The Great Alone (80 page)

“Is that right?” She wondered if Justin would be one of them.

She hadn’t forgotten him. Maybe what Miss Rosie had said was true—that a girl never forgot the first man. Glory knew she had never tried. In his note, Justin had said he’d come back after he’d struck it rich. Maybe he would. Men were such funny, proud creatures. It wouldn’t have mattered to her whether he’d come back rich or not, but the Justin she remembered wouldn’t have seen it that way. He’d keep looking for that gold until he found it.

“It looks like Nome City is going to be the next boomtown. Shouldn’t be as hard to get to as the Klondike. It’s located right on the coast of the Bering Sea. People are already buying tickets to be on the first steamer scheduled to leave in late spring.” He dealt out a hand from the bottom. “I’ve got mine.”

“You’re going!” The announcement took her by surprise.

“Skagway’s becoming too civilized for me. The railroad will be finished soon. The town council’s talking about installing electric lights. The Klondike boom is pretty well finished. A smart gambler always goes where the money is. It’s time for me to be moving on.”

Glory moved away from his chair and wandered to the window. The rain continued to fall outside, like a thousand drumming fingers pelting the glass. “It snows up there,” she murmured, then turned back to face the table. “I don’t suppose you’d like some company on the trip, would you? I’m getting tired of this town, too. A change of faces and scenery might be nice.”

As he dealt out the last card, he raised his left hand and wagged two slips of paper. “I had a feeling you were getting restless so I booked passage for two.” He smiled, ever so faintly, and Glory laughed.

CHAPTER XLIV

Nome

June 1899

The new gold region was located on the southern coast of the Seward Peninsula, the northwesternmost point of land on the North American Continent, which extends into the Bering Sea and forms the strait between Alaska and Russia. The camp itself was situated directly on the exposed seacoast near the entrance to Norton Sound.

The ice that clogged the Bering Sea in winter and isolated the gold camp at the mouth of the Snake River, broke up in June. On the twentieth, the first vessel anchored more than a mile offshore, the lack of a deep-water harbor preventing it from coming closer. All the passengers and freight were lightered ashore on shallow-draft barges, which were towed to within thirty feet of the beach, then allowed to drift on the breakers until they ran aground.

Dressed in her best traveling suit, Glory eyed with misgivings the remaining expanse of water to be crossed to reach the sandy beach. Other passengers, all men, splashed through the waves, wading the last few yards to shore, too anxious to reach the gold camp to worry about wet feet or clothes.

“Do you have any idea how much this suit cost me?” She sat down on the edge of the barge as Deacon hopped into the water. He looked amused as he paused to wait for her. “I don’t think it’s funny.”

“Climb on my back and I’ll carry you ashore,” he offered.

Struggling with the long skirts that tangled her legs, she finally managed to crawl onto his back and wrap her arms around his neck. He carried her piggy-back, slipping several times and nearly losing his footing in the knee-deep water. When they reached solid ground, he lowered her to the sand.

As she absently rearranged her skirts, she gazed at the pathetic excuse for a town, officially named Anvil City, but universally called Nome. A few cabins were built out of driftwood, but it was mainly a collection of tents. The setting was desolate. The so-called mountains beyond the beach looked to be no more than tall windswept hills, their tundra-covered slopes showing the green of early summer. There weren’t any trees—not for a hundred miles.

“You’ve never been in a rough-and-tumble gold camp before, have you?” Deacon remarked.

His comment made Glory suspect that her expression had revealed her dismay at the surroundings. “It’s hardly a sight to cheer the soul.”

“Let’s go look it over.” His hand cupped her elbow.

“What about my trunks?” She glanced back at the luggage being unloaded off the barge and set on the beach.

“Believe me, they aren’t going anywhere,” he assured her dryly.

Winding trails weaved among the scattered tents and log shacks. If the town had a center, Glory decided it was well disguised. She didn’t know how Deacon knew which meandering trail to take, but she trusted his instincts. Ragged, unshaven men stared at them as they passed dingy canvas tents pitched along the beach. The slop of footsteps in the mud and the low murmur of voices sounded behind them. Glory glanced back at the straggling bunch of men following them.

