Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany

of the door. He didn’t resist, but continued talking to me over his shoulder. “See how agreeable I’m being, Fiona. No trouble. I have an offer to make you. Supper tomorrow?”

      I didn’t bother to answer. They reached the door, and Ray shoved Sheridan into the street.

      The man stumbled a few feet, then turned and touched the brim of his hat. “Shall we say seven o’clock? You can suggest the restaurant.” He kissed the tips of his fingers, extended them to me, and then turned and walked. A spring was in his step.

      “I’ll have a word with Corporal Sterling tomorrow,” I said.

      “Aye. The Mounties’ll want to know Soapy Smith’s arrived in Dawson.”

      Chapter Two

      Angus MacGillivray hated every minute he spent working in Mr. Mann’s shop.

      At twelve years old, he should have been devoting his time to preparing for his future. At the moment, he was undecided if he were going to become a writer, like his friend Martha Witherspoon, or a Mountie, like Corporal Richard Sterling. Perhaps he could be both. He could work as a policeman and write about his adventures, under a different name.

      He wondered what name he could use. His mother was very proud of being Scottish, as was he, so he should take a Scottish name as his nom-de-plume. He didn’t know what his mother’s maiden name was, had never thought to ask. She had no family left, and he hadn’t grown up knowing any grandparents or cousins or aunts and uncles. His father had died before he was born, and for all of his life it had just been the two of them. Angus and his mother.

      Mrs. Mann fussed over Angus as much as if she were his grandmother. She was their landlady, and that made her sort of a servant, but it wasn’t like any of the servants they’d had in Toronto or London.

      More like family.

      “I said how much do ya want for this here pot?”

      A large woman, her bosom like the prow of a ship, waved a stockpot with a broken handle at him. “Are you deaf or just stupid?” she added.

      “Sorry ma’am. I didn’t hear you. It’s a quarter.”

      “A quarter! It ain’t even got two handles. Look, this one’s broke.”

      “I see that.”

      “If you think I’m paying a quarter for a broken pot, young man, you can think again.” She slammed the item down on the counter and stalked off.

      Angus guessed the woman had just arrived in town. She’d find out soon enough that prices in Dawson bore absolutely no similarity to prices in the Outside.

      And Mr. Mann’s shop bore absolutely no similarity to stores in the Outside. It consisted of a couple of lengths of canvas strung up between logs so unfinished they still sprouted crumbling leaves, and a roughly-planed plank served as the counter. A tent next door was the warehouse.

      Stores no fancier than this one were packed along the waterfront. They not only sold, but also bought. And there was a lot to buy. The trip to the Yukon had been so spirit- and back-breaking, the town travellers had given their all to reach so disappointing, that many simply sold everything they had the moment they arrived and turned around and headed back south.

      Mr. Mann was negotiating the price of a rifle. Its owner had been up and down the line of tents, increasingly incredulous at the low price he was being offered. In Dawson the weapon had no value at all — the Mounties outlawed carrying firearms in town.

      With a burst of curses that would have had him arrested if a Mountie were in earshot, the man shoved his rifle at Mr. Mann, took his money, and left. Expressionless, Mr. Mann made room on the counter for the new item by moving aside a pair of long johns that had seen better days.

      He glanced over to see Angus watching him. He shook his head. “Foolish, such men,” he said.

      Angus sighed. Miss Witherspoon had told him that every experience was fodder for the writer’s pen. He reminded himself that he would write about the Klondike some day, and all of this would then seem worthwhile.

      “Angus, my boy. Wouldn’t have expected to see you here.”

      Angus stared at the newcomer, open mouthed. The man thrust a hand across the counter and instinctively Angus accepted the handshake.

      “Surely, your ma hasn’t fallen on such hard times that you’re forced to take work as a shop clerk. Why, I saw her last night, as lovely as ever.” His eyes opened wide, “Don’t tell me that rat-faced weasel Walker cheated her out of her money, and you’re forced to labour here. Why I told her ...”

      “No, Mr. Sheridan. Mr. Walker hasn’t cheated anyone. The Savoy’s the most popular dance hall in all of Dawson.” Angus slid a glance at Mr. Mann, now helping a lady sort though a box of sewing supplies. “I’m ... I’m ... I’m uh, learning a business. So I can help Ma with her own business affairs someday. It’s a great honour.”

      Sheridan looked dubious at that. As well he might.

      “What are you doing here, anyway?” Angus said. “Last time I saw you, you said only fools and easterners went chasing gold.”

      “So I did, my boy.” Sheridan tapped the side of his nose. “I have my reasons. I’m having supper with your mother tonight and I’ll tell her my plans then.”

      Angus laughed. “You’re having supper with my mother? Not if she has anything to say about it.”

      Sheridan took no offence. As Angus remembered, the man could be totally blind to anything that contradicted his view of the world.

      Sheridan studied the line of goods for sale. His eyes came to rest on the Winchester. He picked it up, balanced it in his hands, lifted it, and peered down the length.

      “One dollar, fifty cents,” Mr. Mann said.

      “A buck fifty?” Sheridan said. “What, doesn’t it work?”

      “You can’t use it,” Angus said. “Mounties’ll confiscate it if you have it in town.”

      “Not planning to stay in town.”

      “Can’t take it to the Creeks either.”

      “Not planning to go to the Creeks. Didn’t I tell you, Angus, man’s a fool who goes where every other man goes. Gotta strike out on your own. I’ll take it. And a box of cartridges.”

      Mr. Mann looked to Angus for an explanation.

      “Cartridges, bullets.” Angus mimed loading the weapon.

      Mr. Mann shook his head. “You wants gun? Is one dollar, fifty cents.”

      “What the hell? Rifle ain’t much use without cartridges. Damn strange town you have here. Does anyone else sell ammunition?”

      Angus shrugged. “You can ask.”

      “I’ll do that.” Sheridan handed a tattered American dollar bill and a couple of coins to Mr. Mann, who tucked them away in the small apron he wore around his waist for just that purpose. “Your ma will probably tell you about our plans later tonight. I think you’ll be pleased.”

      Sheridan gave Angus a wink and walked away, head and shoulders bobbing above the crowd, Winchester balanced on his hip.

      “I have to go to the police,” Angus said.

      Mr. Mann’s eyes quickly travelled across over the jumble of items on the counter, searching for something missing. He knew the location and value of everything on display, as well as all the boxes, bags, and loose items stacked under the counter, against the length of canvas that was the back wall, and piled in the tent warehouse.

      Finding nothing missing, he said, “Why?”

      “That man. Nothing but trouble.”

      “Wees wants no trouble here. Yous go to seh police.”