Jason's Gold by Will Hobbs Page B

dramatically. The buildings along Broadway were virtually completed.
    Jason couldn’t resist the temptation to eat at a restaurant, even if a meal cost twelve times what it would have in Seattle. At a thrown-together establishment called the Midas Cafe, he ordered a New York steak and handed over three dollars.
    As he took his first bite, he detected a slight rancid odor. But then he decided that the odor was coming from him. He and his clothes were full of the scent of dead horses.
    As Jason ate he listened to the subdued conversation of two men at the table behind him. There was a secretive tone to their voices that made him strain to hear what they were saying. They’d been in Skagway a week, he understood that much, trying to arrange to have theiroutfits packed over White Pass—the Dead Horse Trail. “I believe we’ve landed in hell,” one of them said.
    â€œA shooting every night!”
    â€œIt’s not just the gamblers. Anyone you do business with might be a swindler. There’s even one posing as a preacher. Some of their victims have barely stepped off the ships.”
    â€œGoing bust on the trail is one thing, but being cheated out of your funds before you even set out is another. Seen all the FOR SALE signs down by the water—people selling their outfits off cheap?”
    â€œEverything from fur hats to Winchesters. People just trying to raise enough money to get back to Seattle. And the law—they do nothing.”
    Suddenly the other voice went down to a bare whisper. “People are saying that the marshal is working for the boss of Skagway. If you report a crime, you might be digging your own grave.”
    â€œSo, who is the boss of Skagway?”
    â€œThat southerner who poses as a philanthropist—Jeff Smith.”
    Captain Jefferson Randolph Smith, Jason almost said aloud. He fought the impulse to turn around and tell those two men about his own encounter with Smith and his bunch. Instead, he chewed slowly, listened intently, said nothing.
    â€œThey say Smith gives people the fare home, sometimes, out of his own pocket.”
    â€œAfter his men have cheated or robbed them!”
    â€œThere’ll be many a dry eye at his funeral.”
    â€œI heard it whispered today, who he really is….”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    There was a pause. “I heard tell he’s a famous con man from the mining camps in Colorado by the name ofSoapy Smith. Didn’t even bother to change his name. Brought some of his accomplices with him and recruits others every day. They’re everywhere!”
    â€œAll I know is, we better get out of here while we still can. Better try the Chilkoot, don’t you think?”
    Jason had only a small piece of his steak left. He dangled the meat above the big husky at his feet. The dog sniffed it, took it gingerly, gummed it, then dropped it to the floor uneaten.
    â€œThought you were hungry,” Jason said. “You’d prefer fish? I’ll try to find you some. What do you say we go looking for packsacks for you? Would you carry for me, over the Chilkoot?”
    The dog’s amber eyes, all the while he spoke, remained locked on his.
    â€œYou’ll think about it? Good, let’s go!”
    At the foot of Broadway, Jason paused to take in the raw, bustling drama. There were more ships offshore than before, more arrivals streaming onto the beach, more mountains of gear, more dogs and horses, more confusion. As he stood there, shouts erupted in front of the first building on the street, a telegraph office he didn’t remember from before.
    â€œCome out of there!” a man in the middle of the street demanded indignantly. He was waving a telegram in the air as a boy of no more than ten clung to his side, looking fearfully at the people gathering around. “Father,” the boy pleaded.
    â€œCome out and show the good people your telegraph lines!” his father raged. “Where are