He glances toward his men at the next table. “I should say no. Why would I settle for a measly half when I’ll be getting ninety percent from you tonight anyway?”
“You might not,” I reply, and the anger in my voice surprises even me. I hold his startled gaze and do not blink. “You have no idea what we are capable of, Mr. Smith, if pushed too far.”
There is a long silence. I sit completely still and continue to stare at him, and he at me. It’s fifteen degrees outside, and I am sweating from neck to knee. Eventually, he forces a chuckle and says, “Well, then. Fifty-fifty, and you’ll hand over the deed?”
“Deed, keys, and contents. There’s even a barrel of genuine French brandy in the storeroom.”
He shrugs. “I always was a tenderhearted fool. One week of fifty-fifty, Miss Lily.”
“Two weeks. That’s my final offer.”
A conniving smirk slides across his face. It’s gone a moment later, but I know what I’ve seen. “You’re a hard bargainer for a little girl. After the two weeks is up, maybe you’ll consent to join my business.”
“Do we have a deal, Mr. Smith?”
“Two weeks, you said?” he asks, dodging the question.
We shake on it. His hand is corpse cold. As I leave the hotel, I scrub my right palm against the rough wool of my overskirt until it’s raw.
I walk all the way down Broadway, checking frequently over my shoulder. I can’t see any of Soapy’s sidekicks behind me, but that doesn’t mean I’m not being followed. At Sikorsky’s Outfitters, I purchase a few supplies, paying for them in gold dust: a pick, a short-handled shovel, a bucket, several oilcloth bags, a couple of canteens, and some cartridges for our hunting rifle. The oilcloth, canteens, and ammunition fit into a satchel slung beneath my parka. There’s no subtle way to carry a shovel or a pick, but that suits my purpose. I walk tall as I stride homeward along the busy streets.
I pin a notice on the saloon door saying CLOSED UNTIL 8. Now that I’m alone, I have a sudden attack of nausea. It’s one thing to cut a deal with Soapy, another thing entirely to go through with our plan. Still, what choice do we have? If we’re going to lose the saloon and leave Skaguay, at least we’ll do it our way.
I walk behind the bar. There, carefully hidden by casks of booze and crates of empty bottles, is a trapdoor wide enough to admit a man. I raise the lid and haul out the shoe box that holds our life savings. I know precisely how much cash is in that box. But for now, I’m interested in the empty hole.
Digging frozen soil is almost impossible. But here in town, stoves and fireplaces burn constantly. The buildings are all huddled together, and they keep one another — and the ground — warm, like a pack of sled dogs bedding down for the night. Having said that, it is still 100 percent thankless and exhausting work. I’m about three feet down and coated in muck when Clara finally comes home.
“Sorry I took so long,” she says, stamping ice from her boots. She must have done a good clip: she’s sweating despite the knife-like winds outside. “John’s on the trail, so I hiked up to his clan house to leave a message.”
“Any idea where he’s heading?” As a trader, John is often away for weeks at a time.
“They’re not sure. Probably not Dawson.”
Dawson City is more than four hundred miles from here. If John is traveling to Dawson, we really are doomed. “You think he’ll help us?”
“Of course he will. We’ve been friends forever.”
My mouth twists. “About six months, actually.”
“That’s a lifetime in frontier land,” she argues. “It’s as long as the town of Skaguay’s existed. We three have a history.”
It’s true. When John first trekked into town with a heavy pack on his back, everybody wanted his goods but nobody wanted to deal with an Indian. That changed when Clara and I bought his best furs to make winter parkas. Our friendship grew from there: he taught us how to paddle a canoe and showed us the best places to gather salmonberries. We told him stories from the Outside — wild tales of growing up in saloons all along the Pacific Coast — and helped him learn to read English. We even know his Tlingit name. We’re the only white people who do. Still, I’m worried. “He’d better come back to town in time to help us.”
Clara comes around to inspect my work. “What did Soapy say?”
“Two weeks. I had to shake his hand.”
“Ugh. Poor you.” She reaches out to haul me up. “Here, let me have a turn.”