At the Rainbow's End Page 2

  “Eureka!” he crowed as he popped up from behind a mass of tattered clothing. “Here it is! Knew it was here somewhere.”

  Following his orders they quickly lined up, according to tradition. He frowned, his sun-bleached eyebrows nearly invisible among the ridges of his forehead. No one spoke while he stared at his book as if he hoped to find the answer to whatever was puzzling him in its pages. Then, recalling something, he turned to the same pile of rags and kicked it roughly.

  “Wake up, Kimball!” he shouted. “You must be sober by now.” He turned to the astonished wedding party. “We need another witness in addition to the lovely lady there. Whiskey Kimball can’t put his name down for a witness if he’s asleep.” He jolted the man again with his boot.

  A groan emerged from somewhere in the mound which Samantha had thought was only castoff clothing. She watched in amazement as a head matted with hair rose from the assortment of rags. A single, malevolent eye regarded them.

  “What in hell you be waking me for, Ephraim? Dammit, man, can’t a soul get some sleep here?”

  “Be quiet,” ordered the minister. “This couple wants to get hitched. Watch, so you can put your name on the paper.”

  “Hell,” he breathed. “Don’t care about him getting himself a woman. I ain’t got one. Let me sleep.”

  The clergyman leaned down and took the bigger man by the shirtfront and shook him, like a terrier with a rat. With invective that further astounded Samantha, he ordered the man to stay awake. Grumbling, Kimball agreed.

  As if there had been no problem, the minister turned back to the bride and groom and easily read the service. He paid little attention, and barely gave them time to reply, making no secret of wanting to be finished so he could collect his fee. While the groom enthusiastically kissed his bride, the parson thrust a paper and a pen beneath Samantha’s nose.

  “Thank you,” she said curtly. She vowed she and Joel would find another man to wed them. She wanted a wedding with flowers, a ring, and a sincere ceremony. She affixed her signature and offered the document to the man still leaning against the wall.

  “Well, hello,” he said with more life than he had shown before, surveying her with open appreciation. “Who are you, sweet thing? How did you come to Dawson without Ole Whiskey knowing about it? Are you the new girl come to play the lead on stage at the Monte Carlo?”

  Tired of explaining she was not here to entertain the whole city of Dawson, she did not reply. If she had known it would be like this, like Gwen, she would have insisted that Joel meet her at the river. When the drunkard did not take the paper from her, she dropped it on the box next to him. Let Gwen deal with him.

  She felt his hand on her skirt. Quietly she hissed, “Desist, sir.”

  “Whoa!” He chortled as he stood to tower over her. “Such ladylike language. That’s a right charming sound. How about me giving you a tour of the city, sweet thing?”

  Shaking her head, she said firmly, “No. My husband would not appreciate that.” It was best to let him think she already was married.

  He snorted, “Husband? What’s a pretty lass like you marrying some fool for, afore you have a chance to be entertained by Whiskey Kimball?” He leaned toward her, his liquor-thick breath sickening.

  She took a step backward, bumping into the groom, who still was bussing his bride. Their laughter added to her discomfort. A wave of homesickness washed over her as Mr. Munroe put his arm around her and squeezed her companionably. She wanted to be with people she knew, not these strangers.

  Mr. Munroe winked at her before finishing the interrupted kiss, and Samantha sighed in silent relief that their involvement took the attention from her. Although Gwen had to bend slightly to reach the lips of the portly Mr. Munroe, this did not seem to bother her. Perhaps Gwen felt any man who could stay obese when so many were starving must be a good provider.

  Again she wondered what Joel Houseman would be like. Although they had been corresponding for more than a year, she had only a single, small photograph to show her what he looked like. His stern face had regarded her each time she drew it from her reticule. Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his dark eyes could be seen above a growth of beard. She guessed from his expression that the high stock worn in the picture was uncomfortable and seldom used.

  Banishing her doubts, she hugged her friend and wished her much happiness. Shyly, she offered her cheek to Mr. Munroe. He laughed and twirled her to kiss her fully on the mouth. With a gasp she drew away. She realized manners were different here in the Yukon, but had not expected this much familiarity on such short acquaintance.

