Читать книгу Gold Mountain - Vicki Delany - Страница 11

Corporal Richard Sterling had told his constables to be on the lookout for the tall thin man and to let him know if they spotted him.

Settled down to dinner in the back room of the detachment office, which served as the dining hall, Sterling decided to confront Mr. Paul Sheridan personally. He told himself it wasn’t because Sheridan had offended Fiona MacGillivray — definitely not, he would never let his personal feelings interfere with the performance of his duties. But if Sheridan was a scout for Soapy Smith, this needed the attentions of someone more experienced than a raw constable fresh from the Outside, still shaking the dust of the Chilkoot off his scarlet tunic.

Dinner consisted of the ubiquitous beans, this time served with a slab of overcooked meat of indeterminate origin. At least the bread was hot and fresh, and it came with a scraping of butter.

“Sir,” Constable McAllen came in. He didn’t look quite old enough to shave yet. “Sorry, don’t want to disturb your supper.”

Sterling pushed the plate away. “Not worth worrying about. What is it?”

“I think I spotted the guy you’re after. Tall, very thin. He’s in the Monte Carlo. Playing roulette. Losing big.”

“Thanks. Let’s look into it.”

* * *

It was six o’clock in the evening and the Monte Carlo was busy. Men eyed the police officers as they came through the front doors. Sterling nodded to the man behind the bar and kept walking. The gambling room was about half full. Still early for some of the bigger players.

Gambling, like prostitution, was illegal in Canada. But when the men in charge of this tiny police force, in the town fast becoming one of the biggest — certainly the busiest — in Western North America, realized what they were about to be faced with, they decided it was better to control vice than to outlaw it. The authorities in Ottawa were a very long way away, and the officers and men of the North-West Mounted Police were on their own. So they allowed gambling and prostitution but kept a strict eye out to ensure business was as properly conducted as possible. Places could be and were shut down if they stepped too far over the line.

A crowd had gathered around the roulette table. As Sterling and McAllen entered, a man placed a pile of chips onto the table. “Seventeen,” he said.

“You been playin’ seventeen all night,” a grizzled sourdough said. “It ain’t come up yet. When you gonna try somethin’ new?”

“That’s my plan, old fellow. At some point seventeen will come up. And then I’ll be a winner.”

The old man’s face said what he thought of that plan.

The croupier spun the wheel. He passed his hand over the table and said, “No more bets.”

Everyone, Sterling and McAllen included, watched the ball.

“Sixteen,” the croupier announced in a flat tone. He scooped up most of the chips, then counted a couple out and placed them beside the ones on red.

The old sourdough, the owner of that bet, chuckled and collected his winnings. He put them in front of the man who’d bet on seventeen. “Luck ain’t with you tonight, my boy. Why don’t you quit while you can?” With that, the sourdough stood up from the table and took his leave, passing the two police officers standing in the doorway. “Corporal,” he said in greeting.

Sterling knew the man — one of the very few who’d actually found gold. Lots of it. He’d prospected up and down Alaska and the Yukon for more than twenty years and was lucky enough to be close to the Creeks when word spread of the great discovery. He had staked his claim within days and pulled a great deal of the gold metal out of the ground since. He came into town once a month, stayed for two days, showered his favourite dance hall performers with gold nuggets, visited the cribs on Paradise Alley, gambled at the Monte Carlo and the Savoy, usually losing all the gold he’d dug up since he’d last been in town, and then disappeared back to his claim with a month’s worth of supplies, empty pockets, and a smile on his face.

Sterling approached the roulette table as Sheridan was placing the chips the old miner had given him onto number seventeen. The croupier lifted one eyebrow when he saw the police.

“Mr. Paul Sheridan,” Sterling said.

The man didn’t look up. “Yes.”

“I’m Corporal Sterling and I’d like to have a word with you.”

“Can’t right now, Officer. My luck’s about to turn.”

“A night in jail and your luck will definitely be turning.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Glad to hear it. Then we can just talk. Randy, give the man back his chips.” The croupier pushed them over.

“Keep them,” Sheridan said. “And save my place. I’ll be back.”

“Free with your money, aren’t you?” Sterling asked, as he led the man though the bar and out to the street.

“I’ll be getting plenty more soon.”

Sterling didn’t bother to ask where. Half the men who arrived in the Klondike seemed to expect gold nuggets to be lying on the ground or hanging from the scruffy pine trees like fruit ripe for the picking. But some people were starting to leave, giving up the dream, heading back to the south. Telling others they passed on the trail there was no point in carrying on. No more gold was to be found, no jobs except hard work on another man’s claim.

Still they came. Optimistic to the end.

“Where’d you come from?” Sterling asked. They stood on the wooden sidewalk, a few feet down from the Monte Carlo’s doors. McAllen watched the street.

“Told you about me did she?” Sheridan shook his head. “Naughty minx. Or was it her boy?” His eyes darkened. “You wouldn’t have a personal interest in this would you?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Where was your last place of residence?”

“As you know, Skagway. And yes, I was in the employ of Soapy Smith. Although I never did anything illegal, you see. I worked in one of his establishments. All above board, of course.”

“Of course. Did Smith send you here?”

“Nope. These days, Soapy isn’t sending anyone anywhere. He’s losing control, Soapy is. I could see the writing on the wall. Time to get out of town.”

Sterling believed the man. Rumour drifting over the passes said Soapy was running into trouble. On one hand criminals, new arrivals, weren’t about to take orders from anyone, and on the other hand Skagway townsfolk were muttering about taking the law into their own hands.

“Planning to stay in town for long?”

“Nope. I’m getting married and then my lady and I will be heading north.”

“North? There’s nothing north of here.”

Sheridan tapped the side of his nose. “Not telling. These men,” he nodded to a group of grime-incrusted, long-bearded, probably lice-infested miners, heading out of town carrying equipment and supplies, “they’re wasting their time. Bonanza Creek. Eldorado. Child’s play. There’s a mountain of gold out there. And I’m the only one knows where it is.”

“If you say so. Be sure you keep your nose clean while you’re here, will you.”

Sheridan tipped his hat and sauntered away, whistling, hands in pockets. He didn’t go back to the Monte Carlo.

McAllen lifted his hand to his head and drew circles in the air.

Sterling laughed.