O’Neill went limp. The sergeant released his grip and pushed him back in his chair. He then stood, tugged at the bottom of his tunic, twirled each side of his moustache and growled, “We will see you in court, Mr. O’Neill.”
Months later, on a sunny spring day, the high-ceilinged courthouse hallways and the courtroom itself were packed shoulder to shoulder with people straining to see and hear every word of the proceedings. The smell of wet wool, stale tobacco and woodsmoke was soon overpowering, and a few people shouted, “Open the windows!” The court clerk quickly complied, much to everyone’s relief.
O’Neill sat at a table facing the witness stand and tried unsuccessfully not to look sheepish. His face and balding head bore patches of freshly healed skin, and around his eyes were faded, yellow, raccoon rings of old shiners. He didn’t look at the crowd. He only leaned over to ask the time from Sergeant Selnes seated on his right. The sergeant ignored him.
Without notice, a door swung open at the front of the room, and those in the courtroom rose and fell swiftly silent. Magistrate Arthur Goodman took his seat and signalled with his brow for the room to do the same. They did so without a word. Elevated above the masses in his black robe, Goodman struck an imposing figure with his handsome face and silver hair. The clear crack of his gavel began the proceedings. He scanned the room, left to right. Few dared return his gaze. Among men he stood higher because of his impeccable judgment and fearlessness. Arthur Goodman and his kind had brought law and order to a land that would otherwise have dissolved into lawlessness.
“I will not tolerate comments of any sort, at any time, in my courtroom. If you are wearing a hat, remove it. No smoking. No spitting. And no outbursts, or I will have you thrown in jail.” He meant it. A few of the men nodded in acknowledgment. If a pin had dropped, they would have heard it.
There were three cases on the docket, one of stealing gold from a claim, a second of theft under one hundred dollars and a third of destruction of private property. Arthur Goodman quickly dispatched the first two. The claim thief had suffered enough; the gunshot wound to his buttocks drew him a lighter sentence. O’Neill was fined twenty-five dollars and thirty days of cutting wood for the RCMP woodpile. The claim thief elbowed his way out of the courtroom, but rather than following him and facing the crowd, O’Neill took a seat at the front.
The clerk called Wilfred to the stand. He’d trimmed his moustache, and his dark hair was parted in the middle and slicked down. He wore a suit jacket but no tie. His collarless striped shirt was buttoned at the neck, and his waistcoat sported a gold-nugget watch and a chain that hung just below the fifth button. He held his hat in front of him.
Magistrate Goodman demanded, “How do you plead?”
“Guilty as charged, Your Honour,” Wilfred said in a clear, loud voice. A true sourdough would never avoid truth or justice.
“Sixty days on the woodpile!” Goodman boomed.
Wilfred dropped his hat.
Then the magistrate paused and his blue eyes surveyed the hushed crowd. He bellowed, “Suspended!” and crashed his gavel on the desk, breaking the head off the handle. It flew across the room, just missing Wilfred as he stooped over to pick up his hat.
The crowd was uncontrollable. The roar of approval was deafening, the windows shook, papers were launched into the air and people hugged each other. Wilfred made his way out through the crowd and had his shoulders slapped every step of the way. The din followed him out of the courthouse and down the street.
In the empty, silent courtroom, O’Neill sat alone with his head in his hands, contemplating what had happened. His stomach sank when the door opened behind him. Arthur Goodman, having exited when the celebration started, re-entered to leave by the front door. Without a glance at O’Neill, he spoke sharply. “Son, let this be a lesson to you. There is no toleration for a thief. There is no honour in thievery.” Then the magistrate strode out of his courtroom. Neil stood in his place until Arthur was out of sight down the hall.
As for Wilfred … well … he didn’t have to buy himself coffee or lunch for the next year.
Piedoe
On Eighth Avenue, where the flats of Dawson City slope up toward the Dome Hill, lived William Pringle’s sister Dorothy Duffy and her husband Nathan. People called them Dot and Nat.