  Paying the minister for his services, Mr. Munroe herded the women out to his wagon. “Can we take you somewhere, Miss Perry?” His charming lisp made his words sound babyish.

  “The Dawson City Hotel. That’s where Mr. Houseman wants me to wait until he arrives.”

  “The Dawson City?” he repeated uneasily. “Miss Perry, are you sure he said that?”

  “Very sure.” She smiled. “I have reread each of his letters so often I can quote from them. I’m sure he has arranged everything for me.”

  Reluctant, he nodded. He might have argued, but one glance in the direction of his Gwen reminded him of what he could be doing once they were alone. It had been months since he had been able to visit one of the cribs to purchase the time of a prostitute. He had been saving for Gwen’s fare, so he would never need to patronize those places again. If this Houseman wrote he would meet his fiancée at the Dawson City Hotel, then that is where she should be. He did not want to think of anything but satisfying his yearning for Gwen.

  Samantha sat stiffly while they drove across the Klondike River to the better section of the city, staring at a spot directly in front of the horse so she did not have to watch the newly weds fondle each other openly. Samantha knew Gwen had few compunctions about what she did with a man, but she thought her friend might want her husband to think she was a bit more ladylike.

  The buildings along the main street were nearly as fine as those of Seattle. Standing two and three stories high, some were constructed of sawed lumber instead of logs. Windows of real panes, or of a strange configuration she could not puzzle out, presented many eyes to the muddy street. Although they were in Canadian territory, American flags flew on the fronts of the stores.

  Men were everywhere. She guessed a long line leading into one small building must be of those wanting to file for the few claims left. Others loitered on the boardwalk or wandered in and out of stores and saloons. Tinny music sounded over the jumble of voices and noisy equipment being used to erect new buildings for the ever increasing population of Dawson.

  “We’re lucky it has dried since spring,” said Mr. Munroe. Driving around two men engaged in fisticuffs, he continued talking as if the sight were not unusual. Samantha listened to him while her eyes remained on the strange scene. “In April it was so damnable hot, the Yukon’s ice broke early. These streets were flooded. Even when the water went down, we had weeks of mud so thick it was up to a horse’s knees, or the axle of a wagon. This mud’s left from that flood.”

  “This is queer country,” murmured Samantha as she wrenched her eyes away from the end of the fight. One man reeled toward the open door of a saloon. The other lay face down in the road.

  “Queer it is, but who cares? All we want is to steal the gold from its heart, and go back to our own homes.” He laughed and drew back on the reins. “Here you are, Miss Perry.”

  She glanced uneasily at the two-story building. A trio of steps led from the boardwalk up to the front door, which was closed to keep out the many insects buzzing around their heads. Empty windows overlooked the streets, but she thought she saw a woman’s face peering from one. Soon she would live up there. She shook frightening thoughts from her head. Just because a woman watched from upstairs did not mean that the rooms were used by harlots.

  “Thank you,” she said as she climbed down from the wagon and took her bag from Mr. Munroe. As she stepped up onto the boardwa
lk, her shoes grew damp from water oozing through the street. “Best wishes, Gwen,” she called. “Come and see us, if you can. We are on the Bonanza.”

  “Perhaps.” Gwen grinned. “If not, come and see us in Chicago, honey. Just ask for the Mrs. Munroe. Anyone will be able to direct you to us.”

  Samantha had the feeling Gwen actually would make Chicago sit up and notice her someday. She would find some way to make her dreams come true. Standing in front of the hotel, she waved until the wagon was out of sight on the busy street.

  Again, like a slap in the face, she felt the candid stares of strange men. Bag firmly in hand, she went into the hotel, eager to escape the feeling of being watched. Opening the door with its etched glass oval window, she stepped into the front foyer.

  Crimson. The color struck her forcibly. Everything around her was red—embossing on the wallcovering, velvet on the chairs. Spidery twistings of wood softened the corners of the doors and enhanced the height of the windows. Through a door to her right, kerosene lanterns cast light on the bottles behind the brass-trimmed bar.

