Gold Fever (11 page)

Miss Witherspoon swallowed her whisky in one gulp. She gasped, her eyes welled up with tears, and she coughed. Angus patted her discreetly on the back.

She slapped her glass back on the counter. “Another,” she croaked. Ray raised one eyebrow to Angus but obligingly poured. The entire room watched Miss Witherspoon.

“Can I help you with something, miss?” Ray asked politely. This time Miss Witherspoon raised her glass cautiously and sipped. “I am a writer,” she explained. “I am here to collect material for a book about the Klondike and this uh… establishment looked like a promising place to begin.”

Miss Witherspoon didn't appear to have a single idea about how to begin. Angus cringed in embarrassment and looked over his shoulder to see if he might make a quiet escape. He was hemmed in by a solid mass of humanity, either pushing forward for a drink or to hear what the lady newcomer had to say for herself.

His mother's friend, Graham Donohue, watched them, a bemused expression on his face. “Mr. Donohue,” Angus waved frantically. The newspaperman made his way through the crowd. He leaned against the counter and rested one boot on the footrest running the length of the bar.

Angus made the introductions and suggested that perhaps Mr. Donohue could help Miss Witherspoon with the gathering of information.

Miss Witherspoon nodded with enthusiasm, the basket of plums on her hat wobbling dangerously.

Donohue stroked his moustache as his eyebrows drew together in concentration. “See, Angus, it's like this: a good newspaperman doesn't reveal his sources. If I told everyone and his brother who was giving me the best information, then I wouldn't have any exclusives for my paper, now would I?”

“The heck with that nonsense, Donohue.” A huge man stepped forward. He was almost seven feet tall, with chest and shoulders to match and an enormous moustache waxed to turn up at the ends. He was perfectly dressed in a custom-made suit with a showy red cravat pierced with a stickpin made up of a gold nugget the size of the end of Angus's thumb and a grey hat with a white headband. He carried a bag containing his outdoor boots. It was Mouse O'Brien, who always changed his shoes whenever he came in off the street. He was called Mouse not because of his size but in memory of the time a field mouse had darted across his path on the road to Bonanza Creek. The big man had screamed in terror and practically flown into the branches of a nearby tree. When his companions stopped laughing, they'd anointed him with the name. “Everyone in town knows where you get your stories, Donohue, those you don't make up at any rate.” He politely doffed his hat and nodded to Miss Witherspoon. “Welcome to Dawson, ma'am.”

He raised his voice. “Barney, come and meet this here lady.” Various drinkers propelled Barney off his stool. He burped through a mouthful of whisky and rotten teeth.

Miss Witherspoon tottered but managed to maintain her composure.

“This here is Barney, ma'am,” Mouse bellowed in his normal speaking voice. “There's nothing happened in the Yukon in the past ten years that Barney don't know. He'll help you, won't you, Barney?”

Barney grinned and burped again. “I come north in '86,” he said. “Weren't like it is now…”

Mouse nodded to Miss Witherspoon. “Don't you let the likes of Graham Donohue tell you anyone's stories are private. Stories in Dawson are like gold—just waitin' to be dug up.”

“I was only joking,” Donohue protested. “I'm late tonight.” Mouse stroked the ends of his moustache. “I've probably missed hearing my favourite girl sing and all. If you want to talk to me one day, ma'am, most folks know where to find Reginald O'Brien. Not that I've got stories like these old-timers.”

Mouse tipped his hat, bowed graciously and took his leave.

Miss Witherspoon blinked in astonishment, watching Mouse's head and shoulders pass above the crowd of drinkers. Several of the men filled the space he'd vacated and shouted that they'd be happy to talk to her too.

Angus realized it was time to earn some of his pay. He straightened up. At twelve years old, he was already taller than a good many of these undernourished, poverty-raised men. “Miss Witherspoon'll be interviewing Barney this evening,” he said. “But if you'd like to make an appointment with me, we can accommodate everyone who has a story to tell.” He pulled out a sheet of paper he congratulated himself on having had the foresight to bring.

Miss Witherspoon was still blinking. Barney had stopped talking and was staring at her hat. He wasn't holding a glass, and his fingers twitched.

