Gold Fever (6 page)

“Three cheers for Fee!” someone shouted. I smiled at no one in particular and waved my right hand as the crowd took up the cry. I hadn't done anything, but I never miss the opportunity to be the centre of attention.

“What should we do with her, Ma?” Angus asked.

“Don't call me that,” I said, automatically. “You know I hate it.” One of the too-eager helpers had a firm hold on Euila's bottom. I whacked his arm, and he sheepishly released his grip. “I don't know,” I said. “Take her to lie down, I guess.”

“Where are you staying, miss?” Graham asked. Euila blinked at him. I will admit that she looked even worse than I. The back of her dress was filthy; the neckline was torn almost to the top of the breastbone; one of the unfortunate birds on her hat (what could she possibly have been thinking when she purchased that hat!) tilted precariously, and a good deal of her hair had escaped its pins. Her hands and face were covered in dust.

“Miss?” Graham repeated. “Can we take you to your hotel?”

Miss Witherspoon dropped her pencil and notebook into her cavernous bag. “We have reserved rooms at the Richmond,” she announced. “Take her there.”

“Are you well enough to walk, miss?” Graham asked.

Euila blinked again. “I think so.” She gave Graham a rather sickly smile. He tucked her arm under one of his. Angus did the same on the other side.

“Angus,” I said. “Get back to work.”

“Zee boy help,” Mr. Mann said.

“No.”

“But, Ma… Mother…”

“No buts. Back to work. You.” I pointed to one of the helpers, the one who hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity to grab a handful of Euila's scrawny bottom. “Assist Mr. Donohue.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Fiona, ma'am.” He leapt forward to do his duty. And the little procession, led by Miss Witherspoon with her head held high, made their way through the parting crowd into town.

“Mother, I don't see…”

“I must go home and change, Angus,” I said. “Enjoy your biscuits.”

I almost broke into an undignified run as I took the long way around, down the street towards the water instead of following Euila, Miss Witherspoon and Graham towards Front Street. My mind was in such a tempest of emotion that for once I didn't know what to do. All I could think of was that I had to prevent Angus from having any more contact with Euila Forester. I had succeeded in that for the time being. What I would do next, I had absolutely no idea.

Angus seethed for the rest of the morning. His mother had embarrassed him in front of the whole town. He had been trying to do a good deed, to help a lady in distress, and his mother had ordered him to return to the shop, even though Mr. Mann said he could go. Everyone in town had seen him humiliated.

He weighed a bit of gold dust on the scales in the front of the shop beside the cash box, then he handed a customer a sack of nails in exchange.

“Thank you, lad. A fine woman, your mother, a fine woman, the way she stepped in to help that poor young lady what had the fainting spell. Very noble o' her.”

Angus didn't even try to force a smile. Sometimes it was difficult being the son of the most famous woman in town.

“Fainted, eh?” came a familiar voice. “Word on the street is that a lady choked on a lump of meat, and your mother singlehandedly wrestled the offending piece out of her mouth.” Constable Richard Sterling fingered a rough flannel shirt as the old miner shuffled off, chuckling to himself, his bag of nails tinkling cheerfully. “This might do come winter,” he added.

“A lady fainted, that's all,” Angus muttered.

Sterling smiled. “No doubt by midnight the lady will have been attacked by a pack of rabid wolves, and your mother will have driven them off with a single well-aimed shot between the leader's eyes.”

Despite himself, Angus grinned. “That's Dawson,” he said.

Sterling laughed. “I'll take this shirt.” He pulled a few pennies out of his pocket. “Lesson day, isn't it?”

Angus's grin grew wider. “Yes, it is, sir.”

“Thought I'd walk over to the Fort with you, if you're ready to go.”

This time Angus's grin almost split his face in two. “That would be grand, sir.” He proudly pulled his watch out of his pocket. The watch had been owned by his mother's father. It was the only thing of his grandfather, also named Angus, they had. She'd given it to him only the other day, having decided now that he was working, he was ready to carry it. “Mr. Mann, it's five to one. Can I leave? Constable Sterling wants to walk with me to the Fort.”

