The Floor of Heaven (24 page)

Soapy had arrived in Juneau from Tacoma, Washington, on the General Canby, a tugboat that had been quickly refitted to take advantage of the newfound interest in the far north by depression-weary Americans and then christened with the name of the officer who’d once commanded the U.S. Alaskan Territory. Even before setting foot on the scruffy boat, Soapy had taken the precaution of instructing the gang members accompanying him to call him John Rudolph; his name and his reputation, he conceded, had become something of an inconvenience. It wasn’t just that “Soapy Smith” was printed in big letters on Wanted posters throughout the West. Why, he’d heard there was some coot in Chicago, a Dr. M. A. Holmes, who was attracting crowds of paying customers to lectures titled “Soapy, a Famous Gambler.” Maybe, Soapy considered with a playfulness laced with a measure of pride, he should call himself a doctor, too, and rent a hall. People wanted to hear about Soapy Smith, he sure had stories to tell—and some of the most amazing ones were even true. But when it came down to it, Soapy didn’t think there was cause to invent any new tricks. Instead, he looked forward to the easy pickings in Juneau. It’d be like the sweet days when he’d first arrived in Denver as a young pup.

Soapy was mistaken. At first, it all played out according to the well-practiced plan. He set out his keister on the wharf across from the customs shack—not more than a short stroll from where Charlie had powwowed with the two mine officials, but of course Soapy didn’t know that—and began to offer his soap to the highest bidders. The steerers made sure a curious crowd gathered, and the shills kept the bidding going at an avaricious pitch. But Soapy hadn’t auctioned off more than two bars before the crowd turned mean. Perhaps too many of the prospectors milling about Juneau had returned from the Yukon with empty pokes; they’d no patience for a bunco man with the brass to think he could lure ’em into another lopsided gamble. Or perhaps the crotchety sourdoughs simply didn’t take to some fancy talker in a shiny store-bought black suit. For certain, though, the crowd’s rage had been ignited. A voice shouted, “He’s gaffing us!” Next thing, people were yelling, “String him up! String him up!” With the force of a tidal wave, a sea of people surged forward.

Three of Soapy’s men rushed to form a cordon in front of their boss, and Soapy quickly had his hand firm on the revolver under his black jacket. He’d no reluctance about firing if need be. Still, if there was a shoot-out, he knew there’d be no telling who’d walk away. These weren’t just a bunch of miners. Men who’d spent some time in the wilderness were either handy with their weapons or they were dead. The odds of getting out of this jam without a scratch, he quickly calculated, were stacked against him. “My friends, my friends,” he bellowed desperately. But this crowd was beyond listening to what he had to say.

Then a loud shot rang out. A short man with a star on his chest had fired his Colt into the air. It had been a warning shot, but now a U.S. marshal leveled his revolver at the crowd. Let me take care of this, he threatened as he held his six-gun steady. He’d been appointed by the U.S. government in Washington to make sure there was law and order in Juneau, and he was determined to do his job. The crowd paused as if to consider the situation, then backed off.

Soapy had never been so happy to see a lawman. Over the years, he’d dealt with city policemen and with western sheriffs, who were usually elected by the town, and he couldn’t help wondering if a federal appointee would be as easy to bribe. But he didn’t even try. The fact that he had to spend his first night in Alaska behind bars didn’t bother him. He’d grown accepting of the vagaries of the welcome a man in his chosen profession might encounter. True, Juneau had not worked out as he had hoped, but Alaska was certainly a big country and in time he was bound to find his opportunities. A night in a drafty cell, Soapy decided with the grit of a man who had drawn his share of losing hands, was nothing more than an inconvenience. It was sure a hell of a lot better than swinging from the branch of a stout tree with a noose around his neck. And that, he couldn’t help but recall, had loomed as a genuine possibility only a few tense hours ago.

Shortly after noon the next day, Soapy was brought before a very stern magistrate. His sentence: a $25 fine as well as one more night in jail. The magistrate also made it clear that Soapy was not welcome in Juneau. It would be to Soapy’s considerable personal advantage, the magistrate thundered, if he’d leave Juneau as soon as he was released. Of course, Your Honor, Soapy said obediently.

