The Floor of Heaven (49 page)

THE SKIFF was waiting at the water’s edge, and the tug was anchored out in the bay, just as the captain had arranged. The fact that they’d made it this far without encountering Smith or his gang had bolstered the Mountie’s already brimming confidence. Wood was now certain there hadn’t been a leak, and that Siringo, same as all private detectives, was a meddlesome troublemaker.

As soon as they reached the beach, the Mountie took charge, quickly issuing a flurry of instructions. The two men should unload the bags of gold from the horses into the boat; he’d stand guard. After that was swiftly accomplished, the horses were stabled at the trading post. Then Wood told Carmack and Siringo to go aft; he’d be in the stern working the rudder.

At Wood’s command, the sail was hoisted. Then they were under way.

IT WAS just a short sail through calm waters to the tug, but George might as well have been forging his way through a howling storm. His emotions were a tempest. He kept turning his head, looking into the fog behind him, but he saw nothing. Not a trace. Where was Jim? he asked himself with an impatience that left him surprised. Charley? Where were they?

CHARLIE WAS not a man prone to worry. His view was that fretting never changed anything. You take what comes, and you deal with it as best you can. That the stiff Mountie was way too sure of himself was irksome. All that meant, though, was that Charlie would need to stay ready, keep his rifle close and his eyes peeled on the horizon. But even Charlie, a steady hand in the tightest of circumstances, couldn’t stop his mind from racing with the same question that plagued George: Where were Jim and Charley? There was no sign of the two Indians, and they were counting on them.

FROM THE Skagway wharf, Soapy watched as his advance force pushed out into the bay. The men were crammed into what was little more than a rowboat. It was an odd vessel from which to mount an attack. Yet they were well armed, and he knew they would not hesitate to shoot to kill. If Carmack resisted, he’d discover that a rowboat could be as murderous a vessel as a man-of-war.

NOW THAT the heavy bags of gold had been transferred from the skiff, the tug set off on a slow pace for Skagway’s harbor.

Charlie stood on deck, his rifle cradled in his arms. His eyes searched the horizon, but he couldn’t see very far. The fog had thrown a gray veil over the water.

Charlie reckoned that it didn’t matter. The Mountie’s instincts had been correct. Soapy had no notion that they were delivering the gold to the steamer. There’d be no ambush, no trap sprung. All the precautions had been unnecessary. As for the Indians, it was of no consequence that they’d let Carmack down. They weren’t needed.

THE MOUNTIE stood at the prow. He was no longer on alert. He had refastened the flap on his holster. The operation had gone off precisely as he’d planned.

GEORGE, TOO, felt that the risk of danger had passed. He’d settled into a calmer mood. Yet he was angry and resentful. What sort of foolishness had persuaded him to rely on Jim and Charley? It was a good thing matters hadn’t turned troublesome. Then he’d be in a fix. George blamed himself: He should’ve known better than to put his trust in a couple of Chinooks.

CHARLIE SAW the boat coming slowly out of the fog.

Three men stood as if at attention in the prow. Each had a rifle aimed at the tug. Crouched behind them were more armed men.

Then he heard a noise carrying from a distance: a loud, mean rumble. In the next instant he was able to see through the gray haze: An army was spread in a battle line across the wharf. Every gun was aimed at the tug.

SURRENDER! A voice yelled from the rowboat. Follow us in to shore or we’ll open fire.

CHARLIE WAS confident of his marksmanship. He knew he could hit one of the men standing up in the boat. Perhaps the Mountie could get another. Carmack’s skill was anyone’s guess. But as soon they opened fire, every gun on the wharf would start blasting. They were three guns against an army. They didn’t stand a chance.

Wait until they get closer, Charlie instructed. The Mountie nodded in agreement. George took aim. The three men knew that every bullet had to count, and yet it wouldn’t matter. They would die, but they wouldn’t surrender.

A RIFLE shot rang out.

Charlie was confused: It came from behind the tug. He must’ve been mistaken, but then he turned and saw the flotilla. There were at least a dozen canoes loaded with armed Indians. Now he heard the war cries. It was a Tagish war party. Jim and Charley had brought the reinforcements! Just as they’d planned.

Charlie turned back to face the gunmen. He cupped his hands and let out one of his old Comanche yells. It was his way of saying, You want a fight, now you’ll get it.