Sterling hid a smile at Angus's choice of words. It was no secret to him the boy worshipped him. A bit of hero worship never did a man's ego any harm.

Mr. Mann came out of the back tent, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. “Go. Have good lesson.”

The fact that Angus was taking boxing lessons from Sergeant Lancaster, the former, to hear him tell it, champion of Manitoba and contender for all of Canada, was a secret carefully kept from Angus's mother by Lancaster, Mann and Sterling. If she heard of it, she would probably forbid it—so why inconvenience her by letting her know? Sterling could see the outline of sinew and muscle lying dormant under the lanky twelve-year-old frame, waiting to burst out into the sun like a hibernating bear at first signs of approaching spring. Angus was growing into a big lad, and before much longer, his bulk would be the target of men who needed to prove themselves and wouldn't hesitate because of an unshaven face, friendly blue eyes and soft blond hair.

“Did Mary get settled in?” Sterling asked as they made their way east on Front Street, where the bars and dance halls were already doing a roaring trade, towards the NWMP's Fort Herchmer.

“She showed up for work at Mrs. Mann's on time.” “Mary seems like a nice woman.” “She is,” Angus said, with a touch of proprietary pride. Helen Saunderson, the Savoy's cleaner, came out of the dance hall wielding her formidable broom and sweeping all before her. It was a hopeless job; the more Mrs. Saunderson swept, the more mud and dust seemed to get tramped through the Savoy's doors.

She took a moment to rest her heavy bosom on the broom handle. “What's this I hear, young Angus, about your ma gettin' a woman's heart started what had stopped from shock the moment she laid eyes on Dawson?”

Sterling and Angus laughed. “It was amazing, Mrs. Saunderson,” Angus said. “Why, Ma swept the goods right off the table in front of Mr. Mann's store and sliced open that woman's chest with a hunting knife that was for sale.”

“Are you making fun o' me, Angus MacGillivray?” Sterling tossed her a wink. Mrs. Saunderson shook her head and chuckled through her mouthful of missing teeth before bending her head to her sweeping.

“Let's walk down Paradise Alley,” Sterling said. “Make sure everyone's behaving themselves.”

They cut down Queen Street, heading for Paradise Alley. As they turned into the Alley, they could see a crowd of men up ahead, laughing and jeering at something Sterling couldn't see. The mood was vicious, ugly.

“Stay here, Angus,” he said. “If you think I need help, run for the Fort. Understand?”

“Understood, sir,” Angus said, his blue eyes wide.

“What's going on here? Break it up! Move out of the way.” Sterling waded into the crowd.

“Nothing to concern yerself about, Const'ble,” a man said.

“No business o' the Redcoats,” said another.

“I'll be the judge of that. Move aside.” Sterling practically tossed a neatly dressed gentleman to one side.

A man lay in the roadway, curled into a ball, his arms and hands attempting to protect his head as two heavy-set dandies took turns kicking him.

“Hey!” Sterling shouted and grabbed the man nearest him, the one about to place another boot into exposed ribs. The dandy turned. His face was twisted in rage, and blood-lust filled his red eyes. Furious at missing his mark, he was prepared to strike at the new target that had suddenly presented itself. Sterling grabbed the oncoming arm and twisted. “You don't want to do that, fellow.”

The onlookers shuffled back. The other man turned to see what was going on. Puffed up like the bully he was, he visibly deflated at the sight of the red tunic and broadbrimmed hat.

Sterling gave the wrist he was holding another firm twist. “Want to tell me what's going on here?” he said pleasantly. He might have been inquiring about the weather.

“No concern of yours, Constable,” the second man said. He, like his friend, was well dressed, in black waistcoat and jacket and houndstooth trousers. A black bowler hat was perched on top of his head. He was considerably overweight and very pale—his small dark eyes looked like raisins in a bowl of Christmas pudding batter. When he held out his hands in a gesture of surrender, he showed nails perfectly trimmed and spotlessly clean. A brown wool scarf was draped several times around his neck. “Tom Jannis is the name. Sam and I are settling a private matter. Nothing to worry the law.”

“I'll be the judge of that. Someone get this man onto his feet. Quickly now!”

The onlookers rushed forward to help the man they had only moments before happily watched being kicked to a pulp.

