White Silence (9 page)

They die, he said. Quickly, like your Debra. Or slowly, like my Heather. But they die, and we live on—

Alone.
Duncan shivered. Although it was only August, a cold wind was blowing off the cloud-wreathed peaks that cupped the town. He pulled his coat collar higher. Skagway was almost peaceful at this hour, covered in a light blanket of snow that had fallen overnight. But on the Juneau Wharf, men were astir. Duncan thought to try again to find the Indian who’d helped him. He had the red felt hat stuffed in his jacket pocket. Perhaps someone on the wharf would recognize it.

He’d give it an hour, and if he had no luck, go back to work on the first of his dispatches. Though Witherspoon, when he met him to make the final arrangements for securing the
Belle Claire,
had been puzzled by the decision, he’d refused to have his name on the column. The reports would be run simply as “An Argonaut’s Journal.”

He set out, snow crunching beneath his boots. As he approached one of the few side streets in the town, a flash of movement and color caught his attention. To the right, just off Broadway, stood Jeff Smith’s Parlour. And peering into the glass top of the shuttered door was the burly thief.

Duncan stopped short. The man, after rattling the latch, slipped into the narrow passage between the Parlour and the building adjacent.

Duncan’s first impulse was to raise a hue and cry. But the man’s actions had piqued his ever-present curiosity. So instead he followed, squeezing silently through the opening.

At the end of the passage, behind the building, was a small open area, bounded by a white wooden fence. The fence was around six feet high. Duncan approached cautiously, bent low, then slowly raised his head.

The courtyard was empty, save for the recent snow. But fresh footprints led from a gate to the back door of the Parlour.

Suddenly, the door burst open. A figure flew out, and fell facedown. The burly thief followed. He cursed and kicked the fallen man in the side.

“Hold up there, Zimmer.” Another man appeared in the doorway. Duncan recognized him, too. Foster had pointed him out the night before. Burns was his name. Big Ed Burns. The bouncer at the Parlour.

“Mr. Smith don’t want no trouble here,” Burns continued. “Leave the injun be now. We’ll take him up the mountain a way, and deal with him there.”

Ignoring Burns, Zimmer lashed out again. The fallen man rolled, seeking to avoid the blow.

He was, Duncan saw, the Indian from the alley. His face was covered with blood, the snow stained where he had first lain.

Duncan stood. He backed up a few paces, then launched himself, vaulting the fence easily. He faced Zimmer, startled in mid-kick.

“So you’re a bully as well as a thief?” he said. “Well, let’s see how you handle yourself against a man who can fight back.”

With an oath, Zimmer rushed Duncan. His weight carried them both back against the fence. This close, Duncan could see every detail of Zimmer’s battered face, from the scarred eyelid to the crooked nose to the wart half-hidden by the scraggly beard. The man’s teeth, bared in a snarl, were black with decay. His breath was hot and putrid.

Duncan’s back flared with pain from the impact. The two men hammered at each other, trading body blows. Then Duncan freed his arms. He raised them and clenched his hands together. Then, with all his strength, he struck Zimmer on the back of the neck.

The man released Duncan, shaking his head. Duncan pressed his advantage, lashing out with his right foot.

But Zimmer was quicker and tougher than he’d thought. The burly thief dodged the kick, and rushed Duncan again. Clearly he was used to overwhelming his opponents with his bulk.

Two quick kidney punches left Duncan doubled over gasping. Zimmer struck him on the back with one powerful fist. Before he could deliver the next blow, however, Duncan butted him in the stomach with his head.

Zimmer staggered back, tripping over the still prone Indian. His head hit the frozen ground with a sharp crack. He lay still.

“Hold it.” The command was followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

Through the haze of his anger, Duncan saw Big Ed Burns still standing in the doorway, gun drawn and ready.

“That was kinda interestin’, seeing someone beat on Zimmer for a change. He’s gonna be powerful angry when he comes to, though.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll not be here then.”

Burns shrugged. “No never mind to me. You can go. But the injun stays.”

“The Indian goes.”

“You cheechakos.” Burns shook his head. “You just don’t know the rules up here.” He leveled the gun. “Which is, there ain’t no rules.”

“Shoot me here, and there’ll be trouble,” Duncan replied. “Mr. Smith won’t like that now, will he?”

