by Howard Blum
CHARLIE WAS confident of his marksmanship. He knew he could hit one of the men standing up in the boat. Perhaps the Mountie could get another. Carmack’s skill was anyone’s guess. But as soon they opened fire, every gun on the wharf would start blasting. They were three guns against an army. They didn’t stand a chance.
Wait until they get closer, Charlie instructed. The Mountie nodded in agreement. George took aim. The three men knew that every bullet had to count, and yet it wouldn’t matter. They would die, but they wouldn’t surrender.
A RIFLE shot rang out.
Charlie was confused: It came from behind the tug. He must’ve been mistaken, but then he turned and saw the flotilla. There were at least a dozen canoes loaded with armed Indians. Now he heard the war cries. It was a Tagish war party. Jim and Charley had brought the reinforcements! Just as they’d planned.
Charlie turned back to face the gunmen. He cupped his hands and let out one of his old Comanche yells. It was his way of saying, You want a fight, now you’ll get it.
IN THE rowboat, the men stared at the swiftly advancing canoes with astonishment. The war cries were unnerving. With the guns on the wharf, they still had the Indians outnumbered. But this was not at all what they’d expected. They’d been counting on easy pickings. Now they were in for a fight, and there was no telling who’d win. Or how many of the gang would die once the bullets started flying.
TURN BACK! ordered the Mountie. Or we will open fire.
Standing on the deck of the tug, the three men took aim. Three fingers pulled back on three triggers.
THE ROWBOAT turned, and headed back to shore.
BY THE time the tug had chugged up to the wharf, the Skagway Military Company had dispersed. Soapy, however, remained to greet the new arrivals. Welcome to Skagway, he announced without a trace of facetiousness. He was a practical man, and he was prepared to move on. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink? he asked.
The three men walked past him without saying a word.
LATER THAT day, after the gold had been locked in the steamer’s safe and George had pocketed the receipt, he decided to leave Skagway. There was no reason to stay. Besides, he had much to do at his mine in the days before he’d board a riverboat in Dawson for St. Michael, and then the steamer to Seattle.
George was not the sort who made friends easily. A prospector’s vagabond life is filled with comings and goings; you learn to drift about on your own. He recognized, though, that he owed Siringo a word. He wanted to say something solemn, something heartfelt, but it was not his way. The two men stood opposite each other on the wharf.
Much obliged, he told the detective.
Glad I’d a chance to pay my debt, Charlie said.
Then George turned and headed down to the beach. The Indians were waiting in the tidal flats. Charlie went in the other direction. He walked down the long wooden wharf and on into town. He had an escaped convict to find.
FORTY-THREE
utting his boot heels hard into the dappled gray gelding’s flanks, Soapy galloped up Skagway’s Broadway Avenue until he was at the head of the parade. He ignored the elected grand marshal of the Fourth of July celebration and took it upon himself to head the procession. Folks from all over the Alaska Panhandle had come to Skagway for the festivities, and in the aftermath of the failed gold robbery he was not about to pass up an opportunity to demonstrate that he was still in charge.
The long parade moved slowly along streets decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. Children ignited firecrackers. Men drank openly from whiskey bottles. The sporting ladies came out to wave their handkerchiefs at the marchers. A makeshift band had started to play. On every corner a happy crowd milled about, four or five deep.
A flag-trimmed wagon carried a wire cage holding Fitzhugh, Soapy’s giant eagle, named in honor of General Fitzhugh Lee, a commander of the American troops in Cuba. Sitting next to the driver, the six-year-old son of the proprietor of one of Soapy’s saloons was dressed as Uncle Sam. The troops of the Skagway Military Company, rifles at their shoulders, marched behind the wagon in orderly rows.
Upon reaching a street corner, a sergeant in the company would shout, Fire! In unison, the troops would raise their rifles toward the sky and let off a volley. Sitting tall in the saddle, Soapy would congratulate his troops with a grand flourish of his white hat, and the crowd would show their appreciation, too, with a burst of cheers.
