At the Rainbow's End (2 page)

Again color rose in her cheeks. She wished she could control the blush which betrayed her, but it was impossible. What this man was intimating with his polite words would have offended her greatly before the beginning of her trip. Now, being labelled a potential dance hall girl or harlot bothered her most because of the intensity of his candid admiration.

Stepping backward, she said, “I came to Dawson to marry my fiancé, sir. I didn't come to work in such an establishment. Good day, sir.”

He nodded and tipped his hat again politely, unable to hide his disappointment. Clearly he believed that the few women who came to the Yukon should be shared.

Gwen called, saving her from further embarrassment, and she hurried to where her friend stood with her arm possessively around Mr. Munroe. He certainly did not fit the description in his letters, but Gwen did not seem upset by his falsehoods.

“I'm charmed, Miss Samantha Perry,” the plump man hastened to say. As he lisped her name, his smile asked her forgiveness.

“As I am, Mr. Munroe.” She meant her words. Already she hoped Gwen would decide to take her vows of marriage seriously. This man seemed overwhelmed by his good fortune.

Gwen bubbled, “You must come to our wedding. We aren't delaying. We are getting married as soon as we can find a preacher.”

“Now?” Samantha bit back her next words. It was not her place to judge. She soon would be following the same course, and her Joel Houseman might be as different from his letters as this man.

Trepidation raced through her, cracking her self assurance. She had never thought Joel might have lied to her. Each of her letters came directly from the heart, and she assumed he had penned his with the same openness.

Now she told herself fiercely to believe in the man she loved. Just because Gwen and Mr. Munroe had been less than honest with each other was no reason to believe Joel Houseman had been false with her.

She allowed Mr. Munroe to take her bag and put it in the back of his rickety wagon. His bulbous hand held hers as he assisted her onto the seat, where she was squeezed between them on the narrow seat board.

The horses had to strain mightily to pull the wagon through the deep mud of the main streets. Few other vehicles could be seen. Mr. Munroe said that all horses which survived the horrid journey north were guarded jealously. The value of any beast of burden increased more than a hundredfold here in Dawson.

Mr. Munroe delighted in the chatter of his glib wife-to-be. Gwen did not give him a chance to do more than give his assent to her many plans. If he considered disagreeing with her, he wisely said nothing.

With pride, he pointed out the many saloons in the city. He watched the shock on their faces when he told them the bank often kept as much as two million dollars in gold dust in its vault, in two tin-lined boxes made of wood without so much as a lock to protect them. No one wanted that gold. They were sure more waited in the rivers or in the bench claims on the hillsides.

He drew in the horses in front of a small hut indistinguishable from its neighbors. Telling them to wait, he leapt from the box and ran to the door. While he knocked, Gwen turned to her friend. Childish glee brightened her face.

“Isn't he wonderful, Samantha?”

“I think he cares very much for you.” Gwen did not notice Samantha's cautious response. The genial Mr. Munroe seemed nice, but she wished her friend would take a few days to get better acquainted with him before the exchanging of vows. She felt very uncomfortable about this.

Oblivious, Gwen let nothing slow her enthusiasm. She babbled about the wonderful life she would have with this man, who was sure to find a pile of gold as tall as her any day. Then they would be happy and so wealthy, able to tell the world exactly what they thought.

When Mr. Munroe came back, his face was aglow. “The reverend is in, Miss Goddard. He'll be glad to marry us without further ado.”

“That's wonderful.” Gwen offered him her hand, stepping from the wagon grandly as if she were already the rich woman she longed to be. Walking with him to the door, she called over her shoulder, “Hurry, Samantha!”

As Samantha slid from the high seat, her skirt caught on a rough edge. This dark rose suit was her best. She did not think she could replace it in this wilderness. Standing awkwardly near the wagon, she worked to loosen it without tearing the fabric.

Looking up from her task, she realized that several men were watching her intently. She lowered her eyes. With every second since her arrival in Dawson, she had become more aware of how intrigued the local men were by her. Finally yanking the skirt free, she ran up the steps and into the parsonage.

