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СКАЧАТЬ Or nerve. Sterling stood behind Jones. The dealer’s eyes flickered, but he said nothing.

      Jones had a good hand—three tens. Good but not great. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. Mouse looked up from his cards and spoke to one of the men watching. “Get me a drink, will you, friend. I can’t leave the table right now. I’ll make it worth your while.”

      Jones folded. The edges of Mouse’s lips turned up as he raked in the pot. Sterling would have bet a month’s wages that the big man’s hand had been garbage.

      “I’m finished.” Jones got up from the table, moving heavily. “Holy Christ, I’m wiped out.”

      “Language, Johnny,” Sterling cautioned.

      Jones threw him an ugly look. Sterling braced for a confrontation. It wouldn’t be the first time a heavy loser had looked for someone on whom to take out his anger.

      “Good game, Mr. Jones,” Mouse said, as he checked his gold pocket watch. “Thank you for the sport, and let me offer you this.” Mouse held a small gold nugget between his fingers. “Get yourself in another game.” Jones considered the offer, pride struggling with greed. He snatched the gold and headed for the faro table.

      “That wasn’t necessary, Mouse,” Sterling said. “He wouldn’t have taken me on.”

      Mouse shrugged his shoulders, like glacier ice shifting on the mountains. “Boy can’t play worth a damn…doggone… but he can’t give it up either. A man’s gotta feel sorry for him. Game’s over, boys. Time for my favourite lady to give me a song.” The giant gathered up his winnings and lumbered into the dance hall.

      Sterling followed as Ruby’s thin, quaking voice struggled to the end of its song.

      Like all the dance halls in Dawson, the one in the Savoy was considerably less than advertised. The tiny stage had been roughly carved out of green wood by workers who didn’t know or care what they were doing, and in a big hurry to get it done and move on to the next job. There were no windows, and the kerosene lamps smoked badly, but no one ever complained. Complaining in Dawson never got a man any further than out the door.

      Flags—crossed Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes—had been draped above the stage and used to decorate the private boxes on the second story. Below the boxes, rows of uncomfortable benches, filled with cheering, stomping miners, surrounded the stage in a horseshoe pattern. The room was tightly packed with sweating bodies and clothes gone too long without a wash; cheap lamp oil and dancers’ cologne mingled with the generously applied scent of the toffs and the stink of the labourers. Over it all lay the smell of male anticipation and scarcely restrained excitement.

      Ruby’s voice was nothing short of terrible, and the song she sang sickeningly sentimental, but some of the older men wiped away a tear or two as she dragged out the last, painful note.

      The audience applauded wildly as Ruby curtsied, allowing the front of her low cut gown to hang temptingly open, and departed the stage. The men shifted in their chairs, sat just a bit straighter and whispered to their neighbours. Fiona MacGillivray stood at the back of the room, close to the wall. She had wiped most of the mud off her dress and her arm was bound in a sling of purest white cotton. Her thick black hair was pinned into a storm cloud behind her head, but stray tendrils caressed her temple and the back of her neck. Her dark eyes never stopped moving across the room.

      Ray Walker stood beside Fiona, but unlike hers, his eyes were still, fixed directly on the stage. He could afford to take a break: at the climax of the stage show, the bar would be quiet for a few minutes.

      A hush fell over the shabby room, lasting only as long as it took for a heart to give one beat. The orchestra held their instruments still, and the audience—grizzled old miners, tender-footed gold-seekers, hard-hearted gamblers, ruthless businessmen, Indian fighters with nowhere left to go, and one Scottish bartender—held their collective breath.

      Irene stepped out from behind the curtain. Her gown, trimmed with fake jewels and sequins and tattered feathers, wouldn’t stand a close look, but no one was close enough, or concerned enough, to give it a thorough inspection. She held her arms out in front of her and began to sing. Her voice sounded rich and pure, and she sang the song from the depths of her heart while the orchestra struggled to keep up. Light from the kerosene lamps flickered across her face and cast her sharp cheekbones into high relief. Grizzled old miners listened to her with their hands held to their hearts and tears falling down their faces into their beards. Mouse O’Brien held a snowy white handkerchief to his eyes.

      Irene’s song finished, and she curtsied to the audience as softy as an ostrich feather drifting to the floor. The men went wild, cheering and stomping their feet. Gold nuggets flew through the air. Irene gathered them up with a gracious smile, her eyes judging the worth of every one as she did so.

      “Gentleman.” The caller crossed the stage once Irene had gathered her loot and departed. “Time to take your partners for a long, dreamy, juicy waltz.”

      The benches were pushed to the sides of the room and men rushed forward, clutching the tickets that they’d bought for one dollar each. They thrust their ticket at a girl, the orchestra struck up, and the lucky men took their partner through a few hurried dance steps. Exactly one minute later, the music stopped, mid-note, as the onedollar dance came to an end. The girls dragged their man off to the bar so he could have the opportunity to buy a drink, whether he wanted one or not. The bartender then handed the girl a disk that she’d trade at the end of the night for her twenty-five cent share of the profits. The girls stuck their disks into the top of their stockings. This would carry on until six o’clock in the morning. By then, the more popular girls could scarcely walk for the weight encumbering their legs.

      When Irene stepped onto the dance floor, her smile bright and her arms held out to her sides in invitation, a rush of men threatened to sweep her away.

      “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” Fiona moved graciously through the crowd. “Behave yourselves. The night has only just begun. There’s plenty of time for everyone to enjoy a dance.”

      Respectfully, the men stood back. Too bad, Sterling thought, women couldn’t join the NWMP: with Fiona MacGillivray on the force, no one would dare to put a foot out of place. He pushed aside the picture of thick black hair tucked into the pointed hat and lush curves straining the seams of the red coat.

      Irene favoured Jack Ireland with a gracious nod and a flirtatious smile. The reporter slipped his arms around his prize’s ample form. She touched the back of his shoulders, and they moved into the dance.

      Ray Walker growled low in his throat. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the bar, Ray?”

      Fiona glared at him.

      Graham Donohue planted himself directly in front of the dancing couple.

      Ireland shifted Irene to guide her around the obstacle. Donohue stepped with them. They might have been a dancing trio. Ireland stopped. Irene twisted her head to see what was going on behind her. Fiona crossed the floor, pushing men and dance hall girls out of her way. One by one the couples on the floor drifted to a halt. The orchestra, knowing that no one was paying them any attention, stopped playing.

      “If you’ll excuse us, partner,” Ireland said, his common man accent back in place. “Lady Irenee and me are havin’ ourselves a dance.”

      “You’re in my territory, Ireland.” Donohue’s words were slurred. He leaned forward, trying to loom over the fractionally shorter older man. Ireland laughed СКАЧАТЬ