Читать книгу Gold Fever - Vicki Delany - Страница 9

It had not been a good lesson. Angus had been so thrilled at how he’d helped Constable Sterling in the fight in Paradise Alley, he’d let his mind wander and his guard down. Sergeant Lancaster moved in with a single-minded determination that put the dazed boy flat on the sawdust floor in seconds. Angus struggled to his feet, shaking his head and wondering what had happened, encouraged by the few Mounties who stood around the makeshift ring which had been thrown up behind the kennels.

“If your mind’s not on it, boy,” Lancaster said, playing to the audience, “you’re gonna lose. Every time.”

After the lesson, they ducked their heads into barrels of rainwater and were towelling off when Angus explained to the sergeant why he’d been late.

Lancaster rubbed at his face with a scrap of towel. “Indian, eh?” the boxer said. “They’re always causing trouble. Watch out boy, Sterling’s got a reputation as an Indian-lover.”

When he left the Fort, Angus headed for the river to meet up with Ron and Dave. He could hardly wait to tell them the whole story. He was almost bursting with pride at the way he’d brought down that man who was about to make a cowardly attack on Constable Sterling. Maybe he’d embellish the story a touch. Have the man put up more of a fight. Angus made his way along Front Street towards the boys’ gathering place on the other side of town, turning the whole incident over in his head. You didn’t see many Indians in Dawson. And here he’d met two in two days. First Mary and now the old drunk. Sterling had called drinking a disease. Angus didn’t see how that could be—lots of white men drank. And most of them went back to work or their families when they’d slept it off, although there were some who couldn’t hold down a job because of it. Angus’s mother ran a bar, and she told him what she thought of some of her clients. But people said Indians took to drinking so bad, the bars weren’t even allowed to sell liquor to them.

“My dear boy! Isn’t this a most fortuitous encounter!” Angus looked up to see Miss Witherspoon and Miss Forester bearing down on him. At least, Miss Witherspoon was bearing down; Miss Forester glided behind as if she were caught in a strong draft.

“Ma’am.” Angus doffed his cap politely. “I hope you’re feeling better, Miss Forester.”

“She is, she is,” Miss Witherspoon said. “A short nap, and she’s as right as rain. Aren’t you, dear? We’ve come from visiting your lovely shop to thank you for your noble efforts, but your employer said you had left for the day.”

“Uh...” Angus said.

“Now, now, young man, don’t say it was nothing. You were terribly quick to react.” She pulled her pencil and notebook out of her bag. “Your mother called you Angus. What’s your last name?”

“I don’t want to be in the papers, ma’am,” Angus said. He meant it. His mother was particularly averse to having her exploits recorded, and Sterling had told him that a Mountie never sought glory for his own sake.

“Nonsense, all boys want to be famous.”

“I’d rather not, ma’am.”

“Very well, Angus will do. I am not a newspaper reporter. I am a book writer.”

“Books, ma’am?”

Miss Witherspoon tucked her writing implements away and slipped one arm through Angus’s. “I am here in the Yukon to research a book I intend to write about the gold rush. People in California and New York are dying for news about this wonderful place. They want much more information than they get from a few newspaper accounts. I want to see everything, and meet everyone, and tell all about it in my book. Isn’t that exciting?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Miss Witherspoon had a contagious eagerness about her. When she talked about her project, her voice rose and her eyes glistened, and Angus couldn’t help but be caught up in her enthusiasm.

“I was saying to Miss Forester that we must find ourselves a guide to this exciting town. Didn’t I say that, Euila?”

“Yes, you did, Martha,” Miss Forester said softly. She, for one, didn’t appear to be too caught up in Miss Witherspoon’s enthusiasm.

“How does two dollars a day sound?”

Two dollars a day sounded great! Angus opened his mouth to say “yes”, but then he remembered he had responsibilities. Miss Witherspoon remembered also. “Your employer told me you work at the shop every morning. So you are free in the afternoons and on Sunday to show us around, isn’t that right?”

“Uh, would that be two dollars for the afternoon, or only one?”

“Two.”

Ron and Dave wouldn’t care too much whether he showed up or not, and two dollars a day was as much as a man might make, more than a constable earned. And for only an afternoon’s work at that. “Sure,” he said.

“Wonderful!” Miss Witherspoon nodded. “Before we begin, I am simply starving. And so is Miss Forester, I am sure. What would be a nice place for afternoon tea?”

“I don’t quite know about tea, ma’am. Maybe your hotel? Or the Regina Café serves good soup and light lunches, I’ve heard. I’ll show you where it is.”

“You will eat with us.”

“Uh, I don’t have any money.”

“Did I not mention that all your expenses will be paid while you are in my employ? Come along, lead the way to the Regina Café.”

The walk to the café took a long time, as Miss Witherspoon wanted to stop and look at everything then ask questions about everything she stopped to look at.

