The Floor of Heaven (43 page)

In addition, a few new recruits had attracted Soapy’s attention with their guile, loyalty, and obedience, and they’d risen to prominent positions in the reunited Soap Gang. “Slim-Jim” Foster possessed a youthful, curly-headed charm that helped make him the perfect steerer. Young Alexander Conlin, who would go on to become one of the most celebrated magicians and mentalists of the 1920s, got his initiation into the art of deception by working three-card monte games in Skagway under Soapy’s tutelage. Yeah Mow Hopkins, a veteran of the murderous San Francisco tong wars, would fix people with a sullen, impassive stare, and if that failed to intimidate, he could hurl a hatchet across a room with deadly accuracy. Soapy, who’d an eye for talent, made Yeah Mow his bodyguard.

But beyond his devoted inner circle, Soapy’s organization extended, it was estimated, to a loose confederation of about 300, a sizable force in a town that swelled during the winter months to nearly 10,000 people. Operators of shell games, “mechanics” rigging poker games, snatch-and-run robbers, smooth-talking bunco men, madams who’d rushed north with stables of young prostitutes—all worked in Skagway with Soapy’s consent and protection. And only after guaranteeing to kick back one-third of each day’s take. From all over the West flimflam men, thieves, painted ladies, and hard cases traveled north to enlist in the high-riding Soap Gang. Veteran outlaws like the Moonfaced Kid, Fatty Green, Kid Jimmy Fresh, Yank Fewclothes, and the Doctor got off steamers and immediately went searching for Soapy, eager to acknowledge him as their boss. His sovereignty was undisputed.

The money kept pouring in.

AND SOAPY was shameless. From the cold reaches of his intelligence, he hatched so many schemes, large and small. The opportunities struck him as endless.

When a steamer arrived, two rows of burly, hard-eyed men would assemble in a ragtag formation along the beach so that newcomers, as if by accident, would be funneled toward any of a dozen steerers. Slim-Jim, though, was the best. His face shining with an angel’s smile, brimming with a gee-whiz enthusiasm that could ingratiate itself into the wariest of hearts, Jim would rush up to new arrivals and beg to hear the news from the States. He’d ask where they were from; and, in a truly wonderful coincidence, wouldn’t you know it but that was his native state, too. If they had a hometown newspaper, or any paper, for that matter, he’d gladly buy it for a dollar. The cost, he’d confide with an embarrassed modesty, meant little to him after all the gold he’d taken out of the Klondike. And since there was so much news from back home that he was dying to hear, how about, Jim would propose, joining me for a drink. My treat, naturally.

At the saloon, a roulette wheel would be spinning, and a prospector—actually a “capper” working for the gang—would be placing gold nuggets across the board. And winning on every spin. To celebrate, the drinks were on him.

As soon as the newcomer was softened by a couple of free drinks, Jim would make his play. Why don’t you try your luck? he’d urge. The wheel’s making people rich today.

If the newcomer placed a bet, he’d win. What’d I tell you? Jim would shout with joy. You’re gonna get rich without going to the gold fields. Go on, place another bet, he’d encourage. Only now the mark would lose, and keep on losing until his nest egg was gone.

If prudence, however, prevented his new friend from taking the plunge, Jim would give a discreet signal. A moment later, a fight involving a mess of tipsy prospectors would break out at the bar. In the melee, a solid punch would knock the mark cold—and he’d wake up in an alleyway to find that his money was gone.

Reverend Bowers specialized in another scam. His practiced eye would pick out a prosperous-looking fellow lodge member coming off a boat, and the reverend would approach. Cleary chagrined, distress nearly choking off his words, the reverend would share a tale of woe. Alaska’s harsh climate had taken its toll on his frail constitution. The only hope he had of making it through the winter, his doctor had despaired, was if he left Skagway at once for a warmer climate. The reverend needed money to purchase a steamer ticket, but he wasn’t asking for charity. He owned a house in town, as well as two adjoining lots, and due to the urgency of his situation he’d sell all three parcels at just a fraction of their true value—say, he’d suggest, $100. But don’t take my word for it, the reverend would continue earnestly. Let me show you the properties.

So the two new friends would traipse across Skagway to the house. No sooner would they would walk through the door than a masked man aiming a 10-gauge shotgun would appear. The reverend would shake with fear and plead for his life, while the gunman would proceed with a brusque efficiency. In just moments the thief would relieve the newcomer of his wallet, watch and chain, and any other valuables in his travel bag. Then the robber would rush out the door, disappearing into the crowd filling a nearby saloon. And the reverend, abruptly restored to a stony calm, would declare that since his new friend regrettably no longer had any funds, he’d have no choice but to find another buyer for his properties.

