Gold Digger. Vicki Delany
“I want folks to know what he done to me. My own brother. Took everything I had in the world and left the little uns to starve.”
Angus’s mother had told him the story: Helen’s husband Jim and her brother had a claim out on Bonanza Creek. At first they were among the lucky ones, striking gold their first month on the river. But luck soon abandoned them, as she so often does, when loose gravel on a cliff face crumbled beneath Jim, and he fell to his death on the rocks below. It wasn’t much of a tumble either, as the story went, only a few feet, but the back of his head met with the pointed edge of a sharp rock. His partner, Helen’s own brother, John, took their gold and headed out of the territory before Helen had time to make her way to the base of the cliff and recover the body. She arrived in town with her husband’s remains, his mining equipment, and four children under the age of twelve.
The Savoy’s housekeeper had quit just a few days before, walked out in the middle of her shift having accepted a proposal of marriage on the spot from a man she’d never before laid eyes on. Not incidentally, he’d found gold and was celebrating his good fortune. So Helen was offered the job, and with just enough hesitation to assuage her pride, she accepted.
A couple of miners, their hair and clothes still thick with the dust of the dig, stopped at the foot of the step. They looked at the weeping woman, the well-dressed older man taking notes, the boy, the police officer, and hurried down the street in search of a more hospitable drinking place.
“Some privacy, please, Constable.” Ireland patted Mrs. Saunderson with one hand and dug in his pockets in search of a cigar with the other.
Mrs. Saunderson gulped, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath, almost visibly gathering her courage. “If it weren’t for Mrs. MacGillivray, I can tell you, sir, there’s no telling what woulda become of my youngins. This ain’t no town for a woman without a man, and four children. No, sir. You tell your newspaper people that Mrs. Fiona MacGillivray is a fine woman. None better.”
“I’ll do that,” Ireland said, his eyes roaming the street in search of the next story.
“Mrs. MacGillivray once owned a grand hotel in London, England.” Helen’s eyes widened at the thought of how fine a grand London hotel would be. Deep lines scored her face, and the delicate skin under her eyes, as dark as a grate full of coal, drooped towards her sunken cheeks. The effects of cold, hard work, grief and the scurvy that had stalked the town over the winter past combined to make her look twenty years older than she probably was.
“What the heck’s going on out here?” Ray Walker stood in the doorway. “Sorry Angus, Helen. Didn’t see you there. What’re you doing standing about on the stoop? Ye’r blocking the doorway. Customers can’t get themselves through.”
Sterling looked at Ireland. “Is it necessary to stand in the entrance?”
Ireland straightened his perfectly aligned tie. “Mrs. Saunderson wanted to tell me her sad story. I’m a newspaper reporter. Hearing people’s stories is my job; it’s why I’ve come to the Yukon Territory. Certainly for no other reason.” He laughed. No one joined in.
“Then take yourselves down the street. Mr. Walker has a business to run.”
“I’ve all the information I need for now. Thank you,” Ireland said. Mrs. Saunderson buried her life-worn face in the rag of the handkerchief. Ireland touched the brim of his fine hat, which was not marked by even the slightest touch of dust, and stepped into the street.
“You’ll remember my brother’s name, John O’Reilly, won’t you?” Helen called. “If it weren’t for Mrs. Mac…”
Ireland walked away, his step jaunty. He’d only gone a couple of feet when a pack of half-wild dogs rounded the corner. Angus couldn’t see what they were chasing, but they were hot after something. Ireland leapt backwards and would have fallen into the mud had he not stumbled into a huge sourdough.
“Watch where you’re goin’, damned fool.” At first, Ireland looked as if he were about to give the man an argument. Then he glanced at the bulk looming over him and at the man’s biceps—each the size of a side of ham—and thought better of it.
Helen leaned her hefty frame up against the wall and sobbed into her handkerchief.
“Mrs. Saunderson should sit down,” Angus said. “And she’d probably like a cup of tea.”
She gave Angus a small but grateful smile.
“Get off the stoop, will ye?” Ray said. “Not a customer’s come through the doorway since you been standing there. Keep this up, and we’ll be outta business. Helen, man’s been sick in the gambling hall. You don’t clean it up quick, it’ll be tracked all over the place, and Fee’ll have yer hide.”
Helen wiped her eyes and tucked her handkerchief into the sleeve of her dress.
They followed Ray into the gloom of the Savoy. The place had a fine name, and a nice sign hanging outside. But inside it was exactly the same as every other saloon in Dawson: looking as if it had been thrown up in a day—which it had. The floorboards had been slapped together out of green wood; the ceiling was spotted with damp. But the customers stood four or five deep at the bar, and men were pushing their way into the gambling hall, all before the theatre and dance hall opened for the start of the real action.
“It was right good to have someone to talk to,” Mrs. Saunderson said. “Someone what might write about what John did to us. Maybe he’ll read about it and feel bad and come back with my Jim’s gold.”
She made her way through the crowd to the small, dark room behind the bar where she kept her rags and pail.
Chapter Six
My office was on the second floor, directly above the bar, overlooking Front Street to the mud-flats, the boatcongested Yukon River, and the tent-dotted hills beyond. If I were the type of woman to pray, I would spend a good bit of every day praying that the floor held. It emitted long, ominous creaks under my steps, and in a few places the wooden planks sagged beneath my weight.
It would do nothing for my dignity, nor my reputation, if one day I fell through the floor of the office, to descend legs first into the saloon, skirt caught on a scrap of rotting wood.
It was morning, and I was doing the accounts. We’d had another good night. Summertime, and the days were long and the nights too bright for southern eyes. All those men who’d struggled up the Golden Staircase to the Chilkoot Pass and rafted down from Lake Bennett or spent the winter in a town on the verge of mass starvation simply had to spend their money.
Jake, our head croupier, told Ray and me that some fool had dropped a thousand dollars in the eight hours he’d spent at the roulette wheel. I’ve known gamblers in London, Toronto and now Dawson, and it never fails to amaze me how some people just can’t give up the game. In London, I’d even seen women standing in the shadows at the side of the clubs, handing money to men to take in and bet for them.
I’ve gambled myself, and it’s a thrill to be winning. But then I’ve never gambled with my own money; my escorts always allowed me to keep my winnings and kept paying out if I lost. I’ve worked too hard to get what I have to risk it on a spin of the wheel or toss of the dice. But perhaps I think that way because I know how much I’m taking in as the owner of the gambling hall. And I don’t make money when the punters are winning.
Graham Donohue’s head popped around the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Is it safe to come in?”
I put down my pen and rubbed my forehead. “I should say no, but I won’t. What on earth got into you yesterday, Graham?”
He tossed himself into the spare chair. A floorboard creaked and I winced. “When did that bastard Ireland get here?” he asked.
I gave him a well-practised look of feminine indignation. “Watch your language, Graham, or I’ll toss you out myself.”
He didn’t even apologize. “You don’t