At the Mountain's Edge

by Genevieve Graham

  Liza

  TWENTY-THREE

  Liza nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of her door opening. “Come in!” she called, patting her hair into place.

  At the sight of Mr. Somers in the doorway, her heart sank a little. For three long, rainy days she’d been staring at the empty scales she’d bought for weighing gold dust, waiting for her first customer. Until this moment, the only person Liza had seen in the shop during those three days was a waif-like man in rags who had pried open the door in the middle of her second night. Fortunately, Liza had been unable to fall asleep, and the creaking door had given her intruder away. She’d sprung to her feet with a blade in hand, and the man had taken one look at her, then fled. Now she slept with a knife under her pillow.

  Despite the knife, she had trouble sleeping at night. She couldn’t stop thinking of her impeding rent and she was plagued with regret at taking this place so quickly. The shop was too far from the centre of town, and on closer inspection she’d discovered the floor was uneven and splintered in places. The ceiling, she was certain, would have leaked if it didn’t also serve as the floor of the upstairs brothel. From the clipping of heels, she could tell the ladies overhead were doing a whole lot more business than she was. She hated the idea that her father might be right about her not being able to manage a store, but it was starting to feel that way.

  “Miss Peterson!” Mr. Somers was grinning broadly. “I’ve brought you something.” With a flourish, he presented her with a large white sign with Open for Business painted on it in bold black lettering.

  “How thoughtful of you,” Liza said, trying to sound cheerful. “Did you paint it yourself?”

  “I did. I apologize for the messy letters.” He glanced around. “I know you don’t have a window to display it in, but I thought you could at least have it set up outside. No one has been in this place for a while, so people aren’t used to shopping here. With the help of the sign, your success is practically guaranteed.”

  Maybe this was all she needed to grab the attention of passersby, Liza thought. “How can I thank you?”

  His smile faltered. “Oh, I must not have been clear. It’s not a gift. Since you are an experienced merchant, you understand the value of advertising, and I am sure five dollars won’t bother you overmuch.”

  She tried very hard not to flinch at the cost. “I don’t have cash right now, Mr. Somers—”

  The twinkle returned to his eyes. “That is a small matter. Have you more of those rubber boots? Perhaps a pair of those could serve as payment?”

  “I can manage that,” she said.

  She brought out the boots, and he graciously set the sign up outside before heading back to the centre of town. Perhaps he’d been right, because by the afternoon she’d had her first three customers. Two were ladies from upstairs, and the third was an older gentleman who had come from the same direction. Any paying customer was a good customer, she kept telling herself. Even better, she couldn’t help feeling a bit smug about their purchases. When her family had first begun to place orders for this voyage, she had been adamant that her father buy luxury items like silk fabric.

  “They’re hardly practical, Liza,” he’d said. “These men will be mining in the dirt, not going to dances.”

  “But there will be women there. You said so yourself. The silks may take up space,” she’d coaxed, “but they weigh very little.”

  He’d done the figures in his head, factoring in space, weight, possible profits, and eventually given in. “All right. But not too much.”

  “And silk underthings . . .” she had persuaded.

  As she’d predicted, she’d sold a bit of both to the women who had come into the shop. Her father would have been surprised, she thought. And proud. She couldn’t resist looking up at that pathetic ceiling and hoping he was watching.

  Slowly but surely, more customers began trickling in, and soon her rubber boots’ worth of advertising had paid for itself.

  One afternoon a woman wearing a peculiar feathered hat and grey kid gloves stepped into the shop, and from the uncertainty in her expression, Liza could tell she already regretted having entered the sad little building.

  “Good morning,” Liza said brightly, determined to make up for appearances. “What a lovely hat.”

  The woman’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Do you think? My husband is not fond of it, but I think it’s cheerful. One never knows what to wear in a place like this, do they?” She took in Liza’s display, then moved on to the varied items on the shelves. “We’ve only just arrived, you see.”