Burns’s eyes flickered. He hesitated. Duncan tensed.

Then something whizzed past him, striking Burns square on the forehead. The man crumpled to his knees, and pitched forward. The gun fell from his hand. Duncan picked it up and turned.

The gate burst open. A fourth man—an Indian—entered the courtyard. Quickly he went to the side of his fallen comrade. Murmuring in a language that Duncan almost understood, he helped the blood-spattered man to his feet. Then he spoke.

“We go now.”

Duncan was holding the gun on Zimmer, who had begun to stir. “Wait. Don’t just leave. Fetch the town constable. Or you take the gun, and I’ll get him.”

The Indian shook his head. “No good. These Soapy’s men. No law for them.”

“This man robbed me and my friends.” Duncan gestured at Zimmer. “And he beat your friend senseless.”

“Brother,” the Indian said. “I must take him away from here or he die.”

The injured man groaned. His knees buckled. Tucking the gun in the waistband of his trousers, Duncan helped support him.

The Indian regarded him. His black eyes were calm, his voice level. “I am called Sam. Siwash Sam. You come with me. Maybe then we all live.”

Duncan blew out his breath in exasperation. It fogged the air.

“All right then. One thing, though. Can you hold your brother alone for a minute?”

The Indian nodded.

Duncan crouched down.

“Zimmer?”

“The hell with you.” The man groaned.

“Zimmer, you’d best hope we don’t meet a third time. Your face is ugly and your breath is worse. I don’t want to see—or smell—you ever again.”

He rose and joined the Indian. They half dragged his brother through the broken gate, along the back alleys of the town, away from Jeff Smith’s Parlour.

Duncan sat cross-legged before a fire burning brightly in front of a large hide tent. He could see the whole of the town below. A good place to camp, he thought. A smart place.

In the tent, the Indian who called himself Siwash Sam was ministering to his brother. Duncan had offered to help, but Sam had shook his head. Instead, he had nodded toward the fire and disappeared inside.

Siwash. What had that blackguard Smith said? The Siwash were one of many tribes who lived up here. These Northland Indians were not familiar to Duncan. But as he looked around the camp, he could make some judgments.

They were hunters, no doubt. The hides of the tent, the fur robes scattered around, the weapons he had seen when he’d helped lay the injured man down—all of that indicated men who knew how to live off the land.

But these two also knew more than a little of civilization. Some of their clothes—the bright red felt hat for instance—came from white men’s stores. He’d taken note of the fact that their weapons included at least one very new-looking rifle. And though the two sleds that lay at the edge of the camp were fashioned by hand, the tools piled neatly around them were equal in workmanship to the very expensive gear he and Fitz had bought in Seattle.

Suddenly, Duncan felt hot breath on his neck. He turned his head slowly. A big black-and-gray dog stood inches away, eyeing him warily.

If the beast wasn’t tied up like the rest, he had to have a special status, Duncan thought. He sat motionless and let the animal smell him thoroughly. Finally, the dog gave a satisfied sniff and lay down a few feet away.

“Dog approve.” Siwash Sam said. He stood just in front of the tent. “Good.”

“And if the dog didn’t approve?” Duncan asked. He began to rise, but the Indian waved him down.

“Very bad.” He shook his head. “Much blood. I have enough of that for this day.” He sat down across from Duncan.

“Your brother?” Duncan asked.

“He be fine. Only nose broken. Not first time.”

“I am Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “My friends and I—our money was stolen. Your brother stopped the thief.”

The Indian nodded wordlessly.

“Is he awake? I would like to thank him. I’ve been looking for him.”

“We know you looking,” Siwash Sam said. “My brother go to find you this morning. I tell him not to. I tell him Soapy’s men find him first.”

Duncan winced. “I—I am sorry that I caused pain to the brother of Siwash Sam. But Smith—I thought he was a respectable businessman.”

Sam shrugged. “You are cheechako. That what you supposed to think.” He spit to one side. “You want to know what Soapy is? I tell you.”

So he did. And when he was done, anger swept through Duncan. It had been a long, long while since he had felt like taking his sword to a mortal. But this Jefferson Randolph Smith who preyed on the men—and women—who poured into Skagway, men and women made foolish by their fever for gold, made his warrior blood run hot.

Siwash Sam sat staring at him, his black eyes level.

“Scotsman, do not take on Soapy. This his place. You will lose.”

