by Howard Blum
Charlie pulled up a chair and Collins started in explaining how he’d come to be sitting in this office. With the whole world, or so it seemed, coming north to look for gold, he said, Washington had decided there should be four full-time deputy marshals to watch over things in the Alaska Territory. They’d pulled him off the traveling man-of-war, and he was now assigned to Juneau. Flocks of newcomers are coming off boats every day and getting into all kinds of trouble, the marshal declared. I’ve plenty to keep me busy.
Charlie got the marshal’s drift and put a quick end to the small talk. Without further preliminaries, he asked, What can you tell me about our old friend Hiram Schell?
Not much, the marshal conceded. One day he was in the Sitka pen, the next day he was gone. Best we can figure, he bribed one of the guards. He was always bragging to the prisoners that we’d never recovered all the gold he’d taken from the mine. We know that wasn’t the case, but people down in Sitka had no way of knowing he was gaffing them. Maybe he promised to make some guard rich once he got on the outside. All the guard had to do was leave the cell door open. Or maybe he just walked off when no one was looking. Could be as simple as that. We just don’t know.
Which was damn unhelpful, Charlie thought. Could mean Schell had accomplices on the outside who were hiding him. Or he might be on his own. But Charlie reckoned there was no sense in guessing. All that really mattered was that Schell was at large. Until he found Schell, the details of his escape would remain a mystery.
So Charlie tried another tack. How long has he been on the loose? he asked.
The marshal thought for a moment. Must be more than three weeks by now, he said finally.
That was not what Charlie wanted to hear. With nearly a month’s head start, Schell could be sitting in an igloo up by the Arctic Circle. Or he could be on his way to New York. Or he could still be in Sitka and just keeping his head down.
Got any idea where he might’ve gone? Charlie asked, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate.
The marshal hesitated. No, he said at last.
But, Charlie pressed.
Well, this is just a guess, mind you. But I was a crook on the run, first thing I’d want to do is get some money. And the second thing I’d want is to make sure I was among friends. That no one was gonna come sneaking up to arrest me. Only one place this part of the world where a thief could earn the cash he’d need to buy a steamer ticket, if that was what he was of a mind to do, and not have to worry about the law. It’s no mystery. Seems like every cutthroat and desperado in the West has made a beeline to the same place. All Schell needed to do was join the party.
Charlie had a dozen questions, but now that the marshal was talking he figured he’d do best by not interrupting. So he was surprised when Collins paused in the midst of his monologue to throw out a question.
Ever hear of Soapy Smith? he asked.
I’m based in Denver, Charlie explained. Can’t be a detective in that city without hearing tales of how Mr. Smith had things wrapped up nice and tight for a while. My boss, Superintendent McParland, told me on many occasions that Soapy was the shrewdest operator he’d ever run up against.
Well, the marshal went on, ol’ Soapy Smith and his gang have taken up residence in a little boomtown up the coast. Name of Skagway.
You reckon that’s where Schell is hiding out?
Might very well be, the marshal said. He’d fit in quite well with that pack of thieves. Hell, I’m sure he wouldn’t be the only fugitive in the bunch.
Just up the coast, you say? Charlie said, as if thinking out loud.
Yes, the marshal agreed.
Charlie was quiet for a moment, mulling all he’d just heard. Then he asked, Someone was to go looking for Mr. Schell in Skagway, where’d be a good place to start?
The marshal didn’t have to think to give an answer. Jeff’s Place, he announced in an instant. That’s Soapy’s saloon. You hang out there long enough, more than likely you’ll see every desperado west of the Mississippi come waltzing into the back room to pay homage to King Soapy.
Once again Charlie sat very still for a few moments. When he was satisfied with the plan that was forming in his mind, he spoke. I reckon I know where I’m heading then, Charlie said. Much obliged.
He got up and once again shook the marshal’s hand. He was walking to the door when he turned and asked, Supposing I do find Schell in Skagway. There a marshal in town I can hand him over to?
Yes, Collins answered. Then he hesitated, as if weighing whether to say what was on his mind. I was you, he said at last, I wouldn’t leave Schell in his custody.
