Talking at the Woodpile (6 page)

“You're right about that, William. I've got this guy in my sights and I never miss.”

That evening Wilfred took his toolbox from the shed and set up in the warmth of his kitchen. He spread newspapers on his table to protect the oilcloth. Then he broke open the tops of eight 12-gauge shotgun shells with a pair of pliers. Discarding the shot, he formed four equal conical piles of gunpowder. He then cut neat squares from an old plaid shirt, wrapped each pile in a tidy bundle and tied it with grocer's string.

Selecting the correct size of log was important; it had to be small enough to fit into a stove without being split. If it were split, the bundles would fall out and ruin the surprise.

He clamped a two-foot log onto the table and drilled a hole almost down its length with a brace and auger bit. He tamped in each package between plugs of sawdust. There was no reason to have them all go off at once. A carved dowel stopper made an invisible finish. Wilfred marked the surprise with an axe, so he wouldn't accidentally burn it himself. Then he set the log back on the pile in a convenient place for the thief to steal.

For the next week Wilfred checked the woodpile every morning to see if the thief had come back. No such luck. He was beginning to give up hope, thinking that Piedoe had scared him off forever. Then, on a quiet Sunday morning, wood was missing—including the bomb.

Wilfred wrote a note to William and sealed it in an envelope. It read, “Wait and see.” His toe was still sore, so he called over Ziggy and had him deliver it for a nickel.

It was now a waiting game. No one knew the time or the place. If it had been legal, Wilfred would have sold tickets as people did for the annual Yukon River ice breakup contest.

A few days later, up on the hillside at the far end of town, Neil O'Neill's
well-stoked stove leaped six inches off the worn linoleum of his crowded one-room cabin. With the first deafening roar, the force snapped the stovepipe midway between stove and ceiling.

O'Neill awoke with his short ginger hair standing on end, screaming, “Armageddon!”

Billowing black smoke soon made it impossible to see even inches in front of his pale, freckled face. The second blast opened the firebox door, spewing firebrands and driving the stove into the middle of the floor. O'Neill gathered his wits, and ignoring the spreading fire, ran across the dark room toward the door, only to ram both bony knees into the displaced stove. Staggering away, he ran flat into the wall, driving a dowel coat hanger squarely between his eyes. Stunned, he fell backward and sat down hard, and numerous burning coals adhered to his bottom. Instantly he wished he'd kept the back hatch of his pure-wool long johns buttoned up.

O'Neill made it to the door just as a third blast propelled his tall, skinny frame—with arms flailing like windmills—into a snow bank. The snow soothed his cinder burns, and he groaned in relief. He was covered in soot, his hair a haystack. He half realized what had happened and wished it weren't true. At that very moment, the final charge went off, blowing out the only window and causing flames to shoot ten feet out of the disconnected stovepipe.

When the first blast echoed across the river valley, it caught the attention of Dawson City residents. By the second blast, they were on their porches looking up at the hillside. Wilfred watched, amused, and thought maybe one shell per package would have done it. By the third blast, the Dawson City Fire Department was mobilized, and as the fourth package detonated, they were well on their way.

But it was all too little too late. Flames shot thirty feet into the air, and the whole cabin went up in a blaze and a roar. A few .22-calibre shells went off, causing firemen to duck behind their truck. Apart from unhitching O'Neill's dogs from their backyard tethers, there was nothing anyone could do. The firemen stood downing mugs of hot tea and eating biscuits—these always seemed to turn up on such occasions—while watching the log walls cave in upon themselves, sending a cloud of sparks and ash flying skyward. When it was over, firemen sprayed down the embers, loaded the truck and, with sirens blaring, headed back victorious to the fire hall.

The crowd dispersed shortly thereafter. O'Neill's dogs wandered around, not understanding what had happened. O'Neill, with a blanket draped over his shoulders, made his way to a friend's house for the night.

“Whoever did this is going to pay,” he said. “You just can't go around blowing a man's home up. I'm talking to the RCMP first thing I get settled. There will be hell to pay.”

Three days later a most unusual conversation took place at the Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment near Saint Mary's Hospital.

“I want to report a bombing and destruction of my property.” O'Neill sat confidently with his knees crossed and his hat in hand.

