“Nah, not really. Long hours, bad weather. But we got paid even on weathered-out days, so that was good. Rest of the time I was welding pipe, same as in Tulsa. Besides us, there were Teamsters—lots of ’em. Anything to do with transportation and supply, they handled it. Then there was the Operators, heavy equipment guys. And laborers—bunch of those, too. Good food, though, especially in the beginning. I guess it got a little too expensive to bring in prime rib and lobster after awhile. Pretty soon we started getting camp food that cooks turned out by the gallons and boxed lunches.”
“Big crews?” Mina asked.
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. 1975, there was 28,000 men on the job. Mostly men—some women, but not many. We lived in these camps set up all along the way. Like big old dorms. There was fights and gambling and, even though it was against the rules, a fair amount of drinking took place.” He chuckled. “We were given this little booklet of rules, but you know all those were broken pretty regularly.”
It was hard to imagine the enormity of the job and the problems that could crop up with that many different personalities working alongside each other. But I wanted to steer Don to our present-day situation.
“The unions—I assume they keep records on all the members,” I said. “Do you suppose they would know if any of the workers didn’t return home at the end of the project?”
“Records, yeah. There are those. But I can tell you offhand that some guys didn’t return home. Thirty-two men died during the work. Some just stayed, like a buddy of mine did. It was what gave me the idea to do it too. Well, and the fact that my brother loved all the stories I’d told him so he’d already settled here in Skagway. Wilbur and that newspaper, inseparable.”
I wondered aloud who we would contact to find out about the others—anyone who wasn’t confirmed dead but didn’t show up back in the lower forty-eight. But Don didn’t really know. He’d retired more than ten years ago and he’d only witnessed union workings from the laborer side of it. We thanked him for his time, then Mina and I set off again.
“Well, surely we can get the information we need,” I told Mina as we walked toward her mother’s house, where she’d promised to pick up an extra loaf of bread from Berta’s morning of baking. “We just need to figure out who to ask.”
We parted company at Berta’s, where Mina went inside and I continued around the block to our little rental. When in doubt about where to find information, I usually just turn to my brother. If he hasn’t encountered it in nearly twenty years as a private investigator, he probably knows someone who has. I called his cell number.
“How many hours do you want me to devote to this?” he asked after I explained the mission. “I can make a few calls but we’re talking about records that go back a long way. It could run into time and expenses if I have to fly somewhere and then spend hours going through archives with someone.”
He had a point. No one was paying for this investigation and Ron’s time could best be used on real, paying jobs.
“How about calling around, let’s say a max of two hours of your time, just to see if we’re even entitled to the information. If it hits a dead end I’ll tell the police chief here and see if he wants to keep going.”
“It would save some time for me if you can at least locate basic information, such as which local unions sent workers.”
I remembered the types of workers Don Clayton had mentioned. “Start with the welders from Tulsa, Oklahoma. I’ll be looking up others and I’ll call you back.”
At least it felt as if we were doing something. By the time I had researched a few others, Ron had received the word from Tulsa that they would not release any personal information about members without a warrant.
“So, that’s that?” I asked.
“Looks like. I can’t imagine the others will give me any different answer. Looks like time for your police chief to step in. The case is in his jurisdiction.”
True. But I pretty much knew how that request would go. Branson had already put the cave-guy’s death on the back burner because of other, more pressing matters.
“Give me the names and phone numbers of those on your list,” I told Ron. “The least I can do is present it to Branson and see if he’ll try talking to them.”
I wrote down what he told me but the more I thought about it, the more this felt like a dead end. Here we were, on an inlet that sat a long way from the pipeline itself or any of the boomtowns of the time—Anchorage, Fairbanks or Valdez. There was no real proof that our dead man had worked the pipeline or had ever been to one of those cities. Our only connection was the tenuous evidence that our victim had died in the 1970s. I sat at the table for awhile, tapping my fingernails and trying to come up with another line of thinking.
We had a set of bones; we had some items of clothing. I wasn’t sure whether Chief Branson’s forensic team had gathered anything else from that cave but I’d been nearby and didn’t recall them talking about it. The whole exploration had become a bit muddled when the second skeleton turned up. I decided to give Branson a call.
Chapter 13
Joshua’s feet became uncovered as the quilt bunched up around his shoulders. He rolled over for at least the twentieth time since he had blown out the candle. His ill-fated faro game kept replaying through his mind, the way he had won so many hands until, finally, he had bet everything. The fact that Soapy Smith had stood there with a benevolent smile on his face as the dealer scooped up all the cards and all the cash. His blundering attempt at taking back his money, only to be faced down and laughed at. With a mild oath he sat up in bed and jerked at the quilt, struggling to rearrange it.
At the window, dawn was already showing. It was probably only three o’clock but he knew he would never fall asleep now. He tiptoed downstairs in his socks, then put on his boots and went outside. The streets were empty and the air chilly.
He walked briskly, passing the Red Onion, where he saw a group of card players through the window. All-night games were not uncommon here, he’d discovered. Four blocks farther along, he spotted Smith’s Parlor but the door was closed and the windows dark. He wondered if Soapy lived on the premises.
