He was serious. I staggered up; the ankle did hurt although not very much. I stumbled, groaned and collapsed over the sled.

  'Think he's fainted, Cap,' the young Atlas said. 'You want me to carry him or put him on the sled? It ain't but five miles.'

  'I want him to walk!' Fitzgerald snorted.

  I lay as still as a stone – damn uncomfortable it was too, lying across that stacked wood.

  'Don't reckon he will,' said the guide. 'We gotta keep movin', Mr Fitzgerald. Do us no good at all to stand around here in the cold. We'll stiffen up.'

  'Sling him over the sled, then.' I opened one eye and saw Fitzgerald march off to the front. Atlas rearranged me on the sled and I spent the rest of the journey groaning and thrashing around. I hoped they'd take it for pain – in reality, I was trying to get more comfortable.

  So I did my second stint in the infirmary, all within a few months of 'joining' the Mounties. That's probably a record. This infirmary was much the same as the one in Vancouver except that there was no wise-ass orderly like Dagberry around (and no recreation like 'Klondike' Angie, more's the pity). As it turned out, my ankle was pretty badly twisted. The doctor, a red-faced old fool with food-stained whiskers, assured me that the ankle would be as good as new by the time of the patrol and no amount of complaint I set up, or hobbling I did, could convince him otherwise.

  Fitzgerald was anxious about my progress and received the doctor's optimistic reports gladly. You may wonder at this. After all, I'd hardly been a tower of strength on the training marches and I hadn't shown any particular woodcraft or skill at direction-finding in the snow to justify my reputation as an old Yukon hand. But Fitzgerald wanted me along because I'd made two mistakes. The first was that I'd shown him I was an excellent shot. Shooting in the snow is bloody hard: the light is tricky, the gloves and clothes are an encumbrance and range is hard to judge. I'd knocked over a running hare with a rifle, shooting uphill at some impossible range and Fitzgerald had cheered me to the echo.

  'Bravo, Connybear!' He'd raced up and clapped me on the back. 'We'll be travelling very light, dangerously light some might say. Food weighs heavy. With you along, shooting like that, we can count on some game. I'd say I can trim off another twenty pounds.'

  This hadn't made me popular with the other members of the party, but there you are. You can't please everyone. The second mistake was in revealing my fondness for, and abilities with, dogs. I couldn't help it, I've always had a way with dogs; the huskies were splendid animals and they took to me as much as I took to them. The husky is part wolf and part whatever other hardy breed happens to be part of its ancestry. They are strong dogs, but not very big or heavy. I found them intelligent and affectionate and had less trouble rounding them up and getting them harnessed and willing to work than the other members of the party. Men like Fitzgerald don't evaluate people the way you or I might – is he good chap? – does he like a drink and a joke? They weigh their usefulness, and first class shot and dog-handler extraordinaire Henry Connybear was acceptable material for our intrepid leader whatever his other shortcomings might be.

  So my ankle wasn't going to save me. I was out of bed in a few days and the doctor promised me I'd be knee deep in snow again within a fortnight. I thanked him and contemplated shooting off a toe. Meanwhile, I was assigned light clerical duties in the office of the Commissioner for the Mounted Police in the Yukon Territory. I was put under the command of a sergeant who seemed to have very little to do. What duties he did have he quickly off-loaded on to me and absented himself. What he found to do in Dawson by day I can't imagine for it was a very dull, business-like place which only livened up on Friday and Saturday nights. I shuffled paper, signed for in-coming things and addressed out-going things and was generally bored stiff. One day, for want of anything better to do, and in hope of finding some loose cash or a forgotten bottle, I decided to clean up the office.

  I swept and tidied and went through the drawers in the old rolltop desk throwing away more than I saved. I was about to toss out a bundle of dusty papers tied with a frayed blue ribbon when something under a folded back corner caught my eye. It was a part of a profile photograph, just the top half of the head but it said something to me. I untied the ribbon; the papers were old 'Wanted' posters dating back twenty years and more. I blew the dust off and spread out the paper which had attracted my attention. 'Wanted', it read along the top in bold letters, 'for Robbery & Murder.' Under the legend were two profile photographs; a large full face picture dominated the centre of the paper. The man depicted had a round face with cropped hair. It was evidently a photograph of a prisoner for he wore no hat and had a rough-looking denim shirt; the place where the number would have been had been blanked out.

