names. They’re cousins or something.”
“Mr. Walker, this is my son, Angus. And Bob, and ... uh ... Bob.” Ray Walker and Angus shook hands. The Bobs fell back, suddenly shy.
“A pleasure to meet ye, Angus, Mrs. MacGillivray. Good luck to ye. I’m heading to the Yukon tomorrow.”
“Wow,” Angus said, “are you going prospecting?”
Walker gave me a grin. “In a manner of speaking.”
“How are you getting there, sir?”
“I’m taking the White Pass route. They say it’s easier than the Chilkoot.”
“No,” the taller of the Bobs said. “No. White Pass is not good.”
“What da ye mean?”
“White Pass is hard. Too hard. Many horses die, many men turn back. Chilkoot better.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Walker said. “There’s a path through the White Pass. The forest has been cleared and a walking path built that’s easy for horses to manage.”
The boy shook his head.
“Gee, Mr. Walker,” Angus said, “you sound like my mother thinking there’s a telegraph. When would anyone have had time to cut a path any longer than a couple of hundred yards?”
“I heard ...” Walker said.
“Bob and Bob’s parents are working as packers,” Angus said. “They’re staying with their grannies outside town while their folks are away. They told me. All the Indian packers know the White Path’s a death trap.”
The boys nodded in unison.
“Chilkoot much better,” the taller one said.
“I’d listen to them if I were you, Mr. Walker,” I said. “Local knowledge is a valuable thing.”
Walker looked dubious. “Perhaps I’d be better staying here a while ’afore rushing off. See what other folks think.”
“No,” the shorter Bob spoke for the first time. “Rivers freeze soon. Go now, or too late.”
“Angus.” I spoke very slowly, but my mind was racing. “Have you met any of these packers?”
“Sure. Indians have come from all over looking for work. They’ll carry a man’s stuff up to the top of the Chilkoot Pass. To the Canadian border. There’s a lake at the bottom of the mountain and you can take a boat all the way from there to Dawson.”
I looked at Ray Walker. He looked at me.
“Angus and I have three trunks,” I said. “And several bags of provisions. Obviously, I cannot carry our belongings all the way to the Klondike. I’ve brought enough food to last us several weeks, some warm clothes, blankets, sturdy boots. I also have Angus’s school books, including the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare. I have excellent dresses, among them a Worth from Paris, as well as hats and accessories.”
I did not mention that I had the last of my funds from the sale of Mrs. McNally’s jewellery.
“I have food, camping equipment.” Walker dropped his voice. “And liquor. Good Scots whisky. Enough for a chap to open a bar.”
“And a dance hall, perhaps. Where one could employ respectable entertainers and ladies to dance with the customers.”
“I’ve got a roulette wheel and chips and cards.”
A shout came from down the street.
“Mrs. MacGillivray. There you are.” Paul Sheridan was running toward us, his long legs churning up mud. “You boys, be off with you.” He made a shooing gesture at Angus and his friends. “Don’t you be pestering decent white women.” The Bobs slipped away. Angus looked confused. His face and hands were streaked with mud and his filthy cap covered most of his shock of overlong blond hair. “Get away boy,” Sheridan snapped, “or I’ll have you locked up.”
“Mr. Sheridan,” I said. “You are speaking to my son.”
He peered at Angus. Angus’s blue eyes blinked back.
“Sorry, boy. Didn’t recognize you. Don’t you be hanging around with those Indian bastards. Nothing but trouble, the lot of them. Turn your back and they’ll steal you blind.”
“We can’t have that, now can we,” I said. My sarcasm escaped Mr. Sheridan.
He turned his attention to Ray Walker. “Is this man bothering you, Mrs. MacGillivray?”
“Most certainly not,” I said.
Walker stared at Sheridan until the American flushed and turned away.
“Mrs. MacGillivray,” he coughed, “I wonder if I can have a word in private.”
“Oh, very well.” We crossed the street. Angus and Mr. Walker watched us.
“You shouldn’t be associating with Indians,” Sheridan said. “It will do your reputation no good.”
“Your employer wants me to manage his whorehouse and yet you are concerned with my reputation. Your logic escapes me, Mr. Sheridan.”
I might not have spoken, as Sheridan carried on. “And men like that one, Walker. He’s leaving for the Yukon, and good riddance. He’s small but good with his fists. Mr. Smith offered him a job. He turned Soapy down outright. Soapy don’t like that.”
“So I gather. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sheridan, I have decided to travel to the Yukon myself.”
“You can’t be serious! What about my proposal of marriage? Mrs. MacGillivray, I implore you.” And to my astonishment, and that of everyone else on the street, he dropped to one knee and took both of my hands in his. “Mrs. MacGillivray. Fiona, I have adored you since ...”
I snatched my hands away. “Get up you fool. You’re making a scene.”
His legs wobbled as he struggled to stand. With a sigh, I held out my arm and assisted him. The knees of his trousers dripped with mud.
Angus and Mr. Walker were watching us, eyes wide and mouths hanging open. “You tell your mother to forget this talk,” Sheridan said, “only fools and easterners go digging for gold.”
“We’re easterners,” Angus said.
“As I’m going to the Klondike in any event,” I said, “what would you say is the best route to take?”
Sheridan’s eyes slid to one side. “The White Pass, by far. You’ll want horses. I can help you find some.”
“What an excellent idea. Now, I have to take my son and attempt to find him a bath. Why don’t we meet again, say, the day after tomorrow, and you can take me to view these horses.”
He touched his hat. “My pleasure, Ma’am.
