A Tyranny of Petticoats (25 page)

“So what? They’re all hiding under their beds while that festering scab of a
cheechako
destroys our lives.”

It’s true. Smith and his henchmen left soon after his ultimatum. While I took care of the bar, Clara slipped out to talk with other Skaguay business owners. It seems there’s a lot to know about our would-be associate, none of it good. He was a street-corner flimflam man turned card shark. He earned the nickname “Soapy” for his most famous racket, in which he auctioned off bars of soap. His many saloons and gambling dens in Colorado were the perfect fronts for his cons, all of which involved stealing from unsuspecting marks.

With so much gold dust flying around the Klondike, and thousands of feverish tenderfeet stampeding their way up here, it’s no wonder Soapy reckons he can strike it rich too. He doesn’t need to pan for gold; he can steal it right out of everyone else’s pockets. And it’s no mystery why he’s chosen Garrett’s Saloon as his first target either. We are young. We are women. If I were Soapy, I’d have picked on us too.

Clara twirls the front-door key around her finger. “What do you say, Lil? I’m all for dousing the place in kerosene and lighting a bonfire so big they’ll see it in Canada. Then I’ll bury this key in a dog turd and leave it at Soapy’s door.”

I’ve never seen my sister like this. Then again, we’ve never faced this kind of threat. Lu Garrett didn’t have a rule for dealing with brazen extortion. “Where would that leave us, Clary? Homeless and destitute.”

“Not destitute: we have our savings. We’ll get the first boat to Seattle tomorrow morning.”

“D’you really think Soapy would wave us off from the dock after we destroyed the saloon? From his perspective, we’d have burned down his property. How many hoodlums does he have? Do you think we’d even make it on board?” I shiver. “I don’t think he’d be merciful just because we’re young women.”

She goes very still. “The opposite, I think.”

“Yes. He’d make an example of us, to whip everyone else into line.”

“We could give him the slip, head north over the White Pass.”

I raise one eyebrow. Locals know that the nearest trail to the Yukon is, well, impassable. Even now in midwinter, when the ground is solid ice instead of boggy mud, the route is narrow, treacherous, and putrid with the half-rotted corpses of hundreds of starved and overworked horses abandoned by their owners. Only the greedy and stupid attempt the White Pass. They try by the hundreds each week.

Clara’s eyes are wide, her face milky pale. After a long pause, she whispers, “Then we’re trapped. We have to agree to his terms.”

“The others won’t stand with us against Soapy? If we all worked together, we could run him out of town.”

“I went everywhere. ‘Every man for himself,’ they said. Others told me to take Soapy’s offer and be grateful.” Her lip curls. “Most of them couldn’t even look me in the eye.”

“You think he bribed them to say that?”

“He doesn’t need to; they’re terrified of him. Madame Robillard says he’s got spies all over town, fingers in every pie. The neighbors are just grateful he’s after us, not them.”

“What did they say at Clancy’s?” The Clancy brothers own the second-most-popular saloon in Skaguay. They have always resented our success.

“Pat Clancy laughed and said girls had no business running a saloon anyway.”

I hesitate. “Soapy’s offering us ten percent of the profits. That’s only twenty dollars a night. Maybe forty if he doubles our takings, like he said.” That’s a lot more than pocket change anywhere else in America, but Alaska is different. Sometimes an egg costs a dollar.

Clara nods. “And what happens when Soapy reneges on his offer and kicks us out? That’s just a matter of time.” Her eyes are dazzling with unshed tears. “We’ve already lost, Lil. The saloon is gone.”

When confronted with an abstract threat, it’s easy to roar,
Over my dead body.
But this threat is real. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever faced — more real than frostbite in January, more real than the stink of hops and tree sap as I brew beer, more real than the transcendent glory of the northern lights. And I can’t think of a single argument in our favor.

I fill a pot with water and set it on the woodstove. I carefully grind the last of our coffee beans. Normally, I’m stingy with the coffee, trying to eke it out until the next boatload of supplies comes to town. But tonight we’ll enjoy it while we can. We sit at a small table, side by side, steaming mugs in our hands.

“What are you thinking?” asks Clara quietly.

“All kinds of things.” My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear her. My brain is equally frantic.

“I love you, Lily Garrett,” she says, her voice tight. “And I love being alive. I want us to stay this way.”