Ziggy, their eldest son, born in 1921, was proudly named after Dot’s great-great-grandfather Ziegfeld, who had served the King of Prussia as keeper of the royal treasure and had been disgraced for borrowing “a few minor jewels.” After Ziegfeld wore out his welcome in New York, he moved to Seattle. Ziegfeld’s daughter Zola married Clarence Pringle, who swept her off her feet and into the great Klondike gold rush of 1896. Dot was born in a tent on the shore of Bennett Lake five days after her parents climbed the Chilkoot Pass. She was the first gold rush child, and men and women stopped their mad stampede for a moment to wish her parents and Dot well.
Iggy, the number-two son, bore the fire-breathing Irish name Ignatius after his father’s great-uncle, who’d joined the Catholic uprising in Ulster against the injustice of the Brits and their bloodthirsty Black and Tans. Ignatius was hanged for throwing a grenade at a parade of soldiers, though Nat insisted on his great-uncle’s innocence. Most people called Nat’s son Eggy.
Nat’s boon companion was a friendly black husky named Piedoe. Nat, on a trip to Whitehorse, picked Piedoe from a litter when the pup waddled over and peed on his boot. He was eight weeks old, barely old enough to leave his mother and seven brothers and sisters. His mother Boo was a silver Siberian husky; his father was a black husky named Shara, which means “little bear” in the Tutchone language.
Nat, Dot, Ziggy, Iggy, Piedoe and Dot’s cat Po lived in a rambling gold-rush-era house with a faded green metal roof. The outside of the building needed painting. It had decayed far beyond what was acceptable even by Dawson City standards. The scaffolding leaning against its walls, the rusting cans of paint with paper labels weathered off and the rock-hard paintbrushes attested to Nat’s good intentions of completing this job.
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” Dot cheerfully reminded him, but she didn’t push him to get the job done.
The horizontal shiplap siding on the house had warped in waves from the uncontrollable random lifting of permafrost. The floors were noticeably uneven. Anyone entering the porch walked downhill, then started uphill again in the kitchen. Stacks of mismatched cribbing timbers leaned precariously under the house, evidence of jacking up to try to level the floor beams. Piedoe found this crawlspace warm in winter and in summer a good place to escape the hordes of mosquitoes and blackflies.
Nat took Piedoe everywhere. The dog rode in the box of his battered 1928 Ford pickup, but in very cold weather, he was allowed to wedge between Nat and Dot in the cramped cab. Piedoe sat taller than both of them. Nat tried to teach him not to use his booming voice in the vehicle. More than once, Nat brought the truck to a screeching halt in the middle of the street, jumped out with both hands over his ears, and yelled back into the cab, “Don’t do that, you crazy mutt!” Because both Piedoe and Dot were in the truck, people mistakenly thought that Nat was yelling at Dot. In a small town, you don’t want to make that kind of mistake. Tongues will wag.
Sometimes when this happened, Nat would throw Piedoe out and make him walk home, no matter how far from town they were. A tired Piedoe would drag in late at night, then mope around the house with his feelings hurt. Finally he would rest his head in Nat’s lap, and Nat would pat his head and tell him that he was a good boy and it was okay. But then, barely able to contain his annoyance, he would end up yelling, “And don’t bark in the truck again!”
Piedoe had a good life. He watched the house, trotted after Nat wherever he went and was well-fed and loved. Once in a while Nat would harness him to a sled, and Dot would put Ziggy and Iggy in it and walk around town doing her shopping and picking up the mail.
Piedoe’s nose and forehead had hairless white scars showing through the fur; these were sca
rs from fights. One dog that Piedoe repeatedly fought was Howard Bungle’s Sunny, a handsome yellow husky. They attacked the moment they spotted each other. Nat and others would grab tails and pull the dogs apart. The fur-flying, ferocious battles were loud and vicious but over in seconds. The dogs’ thick coats prevented injury; the most damage done was a bloody lip.
When Nat drove through Sunny’s part of town, Sunny would run leaping at Piedoe in the back of the truck. The ruckus would move down the road until Sunny was satisfied that he’d driven off the enemy. The dogs’ dislike for each other was more obvious than the dislike that developed between Nat and Howard.
