The Floor of Heaven (47 page)

Silence! Soapy thundered above the dim. When the crowd quieted, he resumed talking in his steady way. Commissioner Smith, he explained, as if it were the most normal of occurrences, has deputized twenty of my men to ensure Fay’s safety.

A now familiar shout broke through his words: “Lynch the murderer!”

“My men have orders to shoot the first man who approaches,” Soapy said with steady conviction. “They’re all armed and the law is on their side. They will not hesitate to fire.”

After that pronouncement, men began drifting out of the meeting. The next day Fay, surrounded by a cordon of the new deputies, boarded a ship for Juneau without incident. Still, it didn’t set well with many in Skagway that Soapy had helped a man responsible for two cold-blooded murders get off scot-free.

A NEW deputy marshal, Sylvester Taylor, had been appointed and was already on Soapy’s payroll when the next murder occurred. Peter Bean, a twenty-five-year-old miner from California, was found lying facedown in the snow on the White Pass Trail, near Porcupine Hill. When the body was turned over, there were powder burns on his face and a .38-caliber slug in his chest. His empty wallet had been tossed into a mound of gray snow.

Coming so soon after the double homicide, the news of Bean’s shooting left people incensed. Once again, the church bell tolled and the Committee of 101 gathered. Something has got to be done, Major Strong insisted. The crowd cheered in approval.

The next day handbills were nailed to walls and doors all over Skagway.

WARNING!

A word to the wise should be sufficient! All Confidence, Bunco and Sure-thing Men, And all other objectionable characters are notified to leave Skagway and White Pass Road Immediately. And to remain away. Failure to comply with this warning will be followed by prompt action.

101.

Soapy found one of the notices nailed to the front door of his bar. He pulled it off and begin reading. By the time he finished, he was steaming. He felt as if he’d received a personal threat. Well, if they wanted a showdown, he’d give it to them. His boys would show the committee the meaning of “prompt action.”

He started to issue a series of orders, telling his men to outfit themselves with rifles and shotguns, and make sure to pack extra rounds. But by the time the heavily armed men reported back, his anger had deflated. Reason had prevailed. It wouldn’t do him any good to go to battle, Soapy had determined. He’d only be killing off the people whose money he was hoping to get his hands on. More than likely, he’d win the war and lose a large portion of his livelihood in the process. There had to be a better way. And as he thought it through, a shrewder strategy took shape: He’d beat them at their own game. Relishing his bit of sport, Soapy crafted a full-page notice for the newspaper.

ANNOUNCEMENT

The business interests of Skagway propose to put a stop to the lawless acts of many newcomers. We hereby summon all good citizens to a meeting at which these matters will be discussed.…

Jefferson R. Smith, chairman

The meeting was packed; the entire Soap Gang had reported as ordered. Soapy stood at the front of the room, and when he asked for the crowd’s attention a rowdy, enthusiastic roar erupted.

We are the lawful element in town, Soapy proclaimed.

The thugs and crooks cheered.

I hereby christen our committee the Law and Order Society, he continued.

The thugs and crooks cheered even louder.

We are strong in numbers, he said. I expect the press to make full note of this. Why, tonight there are—. Soapy paused as if to count the assembly. Then he boomed: Three hundred and seventeen law-abiding citizens gathered.

The thugs and crooks let out another cheer, enjoying their boss’s joke: 317 Holly Street was the address of Jeff’s Place.

The next day the gang members went through Skagway diligently tacking a new handbill to doors and walls.

ANSWER TO WARNING

The body of men styling themselves 101 are hereby notified that any overt act committed by them will be promptly met by the Law abiding Citizens of Skagway and each member and HIS PROPERTY will be held responsible for any unlawful act on their part and the law and order society consisting of 317 citizens will see that Justice is dealt out to the full extent as no Blackmailers or Vigilantes will be tolerated.

THE COMMITTEE

Implausibly, Soapy had declared that villains were heroes. It was as if he’d decreed that up was down or black was white. Yet such was his talent in convincing people that the most improbable lies were God-given truths that he might have gotten away with his brazen utterances if only the killings had come to a halt.

But the bullets continued to fly. Sam Roberts, a gambler, was returning to his cabin with his night’s winnings when he was shot at point-blank range. Alexander McLain, a merchant, was robbed outside his home and then gunned down. A prospector was waylaid as he left a gambling parlor and his body tossed from the wharf into the bay. Blood ran in the streets each night.