Old Man Tripp was another surefire moneymaker. Posing as a stampeder, he worked the White Pass Trail, and the pickings were easy.

The trail was an arduous climb, a forty-five-mile journey along a narrow, twisting path over slippery slate cliffs, massive jutting boulders, jagged rocks as sharp as spikes, and mud-hole swamps that led toward a high and precipitous summit. This gray-misted peak marked the border between American territory and Canada, and mounted police stationed there enforced a new regulation that increased the struggling stampeders’ burdens: It was forbidden to enter the Yukon Territory without a year’s supply of food. Along with tents, tools, and other belongings, this added up to over five thousand pounds, more than two tons of goods. So heavy bundles would be packed on prospectors’ backs, strapped on overburdened mules and horses, and piled high on sleds. Still, it would take a man twenty or more round-trips to move his outfit to Lake Bennett, and the entire journey could drag on for ninety grueling days. Within months, thousands of packhorses lay dead along the way, their flanks pierced by razor-sharp rocks, or their legs snapped between two boulders, or their bodies crushed by falls after a misstep on the trail above. Their corpses were left to rot, and the strong, raw stench of decomposing flesh seemed to wrap itself around the entire route. Dead Horse Trail, the bitter travelers took to calling the path. All day the solid line of men would trudge slowly forward, a grim, snaking procession climbing upward, their backs bent under the heavy weight of their packs, thick ropes twisted over their shoulders and through their hands as they hauled overloaded sleds.

Old Man Tripp offered a respite from the misery, and a chance to make a boodle in the process. Setting up a tripe and keister on the side of the trail, he’d manipulate three English walnut shells and a single pea. The cappers, packs on their backs as part of their prospectors’ disguises, would be betting twenty-dollar gold pieces; and time after time, they’d select the shell hiding the pea. The yelps of joy as they pocketed their winnings would attract the men on the line.

Weary, curious, and often simply bored, they’d pull out of the procession and gather around the old sourdough’s keister. Soon enough they’d start betting, too, but the speed and agility of the old man’s manipulations were now of a skill that hadn’t been previously revealed. They’d invariably lose, and then invariably be prodded into trying to win their money back. Soapy boasted that his share of the take of these games would often run to $2,000 a day. Of course, some of the victims, already testy from the day’s hardships, would grumble they’d been gaffed and demand their money back. The cappers would draw their six-guns, and that would discourage most marks. But from time to time the hoodwinked prospectors would be packing, too, and they’d refuse to back down. Then bullets would start flying. In a panic, people on the trail would fall flat to the ground, slip behind horses, and crouch by sleds. On occasion a bullet would hit a gang member, or a gambler, or an unlucky bystander. But Old Man Tripp always managed to duck, and there was never more than a brief interruption to his activities.

While these were bold, old-fashioned schemes, Soapy’s Big Store enterprises, as bunco men referred to businesses that were nothing more than fronts for scams, were shrewd inventions. At the Merchants Exchange, newcomers would be informed that the supplies they’d purchased in the States were unsuitable for the Yukon and would be confiscated by the Mounties at the White Pass border summit. The sympathetic folks who ran the exchange, though, were eager to offer assistance. They’d accept the worthless supplies in partial payment for the cost of the new regulation outfit they’d sell. Days later, the “banned” supplies would be resold to a new group of dismayed stampeders who had come north with outfits that, they were advised, would never pass the Mounties’ stringent regulations.

Down by the wharves, Soapy ran another “public service” business. There were two cabins, and on each was posted a large sign identifying it as a “General Information Bureau.” A man in a somber city suit and collared shirt would oblige the grateful newcomer by providing knowledgeable answers to questions about the conditions of the trails, locations of campsites, and fees for hiring packers. But his real purpose was to collect information, not to offer it. By the end of a polite and breezy conversation, the unsuspecting traveler would’ve been led to divulge a volume of useful facts. The well-dressed, amicable official would learn who was traveling alone, who carried a firearm, who had a nest egg of cash, and who possessed a well-funded bank account—intelligence that a gang of thieves could put to good use.