  “Welcome to Dawson City,” Liza said. “And you can tell your husband that hat is exactly what you should wear around here. You’ll see all kinds of people wearing different things. That’s part of the charm of this place.”

  Her customer went directly to the shelf where Liza had stacked the various bolts of silks, but Liza could tell from the way her gaze wandered that she wasn’t going to buy any of it. She was clearly interested in style, though, and Liza thought she might like to see the jewellery she kept behind the counter for safekeeping. She pulled out the small wooden box that she’d lined with a square of black velvet to showcase the baubles she’d picked up along the trail.

  The jewellery acted like a magnet, and the woman honed in on a silver bracelet. “This is lovely,” she said. “Though I wonder where I would wear such an item. I don’t mean to cause offense, but this city is filthy. The streets are mud, and the floors are dirt. I’m sure there are nice places here, but I am just so tired of feeling dirty. I’ve tried dusting, you know, but once it’s gone there’s always more.”

  “It’s a continuous struggle,” Liza commiserated. “I can barely keep up. I sweep three times a day on some days—”

  “You sweep? You have a broom?”

  “Well, yes. I have this.” Liza fetched it from behind her bedroom curtain.

  The woman dug inside her bag. “May I buy it from you?”

  “My broom?”

  “Yes! No one has any to sell! I have asked around, and one of the shopkeepers down the street told me he just sold his last one for twenty-five dollars. Twenty-five dollars for a broom! Can you imagine? I know that scarcity breeds demand, but my floor is simply . . .” She offered Liza a handful of bills. “Would you accept seventeen dollars? It’s all I brought with me today.”

  “Of course,” Liza said, making the exchange with a smile. “I can easily make another.”

  “Thank you,” her customer replied, elated. “You’re a lifesaver. And I’ll be back another time. Your jewellery is lovely.”

  Once the woman left, Liza looked thoughtfully at the money in her hand. Out of necessity, she had woven that broom together in less than an hour—Stan had seen instructions in a book and taught her how to do it when they were young. If she could make and sell a few more brooms, she would be able to pay her rent.

  “What do you think, Father?” she said out loud. “Everyone around here has boots, rope, and shovels, but I am the only one with a broom!”

  What else were the citizens of Dawson missing? she wondered, tapping her pencil against her cheek.

  “Hairbrushes,” she mused. “Toothbrushes, soap . . .”

  This might work out after all.

  Ben

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Dawson City was buzzing during the day, but it was at night that she really hummed. That was Ben’s favourite time to make his rounds. Despite the rain that had been melting Dawson’s streets to mud over the past couple of days, a dozen steamships were docked down at the waterfront, complete with waving flags, battling pianos, and dancing girls leaning over the sides, waving bottles of champagne in invitation. Nothing to worry about there, he thought to himself, just a whole lot of people having fun.

  The wildest action could always be found farther into town, behind the sparkling signs and plate-glass windows of Dawson’s saloons. Anyone with money or something to prove—or both—felt the same binding pull that mercury had on gold w
hen they approached the wide-open doors of a pulsing saloon. Every night but Sunday—Steele had decreed absolutely no business was to be open on that day of the week—hundreds of people crowded into the bars, trying to forget the gloom of the goldfields and fool themselves into believing they could overcome the constant ache of loneliness with music or dancing or gambling, if only for a little while.

  Ben slid beneath the Monte Carlo Saloon’s intricately carved archway and wandered into its smoky den, sensing the mood of the room. A couple of girls had taken up positions on either side of the piano, and Fingers McMahon was playing up a storm, flanked by a fiddler Ben didn’t recognize. In Ben’s opinion, Fingers wasn’t as good as the Rag Time Kid down at the Dominion, but he wasn’t bad, and the crowd wasn’t complaining. The tables around the room were full and the bartenders were busy, but Ben didn’t sense any potential issues, so he headed towards the gambling hall at the back. Beyond the hall was the Monte Carlo theatre, complete with stage, seating, and balcony with box seats. Taking up the entire second floor of the building, above all the noise, were a dozen bedrooms available to rent by the hour.