It got so that many people were afraid to leave their homes. Full of concern, representatives of the Committee of 101 went to Dyea and appealed to the U.S. Army for help. Colonel Thomas Anderson listened, then agreed to dispatch a small squad of soldiers to Skagway.

When Soapy saw the men in blue uniforms marching through the street, he feared that his reign was over. If necessary, he’d been prepared to do battle against the storekeepers and do-gooders who made up the Committee of 101. But how would he ever be able to fight the soldiers of the U.S. Army?

AT NINE-FORTY on the night of February 15, 1898, a tremendous explosion rocked the USS Maine as it sat anchored in Havana Harbor. Darting flames ignited the five tons of powder stored for the battleship’s big guns, and this second blast was catastrophic. As burning oil and fiery wreckage streaked the night sky with a hellish illumination, the seven-thousand-ton warship sank rapidly. Two hundred and sixty-six sailors died that night, and another eight later succumbed to their injuries.

The cause of the initial explosion was never conclusively determined, but for a Congress eager to go to war with Spain in Cuba, facts were irrelevant. They had their justification. On April 25, the United States declared war.

With a similar opportunism, Soapy seized on the war to solve his problems: He created his own army. He announced the formation of the volunteer Skagway Military Company to train soldiers to fight in the war with Spain. And he got the federal government to pay for it; under the Warren Bill, funds were authorized for volunteer units.

Appointing himself captain, Soapy wrote to William McKinley to inform the president that “it is the desire of the company to commence drilling at once, having secured the services of an ex-army officer for that purpose and we wish to know that if we may be furnished with the necessary arms, accoutrements, etc.”

A secretary to the president soon responded that the White House had received the letter and “that it has been referred for the consideration of the Secretary of War.” It wasn’t a ringing endorsement of Soapy’s army, but he was not discouraged. After all, the letter on White House stationery was addressed to “Capt. Jeff R. Smith.” Soapy had the letter framed and hung it in his bar for all to see.

By May, the newspapers were reporting that the Skagway Military Company had more than three hundred soldiers. It was an impressive force. Most of the recruits were members of the Soap Gang, veteran criminals who had been outfitted with government-issued rifles and drilled by army officers. Now they embraced military discipline. In the afternoons they marched in perfect formation, rifles at their shoulders, feet pounding in a sharp cadence, through the streets of Skagway. At their head was Soapy, their patriotic leader distinguished by a white ascot decorated with intertwined Cuban and American flags. Their loyalty to him was absolute.

Colonel Anderson decided to withdraw his soldiers back to Dyea. There no longer was a need for the U.S. Army in Skagway.

The church bell now tolled only on Sundays. The Committee of 101 was too intimidated to convene for meetings. The prospect of challenging a well-trained and well-supplied army company was terrifying.

And by the first warm days of June, Soapy had begun to realize that he commanded a militarized force capable of executing a daring gold robbery.

FORTY-ONE

eorge Carmack was waiting. He’d made up his mind to take his gold to Seattle, and he’d worked out a plan he was convinced would get it there safely. But until the day came to break camp and, along with his family and the two Indians, meet the steamer in St. Michael, he was determined to keep on working his claim. No sense sitting around as long as there still was gold in the ground, he told himself.

So this early June day had started out like any other on Bonanza Creek. George had spent the morning down at the bottom of his shaft, shoveling gravel into the bucket. There was no smoke in the hole; now that the weather had turned warm, the winter burnings were unnecessary. Still, after all the months of blazing fires, the harsh smell of smoke seeped from the dirt walls of the narrow space. George tried not to pay it any mind, but there was no getting around that it was an irritation. Course, that was nothing compared to his fear of a cave-in. Over on Eldorado last summer, the sides of a poorly timbered shaft had given way and some newcomer had been buried alive. George thought that’d be a damn cruel fate: finally to strike it rich, only to get suffocated by your fortune. He was glad when his last bucket had been hauled up and his shift was over. As he climbed up out of the dark hole, the strong sun hitting his face felt like a benediction. It was one of the hired hands’ turn to do spadework in the shaft, and George, who liked things to run according to schedule, yelled that he’d better get a move on it. The man hurried over, but from the sour set of his face George could tell he wasn’t looking forward to going underground. Not my problem, George told himself, and repeated the brusque order to get moving.

