Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany

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      “A buck fifty?” Sheridan said. “What, doesn’t it work?”

      “You can’t use it,” Angus said. “Mounties’ll confiscate it if you have it in town.”

      “Not planning to stay in town.”

      “Can’t take it to the Creeks either.”

      “Not planning to go to the Creeks. Didn’t I tell you, Angus, man’s a fool who goes where every other man goes. Gotta strike out on your own. I’ll take it. And a box of cartridges.”

      Mr. Mann looked to Angus for an explanation.

      “Cartridges, bullets.” Angus mimed loading the weapon.

      Mr. Mann shook his head. “You wants gun? Is one dollar, fifty cents.”

      “What the hell? Rifle ain’t much use without cartridges. Damn strange town you have here. Does anyone else sell ammunition?”

      Angus shrugged. “You can ask.”

      “I’ll do that.” Sheridan handed a tattered American dollar bill and a couple of coins to Mr. Mann, who tucked them away in the small apron he wore around his waist for just that purpose. “Your ma will probably tell you about our plans later tonight. I think you’ll be pleased.”

      Sheridan gave Angus a wink and walked away, head and shoulders bobbing above the crowd, Winchester balanced on his hip.

      “I have to go to the police,” Angus said.

      Mr. Mann’s eyes quickly travelled across over the jumble of items on the counter, searching for something missing. He knew the location and value of everything on display, as well as all the boxes, bags, and loose items stacked under the counter, against the length of canvas that was the back wall, and piled in the tent warehouse.

      Finding nothing missing, he said, “Why?”

      “That man. Nothing but trouble.”

      “Wees wants no trouble here. Yous go to seh police.”

      Angus came out from behind the counter and took off at a run, heading into town.

      Chapter Three

      Corporal Richard Sterling of the North-West Mounted Police put his feet up on his desk and leaned back with a contented sigh. He puffed at his pipe — a rare indulgence in the middle of a working shift. At about 30,000 people, almost all of whom had arrived in the last two months, the town of Dawson was growing fast. The powers-that-be had decided that, in addition to Fort Herchmer, they needed an office in town, and they set it up in a small building on Queen Street at the corner of Second Avenue. Nice and close to the cribs in Paradise Alley and the bars and dance halls along Front Street.

      Richard Sterling had a staff of four constables, and one special constable to cook, clean, and generally run errands. Life was looking up. He had been a sergeant, once, but was busted down to constable, lucky to still have a job, after punching out an officer. He’d been one of the first Mounties in the Yukon, sent to Forty Mile with Superintendent Constantine in the summer of ’95 when the government in Ottawa, in its wisdom, extended the forces of law and order to the untamed, largely unpopulated territory. It was a tough place to live and work, but he loved it. It beat working on the farm in the Carrot River Valley in Saskatchewan, where he’d grown up.

      The office walls were thin, the wood full of cracks. He heard the front door open and a boy’s high voice greet the constable out front. Sterling dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed a piece of paper off the desk. He was reading an official report when he heard a knock on his door. He hesitated for a moment, before calling, “Come in.”

      As expected, it was young Angus MacGillivray. Angus had hopes of being a Mountie some day and hung around the station — and Richard Sterling — to a point just short of annoying. But he was a good lad, smart and principled.

      It didn’t hurt that the boy’s mother was Fiona MacGillivray, who ... Sterling coughed and sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

      “What brings you here, Angus? Quiet down at the store today?”

      “No, sir. We’re really busy. I’m here on police business. You need to know ...”

      They heard the street door open again. Fabric rustled and sharp heels sounded on the wooden floor. The scent of good soap and light perfume drifted in. Sterling jumped to his feet as a woman’s soft voice asked the constable for Mr. Sterling.

      “Mother,” Angus said, “what are you doing here?”

      “Angus,” Fiona said, her head popping around the corner, “what are you doing here?”

      They both spoke at once. “Someone you should know about ...” Angus said. “Man in town ...” Fiona said.

      Sterling held up one hand. “Mrs. MacGillivray, please have a seat.”

      She smiled at him and sat, arranging her skirts around her. She wore a two-piece white day dress that almost took his breath away. White was a highly impractical colour in Dawson, where mills worked night and day producing lumber for the fast-growing town, and the sawdust covered everything. What’s more, even the smallest rain shower turned the streets into rivers of mud. Yet somehow Fiona had managed to keep the hem of her dress immaculately clean. Unlike a lot of women, Fiona MacGillivray wasn’t adverse to pulling up her skirts and tucking them into her belt to wade across the street. Sterling shoved aside an image of shapely ankles encased in high-heeled, buttoned boots.

      She straightened her already perfectly straight hat. “A most unsavoury person of my acquaintance came into the Savoy last night,” she began.

      “Paul Sheridan,” Angus interrupted.

      “You’ve seen him?”

      “He was down at Bowery Street this morning. Stopped at the store and said hello.”

      “Plenty of unsavoury persons in town,” Sterling said. “What makes this fellow of interest?”

      “Soapy Smith,” Angus and Fiona chorused.

      “What?”

      “Sheridan is ...”

      “Soapy must have ...”

      “Hold on. Only one of you talk at once. Mrs. MacGillivray, what does this Sheridan fellow have to do with Smith?”

      Fiona took a deep breath. Underneath the white fabric, her bosom moved. Sterling tried not to think about that and instead to concentrate on the matter at hand.

      “On our way to the Yukon, Angus and I passed through Skagway. Our passage was most speedy, I might add, once I understood the situation in town. Mr. Paul Sheridan is, to put it simply, one of Soapy Smith’s gang.”

      “More than just one of the gang, he’s like a lieutenant or something.”

      “Angus, I believe Corporal Sterling has requested I tell this story.”

      “Sorry, Ma. I mean, Mother.”

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