Читать книгу Gold Digger - Vicki Delany - Страница 10

A screaming woman ran out of the bakery and into the street. Greedy flames fed off the air blowing though the loose fabric of her skirts.

No one moved. Everyone of us stood rooted to the spot with shock. The woman’s arms windmilled around and around, as if she were trying to swim through the air. Her mouth formed a dark “O”, and her eyes were wide with terror. Flames licked up the back of her dress and, as I watched, ignited her long hair, come loose from its pins in the initial blast.

A blur of movement crossed the corner of my vision, and the burning woman was knocked off her feet. She fell face first into the wet, sticky mud. Richard Sterling struggled to his knees; he’d lost his hat and mud caked his face and uniform.

“Roll, roll!” he yelled. “Roll, roll!” the crowd screamed. And she did, twisting and turning in the mud like a monster dragged out of a bedtime story to scare a mischievous child into instant obedience. So wet was the street, the fire was soon extinguished.

The crowd moved forward, all ready to cheer, offer a helping hand, have a drink in celebration. A fire was nothing unusual in Dawson, what with wooden buildings hastily constructed and lit by candles and cheap lamps.

Half of the bakery roof collapsed, and flames spat from the single front window. The woman, her face streaked with mud, her hair and dress half burned away, her eyes white and wild, her face as red as my best dress, shrieked and pointed. “My sister! She’s inside! Anna Marie!”

As one, we turned towards the bakery. People were running in all directions, some coming to help or watch the excitement, others running away. Horses screamed with panic, and one pathetically scrawny wretch made a run for it, his owner hanging half out of the cart, sawing at the reins. A shouting Mountie tried to organize men to ferry buckets of water from the river.

I stepped off the duckboard.

Sam Collins knocked me to one side. I kept myself from falling face first into the mud only by reaching out with my left wrist before my knees hit the ground. Pain shot up my arm, my legs buckled, and I screamed. From all sides, men rushed to offer me assistance. Cursing and swearing, I pushed them out of the way and struggled to my feet. Mud clung to my dress, trying to pull me back down.

I couldn’t see Sam.

“Richard!” I stumbled through the mud and the press of onlookers to reach Sterling’s side. He held the bakery woman around the waist as she fought against him. Her eyes were fixed on her store, collapsing in front of her, and she screamed her sister’s name, over and over: Anna Marie, Anna Marie. Sterling told her that the doctor was on his way.

I grabbed at his sleeve, my muddy fingers slipping on the filth caking his uniform. “Richard, you have to do something. Sam’s gone in there.”

He stared into my face. “Gone where? What are you talking about, Fiona?” The woman took advantage of his distraction and pulled one arm free.

I nodded towards the bakery, now nothing but a wall of flame.

Sterling gripped the struggling woman harder, his face a mask of indecision and so easy to read: If he let go of her and went to help Sam, this desperate woman would run into the flames to save her sister.

It took us a moment to realize that the crowd was cheering. Loud, raucous, happy cheers. I rubbed mud and smoke out of my eyes, using my right hand. My left didn’t seem to want to do much of anything.

Flames lit up the building in an extravaganza of red and yellow outlining Sam as he emerged from the waffle and coffee shop, staggering under the weight of the woman in his arms. Sweat ran down his face, carving deep rivers into the soot and dust filling the crevices of his skin. His thick, bushy eyebrows and the edges of his long grey hair were singed. He stumbled onto the street and looked blindly around, eyes weeping from the smoke. The woman’s clothing was intact, and her lashes flickered across her sootstained cheeks. Her lips formed the words “thank you”. Men moved forward to take the burden from Sam’s arms. Someone slapped him on the back, and he yelped in pain.

At least that’s what I later read in the Nugget, as written by the only newspaperman on the scene, Jack Ireland. I was too busy concentrating on the pain in my hand and trying to keep my footing as Richard Sterling shoved the burned woman at me and went to help the men fighting the fire.

The doctor pushed his way through the crowd, panting with the effort of running all of a hundred yards. He spent more time seeing to my sprained wrist than even I thought seemly while his young assistant attended to the burn victim, the smoke-stricken sister and the heroic rescuer.

I was dimly aware of men passing buckets of water back and forth. Fortunately, the bakery was one of the few buildings in this row that stood on its own, meaning there were a few inches of space between itself and its neighbours. One wall of the shack to the left, which advertised cigars and liquors, caught fire, but by the time I freed myself from the doctor’s attentions, pried Sam Collins away from his crowd of admirers, and we staggered back towards the Savoy, the fire had been brought under control.

