White Silence

by Ginjer Buchanan

  The Belle Claire had real windows, like the proper floating hotel suite it was. Jim Foster had pulled back the drapes. He was urging Danny awake. He stumbled from his bed to the window. For a heartbeat he stopped, chilled by the ghostly sight of his face in the glass. But he saw the town beyond, glowing golden in the rising sun. He caught his breath. The dream was forgotten.

  “If Seattle was an anthill,” Duncan said, “this place is a nest of ants stirred up with a stick.”

  The three Immortals followed Jim Foster, picking their way carefully down the rutted, muddy main street of Skagway.

  “The ants are a quarrelsome lot, laddie,” Fitz added, as two shots and one scream rang out close by.

  Duncan winced. In the scant few hours since the Belle Claire had docked it had become obvious that shots, screams, curses, crashes, and other noises best not investigated were the commonplace sounds of daily life in Skagway.

  “Can’t be too careful, mates. That’s true,” Foster said. “There’s a lot here just waiting for newcomers off the boats. Cheechakos they call ’em. They’ll take ’em for all they’re worth.” He deftly jumped a puddle. “With cards. Or with guns.” He stopped. “Hold up. The office is right across Broadway.” He pointed at a storefront. Lettering painted on a large glass window proclaimed it to be Reliable Packers.

  As they waited until a cart drawn by a moose passed by, Duncan reflected on Slim Jim Foster. It certainly seemed a bit of luck that Danny had met the man. He knew his way around Skagway, all right. He’d helped them get rooms at the Golden North Hotel. And he was now taking them to what he assured them was one of the few honest equippers in town.

  So far, Foster hadn’t asked for anything in return. Free passage on the Belle Claire had been more than enough, he’d said. He’d gone to Seattle to collect some money owed him. That he’d not had to spend any of it on his return trip was like a gift.

  There was sense to that. Still, Duncan was uneasy about the man. He was so accommodating, so helpful—

  The street cleared, and the three Immortals followed Foster into Reliable Packers. The place was full. Men leaned on walls and filled the wooden benches. Duncan frowned. Some of the crowd looked less than savory.

  Slim Jim took them directly to the counter. “Claremont,” he said, “these are my friends. O’Donal, MacLeod and Fitzcairn. Three argonauts just off a private yacht up from Seattle. Bound for Dawson. You do right by them, mate.”

  He left then, promising to see them later.

  Claremont produced a clipboard. He began questioning them about the size of their outfit, filling in a form as they answered. Duncan explained that their supplies were still on the Belle Claire, back at Juneau Wharf, under the watchful eyes of Silas Witherspoon’s crew.

  “And we’re not sure what more we’ll be needing to cross the White Pass,” he added. “We’d planned the Water Route. But Mr. Foster convinced us to go this way.”

  “Right as rain, he was.” Claremont nodded. “The race is to the swift, you know.” He made a note on the form. “You’ll be needing horses, of course, and packs. And a guide. Not that the Pass isn’t well marked and all. A guide just makes it safer.” He frowned, crossed something out, then made a final notation. He extended the clipboard to Duncan. “That’s a fair total, I think. You’ll not do better.”

  Duncan motioned for Danny and Fitz to come closer. The three Immortals looked over the form. After a brief discussion, Duncan returned it to Claremont.

  “All right. We have a deal. How long will it take to get all this together?” He smiled at Danny. “We’re anxious to be on our way.”

  “Oh, maybe two days,” Claremont answered. “You’re at the Golden North? We’ll be in touch.” He produced a pen. “Sign here at the bottom, then. And you understand, we have to ask for a deposit? Just to guarantee that your business isn’t given elsewhere.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Duncan said. Claremont named a figure. Duncan turned to Fitz, who was carrying their money. The gold nuggets had been exchanged for currency in Seattle. Fitz’s leather billcase was bulging.

  Before Duncan could caution him, Fitz drew it out. In an instant, a burly figure darted forward and grabbed it from his hand.

  An uproar ensued. Claremont produced a wooden truncheon. He slammed it on the counter.

  “Stop, thief,” he shouted.