Charlie didn’t understand.
You might as well assume any marshal in Skagway is not just employed by the government, Collins explained. He’s also most likely on Soapy Smith’s payroll.
Good to know, said Charlie. And then with a final wave he walked out the door.
THERE’S AN etiquette to standing at a bar. In a trail of cow towns from Dodge City to Tascosa, Charlie had come to learn how a cow-poke handles himself in a strange saloon. You plant your boots about a foot or so apart, lean forward a bit from the shoulders, and keep your eyes fixed on your glass of whiskey. You don’t go looking anybody in the face or striking up a conversation. A man who pays more attention to who’s in the room than to his liquor, or who starts in jawing with someone standing at the bar, is setting himself up for trouble. He’s letting it be known that he’s a lawman come noseying around, or maybe a flimflam artist looking for a mark. Either way, folks aren’t going to take too kindly to him, and that could have some dangerous consequences. In Dodge City one time, Charlie had seen a cowboy get shot just for asking why the lady outside was feeding a couple of doves.
So two nights after his meeting with Marshal Collins, Charlie stood at the mahogany bar in Jeff’s Place with his attention fixed on his glass of Canadian rye. He wasn’t asking any questions, and in case someone came over to say howdy, he was prepared to ignore them.
Charlie’s plan was simple enough, but it would take some time to unfold. Detective work, McParland had often lectured, requires patience, and Charlie was prepared to wait before making any inquiries about Schell. He’d hang out in the saloon for perhaps a week, keeping to himself but letting folks get used to his face. He’d worked out a cover story, the latest in a long list of fanciful biographies he’d adopted in the course of his job, and as the days passed he’d get around to sharing a bit. He’d tell people just enough so that they’d believe he was a Texas outlaw on the run. The name he’d use would be invented, too, another alias dusted off from some distant experience in his rambling life.
Once he was more or less a regular, Charlie predicted, it wouldn’t be long before someone would come up nice and casual and invite him into the back room. Soapy’s always looking for reliable hands, would be the pitch. So he’d share a drink with the great man himself, and if all went well, he’d maybe be offered an opportunity to do a bit of sly work. And by and by, once Charlie had won the confidence of his new friends, he’d happen to ask if anybody had seen his ol’ buddy Hiram Schell. Schell had lent him some money and now that he was flush, he’d like to pay his friend back. Things might get, Charlie knew, a bit scaly; after all, he was setting out to con a passel of con men. But Charlie had been jobbing outlaws for years without getting caught. No reason to think this script wouldn’t play out as written, too. And anyways, he didn’t have a better idea—or, for that matter, another clue other than the name of this saloon.
Of course, there was one occurrence that could upset his carefully reasoned plan. There was always the possibility, Charlie had to concede, that Schell might belly up to the bar or mosey out of the back room and find himself staring straight into the face of the man who had busted him. That happened, Charlie knew, cover stories and aliases wouldn’t do him any good. That was why he wore his Colt strapped to his hip. And he made it a point to keep his coat unbuttoned and his gun hand free. If Schell wouldn’t go quietly, Charlie was prepared to sho
ot it out. Sure, the fugitive might have a room full of friends to back him up, but Charlie had never known a thief or a bunco man who could handle a gun. Soon as he plunked the first one, Charlie reckoned, they’d all back off.
And so Charlie settled in at the bar. But he’d taken only a few sips from his drink before all his carefully laid plans fell completely apart. He reached for his glass and, without meaning to, noticed a man down at the end of the bar. Charlie was surprised, and that was why he made his mistake. He held his glance for a moment longer than he should have. In that instant the man at the end of the bar looked up and recognized him, too.
Charlie hadn’t spotted Hiram Schell. He had found a murderer.
THE TWO of them stood alone in the dark on the Skagway wharf. As soon as Charlie had locked eyes with Bill Moore he realized it’d be best if the two of them did their catching up someplace quiet. They went back quite a ways, and there was a lot to talk over. He’d given a small nod of his head, then walked out of the bar. Moore had followed.
