White Silence (7 page)

Duncan sighed. “This is the second time this morning I’ve had this conversation. I told Claire that the congressman she’d sent me to wasn’t able to help us.”

“And did the beautiful Miz Benét have any further suggestions?”

“The beautiful Miz Benét thinks that gold fever is a disease worse than the pox. She listened. She was not overwhelmed with sympathy.”

Fitz shrugged. “She’s not yet grown weary of your manly charms. Give it a day or two.”

Duncan leaned back and closed his eyes. “I think I’ve just been insulted. But I’m too tired to take offense.”

“We must do something about that, laddie,” Fitz replied. He rose and solemnly poured the contents of the cream pitcher on Duncan’s crotch.

Later in the day, Duncan found a pale rose envelope on the floor of the suite. Obviously, it had been pushed under the door. Inside, handwritten in a flowing script, was a dinner invitation for that evening. It was from Claire Benét, addressed to all three of them.

At eight o’clock sharp, they presented themselves, dressed for dinner, in the formal dining room.

Claire was wearing fuchsia velvet, garnets at her throat and ears, as she presided over what was arguably the best dinner Duncan had ever had.

The conversation was pleasant, superficial. Fitzcairn kept up most of it. Danny was withdrawn, sober but brooding.

Duncan felt oddly ill at ease. He tried to catch Claire’s eyes, but she avoided his gaze. He knew that somehow, something that had barely begun was about to end.

Finally, Claire rang the tiny bell and ordered coffee for the sitting room. There was no suggestion of brandy.

After they had settled, she began to speak. There was a note of amusement in her voice.

“First off, I have to say that I know what it is to be poor. I was born poor. And I did what I had to do to change that.” She paused, looking them over one by one, with her penetrating blue eyes dancing with intelligence. Her gaze lingered longest on Danny.

“I don’t believe in luck, or the easy way. And I do believe that those who are lookin’ for the easy way are fools.”

She shook her head, made a small
tsk
sound. She stared directly at Duncan. “Y’all aren’t fools. But it seems you are helpless victims of these foolish times.” She sighed.

“I guess not a soul is immune. Why, even Uncle Wither-spoon, though he has no earthly need for more wealth, has been feelin’ a touch of the gold fever. Of course, considerin’ his age, he can’t go prospectin’ himself.”

She paused, rang the little bell, and whispered something in Anna’s ear. “So, I convinced him today that the next best thing to bein’ there would be to stake some deservin’ group of argonauts.”

The three Immortals were silent, their coffee untouched.

“Uncle Witherspoon has a good-sized yacht. Named the
Belle Claire.”
She grinned then. Duncan caught his breath. “He’ll lend it to you, with a full crew.”

“Were it up to me, my dear Miz Benét, I would do whatever you might command, simply for the pleasure of seeing you smile,” Fitzcairn said, with a bow of his head. “But from what I’ve heard, Silas Witherspoon is quite a shrewd businessman.”

Claire rewarded him with a smile.

“A businessman who owns a newspaper, Mr. Fitzcairn. ’Member? Folks are just wild to read about this gold-rush business. Uncle has been tryin’ to get one of his regular reporters to go north to cover it, just like the papers back East have done.”

She paused as Anna returned, with a bottle of vintage champagne and four chilled glasses.

“Problem is, those that want to go prospectin’ don’t want to be bothered with writin’ about it.” She poured the sparkling liquid carefully, filling each glass to the brim.

“So I just told him what a very experienced journalist Mr. MacLeod was. How he’d even run a newspaper himself a few years back in Davidsonville.” She handed the glasses around. Duncan brushed her fingers lightly as he took his.

“Uncle Witherspoon was most suitably impressed. Why, any reluctance he’d had to allow y’all the use of the
Belle Claire
just dissolved away when he found out that Mr. MacLeod would be sendin’ back regular dispatches!”

She raised her glass.

“A toast then, to success. I do most sincerely hope that y’all find what you’re lookin’ for.” Her voice was light, but there was a shadow in her eyes.

Fitzcairn and Danny raised their glasses. Fitz looked bemused, Danny stunned. Duncan hesitated.

Claire grinned widely at him.

“It will take a day or two to get the boat ready, of course,” she said.

He clicked glasses with her and returned the smile.

