“You can go ahead and pay us in gold,” the ringleader tells the clerk. He stands beside me, smelling of soap. A long mustache trickles from out of his bandana.
The clerk goes to a safe and actually pulls out gold! The post office using that as a currency. I’m drooling as bindles get stuffed with gold blocks. The two other members of the gang wait by the door, one built like a mountain, the other like a long and skinny tree.
They monitor the door with guns armed. I’ve left my rucksack with the rifle outside with Kaawishté.
“Let’s go, hurry it up,” the ringleader says to the clerk, whose brow is sweating and hands shake as he passes over the gold.
The ringleader pokes the gun at a sniveling man and his wife locked arm-in-arm.
“Empty yer pockets, folks.” Then he spins the rifle around the room. “All of yous.”
Everyone starts obeying, pushing forward wallets and pocket watches, along with golden knobs and jewelry. The gang member built like a mountain waddles over to pick it all up.
The ringleader turns to me, the only one who hasn’t complied.
“You hard of hearing?” the ringleader asks, his rifle’s nose pressed into mine.
“I barely have gold on me,” I say, and turn a pocket where the two small nubs were buried.
The ringleader cackles. “Who let you in Dawson?” He presses his nostril and fires a glob of mucus my way. It lands on my cheek, all moist and runny. He eyes the embroidered mirror and the letter from my other pocket.
“Silver?” he says, like it’s some mysterious object. “Boys, do we take silver?”
“Bite it and make sure it’s good,” the tree bellows.
“I am a bit hungry,” Ringleader guffaws. He places my beloved mirror between his lips and digs his teeth in. I squirm as if he’s taken a bite out of me. “Yep, that’ll do.” He tilts his foolish-looking hat. “I thank you for this.”
I put one hand on the knife’s blade again. It’s hidden in my belt and this criminal hasn’t noticed. I could whip it out and slice his throat but would still have the rest of the gang to contend with. Mountain and Tree surely firing a bullet to end me.
Then I remember Kaawishté standing outside.
My best chance would be to let the thieves think they’ve won. They can march out with my beloved mirror and the booty not knowing what awaits. I saw what Kaawishté did to the savage that killed George. He didn’t tell me this, but he scalped the man, carrying the tip of the savage’s head in his rucksack. I’d mixed our packs up one morning and found it hovering at the top of his clothes.
“I am a wolf,” I tell the ringleader, who looks curiously. “Part of a clan. We will not forget.”
“What in the Sam Hill you jibberin’ about?”
“Go on,” I say. I’ve departed my body momentarily, a spirit taking over. This has been happening more and more since we left the Tagish settlement. Since I’ve turned lupine.
Obviously spooked, Ringleader starts backing up, eager to get away. He gathers his gang and they go bolting out the door. The clerk yells to get the police, but when I run out, I aim to be the law, knife in my grip. Front Street’s packed, Dawson City like a zoo. I spin around trying to locate Kaawishté. There are three horses alongside the post office.
The thieves each hop on one, screeching “giddy up,” but the horses remain stiff. Kaawishté has his palm out by the horses’ noses like he’s casting a spell. His eyes white, and the horses get this relaxed look on their mugs and stay put. The thieves go ballistic, kicking at their mules with their boot heels, then turning their rifles on Kaawishté.
“Injun, you better knock off this evil trick and git our horses right.”
Kaawishté doesn’t respond, uninterested in their threats.
“Charlie, you shoot him good,” Ringleader says.
“Soapy, I thought you said not to use our real names.”
“Goshdarnit, you just used my moniker!”
“Least no one called me Aaron,” Tree says, then realizes his mistake.
“Quiet,” Soapy tells them. “Now I will count to three, Injun. And on three, both my men gonna pull those triggers. You release my horses from your foul spell.”
“If you kill me,” Kaawishté says, “the horses will stay frozen like this. The law will come and hang you.”
Soapy turns to Charlie and Aaron for advice, but they shrug. However, he isn’t dumb as them. Ringleaders need some merit to get others to follow. Same in a wolf pack.