  The wanted man was Matthew Tolliver, alias Matt Oliver and several other variants on the name. He was described as five feet eight inches tall, 160 pounds and of a ruddy complexion. A former associate of the notorious Soapy Smith, Tolliver was wanted for the murder of a Mounted Policeman and the wounding of several citizens in Whitehorse in 1897, when he and two other gunmen robbed the Yukon Bank of one hundred and ninety thousand dollars. One thousand dollars was offered as a reward for the taking of Tolliver dead or alive.

  Under this document was another in similar terms relating to Robert Carter, also known as Coldknife. Carter was described as a half-breed Han Indian – the picture was a drawing showing a glowering individual with black hair, slanted eyes and a wispy dark moustache. Making allowances for years, weight and grey hair, Matthew Tolliver and Coldknife were the men I knew as Ollie Fisher and Charley Moon.

  10

  I pocketed the posters and went about the rest of my duties in something of a daze for the rest of the day. This had to be useful information. Fisher and Moon had money and I had none, or very little. That was a fact. Charley had said he would help me if I wanted to get away. Also a fact. He'd given me the cold shoulder from the time I'd jumped train until Dawson, but then there was that puzzling wave from the boat. One thing was sure, Fisher and Moon must have known a way to escape from the Yukon Territory because they'd got away scot free with a fortune twenty-five years before. I tried to tell myself that twenty-five years wasn't such a long time; once a good man always a good man, and things like that, but I wasn't sure.

  I also wasn't sure whether a 'Wanted' poster issued a quarter of a century back was still valid. And, for that matter, whether the rewards were still on offer. I had a lot to think about as I ate the inevitable evening meal of tough steak, watery potatoes and tasteless beans in the mess. In defiance of all regulations I had a bottle of brandy back in the hut I shared with three other constables. I chewed and swallowed fast, thinking that with luck they might linger over the coffee and give me time for a few stimulating snorts while I pondered my situation.

  I ignored all greetings, raised at least three pairs of eyebrows when I refused a game of cards, and was on my way to my quarters when one of the daily orderlies approached me.

  'Letter for you, Connybear,' he said. He held out a violet-tinted envelope and smirked.

  'Don't wait around for your tip,' I snarled. I stuffed the letter into my pocket and headed for the brandy.

  There was nothing fancy about my quarters – a large room with too-thin walls, small windows and a few tatty skins on the floor. There was a big wood stove without which life would have been impossible. We got a taste of that impossibility a few times when the man whose turn it was neglected to replenish the wood supply. I was guilty of it myself once and the offence caused sharp words and punches to be thrown. There was plenty of wood, however, on this occasion and I stoked the stove, poured some brandy into a mug and sat down to contemplate my options.

  With a fair bit of brandy consumed and several cigarettes smoked, there was a nice, warm fug built up inside me and the room, but I was still no clearer on what to do. I stretched forward to put more wood on and heard the crinkle of the letter in my pocket. I had quite forgotten it. I poured another slug and opened the envelope. I have the letter beside me now as I record this. The writing is faint but I can still read it because she had a big, clear, round, childish hand.

  Royalton Hotel,

  Seattle, USA.

  Dear Hank,

  Ever since our wonderful time together I have been thinking about what you said about coming up to see you in the Yukon territory. I never had such a good time with any man before and I miss it I mean you most terrible.

  But Hank – I know you are not Hank really but somebody else I don't know who. But I am sure we could be happy together whoever you are. I decided to go to Vancouver again and talk to the man in the hospital Constable Dagberry about you. He told me who he thinks you are and what you done and the terrible trouble you might be in.

  But Hank – I don't care. I've got some money not much but enough to get a start maybe in a saloon or like that. I'm coming up to see you around Christmas time object matrimony as they say. I'm sure we could be happy and your secret will always be safe with me.

  All my love,

  This horrible thing is signed 'Angela'. [Regrettably, the letter from Angela has not so far been found among Browning's effects. Prior to his death at the avocado ranch in 1984, Browning's papers, clothes and other possessions seem to have been considerably disturbed, probably by creditors in the main but also by women with whom he was involved. The letter may have been a casualty of this disturbance. Ed.]

