A Tyranny of Petticoats (24 page)

Everyone except John and me, that is. He goes perfectly still, one thin brown hand flat on the table. The gun is pointing straight at him, yet his dark eyes are calm. Me, I just feel exasperated. It’s been such a long day, and it’s only midnight. “Put that down,” I say in my sharpest tone. I touch my hip and feel the reassuring handle of my bullwhip, looped to my belt.

The newcomer’s gaze bobs around the dimly lit tavern and finally locates me beside the bar. “You trying to tell me what to do, little girl?” He gives me a once-over that might be insulting, except he can’t focus properly. Still, the gun droops in his hand.

“I’m not trying; I’m giving you an order.” I point to the handwritten sign tacked above the bar:

His gaze slides over the sign, and a faint frown appears between his eyebrows. Good grief. Too pie-eyed to read.

“I’ll save you the time,” I snap. “Put the gun away.”

He glares at John. “I can’t drink with that dirty Indian in the room.”

My pulse rockets. “Then get the hell out of my saloon!”

“This here is
your
saloon? Thought it was called . . .” He scratches his head with his free hand.

Leave it to a drunk to focus on petty details. “Garrett’s Saloon. And I am Miss Lily Garrett. Proprietress.” As I speak, I uncoil my bullwhip. It’ll be downright satisfying to use it on this pustule of a human being.

“Co-proprietress,” corrects a sweet, husky voice. My sister swishes into the building on a gust of frozen air and takes the stranger’s arm as though they’re off for a stroll through Central Park. “Allow me to introduce myself: Miss Clara Garrett, co-proprietress. You must be new to Alaska, Mr. . . . ?”

He gapes for a full minute at her glorious red-gold hair, her startling violet eyes. He wobbles visibly — a common response to Clara — and actually attempts a bow. “F-Fenton, miss. Stanmore Fenton. It’s a real honor to meet you, miss.”

Clara smiles, reaches over, and plucks the pistol from his limp fingers. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to our humble town, Mr. Fenton. I know our ways are different from those Outside, but let’s start with this: the Indian gentleman in the corner is a member of the Tlingit tribe and a respected trader in town. He’s also a friend of ours. Why don’t you sit down and refresh yourself? I suggest you stand John a drink, to show there are no hard feelings. We have scotch, bourbon, gin, brandy, and beer. And champagne, of course.”

Her smile stays frozen in place until she gets to the bar, where only I can see her expression. “Come on, Lil,” she says in a fierce whisper. “You catch —”

“I know, I know. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

She whips off fur-lined mittens and sheds her Indian-style parka. “If you know it so well, why can’t you act on it?”

“I stopped him from pointing the pistol at John,” I mutter. It’s pathetic, a classic kid-sister kind of protest, but she isn’t giving me any credit at all.

“Yes, but it took me to confiscate the gun and sell him another round of drinks.”

“Well. Want me to mix him a vinegar cocktail?”

Clara snorts, a sound of amusement. Her ire never lasts. Unlike mine. She checks the gun — unloaded, which only confirms Fenton’s stupidity, to my mind — and drops it into a box under the bar, where it clanks against a motley array of other weapons. That’s another of Garrett’s rules: all firearms must be unloaded. Even our hunting rifle, which hangs discreetly along the side of the bar.

Our mother, Lucinda Garrett, made the rules. She raised Clara and me single-handed while running taverns from San Diego to Seattle. She taught us everything we know. When Lu died last year of influenza, we couldn’t bear to stand in her place behind the bar. Still, we wanted to keep up the Garrett tradition. We sold everything, took a steamer north, and were among the first to wade ashore along the mudflats of Skaguay.

Clara pours a tray of double scotches — that’s one shot of cheap whiskey, the same again of melted snow — and delivers it to Fenton’s table. John’s expression is serious, but he accepts his drink and takes a sip before slipping out the door with a brief nod of farewell. Fenton orders another round for his table. I slide a pair of logs into our wood-burning stove. Life in a gold rush town roars on.

“We need to be on the lookout,” murmurs Clara, setting the empty tray on the bar.