“We’ll cut you in on the take if you release those horses,” Soapy says.
“You give back what you stole from my friend.” Kaawishté indicates me, none of them realizing I was there. I slide the knife back in my belt loop.
Soapy zeroes in. With the bandana still covering his face, I try to imagine who this man may be. The three of them aren’t too quick in mind and stamina. Relics of another time. Aging cowboys unable to let go. The Wild Wild West had ended and never got around to telling them. I picture him with winter in his beard.
“I never really liked silver anyway,” Soapy says, tossing me my embroidered mirror.
I cannot explain how it hurt to be without my beloved’s gift. The last time I killed a man for making the mistake of stealing. I clench it in my palm until my love line starts to bleed.
“C’mon!” Soapy bellows, turning around and seeing a policeman huffing and puffing his way over.
Kaawishté says something in his native tongue to the horses and the spell they’re under vanishes. They buck and bray, ready to roar.
“Deal’s a deal,” Soapy says. “I may be a criminal but I ain’t crooked. Hop on.”
Kaawishté mounts the horse behind Soapy, and Mountain pulls me on his before I can argue. I lean down to grab my rucksack.
“Hiya!” they shout, slapping their horses as we thunder off, mud flinging on the portly policeman damn near out of breath.
Front Street’s very crowded but the people part to create an aisle for us to pass through. Then Soapy turns off the main stretch, and in a minute we’re surrounded by plains and open skies. We hoof past a Han settlement, the clansmen watching us with mute derision until they see Kaawishté riding side-saddle and trickles of smiles appear on their faces. We robbed the very folks who had robbed them, and I’ve always declared that the enemy of my enemy might be my friend.
After some ways, we pull up to a lean-to shack haphazardly built and hidden by a thicket of surrounding trees. We dismount and I’ve got my hand on the knife blade, my rucksack firmly on both shoulders too in case they plan to kill us now that there are no witnesses.
The gang remove their bandanas from their sopping faces. Each of them older than I expected. Mountain’s completely bald, his head almost too big for his floppy hat. Tree’s gone fully gray with thick lines all over his face. Soapy looks the youngest, but only due to his spirit. I was right to guess winter in his beard. One eye of his has a nervous tic while the other shines crystal green. He lets out a cough that could rival any sick man in a hospital.
“We ain’t aiming to try anything funny,” Soapy says, in his laconic cowboy tone.
“Let’s get a fire started.”
The lean-to smells of soot and fried lard, blackened pans charring on the stove. Mountain lights a match and blazes the kindling in the fireplace. The room fills with smoke and he opens the flume.
“This hellhole,” he says, waving his hand through the black soot in the air.
Tree takes the booty, kisses a block, and stuffs it in a hollowed-out space behind a wonky table.
“Time to get arfarfan’arf,” Soapy sings, breaking out a bottle of Old Horn Brook Whiskey, taking a mighty swill and passing it over to Mountain who does the same.
Kaawishté declines and so do I, still not trusting these men.
“You and the Injun don’t like to live?” Tree asks, wiping his mouth from whiskey overflow.
“Been a trying day,” I say, hoping that ends it.
It does since the men seem pl
eased not to share their booze. Now that Soapy’s good and snickered, he’s ready to divulge his plan.
“See there’s a mighty amount of land that miners haven’t checked out yet. Trick is to go beyond Dawson City. I met this prospector a few days back. He’s traveling alone so having a hard time. He swears he’s come across gold in the far plains but has no way of transporting it back along with hauling his rucksack too. Don’t got no mule either. So he needs us and the more the merrier because there’s likely too much gold for us to carry off on our own anyway.”
“We aim to be far from this town come sun-up,” Mountain says, and lets out a belch.
Tree whips out his gun, fake fires a bullet, then coolly slips it back in his holster. Then the two sidekicks punch at each other playfully before things get more heated and they’re rolling around on the ground.