The next morning Soapy was a free man. He walked into the saloon closest to the jail and, as expected, found his gang members at a poker table. It was a muted reunion; the scrape down by the wharf had been a little too close for comfort, and the mood was low, even a bit hostile. A few of the boys were having second thoughts about Alaska, so Soapy had to spin a tale or two about the paydays that lay ahead. But when pressed, even Soapy had to admit that, at the moment, their prospects were vague.

After a big breakfast, he walked down Main Street. Soapy wasn’t just taking the town in; he was on a hunt. He stopped in all the stores until he discovered a copy of the Alaska Searchlight, the broadsheet that was Juneau’s daily newspaper. He found what he was looking for on the bottom of the front page:

John Rudolph was brought before Commissioner Mellen on the 24th charged with gambling. His mode of procedure was what is termed by the “profesh” as “flimflaming the guys”—or he would pretend to wrap up ten and twenty dollar bills with a cake of soap and sell it for five or ten dollars as the case might be.… And yet they say there are no suckers in Alaska.

With great care, Soapy tore the article from the paper. He took a pencil from his coat pocket and, along the top margin, wrote a message to his wife, Mary: “The money I wrapped up was borrowed. I have nothing. Fined $25.00 cost and stopped from work.” Then he went off to find a post office where he could mail the amended article to his wife in St. Louis.

IT WAS important, Soapy felt, for Mary to know where he was and what he was doing, even if the news was often not very encouraging. He had not seen her or the children for over a year, but he wanted her to understand that he hadn’t abandoned them. Rather, he was protecting her. He didn’t want Mary to be held accountable for how he made his living; it’d been years ago, but the snide reference to his wife in the Denver paper still stung, and he had not the slightest regret for the beating he had inflicted on Colonel Arkins in response. He didn’t want her and the boys to be tarred by the sort of vile accusations he’d become accustomed to shrugging off, especially since most of the things people were suggesting were all too true. He wanted his family to be able to live without the burden of his notoriety.

In his practical way—with his heart, if not always with his actions—he was faithful to Mary. He loved her very much. His grand ambitions always took shape with her in mind. He wanted Mary to believe that once money was steadily rolling in and he was finally able to move on to more respectable work, they’d be back together. In his mind he saw a day when he and Mary would be treated with esteem, when they’d live in the biggest house in town, when respectable folks would urge him to run for mayor or even governor. When he was riding a lucky streak, Soapy could see that day very clearly. Sure, at other times, when he was down and out and on the run, such a day seemed mighty wishful. But like any gambler, he never lost hope. And despite their separation, his allegiance to a future with his Mary never faltered.

AS SOON as the letter was mailed, Soapy felt as if his responsibilities to his family had been fulfilled. Once more, he began thinking of working again. He was too shrewd to risk trying his luck a second time in Juneau; long experience had taught him the wisdom of knowing when it was time to move on. But where should he and the boys put down stakes? He knew next to nothing about Alaska. He had only his instincts to guide him.

Soapy was sorting through the possibilities in his mind, trying without any success to devise a plan, when his eyes happened to focus on an article in the very same issue of the Searchlight that had featured his arrest. In two brief paragraphs, the paper stated that there had been several reports of gold being panned up-country. The paper did not elaborate on either the quality of the ore that had been found or its quantity. The article went on to say, though, that prospectors were excited by this news and were already booking passage on ships leaving Juneau for the Cook Inlet, one of the starting points for an expedition into the interior.

Soapy had not been in Alaska long enough to know that optimistic articles like the one he’d read were commonplace. Unsubstantiated reports of gold being discovered in some godforsaken part of the territory were a mainstay of the local journalism. They helped keep spirits high during the long cold months. And prospectors, a breed that fed their dreams with rumors, were all for rushing off gung ho, determined to stake their claim before a site was overrun.