IN THE rowboat, the men stared at the swiftly advancing canoes with astonishment. The war cries were unnerving. With the guns on the wharf, they still had the Indians outnumbered. But this was not at all what they’d expected. They’d been counting on easy pickings. Now they were in for a fight, and there was no telling who’d win. Or how many of the gang would die once the bullets started flying.

TURN BACK! ordered the Mountie. Or we will open fire.

Standing on the deck of the tug, the three men took aim. Three fingers pulled back on three triggers.

THE ROWBOAT turned, and headed back to shore.

BY THE time the tug had chugged up to the wharf, the Skagway Military Company had dispersed. Soapy, however, remained to greet the new arrivals. Welcome to Skagway, he announced without a trace of facetiousness. He was a practical man, and he was prepared to move on. Can I buy you gentlemen a drink? he asked.

The three men walked past him without saying a word.

LATER THAT day, after the gold had been locked in the steamer’s safe and George had pocketed the receipt, he decided to leave Skagway. There was no reason to stay. Besides, he had much to do at his mine in the days before he’d board a riverboat in Dawson for St. Michael, and then the steamer to Seattle.

George was not the sort who made friends easily. A prospector’s vagabond life is filled with comings and goings; you learn to drift about on your own. He recognized, though, that he owed Siringo a word. He wanted to say something solemn, something heartfelt, but it was not his way. The two men stood opposite each other on the wharf.

Much obliged, he told the detective.

Glad I’d a chance to pay my debt, Charlie said.

Then George turned and headed down to the beach. The Indians were waiting in the tidal flats. Charlie went in the other direction. He walked down the long wooden wharf and on into town. He had an escaped convict to find.

FORTY-THREE

utting his boot heels hard into the dappled gray gelding’s flanks, Soapy galloped up Skagway’s Broadway Avenue until he was at the head of the parade. He ignored the elected grand marshal of the Fourth of July celebration and took it upon himself to head the procession. Folks from all over the Alaska Panhandle had come to Skagway for the festivities, and in the aftermath of the failed gold robbery he was not about to pass up an opportunity to demonstrate that he was still in charge.

The long parade moved slowly along streets decorated with red, white, and blue bunting. Children ignited firecrackers. Men drank openly from whiskey bottles. The sporting ladies came out to wave their handkerchiefs at the marchers. A makeshift band had started to play. On every corner a happy crowd milled about, four or five deep.

A flag-trimmed wagon carried a wire cage holding Fitzhugh, Soapy’s giant eagle, named in honor of General Fitzhugh Lee, a commander of the American troops in Cuba. Sitting next to the driver, the six-year-old son of the proprietor of one of Soapy’s saloons was dressed as Uncle Sam. The troops of the Skagway Military Company, rifles at their shoulders, marched behind the wagon in orderly rows.

Upon reaching a street corner, a sergeant in the company would shout, Fire! In unison, the troops would raise their rifles toward the sky and let off a volley. Sitting tall in the saddle, Soapy would congratulate his troops with a grand flourish of his white hat, and the crowd would show their appreciation, too, with a burst of cheers.

It was after the third such volley, as the reports of rifle fire continued to echo, as Soapy waved his hat about and the crowd roared, that Charlie walked up to Hiram Schell and stuck the barrel of his Colt deep into the fugitive’s ribs. It was a very discreet gesture, and Charlie spoke in a low voice directly into the big man’s ear. You got a choice, Charlie said. Either you come along quietly, or I shoot you down right here.

In the three weeks since he’d returned to the manhunt, Charlie had grown frustrated. He’d not been able to get a lead on Schell and had come to suspect that the fugitive had most likely left Alaska. Schell could be anywhere by now, Charlie had told himself with a heavy measure of resignation. But before abandoning the search, Charlie had decided to make one more attempt. People from all over would be coming to Skagway for the day-long Fourth of July festivities. If Schell was still on the coast, Charlie reckoned, he’d be there, too. So Charlie had shuffled through the crowd, studying the faces, until he’d found his man. Reining in his excitement, he’d waited until there was another burst of gunfire and raucous cheers, and then he’d made his move.

Now Charlie had the Colt jammed against Schell and was wondering if the man would come along or if he’d have to pull the trigger. Charlie waited, and at the same time reinforced his ultimatum by pressing the gun deeper into Schell’s ribs.

