Gold Mountain. Vicki Delany
Richard Sterling of the North-West Mounted Police put his feet up on his desk and leaned back with a contented sigh. He puffed at his pipe — a rare indulgence in the middle of a working shift. At about 30,000 people, almost all of whom had arrived in the last two months, the town of Dawson was growing fast. The powers-that-be had decided that, in addition to Fort Herchmer, they needed an office in town, and they set it up in a small building on Queen Street at the corner of Second Avenue. Nice and close to the cribs in Paradise Alley and the bars and dance halls along Front Street.
Richard Sterling had a staff of four constables, and one special constable to cook, clean, and generally run errands. Life was looking up. He had been a sergeant, once, but was busted down to constable, lucky to still have a job, after punching out an officer. He’d been one of the first Mounties in the Yukon, sent to Forty Mile with Superintendent Constantine in the summer of ’95 when the government in Ottawa, in its wisdom, extended the forces of law and order to the untamed, largely unpopulated territory. It was a tough place to live and work, but he loved it. It beat working on the farm in the Carrot River Valley in Saskatchewan, where he’d grown up.
The office walls were thin, the wood full of cracks. He heard the front door open and a boy’s high voice greet the constable out front. Sterling dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed a piece of paper off the desk. He was reading an official report when he heard a knock on his door. He hesitated for a moment, before calling, “Come in.”
As expected, it was young Angus MacGillivray. Angus had hopes of being a Mountie some day and hung around the station — and Richard Sterling — to a point just short of annoying. But he was a good lad, smart and principled.
It didn’t hurt that the boy’s mother was Fiona MacGillivray, who ... Sterling coughed and sat up a bit straighter in his chair.
“What brings you here, Angus? Quiet down at the store today?”
“No, sir. We’re really busy. I’m here on police business. You need to know ...”
They heard the street door open again. Fabric rustled and sharp heels sounded on the wooden floor. The scent of good soap and light perfume drifted in. Sterling jumped to his feet as a woman’s soft voice asked the constable for Mr. Sterling.
“Mother,” Angus said, “what are you doing here?”
“Angus,” Fiona said, her head popping around the corner, “what are you doing here?”
They both spoke at once. “Someone you should know about ...” Angus said. “Man in town ...” Fiona said.
Sterling held up one hand. “Mrs. MacGillivray, please have a seat.”
She smiled at him and sat, arranging her skirts around her. She wore a two-piece white day dress that almost took his breath away. White was a highly impractical colour in Dawson, where mills worked night and day producing lumber for the fast-growing town, and the sawdust covered everything. What’s more, even the smallest rain shower turned the streets into rivers of mud. Yet somehow Fiona had managed to keep the hem of her dress immaculately clean. Unlike a lot of women, Fiona MacGillivray wasn’t adverse to pulling up her skirts and tucking them into her belt to wade across the street. Sterling shoved aside an image of shapely ankles encased in high-heeled, buttoned boots.
She straightened her already perfectly straight hat. “A most unsavoury person of my acquaintance came into the Savoy last night,” she began.
“Paul Sheridan,” Angus interrupted.
“You’ve seen him?”
“He was down at Bowery Street this morning. Stopped at the store and said hello.”
“Plenty of unsavoury persons in town,” Sterling said. “What makes this fellow of interest?”
“Soapy Smith,” Angus and Fiona chorused.
“What?”
“Sheridan is ...”
“Soapy must have ...”
“Hold on. Only one of you talk at once. Mrs. MacGillivray, what does this Sheridan fellow have to do with Smith?”
Fiona took a deep breath. Underneath the white fabric, her bosom moved. Sterling tried not to think about that and instead to concentrate on the matter at hand.
“On our way to the Yukon, Angus and I passed through Skagway. Our passage was most speedy, I might add, once I understood the situation in town. Mr. Paul Sheridan is, to put it simply, one of Soapy Smith’s gang.”
“More than just one of the gang, he’s like a lieutenant or something.”
“Angus, I believe Corporal Sterling has requested I tell this story.”
“Sorry, Ma. I mean, Mother.”
“As Angus so rudely said, Mr. Sheridan is one of Mr. Smith’s top-level assistants. Highly trusted, I believe, in the sense that Mr. Smith and characters of his ilk trust anyone.”
“Why’s he in Dawson?”
Angus and Fiona exchanged glances.
“I have no idea,” she said.
“He told me he has a plan,” Angus said. “He said he’s having dinner with you tonight, Mother. Is that right?”
If Fiona hadn’t been a well brought up English gentlewoman, Sterling thought she might have spit on the floor. Instead, she sniffed. “Hardly. Whatever delusions Mr. Sheridan continues to maintain about me are neither here nor there.” She rose in one long, liquid motion.
Sterling leapt to his feet, knocking his right knee against the underside of the desk. He stifled a groan. “Thank you for coming, Mrs. MacGillivray.”
“It is no more than my duty,” she replied. He wasn’t quite sure, but he might have seen a spark of mischief in the black depths of her eyes.
“Before you go, can you give me a description of this person?”
“Angus will see to that. The boy’s powers of observation are quite astute.”
Angus preened.
“He didn’t say anything to you about why he’s in Dawson?”
She smiled. “No. Ray Walker and Mr. Sheridan did not part on the best of terms. Ray escorted him to the door quite unceremoniously. Good day, Corporal. Angus.”
They watched her leave and close the door to Sterling’s office silently behind her. Then they heard the street door opening with a clatter that might have had it falling from its ill-fastened hinges, such was the young constable’s haste to assist her.
Sterling took his hat down from the shelf. “You say this man’s high up in Smith’s organization?”
“Not that Soapy has an organization as such,” Angus said. “I mean with ranks and all. Just a bunch of men who do what he tells them. But yeah, Mr. Sheridan is pretty close to Soapy.”
“The last thing we want is Soapy Smith and his gang trying to cross into Canada.” The NWMP kept a Maxim machine gun at the border crossing at the top of the Chilkoot Trail, expressly for the purpose of keeping out Jefferson Randolph Smith, aka Soapy, the gangster who controlled Skagway, Alaska. “I’m going to the Fort to report this. Tell me about it on the way. First, how do you know so much about Smith and his doings?”
“Soapy wanted my ma to be his business partner,” Angus said.
Sterling stopped dead. “Your mother ... and Soapy Smith.” He shook his head. “Your mother really is the most interesting woman. This Sheridan, do you think Smith sent him to talk to her about doing business in Dawson?”
“No. He just wants to marry her.”
Chapter Four
I was rather pleased with my performance. If Angus hadn’t been there, I would have told Corporal Sterling