I was momentarily blinded by a flash of light in front of my face. I blinked to see the large black box of a camera.

A photographer: how lovely. For the second time that day, Sam Collins pushed me to one side. He ripped the equipment out of the photographer’s hands. I grabbed Sam’s arm and stopped him from throwing the camera to the ground.

“Let go, Sam.”

Sheepishly he handed the black box back to its owner.

“Wonderful rescue. They’ll be eating out of your hands in the U. S. of A., old boy.” Jack Ireland barred the way into the Savoy, notebook and pencil in hand. “If you’ll say a few words for our readers. What went through your mind as you rushed into that inferno of a building?”

The photographer arranged his equipment in preparation for another shot, and I twisted my head away. There is not much I love in this world more than having my photograph taken, but not when I resemble a camp follower.

Sam looked up; his face was covered with soot, but his eyes blazed with all the strength of the inferno that had so recently devoured the bakery. “You bastard,” he mumbled at Ireland, so softly that no one but the San Francisco reporter and I heard him.

Ireland stepped back, at a loss for words. His mouth flapped, the camera belched light and smoke, and Sam went into the Savoy.

I followed. Despite all the excitement out on the street, several men remained at the bar, glasses in hand, and I could hear the roulette wheel spin and the croupier call out, “No more bets.” The whole town might burn down around them, but there were men who’d keep drinking and gambling until the whisky bottles exploded and the tables dissolved into ashes.

Ray had kept his place behind the bar. The new bartender, I really should learn his name, strained to see out the door, and I guessed Ray had told him that if he left his post, he needn’t bother coming back. My partner took one look at Sam and me and poured two glasses of whisky, from the best bottle, almost to the rim.

My mud-encrusted hand shook as I grabbed the glass. My left hand hurt. I might later regret pushing the overly attentive doctor aside. The liquor burned all the way down my throat. At last my head stopped spinning, my heart began to settle back into its regular rhythm, and I could think reasonably clearly once again.

“Sam,” I said, “you need the doctor.” He shook his head and put his empty glass on the counter. Ray filled it.

“I’m fine, Mrs. MacGillivray.”

“I’ll pay,” I said, ignoring Ray’s stare of disbelief. “Let the doctor have a look at you.”

Men were spilling into the bar, roaring with excitement, shouting Sam’s name. The story of his heroism was already growing in the telling. His hair and eyebrows were singed, and his eyes were red and full of water, but the skin on his face was still a healthy pink. I turned him around. His shirt was scorched across the shoulders, falling into tatters. “If you won’t see the doctor, you should at least get out of the way. You don’t want anyone touching that back.”

Sam joined Ray behind the bar. Ray grinned. “Good work, Sam.”

I jerked my head at a fresh-faced young man sitting in a chair near the bar. He scrambled out of it, and I climbed up, using my hand to keep my skirts tucked flat against my legs. Not a difficult feat: my clothes were so mud-soaked, it would have been an effort to lift the skirts high enough to display anything unseemly. I looked down at the crowd. Every eye watched me, hoping for a miracle. Ray’s face was carved into lines of worry, concerned as to what I was about to say.

“Drinks are on the house,” I shouted. “For the next five minutes. In honour of Sam Collins, hero of the Klondike.”

The men howled. Ray lifted his hands to his face. The crowd surged towards the bar, and men ran out of the gambling hall. Eager hands helped me down from the chair.

The men closer to the door fell silent, and a path opened up, like the Red Sea before Moses. Instead of the people of Israel, Margaret Collins, Sam’s wife, and Angus MacGillivray walked into the saloon. Margaret was close to being the oldest woman in Dawson. At this moment she looked every one of her years and a good deal more besides. Her thick grey hair tumbled out of its pins, her face was as white as the snow on the mountaintops in January, and her eyes were full of fear. You could draw a map of Europe in the lines carved through the dry skin of her cheeks. She stumbled and leaned against my son, who was supporting her with one arm around her shoulders.

When she saw Sam behind the counter, the light flooded back into her eyes. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered. It was the only sound in the room. A few eager customers took advantage of the lull to push their way forward, but most of the men stood back respectfully. Many doffed their hats.

“I’m all right, old gal,” Sam said.

Margaret sagged, and Sam came around the bar to take her from Angus.