Still, it was odd that Soapy, given the many occasions on which he’d manipulated the press, accepted what he’d read without even raising an eyebrow in disbelief. Of course, it was an unsettled time, and he was scurrying to find something; that, no doubt, made him more susceptible than usual. But the fact is that from the moment Soapy read the slim newspaper report, a notion started to take hold. He considered it; he played with it; and soon it seemed like a most reasonable course of action. Besides, he’d learned on the voyage up to Juneau that the General Canby was scheduled to continue farther up the coast to the Cook Inlet. It’d be steaming off at the end of the week. Now, that was certainly a propitious turn of events. It was further proof that the big scheme coming together in his mind was meant to be. Here was his chance to establish himself early on in a boomtown, same as he’d done in Creede. He’d arrive with the first wave of miners, and when they struck it rich, he would, too. He’d latch on to some real money, long as he wasn’t too particular about what he’d need to do.

Boys, he told the gang, his mood bouncy and once again full of resolve, we’re moving on.

TWO DAYS later they were back on board the General Canby as it headed out of Juneau’s harbor. Soapy continued to travel under the name John Rudolph, yet he doubted that an alias was still necessary. He’d stand on deck, the boat rolling in empty heavy seas, thousands of miles from Denver—from anywhere, really—and he’d tell himself that an alias was more an act of vanity than one of prudence. There was no likelihood that his renown, such as it was, would extend to this remote corner of the world. But he’d signed on for the first leg of the journey from Tacoma as Mr. Rudolph, and he might be obliged to answer some embarrassing questions from the passengers and crew if he were suddenly to give them another name. Anyways, he hoped that by using a new name he might change the run of bad luck he’d been having. Soapy’s feeling was that as John Rudolph he’d have a better chance of building an operation up north before anyone had suspicions about what he and his gang were up to. So no doubt Soapy would’ve been surprised to learn that even while he was still at sea, a dispatch appeared in the Rocky Mountain News stating that the notorious Soapy Smith had been seen boarding a steamer in Juneau. The noted bunco man, the Denver paper authoritatively reported, was moving his varied criminal enterprises to the newly discovered gold fields that lay beyond the headwaters of the Cook Inlet.

NINETEEN

hile Soapy was off at sea, in unfamiliar waters, Charlie was still mired on Douglas Island. After three months, his investigation at the Treadwell mine had stalled. It wasn’t that he didn’t have any suspects; the problem was that he’d too many. Security at the gold warehouse, he’d discovered to his utter dismay, was taken seriously only on the days when the bars were loaded for shipment. Then a whole militia of gunslinger types with cocked Winchesters would be on hand as the wooden crates filled with gold were carried from the warehouse to the train. A second squad of marksmen would ride on board as the train chugged across the island with its precious cargo to the wharf where the treasure ship was docked. On most days, though, two armed guards merely looked in at the warehouse in the course of the rounds that took them over the entire island. The reasoning behind this lackadaisical approach was that nobody was going to scamper off the island unnoticed lugging a crate of gold bars, so why bother paying attention to something that had no chance of happening? Only it had happened—somehow. This whole business was mighty perplexing, Charlie had come to feel. He recalled that when he’d first reported to the Denver office, McParland had taken his new operative under his wing and lectured, “When endeavoring to solve a crime, consider who possesses both opportunity and motive.” Well, as far as Charlie could reckon, given the surprising laxness, it seemed as if everyone had an opportunity. Same as everyone had a motive; who wouldn’t, after all, be looking to get his hands on a fortune in gold?

Except, of course, the Indian workers. Charlie had eliminated them on principle even before he’d started his investigation. He knew they had no hankering for gold; and while he’d fought in the terrible Red River Indian War and therefore had good reason to respect Indians as damn shrewd strategists, he didn’t figure them as master thieves. Grabbing a boodle of gold and then getting it off the island, all without being seen or even leaving a clue, well, Charlie was convinced the red man’s mind didn’t run in that shifty way. Which then left, he’d calculated with a groan, only five hundred or so white men as the possible culprits.

Though there was one fellow, Charlie knew, who didn’t quite fit into either category. George Carmack seemed to have a foot in both the white man’s and red man’s worlds. This struck Charlie as a genuine curiosity. But the detective also recognized that if Carmack hadn’t come along when he did, Charlie Siringo would now be drawing his old Colt with his left hand. He owed Carmack a large debt, and Charlie was a man who considered small, routine obligations as blood oaths. Charlie had vowed that one day he’d find a way to repay Carmack and erase the slate clean.