Yukon queen the, p.23
Yukon Queen, The, page 23
“Cass!” Serena gasped and dropped the spoon, coming to him at once, her eyes wide. “Oh, Cass, you’re back.”
To Cass’s astonishment, she threw herself into his arms and held him fiercely. He put his arms around her, holding her, and he thought, This is what I’ve wanted!
Then she drew back and her eyes were wet with tears. “Hey, none of that,” he laughed. Looking around he asked, “Have Joe and Mike already gone to the mine?”
“Joe has—”
“Blazes! Come on! We’ve got to find those two!” He laughed abruptly, then picked her up and spun her around. “I’ve made a strike, Serena—a big one!” He put her down but kept his hands on her arms. “You’ve got to file a claim, and so have Joe and Mike.” His eyes gleamed as he spoke, and then he saw that she was not responding. “What’s wrong, Serena?”
“Cass—it’s Mike.” She saw his eyes narrow and wished that she didn’t have to go on. But she knew the kindest way was to be plain, so she put her hand on his forearm and said, “He’s dead, Cass.”
Cass felt as if the room had become hollow, and the sound of her voice seemed unreal. Staring at her he said harshly, “Tell me!”
Serena told the story, faltering at times, then said, “We wanted to let you know so that you could come to the funeral, but Harry and Tom couldn’t find you.”
A bleak anger built up in Cass, and his eyes lost their happy gleam. “What’s happened to them—Dugan and Ritter?”
Quickly Serena said, “There’s nothing to be done, Cass. Sam tried to bring them to trial, but the judge said there was no case. Joe and I had to say that Mike drew his gun first.”
The world seemed heavy to Cass. He turned and walked to the window, staring blindly out at the red light of dawn as it fired the tops of the mountains. He stood there so long that Serena finally came to him and turned him around by touching his arm. “It’s a dreadful thing, Cass. I still weep for him.”
Cass took a deep breath. “I’ll see Steele. I can’t believe they can walk around after murdering him.” Then he tried to smile. “I thought about him a great deal. How we’d have claims together like we’d planned. He was—a good friend.”
“Sit down and eat. Afterward we’ll go find Joe and tell him about your find. Tell me about it.”
Cass told the story of finding the gold deposit, but something of the excitement of it had gone out of him. The thrill of seeing the color in his pan was gone, and he wondered if it would ever come back. Finally he rose, and when she put on her coat and came to the door, he put his arms out and she stared up at him. When she hesitated, he stepped forward and drew her close, whispering, “This thing has knocked me flat, Serena—but I want you to know, while I was out there alone, I thought a lot about us.”
“About us, Cass?” Serena drew back and her eyes were troubled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean I care for you.” Cass pulled her close and let his lips meet hers. They were soft, but somehow unyielding. He held her for a moment, then lifted his head. Something in her face made him ask, “What’s wrong?”
Serena pushed herself back and stood before him with trembling lips. Finally she said in a strained voice, “You never said a word to me about—anything like this.”
“I guess I didn’t know myself,” Cass answered. He saw that her breathing was short and her face was pale. “What is it? Don’t you feel anything for me?”
Serena swallowed and tried to speak, but the words were broken. “Cass—Sam has asked me to marry him.”
Cass stared at her. He had known that Steele was attracted to Serena but had not thought for a moment that it would come to this. He asked finally, “What did you tell him?”
“I—nothing yet—” Serena stumbled over the words. “I don’t know how I feel, Cass!”
But Cass’s lips had hardened into a thin line. He nodded and his voice was wooden as he said, “I had no right to expect anything else. I hope you’ll be happy, Serena. He’s a fine man.”
Then he turned and walked out of the room. Serena stood there staring at the door, then ran to the window and saw him mount his horse and ride off. She slumped down in a chair, put her head on the table, and began to weep.
Cass went at once to Joe and gave him the news of the strike. The two talked about Mike’s death, and Joe told Cass to be careful and not do anything rash. Joe had been saddened by the death of his young friend but said, “Cass, life out here is hard, and life goes on. I’ll go out and stake claims for Serena and myself. Will you come along?”
“No, I’ve got to see Steele.”