I grip her in a fierce hug. “I love you too. And we will live. If Lu were here, she’d make a new rule: we don’t buckle under to
cheechakos
named Soapy.”

Clara makes a sound that is half laugh, half sob. “Promise?”

“I promise.” We hug for a long time, and then we straighten up. We sip our coffee. “I think you’re right: we’re going to lose the saloon. But we’re going to leave it on our terms.”

Finding Soapy is easy. Next day — or rather, later the same day — I walk down Broadway to Skaguay’s least-squalid hotel and ask for Mr. Smith. The hotel’s owner, Mrs. Braun, doesn’t blink, but I know the gossip will be halfway around town almost before I finish my sentence. “Mr. Smith, yes,” she clucks. “You sit in the breakfast room, dear. I’ll fetch him for you.”

The “breakfast room” is a medium-sized tent pegged to the main building, furnished with a few rickety tables and stools. Its kerosene stove is no match for the piercing breeze that leaks in under its canvas hem, and hungry guests shiver in their overcoats as they gobble congealing bacon and stiff toast. Not me: I have my nerves to keep me warm.

In a few minutes, Soapy materializes. “A good morning to you, Miss Lily. I hope you slept well; I know I certainly did.”

I don’t bother with a greeting. “I have a counterproposal for you, Mr. Smith.”

He glances around before sitting down. I notice two hoods place themselves at the next table, their attention clearly fixed on us. “May I offer you some refreshment?” Soapy asks. “The coffee’s never hot, but it’s better than the tea.”

“No, thanks. This is purely a business call.” I’m pleased to find that my voice barely shakes.

“I’m keen to hear it.”

“I’d like to propose a short-term partnership. My sister and I will offer you a fifty-fifty share of the saloon’s nightly profits for the next month.” I take a deep breath. This next sentence will hurt. “After that, we will turn over the business to you — and leave town.”

Soapy smiles flirtatiously. “Just like that? Why a month?”

If I try to smile back, I’ll cry. “We don’t have any savings. A month will allow us to build up a cash reserve. It’ll pay for our tickets out of town and help us set up a new business in our next home.”

“Where do you plan to go?”

“That’s not your concern, Mr. Smith. I promise we’ll leave Skaguay.”

He thinks about that. “How much does the saloon take each night?”

“About two hundred dollars, on average.”

He whistles low. “And you want an extra month? At fifty-fifty, that’s three thousand dollars in your greedy little purses.”

I don’t point out the utter hypocrisy of his lecturing me about greed. “Like I said, that’s our journey out and capital for the future.”

He glances toward his men at the next table. “I should say no. Why would I settle for a measly half when I’ll be getting ninety percent from you tonight anyway?”

“You might not,” I reply, and the anger in my voice surprises even me. I hold his startled gaze and do not blink. “You have no idea what we are capable of, Mr. Smith, if pushed too far.”

There is a long silence. I sit completely still and continue to stare at him, and he at me. It’s fifteen degrees outside, and I am sweating from neck to knee. Eventually, he forces a chuckle and says, “Well, then. Fifty-fifty, and you’ll hand over the deed?”

“Deed, keys, and contents. There’s even a barrel of genuine French brandy in the storeroom.”

He shrugs. “I always was a tenderhearted fool. One week of fifty-fifty, Miss Lily.”

“Two weeks. That’s my final offer.”

A conniving smirk slides across his face. It’s gone a moment later, but I know what I’ve seen. “You’re a hard bargainer for a little girl. After the two weeks is up, maybe you’ll consent to join my business.”

“Do we have a deal, Mr. Smith?”

“Two weeks, you said?” he asks, dodging the question.

We shake on it. His hand is corpse cold. As I leave the hotel, I scrub my right palm against the rough wool of my overskirt until it’s raw.

I walk all the way down Broadway, checking frequently over my shoulder. I can’t see any of Soapy’s sidekicks behind me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being followed. At Sikorsky’s Outfitters, I purchase a few supplies, paying for them in gold dust: a pick, a short-handled shovel, a bucket, several oilcloth bags, a couple of canteens, and some cartridges for our hunting rifle. The oilcloth, canteens, and ammunition fit into a satchel slung beneath my parka. There’s no subtle way to carry a shovel or a pick, but that suits my purpose. I walk tall as I stride homeward along the busy streets.

