sturdy wood building. Bet it cost thousands to build, what with the price of lumber and labor up here. And how much are you taking in every night?”

  We stay silent.

  After a moment, he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll double your bar takings and triple your overall profits. I’ll knock out this back wall and build a stage for dancers and musicians, and add a cook shack outside. No customer will ever need to leave . . . till he runs out of money, anyway. Garrett’s Saloon’ll be the finest entertainment emporium in . . .” He gestures widely, made breathless by his own vision.

  “Skaguay?” suggests Clara. “It already is, Mr. Smith. Now, my sister and I appreciate your creativity and willingness to lend a hand, but we like our business the way it is. I’m sure your saloon will be a booming success too. Once you’ve built it.” There’s a faint hardness to her tone that tells me how riled she is, but her expression is as smooth as ever. “Now, would you like another round of drinks, or will you be on your way?”

  I scan the room. It is silent, with all attention on us. When I glance back at Soapy, I almost choke on my own breath.

  His eyes are hard and beady, his neck flushed red. The charming facade is gone, like someone smashed out a window. “Miss Clara, I don’t believe you girls understand me properly. I meant what I said.”

  I curl my fingers around the handle of my bullwhip, although he’s too close for me to use it on him. “So do we, Mr. Smith.”

  He bares his teeth in a grimace that is technically a smile and puts his hand to his hip. There, half visible inside his coat, I see the curve of a handle, the gleam of a polished steel barrel. My stomach rolls and I glance toward Soapy’s friends. They face us, arms akimbo, the better to give us a glimpse of their own pistols. I swallow hard and think of the threats embedded in Soapy’s previous speech: the marshal snug in his pocket, the government hundreds of miles away, nasty drunks with loaded guns.

  Clara glances toward the end of the bar, where our rifle hangs concealed. I take her arm firmly. She’ll never reach and load a firearm before these three can draw theirs.

  Soapy looks at me with a flicker of approval. “Good girl,” he says, a portion of his southern polish restored. “No beauty, but at least you’ve got a brain. Now, I’ve given you my pitch. You’ll both stay and work the bar.” He eyes Clara. “Unless you want to try dancing.” Her expression should disembowel him, but he only shrugs. “Suit yourself. You work the bar, Miss Lily will manage dancers and musicians, and I’ll organize everything else. Deal?”

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Not yet. What’s the split?”

  He actually winks at me. “I do believe I like you, Miss Lily. Eighty-twenty is what I’ll do for you, if you’ll shake my hand here and now.”

  That doesn’t sound so terrible, if we can just set aside the threats, the guns, and the sick fear I feel in his presence. “Eighty percent . . . for us?”

  His mirth is sudden, immense, and genuine. When he can stand straight again, he mops the
tears from his cheeks and beard, and even his henchmen are snickering. “Did I say you had brains? It’s eighty for me, you numskull. And that’s only tonight. You can sleep on the decision, but it’ll cost you. Tomorrow’s split is ninety-ten. And the day after that, this here saloon is mine.” He looks around, taking in the polished oak bar, the bright oil lanterns. “I think I’ll call it Jeff Smith’s Parlor.”

  I hate his greasy condescension, but that’s not why my skin feels aflame, my throat strangled. I stare at him for a long minute. At last, I manage to croak, “This is flat-out extortion.”

  Smith beams at me. “Welcome to Skaguay, m’dear.”

  “I’d rather burn it to the ground than hand it over to that bastard,” Clara snarls, slamming down the last tray of whiskey glasses.

  It’s four o’clock in the morning and we are finishing the dishes. The ones Clara hasn’t broken, anyway. “I know,” I say. “But we can’t burn down just one building; the whole town would go up in flames in about ten minutes. We’d destroy everyone’s future.”

  “So what? They’re all hiding under their beds while that festering scab of a cheechako destroys our lives.”