On McKinney Street, next door to the town’s post office, was the Skagway Real-Estate & Investment Company. The sign on the door detailed the concern’s many ventures: “Real estate bought and sold, houses to rent, business chances, investments made for non-residents, special attention paid to the care of property placed in our hands. Mining properties bought and sold & examined. Headquarters for quick cash sales. References, all the prominent men in the city.”

It was a wordy advertisement indeed, but all a local had to read was that “non-residents” were offered special attention to know to steer clear. Such information was Soapy’s discreet way of communicating that the operation was largely a scam. The businessmen inside would be selling mines that didn’t exist, renting houses that were already occupied, and putting cash investors in touch with flimflam artists. It was well known in Skagway that Soapy Smith preferred to fleece only those who were passing through—unless, of course, the opportunity was too good to resist.

The town’s “Cut-Rate Ticket Office” was another of Soapy’s operations. It sold tickets back to the States at discounted prices often half of those sold directly by the steamship lines. It was a wonderful deal, except for the fact that the tickets were for steamers that had no intention of ever dropping anchor off Skagway.

The Skagway Telegraph Office was an even more brazen enterprise. For only $5, it promised to send a telegram anywhere in the United States. Stampeders lined up to notify their families that they’d arrived safely and to wire their loved ones that they were deeply missed. A day or so after the telegrams had been sent, the prospector would be informed that a reply had been received. For an additional $5, he could retrieve it from the key operator. The dispatches were terse, but always reassuring. And total fabrications. No telegrams were ever sent from Skagway, and none were ever received. A telegraph line to Juneau would not be strung for another four years.

Skagway’s hurrah saloons and gambling parlors were the lucrative cornerstones of Soapy’s imperial empire. There were eleven saloons scattered around the town, most with a roulette wheel and faro and poker tables, and Soapy either owned each one outright or had a large piece of the action. He made his headquarters in one of the quieter establishments, a boxy, single-story wood-frame building at 317 Holly Street. A large sign on the roof announced JEFF SMITH’S PARLOR, but the establishment was known throughout Skagway—the entire Alaska Territory, truth be told—as “Jeff’s Place.”

MOST ELEGANTLY FURNISHED RESORT IN ALASKA, CHOICE WINES AND LIQUORS—HAVANA CIGARS, SPECIAL ATTENTION PAID TO SERVICE, another sign on the front window promised. Inside was a long mahogany bar, and above it stretched an unfurled American flag. Electric lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, a rare convenience in the north country, and at night they shined through the thick smoke wafting from all the pipes and cigars to paint the tight room with a weak yellow glow. Adjacent to the bar was a small restaurant with a few tables covered with oilcloths; oysters and beef steaks were the specialties. But it was in the back parlor, a room the Daily Alaskan’s reporter described as “cozy as a lady’s boudoir,” that Soapy held court.

He’d sit at a round wooden table, his back to the wall, with Yeah Mow at rigid attention nearby. And each night, while sipping from a glass of Canadian rye, Soapy would issue orders, shape new schemes, receive reports from the spies he had working the steamships and the miners’ camps, accept the obeisance of his employees and carefully selected newcomers, and count the river of money that was flowing in as steadily as the currents on the mighty Yukon.

YET SOAPY was not content simply to grow rich. He lusted for an achievement that would establish him as person worthy of admiration. He wanted to be recognized as a man whose actions placed him on a lofty pedestal high above the low-life gamblers and two-bit grifters. He wanted to be respected. As a consequence, even while he schemed and thieved, he also performed good deeds.

With an easy charity and a casual benevolence, Soapy would slip a hundred to a prospector down on his luck who needed money for a ticket home. When Reverend Robert Dickey came to town to build the Union Church, Soapy grabbed $200 off a faro table and handed it over as a donation. Since Skagway was overrun with abandoned dogs, mutts brought from Seattle with the hope that they’d be able to pull sleds but who’d proved not up to the demanding work, Soapy organized a program to help. He posted flyers urging every household to take in a stray, and he further demonstrated his commitment by adopting six dogs for his own. After a lawman was gunned down, Soapy told a crowd “it is only right that we should help his widow” and then publicly gave the grieving woman a wad of cash. When plans were announced for a community hospital, his name appeared fourth from the top in the list of benefactors. He was instrumental in establishing the town’s fire brigade. And when, in December 1897, Skagway held its first election and a seven-member town council was formed, Soapy was its most ardent and vocal supporter. As a businessman, he insisted, he was all for “the preservation of law and order.”