Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany

My luck’s about to turn.”

      “A night in jail and your luck will definitely be turning.”

      “I haven’t done anything.”

      “Glad to hear it. Then we can just talk. Randy, give the man back his chips.” The croupier pushed them over.

      “Keep them,” Sheridan said. “And save my place. I’ll be back.”

      “Free with your money, aren’t you?” Sterling asked, as he led the man though the bar and out to the street.

      “I’ll be getting plenty more soon.”

      Sterling didn’t bother to ask where. Half the men who arrived in the Klondike seemed to expect gold nuggets to be lying on the ground or hanging from the scruffy pine trees like fruit ripe for the picking. But some people were starting to leave, giving up the dream, heading back to the south. Telling others they passed on the trail there was no point in carrying on. No more gold was to be found, no jobs except hard work on another man’s claim.

      Still they came. Optimistic to the end.

      “Where’d you come from?” Sterling asked. They stood on the wooden sidewalk, a few feet down from the Monte Carlo’s doors. McAllen watched the street.

      “Told you about me did she?” Sheridan shook his head. “Naughty minx. Or was it her boy?” His eyes darkened. “You wouldn’t have a personal interest in this would you?”

      “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Where was your last place of residence?”

      “As you know, Skagway. And yes, I was in the employ of Soapy Smith. Although I never did anything illegal, you see. I worked in one of his establishments. All above board, of course.”

      “Of course. Did Smith send you here?”

      “Nope. These days, Soapy isn’t sending anyone anywhere. He’s losing control, Soapy is. I could see the writing on the wall. Time to get out of town.”

      Sterling believed the man. Rumour drifting over the passes said Soapy was running into trouble. On one hand criminals, new arrivals, weren’t about to take orders from anyone, and on the other hand Skagway townsfolk were muttering about taking the law into their own hands.

      “Planning to stay in town for long?”

      “Nope. I’m getting married and then my lady and I will be heading north.”

      “North? There’s nothing north of here.”

      Sheridan tapped the side of his nose. “Not telling. These men,” he nodded to a group of grime-incrusted, long-bearded, probably lice-infested miners, heading out of town carrying equipment and supplies, “they’re wasting their time. Bonanza Creek. Eldorado. Child’s play. There’s a mountain of gold out there. And I’m the only one knows where it is.”

      “If you say so. Be sure you keep your nose clean while you’re here, will you.”

      Sheridan tipped his hat and sauntered away, whistling, hands in pockets. He didn’t go back to the Monte Carlo.

      McAllen lifted his hand to his head and drew circles in the air.

      Sterling laughed.

      Chapter Seven

      The word chaos had been invented to describe Skagway in the late summer of 1897.

      Angus and I had arrived in Alaska aboard the good ship Bristol out of Victoria. The town didn’t even boast a dock; ships had to anchor at sea and ferry passengers and cargo to shore with boats. Horses — scrawny, terrified beasts, every one — were shoved overboard to sink or swim. We humans, along with all our possessions, were unceremoniously dumped on a muddy patch of rocks and seaweed. Fortunately, I was possessed of sufficient charm, plus the proceeds of the sale of Mrs. NcNally’s jewellery, to hire a man to ferry our trunks to the best hotel in town. I tried to barter down from the outrageous $50 an hour the foul-breathed man wanted to charge, but he shrugged and said, “You want to wait a couple hours, lady, rate’ll go down to twenty. ’Course by then tide’ll be high.”

      I paid.

      All I felt on my arrival in Alaska was sheer horror. Angus, on the other hand, stared at everything with wide-eyed wonder and boyish enthusiasm. Viewed from the boat, the town was nothing but a disappointing cluster of white canvas tents, immediately beyond which a dark line of trees loomed. Snow-capped mountains filled the sky. At low tide, the air stank of rotting fish and vegetation and mud. To one side of the scattering of tents lay wilderness, on the other the ocean, and I wondered uneasily what I had gotten myself into.

      My unease only grew when we set foot on land.

      The town boasted no more than a couple of actual buildings. Everything else, commerce as well as housing, was in tents. The main street, grandly called Broadway, was nothing but a line of tents. Why, tree stumps stuck up from the middle of the muddy roadway!

      Nevertheless, I was here, and I immediately set about establishing my business venture. I’d made the acquaintance of a large number of people — first among those waiting for ships in Vancouver and Victoria and then aboard the Bristol — whom I might be able to employ. Women, for the most part, who called themselves actresses or dancers. Those I suspected were heading for the Klondike for another line of work, I avoided. On board the ship, I auditioned a group of male musicians and a vaudeville entertainer and offered them employment. They were all enthusiastic, and I felt confident about the venture.

      I had plans of renting a building to use as my theatre, but now that I saw the town, I was beginning to have doubts I could locate anything suitable.

      There was hope, however. Buildings were rising from the forest, virtually before our eyes, the air full of sounds of sawing and hammering.

      “Isn’t this absolutely grand, Mother,” Angus said happily while we ploughed our way through the mud after our porters, there being no room on the cart for passengers.

      I had taken two steps on so-called dry land and already the muck dragged at my skirts. Propriety be damned, I yanked my skirts up, folded the excess fabric into my belt, and stalked after my son and our worldly belongings.

      Immediately upon checking into our hotel, I stripped the bed, bundled the sheets into a ball, threw them (and all their occupants) into the hall, and remade the bed with sheets I’d brought. With a considerable degree of foresight, I’d packed expecting conditions not to be entirely of the sort I am accustomed to, so I dug out a bottle of ammonia and a couple of rags and set Angus to wiping the entire place down. I changed out of my travel-stained clothes and put on a light blue day dress and matching hat that wouldn’t have been out of place on Pall Mall. I then wrapped a length of fake pearls, of good enough quality to appear real on not-too-close inspection, around my neck and completed the costume with pearls in my ears. Ordering Angus to remain in our room until I returned, I set off to explore our new home.

      The grand tour took about five minutes.

      A gambling parlour looked like a good place to begin scouting out the territory.

      I knew better than to hesitate and walked directly into the tent that called itself The Pack Train Saloon.

      It was the middle of the day, yet the establishment was busy. Every man in the place looked up as I entered. The roulette wheel clattered to a stop. Hands of cards were dropped and dice lay abandoned.

      “Good afternoon,” I said. “I am Mrs. MacGillivray and I am here to do business.”

      “Ma’am.” A man came out from behind the bar. “We don’t allow that sort o’ business here.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. Through a stroke of considerable fate, I happen to speak with a cut-glass aristocratic English accent. I find that the proper use of the Queen’s English reduces Americans and Canadians to bumbling fools. “I will be opening a theatre, a place of respectable stage entertainment. I am in search of premises to rent.”