“Everyone’s following us. We must be going in the right direction,” she murmured, holding her skirts high to keep the trailing hems out of the muck.

“They are following you, my sweet,” Deacon dryly informed her. “Who knows how long it’s been since some of them have seen a white woman—especially one such as you.” He paused on the trail, the grip of his hand checking her progress. His attention was centered on a large canvas tent. A carved wooden sign, weather-beaten and worn, was propped against its front wall. Its mud-splattered lettering was difficult to read, but the carved emblem, its yellow paint faded and chipped, resembled a twenty-dollar gold piece. “The Double Eagle. I wonder …” Deacon murmured, then tightened his grip on her arm and propelled her toward the tent flap. “Let’s go in.”

There were only a few customers in the saloon, but they stopped talking when Glory and Deacon walked in. The furnishings were as crude and makeshift as the structure itself. Barrels, kegs, and crates served triple duty as chairs, shelves, and supports for the tables and the long wooden plank that was the bar.

A gray-haired man straightened from the bar, his dark suit and brocade vest setting him apart from the more roughly dressed men in the saloon. His glance shifted from Glory to Deacon and stopped. A frown flickered across his forehead as his gaze narrowed. He took the cigar from his mouth.

“Deacon,” he said hesitantly, then a smile broke across his face. “I’ll be damned if it isn’t you.” He strode across the tent with a vigor that belied his gray hair. “I should have known no one else would show up here sporting a lady like this on his arm.”

“I see you’re still carting that sign around with you, Ryan.” Deacon warmly shook hands with him.

“It’s my good-luck piece. Haven’t gone broke with it yet. Last I heard you were in Skagway.” But his eyes strayed to Glory.

“Last I heard you were in Dawson,” Deacon replied, then turned slightly to include Glory. “Meet Ryan Colby, proprietor of the Double Eagle saloon. I dealt faro for him in Juneau a few years back. May I present Miss Glory St. Clair.”

“I’ve heard of you, Miss St. Clair.” Colby bowed slightly, smiling. “But then, who hasn’t heard of Skagway’s famed demimondaine. May I say that you are more beautiful than you have been described.”

“You may.” She smiled.

“This calls for a drink—on the house, of course. Let’s go over by the stove.” He directed them toward the coal stove near the center of the tent. “Hey, Pete, bring us some whiskey from my private stock,” he called to the man behind the crude bar. “And get my chair from the back for the lady.”

Glory stood close to the heavy iron stove, enjoying the warmth it radiated after the briskness of the outdoor air. The number of kegs and crates positioned around the stove indicated the popularity of this particular area of the tent, even though none of them were occupied at the moment. The bartender came with the whiskey, and Ryan Colby passed the glasses to them.

“Welcome to Nome.” He toasted them, and Glory politely sipped her drink, appreciating the fire that warmed her insides, but not liking its taste. She had never quite figured out what men found to like about alcohol. “Although, I admit it doesn’t look like much of a town.”

“Let’s say it’s unusual—like its name.” Glory cupped the small glass in her gloved hands. “I presume there’s a Mr. Nome.” In her experience, new towns in Alaska were always named after someone.

“As a matter of fact, there isn’t. The popular opinion around here is that the name was derived from an Eskimo phrase—
Kn-no-me,
which means ‘I don’t know.’ Supposedly, it was the reply an Eskimo made when someone asked him the name of this area. Actually it acquired the name quite by accident some years ago. An officer on a British ship in the area noticed that no name had been given on the map for a prominent point of land. So he wrote down on the map a question mark followed by the word ‘name,’ with the intention of later supplying one. Only he forgot. When a draftsman made a copy of that map, he misread it, thought the question mark was a ‘C’ for Cape, and the ‘a’ was an ‘o,’ and wrote down ‘Cape Nome.’ ”

“That sounds more unbelievable than the Eskimo story,” Deacon remarked.