She paused in front of the Monte Carlo. “Tonight I want to go to one of the dance halls. It is not at all a place for a respectable lady, so you’ll have to remain in the hotel, Euila. As I will be in my capacity as a writer, I’ll venture in. Will you accompany me, Angus?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Witherspoon, but I’m not old enough to go inside. The police are strict about things like that. I can only go into the Savoy because my mother owns it.”

“Tell me about your mother. Such a gracious lady. So quick to help Miss Forester. She owns a dance hall? Most convenient. What would be a good time?”

“The dance hall opens at eight, although the bar and the gambling rooms are open all day.”

“Then eight it will be. How did your mother come to be the owner of a dance hall? The Savoy, you called it? Named after the hotel of that name in London?”

As they settled into a table by the window, Miss Witherspoon plied Angus with questions. He chattered on about Dawson, about the Chilkoot trail, about the Savoy and Ray Walker, his mother’s business partner. He talked about Mrs. Saunderson, tragically widowed then cheated out of her claim by her own brother.

Miss Witherspoon jotted everything down in her notebook while she consumed every scrap of beans, boiled potatoes, and pork chop on her plate. Miss Forester said almost nothing and picked at her lunch with an expression of distaste.

“Tell me, Angus,” Miss Witherspoon said, placing her knife and fork neatly across her scraped-clean plate. “I’ve heard the words sourdoughs and cheechakos. What’s the difference? Would you care for pie?”

“Yes, ma’am! A cheechako means a newcomer. A sourdough is an old timer. Although a sourdough doesn’t have to be old—he only has to have spent a winter in the Yukon.”

“So you’re a sourdough?” Angus had never thought of it that way. He rolled the word around inside his head. “I guess I am. It was some winter, let me tell you. There was talk of Dawson being a starvation camp.”

He was scraping up the last of his pie when Miss Irene, his mother’s best dancer, came into the café. She was with a plainly dressed older woman, and they made for a table in the dark back corner of the room, although there were window tables still available. Angus waved cheerfully as Irene and her companion crossed the room. Irene tossed him a friendly smile and gave his companions a curious look.

Miss Witherspoon followed his gaze. “Who is that?”

“That’s Miss Davidson, Lady Irenee is her stage name. She’s the headliner at the Savoy. The main attraction in the dance hall, I mean. My ma tells me she’s popular with the men. Worth her weight in gold, my ma says. Don’t know the other woman, though.”

Miss Witherspoon watched the two women settle at their table. Irene fluffed her skirts around her and drifted into her chair like the first leaf of autumn falling graciously to the ground. Her companion plunked herself down and looked around. She saw Angus and Miss Witherspoon watching. She gave Miss Witherspoon a sharp look before turning her attention back to Irene.

Miss Witherspoon flushed and turned away. “Waiter,” she cried, snapping her fingers. “Our account, if you please.”

She fumbled in her bag, searching for money. “Now, Angus dear, you must get Miss Forester to tell you what caused her to faint at your shop this morning. She refuses to say a word to me.”

“There is nothing to say, Martha. I told you. It was the heat and the mud and all those men gathered so closely. Quite unbearable. I knew it was a mistake to come here.”

“Euila spent her childhood on the Isle of Skye. Didn’t you mention that’s where your mother originated, Angus dear? I find that rather hard to believe because they both have such proper English accents. Almost identical, one might say.”

Angus remembered his manners. He hadn’t spoken to Miss Forester during the entire meal. “Are you a writer also, Miss Forester?”

“Heavens no.” Miss Forester looked quite startled, whether at being mistaken for a writer or being spoken to, Angus didn’t know.

“What brings you to Dawson, then?” he asked, simply trying to be polite. His mother hated men who only talked about themselves.

“The fishing fleet,” Miss Witherspoon said, carefully counting out the money for the bill.

“Fishing? The salmon’ll be running soon. We weren’t here last year for the salmon run, but they say it’s really something. I can’t see that you’ll… I mean, you don’t look like…” Angus fumbled for the words.

“Martha,” Miss Forrester said, “please be quiet.” “Nothing wrong with it, my dear.” Miss Witherspoon waved at the waiter once again. “The fishing fleet, Angus, is what they used to call the pack of Englishwomen who set sail once a year for India in search of a husband.”

“Oh.” “Miss Forester is looking for a husband. A wealthy one.

Fallen on hard times, haven’t you, dear? Such a tragedy when the great families can’t pay off their debts.”

Miss Forester turned an unattractive shade of red and gathered her gloves. “That is none of the boy’s business, Martha.”

“We met in San Francisco,” Miss Witherspoon continued, as if her companion hadn’t spoken. “Euila’s brother was most grateful to find her a respectable companion to take her off his hands. He was no match for the Klondike, let me tell you. Now, where shall we go next? You may lead the way, dear boy. But remember: I want to see everything!”