The next five days, we only stop digging to open for business between eight p.m. and two a.m. At all other times, one of us is deep in that blasted hole, which is slowly becoming a tunnel. The other person cooks meals, keeps the saloon looking decent, and dumps hundreds of bucketfuls of soil out back, beside the privy. The sun sets around three in the afternoon, but, as we hope, plenty of folks have a chance to notice Alaska’s newest mountain. A lot of regulars tease us about it and we smile mysteriously. They complain about our shorter hours and we smile mysteriously. They ask if we’re going to work for Soapy and we smile mysteriously.
All of Skaguay gossips about Soapy’s latest grab game. Rumors multiply like wild hare on the tundra. Still, we can’t sleep at night. Clara looks more ethereal than ever. I am plain haggard.
John finally stops by the saloon almost a week after Soapy’s first visit. He is travel weary and unshaven, and I have never been happier to see anybody in my whole life. He pulls up a stool at the bar and says, “I got Clara’s message.”
I pour him a double brandy — no melted snow — and wave away his money. “Are you able to help us?”
He turns and looks slowly, deliberately, around the room. “I’ve never seen it this busy.” He’s right. Despite the shorter hours, our takings are better than ever. The rumor mill helps with that: the men worry that Clara might leave soon.
“Only for a day or two longer,” I say. “A week at the outside.”
“And then?”
“We need your help skipping town. We have to use a route known only to your people.”
He pauses midsip. “You’re leaving? Just like that?”
“Would you stay, if you were us?”
His mouth twists. “Of course not. But I will miss you.”
“Everyone says that,” I snarl, “but they’re still just twiddling their thumbs while Soapy runs us out of town.”
He holds my gaze. “I won’t. How can I help?”
“We need to paddle down the coast, maybe as far as Juneau. We’ll have very little with us.”
He nods. “I’ll wait for you at the clan house.”
“Thank you.” I glance around the bar. All eyes are on Clara, holding court in the middle of the room, so I press a small, heavy bag into John’s palm. “A deposit,” I say. “For supplies.”
He frowns. “That is unnecessary. We are friends.”
“Desperate, high-risk friends.”
His lips curve very slightly, not quite enough to call it a smile. “And what will I do with your gold dust? We Tlingit don’t value it.”
“A trader like you?” It feels good to joke, however badly. “I can’t imagine.”
Exactly one week after we shook hands, Soapy Smith storms Garrett’s Saloon. He doesn’t kick the door in; his henchman does that for him. Both their guns are drawn. And while Clara and I are braced for something just like this, we still scream in genuine terror. After all, if he knew what we were planning, he’d shoot us on the spot.
“Miss Lily and Miss Clara,” he says in that smoky-soft drawl. “How delightful to see you again. I’ve been meaning to drop in for a drink, all this past week, but you’ve been keeping different hours.” He pauses and looks around the saloon. “I can’t help but wonder why.”
Clara, who’s been on digging duty, drops her tools into the hole. We stand together, shoulder to shoulder, in a pathetic attempt to hide the mouth of the tunnel. “We have your sh-share of the money,” I say, stuttering in earnest. “Our nightly p-profits have actually gone up. I think it’s because of the new hours.”
Soapy isn’t listening. “What are you doing hiding behind the bar? Walk out slowly, both of you.”
I obey, keeping my hands in plain sight. Clara follows, but not until she’s kicked the trapdoor cover into place.
“What was that sound?” yells the hoodlum. I recognize him from the hotel: short, squint-eyed, none too bright. Maybe it’s borderline hysteria, but despite the pistols aimed our way, I begin to feel mildly optimistic. If Soapy has brought only one thug, one from the farm team at that, he doesn’t consider us much of a threat.
Soapy strolls behind the bar and looks down. “I suspected as much,” he says. “Miss Clara, didn’t you know that all the gold is buried in the creek beds, not the town?”
He’s still chuckling at his own joke when Clara sticks out her chin and says, “Shows what you know.”
“Shut up!” I hiss, elbowing her.
Soapy’s gaze sharpens. “Cover them, Red.” He kneels, and the trapdoor creaks open. He whistles long and low. “My, you girls have been busy. This is practically a mine shaft. Red, you got a candle on you?”
“No, boss.”
Soapy sighs. “Fine. Get over here.” He keeps his gun loosely trained on us, but his attention is on Red.
“Can’t see nothing, boss.”
“Then climb in, you idiot.”
“’S awful dark in there, boss.”
“Guess you should’ve brought a candle.” Soapy turns to us and says with a simper, “Good help is so hard to find.”
Red gives a muffled grunt. “It’s real deep, boss. Height of a man, at least. And that’s not the end of it.”
Soapy strides behind the bar to look for himself. Then he turns to us, hands on hips. “Seeing as this is now my bar, why don’t you girls tell me what’s going on? Why the hell would you spend your last week in Skaguay digging a tunnel to China?”