Sitting across the table from him taking his statement was Sergeant Selnes, who had seen everything from cannibalism to murder, thievery and kidnapping in his thirty years in the Klondike. He didn't tolerate nonsense.

The sergeant wet the end of his pencil stub. “Is that so, Mr. O'Neill? And just how did this explosion come about?” He had a bit of an accent, having been born in Saskatchewan of immigrant Norwegian parents.

Over the last few days he'd heard the story many times and couldn't imagine how O'Neill had the nerve to show up on the detachment's porch with this cockamamie tale. But in the interest of justice, he was willing to listen to all sides.

“I borrowed firewood from a Mr. Wilfred Durant, whose address we all know, and he had secretly and deviously disagreed with my borrowing that wood and hid dynamite in it.”

The sergeant didn't look up but continued to take notes. “And why would Mr. Durant do such a thing, Mr. O'Neill?”

“Because I borrowed the wood late at night, disturbing his sleep, and he greatly resented his sleep being disturbed. And I heard that he did a personal injury to himself, which he blamed on me.”

“And what might that injury be?”

“He stubbed his toe.”

The sergeant involuntarily jerked his shoulders at this answer. “And how many times did you borrow wood from Mr. Durant?”

“Three or four times, and one time he set his dog on me.”

“And what did you pay Mr. Durant for this wood?”

“We have yet to discuss that end of the bargain.”

At that moment Sergeant Selnes lost his temper and thrust his meaty hand across the table, grabbing O'Neill by his shirt collar, and demonstrated why he had the complete respect of every miner in the Yukon.

Bringing their faces together, he snarled between clenched teeth, “Listen here, you thieving runt, I wish enough powder had been packed in that firewood so the only question was what landed first on the other side of the river, you or the stove!”

O'Neill went limp. The sergeant released his grip and pushed him back in his chair. He then stood, tugged at the bottom of his tunic, twirled each side of his moustache and growled, “We will see you in court, Mr. O'Neill.”

Months later, on a sunny spring day, the high-ceilinged courthouse hallways and the courtroom itself were packed shoulder to shoulder with people straining to see and hear every word of the proceedings. The smell of wet wool, stale tobacco and woodsmoke was soon overpowering, and a few people shouted, “Open the windows!” The court clerk quickly complied, much to everyone's relief.

O'Neill sat at a table facing the witness stand and tried unsuccessfully not to look sheepish. His face and balding head bore patches of freshly healed skin, and around his eyes were faded, yellow, raccoon rings of old shiners. He didn't look at the crowd. He only leaned over to ask the time from Sergeant Selnes seated on his right. The sergeant ignored him.

Without notice, a door swung open at the front of the room, and those in the courtroom rose and fell swiftly silent. Magistrate Arthur Goodman took his seat and signalled with his brow for the room to do the same. They did so without a word. Elevated above the masses in his black robe, Goodman struck an imposing figure with his handsome face and silver hair. The clear crack of his gavel began the proceedings. He scanned the room, left to right. Few dared return his gaze. Among men he stood higher because of his impeccable judgment and fearlessness. Arthur Goodman and his kind had brought law and order to a land that would otherwise have dissolved into lawlessness.

“I will not tolerate comments of any sort, at any time, in my courtroom. If you are wearing a hat, remove it. No smoking. No spitting. And no outbursts, or I will have you thrown in jail.” He meant it. A few of the men nodded in acknowledgment. If a pin had dropped, they would have heard it.

There were three cases on the docket, one of stealing gold from a claim, a second of theft under one hundred dollars and a third of destruction of private property. Arthur Goodman quickly dispatched the first two. The claim thief had suffered enough; the gunshot wound to his buttocks drew him a lighter sentence. O'Neill was fined twenty-five dollars and thirty days of cutting wood for the RCMP woodpile. The claim thief elbowed his way out of the courtroom, but rather than following him and facing the crowd, O'Neill took a seat at the front.

The clerk called Wilfred to the stand. He'd trimmed his moustache, and his dark hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. He wore a suit jacket but no tie. His collarless striped shirt was buttoned at the neck, and his waistcoat sported a gold-nugget watch and a chain that hung just below the fifth button. He held his hat in front of him.

Magistrate Goodman demanded, “How do you plead?”