  It’s true. Smith and his henchmen left soon after his ultimatum. While I took care of the bar, Clara slipped out to talk with other Skaguay business owners. It seems there’s a lot to know about our would-be associate, none of it good. He was a street-corner flimflam man turned card shark. He earned the nickname “Soapy” for his most famous racket, in which he auctioned off bars of soap. His many saloons and gambling dens in Colorado were the perfect fronts for his cons, all of which involved stealing from unsuspecting marks.

  With so much gold dust flying around the Klondike, and thousands of feverish tenderfeet stampeding their way up here, it’s no wonder Soapy reckons he can strike it rich too. He doesn’t need to pan for gold; he can steal it right out of everyone else’s pockets. And it’s no mystery why he’s chosen Garrett’s Saloon as his first target either. We are young. We are women. If I were Soapy, I’d have picked on us too.

  Clara twirls the front-door key around her finger. “What do you say, Lil? I’m all for dousing the place in kerosene and lighting a bonfire so big they’ll see it in Canada. Then I’ll bury this key in a dog turd and leave it at Soapy’s door.”

  I’ve never seen my sister like this. Then again, we’ve never faced this kind of threat. Lu Garrett didn’t have a rule for dealing with brazen extortion. “Where would that leave us, Clary? Homeless and destitute.”

  “Not destitute: we have our savings. We’ll get the first boat to Seattle tomorrow morning.”

  “D’you really think Soapy would wave us off from the dock after we destroyed the saloon? From his perspective, we’d have burned down his property. How many hoodlums does he have? Do you think we’d even make it on board?” I shiver. “I don’t think he’d be merciful just because we’re young women.”

  She goes very still. “The opposite, I think.”

  “Yes. He’d make an example of us, to whip everyone else into line.”

  “We could give him the slip, head north over the White Pass.”

  I raise one eyebrow. Locals know that the nearest trail to the Yukon is, well, impassable. Even now in midwinter, when the ground is solid ice instead of boggy mud, the route is narrow, treacherous, and putrid with the half-rotted corpses of hundreds of starved and overworked horses abandoned by their owners. Only the greedy and stupid attempt the White Pass. They try by the hundreds each week.

  Clara’s eyes are wide, her face milky pale. After a long pause, she whispers, “Then we’re trapped. We have to agree to his terms.”

  “The others won’t stand with us against Soapy? If we all worked together, we could run him out of town.”

  “I went everywhere. ‘Every man for himself,’ they said. Others told me to take Soapy’s offer and be grateful.” Her lip curls. “Most of them couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

  “You think he bribed them to say that?”

  “He doesn’t need to; they’re terrified of him. Madame Robillard says he’s got spies all over town, fingers in every pie. The neighbors are just grateful he’s after us, not them.”

  “What did they say at Clancy’s?” The Clancy brothers own the second-most-popular saloon in Skaguay. They have always resented our success.

  “Pat Clancy laughed and said girls had no business running a saloon anyway.”

  I hesitate. “Soapy’s offering us ten percent of the profits. That’s only twenty dollars a night. Maybe forty if he doubles our takings, like he said.” That’s a lot more than pocket change anywhere else in America, but Alaska is different. Sometimes an egg costs a dollar.

  Clara nods. “And what happens when Soapy reneges on his offer and kicks us out? That’s just a matter of time.” Her eyes are dazzling with unshed tears. “We’ve already lost, Lil. The saloon is gone.”

  When confronted with an abstract threat, it’s easy to roar, Over my dead body. But this threat is real. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever faced — more real than frostbite in January, more real than the stink of hops and tree sap as I brew beer, more real than the transcendent glory of the northern lights. And I can’t think of a single argument in our favor.

  I fill a pot with water and set it on the woodstove. I carefully grind the last of our coffee beans. Normally, I’m stingy with the coffee, trying to eke it out until the next boatload of supplies comes to town. But tonight we’ll enjoy it while we can. We sit at a small table, side by side, steaming mugs in our hands.

  “What are you thinking?” asks Clara quietly.

  “All kinds of things.” My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear her. My brain is equally frantic.