  “Everything in order, Constable Turner?”

  Ben turned to see “Diamond Tooth” Gertie Lovejoy flash him her famous smile. “Good evening, Miss Lovejoy. You’re looking ravishing tonight.”

  The diamond planted between her front teeth glittered. “Given the understanding that you offer that compliment purely out of the good of your heart and not a desire for something more carnal, I am flattered.”

  Just like everyone else, the dance hall girls had dreams to chase and bills to pay. Many of them were prostitutes as well as performers. Some mined for husbands, or at least benefactors, but there were rare determined women, like Gertie, who were dancing their way all the way up the ladder to fame and fortune.

  “Good crowd tonight,” she said.

  Ben nodded, his eyes always scanning the crowd. “Quiet day in the fields, so I expect there won’t be much dust thrown around tonight.”

  “Except the regulars. Those boys can’t stand to hold on to their money for more than a few minutes,” she said. “Have you met Sailor Bill yet?”

  “Who?”

  “ ‘Sailor Bill’ Partridge. Over there by the mirror, in the navy suit. Sitting with Shorty.”

  If gossip was a commodity, Diamond Tooth Gertie was a vein of gold, and every time Ben came in she tried to impress him with at least three new pieces of information. Ben was happy to play along. In his line of work, insider’s knowledge could be extremely helpful.

  He squinted through the smoke. “The gentleman with the girls on either shoulder?”

  “That’s him. Australian lad. You’ll want to get a good look at his face, because you’ll never see him in that suit again. Legend has it he never wears the same thing twice, and I believe it. I know I saw him in something different earlier today.”

  “Where’s his money from? Here?”

  “I heard he made it in gold in Queensland. Not sure how he’s doing here.” Another of the dance hall girls joined Sailor Bill’s party, and Gertie shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, I suppose. He has enough.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Do you know that stubby little person over there?” Gertie casually waved a couple of manicured fingers towards the corner of the room, avoiding the vulgarity of a direct point.

  “You’ll need to be a little more specific. I see a bunch of—Oh. That one?”

  “Did you know that’s a woman? They call her Calamity Jane.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” he said, but what he’d heard wasn’t all good. Rumour was she’d killed some men. “Didn’t know she was here, though.”

  “Other than that . . .” Gertie trailed off. “The Moose bought another claim.”

  Ben clicked his tongue. “I’m disappointed. That ain’t news.”

  “Maybe this town isn’t as exciting as it used to be.” She tapped her fingertips together. “Let’s see.”

  “You work on that, would you?” he teased. “I’ll try to come back later.”

  “You can’t say I lost this round! I just need a few more minutes to find something.”

  “Let’s call it a draw.”

  He went to leave, then stopped, spotting Ralph Stevens at a table near the bar. Ben hadn’t spoken to him since he’d let him out of jail the week before, and now the man was leaning back in his chair, his gold watch and chain sparkling blatantly from within the pocket of his gold-threaded waistcoat. A few other well-dressed men were sitting with him, talking and sipping on whisky, and women leaned over them like ravens ogling shiny treasures. Evidently Stevens had forgotten he had a wife at home.

  A soft arm brushed against Ben’s. “Ooh. There’s a nice big lap,” Daisy said as she walked by. “Good to see you, Constable Turner.”

  “Daisy, wait.” Ben caught hold of her arm before he could stop himself. She blinked at him in surprise, then circled around and drew a line down his shirt front with one finger.

  “Is this the night?” she asked. “You and me?”

  “No,” he said, gently removing her hand from his chest. “What are you doing, Daisy? You know that Ralph Stevens ain’t a nice guy.”

  She laughed. “There are no nice guys around here, except maybe Mounties. But the Mounties don’t want nothing to do with me.”