“Boys,” Soapy yells, but they don’t listen. “Boys!” Soapy fires a bullet that shoots clear through the ceiling. Mountain and Tree finally let go of each other. “Focus on the task at hand.” His twitching eye looks over in my direction. “This prospector should be on his way. We just wanted to pick up some small change from the PO beforehand in case his claims turn out to be a bust. You and the Injun wanna be on our side in case he tries anything funny?”
Kaawishté gives me a nod.
“You can count on us, Soapy,” I say. “Say, that’s a funny name you got. Where does it come from?”
“Ah, Soapy’s origin,” he says, pressing down his mustache as the tic in his eye turns to a twinkle. “Didn’t start as a bank robber. Charlie, Aaron and I been together since the eighties. Used to sell soap but it was really a scam. I’d tell folks there was a dollar bill hidden in some of the soaps and then charge people that amount. Oh, they bought it up like flies on a turd. Go from town to town, city to city, hoodwinking all the rubes. But then the law got involved. I’m in some city where I see my name and face on a WANTED poster. Damn near soiled myself. Figured if being a con man got me on that poster, I might as well go all out and take to banks. But we ain’t known in Yukon territory. It’s like we’re starting over. Spent part of my youth panning for gold during the California Gold Rush, figure we might as well try it up north too.”
“Soapy tells us where to go and we just follow,” Tree says. “Has worked for us thus far.”
“I’m a good man mostly. Who have I really robbed from? The rich banks who barely notice their money’s missing. And POs? For what they charge for stamps, they deserve to be bled.” He jabs Kaawishté in the arm. “Am I right, Injun?”
Kaawishté gives a tired nod. I can tell he’s sick of Soapy already.
Soapy sits back in a chair, kicks his boots off, and rests his holey socks on the table. A big bare toe sticks out, the nail darkened, toe throbbing.
“Good to git a load off,” Soapy says, scratching at his filthy sock.
Mountain and Tree have gotten sleepy and Soapy allows the two a small nap before the prospector arrives. They snore like old men on their last few wheezes looking even more aged in their slumber. These men have never truly worked, have lived off the fat of others, created their own laws. In some ways, I hate them for it and in other ways I admire them. They’ve chased dreams as foolish as they were and lived without any com-
promise. Something to be said about that. I can certainly relate. I’ve worked on my farm till my bones ached but gave it up for the thrill of promise. These men and I are more alike than I’d care to admit. But the Wild West ended some time ago. Weather-beaten now, full of wrinkles and gray, products of a bygone era. I have a chilling fear I could wind up like them soon enough.
“What’s got your mind turning?” Soapy asks, because I’ve gone under for some time now. “Tell me your story.”
“I just chase gold,” I say, with a lump in my throat. “It’s all I know to do.”
We’ve all nodded off, except of course for Kaawishté, who never sleeps, whose eyes stay trained on Soapy’s men, never believing them to be allies. It’s the first I’m able to rest indoors, and while it’s not entirely warm, it’s better than outdoors and I’m cooking a bit from the fire. I dream in fits, no clear images except for a pair of the wolf’s ice-blue eyes, ever observing. I’m being watched over, but the wolf hasn’t revealed itself yet. I am certain before this adventure ends, it will.
A booming knock resounds at the door and I wipe the drool from my lips. Mountain and Tree still snore, but Soapy waves for me to go answer. As I do, he puts back on his boot over his dirty sock. I signal Kaawishté, who nods that he’ll offer support in case whoever’s at the door turns out to be a foe. And sure enough, when I open it, no greater foe stands before me than Frank Allard, the lying, cheating, skilamalink sumbitch who got me to do his dirty work by killing Carl Finnegan Langford aboard the G.W. Elder!
Frank’s face goes white as a swan, since I clearly am not the man he expects to see.
He backs up, ready to squirrel away, but I don’t give him a chance.
“You!” I cry, leaping upon him. We tussle as if death is on the line. My teeth are gnashing, someone’s bleeding but I don’t know who.
A bullet shatters a window to our right. Soapy stands there with a smoky pistol.
“I am guessing you two know each other,” he says, a laugh twirling his mustache.