  Men rose from the benches and left the walls. They began darting around the room. As Danny made a grab for the thief he was knocked from his feet by someone rushing to his aid. Fitz, too stunned to react at first, turned in time to see the man racing out the door. Duncan struggled to follow him, pushing through the crowd that seemed suddenly to fill Reliable Packers.

  Clearing the door, he saw the man already across Broadway. He gave chase, heedless of the human and animal traffic bearing down on him.

  The thief disappeared between two buildings. Duncan ran after. His quarry, he guessed, knew the town well. He could easily slip through some back door, and be gone forever. With all their money.

  Duncan rounded a corner and saw a flash of movement. He sprinted forward, guided now by the string of expletives that rent the air.

  Behind the building, two men lay in the mud in a tangle of arms and legs. One was the thief. They were struggling to rise. Their efforts only succeeded in churning up even more mud. They kept losing their footing, falling back in the muck. It would have been funny were it not for the violence of the thief’s anger.

  “Goddamn injun. Get off me! I’ll kill you. I will.”

  Duncan grabbed the man by the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet.

  “You’ll not be killing anyone, you scum.”

  The burly man took a swing at Duncan. It was all the excuse he needed. One quick fist to the gut, another to the jaw. The thief fell back, spread-eagled in the muck.

  Duncan offered his hand to the Indian. The man took it, and scrambled to his feet. He backed up two steps, then turned and ran. His hat—a broad-brimmed red felt trimmed with an eagle feather—lay in the mud. Duncan picked it up and called after him. But the Indian was gone.

  “I can’t believe that there’s no jail in this town.” A gunshot sounded from outside. “If ever a place needed one …”

  The three Immortals were finishing their dinner—a surprisingly good one—at the Pack Train Restaurant. Duncan viciously stabbed a last piece of baked salmon belly with his fork. He frowned even as he chewed.

  “Jim said that there was no law at all here for a long while,” Danny offered. “Those that decide such things couldn’t settle on whether the place was in Alaska or Canada.”

  “And the winner is”—Fitz pushed his plate back and slapped his hand on the table—“Alaska!”

  Duncan scowled. “So the blackguard who nearly wiped us out sits, all cozy and comfortable, in a spare room at the back of the town hall. Until a judge happens to come by.”

  “We’ll be long gone by then, Mr. MacLeod,” Danny said.

  “I know that,” Duncan replied, with an edge in his voice. “Long gone and far away.”

  “Well, at least we got our money back, laddie,” Fitz said, patting his vest pocket. “I’ll pop by Reliable Packers in the morning and finish our business. And I can assure you that I’ll look twice before I take out even a coin.” He produced his pipe and tobacco.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be meeting Foster at some saloon?” Duncan asked. “I could use a drink.”

  Fitz shrugged. He slipped the pipe back into his pocket and called for the check. Duncan rose and went outside.

  “Hugh …” Danny began.

  Fitz shook his head. “The Highlander likes to see justice done, Danny my boy. When you’ve known him as long as I have, you’ll understand.”

  They found Duncan leaning, arms folded, against the front of the building. The night was cold, but clear. The town was ablaze with light, pouring out of the string of bars and dance halls that lined the street.

  “Mr. MacLeod,” Danny said, his breath visib
le in the air, “Jim Foster knows near everyone here, it seems. He might know of the Indian who owns that red hat.”

  Duncan nodded. “That he might, Danny.” He pushed off from the wall. “Let’s go ask him.”

  Fitz gave the young Immortal a quick pat on his shoulder as they followed MacLeod into the noise-filled Skagway night.

  Danny saw the girl straightaway. She came through the door to the right of the dark wood bar. She was still for a minute. She seemed to be looking about at the crowd packed into Jeff Smith’s Parlour. Then she went over to the upright piano that stood facing the back wall. It wasn’t far from the door that led to the room where Slim Jim said the gambling went on.

  The girl sat down next to the Negro who’d been playing jagtime tunes for the whole of the time the three Immortals had been in the place.

  Danny lowered his glass. It was his third drink from the bottle Slim Jim had bought. For them to celebrate their luck in actually catching a crook in Skagway, he said. Danny had planned on it being his last, anyway. The memory of his night out in Seattle, like the tattoo on his forearm, still had bright colors and clear edges. Unlike the tattoo, it would shortly fade away. In the time ’til then, he’d vowed to hold himself to just a drop or two.