Schell realized it would be suicide to draw. The moment he reached for his holster, the detective would fire.

Schell turned, and as he did the detective lifted the thief’s pistol. Then Schell started walking away from the parade, and Charlie followed right behind, his gun drawn.

FOUR DAYS later, Schell was back in a cell in the Sitka prison, Charlie was on his way to a village on the Alberni Canal to find a man who’d salted a Mexican mine, and once again the church bell was tolling in Skagway in the middle of the afternoon. The Committee of 101 had reconvened.

For weeks the realization had been growing that there was no reason to be intimidated by Soapy or his troops. If George Carmack, a hardscrabble prospector, not a gunman, could stand up to the Skagway Military Company and walk away with his gold, then they could, too. And now the brazen daylight robbery of John Stewart had given the vigilantes a cause to rally around.

Stewart had been the perfect victim. He’d arrived in Skagway on July 8 with a poke full of Klondike gold dust and the plan to buy a steamer ticket to Vancouver Island, his home. But no sooner had he checked into the Hotel Mondamin than he’d attracted the attention of Slim-Jim Foster and John Bowers. Slim-Jim and Bowers took measure of the prospector and, after exchanging a few sly words, fell into one of their many cons: They were gold buyers for an eastern assaying company.

Why, it’d be plumb foolishness to sell your gold in Vancouver, Bowers told the prospector after introductions were made. We can get you a much better price. You’ll return home a rich man. Think how happy your wife will be.

Stewart hesitated.

What’s the harm in hearing our offer? Slim-Jim pressed. We can have a drink and discuss it. On us, of course.

So the two well-dressed gold buyers from back east led the mark to Jeff Smith’s Parlor. There was a round of drinks, and Stewart had his caribou poke on the table. I reckon it must be worth about three thousand dollars, said the prospector hopefully. Bowers weighed the sack in his hand. No, he corrected, you’ve got at least four grand worth of dust. Stewart couldn’t believe his good fortune at meeting these two assayers; he’d never receive such a high price in Vancouver. Then an old sourdough came by the table. Want to make sure these eastern fellows ain’t cheating you, he said; it was one prospector talking to another. He picked up the poke and hefted it in his hand. Then he dashed out a back door—with the sack of gold dust.

Stunned, Stewart chased after him. But the alleyway behind the saloon was empty. And when he went back inside, the two assayers were gone, too. No one had seen them leave. In fact, no one could even recall having seen Stewart. You sure you got the right bar? someone asked.

Stewart hurried to the marshal’s office. Marshal Sylvester Taylor listened. Know the name of the man who took your gold? he demanded. No, Stewart admitted. What’d he look like? An old miner in a mackinaw, Stewart offered, feeling foolish as he said it. Lot of those in town, said the marshal. His tone was suddenly impatient. Look, the marshal said, I suggest you go back to the Klondike and find yourself another poke full of gold. Nothing more I can do, he concluded curtly. The marshal, after all, was taking Soapy’s money. He’d no intention of solving a crime that he knew would lead back to the Soap Gang.

Reeling, a year’s hard work gone in an instant, Stewart returned to the hotel. He was bereft, a man who had suffered an inconsolable loss. The news quickly spread around town. Hearing his story, the townspeople found it hard not to be affected. And soon the church bell was ringing to summon the 101 vigilantes.

They decided to send a group to meet with Soapy. Judge Sehlbrede, a patrician gentleman with bushy white muttonchops who may or may not have been a jurist in his native Ohio, was the spokesman. We insist you get your men to return Stewart’s poke, Sehlbrede demanded.

Soapy bristled. If any money was lost, the miner lost it in a fair game of chance, Soapy said evenly. He thought that would put an end to the matter.

We insist you arrange for the return of the man’s gold, Sehlbrede repeated.

Now Soapy turned angry. It was infuriating that these men thought they could walk into his saloon and give him orders. How dare they question his authority? Yet in the next moment, he asked himself if it would be good business to provoke a confrontation with the committee. Especially if he were to lose. He, too, remembered how his troops had turned and run during the aborted gold robbery. His reputation could not withstand another defeat.

Give me until four this afternoon, he offered. Maybe I’ll be able to make amends.