  Several tables were occupied. Samantha guessed the profession of the women in the room, from the daring cuts of their gowns. Uneasy, she pulled on the collar of her concealing cloak. This is what those men outside wanted her to be. She shivered with a mixture of disgust and trepidation.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She whirled to see a squat man behind the counter. His eyes were calculating the worth of the clothes she wore and, she feared, what was beneath. Trying to keep a tremor from her voice, she stated, “I’m Samantha Perry. I believe Mr. Houseman made arrangements for a room for me. Will you check?”

  “Nope.” He did not move, but a slow, insulting smile tilted his lips as he watched the movement of her chest as she gasped in reaction to his words.

  “Excuse me?” she asked, sure she had misunderstood his terse reply.

  “No reservations. This ain’t San Francisco, ma’am. If you want a room, you come in. You tell me. You pay me. You get a room.” He rested his elbows on the well-nicked counter and smiled more broadly. Too many teeth seemed crowded into his full mouth. “So—do you want a room?”

  She glanced over his head at the rates, and her eyes widened. A single room cost five dollars a night. The rooms in Seattle had been a dollar or less. She guessed she could pay for two nights, possibly three. If rooms were this expensive, surely meals would be as overpriced. She did not know how long it would take Mr. Houseman to come from his claim. If it was longer than three days, she was unsure what she would do.

  As if he could read her thoughts, he said, “Arrangements can be made if you don’t have enough money.”

  Samantha started to express her gratitude until she saw the lascivious glitter in his eyes. She wondered if the women working in the saloon made similar “arrangements” with the owner of the hotel. Vowing to sleep in the street before lowering herself to that, she shook her head.

  “I can pay. One room.”

  “How long?”

  “I will pay one night at a time.” She kept her voice coldly distant.

  “I rent rooms by the week.”

  She gasped, “By the week?” Thirty-five dollars! She could not afford to pay for half of that.

  Putting his hand over hers on the countertop, he smiled. “As I said, Miss Perry, we can work out arrangements for you to pay for your room. You might be very pleased with them.”

  “No!” she cried. She jerked her arm away and grasped the handles of her well-worn satchel. “I will find somewhere else to stay.”

  “Ain’t no other place. Everything’s full, with the Merwyn in.”

  “Then I’ll start walking toward Mr. Houseman’s claim.” She raised her chin defiantly, to prevent tears from spilling from her eyes. “Good day, sir.”

  “You’ll be back, girl!” he shouted at her. “Working here may be your only choice, except a crib with the whores in Lousetown.”

  With her hand on the door latch, she said icily, “That’s where you’re wrong, sir. Good day.” She turned before he could see she was afraid that he was correct.

  Joel must come for her before she was forced to do exactly as this man suggested.

  He must.

  Chapter Two

  Samantha stood on the boardwalk and sighed, the heat sitting heavily on her. She longed to take off her cloak and the wool jacket beneath it, but carrying them in addition to her reticule and her satchel would be difficult. She must avoid dropping anything into the mud.

  Looking both ways along Front Street, she tried to decide which way to walk. She was intensely aware of every glance in her direction. Men moving in a steady stream along the mud-covered street paused to stare. More than one tipped his hat jauntily, but she did not acknowledge them, afraid of enticing them.

  She walked away from the junction of the Klondike River and the Yukon. When she had driven with Gwen and Mr. Munroe, it had seemed the better houses were in the opposite direction. Now, smiling wryly, she doubted that any of the houses could really be termed “better.” None seemed sturdier than a balsa raft constructed to amuse a child.

  Flinching, she slapped away a mosquito. The whine of another sounded near her ear. Waving a hand about her head sent the insect away for only a second.

  “Nasty pests,” said a man, his voice close to her other ear.

  She whirled to see a man as filthy as the others on the street. Very little of his face was visible between his broken rimmed hat and the full, black beard obliterating his lower features.

  Continuing along the boardwalk, she forced herself not to look at the man, who matched her pace. Her heart was pounding.