“What for?” I fiddle with the weigh-scale, and my fingertips come away glistening with gold dust, the second currency of Alaska. Sure, we prefer old-fashioned paper dollars, but with so many big spenders wandering around with pokes of gold dust looped through their belts, half our profits are weighed out in ounces.

“There’s a new con man in town. Name’s Soapy Smith.”

“‘Soapy’? That doesn’t sound so dangerous to me.”

“He was here for a spell last fall, running shell games and card scams out on the trails. Left at the start of winter. But now he’s back,” says Clara. “Apparently he’s greedy, ruthless, violent, and completely amoral.”

“I sure hope,” interrupts a silky male voice, “your sources also mentioned my considerable charm.”

Clara spins around. The speaker stands just behind her, a man with a thick black beard that hides his mouth and threatens his cheekbones. He has two friends with him, one at each elbow.

Fear twists my gut. The trio has been sitting near the bar this whole time, quietly drinking spruce beer. I’d written them off as
cheechakos
in their stiff boots, new coats, and inadequate gloves. We see hundreds like them stumble into town each week, fresh from the Outside, their pockets stuffed with cash and their heads with cotton wool. They roll into our saloon, certain that they’re just a couple weeks away from striking it rich, and celebrate in advance.

But if what Clara said was true, these three are entirely different.

“Evening, ladies,” says Soapy, tilting his hat to each of us. “Jefferson Randolph Smith the Second, at your service, although I hope you’ll call me Jeff.” He speaks with a soft southern lilt. “I believe I heard you introduce yourselves as Miss Clara Garrett and Miss Lily Garrett?”

We nod.

“Well, on my way up to Skaguay, I heard the rumors about a pair of heartbreakingly beautiful sisters running the most elegant drinking establishment in Alaska. But I confess, the story sounded too good to be true.” The beard stretches sideways, and I realize that he is smiling. “And yet here I am, pinching myself repeatedly to wake from this dazzling dream, and it all seems just as true as true. I’ll bet you can pick up gold nuggets the size of walnuts along the side of the road, too.”

He’s laying it on way too thick. For one thing, Garrett’s Saloon is far from “elegant.” It’s nice for Skaguay, but that’s only because it’s built of wood, while most of the town is still a row of canvas tents. Furthermore, while Clara is indeed “heartbreakingly beautiful,” I am not. Honey and vinegar, etc.

Soapy must see the glint in my eye, because he hurries on. “It’s a real pleasure to meet young ladies with so much courage and business sense. Why, neither of you can be a day over eighteen, and here you are, running a thriving saloon, in the wildest frontier on earth.”

“What brings you to Skaguay, Mr. Smith?” Clara’s arm vibrates against mine and I can feel her thinking at me:
Honey, not vinegar.

The beard ripples again. “Why, business, of course. Just like you two little ladies.”

I despise coyness in both women and men. “And what kind of business is that?”

“Well, I have very diverse interests, but certainly one of them is drinking saloons, dance halls, and such.”

Clara’s lips curve, but her smile stops short of her eyes. “There’s plenty of room in town for another bar or three. And we won’t be competing with any dance halls. My sister and I sell beer and spirits, and nothing else.”

Soapy smirks at that. “And you’re doing a roaring trade. I believe that’s all down to you as the main attraction, Miss Clara.” His gaze flickers to me. “Not forgetting you, of course, Miss Lily.”

I forget all about honey. “I’d rather you were honest than polite, Mr. Smith.”

He grins even wider. “A girl after my own heart.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather have your wallet.”

Clara elbows me, hard, but Soapy only chuckles. “In that case, Miss Lily, I’ll put my proposition to you. You and your lovely sister already know it’s a dog’s life, running a saloon in a lawless town like Skaguay. Uncle Sam’s two hundred miles away in Sitka; might as well be two thousand miles, for all practical purposes. Sometime soon, you and Miss Clara’ll need a business partner who can really crack the whip.” His gaze falls to the bullwhip coiled at my waist. “You can keep order among a handful of harmless drunks, I’m sure, but what about the nasty ones? The ones whose pistols are loaded and who aren’t scared to use them?