  The girl had a cloud of long dark hair, down to her waist it was. Held back from the pale blur of her face by a simple ribbon. Her dress was white, all ruffled. She didn’t look like any of those that he’d seen slip through the small door to the room beyond.

  In his time Danny had known many a girl who worked the saloons. Some were sweet. Some sour. Sure, he’d spent more than a night or two with some of the sweeter ones. He held nothing against them. To survive, he’d had to kill—his own kind most often. Killing was a grave sin, Father O’Malley had preached. To survive, some girls committed another on the list of the priest’s terrible sins. Well, if they were damned, then so was he. He’d not cast stones. Mother Kelly had taught him that.

  This girl—she was different though. Any man with but half an eye could see.

  She slid over on the bench. The Negro got up and left. Then she began to play. At first, so soft that Danny couldn’t hear. But in a bit, the sound grew, rising above the noise of the crowd.

  She didn’t play rinky-tink, but sweet, slow melodies. Some Danny knew from the war. “Sweet Lorena” and “Tenting Tonight.” One he’d heard from boyhood, a song from Londonderry, in the Old Country.

  He found he was holding his breath. The piano could be clearly heard now. Why, the room’s gone quiet, Danny thought. He glanced around the table. Hugh, MacLeod, even Jim, who must have heard her before, were watching in silence.

  As the last notes of the song called “Aura Lee” echoed, the girl lifted her hands from the keyboard. She lowered her head. A well-dressed dark-haired man stepped to the side of the piano.

  “Gents—and ladies—Minnie Dale.” He extended his hand. The girl rose, turned, and bowed. The room fairly shook with the clapping and whistling.

  She’ll be coming out among the tables now, Danny thought. Jim will know her. He can call her over here. But the girl withdrew through the door next to the bar. Danny waited, absently pouring himself another drink. After a time, he sighed aloud. He knew she would not be back.

  Aura Lee, Aura Lee. The price of loving a mortal. Duncan thought of Alec Hill, sobbing over the broken body of his beautiful young wife. Young Danny’s face was far too easy to read. He caught Fitz’s eye. His friend looked amused and indulgent as the young Immortal left the table. Foster had told them Minnie Dale would play again later. Danny wanted to be much closer to the piano.

  But Foster was still with them. So Duncan knew that a conversation with Fitzcairn—however futile it might be—on the subject of Danny’s love life would have to wait. He poured another drink.

  “Gentlemen?”

  He looked up. The man who’d introduced Minnie Dale had approached their table.

  “I’m Jefferson Randolph Smith,” he said. His voice was low and pleasant. “Might I join you?”

  “It’s your Parlour, isn’t it?” Fitzcairn said, gesturing toward Danny’s empty chair.

  Smith laughed and sat down.

  “Duncan MacLeod.” He extended his hand. Smith’s hand was small and well cared for. “The pipe-smoker is Hugh Fitzcairn. And this is Jim Foster.”

  “I know Foster,” Smith replied. “His brother is the bartender here.” He picked up the whiskey and examined the label. “That’s how you came by a bottle of my private stock. Right, Jim?”

  “I told these argonauts yours was the best place in town, Mr. Smith. Tom was just helping me prove it.”

  Smith had an easy laugh. All in all, he seemed a gentleman. Good manners. Good clothes, including a heavy gold watch fob prominent against his silk vest. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and his clear gray eyes were intelligent.

  A gentleman, Duncan thought. Or a very effective imitation of one.

  “You’re the men who were accosted this afternoon at Reliables, are you not? I just wanted to say that the good citizens of Skagway—and there are some of us—are pleased that at least one of the villains was caught.”

  “There was just one,” Duncan said, “and for all the good it did, he was indeed caught.” He swallowed his whiskey straight back.

  Smith looked puzzled. “I’d heard there was an Indian involved.”

  “Yes.” Duncan nodded. “But he helped bring the thief down. I want to thank him. And I’ve not been able to find him.”

  “Foster here knows everybody,” Smith said.