Piedoe was friendly, but if he didn’t like someone, that person should stay clear. Late one Friday afternoon, Piedoe was sitting in the back of Nat’s truck parked in front of the Dawson City General Store. The usual crowd had gathered to pick up groceries and engage in chit-chat. Neil O’Neill—a thief despised by man and beast, a pariah in a community of unlocked doors and unguarded woodpiles—strode along the boardwalk and stopped beside the truck. O’Neill made the mistake of grabbing Piedoe’s head with both hands and giving it a vigorous, friendly shake. In the blink of an eye, Piedoe snapped at his face. O’Neill instinctively pulled back, but it was too late. Piedoe’s sharp white teeth nipped the end off his nose. O’Neill recoiled, clutched his face in horror and screamed unintelligible curses through his bloody fingers. Then he ran across the street to seek aid in the Sunrise Restaurant and Hotel.
Everyone who witnessed it waited until O’Neill was out of earshot and then broke into guffaws of laughter. Some bent over, hands on knees, before they straightened and looked at each other, exchanged “Oows!” and broke into laughter again. A tale was born that day, one that would be told for decades to come. Soon afterward, someone went into the store and bought Piedoe a meaty soup bone.
Nat was having a busy Saturday. He was getting back to painting the house and he had plans to clean up the yard. He fixed himself a cup of coffee by running hot water from the sink into the half-filled cup from the night before. As he stood in his striped pajamas looking out the window, Dot called from the dining room, “Breakfast time, sweetheart.” Nat sat in the captain’s chair at the head of the table, and Dot slid a heaping plateful of poached eggs on toast with bacon and fried potatoes in front of him. A fresh cup of coffee followed with plenty of sugar and milk. Nat adored Dot. He adored everything she did for him, and he was full of praise for her. “Well now … how did you make this?”
“It was nothing, and you know it,” Dot said, laughing and smacking him on his shoulder. She cleaned up and left to do her shopping.
Nat had barely climbed the scaffolding with his paintbrush when Piedoe, who was lying below on the lawn, stood up and growled. He looked back at Nat for support, then let out a whimper.
Three figures were coming up the street. Sunny walked in front of Howard Bungle and Neil O’Neill, whose face was still heavily bandaged, and his eyes were riveted on Piedoe. He raised his body and started forward in a stiff-legged gait. Piedoe responded with a bark, just seconds before his powerful legs pushed into the ground and launched him toward Sunny.
Nat was only halfway down the ladder when Piedoe and Sunny collided in mid-air in mid-street. Their chests thudded together heavily, and both fell back onto their haunches, only to recover and attack more ferociously than the first time. Their wide-open jaws slashed back and forth, slinging strings of saliva as they searched for a vulnerable place to clamp down and tear.
Howard and O’Neill stood back, but Nat rushed in. Winston Higgens, Nat’s neighbour, was stacking his woodpile nearby. He ran through the gate in his fence to help out. Nat and Winston grabbed tails and pulled.
“Let them fight!” Howard yelled.
O’Neill said nothing and didn’t help; he seemed to be enjoying the trouble. He had a short rope in his hand, and he coiled and uncoiled it as he watched.
Howard finally grabbed Sunny by the neck, taking him from Nat. Winston held Piedoe by his collar and pulled him toward the house.
“Why don’t you keep your dog home?” Nat asked.
Howard laughed in Nat’s face, which infuriated Nat.
O’Neill spoke in a nasal voice from the bandages covering his face. “You go to hell, Nat. I’ve come to take that dog. He is being put down for what he did to my nose.”
It was Nat’s turn to laugh. He gave out a snort before he leaped at O’Neill and punched him so hard on the side of the head that his eyes rolled back and he crumpled to the street.
Winston let Piedoe go and ran over, put his knee on O’Neill’s chest and raised his bony arm and fist menacingly. “Stay down!”
O’Neill was too dizzy to get up, and Winston was too small and skinny to keep him down. But Winston knew the fighting wasn’t over and he was trying to stop a donnybrook.
Nat and Howard circled each other.
Nat spat into his hands and moved his raised fists in a windmill motion.
“So you thought you were going to take my dog, did you?” Nat said.
“That dog bit my friend,” Howard said.
“You’re not taking my dog,” Nat said. He jabbed a left, then caught Howard squarely in the middle of the face with a powerful right.
Pat Henderson, a former boxer and retired bartender, knew without looking up from his garden work what the distinctive smack of fist hitting cartilage and flesh meant. He had heard the commotion but paid little attention. Now he walked into the street to get a better look.