She tried to hide her reaction when she entered the single room. Mining equipment was dumped in one corner. A spry man dressed in denims and flannels was seeking something. Until Gwen whispered that the minister had to find his book, Samantha had no idea he was the clergyman.

“Eureka!” he crowed as he popped up from behind a mass of tattered clothing. “Here it is! Knew it was here somewhere.”

Following his orders they quickly lined up, according to tradition. He frowned, his sun-bleached eyebrows nearly invisible among the ridges of his forehead. No one spoke while he stared at his book as if he hoped to find the answer to whatever was puzzling him in its pages. Then, recalling something, he turned to the same pile of rags and kicked it roughly.

“Wake up, Kimball!” he shouted. “You must be sober by now.” He turned to the astonished wedding party. “We need another witness in addition to the lovely lady there. Whiskey Kimball can't put his name down for a witness if he's asleep.” He jolted the man again with his boot.

A groan emerged from somewhere in the mound which Samantha had thought was only castoff clothing. She watched in amazement as a head matted with hair rose from the assortment of rags. A single, malevolent eye regarded them.

“What in hell you be waking me for, Ephraim? Dammit, man, can't a soul get some sleep here?”

“Be quiet,” ordered the minister. “This couple wants to get hitched. Watch, so you can put your name on the paper.”

“Hell,” he breathed. “Don't care about him getting himself a woman. I ain't got one. Let me sleep.”

The clergyman leaned down and took the bigger man by the shirtfront and shook him, like a terrier with a rat. With invective that further astounded Samantha, he ordered the man to stay awake. Grumbling, Kimball agreed.

As if there had been no problem, the minister turned back to the bride and groom and easily read the service. He paid little attention, and barely gave them time to reply, making no secret of wanting to be finished so he could collect his fee. While the groom enthusiastically kissed his bride, the parson thrust a paper and a pen beneath Samantha's nose.

“Thank you,” she said curtly. She vowed she and Joel would find another man to wed them. She wanted a wedding with flowers, a ring, and a sincere ceremony. She affixed her signature and offered the document to the man still leaning against the wall.

“Well, hello,” he said with more life than he had shown before, surveying her with open appreciation. “Who are you, sweet thing? How did you come to Dawson without Ole Whiskey knowing about it? Are you the new girl come to play the lead on stage at the Monte Carlo?”

Tired of explaining she was not here to entertain the whole city of Dawson, she did not reply. If she had known it would be like this, like Gwen, she would have insisted that Joel meet her at the river. When the drunkard did not take the paper from her, she dropped it on the box next to him. Let Gwen deal with him.

She felt his hand on her skirt. Quietly she hissed, “Desist, sir.”

“Whoa!” He chortled as he stood to tower over her. “Such ladylike language. That's a right charming sound. How about me giving you a tour of the city, sweet thing?”

Shaking her head, she said firmly, “No. My husband would not appreciate that.” It was best to let him think she already was married.

He snorted, “Husband? What's a pretty lass like you marrying some fool for, afore you have a chance to be entertained by Whiskey Kimball?” He leaned toward her, his liquor-thick breath sickening.

She took a step backward, bumping into the groom, who still was bussing his bride. Their laughter added to her discomfort. A wave of homesickness washed over her as Mr. Munroe put his arm around her and squeezed her companionably. She wanted to be with people she knew, not these strangers.

Mr. Munroe winked at her before finishing the interrupted kiss, and Samantha sighed in silent relief that their involvement took the attention from her. Although Gwen had to bend slightly to reach the lips of the portly Mr. Munroe, this did not seem to bother her. Perhaps Gwen felt any man who could stay obese when so many were starving must be a good provider.

Again she wondered what Joel Houseman would be like. Although they had been corresponding for more than a year, she had only a single, small photograph to show her what he looked like. His stern face had regarded her each time she drew it from her reticule. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes could be seen above a growth of beard. She guessed from his expression that the high stock worn in the picture was uncomfortable and seldom used.

Banishing her doubts, she hugged her friend and wished her much happiness. Shyly, she offered her cheek to Mr. Munroe. He laughed and twirled her to kiss her fully on the mouth. With a gasp she drew away. She realized manners were different here in the Yukon, but had not expected this much familiarity on such short acquaintance.

