by Howard Blum
But even as a flood of frustrations rose up in him, Charlie realized there was still one last hope. He ran as fast as he could through the darkness, nearly stumbling on several occasions as he made his way downhill. Panting, he rushed to the cove where the rowboat had been anchored. It was gone. And, he now knew without a doubt, so were the thieves.
For several minutes, he leaned against a tree. He was out of breath, and felt deeply foolish. He’d protected his cover, but at a large cost. While Lee Davis had been working as an oiler, the thieves had bolted. He’d had his chance to catch them, and had squandered it. All he could do now, he decided, was go back to his room. There was a letter he needed to write. And, he realized with a measure of resignation, the time had come, as well, to send the telegram he’d been putting off.
TWENTY
ow’d you know? Durkin asked Charlie as he handed the detective two metal disks about the size and shape of silver dollars.
It was shortly after midnight of the following day, and they were back in the alleyway in Juneau. The mine superintendent had received Charlie’s letter requesting a meeting at the usual spot and hour, and he’d obeyed. This time, Charlie observed with satisfaction, Durkin had come alone.
I didn’t, Charlie answered. I was just guessing—until now.
Charlie studied the two disks. Each was etched with a three-digit number. When a man reported for his shift at the mine, the supervisor would chalk his name on the board and then give him the numbered metal disk that was hanging on the adjacent peg. It was a safety precaution. If the disk hadn’t been returned at the end of the day, the supervisor would assume there’d been an accident; mining, to be sure, had its dangers. A search party would be dispatched at once to look for the missing man. Charlie’s letter to Durkin had inquired whether any men had failed to sign out after their shift yesterday. The disks in his hand established that two men had not returned.
You can call off the search, Charlie went on after a moment. You won’t find them. These men are not on the island.
Durkin’s confusion was apparent. But the detective was in no mood to be helpful. He stared with a mute frustration at the two disks.
The two missing men weren’t victims of an accident. They had bolted. He also knew he was the reason for their flight. Perhaps he’d carelessly left behind a sign when he’d occupied their hideout in the woods. Or maybe it was the way he’d retied the ropes around the pipeline; he should’ve paid more attention to the knot they’d used. Whatever the reason, Charlie had no doubt that he’d alerted the thieves. It was his own dumb fault. They’d fled the island in the middle of their shift because they’d discovered that someone was on to them.
What’re their names? Charlie asked.
Durkin pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and handed it to Charlie.
Charlie read out loud: Hiram Schell and Charlie Hubbard. He tried to recall their faces, but he couldn’t. He was certain he’d never met them, never spoken to them. There were, after all, about a thousand people on the island.
They’re your gold thieves, he announced.
Now Durkin had had enough. He demanded that Charlie explain. So at last Charlie did. He told the mine superintendent how he’d worked out how the thefts had occurred, adding that in the course of his investigation he must have inadvertently left a clue that’d alerted the culprits.
So you had ’em, but you let ’em get away, Durkin accused.
Correct, Charlie agreed mildly.
You’ve no idea where they’ve hidden the stolen gold? Durkin challenged. Or where they went?
Correct, Charlie repeated.
I’m no better off with you than I was with the three men from the Portland office, Durkin remarked pointedly.
Charlie didn’t attempt to argue.
So what in tarnation you gonna do now? Durkin exploded. He was florid with rage.
I’m gonna find them. And then I’m gonna get you your gold, Charlie said with the perfect calm of a resigned anger.
BUT SEVEN nights passed and the only person Charlie had found was another Pinkerton detective. Sitting across from him in a saloon in Juneau was the man who had just arrived in response to his telegram.
The morning after Charlie had discovered that the thieves’ rowboat was gone, he’d finally notified McParland to dispatch the second operative. “At once,” he had urged, realizing that he could use the help. There were two men on the run. What if they’d split up? He wouldn’t be able to trail them both. Another factor in his finally getting around to obeying McParland’s order had been his own pride, always a touchy spot. The arrival of another detective would no longer, Charlie had felt, be a slight. He’d succeeded where three Pinkerton agents had failed: He’d single-handedly worked out how the robberies had occurred. There was no shame in calling in reinforcements to help round up the thieves and recover the gold. Two men, he expected, would be able to accomplish that far better than one. Charlie just hoped McParland would be obliging enough to dispatch someone who’d be useful.