  I heard footsteps outside the door and had to shove the letter quickly away. I was lighting a cigarette when one of my hutmates came in. He looked suspiciously at me as I licked the last drops out of my mug, but the bottle was safely away and no man in the Force would think of going through another man's traps. That made the Mounties unlike the army, where pilfering was the normal thing. In the Mounties it would have been regarded as the next worst thing to being a fairy. My hutmate strode across the room and warmed himself at the stove.

  'Good fire, Connybear,' he said.

  'Yes,' says I.

  'Fancy a game of checkers?' He got out the board and set it up without waiting for me to answer. It saved having to talk to him – he never talked when he played checkers as the game took all his concentration – and there was nothing else to do anyway. You see what I mean about boredom being a big part of life in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?

  I didn't get a lot of sleep that night even though I sneaked a few sly snorts of brandy under the bedclothes. I felt myself to be surrounded by red-coated enemies determined to send me to an icy death in the company of a mad nephew of a mad uncle. I'd read up a bit on the original Dawson Patrol and what I learned appalled me. Fitzgerald the Elder must have been one of the stubbornest, most blind-to-reason Irishmen in history, and there have been a lot to choose from. Something about the look in the nephew's eye suggested to me that he was of the same ilk. If he couldn't prove the Fitzgeralds to have been right and cover himself in glory, burial forever in some snowdrift on the trail would be his second preference.

  The imminent arrival of Angie, hellbent on blackmailing me into marriage, was the last straw. I took the drinks under the blankets partly to warm myself, partly to help me sleep and partly to get my courage up. I was in a spot but I had a weapon – the information I possessed about Ollie Fisher and Charley Moon also known as Matthew Tolliver and Coldknife. The question was – would I have the guts to use it?

  On the following Friday at 9 p.m. I was off-duty and wearing a pea jacket over dungarees with heavy boots. I had a woollen cap on my head and my service pistol was in the pocket of the jacket. I also had a month's pay with me as well as the 'Wanted' posters on Ollie and Charley. I was scheduled to begin work in the snow with Fitzgerald again the following week. My ankle had mended sufficiently and I was several days closer to the arrival of 'Klondike' Angie. I was as ready as I'd ever be.

  The obvious place to look for Ollie and Charley was a saloon but, as there were several of those in Dawson, as well as restaurants and at least a couple of whorehouses which, as I came to think about it, were also logical places, the job might not be too easy. I must have had an instinct for this kind of work – which I put to good use in Los Angeles a lot later when I was a licensed private eye – I mean finding people. It's partly laziness; I had no partiality to tramping all over town on a cold night poking my nose into whisky dens and houses of ill fame, but it's also good sense. If you want to reach someone, discover where they sleep and you've just about done the job. I've found it holds true whether the place is the Beverly Hilton or a barrio flophouse. And the best method to locate the domicile is to use the telephone.

  I installed myself with a pot of coffee and a flask of brandy in a cafe on the west edge of town. Finding a congenial place with a telephone hadn't been easy and had involved a bit of scouting around. As I set about calling the first hotel I reflected that this wasn't such a bad thing. When dealing with desperadoes like Ollie and Charley, even if they were somewhat rusty ones, it was best to know the lie of the land.

  This is Sergeant Connybear of the Mounted Police. I'm trying to locate two friends of mine – Messrs Oliver Fisher and Charles Moon. Would they happen to be staying in your establishment?'

  'No, Sergeant.'

  This was the response I got for almost an hour. The coffee was finished and so was the brandy and I began to draw dark looks from the proprietor for hogging the telephone even though I was paying extra for the calls. My throat was raw from smoking as I croaked the question to the desk clerk at the Commercial Hotel.

  'Yes, Sergeant,' came the reply. 'Mr Fisher and Mr Moon have the Lucky Strike suite.'

  'Is that a fact? That's just fine. Are they in at present?'

  'Why no, sir. They went out on the town with two . . . young women. They're real characters, those two.'

  'That's right, they are. Would it be all right if I came over to wait for them?'

  'You could wait in the lobby, Sergeant, is it? I'm afraid I couldn't let you up to the suite unless you're on official . . .'