“No,” he continues, “you need me. I’ve owned a string of successful saloons and dance halls all through Colorado, and I’m real good friends with the marshal. With me as your business partner, there’ll be no delays in shipments of liquor, no fuss over paperwork, no hassle with the law. I’ll take care of it all.”

I start to object, but he barrels on. “You’re also not making as much money as you should, with this sturdy wood building. Bet it cost thousands to build, what with the price of lumber and labor up here. And how much are you taking in every night?”

We stay silent.

After a moment, he shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll double your bar takings and triple your overall profits. I’ll knock out this back wall and build a stage for dancers and musicians, and add a cook shack outside. No customer will ever need to leave . . . till he runs out of money, anyway. Garrett’s Saloon’ll be the finest entertainment emporium in . . .” He gestures widely, made breathless by his own vision.

“Skaguay?” suggests Clara. “It already is, Mr. Smith. Now, my sister and I appreciate your creativity and willingness to lend a hand, but we like
our
business the way it is. I’m sure your saloon will be a booming success too. Once you’ve built it.” There’s a faint hardness to her tone that tells me how riled she is, but her expression is as smooth as ever. “Now, would you like another round of drinks, or will you be on your way?”

I scan the room. It is silent, with all attention on us. When I glance back at Soapy, I almost choke on my own breath.

His eyes are hard and beady, his neck flushed red. The charming facade is gone, like someone smashed out a window. “Miss Clara, I don’t believe you girls understand me properly. I meant what I said.”

I curl my fingers around the handle of my bullwhip, although he’s too close for me to use it on him. “So do we, Mr. Smith.”

He bares his teeth in a grimace that is technically a smile and puts his hand to his hip. There, half visible inside his coat, I see the curve of a handle, the gleam of a polished steel barrel. My stomach rolls and I glance toward Soapy’s friends. They face us, arms akimbo, the better to give us a glimpse of their own pistols. I swallow hard and think of the threats embedded in Soapy’s previous speech: the marshal snug in his pocket, the government hundreds of miles away, nasty drunks with loaded guns.

Clara glances toward the end of the bar, where our rifle hangs concealed. I take her arm firmly. She’ll never reach and load a firearm before these three can draw theirs.

Soapy looks at me with a flicker of approval. “Good girl,” he says, a portion of his southern polish restored. “No beauty, but at least you’ve got a brain. Now, I’ve given you my pitch. You’ll both stay and work the bar.” He eyes Clara. “Unless you want to try dancing.” Her expression should disembowel him, but he only shrugs. “Suit yourself. You work the bar, Miss Lily will manage dancers and musicians, and I’ll organize everything else. Deal?”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Not yet. What’s the split?”

He actually winks at me. “I do believe I like you, Miss Lily. Eighty-twenty is what I’ll do for you, if you’ll shake my hand here and now.”

That doesn’t sound so terrible, if we can just set aside the threats, the guns, and the sick fear I feel in his presence. “Eighty percent . . . for us?”

His mirth is sudden, immense, and genuine. When he can stand straight again, he mops the tears from his cheeks and beard, and even his henchmen are snickering. “Did I say you had brains? It’s eighty for me, you numskull. And that’s only tonight. You can sleep on the decision, but it’ll cost you. Tomorrow’s split is ninety-ten. And the day after that, this here saloon is mine.” He looks around, taking in the polished oak bar, the bright oil lanterns. “I think I’ll call it Jeff Smith’s Parlor.”

I hate his greasy condescension, but that’s not why my skin feels aflame, my throat strangled. I stare at him for a long minute. At last, I manage to croak, “This is flat-out extortion.”

Smith beams at me. “Welcome to Skaguay, m’dear.”

“I’d rather burn it to the ground than hand it over to that bastard,” Clara snarls, slamming down the last tray of whiskey glasses.

It’s four o’clock in the morning and we are finishing the dishes. The ones Clara hasn’t broken, anyway. “I know,” I say. “But we can’t burn down just one building; the whole town would go up in flames in about ten minutes. We’d destroy everyone’s future.”