This part of the country held so many memories for him already, good and bad. Claire Benét, her golden hair, silver laugh, and elfin grin, would soon be yet another.

In a day or two. Meanwhile, there was still tonight.

Chapter 4

A sword cutting the darkness. Danny knew what he had to do. Lucas Desirée had told him. He raised his blade to meet the Challenge—and Jim Foster was there calling his name, breaking his concentration. He shouted at Foster that he must stand clear. But it was too late. The sword bit deep into his heart. As he died, he saw the face in the darkness. It was the face of the stranger, the first Immortal he had fought to the death. His vision blurred and the face was Lucas Desirée’s, Duncan MacLeod’s, Amanda’s, Hugh Fitzcairn’s. Then, a burst of light brought him awake. But before he opened his eyes, he saw. It was his own face …

The
Belle Claire
had real windows, like the proper floating hotel suite it was. Jim Foster had pulled back the drapes. He was urging Danny awake. He stumbled from his bed to the window. For a heartbeat he stopped, chilled by the ghostly sight of his face in the glass. But he saw the town beyond, glowing golden in the rising sun. He caught his breath. The dream was forgotten.

“If Seattle was an anthill,” Duncan said, “this place is a nest of ants stirred up with a stick.”

The three Immortals followed Jim Foster, picking their way carefully down the rutted, muddy main street of Skagway.

“The ants are a quarrelsome lot, laddie,” Fitz added, as two shots and one scream rang out close by.

Duncan winced. In the scant few hours since the
Belle Claire
had docked it had become obvious that shots, screams, curses, crashes, and other noises best not investigated were the commonplace sounds of daily life in Skagway.

“Can’t be too careful, mates. That’s true,” Foster said. “There’s a lot here just waiting for newcomers off the boats. Cheechakos they call ’em. They’ll take ’em for all they’re worth.” He deftly jumped a puddle. “With cards. Or with guns.” He stopped. “Hold up. The office is right across Broadway.” He pointed at a storefront. Lettering painted on a large glass window proclaimed it to be Reliable Packers.

As they waited until a cart drawn by a moose passed by, Duncan reflected on Slim Jim Foster. It certainly
seemed
a bit of luck that Danny had met the man. He knew his way around Skagway, all right. He’d helped them get rooms at the Golden North Hotel. And he was now taking them to what he assured them was one of the few honest equippers in town.

So far, Foster hadn’t asked for anything in return. Free passage on the
Belle Claire
had been more than enough, he’d said. He’d gone to Seattle to collect some money owed him. That he’d not had to spend any of it on his return trip was like a gift.

There was sense to that. Still, Duncan was uneasy about the man. He was
so
accommodating,
so
helpful—

The street cleared, and the three Immortals followed Foster into Reliable Packers. The place was full. Men leaned on walls and filled the wooden benches. Duncan frowned. Some of the crowd looked less than savory.

Slim Jim took them directly to the counter. “Claremont,” he said, “these are my friends. O’Donal, MacLeod and Fitzcairn. Three argonauts just off a private yacht up from Seattle. Bound for Dawson. You do right by them, mate.”

He left then, promising to see them later.

Claremont produced a clipboard. He began questioning them about the size of their outfit, filling in a form as they answered. Duncan explained that their supplies were still on the
Belle Claire,
back at Juneau Wharf, under the watchful eyes of Silas Witherspoon’s crew.

“And we’re not sure what more we’ll be needing to cross the White Pass,” he added. “We’d planned the Water Route. But Mr. Foster convinced us to go this way.”

“Right as rain, he was.” Claremont nodded. “The race is to the swift, you know.” He made a note on the form. “You’ll be needing horses, of course, and packs. And a guide. Not that the Pass isn’t well marked and all. A guide just makes it safer.” He frowned, crossed something out, then made a final notation. He extended the clipboard to Duncan. “That’s a fair total, I think. You’ll not do better.”

Duncan motioned for Danny and Fitz to come closer. The three Immortals looked over the form. After a brief discussion, Duncan returned it to Claremont.

“All right. We have a deal. How long will it take to get all this together?” He smiled at Danny. “We’re anxious to be on our way.”

“Oh, maybe two days,” Claremont answered. “You’re at the Golden North? We’ll be in touch.” He produced a pen. “Sign here at the bottom, then. And you understand, we have to ask for a deposit? Just to guarantee that your business isn’t given elsewhere.”