Later that morning he found the mountie at his office. As Cass entered, Steele rose to greet him, saying, “Sorry about your friend, Winslow. A tragedy.”
“Sure. He was a good man. You plan on doing anything about it?”
“Nothing to be done, I’m afraid. The judge ruled it justifiable homicide.”
“I see.” Cass stared at the officer, saying nothing for a brief time. Then he nodded. “Serena told me about you two. Congratulations. You’ll be getting a fine girl.”
For once the chiseled features of Steele broke. Showing some embarrassment, he shook his head. “She hasn’t agreed yet, you understand. But I have hopes.”
“She’ll make you a fine wife.”
Steele watched as Cass turned to leave his office, his eyes troubled. He’ll never let it go, he thought. And then he had visions of a nightmare—one in which Cass Winslow shot Traphagen, and the Royal Mounted Police had to arrest him—and hang him if the judge so ordered.
“Don’t do anything foolish, Cass,” Steele called out after him. But he knew men, and from the look in Winslow’s eye, he knew that his advice was unlikely to be heeded.
Cass rode down the main street, pulled his horse up in front of The Shady Lady, and sat there staring at the place. Several men saw him and stood watching carefully. Finally he rode on, making his way to the cemetery, where he found a fresh grave with the name Mike Rooney on a new wooden cross.
Slipping from his saddle, Cass moved to the mound of raw earth and stood there for a long time staring down. Finally he whispered, “Goodbye, Mike—I’m sorry.” He turned and mounted his horse, his lips compressed and his eyes bitter at the raw earth of the grave of his friend.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Joe Preaches a Sermon
The winter of 1898 was hard and bitter in the Klondike. By Christmas the stock of supplies was low and none could be brought in over the frozen rivers. Steele put his men on reduced rations and any man he arrested had to furnish his own provisions. There was no escape from Dawson except by dog sled, and only the most hardy drivers would attempt it. One miner paid a thousand dollars to an Indian to take him out, and both men suffered from frostbite before they reached Skagway.
Life slowed to a standstill as the food diminished and the sun vanished almost entirely. Miners in the hills were hibernating, but so were those in Dawson as well. They lay in their bunks until noon, half suffocated by the glowing oil-drum stoves, then ventured forth into the searing cold, their faces sheathed by heavy scarves.
Many of them were afflicted by scurvy. One of these was Jack London, the young man that Cass had met on the trail heading out of Skagway. He had since learned that Jack wanted to be a writer. London shook his head and told Cass, “I’m getting out of this place, Cass. It’ll be something to write about—but it’s not worth this suffering!”
“Stick it out, Jack,” Cass urged. “There’s one spot on the Indian Head that’s not claimed. When spring comes, I’ll take you down and we’ll stake it for you. It’ll make you rich.”
London was a cynic, but this offer touched him. “Not many men would do that, Cass. Most people look out for themselves. They’re like wolves, I think. The weak go down and the strong survive.”
“It’s up to the strong to look after the weak,” Cass argued. He laughed at his own words. “That’s funny, Jack, for me to say. My mother and father live like that—but I’ve been pretty much of a selfish dog.”
“Most men are,” London frowned. “But I think you’re different, Cass. I don’t know why. I just do.”
Cass left London’s shack, worried about the young man. He leaned against the wind, his face numbed at once by the biting cold. By the time he reached the room he’d rented in the Majestic Hotel, he was stiff and his lips could hardly frame a greeting to the clerk. He heard his name called, and turned to see Joe Winslow seated in a chair.
“Been waitin’ for you, Cass,” he said. “You had anything to eat yet?”
“Not yet. Let’s go have something.”
Ten minutes later the two men were seated at a table waiting for their food. Joe leaned back and shook his head. “Well, how does it feel to be rich, Cass?”
“Don’t know, Joe. I’m about broke to tell the truth.” Indian Head Creek had been filled with claims, but there had been no time to get gold out before the freeze came. “May all be a fluke,” Cass shrugged. He was looking haggard, and Winslow noted this with interest.