By late afternoon, George was working the sluice box. Sure, $240,000 or so was a sizable fortune, but he was determined that all the newly dug gravel also be washed before they headed back to the States, less than a month from now. When he was off in California, he wanted all his gold locked safe in a Seattle bank and not lying on his dump where anyone could grab a handful.

Sluicing gave him great satisfaction. Whenever George collected nuggets or dust from the wire matting in the dump box, he felt as if he was receiving a reward for all the hard vagabond years he’d put in up north. As a young man, he’d made choices, and each bit of gold he pocketed was his proof that he’d done the right thing. Becoming rich had made him prideful and a bit smug.

He was at the sluice box that afternoon when he saw Jim approaching. The big Indian had been down in Dawson, buying supplies and no doubt picking up more hooch for Kate. Now that they could afford it, she was drinking steadily. At first George had tried to make some sense of her behavior. As best he had it figured, she drank because she was angry, and then the liquor turned her mood even darker, so she drank more. But by now, as long as Kate left him alone, he didn’t care how much she drank. Still, George could tell by the look on the Indian’s face that there was trouble. He imagined Kate had really tied one on and then had gone off and done something that would require his intervention.

What’s wrong, Jim? George asked wearily.

Heard in Dawson someone asking about you. Want to know how get to claim, Jim said.

George was suddenly alert. How many? he asked.

One man.

Indian? White man? A prospector?

White man. But no prospector, they say.

George had been expecting this. Ever since word had gotten out that he’d washed nearly a quarter of a million dollars’ worth of gold, he’d known there might be trouble. Odds were, some desperadoes would come by and try to get their hands on it. Another two weeks, though, and his stash would’ve been on its way to the States. He had it all worked out. Well, he’d just have to deal with things as they were. He already kept his rifle with him at all times, even when he was down in the hole. The encouraging news was that there was only one man. Unless, of course, the stranger was riding point for the gang. Anyways, he was a good rifle shot. And if Jim and Charley got up close, they could probably hit whatever they aimed at. Let ’em come, he thought. We’ll be waiting.

Get your gun, George ordered. And tell Charley, too. Go on now!

The three of them were by the sluice box when they saw the man. He was walking along the creek bank, coming up from the direction of Eldorado. And he was out in the open, not trying to keep his head down or stay close to the timberline. He was being very bold, and not for the first time George reckoned he probably wasn’t alone. The rest of the gang was just waiting for the signal to come charging out of the woods. It would’ve made more sense, George knew, for the three of them to have spread out, to form a battle line like they’d taught him in the marines, but he didn’t trust the Indians in a gunfight. He wanted them nearby, where he could tell them what to do. George looked down the barrel of his rifle. If there was indeed only one gunman, George would make short shrift of him.

The man kept coming at a steady, brazen gait. George took aim, his finger resting on the trigger, but the man was still out of range. Another ten yards or so and he’d fire a warning shot over his head. That’d send a message.

He prepared to fire. But as he started to pull back on the trigger, he got a good look at the man’s face, and lowered his rifle.

Howdy, said Charlie Siringo as he walked up to the sluice box.

George didn’t answer. He was seething. It was that damn phony machine oiler from the Treadwell mine. Only thing George could imagine was that the man had heard about his good fortune and had tracked him down, hoping to get a payoff. This Davis fellow figured he’d pocket a pretty penny in return for not divulging to the authorities that the man who’d started the Yukon gold rush was an AWOL marine.

THEY WANDERED, walking and talking; without thinking about it, they kept to a trail that followed the gurgling creek. At first George had led Charlie into the cabin; the miner had figured that if he needed to pay off a blackmailer, it’d be best to do it away from the curious eyes of the hired help. But once they were inside, George had heard the most fantastic story: Davis wasn’t really Davis but a Pinkerton by the name of Siringo. And he’d hadn’t come to put the screws on him. He’d come to warn George that he’d been targeted by a gang of thieves. George didn’t know what to believe, but he did know it’d be impossible to make any sense of all he was hearing if he remained stuck in the cabin. He couldn’t breathe, let alone think. And anyways, Kate was there with her bottle. Let’s go outside, he’d suggested and led the way.