“The truth usually does, I’ve found.” The aging saloonkeeper tapped the ash from his cigar onto the tent’s dirt floor. “It won’t be long before the name of this town will be on everyone’s lips. Those three lucky Swedes struck pay dirt on Anvil Creek. All hell’s gonna break loose here—and soon, too. The lumber for my new saloon should be on the ship that brought you here. I’ll be needing a good faro dealer again, Deacon. Pay’s a hundred dollars a week.”

“It’s a generous offer, Ryan, but I have to decline. You see, I’ve persuaded Miss St. Clair to become my business partner. We’re going to build our own establishment here.”

“And I was hopeful that I could convince Miss St. Clair to operate out of the Double Eagle. Considering how many have already shown up just to look at you, you could have been quite an attraction in my place.” He indicated the increased number of customers in his saloon, all standing at the bar and staring in Glory’s direction. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into changing your minds.”

“No.” Ever since Deacon had suggested it, Glory had been intrigued by the idea of owning a place of her own. She had learned a lot working for Miss Rosie, and observed a few things she would do differently. Thanks to the big pot Deacon had won at poker and the money she’d managed to save despite her extravagant spending, they had the funds to do it—although she wasn’t sure she would have picked Nome as the site if she’d known what it was like. Still, compared to what was here, their place would be a palace. And she’d never yet met a man who didn’t like his comforts. If there was as much gold here as Ryan Colby intimated, they were bound to become rich.

“As a matter of fact, our building materials and supplies are being off-loaded from the ship,” Deacon informed him. “If you have any suggestions on a possible location, we’d be interested in hearing them.”

“Take your pick. Just about every lot in town is up for grabs. There’s as much lot jumping going on as there is claim jumping. A man’s supposed to have forty days to make improvements on the lot he staked or lose it. But few people check to see if the time’s expired. They just build where they want and worry about who rightfully has claim to it later—like any boomtown. You know the way it works—possession is nine-tenths of the law. He who has, usually keeps.”

“I’d rather have title to the land than trust the law to give it to me,” Glory said. There had been too many occasions in her family’s past when they’d lost property because of the law—or the absence of it.

“It was just a suggestion.” Ryan shrugged indifferently. “I know Deacon’s a gambler who likes to play the odds. I know a few who’ve staked out lots on speculation. In the meantime, you’ll be needing a place to stay. Nome is short on accommodations. You’re welcome to my private sleeping quarters in the back of the tent until you get your place built, Miss St. Clair. You’re liable to find it a bit noisy at night, but I expect you’re used to it.”

“That’s very generous of you, Mr. Colby.”

“Not at all. It won’t take long for the word to spread to those women-starved miners in the hills that Glory St. Clair is at the Double Eagle. They’ll be coming here to spend their gold. This place is going to be so full you won’t be able to turn around.”

“Then Deacon and I will have ample opportunity to advertise our new business.”

“So you will.” He saluted her quickness, then looked beyond her. “At last, here comes Pete with your chair. A ship’s carpenter-turned-prospector made it for me to settle his account. I think you’ll find it’s very comfortable.” As Glory turned, she noticed a portly white-haired man walking toward them before her attention was distracted by the bartender carrying a finely crafted leather-upholstered chair. “I’d tell you the man’s name, but I’m afraid you’d steal him from me, and I need him to build my new bar,” Ryan said. “Set the chair by the stove, Pete.”

As Glory admired the chair’s intricately carved back, highly polished to bring out the wood’s grain, she heard someone speaking to Deacon behind her.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” the man said. “But I’m afraid I’ve been eavesdropping on your conversation. I heard you mention that you were interested in purchasing a lot on which to build. Permit me to introduce myself. My name’s Gabe Blackwood, attorney at law.”

If a thunderbolt had struck her, Glory couldn’t have been more stunned. Everything stopped. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t speak. She was numb with shock, wondering if she had heard correctly. Had he really said he was Gabe Blackwood? Could there possibly be two men with that name? She’d always been led to believe her father had left Alaska and gone back to the States, taking the Tarakanov family treasures with him. Could it be him? Was this man the father she’d never seen?