The man across the table was W. O. Sayles, known to all as Billy, and Charlie had taken to him straight off. Although that might not have been expected since Billy, who had been raised in genteel circumstances in London, had a highfalutin accent as well as a bit of the dude in his manner. But like Charlie, he was a fun-loving fellow with, no less appealing, a decided yearn for adventure. Billy had fled to America nearly fifteen years ago, determined to make a life for himself in the Wild West he’d read about, and he’d done just that. There had been some years cowboying on Montana cattle spreads, and then he’d worked as a lawman in those parts, too. It was a hard frontier, and while the army came to be a civilizing presence, there were still renegade Indians on the prowl and horse thieves to deal with. A sheriff had his work cut out for him, but Billy had proved he could get the job done. Things had fallen apart, though, after there’d been some talk that he was keeping company with a shopkeeper’s wife. Rather than let her reputation get further besmirched, Billy had hightailed it down to Denver. The Pinkertons had hired him, and the next thing Billy had known, he was on a steamboat to Juneau. Soon as he arrived he’d contacted Charlie, and now they were happily making their way through a bottle of whiskey like old friends.
As they drank, Charlie got around to sharing the progress he’d made since he’d identified the two thieves. His detective work, he explained, had been limited since it was still necessary that he keep his cover; he didn’t want any of the thieves’ friends—or, worse, their accomplices—spreading the news that Lee Davis, one of the machine oilers, had quit the day after they’d run off. Schell and Hubbard already knew that someone at the mine was on to them. There was no sense in giving them reason to believe that Charlie was the Pinkerton who’d sorted out their scheme. His cover could still come in handy. Nevertheless, while reporting to his shifts as an oiler, he’d done some nosing around. And, Charlie announced to his new friend, he’d learned something pretty interesting: Schell and Hubbard had bought a fast schooner. A boat, he told Billy, that was big enough to carry a hoard of gold.
So Charlie had a plan. He wanted Billy to head down to the wharf in the morning and speak to the man who had sold the schooner. He instructed Billy not to be too direct, but to try to learn where the two man had sailed off to. And while he was at it, Billy should also keep his eye out for a cheap boat. More then likely, Charlie explained, we’re going to have to chase after them.
As Charlie gave his instructions, he noticed that he was losing Billy’s attention. His companion’s eyes were fixed on the Indian women standing in a single line across the room. Charlie had seen them before. They came into the saloon most nights, some even carrying babies wrapped in blankets on their backs. They’d plunk their little ones on a bench and then the squaws would assemble in an orderly row. The piano would be playing and some nights a fiddler would join in, too, and the Indian women would stand in their spots, moving their hips in time to the happy music. If a miner came over and asked them to dance, t
hey’d let him drag them around the floor for a bit and hope to receive a quarter for their company. Course, if the miner and the squaw were of a mind, they might also head to a tent out back for some more-intimate activities.
Think I’d like to try a dance with an Injun maiden, Billy said. He’d turned away from the squaws and now was looking across at Charlie. Perhaps you’d like to accompany me?
No, Charlie said curtly, and left it at that. He didn’t want to explain about Mamie; just the thought of reopening that wound was unsettling. You go have yourself a good time, he told Billy. Only don’t get too tired out. I’m counting on you to head down to the wharf in the morning.
Billy nodded in agreement. Well, if you’ll excuse me then, Billy said with an exaggerated politeness as he rose from his chair. But just before he made his way across the room he paused to ask Charlie what he intended to do tomorrow.
“I’m gonna break my arm,” Charlie revealed with a smile.