Duncan frowned. “I should go on then? Forget what was done to your brother? To all of the others that you’ve told me of?”

“He is
my
brother,” the Indian said gently. “And we will go on. Before this day is done. We not wait to find men to guide across White Pass. It not safe here for us.”

“The Pass,” Duncan said, as he scrambled to his feet. “Fitz was going back to Reliable Packers this morning!”

“Then you must return to the town. I will tell my brother of your thanks when he wakens.”

Duncan turned, hesitated and turned back. Siwash Sam sat watching him intently.

Squatting down, he spoke hurriedly.

“If my friends and I are to take our leave quickly from this unsafe place, we will need guides we can trust, who do not come from the ranks of those who work for Soapy Smith.”

The Indian gave a slight nod.

“Siwash Sam and his brother are guides. We would hire them to lead us away from here. If they could stay a day or two more, until we have our gear together.”

Duncan waited a breathless moment. Then the Indian nodded once again, more emphatically.

“You come back. We talk more of this. We will be here.” He took Duncan’s extended hand and shook it firmly.

“But now you must hurry. Or you will have no money to pay Siwash Sam and his brother.”

Duncan smiled briefly in response, and set off down the hill. He knew the Indian was right—there was nothing to be gained by taking the battle to Soapy Smith in the town that he owned. Still, if he were to run across the man anytime soon—

The look on Duncan’s face was one that had been the last sight of countless men over the centuries. As he sought Fitz-cairn through the streets of Skagway, even the hard-bitten thugs on the prowl cleared out of his way.

But Jefferson Randolph Smith did not cross his path that morning, and Duncan was not certain if he was sorry or relieved.

“What a lovely thing this is, Danny O’Donal,” Minnie said, holding the delicate square of white linen and lace. “Now don’t tell me it belongs to some special girl waiting for you back home?” she asked, half-teasing.

Danny took the handkerchief and put it in his pocket, smiling. “A special girl, aye, Minnie. But one I knew when I was only a boy.”

They’d eaten a light lunch at the table in her small house, then spent the afternoon in the soft comfort of the bed—and each other.

Minnie sat brushing her great mass of dark hair, while Danny lit a lamp. “Night comes early up here,” she said softly. “Oh, how I dread the winter!”

Danny sat beside her. He held her close. “I’ve a plan, Minnie. I can’t tell you yet. But I give you my word—you’ll not spend many more a night here.”

“Oh, Danny—my Eamon had plans, too—”

“Hush,” he said, as he kissed her. “Now, you finish with your dressing, and we’ll walk a bit before supper.”

She pulled away and sat still, looking down at her lap.

“I’ll not be able to eat with you this night, Danny. I’ve an engagement.”

He shifted beside her.

“It’s one I made before you even came to town,” she hastened to add. “Someone from home—he was in our party. He went on with another group, after … the bandits. Now he’s back from Dawson City. I promised him I’d hear his tales. And I’ve letters for him to take to my mum.”

“All right, then, my love,” Danny said. “But look for me later. I’ll be waiting by the piano.”

She smiled then, and drew him close to her once again.

Fitzcairn looked down the length of Juneau Wharf. It was dark on the deck of the
Belle Claire.
The one lantern he had with him barely penetrated the early-evening gloom. He picked it up and moved closer to the rail, wincing at the weight. His arm still hurt from the force of MacLeod’s grip. The Highlander had burst into Reliable Packers like a man gone daft, dragging Fitz away before he could give Claremont any of their money. Fitz had fairly sputtered with anger, but MacLeod had refused to explain until they were aboard the
Belle Claire.
It was, he’d declared, safe to talk there, far from the eyes and ears of the town of Skagway.

Which was, as Fitz soon learned, to all intents and purposes owned by the genial gentleman host of Jeff Smith’s Parlour. Reliable Packers did little except act as a stage on which thefts were routinely carried out. The
Skagway News,
which spoke so glowingly of Smith’s good deeds, was run by one of his flunkies. The town constable was another.

The big toe on Fitz’s left foot throbbed—from kicking a barrel which happened to be full of picks and shovels. He had named the barrel for another of Smith’s gang—Mister Slim Jim Foster. The attack hadn’t lessened his anger. However, it had actually raised a brief laugh from MacLeod, his first since they’d come to this bloody town.