Gold Fever (3 page)

I don't know why I liked Mary so much almost immediately upon meeting her. I'd hired Indian packers to take us over the Chilkoot. They had been, by and large, efficient and taciturn. They kept a respectful distance from me, although on the trail and around the campfire Angus had hounded them for stories from their tribal history and information about their customs. Our packers were Tagish, he'd told me. I had no idea if Mary was of that tribe or another. Other than working as packers and the occasional guide, the Indians kept pretty much to themselves in the Yukon. They weren't allowed in the bars and dance halls, and there were so many white (and some black) men looking for work in Dawson there was no need to hire Indians. Mary was the first Native I'd seen in town.

How lonely she must be. And caught in the talons of Joey LeBlanc to boot.

Everyone looked up as I came back into the kitchen. Mary followed, dragging the overlarge dress behind her like a bridal train.

“Angus,” I said, “I have to be at the Savoy. Go with Mary and find Constable Sterling. Ask him to accompany you to get Mary's belongings from her place of…residence.”

“We don't need…” Angus began. “Yes, you do. Don't go there without a Mountie. There might be some opposition to her leaving, and I want this entirely above board. Then take her to one of the empty rooms at the Savoy. I don't think we have anyone in residence today. Use the back stairs.”

Occasionally some of the bartenders or croupiers who are temporarily short of accommodation are permitted to sleep in the upstairs rooms beside the offices. Good customers, who collapse over the bar or fall asleep over their cards, we put up in a cot in the big room at the end of the hall. Poor customers, and certainly those who are winning, we toss out into the mud of Front Street.

“I have no money,” Mary said. I waved a hand. “You can pay your rent out of your wages.

Mrs. Mann, I have found you a helper for the laundry. I'm sure you can come to an agreement when she arrives for work first thing tomorrow morning.”

“My friend owns a laundry,” Mary said to no one in particular. “On Fifteenth Street. She works hard, but she makes good money.”

What Mrs. Mann thought of this arrangement, it was impossible to tell. I was thrusting a complete unknown— not to mention an Indian—at her. But she simply said, “Be here at seven.”

Mr. Mann stood up. He cleared his throat. I half expected him to throw Mary out on her ear, and me after her for suggesting that such a woman come and work for his wife. For him it would be enough that she was an Indian— without even knowing her (former) occupation. “I go with Angus,” he said. “Help carry.”

I smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Mann.”

He almost blushed and turned away.

My suggestion that Mary take employment in Mrs. Mann's laundry and residence in the Savoy wasn't entirely altruistic. I was rather delighted at the idea of having a confrontation with Joey LeBlanc, while knowing that the law was, for once, on my side.

I can be such an idiot sometimes.

Constable Richard Sterling settled his broad-brimmed hat on his head, said goodbye to the corporal in charge of the Dawson town detachment and opened the door. A lanky blond boy, a tumble of too-long arms and legs, stood in front of him with his hand extended towards the latch.

Sterling grinned. “Angus, what brings you here? Looking for me?”

“Yes, sir. Well, we're looking for a Mountie, that is.” “We?” Sterling said, before noticing two people watching the exchange from the bottom of the steps. He nodded to the man. “Mr. Mann.”

“My ma said we had to get a Mountie. Let's go.”

“Hold up, Angus. Where are we going?” Sterling touched the brim of his hat.

“I don't believe I've been introduced to this lady.” Which was factually true, although he knew well enough that she worked out of a crib on Paradise Alley and handed her earnings over to Joey LeBlanc.

Seeing the recognition in his face, the woman lowered her eyes.

“Oh, right,” Angus said. “This is Mary…uh…just Mary. My friend.”

“Sterling,” Mr. Mann said. “Weeze wasting time. Youze gos now.” He made a sort of shooing gesture with his hands towards the woman, and she set off down the street with long determined strides that belied her short legs. She was wearing a dress far too large for her and made of considerably better fabric than most of the cloth one saw in Paradise Alley.

“What are you and Mr. Mann doing in the company of that woman, Angus, and where are we going?” Sterling asked as they fell into step behind the German man and the native woman.