It was after the third such volley, as the reports of rifle fire continued to echo, as Soapy waved his hat about and the crowd roared, that Charlie walked up to Hiram Schell and stuck the barrel of his Colt deep into the fugitive’s ribs. It was a very discreet gesture, and Charlie spoke in a low voice directly into the big man’s ear. You got a choice, Charlie said. Either you come along quietly, or I shoot you down right here.
In the three weeks since he’d returned to the manhunt, Charlie had grown frustrated. He’d not been able to get a lead on Schell and had come to suspect that the fugitive had most likely left Alaska. Schell could be anywhere by now, Charlie had told himself with a heavy measure of resignation. But before abandoning the search, Charlie had decided to make one more attempt. People from all over would be coming to Skagway for the day-long Fourth of July festivities. If Schell was still on the coast, Charlie reckoned, he’d be there, too. So Charlie had shuffled through the crowd, studying the faces, until he’d found his man. Reining in his excitement, he’d waited until there was another burst of gunfire and raucous cheers, and then he’d made his move.
Now Charlie had the Colt jammed against Schell and was wondering if the man would come along or if he’d have to pull the trigger. Charlie waited, and at the same time reinforced his ultimatum by pressing the gun deeper into Schell’s ribs.
Schell realized it would be suicide to draw. The moment he reached for his holster, the detective would fire.
Schell turned, and as he did the detective lifted the thief’s pistol. Then Schell started walking away from the parade, and Charlie followed right behind, his gun drawn.
FOUR DAYS later, Schell was back in a cell in the Sitka prison, Charlie was on his way to a village on the Alberni Canal to find a man who’d salted a Mexican mine, and once again the church bell was tolling in Skagway in the middle of the afternoon. The Committee of 101 had reconvened.
For weeks the realization had been growing that there was no reason to be intimidated by Soapy or his troops. If George Carmack, a hardscrabble prospector, not a gunman, could stand up to the Skagway Military Company and walk away with his gold, then they could, too. And now the brazen daylight robbery of John Stewart had given the vigilantes a cause to rally around.
Stewart had been the perfect victim. He’d arrived in Skagway on July 8 with a poke full of Klondike gold dust and the plan to buy a steamer ticket to Vancouver Island, his home. But no sooner had he checked into the Hotel Mondamin than he’d attracted the attention of Slim-Jim Foster and John Bowers. Slim-Jim and Bowers took measure of the prospector and, after exchanging a few sly words, fell into one of their many cons: They were gold buyers for an eastern assaying company.
Why, it’d be plumb foolishness to sell your gold in Vancouver, Bowers told the prospector after introductions were made. We can get you a much better price. You’ll return home a rich man. Think how happy your wife will be.
Stewart hesitated.
What’s the harm in hearing our offer? Slim-Jim pressed. We can have a drink and discuss it. On us, of course.
So the two well-dressed gold buyers from back east led the mark to Jeff Smith’s Parlor. There was a round of drinks, and Stewart had his caribou poke on the table. I reckon it must be worth about three thousand dollars, said the prospector hopefully. Bowers weighed the sack in his hand. No, he corrected, you’ve got at least four grand worth of dust. Stewart couldn’t believe his good fortune at meeting these two assayers; he’d never receive such a high price in Vancouver. Then an old sourdough came by the table. Want to make sure these eastern fellows ain’t cheating you, he said; it was one pr
ospector talking to another. He picked up the poke and hefted it in his hand. Then he dashed out a back door—with the sack of gold dust.
Stunned, Stewart chased after him. But the alleyway behind the saloon was empty. And when he went back inside, the two assayers were gone, too. No one had seen them leave. In fact, no one could even recall having seen Stewart. You sure you got the right bar? someone asked.
Stewart hurried to the marshal’s office. Marshal Sylvester Taylor listened. Know the name of the man who took your gold? he demanded. No, Stewart admitted. What’d he look like? An old miner in a mackinaw, Stewart offered, feeling foolish as he said it. Lot of those in town, said the marshal. His tone was suddenly impatient. Look, the marshal said, I suggest you go back to the Klondike and find yourself another poke full of gold. Nothing more I can do, he concluded curtly. The marshal, after all, was taking Soapy’s money. He’d no intention of solving a crime that he knew would lead back to the Soap Gang.