“Perhaps we could find a table,” Angus suggested.

“A table?”

“A place to conduct the interview and make appointments for later?”

“A table! An excellent idea,” Miss Witherspoon blinked one last time and focused on Angus. She leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Who was that remarkable man?”

“They call him Mouse O'Brien, ma'am. I've never heard anyone call him Reginald. He's here most nights. I'll ask him if he'd like to make an appointment, if you like.”

“An appointment?”

“To be interviewed by you?”

“An appointment. Yes. An appointment.” She almost visibly shook herself. “Time to get to work then. Secure us a table, young Angus. You, bartender, I don't think I want the rest of this drink. I'll have a lemonade instead.”

Ray, who'd been listening throughout the entire exchange, because everyone else was listening and no one was buying drinks, grinned and slipped the full glass of whisky under the counter to have once her back was turned. He poured a glass of what passed in Dawson as lemonade, rather horrid, terribly sweet, canned stuff, the colour of dog piss.

Miss Witherspoon accepted the glass with a weak smile and turned away from the bar. Angus had managed to magically snare an empty table and waved her towards it.

Barney didn't move. He looked at Ray Walker, who had gone back to serving customers. "Are you coming, Mr. uh, Barney?” Miss Witherspoon inquired.

Barney looked at the row of bottles against the back wall. His eyes followed Murray as he poured drinks.

“Mr. Barney?” Miss Witherspoon repeated. Murray leaned over the counter and attempted to speak
sotto voce
. “Barney expects a drink in exchange for a story, ma'am.”

Miss Witherspoon scrambled in her bag for money. Murray accepted the cash and handed Barney his drink.

“So I said to George,” Barney said, making his way to their table, “look here, George, there ain't no gold…”

Angus MacGillivray could always tell when his mother was about to enter a room. The men standing by the door fell silent, some of them attempted to slick their cowlicks down, some straightened their tie or suspenders or checked that their shirts were tucked in, and some sucked in their stomachs, while an almost invisible path formed where moments before there'd been a solid line of drinking men.

She floated into the saloon on a cloud of satin of such a pale green, it reminded Angus of the icebergs they'd seen from the first-class deck on their voyage to Canada. He wondered if she knew how the atmosphere in the room changed the minute she approached. She smiled at the men and stopped for a brief moment to chat with a few of them and accept compliments. She seemed to be able to make every man feel he had her full attention, but all the while her black eyes were flitting about the room, noticing everything, missing nothing.

And, eventually, those black eyes settled on her only son, who was trying very hard to make himself invisible.

Her smile didn't falter, but she waved her hand at a man who was in mid-sentence and stalked across the room. Angus remembered how one of the icebergs had calved as they watched; a great roar and an icy hunk had broken off into the heaving ocean.

“Good evening, Mother,” he said, politely getting to his feet. “You remember Miss Witherspoon?”

“What on earth are you doing sitting at a table in the middle of the saloon?” Fiona looked up with a brilliant smile at a man walking dejectedly out of the gambling hall, shaking his head in disbelief. “Good night, Martin. Please do come again soon. Angus, I'm talking to you.”

“Mrs. MacGillivray, please join us. Angus, fetch another chair for your mother.” Miss Witherspoon's notebook was covered with chicken-feet scratches that didn't look anything like English to Angus. He'd been kept busy alternately jotting appointment times on his scrap of paper and ferrying glasses back and forth between the bar and Barney, who hadn't stopped talking since they'd sat down. Barney burped heartily in greeting.

Fiona settled herself into the chair Angus provided and fluffed her green skirts. “How is your companion, Miss Witherspoon?”

“She is resting at our hotel. I thought it improper to bring a delicate lady into this sort of establishment.”

“Quite. And what brings you here?”

Miss Witherspoon explained while Angus shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and Barney's eyes began to close. Fiona's smile was as icy as her gown.

“Angus,” she said, once Miss Witherspoon's narrative came to an end. “I believe it's time you were going home.”

“Oh, surely not,” Miss Witherspoon said. “We are coming along simply famously. I can't possibly remain here by myself, and Barney has ever so much more to tell me, don't you, Barney? Barney?”

