But I wasn’t in Dawson looking for a man.
“There’s someone new in town you might like to meet,” I said. “A reporter from San Francisco.”
The seductive grin disappeared immediately. “Who?”
“Jack Ireland’s his name. From the San Francisco Standard, I believe.”
“Where?”
“At the front of the bar. Older guy, well dressed, big crowd standing around him.”
Graham didn’t give me a second glance and pushed his way through the crowd. Curious, I rounded the bar.
Ray walked back into the saloon. “Where’s Sam?”
“Left in a big hurry. I don’t know why.”
“No’ back in five minutes, and he’s gone.” Ray turned into a blur of motion, pouring drinks, taking money, weighing gold, listening to men’s talk.
He managed the bar and gambling room staff; I kept the books and handled the money, supervised the performers and dancers, and attracted the customers. We made a good team, Ray and I.
Graham elbowed men aside to stand face-to-face with Ireland. My friend had his hands on his hips and his chin thrust forward. Ireland smirked with a sort of sick pleasure that gave me an uncomfortable feeling deep in my stomach.
“Jack Ireland,” Graham said. “I’m surprised you’re not in hell yet.”
“Nice to see you, too, Donohue, my boy. How’s your dear sister these days?” Ireland turned to his drinking partners. “This lad and I go back a long way, boys.”
“What are you doing here, Ireland?”
“Working on a story, my lad. Same as you, I figure.”
“This is my patch, Ireland. I’ll thank you to stay the hell out of it. And don’t you dare mention my sister again.”
Ireland threw back his head and laughed. A gold tooth reflected light from the lamps filled with cheap oil. “A real reporter doesn’t put claim to a ‘patch’, boy. Not like a miner marking his stake. A real reporter knows there’s more than enough news to go around.”
Graham’s face was turning red, which had the unfortunate effect, regardless of the bristling moustache and the layers of mining dirt, of making him look as if he were on the verge of a temper tantrum.
“Ray,” I said, “I think…” Graham took a swing, but his arm was inhibited by the press of men at the bar. The space surrounding the San Francisco reporter had been thick before, but at the first suggestion of a fight, the people standing at the back shuffled forward to get a good look.
With no momentum to back it up, Graham’s blow bounced lightly off Ireland’s cheek. The drinkers in striking range stepped back, causing a jam as the two groups of onlookers came together. I knew, along with all the regulars, that Graham’s next punch would have the older man on the floor. Graham had been a champion boxer in his school days. Slight boys often have to be if they’re going to survive a New England boy’s school.
Ray leapt across the bar, sending men scattering every which way before him. He was a small man, but in Ray’s case his growth had been stunted by the ill-nourishment of a Glaswegian childhood rather than by genes. Ray had never been a boxing champion; he was a street fighter, practically from the moment he vacated the cradle. He grabbed Graham’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “That’s enough o’ that, Mr. Donohue. Time ta be off home.”
Ireland made a grand show of straightening his hat and tidying his cuffs, trying to recover from the look of sheer terror that had crossed his face in the long second before Ray sailed across the countertop. But I’d seen it. We’d all seen it.
“Mrs. MacGillivray?” Graham looked at me. He didn’t move in Ray’s grip. “Am I expelled?”
As if I’d contradict my business partner in front of a room full of customers. “Yes, you are, Mr. Donohue. You may return tomorrow, once you have calmed down. And had a shave and a haircut and changed into clean clothes.”
Held firm in Ray’s grip, Graham still managed a stiff bow. “For you, the raven-haired beauty of the Klondike, I’ll even have a bath.”
How could I not smile?
The onlookers cheered lustily at Graham’s chivalrous words. They were a long way from home, all these men trying to be so tough. A great many of them had left cherished mothers, wives and children behind in the depression-plagued cities to the south. They were the most sentimental bunch I had ever encountered. Which sometimes made it difficult to wring every last copper or fleck of gold dust out of them.
Difficult, but not impossible.
Graham Donohue looked at Ray. “You can unhand me, sir. Mrs. MacGillivray has asked me to leave. I never refuse a lady.”
The crowd cheered. Someone shouted, “Come on, Fee, let the boy stay.” They took up the chant. “Let the boy stay!”
Ireland was forgotten, which he didn’t appear to be at all happy about. Judging by the way he looked at me, he, the righteous victim of an unprovoked attack, blamed me for the loss of the crowd’s attention.
Tough.
I jerked my head towards the door; once an order was given, it had to be upheld, no matter what. Ray and I had both served our time on the bottom of life’s ladder, the one with half the rungs kicked out. We knew better than to show a hint of weakness. Graham bowed, and although he was still held in Ray’s powerful grip, he managed to be as gracious as the great ship on which I’d left Southampton harbour, heading for the New World. Several men pounded him on the back as he passed.
Ireland swallowed his drink, elbowed the man beside him out of the way and went into the gambling room. His face resembled one of the thunderclouds that would hover over Toronto on a hot summer’s day.
“Close one,” I said to Ray, once he’d seen Graham out the door.
“What was all that about? Never seen Donohue fly off the handle like that before. Cool as they come, he usually is.” At least that’s what I think Ray said. His Glaswegian accent is so thick when he’s angry or confused or, on a very rare occasion emotional, that even I, born and raised on the Isle of Skye until the age of ten, can’t always understand him.
I shook my head: who knows what comes over men at times? The customers, disappointed that the fight had fizzled into nothing, went back to their drink.
All I’d have to do, I’d thought naïvely, was to keep Graham Donohue and Jack Ireland apart, and everything would be well.
Chapter Five
Angus MacGillivray had never enjoyed himself so much in all of his life as he followed Constable Sterling on his rounds.
Wherever they went, men nodded at Sterling; the few women smiled and occasionally blushed, and everyone grinned at the sight of the gangly boy tagging along at the constable’s side.
It was early evening when they made their way down Front Street. The street was filling with men headed for the bars and the gambling tables. The dance halls didn’t open until eight, but the crowd would find ways to entertain themselves in the time remaining.
In front of the Savoy a drunk straightened up from a muddy puddle of his own vomit, clutching his stomach and emitting a low moan, sounding much like a cow in labour. Ray Walker stood in the doorway, disgust filling his battered face. He shook his head, caught Sterling’s eye, nodded, called a greeting to Angus and went back inside. The drunk turned and tripped. He waved his arms in the air like an outof-control windmill, but to no avail, and pitched forward into the street, collapsing face first into the mud.
Several men were lounging outside the bars; they laughed. A plainly dressed, no-nonsense woman with a bosom like the bow of an ocean liner threw the