In the days when Charlie was a top hand, Moore had run the LX Ranch. Charlie had enjoyed working for him. In his experience, Moore was a born leader of men and one of the best cowmen in the west. But Moore was a complicated fellow; he also was prey to his larcenous heart and killer’s temper. All the while he’d managed the LX, he’d been stealing cattle. Finally, he put his own brand on the stolen herd and went off to establish a ranch in New Mexico, down in the American Valley. But Moore’s days as a cattle baron didn’t last too long. After an argument in a saloon, he shot two men dead. Charlie knew his old boss was now on the run, with a big price on his head.
I heard you’re working for the Pinkertons, Charlie, Moore began as the two stood on the wharf. He spoke in a whisper, but the night was so quiet that Charlie thought he might as well be shouting. Don’t turn me in, he said with some force.
Charlie had no intention of turning in his old compañero. And he’d no desire to draw on him. They’d done too much together for that to be a serious possibility. But Charlie saw no reason to share that with Moore, at least not until he got the information he needed. Course, if Moore went for his gun, Charlie reckoned, he’d have no choice but to go for his, too. He was hoping, however, that Moore wouldn’t be so bold. After all, Moore had witnessed the now famous shooting match at the LX when Charlie had matched Billy the Kid shot for shot. If friendship wasn’t sufficient to keep things civil, Charlie hoped, then perhaps that memory would discourage Moore.
So Charlie didn’t respond to Moore. He simply asked if he’d happened to run into Hiram Schell. Big bear of man with a full beard, Charlie added, trying to prod Moore’s memory.
Moore thought for a moment. Lot of folks come to Soapy’s place, Moore said, as if making an apology. Maybe. Sounds familiar. But I can’t be sure.
Well, I need you to be sure, Bill, Charlie said, his voice turning rough.
Perhaps it was the harsh tone in Charlie’s voice that caused Moore to grow anxious. Look, he offered, I know lots of things. The sort of stuff a Pinkerton might find useful.
I’m only interested in Schell, Charlie said flatly.
But Moore went on, a man bargaining for his freedom. They’re planning a robbery, he announced. A big one. A quarter of a million dollars. They’re gonna rob some prospector when he takes his haul of gold to the boat to Seattle—
No interest to me, Charlie interrupted.
But Moore was nearly frantic. He couldn’t stop. The way he saw it, he was trying to make a deal to save his life. He was on the run for murder and negotiating with a lawman he knew he couldn’t beat in a gunfight. All he could do was play the only card he had. So he continued: Old sourdough’s name is Carmack. George Carmack. A genuine Klondike millionaire.
Suddenly Charlie was all attention. What was that about Carmack? he asked.
I tell you about the robbery the Soap Gang’s planning, you let me go? Deal?
Deal, Charlie agreed.
And for the next twenty minutes, Charlie listened. He heard the secret plan Carmack had devised to get his fortune out of Alaska, and then he heard Soapy Smith’s scheme to thwart it.
BACK IN his hotel room later that night, Charlie began to think through the decision he had to make. No one had seen him talking to Moore. And even if they had, where was the harm? Just two old cowboys talking over better times. He could return to the bar tomorrow night and that would be that. Grateful that Charlie had let him go, Moore had hightailed it for tall timber. He wouldn’t be coming back to Skagway for a while. Charlie could continue to hang out at Jeff’s Place until either he got a line on Schell or the fugitive walked in.
Or he could warn Carmack.
He was a private detective, not a lawman, Charlie reminded himself. He only worked for people who hired him. Carmack wasn’t his client. Besides, he was already on a case. It was the Pinkertons who paid his salary, bought his liquor. He had a responsibility to the agency.
Mamie, he thought silently, as if appealing to a higher judge, what would you do?
It took a while for Charlie to fall asleep. Yet he woke up early and dressed quickly. Then he hurried off to settle an old debt.
FORTY
s Soapy finalized the plans for “the great gold robbery,” as it would become known in Alaska, his attention was diverted by the events surrounding a spree of shootings. On the one hand, his concern was a businessman’s: The wave of killings would discourage new marks from coming to Skagway. On the other, it was personal: Soapy had reason to fear that the outraged townspeople would lynch him if the murders didn’t stop.
