Gold Fever. Vicki Delany

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СКАЧАТЬ Mary’s arm. Mr. Mann can carry her things.”

      Mr. Mann grabbed the bundle, and Angus slipped his arm through Mary’s with a shy smile. The little party started to move away, Sterling leading, followed by Angus and Mary, Mr. Mann and the bundle of meagre possessions bringing up the rear. The second tough slapped his fist rhythmically into the palm of his meaty hand. A small crowd had gathered at the end of the street. Curtains twitched in the windows of the nearby cribs.

      “You got something you want to say?” Sterling asked. The slapping stopped. The tough looked at his partner.

      “Mrs. LeBlanc believes that ladies can sort out their problems without going to court. She’s asking you not to leave, Mary, until she’s had a chance to talk to you. All nice and lady-like. Proper. If you still want to go, Mrs. LeBlanc’ll probably let you out of paying what you owe her, and off you can go. Now don’t that sound better than dealing with the redcoats and the white man’s courts?”

      Mary hesitated and looked up the street at the unsmiling woman standing alone. Sterling feared she was about to give in, to take her bundle from Mr. Mann, mumble goodbye to Angus, and return to her miserable dwelling and whatever despair had resulted in her wearing Fiona MacGillivray’s cast-offs.

      “I’d like to go with Angus,” Mary said. Her voice was soft, but it didn’t waver. She lifted her head and looked the man in the face. “Please, get out of our way, Mr. Black.”

      “You think your word will stand up in court against a white woman’s, Mary? You’re a fool.”

      “You’re full of nonsense,” Angus shouted. The boy had remained silent as long as he could. “Mary’s word’s as good as anyone’s in a proper Canadian court. Isn’t that right, Constable Sterling? And anyway,” he continued without waiting for an answer (the honesty of which Sterling would have been reluctant to affirm), “if Mary owes Mrs. Leblanc some money, she can pay it out of her wages without living here.”

      “I don’t want any trouble,” Mary said. “You’re free to come and go as you like without worrying if it causes some folks trouble or not,” Sterling said. “The North-West Mounted Police will see to that. Shall we go?”

      “Yes, sir,” she said. She lifted her head high and patted Angus’s hand.

      “You’ll regret it, stupid squaw,” Mr. Black said. His partner spat into the street, barely missing Mary’s feet.

      “Take Mary and Angus to the Savoy, Mr. Mann,” Sterling said. “I want a word with Mrs. Leblanc. I’ll make sure those two don’t follow you.”

      Joey LeBlanc remained on the other side of the street as she watched Angus, Mary, and Mr. Mann disappear around the corner. A flicker of anger moved behind her small black eyes before she recovered her composure and extinguished it. Her face returned to its customary empty expression. It was rumoured in this town of a thousand rumours that there had once been a Mr. Leblanc, but Joey had knifed him in St. Louis for doing irreparable damage to a piece of merchandise belonging to the family business, so to speak. Sterling questioned the veracity of the story but not that Joey was perfectly capable of it. He crossed the street while keeping one eye on the two toughs, although neither of them seemed inclined to follow Mary or indeed to have any idea of what to do now, without their boss issuing an order.

      “Lovely evening, Constable,” Joey LeBlanc said, gathering her shawl around her shoulders

      “It is, and I’m sure it’ll stay that way, Mrs. Leblanc, quiet and peaceful.”

      “That chit of a squaw ’as humiliated me in front of my employees and my customers.” Leblanc’s accent held strong memory of Montreal French. She spoke in an even tone, as if they were discussing the weather. “I don’t care for that.”

      “The North-West Mounted Police don’t give a damn what you care for, Mrs. LeBlanc. As long as you keep it to yourself.”

      “Really, Constable, such language. But perhaps that is why a promising, but not-so-young, fellow such as yourself remains only a constable?”

      The barb struck home, and Sterling could tell by the expression on the whore-mistress’s face that she knew it had.

      “You and your friends,” he glanced at the two hired toughs, “are to leave Mary alone.”

      “ Mais, monsieur, she owes me money.” LeBlanc shrugged and held out her arms. “What is a poor widow to do to get justice?”

      “Take it before a judge, madam. But if any harm comes to Mary, I’ll know where to come looking.”

      “’arm Mary? Who would do such a thing? A damaged whore is no good to me. She’ll return of ’er own free will, Monsieur Sterling. The world is a frightening place for a woman on ’er own.”

      “Perhaps,” Sterling said. He walked away without bothering to say goodbye. In his wake the street returned to life; whores opened the doors of their cribs and men crept out from alleys and side streets.

      * * *

      It was well after eight when I arrived at the Savoy. Most of the dance halls in Dawson are open twenty-four hours a day, six days a week. Even in the early hours of the morning or in the middle of the night—or what passes for night this far north in late June—the croupiers are spinning the tables and dealing cards and calling out their magic words, the bartenders are pouring rivers of liquor, and the dance hall girls are kicking up their heels for a dollar a dance and selling champagne by the wagon load. But at eight o’clock in the evening, something special settles over town as the musicians and callers come out onto Front Street, set themselves on the boardwalk, or in the middle of the street, and announce with much fanfare that the show is about to begin.

      Then they all troop back inside, hopefully followed by a crowd of eager cheechakos and sourdoughs, every one of them begging for the chance to spend their money.

      Tonight the stage at the Savoy was presenting scenes from the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare, a goodly number of heart-wrenching songs specially designed to have the lonely miners weeping in their dust-encrusted handkerchiefs, and a rather poor vaudeville act, which would have to do until I could find something better. At midnight the stage show ended, the percentage girls stepped forward to dance, and the performers changed their stage costumes for evening wear. The dancing would go on until six a.m., at which time the girls would cash in their drink tokens and stagger home.

      They were in the middle of the opening dance when I walked into the hall. I counted the girls in the row: all present and accounted for. They kicked up their heels and flashed their petticoats and the crowd roared in approval. Ellie stepped forward to begin her song. She was the oldest of my girls by far. Sometimes she struggled to keep up with the younger ones, particularly at the end of a long night. But the men liked her, and that was all that counted. Perhaps she reminded them of dead mothers and abandoned wives. She acted as a mother hen, looking out for the other girls, which relieved me of some of that chore.

      I stood at the back, inches away from the wall—it would never do to lean—and watched. Ellie finished her song, gave a deep curtsy in exchange for thunderous applause, and the dancers trooped out again. I made a mental note to tell the second girl from the left to give her petticoats a good wash before stepping onto my stage again. Chloe was so bad tonight that only nimble movement on the part of the dancer next to her avoided several collisions. Drunk, I suspected. In my dance hall, as in all the others, the girls were expected to accept drinks from the customers once the dancing began, and more than СКАЧАТЬ