Reeling, a year’s hard work gone in an instant, Stewart returned to the hotel. He was bereft, a man who had suffered an inconsolable loss. The news quickly spread around town. Hearing his story, the townspeople found it hard not to be affected. And soon the church bell was ringing to summon the 101 vigilantes.
They decided to send a group to meet with Soapy. Judge Sehlbrede, a patrician gentleman with bushy white muttonchops who may or may not have been a jurist in his native Ohio, was the spokesman. We insist you get your men to return Stewart’s poke, Sehlbrede demanded.
Soapy bristled. If any money was lost, the miner lost it in a fair game of chance, Soapy said evenly. He thought that would put an end to the matter.
We insist you arrange for the return of the man’s gold, Sehlbrede repeated.
Now Soapy turned angry. It was infuriating that these men thought they could walk into his saloon and give him orders. How dare they question his authority? Yet in the next moment, he asked himself if it would be good business to provoke a confrontation with the committee. Especially if he were to lose. He, too, remembered how his troops had turned and run during the aborted gold robbery. His reputation could not withstand another defeat.
Give me until four this afternoon, he offered. Maybe I’ll be able to make amends.
But as soon as Sehlbrede and his group left, Soapy regretted that he had hinted at a compromise. His failure to act defiant would be viewed by the vigilantes as evidence of his weakness. To retain power, he’d need iron in his resolve. It was the committee that must back down, not Soapy Smith.
His gang, though, was apprehensive. Con men had a feel for when the mark was poised to strike back; and vengeance, experience had taught them, could unleash dangerous passions. So Old Man Tripp—who, after all, had been with Soapy through a lot of sticky situations—offered his friend a bit of prudent advice. “People are making such a stink about the job, it would be wise to give the stuff up,” he suggested.
Soapy was in no mood to take anyone’s counsel. He was beyond engaging the problem with his customary reason. He felt threatened, and that made him aggressive. In a voice loud enough for the entire bar to hear, he shot back at Tripp, “I’ll cut the ears off the first man who makes a move to give it back.”
And the four o’clock deadline passed.
SOAPY WAS drinking. A bottle of rye and a glass were routine centerpieces on his table in the back room, but Soapy rarely took more than a few sips. The liquor was a gambler’s ploy; he’d keep his head clear while others drank. But tonight he needed to drink. His instincts were telling him to run, to leave Skagway just as he’d hightailed it out of Creede and Denver and a dozen other western cow towns. Only now he was in Alaska, at the end of the world, and there was nowhere else to run. This was his last chance. For himself; for Mary; for their future. So he drank, and hoped to find the courage to do what needed to be done.
After the deadline had expired, the Committee of 101 had called a meeting in Sylvester Hall for that evening. People came out in angry droves. At first the speakers demanded “justice for John Stewart.” But then Judge Sehlbrede jumped to his feet and declared that the time had come to form a posse to arrest Soapy and his gang. The hall shook with cheers so loud that it seemed as if the log walls would come tumbling down. And as the fiery speeches went on, more and more people continued to arrive. They tried to wedge their way in, but there was no room. At last the vigilantes decided to move the assembly down the street, to the wharf. They would hold their meeting out in the open where the whole town could gather.
Sitting in his back room, Soapy received reports throughout the evening from his spies. And he kept on drinking. At nine P.M., after the crowd had surged onto the wharf, a note arrived from Billy Saportas, the reporter who was covering the meeting for both the Daily Alaskan and Soapy Smith: “The crowd is angry. If you want to do anything, do it quick.”
Soapy considered the information. There was a stillness in the room; all eyes were focused on Soapy as he struggled to come up with a plan. In the end, it was clear to him that he’d the same two choices it always came down to when things in a town turned bad: He could run or he could fight. He drained his glass, stuffed the note into his pocket, and vowed, “I’ll drive the bastards into the bay.”
SOAPY WALKED with quick, purposeful strides down Holly Street, on his way to the wharf. He had a derringer up his sleeve, an army Colt tucked in his belt, and a .44–40 Winchester leaning against his right shoulder.
His mind was set. There was no turning back.
A pack of his men followed behind him. But they kept back a good distance. Their boss’s dark mood scared them.