“To get her things,” Angus said. “She's moving into the Savoy.”

“She's moving into the Savoy!” Sterling almost stopped in his tracks. Angus kept on walking, forcing Sterling to take a skipping step to keep up. “Does your mother know about this?”

“Of course. It was her idea.”

“Of course. Do you know where this…Mary lives?”

“Second Avenue, I think.”

“That's right. Angus, before we go any further, you'd better tell me what you're doing and why you need a police escort to do it.”

They turned the corner, and Mary picked up her pace. She scurried through the street with her head down, looking at nothing but the ground in front of her feet. This part of Second Avenue was popularly known as Paradise Alley, for obvious reasons. Although Sterling's father, a stern, strict preacher who ruled his flock, and his family, like an old testament prophet expecting judgement any moment, would have had more than a few strong words to say about such blasphemy. The street was narrow, full of mud and debris, lined with two neat rows of nearly identical narrow wooden dwellings. These were the cribs, where women plied their trade, peak-roofed, wide enough for only one long thin window beside the door, their frontage not much more than a few feet wide. A few sported an awning over the door, presumably to keep the customers dry while they waited their turn. In the early evening there weren't many men around. A few women, with worn faces and tired bodies, tattered dresses and cheap jewellery, stood in their doorways or gathered together on the strip of boardwalk, exchanging gossip and watching the passing traffic. No one spoke to Mary as she marched down the middle of the street, mindless of several inches of her ill-fitting dress dragging through the mud and ignoring the men and boy following her.

She stopped in front of one of the shacks. “Here,” she said. It was no better, and no worse, than any of the others.

Angus stepped forward, ready to go inside with her. She lifted a hand. “Please wait.”

Sterling stood in the street with a scowling Mr. Mann and a red-faced Angus, feeling conspicuous in his red tunic, broad-brimmed hat, and high black boots. The women watched with expressionless eyes. The few customers on the street stayed well clear.

He could see them coming from a long way away. Two toughs with many-times broken noses, calloused hands, good clothes and a practiced swagger. As they approached, the women disappeared into their homes, slamming doors behind them as if a skunk were coming down the road with tail raised. A small woman in an unadorned brown housedress stood alone on the far side of the street, watching.

One of the men stopped several yards short of Sterling, and the other approached with a friendly smile that didn't touch the steel in his eyes. Sterling doubted the man had given anyone an honest smile since he ceased to be a toddler. “Help you, Constable?”

“No.” Mary came out of her home, clutching a cloth-wrapped

bundle to her chest. Mr. Mann took the package then handed it to Angus. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but his body was as tense as wire on a range fence, and Sterling was glad the German would be on his side if worse came to worse.

“We're in no hurry. Get the rest of it, Mary,” Angus said. “There is no more.” “This is all you have?” He sounded as if he couldn't

quite believe it. Considering he was the son of Fiona MacGillivray, Sterling had no doubt the boy truly didn't believe a woman could get by with so little.

Then Mary saw the two men. Her colour didn't change and her expression didn't waver, but Sterling saw the tension crawl into her neck and shoulders.

“Leaving?” the man asked in a voice as polite as his false smile.

“Yes,” Sterling said.

The man took one step to stand in front of Mary. She stared at her feet. “Mrs. LeBlanc would like you to stay.” Mary's eyes flicked towards the woman in the brown dress watching the exchange. “Go back inside, and there'll be no hard feelings.”

“Mary doesn't want to stay,” Angus said.

“Angus,” Sterling said, “be quiet. Shall we go, Mary?”

The big man was solidly in her path. She took a tentative step to one side. Without appearing to move, he shifted slightly and blocked her. “Mrs. LeBlanc says you owe a month's rent on your cabin, Mary.”

She looked up. Her eyes were dry and clear. “I don't have so much money.”

“Then you can't leave.”

“If there's a dispute about monies owning, tell Mrs. LeBlanc to take it to the magistrate,” Sterling said. “Judge'll hear her case in due course. Angus, why don't you take 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.