Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ assistants. Highly trusted, I believe, in the sense that Mr. Smith and characters of his ilk trust anyone.”

      “Why’s he in Dawson?”

      Angus and Fiona exchanged glances.

      “I have no idea,” she said.

      “He told me he has a plan,” Angus said. “He said he’s having dinner with you tonight, Mother. Is that right?”

      If Fiona hadn’t been a well brought up English gentlewoman, Sterling thought she might have spit on the floor. Instead, she sniffed. “Hardly. Whatever delusions Mr. Sheridan continues to maintain about me are neither here nor there.” She rose in one long, liquid motion.

      Sterling leapt to his feet, knocking his right knee against the underside of the desk. He stifled a groan. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

      “It is no more than my duty,” she replied. He wasn’t quite sure, but he might have seen a spark of mischief in the black depths of her eyes.

      “Before you go, can you give me a description of this person?”

      “Angus will see to that. The boy’s powers of observation are quite astute.”

      Angus preened.

      “He didn’t say anything to you about why he’s in Dawson?”

      She smiled. “No. Ray Walker and Mr. Sheridan did not part on the best of terms. Ray escorted him to the door quite unceremoniously. Good day, Corporal. Angus.”

      They watched her leave and close the door to Sterling’s office silently behind her. Then they heard the street door opening with a clatter that might have had it falling from its ill-fastened hinges, such was the young constable’s haste to assist her.

      Sterling took his hat down from the shelf. “You say this man’s high up in Smith’s organization?”

      “Not that Soapy has an organization as such,” Angus said. “I mean with ranks and all. Just a bunch of men who do what he tells them. But yeah, Mr. Sheridan is pretty close to Soapy.”

      “The last thing we want is Soapy Smith and his gang trying to cross into Canada.” The NWMP kept a Maxim machine gun at the border crossing at the top of the Chilkoot Trail, expressly for the purpose of keeping out Jefferson Randolph Smith, aka Soapy, the gangster who controlled Skagway, Alaska. “I’m going to the Fort to report this. Tell me about it on the way. First, how do you know so much about Smith and his doings?”

      “Soapy wanted my ma to be his business partner,” Angus said.

      Sterling stopped dead. “Your mother ... and Soapy Smith.” He shook his head. “Your mother really is the most interesting woman. This Sheridan, do you think Smith sent him to talk to her about doing business in Dawson?”

      “No. He just wants to marry her.”

      Chapter Four

      I was rather pleased with my performance. If Angus hadn’t been there, I would have told Corporal Sterling all I knew about Paul Sheridan. But Angus could do the job just as well. Of late, I had been beginning to suspect that Richard Sterling was becoming ... fond of me.

      How I felt about him, I was not entirely certain.

      Nevertheless, it is always a good idea to leave them wanting more.

      Regardless of any feelings toward the handsome corporal that I might or might not entertain, I most definitely was not in Dawson to find a man. This gold rush wasn’t going to last forever: some who were in a position to know privately said there wasn’t really all that much gold. I intended to make my money and get Angus and me out in a year or two. I did not need complications.

      Men are always complicated.

      So far I was enjoying living in Dawson. Most of the time. Last winter had been highly unpleasant, as the town slowly began to starve and some unfortunate souls succumbed to frost bite and scurvy. But now that the authorities were insisting that anyone coming into the territory from the Outside have enough food to last them a year, the winter ahead should be easier.

      Unfortunately, the police could do nothing about the mud that coated everything, the perfectly dreadful food, and the shortage of accommodations that had Angus and me crowded into three rooms in Mr. and Mrs. Mann’s boarding house. I didn’t even have a lady’s maid, such a creature being rare in the Yukon.

      “Yoo hoo.” I looked up to see a woman on the other side of the street, waving at me.

      I gave her a genuine smile and waved back. It had rained last night and the street was thick with muck. She ploughed across, dragging her skirts behind her.

      “Martha,” I said, “lovely to see you. How nice you look.”

      And she did. She was large and plain and formidable of feature, but her cheeks were pink with pleasure and her eyes glowed with new love.

      It might almost be enough to make a romantic out of me.

      Martha Witherspoon and Reginald O’Brien, whom everyone called Mouse, had fallen head over heels in love almost from the moment of meeting. Martha had come to the Yukon intending to write a factual account of the gold rush. She still clutched her ever-present notebook, but rather than interviewing miners and dance-hall girls, she now intended to produce a volume of tips and hints to assist family women heading north. Considering that her writing talent was practically non-existent, a shopping list of necessary items was more suited to her skills than breathless prose.

      I slipped my arm through hers and we continued walking. She chattered happily on about all the things she planned to buy for her new home when she and Mouse set up housekeeping.

      We parted outside the Savoy. At this time of morning, the place was somewhat less hair-raisingly frantic than in the evening. Our doors opened at 10 a.m., and a crush of drinkers, gamblers, and general layabouts could then be guaranteed to pass through the hallowed portals.

      It was my custom to go home at 6 a.m., when we closed, get a few hours sleep, and come in to do the accounts in the quiet of the late morning, take our loot ... uh money ... to the bank and then head home for a bit more sleep.

      Helen Saunderson, maid of all work, was on her knees in the corner by the water barrel, scrubbing at the floor. She looked up as I entered and I made a gesture of lifting a cup to my mouth. Murray was behind the bar, managing not to look too dreadfully bored at some old sourdough’s ravings of a valley, sacred to the Indians, warmed by hot springs, full of riches beyond imagining. Never to be found by the white man.

      Better, I thought, than having to listen to the thousandth telling of the tale of the discovery of gold on Bonanza Creek. I climbed the rickety stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door to my office, unpinned my hat and placed it on a table, settled myself behind my desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out my accounts ledger. I checked the bottom-most number.

      Highly satisfactory.

      Footsteps coming up the stairs, moving down the hall. My friend Graham Donohue popped his head in.

      “What’s this I hear about Soapy Smith’s gang being in town?” He failed to offer me greetings.

      “Not СКАЧАТЬ