  “I love you, Lily Garrett,” she says, her voice tight. “And I love being alive. I want us to stay this way.”

  I grip her in a fierce hug. “I love you too. And we will live. If Lu were here, she’d make a new rule: we don’t buckle under to cheechakos named Soapy.”

  Clara makes a sound that is half laugh, half sob. “Promise?”

  “I promise.” We hug for a long time, and then we straighten up. We sip our coffee. “I think you’re right: we’re going to lose the saloon. But we’re going to leave it on our terms.”

  Finding Soapy is easy. Next day — or rather, later the same day — I walk down Broadway to Skaguay’s least-squalid hotel and ask for Mr. Smith. The hotel’s owner, Mrs. Braun, doesn’t blink, but I know the gossip will be halfway around town almost before I finish my sentence. “Mr. Smith, yes,” she clucks. “You sit in the breakfast room, dear. I’ll fetch him for you.”

  The “breakfast room” is a medium-sized tent pegged to the main building, furnished with a few rickety tables and stools. Its kerosene stove is no match for the piercing breeze that leaks in under its canvas hem, and hungry guests shiver in their overcoats as they gobble congealing bacon and stiff toast. Not me: I have my nerves to keep me warm.

  In a few minutes, Soapy materializes. “A good morning to you, Miss Lily. I hope you slept well; I know I certainly did.”

  I don’t bother with a greeting. “I have a counterproposal for you, Mr. Smith.”

  He glances around before sitting down. I notice two hoods place themselves at the next table, their attention clearly fixed on us. “May I offer you some refreshment?” Soapy asks. “The coffee’s never hot, but it’s better than the tea.”

  “No, thanks. This is purely a business call.” I’m pleased to find that my voice barely shakes.

  “I’m keen to hear it.”

  “I’d like to propose a short-term partnership. My sister and I will offer you a fifty-fifty share of the saloon’s nightly profits for the next month.” I take a deep breath. This next sentence will hurt. “After that, we will turn over the business to you — and leave town.”

  Soapy smiles flirtatiously. “Just like that? Why a month?”

  If I try to smile back, I’ll cry. “We don’t have any savings. A month will allow us to b
uild up a cash reserve. It’ll pay for our tickets out of town and help us set up a new business in our next home.”

  “Where do you plan to go?”

  “That’s not your concern, Mr. Smith. I promise we’ll leave Skaguay.”

  He thinks about that. “How much does the saloon take each night?”

  “About two hundred dollars, on average.”

  He whistles low. “And you want an extra month? At fifty-fifty, that’s three thousand dollars in your greedy little purses.”

  I don’t point out the utter hypocrisy of his lecturing me about greed. “Like I said, that’s our journey out and capital for the future.”

  He glances toward his men at the next table. “I should say no. Why would I settle for a measly half when I’ll be getting ninety percent from you tonight anyway?”

  “You might not,” I reply, and the anger in my voice surprises even me. I hold his startled gaze and do not blink. “You have no idea what we are capable of, Mr. Smith, if pushed too far.”

  There is a long silence. I sit completely still and continue to stare at him, and he at me. It’s fifteen degrees outside, and I am sweating from neck to knee. Eventually, he forces a chuckle and says, “Well, then. Fifty-fifty, and you’ll hand over the deed?”

  “Deed, keys, and contents. There’s even a barrel of genuine French brandy in the storeroom.”

  He shrugs. “I always was a tenderhearted fool. One week of fifty-fifty, Miss Lily.”

  “Two weeks. That’s my final offer.”

  A conniving smirk slides across his face. It’s gone a moment later, but I know what I’ve seen. “You’re a hard bargainer for a little girl. After the two weeks is up, maybe you’ll consent to join my business.”

  “Do we have a deal, Mr. Smith?”

  “Two weeks, you said?” he asks, dodging the question.

  We shake on it. His hand is corpse cold. As I leave the hotel, I scrub my right palm against the rough wool of my overskirt until it’s raw.