I pin a notice on the saloon door saying
CLOSED UNTIL 8.
Now that I’m alone, I have a sudden attack of nausea. It’s one thing to cut a deal with Soapy, another thing entirely to go through with our plan. Still, what choice do we have? If we’re going to lose the saloon and leave Skaguay, at least we’ll do it our way.

I walk behind the bar. There, carefully hidden by casks of booze and crates of empty bottles, is a trapdoor wide enough to admit a man. I raise the lid and haul out the shoe box that holds our life savings. I know precisely how much cash is in that box. But for now, I’m interested in the empty hole.

Digging frozen soil is almost impossible. But here in town, stoves and fireplaces burn constantly. The buildings are all huddled together, and they keep one another — and the ground — warm, like a pack of sled dogs bedding down for the night. Having said that, it is still 100 percent thankless and exhausting work. I’m about three feet down and coated in muck when Clara finally comes home.

“Sorry I took so long,” she says, stamping ice from her boots. She must have done a good clip: she’s sweating despite the knife-like winds outside. “John’s on the trail, so I hiked up to his clan house to leave a message.”

“Any idea where he’s heading?” As a trader, John is often away for weeks at a time.

“They’re not sure. Probably not Dawson.”

Dawson City is more than four hundred miles from here. If John is traveling to Dawson, we really are doomed. “You think he’ll help us?”

“Of course he will. We’ve been friends forever.”

My mouth twists. “About six months, actually.”

“That’s a lifetime in frontier land,” she argues. “It’s as long as the town of Skaguay’s existed. We three have a history.”

It’s true. When John first trekked into town with a heavy pack on his back, everybody wanted his goods but nobody wanted to deal with an Indian. That changed when Clara and I bought his best furs to make winter parkas. Our friendship grew from there: he taught us how to paddle a canoe and showed us the best places to gather salmonberries. We told him stories from the Outside — wild tales of growing up in saloons all along the Pacific Coast — and helped him learn to read English. We even know his Tlingit name. We’re the only white people who do. Still, I’m worried. “He’d better come back to town in time to help us.”

Clara comes around to inspect my work. “What did Soapy say?”

“Two weeks. I had to shake his hand.”

“Ugh. Poor you.” She reaches out to haul me up. “Here, let me have a turn.”

The next five days, we only stop digging to open for business between eight p.m. and two a.m. At all other times, one of us is deep in that blasted hole, which is slowly becoming a tunnel. The other person cooks meals, keeps the saloon looking decent, and dumps hundreds of bucketfuls of soil out back, beside the privy. The sun sets around three in the afternoon, but, as we hope, plenty of folks have a chance to notice Alaska’s newest mountain. A lot of regulars tease us about it and we smile mysteriously. They complain about our shorter hours and we smile mysteriously. They ask if we’re going to work for Soapy and we smile mysteriously.

All of Skaguay gossips about Soapy’s latest grab game. Rumors multiply like wild hare on the tundra. Still, we can’t sleep at night. Clara looks more ethereal than ever. I am plain haggard.

John finally stops by the saloon almost a week after Soapy’s first visit. He is travel weary and unshaven, and I have never been happier to see anybody in my whole life. He pulls up a stool at the bar and says, “I got Clara’s message.”

I pour him a double brandy — no melted snow — and wave away his money. “Are you able to help us?”

He turns and looks slowly, deliberately, around the room. “I’ve never seen it this busy.” He’s right. Despite the shorter hours, our takings are better than ever. The rumor mill helps with that: the men worry that Clara might leave soon.

“Only for a day or two longer,” I say. “A week at the outside.”

“And then?”

“We need your help skipping town. We have to use a route known only to your people.”

He pauses midsip. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”

“Would you stay, if you were us?”

His mouth twists. “Of course not. But I will miss you.”

“Everyone says that,” I snarl, “but they’re still just twiddling their thumbs while Soapy runs us out of town.”

He holds my gaze. “I won’t. How can I help?”

“We need to paddle down the coast, maybe as far as Juneau. We’ll have very little with us.”

He nods. “I’ll wait for you at the clan house.”

“Thank you.” I glance around the bar. All eyes are on Clara, holding court in the middle of the room, so I press a small, heavy bag into John’s palm. “A deposit,” I say. “For supplies.”

He frowns. “That is unnecessary. We are friends.”