“Guilty as charged, Your Honour,” Wilfred said in a clear, loud voice. A true sourdough would never avoid truth or justice.

“Sixty days on the woodpile!” Goodman boomed.

Wilfred dropped his hat.

Then the magistrate paused and his blue eyes surveyed the hushed crowd. He bellowed, “Suspended!” and crashed his gavel on the desk, breaking the head off the handle. It flew across the room, just missing Wilfred as he stooped over to pick up his hat.

The crowd was uncontrollable. The roar of approval was deafening, the windows shook, papers were launched into the air and people hugged each other. Wilfred made his way out through the crowd and had his shoulders slapped every step of the way. The din followed him out of the courthouse and down the street.

In the empty, silent courtroom, O'Neill sat alone with his head in his hands, contemplating what had happened. His stomach sank when the door opened behind him. Arthur Goodman, having exited when the celebration started, re-entered to leave by the front door. Without a glance at O'Neill, he spoke sharply. “Son, let this be a lesson to you. There is no toleration for a thief. There is no honour in thievery.” Then the magistrate strode out of his courtroom. Neil stood in his place until Arthur was out of sight down the hall.

As for Wilfred … well … he didn't have to buy himself coffee or lunch for the next year.

On Eighth Avenue, where the flats of Dawson City slope up toward the Dome Hill, lived William Pringle's sister Dorothy Duffy and her husband Nathan. People called them Dot and Nat.

Ziggy, their eldest son, born in 1921, was proudly named after Dot's great-great-grandfather Ziegfeld, who had served the King of Prussia as keeper of the royal treasure and had been disgraced for borrowing “a few minor jewels.” After Ziegfeld wore out his welcome in New York, he moved to Seattle. Ziegfeld's daughter Zola married Clarence Pringle, who swept her off her feet and into the great Klondike gold rush of 1896. Dot was born in a tent on the shore of Bennett Lake five days after her parents climbed the Chilkoot Pass. She was the first gold rush child, and men and women stopped their mad stampede for a moment to wish her parents and Dot well.

Iggy, the number-two son, bore the fire-breathing Irish name Ignatius after his father's great-uncle, who'd joined the Catholic uprising in Ulster against the injustice of the Brits and their bloodthirsty Black and Tans. Ignatius was hanged for throwing a grenade at a parade of soldiers, though Nat insisted on his great-uncle's innocence. Most people called Nat's son Eggy.

Nat's boon companion was a friendly black husky named Piedoe. Nat, on a trip to Whitehorse, picked Piedoe from a litter when the pup waddled over and peed on his boot. He was eight weeks old, barely old enough to leave his mother and seven brothers and sisters. His mother Boo was a silver Siberian husky; his father was a black husky named Shara, which means “little bear” in the Tutchone language.

Nat, Dot, Ziggy, Iggy, Piedoe and Dot's cat Po lived in a rambling gold-rush-era house with a faded green metal roof. The outside of the building needed painting. It had decayed far beyond what was acceptable even by Dawson City standards. The scaffolding leaning against its walls, the rusting cans of paint with paper labels weathered off and the rock-hard paintbrushes attested to Nat's good intentions of completing this job.

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Dot cheerfully reminded him, but she didn't push him to get the job done.

The horizontal shiplap siding on the house had warped in waves from the uncontrollable random lifting of permafrost. The floors were noticeably uneven. Anyone entering the porch walked downhill, then started uphill again in the kitchen. Stacks of mismatched cribbing timbers leaned precariously under the house, evidence of jacking up to try to level the floor beams. Piedoe found this crawlspace warm in winter and in summer a good place to escape the hordes of mosquitoes and blackflies.

Nat took Piedoe everywhere. The dog rode in the box of his battered 1928 Ford pickup, but in very cold weather, he was allowed to wedge between Nat and Dot in the cramped cab. Piedoe sat taller than both of them. Nat tried to teach him not to use his booming voice in the vehicle. More than once, Nat brought the truck to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, jumped out with both hands over his ears, and yelled back into the cab, “Don't do that, you crazy mutt!” Because both Piedoe and Dot were in the truck, people mistakenly thought that Nat was yelling at Dot. In a small town, you don't want to make that kind of mistake. Tongues will wag.