Gold Fever by Vicki Delany Page A

grip.
    â€œLet’s go and see what trouble Dawson can get up to tonight, shall we?”
    His face twitched above the generous moustache that overpowered his boyishly handsome face. “Yes, let’s do that.”
    I nodded to Ray, who was standing behind the highly polished mahogany bar pouring rivers of whisky. He gave me a wink, indicating that all was well. Graham and I were waylaid by an old miner named Barney, eager to relate another story of his pals Snookum Jim, Taglish Charlie, George Carmacks, and the discovery at Bonanza Creek. Barney, bleary-eyed, badly dressed, scruffy as could possibly be, stinking to high heaven, had, for a brief time, been one of the richest men in Dawson. He’d been prospecting at Forty Mile when news of the strike spread and he’d had made it to Bonanza Creek in time to stake a good claim. As for almost everyone else, those who’d struggled up from San Francisco, Seattle, Edmonton, maybe even London, Amsterdam or Johannesburg, the good claims were gone before they’d so much as booked passage. Barney quickly spent all of his fortune, most of it in the saloons and at gambling tables. He loved to treat everyone, particularly the stage performers and dancers, when he was in the money. Now he occasionally bought the odd bit of mining equipment and talked about going back to re-work his claim, but mostly he hung around bars, telling tales in exchange for a glass of whisky.
    â€œWhy don’t you buy Barney a drink, Graham,” I suggested. “He’d love to tell you stories about the discovery that you can write for your newspaper.”
    â€œAin’t never been a day like it, let me tell you, lad,” Barney said, dragging Graham towards the bar. Graham tossed me a filthy look. The first time he’d heard this story, he’d dutifully written his copy and sent it to his newspaper. When the story appeared, his paper, the New York World , had the best single-edition sales in its recent history, and the name of Graham Donohue became synonymous with “Klondike Gold Rush” to eager readers. The following hundred times Barney related the story, Graham ignored it. He didn’t look happy at a hundred-and-one. I wiggled my fingers at him, leaving him to it.
    I liked Graham a good deal. If I were looking for a husband, I might cast my eye his way. He was good-looking, charming, well groomed, and highly successful in his profession. But I wasn’t looking, so that was the end of that.
    I went into the back, to the performers’ dressing rooms. I’d meant to arrive early and get a chance to speak with Irene, but the broken corset had put an end to my plans. The girls were a hurricane of preparations as they put on stage costumes, applied make-up, checked hair and stretched limbs.
    Irene was pulling on a pair of long red gloves. Tonight she was going to do King Lear. For reasons unknown to me, the men loved Shakespeare. Particularly as, in a considerable switch from historical precedent, it was all acted by women. The vaudeville performers were onstage, warming up the audience and giving the girls time to dress and get ready for the first act. A lively chorus-line dance, while Ellie belted out a song, would precede King Lear . It was perhaps not as Shakespeare imagined it, but it was the way Dawson wanted it.
    Satisfied everything was under control, I ducked to avoid a flicking red boa and glanced at the watch I kept pinned at my waist. Almost eight thirty. I didn’t hear gales of laughter coming from the front of the house. I didn’t even hear snickers. The vaudeville comedians were supposed to be in the middle of their act. I slipped out of the dressing room.
    They were onstage all right, in front of a stony-faced audience. The two men ran about, tripping over their own feet and shouting lines of dialogue at each other. No one was laughing. Miners and cheechakos will laugh at almost anything, I have found, and they’ll weep