“Nope, the gold’s there all right,” Joe said. “Enough there to keep us both the rest of our days.” His eyes grew warm as he added, “I owe you for that, Cass. Looked all my life and found nothing—but you found it for me. I guess it pays to be a Winslow.”
“Sure, Joe.”
Cass was depressed and Joe said, “Been wanting to talk to you, Cass. You got a pistol on you?”
With an astonished look on his face, Cass nodded. “Why, yes, I have, Joe. What makes you ask?”
Joe Winslow’s lips smiled behind his white beard, and his old eyes gleamed. “Because I’m gonna preach you a sermon—and the mood you’ve been in, you may want to shoot me before I finish.”
A touch of humor gleamed in Cass’s eyes. “All right, Joe. Start the sermon. I’ll shoot when I’ve had enough of it.”
“Fair enough, boy.” Joe leaned forward, growing very serious. “I’m an old man, Cass, and I’ve seen lots of men die. Some of ’em by rope, some by a bullet or a knife—some jest wore out. But the one thing thet’s killed more men than any of them is whut you got.”
“I’m not sick,” Cass snapped.
“Shore you are. You got something worse than cholera or yellow fever or heart trouble, Cass.” He slapped the table with a hard hand, saying, “You got hate in you, son—hate and bitterness—and that’s whut’s going to do you in.”
Cass sat there, his eyes fixed on the old man’s face. He was aware that he was bitter, but the words of his relative found no lodging in him. He listened, but Joe saw that there was no response. The food came and the two ate, but when the meal was over, it was Joe who said, “Well, end of sermon, Cass. You can’t cram wisdom down a man’s throat. Makes me feel bad.” He rose and tossed some coins on the table, then gave Cass a regretful look. “I took to your pa, Cass. He’s got a lot of sense. Wish he was here to talk to you.” His voice turned harsh and he said, “You’re walkin’ off a cliff, boy—and you don’t even know it!”
Cass went to his room, lay down on the bed, and tried to sleep, but it came slowly. He tried to think of Joe Winslow’s words, but a whisper inside kept saying, What about Mike? Is a man supposed to forget his friends? What kind of a man would I be if I let a friend get murdered and did nothing?
He finally drifted off into a troubled sleep, but when he awoke, he felt tired and listless. He was a man who needed action, and the enforced hibernation made him sullen. He got up and shaved, then went downstairs and left the hotel. For a time he roamed the street, but the fierce wind and blinding snow made it impossible to stay outside. Looking up he saw that he was directly in front of The Shady Lady saloon. He had seen Traphagen twice but had never spoken to him. Now the impatience that churned inside him began to grow, and with a sudden move he shoved his way through the double doors.
Four stoves kept the large room warm, and he took off his parka and heavy gloves, hanging them on a rack. When he turned he saw Brent Traphagen sitting at a table with three men. The owner was watching him carefully, and at once Cass moved over to the table. “I feel like a little poker, Brent,” he said easily.
Traphagen was a suspicious man. His hazel eyes took in the gun at Cass’s hip, then shifted to his right. He saw Whitey Dugan standing stiffly at the bar, his pale eyes fixed on Winslow. He noted that Leo Ritter was aware of the situation. Only then did he say, “Sure, Winslow. I’d as soon take your money as anyone’s.”
Cass sat down, took out his poke, and began to play. He was a fine poker player, a skill he’d acquired despite the warnings of his father. He lost two hands, then began to win.
At some point Whitey Dugan came over and murmured, “Like to take you on, Winslow.”
Cass looked into the expressionless eyes of the gunman. They were like marbles, cold and hard. “Sure, Whitey. Have a try.”
Brent Traphagen was an expert card player. He knew how to manipulate the deck, but somehow the blue-green eyes of the tall man who sat across from him made him nervous. This in turn made him angry, and he grew reckless. The stack in front of Winslow grew, and as the chips flowed from Traphagen’s stack, his temper grew shorter.
As the stakes rose, the three men who’d been in the original game dropped out, leaving Traphagen, Dugan, and Cass facing one another. The stakes rose to highs unusual even for a gold camp. The roulette wheel and the other card games were abandoned as the miners packed themselves in a circle around the single table. Many of them had lost fortunes in this very saloon and found it satisfying to see the owner taking his licking.