ACTUALLY, CHARLIE had no intention of breaking his arm. He just wanted people to think he had. He decided that if he was going to quit his job at the mine to go off in pursuit of Schell and Hubbard, he’d need a good excuse. A fake broken leg had quieted a lot of suspicions when he’d gone undercover at the Keeline Ranch in Wyoming. A broken arm, he reckoned, should do the trick up in Alaska.
It was Charlie’s first night back on the late shift, and at the midnight “lunch” in the dining hall he made a point of making his presence known. He entertained everyone at his table with tales of his carryings-on with the squaws in Juneau the night before. When the meal was over, he snuck off to the basement.
Once he’d determined that he was alone, he went to work. He removed his shirt and began rubbing his left shoulder with a few wood chips he’d found on the floor. He kept at it fiercely, and before long the skin was covered with a bright red bruise. Then he put his shirt back on and returned to the mill.
He’d already selected the location for his accident. There was a steep stairway up to the second floor in the building where machines that the men called “squeezers” began the process of separating quartz from the gold. He waited until the other workers were hunched over the squeezers with their backs to the staircase, and then he fell. It was quite a tumble. He landed broadside in the mud and slush at the bottom of the stairs. His impact was so hard that the lantern he was carrying shattered into pieces.
The thud of Charlie’s landing echoed through the room, and the men hurried over. It’s my shoulder, he complained with a good deal of truth as they lifted him to his feet; he hadn’t intended to land that hard. I hit it against a timber post at the foot of the stairs, he went on through gritted teeth.
By the time the doctor arrived, there was no need for Charlie to act. His shoulder was throbbing. The doctor removed his shirt and, with considerable tut-tutting, observed the large red bruise on his shoulder. See if you can raise your arm, the doctor ordered. Playing to his audience, Charlie struggled mightily, but in the end he couldn’t lift his arm at all. Still, the doctor diagnosed that the shoulder was not broken, just badly bruised from the crash into the post. A couple of the men helped Charlie to the infirmary, and he moaned all the way. Once Charlie was sitting on the examination table, the doctor rubbed liniment into his shoulder and put his arm into a sling. You’d better spend the night here, the doctor suggested. Charlie readily agreed.
The next day at noon, Charlie showed up at the dining hall with his arm in the sling. There were at least a hundred men at the long table, and Charlie made quite a fuss. He was in pain, and he insisted that someone help him cut his food. The following day at lunch he went through a similar performance, complaining loudly and being needy. So no one at the mine was surprised when, three days after the accident, Lee Davis said his good-byes and drew his final pay. Arm in a sling, trudging along as if each new step was a painful effort, he boarded the ferry for Juneau.
BILLY MET Charlie on the wharf. I got some news, he announced right away. Schell and Hubbard sailed into Juneau last evening. Their schooner was moored in the harbor all night.
Where’re they now? Charlie asked hopefully. If they were still in the harbor, he’d board the boat and, with luck, wrap the case up by nightfall.
They set sail this morning, Billy revealed, his words prickly with frustration. He had no idea where they were headed.
Well, said Charlie as he removed his sling and flung it to the ground, we’d better find out.
Mamie, Siringo’s “child bride,” and their daughter, Viola
(A Cowboy Detective, 1912)
Bluff Creek Bridge was the landmark signaling that a hurrah cowtown was a short ride ahead. It was there Charlie hung this sign.