A tiny attic room rose like a chimney above the front door. He stared at it from a distance. The space might hold a narrow bed, but he couldn’t envision a wealthy man like Smith living there. More likely it would be for a guard, someone to keep an eye on the liquor and any cash on hand. A single window in the turret faced the street. If the place was guarded, the man would see Joshua long before he could gain entrance.
He strolled by, passing the fire station’s closed double doors and pretending to simply be out for some air while gathering information about Smith’s place. There was a glass window in the upper half of the door and a wide window beside that, but all were heavily curtained and he couldn’t see any way inside that could not be easily seen from the little tower-room above. He walked on.
In the next block there was an alley behind the row of buildings on Holly Street. So there might be access to Smith’s place ... but just then a man approached and Joshua didn’t want to be recognized. He stared ahead and kept walking.
In a town where daylight hours ran from four in the morning to nearly midnight, and men were always coming and going—on their way to the gold fields or returning—it would be difficult to choose a time when there would be no risk of being caught. He needed more information on Soapy’s movements. He headed back to the Red Onion in hopes of finding breakfast and coffee.
The corner card game had disbanded by the time Joshua walked in. A young lad was sweeping the wooden floor, creating a dust cloud from yesterday’s tracked-in dried mud. When Joshua asked about food, the boy nodded toward a table in a corner where he’d already swept.
“I’ll get Rosa for you.”
Joshua ordered bacon and eggs, and the young woman rushed away, probably to cook them herself. While he sipped coffee from a heavy ceramic mug, another man walked in and tipped his hat. He took a seat at an adjoini
ng table.
“Been in town long?” he asked. It was the standard question between any two strangers who started a conversation.
“Few days,” Joshua said. That was the standard reply, too. If you’d been around longer than a week or two, it was practically an admission of failure if you hadn’t already hit the trail for the gold fields.
“Me too.” He gave a name but Joshua didn’t bother to remember it. That’s the way it was in boom towns; few considered themselves permanent residents. Everyone was here for one thing: to make a fortune and leave. He would probably never see this person again, just like all the others. The man accepted coffee from Rosa and she bustled back to the kitchen to throw more bacon into the pan.
“Man, I got into a heck of a card game last night. Did pretty well.” He rubbed at tired-looking eyes.
Jealousy jabbed at Joshua. “So you’ll be heading up the trail soon, then?”
“I figure one more night like the last—yeah, I’ll be ready.”
“Well, don’t go to Jeff Smith’s Parlor. The man’s a crook and so is everyone in his place.” Joshua couldn’t help himself; his voice rose, the words tumbled out and he felt his anger returning with fresh vigor. “I get my hands on him, I’ll ...”
Rosa arrived with his breakfast and sent a nervous glance his way.
The other man had opened the newspaper he’d carried in with him. Joshua ignored him and wolfed down his own breakfast. He had better things to do than listen to some fellow brag about his successes. You got enough of that in this town anyway. He plunked a quarter down on the table and walked outside.
The streets were busier now as businesses began to open. He cut over to Runnalls Street and made his way back toward Holly. Somehow, he would find an opportunity to get inside the small gambling saloon and get his money. It would be an added bonus if he could catch Soapy Smith alone and beat the tar out of him, teach the scoundrel a lesson.
For three days he watched and waited. The routine at Jeff Smith’s Parlor varied little; someone would arrive mid-morning and open the doors, gamers would come and go all day and well into the evening. Soapy himself came and went, but never alone. A minimum of three men walked with him every time. Joshua followed a few times, but Soapy was always in a crowd—conducting business with the town’s muckety-mucks, checking on his various business enterprises. Joshua was amazed at how far the man’s reach extended.
On the fourth day he sensed something different in the air. After several sleepless nights, Joshua had allowed himself the luxury of sleeping past sunrise and staying in to eat with Mrs. McIlhaney’s family and ask if she would mind doing his laundry, so it was nearing ten o’clock before he set eyes on Soapy’s parlor. He took up one of the several posts he’d been using, places where he could observe Smith’s actions unseen.
Some type of game was in progress in the narrow space between Smith’s place and the adjoining building. A man who looked as if he might have just come off the White Pass Trail laid a coin on their makeshift table and the dealer—one of Soapy’s men—worked the cards. Three-card monte. An easy game to lose, Joshua thought as he watched in fascination.
The stampeder protested, voices were raised. Triplett, the dealer, placated the gambler and there was another brief exchange of cash. The man seemed to be out of money but the others were allowing him to get deeper in debt. He heard one voice say, “You have the dust.”
Gold dust. Men just back from the fields always carried it.
“Let’s see it,” one of the others said.
The gambler and one of the other men left but were back within a few minutes. The new man unrolled a pouch and Joshua could practically smell the greed surrounding him. Suddenly, one of Soapy’s men grabbed the pouch, tossed it to the card dealer and shouted “Run!” The dealer took off while the other two held the gambler. Joshua’s heart nearly stopped. This was all too close to home for him.
The gambler jerked away from the others and gave chase, but the card dealer had vanished. He looked both ways and spotted Joshua.
“Sir! I’ve been robbed. Where can I find an officer of the law?”