Howard staggered backward surprised, worried now that Nat could box. Blood streamed from his nose and onto the front of his checkered shirt. His eyes watered from the pain, and red bubbles formed and popped in his nostrils. He shouted at Nat, “What did you do that for, you jerk?” Howard smeared blood across his face with his sleeve and lunged forward, threw both arms around Nat’s head and pushed him violently to the ground. There he pummelled him with his right fist. Nat was quick. He dodged the blows and wrapped one arm around Howard’s head to flip him over onto his back. Both men grunted and breathed heavily. Curses peppered Pat’s attempts to pull them apart by their shirt collars, but his efforts only popped their buttons. Sunny was confused. He whined and jumped forward and backward, legs together, as if waiting for a chance to join in the play.
The two men locked in an angry embrace. They squeezed each other as hard as they could and, at the same time, tried to jerk free. Nat felt Howard’s teeth clamp down on top of his ear, and in one excruciatingly painful bite, Howard tore off the top of his ear. Screaming in pain and charged with adrenalin, Nat threw off Howard, stood up and kicked him as many times as he could before Pat pulled him back.
Howard rolled over onto all fours and pulled himself to his feet, dazed. His breath came in rapid gasps. He got his bearings, looked Nat in the eye and spat the piece of ear at his feet. Pat strengthened his grip on Nat’s shirt and yanked him back a step.
Now both men’s arms hung limply at their sides, and their legs had no strength left. Nat waved one arm flaccidly in the air as if to say, “It’s over!” Winston let O’Neill up, and the men turned and staggered away in opposite directions.
“I’ll get you for this,” were O’Neill’s parting words. He held his hand over the lump on his head.
“No, you won’t,” Pat Henderson said, “and if I ever see your ugly face in this part of town again, I’ll do the beating.” He smacked his hoe on the ground for emphasis.
O’Neill knew better than to argue with Pat. He walked away waving a hand behind him, heading home. Nat shook off Winston’s help and staggered up to his house. Blood pumped from his ear and soaked his shoulder. Slurring his words, Howard called Sunny, who bounded out of a field of tall grass. Both of them headed down the street.
In his kitchen, Nat collapsed onto a chair at the table. He took off his shirt and sat in his undershirt. He rested his head on his forearms, feeling depressed that such a fine day had turned so bad. His runny nose mixed with blood and his head pounded.
The truck pulled into the driveway, and when Nat heard Dot’s voice calling him, he raised his head. Dot followed the trail of blood along the porch and into the kitchen. “What happened to you?” she gasped, putting down her groceries.
“That fool O’Neill and Howard Bungle came for Piedoe. They thought he should be shot for biting O’Neill. They even had a rope. It was luckier than hell that I was home, or they would have taken him for sure.”
Dot removed her hatpin, then her hat, and set it on the sideboard. She dipped a towel in warm water and dabbed his wounds. She scrutinized the ear and visibly quivered. “You will have to go see the doctor.”
Iggy and Ziggy had come in and wanted to go after Howard and O’Neill.
“Let’s go, Iggy. We have to fight back,” Ziggy said.
Nat tried not to laugh—his ribs hurt—but he scolded them, “You stay out of this. It doesn’t concern you.”
But it did concern them, and because Dawson City was what it was, it would concern generations of Duffys to come.
“Let’s go to the hospital,” Dot said. This time she drove, and the boys sat in the middle. At the hospital Sunny lay on the front step sunning himself; oblivious to the commotion, he barely looked up as Nat walked past. In the emergency room, the doctor was removing pieces of Howard’s broken teeth.
“So this is the other half,” he said, holding a piece of tooth in forceps up to the light for a better look. “I didn’t think Howard beat himself up.”
The men glared at each other through swollen eyes. The doctor sensed that the fight had gone out of them, but as a precaution he asked, “Am I going to have to call the boys in scarlet?” The RCMP detachment was next door, and if need be, one of the nurses could easily walk over to fetch an officer.
Neither man answered. The doctor waited a moment and then spoke again, louder for emphasis, before continuing his work. “I will take your silence to be an answer in the negative.”
Talking at the Woodpile Page 5