Gold Digger. Vicki Delany

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      The photographer arranged his equipment in preparation for another shot, and I twisted my head away. There is not much I love in this world more than having my photograph taken, but not when I resemble a camp follower.

      Sam looked up; his face was covered with soot, but his eyes blazed with all the strength of the inferno that had so recently devoured the bakery. “You bastard,” he mumbled at Ireland, so softly that no one but the San Francisco reporter and I heard him.

      Ireland stepped back, at a loss for words. His mouth flapped, the camera belched light and smoke, and Sam went into the Savoy.

      I followed. Despite all the excitement out on the street, several men remained at the bar, glasses in hand, and I could hear the roulette wheel spin and the croupier call out, “No more bets.” The whole town might burn down around them, but there were men who’d keep drinking and gambling until the whisky bottles exploded and the tables dissolved into ashes.

      Ray had kept his place behind the bar. The new bartender, I really should learn his name, strained to see out the door, and I guessed Ray had told him that if he left his post, he needn’t bother coming back. My partner took one look at Sam and me and poured two glasses of whisky, from the best bottle, almost to the rim.

      My mud-encrusted hand shook as I grabbed the glass. My left hand hurt. I might later regret pushing the overly attentive doctor aside. The liquor burned all the way down my throat. At last my head stopped spinning, my heart began to settle back into its regular rhythm, and I could think reasonably clearly once again.

      “Sam,” I said, “you need the doctor.” He shook his head and put his empty glass on the counter. Ray filled it.

      “I’m fine, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

      “I’ll pay,” I said, ignoring Ray’s stare of disbelief. “Let the doctor have a look at you.”

      Men were spilling into the bar, roaring with excitement, shouting Sam’s name. The story of his heroism was already growing in the telling. His hair and eyebrows were singed, and his eyes were red and full of water, but the skin on his face was still a healthy pink. I turned him around. His shirt was scorched across the shoulders, falling into tatters. “If you won’t see the doctor, you should at least get out of the way. You don’t want anyone touching that back.”

      Sam joined Ray behind the bar. Ray grinned. “Good work, Sam.”

      I jerked my head at a fresh-faced young man sitting in a chair near the bar. He scrambled out of it, and I climbed up, using my hand to keep my skirts tucked flat against my legs. Not a difficult feat: my clothes were so mud-soaked, it would have been an effort to lift the skirts high enough to display anything unseemly. I looked down at the crowd. Every eye watched me, hoping for a miracle. Ray’s face was carved into lines of worry, concerned as to what I was about to say.

      “Drinks are on the house,” I shouted. “For the next five minutes. In honour of Sam Collins, hero of the Klondike.”

      The men howled. Ray lifted his hands to his face. The crowd surged towards the bar, and men ran out of the gambling hall. Eager hands helped me down from the chair.

      The men closer to the door fell silent, and a path opened up, like the Red Sea before Moses. Instead of the people of Israel, Margaret Collins, Sam’s wife, and Angus MacGillivray walked into the saloon. Margaret was close to being the oldest woman in Dawson. At this moment she looked every one of her years and a good deal more besides. Her thick grey hair tumbled out of its pins, her face was as white as the snow on the mountaintops in January, and her eyes were full of fear. You could draw a map of Europe in the lines carved through the dry skin of her cheeks. She stumbled and leaned against my son, who was supporting her with one arm around her shoulders.

      When she saw Sam behind the counter, the light flooded back into her eyes. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. It was the only sound in the room. A few eager customers took advantage of the lull to push their way forward, but most of the men stood back respectfully. Many doffed their hats.

      “I’m all right, old gal,” Sam said.

      Margaret sagged, and Sam came around the bar to take her from Angus.

      “Take him home, Margaret,” I said in a low voice. “We’ll manage without him tonight. If he needs to see the doctor, which he should, I’ll pay.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Margaret Collins said, lifting her head straight. “We can afford the doctor.” Her diction was, as always, perfect.

      Light flashed in my eyes once again. When I could see properly, Sam had pushed Margaret aside. His fists were clenched and his face red, not from fire, but from anger. Jack Ireland was scribbling in his notebook. Sam grabbed the book out of the reporter’s hands. The photographer, a local man (which in Dawson meant he arrived before theday-before-yesterday), stepped back, using his body to shield the valuable camera.

      “What the hell’s the matter with you, old man?” Ireland shouted. “Never mind Dawson, I’ll make you famous down the entire west coast of the United States. They’ll be singing songs about you before I’m finished.” He snatched his notebook back. “Is this your lovely wife? Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Can you tell my readers how it feels to have a hero for a husband?”

      Margaret dipped her head slightly and smiled, but Sam only got angrier. “Don’t you dare speak to my wife, you bastard.” He grabbed at the notebook once more, but Ireland stuffed it into his pocket.

      “I can make you famous, you fool.”

      I didn’t much care for Jack Ireland, but he did seem only to be doing his job. “Mr. Ireland, Sam and Mrs. Collins need some time to reflect on all that’s happened here. If you’ll excuse them, I’m sure they’ll grant you an interview tomorrow.”

      Sam started to say something. Judging by the look on his face, it wouldn’t have been terribly polite.

      I raised my voice. “There’s only four minutes remaining of an open bar! Gentlemen, please allow our distinguished reporter from San Francisco and his friend with the camera to go first. There’s enough for everyone!”

      The men roared and surged forward. Sam and Margaret headed for the door, clinging to each other. My heart lifted as I watched them go, and for the briefest moment I wondered if I would ever find someone to care for, and who would care for me, in my old age.

      I grabbed my son’s arm and pulled him out of the crowd to the side of the room. I held him close. He stiffened at first, worried about what a roomful of cheechakos and sourdoughs might think to see a man being hugged by his mother, but then his lanky frame relaxed and he settled into my arms like the twelve-year-old boy he was.

      “Gee, Ma, Mother I mean, when I heard about the fire, I was worried. They said all Front Street was in flames.”

      “They say a lot of things, Angus. But it was terrifying for a while.”

      “They said Mr. Collins saved the life of the woman who works at the bakery.” He looked at me, taking in the untamed hair, the muddy dress, the way I protected my left arm. “Did you help him, Mother?”

      “Me? I didn’t do anything, I’m afraid. Save fall in the mud and make a dreadful mess.” I tucked a length of dangling hair behind my ear and realized that I’d lost my hat. “But what they say about Sam, that part is true. СКАЧАТЬ