“Take him home, Margaret,” I said in a low voice. “We’ll manage without him tonight. If he needs to see the doctor, which he should, I’ll pay.”

“Thank you, Mrs. MacGillivray,” Margaret Collins said, lifting her head straight. “We can afford the doctor.” Her diction was, as always, perfect.

Light flashed in my eyes once again. When I could see properly, Sam had pushed Margaret aside. His fists were clenched and his face red, not from fire, but from anger. Jack Ireland was scribbling in his notebook. Sam grabbed the book out of the reporter’s hands. The photographer, a local man (which in Dawson meant he arrived before theday-before-yesterday), stepped back, using his body to shield the valuable camera.

“What the hell’s the matter with you, old man?” Ireland shouted. “Never mind Dawson, I’ll make you famous down the entire west coast of the United States. They’ll be singing songs about you before I’m finished.” He snatched his notebook back. “Is this your lovely wife? Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Can you tell my readers how it feels to have a hero for a husband?”

Margaret dipped her head slightly and smiled, but Sam only got angrier. “Don’t you dare speak to my wife, you bastard.” He grabbed at the notebook once more, but Ireland stuffed it into his pocket.

“I can make you famous, you fool.”

I didn’t much care for Jack Ireland, but he did seem only to be doing his job. “Mr. Ireland, Sam and Mrs. Collins need some time to reflect on all that’s happened here. If you’ll excuse them, I’m sure they’ll grant you an interview tomorrow.”

Sam started to say something. Judging by the look on his face, it wouldn’t have been terribly polite.

I raised my voice. “There’s only four minutes remaining of an open bar! Gentlemen, please allow our distinguished reporter from San Francisco and his friend with the camera to go first. There’s enough for everyone!”

The men roared and surged forward. Sam and Margaret headed for the door, clinging to each other. My heart lifted as I watched them go, and for the briefest moment I wondered if I would ever find someone to care for, and who would care for me, in my old age.

I grabbed my son’s arm and pulled him out of the crowd to the side of the room. I held him close. He stiffened at first, worried about what a roomful of cheechakos and sourdoughs might think to see a man being hugged by his mother, but then his lanky frame relaxed and he settled into my arms like the twelve-year-old boy he was.

“Gee, Ma, Mother I mean, when I heard about the fire, I was worried. They said all Front Street was in flames.”

“They say a lot of things, Angus. But it was terrifying for a while.”

“They said Mr. Collins saved the life of the woman who works at the bakery.” He looked at me, taking in the untamed hair, the muddy dress, the way I protected my left arm. “Did you help him, Mother?”

“Me? I didn’t do anything, I’m afraid. Save fall in the mud and make a dreadful mess.” I tucked a length of dangling hair behind my ear and realized that I’d lost my hat. “But what they say about Sam, that part is true. It was the most amazing thing, Angus. While every one of us, except for Constable Sterling, stood around in shock, Sam rushed right into the burning shop and carried that woman out.”

“Constable Sterling?” My son’s lovely blue eyes were wide. “What did he do?”

“Angus, I have to go home and wash and get out of this dress. I do hope it isn’t ruined. And my hand hurts something awful. You didn’t see my hat anywhere, did you, dear?”

“Nope. Do you need to see the doctor, Mother?”

“Not unless it gets worse. When we get home, I’ll rip up one of my old petticoats to make a sling. That should help.” It would also look quite fetching; I might recover most of what we lost in free drinks, if not more, should I look suitably heroic and ever-so-slightly-incapacitated. I’d avoid rouge and put on an extra bit of white face powder, take the colour out of my cheeks, before coming back.

“Time’s up,” Ray shouted. “Free bar’s closed.”

The men groaned good-naturedly; everyone had received at least one free drink. Definitely a record in my place. I’d better get some control over my generosity: it seemed to be spreading.

It was getting late. I’d be hard-pressed to get home, clean up, tend to my wrist, eat supper, change, and be back in time to supervise the opening of the dance hall at eight. Ray was busy behind the bar with one man short. Too bad Angus couldn’t help out. But if he were caught working in the Savoy, we’d be closed down in a heartbeat.

Cursed NWMP.

I watched Angus heading for the door. Before he could get there, he was stopped by Jack Ireland, reporter’s notebook back in hand. I considered intervening, telling my son to be on his way, but what harm could it do? Ireland was just doing his job, and Angus would love to be quoted in the newspaper.