Gold Digger. Vicki Delany
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be encouraging the lad’s interest in the Mounties, with the aim of turning the fatherless boy into a productive citizen, or discouraging the somewhat annoying heroworship. “Give me a couple of minutes to finish this report.”
Angus perched on the edge of the only spare chair in the small room as Sterling bent his head to concentrate on the paperwork. “What’s your report about, sir?” The boy’s blue eyes shone with anticipation. A lock of too-long blond hair fell over his forehead. Angus’s huge feet were planted so solidly on the floor that no one else would be able to squeeze into the room. Must cost his mother a fortune in footwear, Sterling thought. Not to mention food. The fair, sturdy Angus looked almost nothing like his dark, fineboned mother: only the generous mouth and strong chin suggested a contribution by the maternal genes.
“My report? A theft. A sourdough befriended a Yankee newcomer who’d passed out from drink, and when the Yankee woke up, he stole the old-timer’s mining gear.”
“Did you catch him?” “Oh, yes,” Sterling said, with a touch of satisfaction.
“Fool went to the nearest supply store to sell the goods. Harold contacted us straight away. He, the Yankee, not Harold, will be contributing to the warming of the constabulary this winter.” Police resources were so limited in the Yukon that there were only two punishments meted out for miscreants: a blue ticket expelling one permanently from town or a time in custody chopping wood for the ravenous NWMP stoves.
A steamship whistle blew out on the river. Sterling stood, picked up the distinctive broadbrimmed, pointed hat, and placed it properly on his head. “Time to go. Not a lot happening this early in the day.
The real action gets going around midnight.”
“Yes, sir.” Angus leapt to his feet, all awkward arms and gangly legs.
They walked down to the waterfront as the steamship Queen Victoria pulled into the makeshift harbour. The port, such as it was, consisted of not much more than rows of boats pulled up onto the mud flats and tied together. In an attempt at some sort of civility, a few planks had been laid to the steamships.
Dawson produced nothing but gold. No food, no clothing, no mining equipment. Everything the town needed arrived by steamship or on rough rafts powered by poles of newly-hewn wood and men’s aching backs. A goodsized crowd could always be expected to show up at the docks in anticipation of anything that might prove of interest. Or of profit.
Sterling and Angus stood to one side of the pack, nodding to the townspeople. The river was thick with makeshift boats bringing newcomers from all over North America, from all over the world.
“What we’re doing, son,” Sterling explained, “is watching. See who gets off the boat and make sure they’re not here to cause trouble.”
At first Angus stood still, only his eyes moving as he tried to follow the stream of humanity disgorging from the steamship into the milling crowd. But before long, his legs started to get stiff and his right foot fell asleep. He shook his leg to bring some feeling back.
The constable laughed. “A policeman’s life isn’t always exciting, son. Boring, more often than not.” He stopped talking as someone caught his attention. Aged about sixty, the newcomer was a good deal older than most people who came to Dawson, but still not as old as some. He was welldressed, although his wool suit could do with a good laundering, and his grey-streaked beard and hair needed trimming. He stood solidly beside a pile of nearly-new luggage, negotiating porter’s fees with men who’d rushed to the docks to offer their labour.
Sterling wandered over; Angus trotted behind.
“I want the finest hotel in town.” The newcomer signalled to two of the workers to pick up his bags. The crowd pushed and shoved around him. Angus took an elbow in the back and lurched forward. He would have fallen had not the press of men on either side propped him up.
The man saw Angus stumble. “You, boy,” he said. “I’m here on behalf of the San Francisco Standard, and I’m hoping you can tell me the name of the best place in town for a fellow to hear the local news.”
“Paper’s called the Klondike Nugget, sir,” Angus said in a low voice, his cheeks turning pink. “You go down…”
“Don’t want a newspaper, boy. A reporter doesn’t get his stories from the newspaper office. I’m asking where’s the best place to hear the news from them that’s making it, and I’ve got a dollar if you can tell me.”
Angus held out his hand, apparently forgetting that he was pretending to be a Mountie. “The Savoy, sir. The finest, most modern establishment in London, England, transported all the way to the Yukon.”
The reporter pressed a tattered American dollar bill into Angus’s hand. “And where is this Savoy?”
“Front Street, sir,” Angus said, stuffing the note into his pocket before turning to point. “Just past Queen Street. Right over there. Big sign out front. “
Sterling stepped forward. “Come to write about our town have you, Mr…”
“Ireland, Jack Ireland. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sergeant.” The man held out his hand. Sterling took it. They sized each other up.
“Constable Sterling. North-West Mounted Police. Welcome to Dawson, Mr. Ireland.”
“I’d say it’s a pleasure to be here, Constable. But I’m not yet sure that’s the truth.” The reporter looked around, taking in the press of men and boys openly listening to the conversation, the naked hillsides, the mud. Everywhere, the mud. He swatted a mosquito that had settled on his fleshy neck. “But it sure is a relief to come to the end of that miserable trip. This Savoy of yours, boy, is it a hotel?”
“No, sir. It’s the finest dance hall, bar and gaming house in Canada. Maybe in the world.”
Ireland chuckled. “I’ll believe that when I see it. What hotel would you recommend, son?” He held out another dollar.
“The Richmond, sir.” Angus took the bill. The reporter snapped his fingers at the men hovering over his luggage. “You two, take my bags to the Richmond. I’ll be along in a minute. What hours does this Savoy keep, son?”
“Huh?” “He means when does it open,” Sterling said.
“Oh. Ten o’clock. Sir.”
“Not till ten?”
“Ten in the morning,” Sterling explained. Ireland laughed a deep, hearty laugh. His red beard, liberally streaked with grey, shook, and his open mouth showed a row of small teeth. A single gold tooth caught the sun. His laugh was as contagious as his surname would suggest. It rolled over the watching crowd until everyone was chuckling along. Even Angus smiled. Only Sterling failed to participate in the general merriment.
When he regained control of his breathing, Ireland wiped his eyes. “I must say, my boy, this sounds like my kind of town. Now, I’d better follow those oafs to the hotel, or I’ll never see my luggage again. Perhaps I’ll run across you later at this dance hall of yours.”
“I don’t think so,” Sterling said. “Children aren’t allowed in the dance halls.”
Ireland looked shocked. “Would’ve taken you for much older than that, lad.” He winked at Angus. The boy flushed.
The crowd separated to allow the reporter from the San Francisco Standard through.
Sterling and Angus watched him go.
Show over, the throng ebbed away. Crates of cargo were being unloaded from the bowels of the steamship, and the townspeople were eager for a glimpse of the contents.
“Two dollars is a lot of money,” the policeman said. “More than some men with families to support make in a day.”
“Do you want me to give it back, sir?”
“No. A fool and his money are easily parted, and Ireland’s