  “Lost?” he asked in a voice blurred with alcohol.

  “No.”

  “Interested in some company?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you want, honey?”

  Without pausing, she snapped, “To be left alone. Good day, sir.” She gasped as he took her arm and turned her around, leering at her.

  Other men stopped what they were doing to watch Hawk Olean and the pretty lady. Olean had struck a rich pocket just last week, and was steadily spending it on the lavish entertainments available in the city. He had vowed not to let a single woman in Dawson escape his attentions before he returned broke to his claim.

  “Let me go!” Samantha ordered. She jerked her arm out of his grip, but the glitter of drunken amusement in his eyes told her he was not going to let her flee easily.

  She did not know why someone did not come to her assistance. In desperation, she searched for an ally, but she knew this was futile. The only person she knew in the city was busy with her new husband. When Olean stepped toward her purposefully, she had no place to escape but down into the muddy road. The crowd closed in tightly around them, leaving little space for Samantha and the obnoxious brute. If she moved any farther, she would be in another man’s embrace.

  She screamed as he caught her by the arms. A lusty cheer rang through the afternoon air when he pressed her close to his sour body. Her second shriek was halted by his mouth over hers. She pummeled his shoulders and back, but he did not release her.

  “What’s this?” demanded an authoritarian voice. The lewd comments stopped immediately. In the silence, she heard a horse’s hoofs, muted by the mud.

  The man released her, and Samantha fell backward. Her revulsion became dismay. She sat in mire thick with garbage. Appalled, she lifted her hands to stare at the ooze dribbling from them. Once gray, her gloves were streaked with foul brown.

  “Someone help her!” came an order in the same firm pleasant tenor, and several hands appeared before her face.

  Disdaining these belated offers, Samantha rose by herself. Rage distorted her features as she lifted her satchel from the mud. She feared it and all the things within had been ruined.

  “Are you hurt?”

  Finally she looked at the man who had come to her rescue. His scarlet uniform took fire from the brilliant sunlight, further dimmi
ng the drab buildings. Even without the insignia, she would have recognized him as a representative of the Canadian government. Gold buttons and a bandolier of shotgun shells cut across the coat. His clean-shaven face was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat. He lifted his fingers to it in a silent salute, while his gray eyes subdued all the men.

  “Constable Palmer French of the North-West Mounted Police at your service, ma’am. Are you hurt?” he repeated.

  “I’m fine, although I fear for the condition of my dress.” Samantha glared at the man who had dared to kiss her. “I’m new in Dawson, Constable. If you could suggest a proper boardinghouse, I would be in your debt.”

  He dismounted easily. The men melted away before him. The Mountie made no comment as the street cleared. Only when Olean started to scurry away did the constable move from Samantha.

  “Hawk, you’re wanted down at the Palace Saloon,” he said quietly. “I understand Gretchen is anxious to see you. Why don’t you hurry down there?”

  “I will. I will, Constable,” he mumbled hurriedly. Without looking in Samantha’s direction, he raced along the street.

  Constable French grinned as he turned to the disheveled woman. He had not needed to hear her explanations to know she was a cheechaco, a tenderfoot unfamiliar with this frontier city. Every bit of her shouted her innocence of Dawson. Why she was here and what she planned to do were none of his business, but the questions teased his mind. He did not allow that curiosity to show, but kept his expression professional and serene.

  “Thank you, Constable,” Samantha said sincerely. “I had been warned about the coarse men of the Yukon, but I didn’t expect this.”

  “Dawson is quite a shock for most of the folks who arrive from the States. A boardinghouse, did you say?”

  “Yes.” His reply had been so businesslike, she answered in the same manner, “I need a place to stay, and someone to clean the mud from my dress.”

  He allowed his eyes to rove along the damp pattern on her skirt. She was a pretty thing, not worn by rough weather and hard labor like so many women who lived here. He could not remember the last time he had seen a woman this soft. His fingers yearned to touch her loosened dark curls, which accented her high cheek bones, wanted to determine if those vagrant strands were silken as they looked. Fiercely, he forced that thought from his head.