  Stevens glanced up, and, seeing them both, he crooked one finger at Daisy.

  “Good night, Constable,” Daisy said, moving away.

  The noise and action of the Monte Carlo vibrated around Ben, but his attention remained on Stevens. The man wasn’t breaking any laws by just sitting in a saloon, but Daisy was soft and young and vulnerable, and the thought of Stevens lifting a hand to her set the familiar tingle of rage burning in Ben’s knuckles. Tilting his head slightly, Ben summoned the fury that perpetually simmered deep within him and let it rise from his heart to his eyes. I see you, Stevens. I’m watching.

  Stevens’s slow, arrogant smile slid from Ben to Daisy, and Gertie leaned forward. “Big game going on in the back,” she purred in his ear.

  He turned to her, grateful for the distraction, though he was reluctant to abandon Daisy. When his anger filled him with fire, he needed to either hit something or make himself scarce.

  “Who’s playing?” he asked.

  “Straight Sam, Mousy Wickers, and a few others. I think some are out of money, though.”

  Voices rose from the back room, so Ben headed over and stood in the doorway, watching the poker game taking place under a cloud of cigar smoke. Six men huddled around the cards, but only three were still playing.

  “Don’t know what you think you’re doing, Wickers,” Straight Sam drawled, chewing on the stub of a cigar that hung out the side of his mouth.

  “You ought to be more worried about your own cards, Sam,” Wickers said, but he was sweating hard, patting the sides of his neck with a tired cloth.

  The third player, a young man Ben didn’t recognize, feigned a loud, drawn-out yawn. “Y’all had best play or fold afore I fall asleep.”

  “Who’s that?” Ben asked Gertie.

  “Maxwell Somers. From Boston, I understand. Handsome devil, ain’t he? All I’ve heard about him so far is that he’s in deep,” she said. “He needs to win this hand.”

  Ben eyed the pile in the centre of the table. A variety of gold nuggets were mixed with an impressive number of pokes and a sparkling silver timepiece. “What’s the pot?”

  “A grand,” someone replied. “Could be the last hand. Somers went all in.”

  Wickers, lips pinched white with anger, finally flipped his cards over and folded.

  “I knew it!” Somers slapped the table. “Smart move, old man. Sorry I can’t say the same for you, Sam.”

  Sam didn’t seem concerned. “Let’s see ’em.”

  At sight of the young man’s cards, the crowd around the table let out a cheer, and Ben could see why he’d been so confident: full house, tens over queens.

  Sam wa
ited for the noise to die down, then plucked the cigar from his mouth. “Well, that’s a pretty hand, boy. Thing is, it just so happens I got a sister to those queens.” Somers winced as Sam laid down the queen of hearts. then fanned out his other cards. “And I got the rest of her beautiful family, too.”

  Royal flush.

  The crowd exploded with whoops and applause, but Somers stared in disbelief at the cards.

  “I was bettin’ you didn’t have—”

  “I know ’zactly what you was betting,” Sam replied, sweeping his winnings into a bag. “Better luck next time.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet, then he touched the brim of his hat and turned to go.

  Somers leapt up. “Hold on! You can’t just take all our money and go!”

  “Why, sure I can.”

  Without warning, Somers lunged for Sam’s collar, slamming the smaller man down on the table, which splintered and fell under their weight. Wickers joined in, holding a sputtering Sam down as Somers let him have it.

  Ben watched the fight closely. The Mounties tended to let these tussles go for a bit so the men could blow off steam, but when another man rushed drunkenly towards the scene, chair held over his head like a weapon, Ben knew he had to intervene. He seized the chair-wielding man by his collar.

  “If you wanna stay out of jail tonight,” he said, “I suggest you put that down and walk away.”

  The man did as he was told, then Ben turned back to the ruined poker table and grabbed the top man on the pile—Somers. The young man spun around and tried to slug Ben in the face, but Ben was ready, deflecting the blow and twisting Somers’s arm behind his back.