But Barney's head had hit the table, where his cheek rested in a pool of whisky. Fiona raised her arm and snapped her fingers. Murray came running. “Take Barney home,” she said.

Murray tucked his bartender's cloth into the waistband of his trousers and lifted the old miner under the arms. Fiona was fond of Barney, and he was always taken care of in the Savoy. If anyone else collapsed, they'd be tossed out into the street with little regard for what might be concealed under the mud or any vehicle that might be passing by.

“It would appear,” Fiona said, “that your interview is over, Miss Witherspoon. Angus, escort Miss Witherspoon to her lodgings. And then go home.”

Miss Witherspoon gathered up her belongings and dug through her bag for two crisp dollar bills, which she thrust into Angus's hand. “Do you have my appointments for tomorrow evening, young man?”

“Yes, ma'am. Starting at eight o'clock.” She pulled out a man's heavy pocket watch and held it

in front of her, stretching her arms to almost their full length. “Close to midnight.” The watch snapped shut under the force of her approval. “I'd say that was a most successful evening. Make my last appointment for eleven. This seems to be late enough for me.” She pushed back her chair and patted the front of her dress. Her white gloves were stained with spilled whisky, pencil lead and a good coating of dust.

“Would you care to join us for tea tomorrow, Mrs. MacGillivray? Say two o'clock at my hotel? An improper hour for tea, I know, but that's when your son starts work, and I expect we'll be busy for the remainder of the day. I've noticed that in Dawson people are somewhat relaxed in consideration of proper social convention, therefore the early hour will be of no consequence. Euila's most anxious to talk with you. Until tomorrow, good evening.”

Miss Witherspoon sailed out of the Savoy, looking a great deal more confident than when she had entered. Angus gave his mother a glance before running after Miss Witherspoon.

He didn't often see his mother at a loss for words.

Once I got over my initial shock at seeing Angus in the company of Miss Witherspoon, I decided I was rather pleased with the boy. As a girl, I'd lived in comfortable rural poverty on Skye, when my parents were alive, and grinding urban misery in the worst slums of London after their deaths. Whenever my son got too satisfied with the life I provided for us in Dawson, I reminded him quickly enough that bad fortune is always lurking around a corner. I was rather proud that he was showing initiative and earning money. I would have preferred it weren't from Miss Witherspoon, having been determined to keep Angus and Euila from meeting again, but other than tie him to his bed until they left town, I had no way of preventing him from associating with them. Any direct order to stay out of their way would only make the boy curious. I would try, somehow, to indicate to Euila at tea tomorrow that she should not tell Angus about our mutual past. I'd always been able to manipulate her into doing anything, and Euila didn't appear to have grown any more backbone since our childhood.

It would be nice to spend some time with Euila Forester, I thought, but I wasn't too keen on having tea with her and Martha Witherspoon in the company of my wide-eared son. As it happened, I managed, with no conniving on my part, to get out of it.

I slept through the appointment.

When I woke from my afternoon sleep at the regular time of three o'clock, I stumbled into the kitchen in search of a cup of coffee. A note sat on the counter, propped up against a light blue can of Old Chum smoking tobacco, in which Angus explained that he didn't want to disturb me and would offer my excuses to the ladies.

I poured a cup of the thick, black, far-too-strong coffee which Mrs. Mann had left on the back of the stove, and smiled at my good fortune in having such a thoughtful son. After tasting the coffee, I dumped it into the bucket that served as a sink and got ready for the second half of my day.

The Savoy was quiet when I arrived. Not-Murray was filling the big barrel of drinking water behind the bar. Helen Saunderson came out of her storage closet/kitchen lugging one of the enamel spittoons, temporarily clean. Barney slouched against the counter and lifted one hand in lazy acknowledgement of my arrival. I stopped to chat for a few minutes with a table full of old timers who were still covered in a thick layer of mud and dust from the Creeks. They were as excited as schoolboys at the start of half-term break at getting the opportunity to tell me all about their lucky strike. They opened their bags and let me take a peek at the pile of gold dust and the handful of nuggets inside.