Mountain holds me back and Tree’s got Frank. Kaawishté has his knife out. I think my guide’s in the mood to stab someone. His eyes ask me what I want him to do.
“This man is a thief, and a scoundrel, and a murderer,” I say to an audience that yawns in response.
“Welcome to the club.” Soapy’s finger digs at the wax in his ear. “Who you think you’re runnin’ with?”
They all break out in a laughter that turns their faces red. Even Frank, until I lunge at him again and he trips over his big feet. Tree helps him up.
“I didn’t do anything to you I wouldn’t have to someone else,” Frank says, rubbing his skinned knee. “Meaning you shouldn’t take it personal.”
The spit rises in my mouth. “You tricked me into killing a man.”
“You still on that?” Frank blows a raspberry. “More sensitive than I thought.”
“I had never…” I lower my head, almost in shame. “I’d never taken a life before.”
Soapy claps me on the back. “Well, sonny, it’s about time then. You should thank this man.” He coughs into a soiled handkerchief already stained with dried blood.
“That’s what I figure,” Frank says. “I helped you, Wyatt. I bet you wouldn’t have made it this far had you not been tried.”
I hate to say it but Frank’s probably right. What occurred on the G.W. caused me to lose my naivety.
“So let’s us kiss and make up, shall we?” Soapy says, puckering his dried lips.
“I don’t know if this is the type of man you want to align with,” I say.
“Sonny, ain’t no type of man I want to align with,” Soapy says. “We all animals, nary a selfless bone in most of humankind. You hook up with who can aid you at the moment.
And for now, Frank here’s a prospector who may know where the gold might be, and you and the Injun are sure to be good at panning. Therefore, we a gang. The question is, can you let bygones be bygones?”
Frank clears his throat. I recall his phlegmy habit and I’m disgusted. “I sure can,” he says. “I actually liked you, Wyatt. And I know you liked me too.”
“It was an act you were putting on.”
“Life’s an act,” he says. “We’re all just pretending. Tryin’ to get by. Fast friends again?”
He sticks out his plump hand, the fingers like sausage links, the nails bitten down. I’d still rather take my knife to his throat, but in the effort of moving along, I spit in my palm and shake his.
“Truce…for now,” I say.
“Is all I ask.”
After we’ve faked a renewal of our friendship, Soapy sets out the plan. Tree will wait behind in the shack with the booty and our heavy packs so we
don’t have to haul. We’ll take the horses to the spot Frank found, then bring the booty back here to divide up and we can go our separate ways. I don’t like leaving my pack behind, but the idea of carrying it is worse so I comply. Kaawishté agrees as well. We allow ourselves the night to sleep, except for Kaawishté who still stays monitoring. I am glad that no matter what, I can at least rely on him.
It’s been an exceptionally long day so when I close my eyes and go under, I’m fully submerged. A cannon couldn’t wake me now. I dream of sharing a bed with Adalaide and Little Joe, the warmth of their bodies a reminder I have a home away from this, which should be nothing more than a stopgap until my real life can resume.
October 12th, 1898
We eat jerky for breakfast until we’re fortified enough to carry on. None of the three men wants to ride with Kaawishté, claiming Injun smells even worse than railroad men, but I’d wager that Soapy’s acrid tang is worse than the rest of us combined.
We pack one bag with the essentials: ropes and knives, pans and pickaxes. On horse-back, it should take half a day to arrive at Frank’s location. I refuse to ride with him so I wind up side-saddle with Soapy while Frank rides with Mountain.
It’s a fair day out compared to the weather we’ve experienced, a reprieve from all our troubles thus far. The plains glittered with various shades of green peeking through the thin silt from the winding rivers. Small mountains capped with snow but no ice in sight, a good sign for when we start panning. Birds reign in this land, yellow warblers setting the scene to music.
Once Mountain and Frank have trotted up ahead, Soapy speaks out of the corner of his mouth. “If your old friend tries anything funny, I’m fit to put him down.” He pats the pistol in the holder. Kaawishté and I left our rifles in the shack, but we do have knives as defense.
“I would not object to that.”
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