Paying the minister for his services, Mr. Munroe herded the women out to his wagon. “Can we take you somewhere, Miss Perry?” His charming lisp made his words sound babyish.

“The Dawson City Hotel. That's where Mr. Houseman wants me to wait until he arrives.”

“The Dawson City?” he repeated uneasily. “Miss Perry, are you sure he said that?”

“Very sure.” She smiled. “I have reread each of his letters so often I can quote from them. I'm sure he has arranged everything for me.”

Reluctant, he nodded. He might have argued, but one glance in the direction of his Gwen reminded him of what he could be doing once they were alone. It had been months since he had been able to visit one of the cribs to purchase the time of a prostitute. He had been saving for Gwen's fare, so he would never need to patronize those places again. If this Houseman wrote he would meet his fiancée at the Dawson City Hotel, then that is where she should be. He did not want to think of anything but satisfying his yearning for Gwen.

Samantha sat stiffly while they drove across the Klondike River to the better section of the city, staring at a spot directly in front of the horse so she did not have to watch the newly weds fondle each other openly. Samantha knew Gwen had few compunctions about what she did with a man, but she thought her friend might want her husband to think she was a bit more ladylike.

The buildings along the main street were nearly as fine as those of Seattle. Standing two and three stories high, some were constructed of sawed lumber instead of logs. Windows of real panes, or of a strange configuration she could not puzzle out, presented many eyes to the muddy street. Although they were in Canadian territory, American flags flew on the fronts of the stores.

Men were everywhere. She guessed a long line leading into one small building must be of those wanting to file for the few claims left. Others loitered on the boardwalk or wandered in and out of stores and saloons. Tinny music sounded over the jumble of voices and noisy equipment being used to erect new buildings for the ever increasing population of Dawson.

“We're lucky it has dried since spring,” said Mr. Munroe. Driving around two men engaged in fisticuffs, he continued talking as if the sight were not unusual. Samantha listened to him while her eyes remained on the strange scene. “In April it was so damnable hot, the Yukon's ice broke early. These streets were flooded. Even when the water went down, we had weeks of mud so thick it was up to a horse's knees, or the axle of a wagon. This mud's left from that flood.”

“This is queer country,” murmured Samantha as she wrenched her eyes away from the end of the fight. One man reeled toward the open door of a saloon. The other lay face down in the road.

“Queer it is, but who cares? All we want is to steal the gold from its heart, and go back to our own homes.” He laughed and drew back on the reins. “Here you are, Miss Perry.”

She glanced uneasily at the two-story building. A trio of steps led from the boardwalk up to the front door, which was closed to keep out the many insects buzzing around their heads. Empty windows overlooked the streets, but she thought she saw a woman's face peering from one. Soon she would live up there. She shook frightening thoughts from her head. Just because a woman watched from upstairs did not mean that the rooms were used by harlots.

“Thank you,” she said as she climbed down from the wagon and took her bag from Mr. Munroe. As she stepped up onto the boardwalk, her shoes grew damp from water oozing through the street. “Best wishes, Gwen,” she called. “Come and see us, if you can. We are on the Bonanza.”

“Perhaps.” Gwen grinned. “If not, come and see us in Chicago, honey. Just ask for
the
Mrs. Munroe. Anyone will be able to direct you to us.”

Samantha had the feeling Gwen actually would make Chicago sit up and notice her someday. She would find some way to make her dreams come true. Standing in front of the hotel, she waved until the wagon was out of sight on the busy street.

Again, like a slap in the face, she felt the candid stares of strange men. Bag firmly in hand, she went into the hotel, eager to escape the feeling of being watched. Opening the door with its etched glass oval window, she stepped into the front foyer.

Crimson. The color struck her forcibly. Everything around her was red—embossing on the wallcovering, velvet on the chairs. Spidery twistings of wood softened the corners of the doors and enhanced the height of the windows. Through a door to her right, kerosene lanterns cast light on the bottles behind the brass-trimmed bar.