  'No. No. The lobby would be fine. Have you got a good fire?'

  'Certainly.'

  'Can I get a drink?'

  'Yes. I could arrange some company for you if . . .'

  'No. That'll be all right. I'll be along directly.'

  Well, I should've just thought it through a bit more. All I needed to do was ask which hotel in town laid on the best whores for the guests and I could have saved myself a lot of trouble and expense. I paid for the last call, pulled my coat collar up and walked out into the street. A light snow had fallen while I was in the cafe. The moon was up and I could see the snow on the high ground around the town and watch it collecting in hollows and other sheltered spots as I walked. There were a few cars and horse-drawn vehicles in the streets and some people hurrying along trying to prevent the snow from collecting on their hats and running down their necks. The roads started to turn white and the wheels made thin, dark tracks across them. A light wind got up and blew the snowflakes into my eyes. I felt a long, long way from Sydney where, so far as I know, it has not snowed since the dawn of time.16

  The Commercial Hotel was at the other end of town, a stone's throw from the river and with high pine trees on all sides. I stomped along the path up to the glassed-in porch where in the summertime I guess the folks could sit and look at the river and the hills and think about taking off their sweaters. Right now snow was accumulating on the ledges and I had to kick some back before I could open the door. I went through to the lobby where a couple of decent-sized logs were blazing and up to the desk where the clerk was rubbing his hands. He was a small man with a slicked-down cowlick and sharp blue eyes. Behind the desk looked like the coldest place in the room.

  'Yessir?' he said.

  'Connybear. I telephoned a while back.'

  'You've tracked snow into the lobby.'

  'Sorry. I won't be the last. You said I could wait for Ollie and Charley.'

  'Well . . .' He looked at me dubiously. Perhaps he thought I'd arrive in scarlet coat and riding breeches and throw him a salute. I was annoyed but I as sure as hell didn't want to go out in the cold again. I produced a silver dollar and laid it on the desk.

  'What's your name, mister?'

  'Claude Calwell, sir.'

  'Well, Claude. Why don't you go along to the bar and get me a whisky and a cigar and a drink for yourself if you've a mind and put the change in your pocket and forget about the snow?'

  He took the coin in a red, chafed hand. 'I'm not allowed to drink on duty, but I'll be happy to oblige you, . . . Sergeant.' I installed myself by the fire, opened my coat and let some of the warmth in. Claude brought the drink and lit my cigar for me. I puffed smoke, sipped whisky and maybe I nodded off for a while because it seemed like no time at all before I heard the door to the porch slam and a mixture of high female and low male laughter, drunk in both cases.

  'Well, look who it ain't!' Ollie practically twisted the blonde woman's head off getting her to lift it and look at me, "s our ol' pal, Frank . . .'

  'Hank,' Charley Moon said. He was following the other two. He had no companion and seemed steadier which still put him a long way on the other side of sober. 'Howdy, Hank. Heard you was off to the North Pole mighty soon.'

  I stood and faced them. I could feel the pistol in one pocket and what might be their death warrants in another. I didn't feel comfortable though, especially as Charley seemed to get more sober by the second and looked ready to throw a chair, shoot out the lights or do whatever was necessary.

  The croak had come back into my voice. 'Like to talk with you, Charley.'

  'Be my pleasure. Here or in our suit?'

  'That's suite, silly,' the woman giggled.

  'Wherever's private,' I said.

  'Let's go up then,' Charley said. 'We can close a door or two an' open a bottle or three. Ollie'd probably like to be excused. That right, Ollie?'

  For an answer Ollie slapped his blonde's broad, green satin-covered rump. We climbed the stairs in order of drunkenness, that is to say, Ollie first, then the blonde, then Charley and me in the rear. The Lucky Strike suite was a series of connected rooms – sitting rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms and the like. The central sitting room had a deep carpet and wallpaper depicting scenes from the Klondike goldfields. Ollie and the blonde went giggling and slapping off into one of the rooms and Charley watched them go. He shucked off his raincoat, threw it over a chair and bent down to a put a match to the wood and paper that was waiting in the big fireplace. When the blaze was to his satisfaction he moved into a chair and gestured for me to sit on the other side of the hearth.

 

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