  “So I’ve heard,” Duncan replied. He reached for the bottle. He wondered if he might get an opportunity to speak with Smith alone. The man treated Foster with a certain disdain. Duncan suspected that he would be a good source of information about Slim Jim.

  “This fellow must be new around here, Mr. Smith,” Foster said. “I can’t place him.”

  “Try me,” Smith said. “Up here, Indians and white mix pretty well. Your man might have been in my Parlour.”

  Duncan described the Indian as best he could, aware that his fleeting contact hadn’t given him a clear impression.

  Smith looked thoughtful. “Sounds like any one of a half dozen tribes. Athabascan. Skookum. Siwash. Chilkoot. They’re all pretty much the same. The hat, though. That’s something more specific.”

  He rose from the table. “I’ll ask around. I admire a man who pays his debts, Mr. MacLeod. Even a debt of gratitude.”

  “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Smith,” Duncan replied. He extended his hand again.

  “Soapy,” Smith said. “That’s what some call me. Everyone up here has a nickname. Like Slim Jim.” He nodded at Foster. “Holler, ‘Hey, Kid’ right now, and twoscore fellows would answer. Including my piano player. He’s the Chocolate Kid. So, I’m Soapy.” He shook Duncan’s hand.

  “Foster, tell your brother the bottle’s on me. If you haven’t already.” He winked and walked back into the crowd.

  Close up, Danny had seen that Minnie Dale’s eyes were blue, a dark blue that was near black. She closed them sometimes as she played, and her black lashes fanned on her pale cheeks. Her face was a child’s face, round and soft, with a small bow of a mouth. The dark cloud of her hair made her seem even paler.

  Danny reached up and ran his fingers through that hair. He pulled Minnie down beside him. She lay on her side, pressing her naked breasts to his chest.

  They lay together on the double bed that was all of the furniture other than a tiny table and two chairs in her house. The house was one in a row, all joined, all alike, behind the main buildings of the town.

  The whores lived there, she’d explained to Danny when he’d approached her in the Parlour. He could walk her home as he’d asked. But he should know what home was.

  Danny touched her eyebrows with his fingers

  “You don’t make love like a whore,” he whispered.

  Minnie sighed. “You’ve had so much experience, then? You can’t be much old
er than me, Danny O’Donal.”

  Danny smiled in the darkness. Hugh had taught him one of the first rules of seduction—never ask a woman, mortal or otherwise, her age. But he wanted to know.

  “And that would be?”

  “Twenty-two this month past.” Her long fingers stroked down Danny’s arm. She sat up, letting the lamplight fall on him.

  “And where did you come by this?” She traced the tattoo.

  Danny felt heat rise in his cheeks. “In the port of Seattle. I was being foolish that night.”

  Minnie kissed his forearm, then lightly touched the puckered scar beneath his shoulder blade. “And this?”

  “A Reb bullet, the first of the fighting at Antietam. It’s lucky I was. That day, at least.”

  She frowned. “Antietam? But—” Then she laughed softly. “Ah, well, Danny O’Donal. Have your secrets then. It may be that someday you’ll tell me the truth of it.”

  Danny rolled her over on her back. He raised himself above her.

  “Someday, Minnie Dale, I promise I’ll tell you a secret that will take your breath away. This minute, I’ve other things on my mind.”

  Fitz speared another two griddle cakes with his fork. Placing them on his plate, he proceeded to generously ladle syrup over, under, and between them. He was humming under his breath, one of the tunes Minnie Dale had played.

  Across the table, Duncan sipped his coffee.

  “You’re in a fine mood this morning,” he said.

  “And why not?” Fitz replied. “We’ve got our money back. We’ll be on our way by week’s end toward fortune, if not fame. And the food in this restaurant at the end of nowhere is much better than it has any right to be.” He filled his mouth with griddle cake. “Did you know,” he said, syrup dripping down his chin, “that they’re actually serving oysters poached in champagne this morning? It’s nearly enough to make me want to learn to cook.”

  “And how much skill does it take to burn beef and boil potatoes, my fine English friend?” Duncan asked.

  Fitz wiped his chin. “Ah, MacLeod. Do you really want me to mention haggis while we’re eating?”

  Duncan poured more coffee. “You lost no sleep last night worrying over Danny, then?”