Soapy turned south onto State Street, and into a crowd blocking the way to the wharf. Without breaking his pace, Soapy headed straight toward the mob. “Chase yourselves home to bed!” he bellowed. They parted to let him through. No one dared to speak, or even to look him in the eye.
He continued down the block. His old friend John Clancy, with his wife and son, the six-year-old who had dressed as Uncle Sam for the parade, were waiting there to stop him. They hoped to make Soapy listen to reason.
Soapy pulled the Colt from his belt and waved it at Clancy. “Johnny,” he warned, “you’d better leave me alone.”
Clancy had no doubt that Soapy, fired up as he was, would shoot him. “You want to get yourself killed, go ahead,” Clancy said with frustration. His wife began to cry.
Soapy paid them no mind. He continued on.
He reached the dock. He could see the throng at the end of the wharf. He headed straight toward the crowd. He wanted to put an end to this once and for all.
Four men blocked the way.
“You can’t go down there, Smith,” barked Frank Reid.
Soapy knew Reid. He’d come north after shooting a neighbor back in Oregon, and had worked as a bartender in a tent saloon and as a surveyor. Now Reid had signed on with the Committee of 101. “Damn you, Reid,” Soapy cursed.
Soapy advanced toward Reid. The two men stood close to each other, only an arm’s length apart. Not a word was spoken as they waited to see who would make the first move.
Then Soapy yelled, “I should’ve got rid of you months ago.”
At the same moment, he brought the Winchester down off his shoulder. He used it as a club, slamming the rifle barrel into Reid’s arm. Reid grabbed the muzzle with his left hand, and with his free hand he drew a .38 from his pocket.
“My God, don’t shoot!” screamed Soapy.
Reid pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a distinct click, but there was no explosion. The cartridge had been faulty.
With that reprieve, in a single moment that seemed to stretch on forever, Soapy jerked the rifle from Reid’s hand, and as he pulled the trigger, Reid fired, too. Two shots exploded, but they sounded as if they were one.
Soapy’s bullet smashed into Reid’s groin. Reid’s hit Soapy in the arm.
But the two men were still on their feet, still firing, still right on top of each other. Gun barrels flashed, once, twice, th
ree times. The noises were rapid and large.
All at once there was silence. Reid had fallen facedown, breathing but with blood and life itself rushing from him. Soapy was on his back surrounded by a spreading circle of blood, a bullet in his heart. The king of Skagway was dead.
He lay there all night, no one daring to touch his body. It was as if the town could not bring itself to believe what had happened. Finally, just before noon old Ed Peoples, the undertaker, came by with a wagon and hauled him away.
WITH SOAPY’S death, the gang knew their freewheeling time in Skagway was over. The rubes had reclaimed control. The thieves grabbed whatever money they could, and went on the run.
The vigilantes came after them. Racing through the streets, committee members called on everyone to join the manhunt. Brandishing Winchesters, pistols, and coils of hanging rope, a mob fanned out.
The hunting was easy. Skagway was blocked by a wall of mountains on one side and endless water on the other. The Soap Gang was trapped.
Reverend Bowers and Slim-Jim were caught as they slinked through the tall timber on the way to the White Pass Trail. Old Man Tripp lived on berries in a forest outside town for two long days before he decided he had endured enough deprivation. “We should have been hanged twenty years ago,” he conceded to one of the boys before returning to Skagway to take his chances. The vigilantes arrested Tripp as he was devouring the last bites of a large restaurant meal with great satisfaction. Marshal Taylor was pulled from underneath his bed.
Within days the jail was packed with gang members. There were so many arrests that the committee had to put new prisoners in city hall. When that was full, suspects were wedged into the second-floor space above Burkhard’s hardware store.
And now the town demanded justice. “Hang them! Hang the whole gang!” nearly one thousand people screamed as they converged on the makeshift jails. People were waving ropes. Many were drinking. The situation was out of control. Violence seemed inevitable.
John Tanner, the new deputy marshal, who had been appointed by the authorities in Juneau after Taylor’s arrest, went out to face them down. “Let law and order rule,” he yelled at the crowd as he cocked his Winchester. “You want to hang someone, you’ll have to hang me, too!”