His problems had started back in February, after a whore doped the drink of a young prospector. Andy McGrath had been sitting with one of the working girls in the Klondike Saloon, above the Peoples Theatre, a song-and-dance hall over on Holly Street. She was giggling, and that brought back happy memories; Andy hadn’t heard a girl’s mischievous laughter since he’d left Ohio eight months ago. The next thing he knew, though, he was feeling very wrong. He woke up lying facedown on the wooden floor. When he finally got to his feet, Andy anxiously checked his pockets. His $140 nest egg was gone.
Andy felt foolish. It was a damn steep price to pay for a few peals of naughty laughter. Quickly his embarrassment turned into a red-hot anger. There was no sign of the girl, but he saw Jake Rice, the proprietor, sitting at a table. Andy charged over and demanded that Rice find the girl who’d taken his money. His voice shook with outrage and belligerence.
Rice didn’t cotton to the young man’s disrespectful tone. Besides, he had no sympathy for anyone naive enough to allow himself to be gaffed by a whore, particularly when the girl was part of his stable and a chunk of the purloined $140 would wind up in his pocket. He signaled to John Fay, the bartender. In an instant Fay and a couple of the boys were all over Andy. Andy put up a fight, but there were three of them. They had done this sort of thing before and always enjoyed taking the prospectors down a peg or two. Once they had Andy on the floor, they kicked away at him. Rice coolly watched his goons punish the young man until he feared that if they kept at it any longer, the prospector would wind up dead. Enough! he ordered. So they dragged Andy out of the saloon and heaved him into the icy street.
“I will come back and settle for this,” Andy managed to say as he got to his knees. The three men walked back into the theater without bothering to turn around.
Andy made his stumbling way through the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular, but then he happened to glance through a window. There was Deputy U.S. Marshal James Rowan, who’d recently settled in Skagway from Dyea, having a late supper in an all-night restaurant. Ignoring the floods of pain caused by each new step, the prospector hurried to the marshal’s table. I want to borrow your gun, he said.
Rowan studied the young man. Andy’s face was badly bruised, and blood dripped steadily from a cut under his eye. Better I go with you, the marshal said after he’d finished the last bites of his meal.
Andy led the way back up to the
saloon. “There’s the man,” he told the marshal, pointing at Fay.
The bartender shot him. The bullet hit Andy in the groin, and he fell back into a chair. He sat there stunned, a river of blood gushing out of him.
The marshal started to draw his revolver, but Fay fired first. The marshal let out a piercing scream. He’d been hit by a gut shot. As the bullets started flying about the bar, the town fireman reached for his pistol. He aimed at Fay, but he had had a few whiskeys and his bullet wounded another man in the leg. Blood splattered across the floor.
The marshal succeeded in getting to Doc Daniel Moore’s. Gut shots, though, were always a bad business, and he died on the examination table. Andy bled to death in the saloon, his body slumped in the barroom chair. In the meantime, the bartender had fled out the back door.
Fay was in a panic. He reckoned no good would come out of this. He might’ve been able to talk his way out of shooting the prospector, but a dead marshal was a whole different matter. People would come looking for him for sure, and he suspected they’d be carrying a rope. Fay considered going to Rice for help, but he knew Rice would give him up once he saw a mob marching up the street. Anyways, Rice might run the Klondike Saloon, but he wasn’t really the boss. Rice took orders, too. There was only one way he’d have a chance of escaping from this sort of entanglement. He needed to go to the man in charge. Fay ran to Jeff’s Place. Then he tucked his pistol into his belt, pulled himself together, and, after wishing himself luck, headed into the back room. His only hope was to beg Soapy for protection.
THE NEXT afternoon the church bell tolled. This was the signal for the Committee of 101 to assemble. In the days when Skagway was first established, Major John Strong, a stern former cavalryman, had come up with the notion that since “the United States in its wisdom has seen fit to enact no laws which would give Alaska any measure of local self-government,” the townspeople should form a group to protect themselves. He’d organized the local citizens, an assortment of merchants and prospectors, into what he called “a committee of safety, or vigilance committee,” and he’d christened the group with a name that’d been first used during the California gold rush.