Sterling faced Tom Jannis.

“What's the story here?”

“This fellow lied to us. Told us he knew where we could find a good whore, then brought me to this fat tart.” Jannis gestured contemptuously at the single woman in the crowd. It was the prostitute they called Fat Fanny.

“That weren't no lie,” Fanny shrieked. “I'm a good whore, ain't I, boys?”

The onlookers shouted their agreement.

The victim staggered to his feet. Sterling stifled a groan. He was drunk—and an Indian. Not much point in trying to arrest Jannis and his friend. As likely as not, the judge would only want to know who'd sold liquor to an Indian.

“You all right, fellow?” Sterling asked.

The Indian swayed. His eyes were unfocused, his long hair stiff with dirt and grease. Layers of stale vomit stained the front of his ragged shirt. He didn't look like he'd suffered too much damage from the kicking; Sterling had probably arrived in time. The man would suffer more from a hangover than from the attempted beating.

“Drunken Indian,” the first man said, spitting into the dust. “Arrest him. He tried to cheat us.”

Sterling looked at Fat Fanny. “You know this man, Fanny?”

“Na,” she said. “Never seen him before.” “He bring these men to you?”

She looked at the crowd. She looked at the two welldressed men then at Sterling. Her thoughts passed across her face. She wouldn't want to offend potential customers, particularly ones as well-heeled as this pair, by calling them liars. But then again, judging by what they'd said about her, they didn't seem too inclined to bring their business her way. It didn't do to annoy the police. A working lady might need the goodwill of the Mounties some day. “Na,” she said. “He were just standin' here leanin' up ag'in that wall, not doin' nothin' but bein' drunk. And them two started in on him. Ain't that right, boys?” She looked to the crowd for support.

They gave it to her.

“The Indian weren't even talking to them,” someone said. “And they started punching at him.”

Sterling raised one eyebrow and looked at Jannis.

“Stupid Indian wouldn't get outta my way. Where I come from, an Indian doesn't stand in a white man's way, not if he knows what's good for him.”

“Perhaps you should go back to where you came from,” Sterling said. “Now get out of here before I'm tempted to take you in for disturbing the peace.” The Indian was struggling to focus and looked as though he were about to settle back into the roadway. Sterling grabbed his arm. “You'd better come with me, buddy. You don't belong here.”

The Indian groaned, and a tiny dribble of spittle leaked out of the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Sterling. He was a good deal older than the Mountie had first thought. It was the eyes that gave his age away—they'd seen altogether too much. Under the dirt, his hair was a snowy white, and deep lines were carved into his cheeks and through the delicate skin under his eyes.

He staggered, and Sterling caught him under the arms. A wave full of the smell of old drink, unwashed clothes and the weight of a tired old body washed over him, but he held on. “Let's go,” he whispered. “Let's get you some help.” He tossed the old man's arm over his shoulder.

“Indian lover.”

Out of the corner of his eye Sterling saw the blow coming. Weighted down as he was by the old man, he couldn't move fast enough to get out of the way. The man Tom Jannis had called Sam had pulled a metal bar out of his jacket, and with an angry shout swung it at Sterling's head.

The bar never connected. Instead Sam dropped the weapon, clutched his lower side and crumbled to the ground, all in one smooth movement.

Angus MacGillivray stood over him, rubbing his right fist.

“Angus,” Sterling said. “Thought I told you to run for the Fort if there was trouble.”

“Didn't think I had enough time, sir.” “Here, you help this gentleman, and I'll take care of the other one.” Angus took over the support of the old Indian, and Sterling dragged Sam to his feet. “Assaulting an officer of the law. It's a blue ticket for you, if I'm not mistaken.” He looked at Jannis. “Coming with your friend?”

Jannis shrugged his expensively-draped shoulders and straightened his cravat. “Never laid eyes on this ruffian before today.”

“That was quite the punch,” Sterling told Angus as they led the two moaning men, one carefully, one with much less consideration, to Fort Herchmer.

“To the kidneys, sir. He was wide open, lifting that bar up that way. Sergeant Lancaster told me a good solid blow to the kidneys will bring a man down every time.”