They gave it to her.
“The Indian weren’t even talking to them,” someone said. “And they started punching at him.”
Sterling raised one eyebrow and looked at Jannis.
“Stupid Indian wouldn’t get outta my way. Where I come from, an Indian doesn’t stand in a white man’s way, not if he knows what’s good for him.”
“Perhaps you should go back to where you came from,” Sterling said. “Now get out of here before I’m tempted to take you in for disturbing the peace.” The Indian was struggling to focus and looked as though he were about to settle back into the roadway. Sterling grabbed his arm. “You’d better come with me, buddy. You don’t belong here.”
The Indian groaned, and a tiny dribble of spittle leaked out of the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Sterling. He was a good deal older than the Mountie had first thought. It was the eyes that gave his age away—they’d seen altogether too much. Under the dirt, his hair was a snowy white, and deep lines were carved into his cheeks and through the delicate skin under his eyes.
He staggered, and Sterling caught him under the arms. A wave full of the smell of old drink, unwashed clothes and the weight of a tired old body washed over him, but he held on. “Let’s go,” he whispered. “Let’s get you some help.” He tossed the old man’s arm over his shoulder.
“Indian lover.”
Out of the corner of his eye Sterling saw the blow coming. Weighted down as he was by the old man, he couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. The man Tom Jannis had called Sam had pulled a metal bar out of his jacket, and with an angry shout swung it at Sterling’s head.
The bar never connected. Instead Sam dropped the weapon, clutched his lower side and crumbled to the ground, all in one smooth movement.
Angus MacGillivray stood over him, rubbing his right fist.
“Angus,” Sterling said. “Thought I told you to run for the Fort if there was trouble.”
“Didn’t think I had enough time, sir.” “Here, you help this gentleman, and I’ll take care of the other one.” Angus took over the support of the old Indian, and Sterling dragged Sam to his feet. “Assaulting an officer of the law. It’s a blue ticket for you, if I’m not mistaken.” He looked at Jannis. “Coming with your friend?”
Jannis shrugged his expensively-draped shoulders and straightened his cravat. “Never laid eyes on this ruffian before today.”
“That was quite the punch,” Sterling told Angus as they led the two moaning men, one carefully, one with much less consideration, to Fort Herchmer.
“To the kidneys, sir. He was wide open, lifting that bar up that way. Sergeant Lancaster told me a good solid blow to the kidneys will bring a man down every time.”
“Not very sporting.” “Sergeant Lancaster told me that too, sir. He said you never hit a man below the belt in a fair fight.”
“Well, that wasn’t a fair fight. You did good, Angus. But next time—if there is a next time—run to the Fort, will you?”
“Yes, sir. What will happen to these two now, sir?” “This one will get a blue ticket and be out of town by nightfall. Permanently. The old Indian? I’ll send someone to fetch one of the ladies from St. Paul’s. They’ll give him a hot meal and a bed in the church for the night and see he gets home to Moosehide tomorrow.” “But he’ll drink again. Why won’t he stop drinking?” “Don’t judge, Angus. The white man took everything from his people and gave them only disease in return. Alcohol is as much a disease for Indians as smallpox or typhoid. It takes longer to kill them, that’s all.”
Chapter Six
I was in a fine temper when I got home. A bird flew overhead as I crossed the yard. It was a tiny thing, lost and confused amongst the noise and bustle of Dawson, no doubt searching for a tree to nest in, but she was out of luck—the trees had all been chopped down for lumber and firewood.
I stormed into the laundry shed and stripped down to my bloomers—even my petticoat was filthy—right there and then. Mary and Mrs. Mann watched me with wide eyes. Huge vats of boiling water steamed over open fires, and acres of sheets were being rung out on a wooden press ready to go on the line, which was already filling the yard with men’s undergarments and shirts, billowing in the wind. The whole place smelled of a disgusting mixture of lye soap, filthy water and unwashed men’s clothes.
“If this isn’t the most God-forsaken town,” I shouted, bundling the dress into a ball and stuffing it into Mrs. Mann’s arms. Mary was holding the huge wooden paddle they used to stir the laundry in the hot water as if this were a tennis court and she were about to return my serve. “I might as well go to work in sackcloth and ashes. I expect you to take care of that dress, Mary. It has scarcely been worn.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fiona.”
I had to cross the yard to get back to the house. I snatched a clean sheet off the folding table and wrapped it securely over my corset, bloomers and stockings. “I’ll bring this back,” I snarled as I stalked out. I had once worn a sheet to an extremely daring party at Lord Alveron’s Welsh country house. The party was so daring, in fact, that it could only have been held as far away from London, and Alveron’s grandmother, as he could get. The sheet was supposed to represent a classical Roman toga. I wore an expensive set of pearls with the sheet—Alveron’s great-grandmother’s pearls.
They’d come in handy not too many months later when I’d sold them to secure Angus a place at a good school. The memory of my somewhat less respectable days did nothing to improve my mood, and I grumbled heartily as I stomped through the house to my rooms, tore off my hat and washed my hands and face. The water was cold, slimy with the residue of the morning’s soap scum; Mrs. Mann had not yet changed it. Fortunately my hat was unscathed. It had cost almost as much as the dress. I struggled into my old day dress with no easing of my temper. The dress didn’t go with the nice hat or the paste-sapphire earrings I’d carefully selected for the ensemble. Dawson was proving to be hard on my wardrobe.
If I ever sold the Savoy, I might consider going into ladies’ apparel. I bravely faced myself in the mirror as I tore out hairpins and attempted to repair my hair.
My anger began to dissipate under the slow, rhythmic action of the brush against my hair. I’d been afraid Euila would notice that my son carried my maiden name. I didn’t give a whit about my reputation, and most of the townsfolk of Dawson would care even less, but I had led Angus to believe I’d been married to his late father. When he was born, I didn’t even consider giving my son his father’s—if I weren’t a lady, I would spit on the floor—name. Angus MacGillivray had been my father’s name, and a kinder, gentler man I had yet to meet.
Fiona was my mother’s name. Sometimes, if I close my eyes and concentrate very hard I can hear my father’s voice saying “Fiona” in his rich Scottish brogue. He was full of adoration for my mother, full of fun towards me. Regardless of where I happen to be, whenever I hear that rough, beautiful accent, I fly through space and time back to our crofter’s cottage on Skye. It’s a cold winter’s evening, snow blowing outside, peat fire burning in the hearth, Father bouncing me on his knee and asking my mother if I weren’t the bonniest wee lass.
When I calmed down at last, under the steady stroke of