(A Cowboy Detective, 1912)
Soapy Smith, a man in black: an image calculated to suggest sober ecclesiastical propriety as well as both position and success (Denver State Library, Western History Collection, z-8903)
George Carmack, dreamer of golden dreams (Alaska State Library, P01-1923)
Charlie and his shrewd mentor, James McParland, the superintendent of the Denver Pinkerton Agency office (A Cowboy Detective, 1912)
Charlie and his fellow operative, the free-spirited and fun-loving Billy Sayles (A Cowboy Detective, 1912)
The Great McGinty comes to Denver—and Soapy tries to reinvent his life in the process. (Denver State Library, Western History Collection, F-23860)
The Treadwell Mine on Douglass Island—at night its buildings would light the Alaskan sky with their electrified glow. (University of Washington Libraries, Special Collections, UW 29271z)
During the first winter in Dawson, the sourdoughs had no money, only gold. They paid for food and supplies by emptying their pokes into the “blower.” (© Bettmann/Corbis)
For a strike to be official, it had to be registered with the Canadian authorities. Here prospectors line up in Dawson to file their claims. (Alaska State Library, P.E. Larrs Photograph Collection, P41-215)
Once the first treasure ship reached Seattle, “Klondicitis” spread. People crowded on to steamships, determined to head off to an unknown, unexplored, and frozen land. (University of Washington Special Collections, Wilse531)
Prospecting was a lonely life, filled with hard work and wishful thoughts. (© Corbis)
Soapy holding court in “Jeff’s Place” in Skagway, Alaska. (Alaska State University, Wickersham State Historic Sites Photograph Collection, P277-001-009)
Bill Moore, foreman of the LX Ranch and murderer on the run in Alaska (A Cowboy Detective, 1912)
Soapy, enjoying his reign, leads the Fourth of July parade through the streets of Skagway. (Alaska State University, William Norton Photograph Collection, P226-067)
The hard men of the 101 Committee. They wanted law and order—no matter whom they had to kill to get it. (Alaska State University, William Norton Photograph Collection, P226-129)
John Stewart holding his poke of gold. After he was robbed, the 101 Committee set out to get justice. (Alaska State University, William Norton Photograph Collection, P226-090)
The autopsy of Soapy Smith. It was as if people couldn’t believe he was dead. (Alaska State University, William Norton Photograph Collection, P226-786)
Members of the Soap gang after they were rounded up, their rule of terror and intimidation ended (Alaska State University, William Norton Photograph Collection, P226-065)
Charlie (right) on the set of Tumbleweeds with the actor Bill Hart. Siringo was the last American cowboy, the real-life hero the movie stars wanted to play on the screen. (Riata and Spurs, 1927)
TWENTY-ONE
wo days later, an hour before dawn, when the night sky still held Juneau’s harbor in a deep and stolid darkness, the two detectives set off in pursuit of the thieves. They had purchased a forty-foot Indian canoe that was painted, Charlie observed with a chuckle, “in all the colors of the rainbow.” More to his liking, its bow and stern were built high above the water and that, he judged, would give them some protection if they hit rough wate
rs. So there wouldn’t be a constant need to paddle, they had rigged up a tall-masted sail. As a barefoot boy in south Texas, Charlie’d spent summers frolicking on the Gulf of Mexico, chasing crabs, oysters, and seafowl. The waters running along the Alaskan coast might be more tempestuous, Charlie conceded, but he felt confident that he’d sufficient experience to handle a small sailboat in any conditions. Then again, it was Charlie’s nature to feel confident about most things he set out to do.
It had also occurred to Charlie that they’d need a cover story to explain why they were traveling up and down the coast. If they caught up with Schell and Hubbard—and there was no guarantee they would; they didn’t even know which direction the thieves had sailed—it’d still be necessary to win their confidence in order to learn where they’d hidden the gold. Two strangers had better be able to offer a reasonable explanation for their having paddled to some godforsaken corner of the wilderness in their rainbow canoe, or else things could swiftly turn scaly. Gunplay, Charlie imagined, might very well be inevitable; nevertheless, he’d prefer to sort out the whereabouts of the gold before he had cause to draw his big Colt. He gave the problem considerable thought, but in the end it was Billy who hit on the story that struck them both as perfect. They’d pass themselves off as whiskey peddlers. It was an occupation that would provide reasons enough for stopping into the many Indian villages scattered along the coastal waterways and rivers, and at the same time it’d give them opportunities to inquire if their customers happened to have recently seen their friends’ schooner. Along with a newly purchased chart of the Alaskan coast, they’d stowed twenty-five gallons of Canadian rye whiskey on board. Of course, the challenge now would be making sure there’d be any of the whiskey left to sell. In the two days it’d taken to rig the mast, they’d already gone through an impressive number of bottles.