Dugan was a poor player and lost hand after hand. He tried a bluff, betting the stakes up to over a thousand dollars; then when Winslow called and tossed down three of a kind, Dugan cursed and threw his cards onto the table. Cass drew in the chips, saying lazily, “Better go find something you’re better at, Whitey.”
Dugan glared at him and, letting his hand touch the handle of his gun in a habitual gesture, whispered, “I can think of one game I can beat you at, Winslow.”
The mutter of voices died out, and Traphagen moved slightly back from the table. “Any game you say, Dugan,” Cass said, laying his glance on the albino. He stared long and hard at Dugan, and the knowledge that the other man was probably faster meant nothing to him. The days and nights he’d spent thinking of how Rooney had been shot down had formed a hard core in him, and now he stared at the gunman with a terrifying intensity.
Whitey hesitated, then muttered, “There’ll be a time for that.”
“No time like now,” Cass prodded him. He smiled and said, “Let’s make it now, Whitey.” A madness of sorts came over him, and he said, “You and your boss like long odds. Two of you and one of me.”
“Leave me out of this,” Traphagen spoke up. “If you’ve come for trouble, take it someplace else.”
Cass took his eyes from Dugan and put them on the gambler. “You’re a dog, Brent—a yellow dog with no insides.” He saw Traphagen’s face freeze, and he heard a sigh murmur around the room. It was the kind of insult no man in the Klondike could take and keep his reputation. “Take exception to that?” Cass asked softly.
“Not now—but I’ll remember it.”
“I remember things, too, Traphagen.” Cass’s voice grew hard, and his body tensed so abruptly that men behind Traphagen moved from the line of fire. “I remember Mike Rooney, who was a better man than you or your dog, Whitey.”
“He went for his gun—I had no choice!” Dugan said, his body tense as wire. He longed to go for his gun, but he had never seen Winslow pull a gun. Fast as he was, he liked to have an edge, and now he sensed that death was close to someone in the room.
Cass turned to face Dugan. The silence was heavy, only the sound of men’s breathing broke it. Cass stood up, and at once Whitey rose, his pasty cheeks twitching. “All right, Whitey, this time you’ll pull first.” When the albino hesitated and then turned, Cass’s voice lashed at him. “Come on! You’ve been bragging about how you cut down Mike Rooney. Let’s see you go for that fancy gun.”
Whitey gasped, and to the shock of every man in the room, he turned and walked stiffly out of the saloon, leaving through the back door that led to Traphagen’s office.
Cass turned back and his eyes glittered. “Your hired killer let you down, Brent. But there’s still a chance. Go on, pull that gun out from under your coat. I’ll give you first shot.”
Traphagen shook his head. His face was pale as chalk as he stood up saying, “Game closed,” then walked across the room and disappeared through the door Dugan had taken.
A yelp went up from one miner, “They done tucked their tails and run!” Then the saloon exploded with rough laughter and a raucous babble of talk. It was the sort of story that would be told over a thousand campfires in the Klondike, and from that moment onward, Cassidy Winslow was a name known to every miner in the North.
Cass felt the heavy pressure of many hands, heard voices congratulating him on his action, but paid them no heed. He took his winnings and moved to the door, but two men blocked his path, Doctor Winnie Blackmon and Harry Bonner. Blackmon was a short rotund man of fifty who drank hard and did the rough doctoring in the town. “Cass, this isn’t over,” he warned Winslow. “Those two backed off, but they’ll take their try.”
“Doc’s right, Cass,” Harry Bonner nodded, his long face tense. “Don’t go by yourself—and watch the alleyways. Dugan can’t let this slide. He’s lost his reputation, and a killer can’t stand that.”
“I’ll watch myself,” Cass assured them.
Bonner looked around, then said, “Come outside, Cass. Got something to tell you.” He turned and left the saloon. The wind was whipping sharply down the street, making a low moaning noise, so that Bonner leaned forward to put his face close to Cass’s ear. “I got a word about Nate Mullins—you know about that?”
“Yeah, shot down outside of town.” Cass gave Bonner a startled glance, then demanded, “What about it, Harry?”
