Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany

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      Cover

      

      Gold Mountain

      A Klondike Mystery

      Vicki Delany

      Dedication

      For Caroline, Julia, and Alex

      Maps

      [no image in epub file]

      Image courtesy of the Dawson City Museum

      Image courtesy of Government of Yukon

      Prologue

      Blood is so difficult to wash out of good clothing.

      Two men came tumbling out of the gambling room in a flying mass of fists and feet, unwashed clothes, manure-encrusted boots, mining dust, Front Street mud, and months of pent-up disappointment. I had barely enough time to dance backward, avoiding a spatter of blood destined for the bosom of my red satin gown. I fell backward into someone, tall and hard-muscled, and I felt his strong arms wrapping themselves around me and rough hands taking advantage of the opportunity to caress my shoulders.

      Without looking to see who was holding me, I felt the roaming hands now moving away from my shoulders and inching toward my breasts. I drove my elbow backward into his midsection, then raked the heel of my boot down his leg and planted it firmly into his instep. The arms released me and the man grunted softly.

      “I’ll have you for that, you lying son-of-a-bitch,” the larger of the fighters shouted, spitting out a tooth along with a mouthful of blood and saliva as he struggled to be the first one back on his feet. A flock of gamblers, eager to follow the action, spilled out of the back rooms. They still clutched chips or cards in their scarred hands with cracked nails, stained black with dust and mud. But, of course, not everyone deserted the game — the croupier’s voice could still be heard, calmly saying, “place your bets, gentlemen.”

      The larger man, whose tooth was now lying in a slimy puddle in the middle of the floor, lunged toward the other, swinging a wild fist. The punch landed, and the smaller man staggered backward, falling into the crowd of drinkers crowded around the bar. Old Barney’s stool swayed dangerously, but he merely clenched his glass tighter and took another swallow. Maxie screamed in mock terror and pretended to faint dead away, in a flutter of cheap fabric and many-times-mended stockings. Unfortunately for her, no one reacted, and she hit the floor with a distinct thud followed by an indignant shriek. Her skirt flew up high above her ankles, and at the sight of all that exposed leg, men rushed to offer her assistance.

      Irene stood safely back from the melee, watching it all with a smile of mild amusement. A young fellow, dressed as if he were going shooting for grouse in Scotland, extended his arm. She sized him up in an instant, accepted the offer with a gracious nod, and allowed him to escort her to safety.

      “One hundred dollars on the big guy,” came a shout from the back of the room. A chorus of voices took him up on it. The smaller man shook his head and threw himself back into the fight. He landed a powerful right hook that belied his scrawny frame. The larger man flew backwards, crashing into a circle of drinkers watching the fight. A glass shattered on the floor. “Why you …” the glass’s owner shouted, raising his fist to send the other man back the way he’d come.

      “Stay out of it, Williams,” one of his group yelled, grabbing at him. His blood up, Williams drove his meaty fist straight into his friend’s stomach. The friend — former friend? — blanched and vomited.

      “Hey, that was a dirty trick,” a third man said, striking Williams solidly in the jaw.

      The violin player, who had been halfway across the room when the fight broke out, clung to the walls, clutching his delicate instrument to his chest as if it were a newborn.

      “Ray,” I bellowed, wading into the altercation, calling for my business partner, “where are you?”

      Murray, one of the bartenders, dashed out of the gambling room and reached the secondary fight, which was now threatening to spawn a tertiary engagement. “Take it outside, boys.” Murray pushed the antagonists apart.

      At last I could see Ray. He had pulled a well-used baton out from beneath the long counter of the bar and was advancing on the men who’d started the whole thing.

      “That won’t be necessary, Walker,” a voice cut in. It belonged to one of the two Mounties, radiating authority in their scarlet tunics, broad-brimmed hats, and polished black boots. “We’ll take care of it.”

      The patrons moved aside politely to allow the law passage. A forest of arms lifted Maxie to her feet. Betsy stopped screaming and fluttered her eyelashes at the younger policeman, but he ignored her. The man who was taking bets on the outcome of the fight moaned in disappointment. Each Mountie grabbed a fighter by the back of his collar and propelled him toward the door. “It’s a blue card for you two,” the older officer said, “and make no mistake.”

      The moment the doors shut behind them, the room returned to normal. The gamblers went back to their games, the drinkers surged toward the bar for another round, and the dancers and the musicians — including a pouting Maxie and a weeping violinist — departed to get ready for the night’s show. Barney, not much caring if anyone was listening or not, droned on about the old days. Murray politely asked the man with vomit all down his shirt to go home and change before having another drink, and Ray replaced the baton behind the bar with scarcely a blink. Helen poked her nose out of the back room and groaned at sight of the mess she’d have to clean up. I touched my hair, making sure every strand was tucked neatly in place, checked that my best-quality fake pearls were still draped around my neck, and straightened the skirt of my red satin gown. I waved to Ray and indicated that I would take a breath of air for a few moments.

      I watched the crowds flowing up and down and across Front Street. What had I gotten myself into, was my first thought. A great deal of money, was my second.

      Owning a dance hall in Dawson, Yukon Territory, in the summer of 1898 certainly beat dangling from a rope tossed out of the second-story bedroom of a Belgravia townhouse on a rainy February night, dressed in men’s clothes — all in black — with a pocket full of rings and necklaces and a sack of the family’s good silver tossed across my back, trying not to breathe too loudly while a constable, tardy on his rounds for one cursed night, stood below, sneaking a quick smoke.

      I laughed deeply, winked at a shiny faced cheechako passing by, and returned to the lights of the Savoy with a flick of my skirt.

      Chapter One

      The next night, we seemed to be busier than ever, if that was even possible. It was July of 1898 and the entire world was caught in the grip of Klondike gold fever. Thousands upon thousands of people had arrived in Dawson over the previous weeks, and still they came by every sort of watercraft available. Keep this up and it might require building an extension onto the Savoy Saloon and Dance Hall. The question was, where would it go? The buildings along Front Street, tossed up virtually overnight with little thought to aesthetics, safety, or permanency, stood cheek-to-jowl. Out the back, beyond the alley, was another row of stores, including a mortuary and a dry goods shop.

      Neither of which lacked for custom either.

      The days were hot, the nights long and warm, and people had come through so much hardship simply to get here, they seemed almost desperate to spend what money they had as fast as possible. The lucky few who’d found gold, such as my favourite barfly Barney, didn’t know the meaning of the word restraint.

      All the better, because I myself know perfectly well the value of a dollar — and what it’s like not to have one.

      It was shortly after midnight when I saw him.

      Paul Sheridan.