“I ...” he stammered, considering quickly. The only deputy he could think of was soundly under Soapy Smith’s control.
But the man had rushed off. Joshua ducked around the corner to take up watch from another angle, in case Smith’s men had seen him. They rushed into the parlor and a few minutes later Soapy and several others came out. Their eyes scanned the street. The victim was gone but Joshua could tell that Soapy was up to something. He followed at a distance.
On Broadway, he caught whispers and murmurs as he watched Soapy chat with people, denying that anyone had been robbed. Joshua wanted to stand up and proclaim the injustice from the rooftops, but the looks of Soapy’s men intimidated him. He hung back.
“Mr. Stewart lost his money in a fair game,” Soapy insisted to the owner of the hardware store, where Joshua stood pretending to admire merchandise in the window. “There’s been no robbery.”
The merchant lowered his voice. “... disavow the men who did this. Save yourself, man, and let them take full blame.”
“We’ll see,” said Soapy. “Perhaps, if the man makes no roar in the newspapers. We might see what can be done for him.”
Joshua turned his back as the party of con men passed him. Up the street, he heard raised voices. The man named Stewart was shouting about the injustice of the loss and the fact that the law was doing nothing to stop Smith’s men from robbing anyone they chose. Joshua approached and blurted out his story.
“It’s true! Listen to this man. The men blatantly took his pouch. They did the same to me a few days ago. A rigged card game and all my money was gone in one afternoon!”
Several in the crowd looked sympathetic; some were openly hostile—Soapy’s men, no doubt; no one seemed shocked. A tap came on his shoulder as Joshua turned, intent on marching up the street and forcing the sheriff to listen to him.
“Son, let’s go.” It was Harry Weaver. “It’s not smart to be talking this way.”
Harry took his elbow and steered him down a side street.
“What are you doing?” Joshua demanded. “It’s my chance to be heard if I join together with this other man. I watched as they blatantly took his money!”
“I’m not saying it isn’t true,” Harry said. “Just that it will be taken care of, but not in this way. The sheriff is in league with Smith. He will never pursue justice for the victims. But there are others who will.”
“Who?” It came out more as a demand than a question.
“There’s a committee—The Hundred and One. Some call them vigilantes and they may be, but they are working to stop this lawlessness. They are meeting right now, as we speak.”
Joshua didn’t know what to say. A committee was probably a good thing, but would he really get his money back?
Harry began to move. “Let this lie,” he said. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
They went into the nearest tavern and Harry ordered, but Joshua’s mind wouldn’t slow down. He pictured Soapy bragging about what a good citizen he was and pretending regret that the unfortunate man had not been lucky at cards. His teeth ground together and it was all he could do to take a sip of the coffee, which burned its way down his gullet.
“… an ultimatum,” a man was saying as a pair of newcomers walked in the door. “Says he’ll return the gold by four o’clock this afternoon.”
Joshua’s ears perked up. Maybe ...
“District Commissioner Sehlbrede is on the way. He’ll sort this out. Meanwhile, Joshua—” Harry looked up to be sure his young friend was paying attention.
“Don’t cross Soapy’s path. He may act like a mild and friendly man, but he’s dangerous.”
Joshua let the words fly right past him. He intended to keep an eye on the situation and make it known that he, too, had been swindled by Soapy Smith.
As if he’d read Joshua’s mind, Harry spoke up: “You are only one of hundreds,
son. File your complaint, but don’t let your livelihood hinge on the result. It may take months for this to be completely resolved.”
Months. Joshua didn’t have that long. He had money to live on for a week.
They finished their coffee and Harry excused himself to go to the post office. He was still monitoring the comings and goings of men from the gold fields, confident that his quarry, Jessie Durant the bank robber, would show up soon. To that end he constantly monitored the most-frequented places in town.
Joshua felt a bit at loose ends. He couldn’t imagine sitting in his room at Mrs. McIlhaney’s house, listening to her children at play, or being caught up in conversation with the woman as she cleaned house or prepared dinner. He had written to Maddie yesterday but thought better of posting it. Her most recent letter to him expressed excitement on his behalf that he was on the way to the Klondike. When Gariston and Connell offered him a place on their team, he had foolishly written his wife in such a way that it sounded as if he were already on the way. Now, he had to pretend to be gone for several months before he could communicate with her again.
Of course, once he received his money back from the Smith gang he would find other partners and set out immediately. It was just the waiting—he chafed at the knowledge that he was already three months behind schedule.
He ambled back to one of his posts with a view of Smith’s parlor. A group of men was standing about, but he heard no laughter or music. Conversations appeared intense. Joshua backed into the afternoon shadows between two buildings to remain unseen. As the hours passed, his legs felt tired and he slid to the ground with his back against the rough wood siding.
“Commissioner called a six o’clock meeting,” a voice said. It was so nearby, Joshua started. He must have dozed off.
“Will Soapy attend?” said a second male voice.
“He’s on the way there now.”
Joshua carefully plucked his watch from his pocket. It was nearly six-thirty. He felt hungry and wondered if Mrs. McIlhaney had saved any food for him. A small commotion across the street erupted.
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