“That’s reasonable,” Duncan said. Claremont named a figure. Duncan turned to Fitz, who was carrying their money. The gold nuggets had been exchanged for currency in Seattle. Fitz’s leather billcase was bulging.

Before Duncan could caution him, Fitz drew it out. In an instant, a burly figure darted forward and grabbed it from his hand.

An uproar ensued. Claremont produced a wooden truncheon. He slammed it on the counter.

“Stop, thief,” he shouted.

Men rose from the benches and left the walls. They began darting around the room. As Danny made a grab for the thief he was knocked from his feet by someone rushing to his aid. Fitz, too stunned to react at first, turned in time to see the man racing out the door. Duncan struggled to follow him, pushing through the crowd that seemed suddenly to fill Reliable Packers.

Clearing the door, he saw the man already across Broadway. He gave chase, heedless of the human and animal traffic bearing down on him.

The thief disappeared between two buildings. Duncan ran after. His quarry, he guessed, knew the town well. He could easily slip through some back door, and be gone forever. With all their money.

Duncan rounded a corner and saw a flash of movement. He sprinted forward, guided now by the string of expletives that rent the air.

Behind the building, two men lay in the mud in a tangle of arms and legs. One was the thief. They were struggling to rise. Their efforts only succeeded in churning up even more mud. They kept losing their footing, falling back in the muck. It would have been funny were it not for the violence of the thief’s anger.

“Goddamn injun.
Get off me!
I’ll kill you. I will.”

Duncan grabbed the man by the back of his collar and hauled him to his feet.

“You’ll not be killing anyone, you scum.”

The burly man took a swing at Duncan. It was all the excuse he needed. One quick fist to the gut, another to the jaw. The thief fell back, spread-eagled in the muck.

Duncan offered his hand to the Indian. The man took it, and scrambled to his feet. He backed up two steps, then turned and ran. His hat—a broad-brimmed red felt trimmed with an eagle feather—lay in the mud. Duncan picked it up and called after him. But the Indian was gone.

“I can’t believe that there’s no jail in this town.” A gunshot sounded from outside. “If ever a place needed one …”

The three Immortals were finishing their dinner—a surprisingly good one—at the Pack Train Restaurant. Duncan viciously stabbed a last piece of baked salmon belly with his fork. He frowned even as he chewed.

“Jim said that there was no law at all here for a long while,” Danny offered. “Those that decide such things couldn’t settle on whether the place was in Alaska or Canada.”

“And the winner is”—Fitz pushed his plate back and slapped his hand on the table—“Alaska!”

Duncan scowled. “So the blackguard who nearly wiped us out sits, all cozy and comfortable, in a spare room at the back of the town hall. Until a judge happens to come by.”

“We’ll be long gone by then, Mr. MacLeod,” Danny said.

“I know that,” Duncan replied, with an edge in his voice. “Long gone and far away.”

“Well, at least we got our money back, laddie,” Fitz said, patting his vest pocket. “I’ll pop by Reliable Packers in the morning and finish our business. And I can assure you that I’ll look twice before I take out even a coin.” He produced his pipe and tobacco.

“Aren’t we supposed to be meeting Foster at some saloon?” Duncan asked. “I could use a drink.”

Fitz shrugged. He slipped the pipe back into his pocket and called for the check. Duncan rose and went outside.

“Hugh …” Danny began.

Fitz shook his head. “The Highlander likes to
see
justice done, Danny my boy. When you’ve known him as long as I have, you’ll understand.”

They found Duncan leaning, arms folded, against the front of the building. The night was cold, but clear. The town was ablaze with light, pouring out of the string of bars and dance halls that lined the street.

“Mr. MacLeod,” Danny said, his breath visible in the air, “Jim Foster knows near everyone here, it seems. He might know of the Indian who owns that red hat.”

Duncan nodded. “That he might, Danny.” He pushed off from the wall. “Let’s go ask him.”

Fitz gave the young Immortal a quick pat on his shoulder as they followed MacLeod into the noise-filled Skagway night.

Danny saw the girl straightaway. She came through the door to the right of the dark wood bar. She was still for a minute. She seemed to be looking about at the crowd packed into Jeff Smith’s Parlour. Then she went over to the upright piano that stood facing the back wall. It wasn’t far from the door that led to the room where Slim Jim said the gambling went on.