a bit of gold dust on the scales in the front of the shop beside the cash box, then he handed a customer a sack of nails in exchange.
“Thank you, lad. A fine woman, your mother, a fine woman, the way she stepped in to help that poor young lady what had the fainting spell. Very noble o’ her.”
Angus didn’t even try to force a smile. Sometimes it was difficult being the son of the most famous woman in town.
“Fainted, eh?” came a familiar voice. “Word on the street is that a lady choked on a lump of meat, and your mother singlehandedly wrestled the offending piece out of her mouth.” Constable Richard Sterling fingered a rough flannel shirt as the old miner shuffled off, chuckling to himself, his bag of nails tinkling cheerfully. “This might do come winter,” he added.
“A lady fainted, that’s all,” Angus muttered.
Sterling smiled. “No doubt by midnight the lady will have been attacked by a pack of rabid wolves, and your mother will have driven them off with a single well-aimed shot between the leader’s eyes.”
Despite himself, Angus grinned. “That’s Dawson,” he said.
Sterling laughed. “I’ll take this shirt.” He pulled a few pennies out of his pocket. “Lesson day, isn’t it?”
Angus’s grin grew wider. “Yes, it is, sir.”
“Thought I’d walk over to the Fort with you, if you’re ready to go.”
This time Angus’s grin almost split his face in two. “That would be grand, sir.” He proudly pulled his watch out of his pocket. The watch had been owned by his mother’s father. It was the only thing of his grandfather, also named Angus, they had. She’d given it to him only the other day, having decided now that he was working, he was ready to carry it. “Mr. Mann, it’s five to one. Can I leave? Constable Sterling wants to walk with me to the Fort.”
* * *
Sterling hid a smile at Angus’s choice of words. It was no secret to him the boy worshipped him. A bit of hero worship never did a man’s ego any harm.
Mr. Mann came out of the back tent, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers. “Go. Have good lesson.”
The fact that Angus was taking boxing lessons from Sergeant Lancaster, the former, to hear him tell it, champion of Manitoba and contender for all of Canada, was a secret carefully kept from Angus’s mother by Lancaster, Mann and Sterling. If she heard of it, she would probably forbid it—so why inconvenience her by letting her know? Sterling could see the outline of sinew and muscle lying dormant under the lanky twelve-year-old frame, waiting to burst out into the sun like a hibernating bear at first signs of approaching spring. Angus was growing into a big lad, and before much longer, his bulk would be the target of men who needed to prove themselves and wouldn’t hesitate because of an unshaven face, friendly blue eyes and soft blond hair.
“Did Mary get settled in?” Sterling asked as they made their way east on Front Street, where the bars and dance halls were already doing a roaring trade, towards the NWMP’s Fort Herchmer.
“She showed up for work at Mrs. Mann’s on time.” “Mary seems like a nice woman.” “She is,” Angus said, with a touch of proprietary pride. Helen Saunderson, the Savoy’s cleaner, came out of the dance hall wielding her formidable broom and sweeping all before her. It was a hopeless job; the more Mrs. Saunderson swept, the more mud and dust seemed to get tramped through the Savoy’s doors.
She took a moment to rest her heavy bosom on the broom handle. “What’s this I hear, young Angus, about your ma gettin’ a woman’s heart started what had stopped from shock the moment she laid eyes on Dawson?”
Sterling and Angus laughed. “It was amazing, Mrs. Saunderson,” Angus said. “Why, Ma swept the goods right off the table in front of Mr. Mann’s store and sliced open that woman’s chest with a hunting knife that was for sale.”
“Are you making fun o’ me, Angus MacGillivray?” Sterling tossed her a wink. Mrs. Saunderson shook her head and chuckled through her mouthful of missing teeth before bending her head to her sweeping.
“Let’s walk down Paradise Alley,” Sterling said. “Make sure everyone’s behaving themselves.”
They cut down Queen Street, heading for Paradise Alley. As they turned into the Alley, they could see a crowd of men up ahead, laughing and jeering at something Sterling couldn’t see. The mood was vicious, ugly.
“Stay here, Angus,” he said. “If you think I need help, run for the Fort. Understand?”
“Understood, sir,” Angus said, his blue eyes wide.
“What’s going on here? Break it up! Move out of the way.” Sterling waded into the crowd.
“Nothing to concern yerself about, Const’ble,” a man said.
“No business o’ the Redcoats,” said another.
“I’ll be the judge of that. Move aside.” Sterling practically tossed a neatly dressed gentleman to one side.
A man lay in the roadway, curled into a ball, his arms and hands attempting to protect his head as two heavy-set dandies took turns kicking him.
“Hey!” Sterling shouted and grabbed the man nearest him, the one about to place another boot into exposed ribs. The dandy turned. His face was twisted in rage, and blood-lust filled his red eyes. Furious at missing his mark, he was prepared to strike at the new target that had suddenly presented itself. Sterling grabbed the oncoming arm and twisted. “You don’t want to do that, fellow.”
The onlookers shuffled back. The other man turned to see what was going on. Puffed up like the bully he was, he visibly deflated at the sight of the red tunic and broadbrimmed hat.
Sterling gave the wrist he was holding another firm twist. “Want to tell me what’s going on here?” he said pleasantly. He might have been inquiring about the weather.
“No concern of yours, Constable,” the second man said. He, like his friend, was well dressed, in black waistcoat and jacket and houndstooth trousers. A black bowler hat was perched on top of his head. He was considerably overweight and very pale—his small dark eyes looked like raisins in a bowl of Christmas pudding batter. When he held out his hands in a gesture of surrender, he showed nails perfectly trimmed and spotlessly clean. A brown wool scarf was draped several times around his neck. “Tom Jannis is the name. Sam and I are settling a private matter. Nothing to worry the law.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Someone get this man onto his feet. Quickly now!”
The onlookers rushed forward to help the man they had only moments before happily watched being kicked to a pulp.
Sterling faced Tom Jannis.
“What’s the story here?”
“This fellow lied to us. Told us he knew where we could find a good whore, then brought me to this fat tart.” Jannis gestured contemptuously at the single woman in the crowd. It was the prostitute they called Fat Fanny.
“That weren’t no lie,” Fanny shrieked. “I’m a good whore, ain’t I, boys?”
The onlookers shouted their agreement.
The victim staggered to his feet. Sterling stifled a groan. He was drunk—and an Indian. Not much point in trying to arrest Jannis and his friend. As likely as not, the judge would only want to know who’d sold liquor to an Indian.
“You all right, fellow?” Sterling asked.
The Indian swayed. His eyes were unfocused, his long hair stiff with dirt and grease. Layers of stale vomit stained the front of his ragged shirt. He didn’t look like he’d suffered too much damage from the kicking; Sterling had probably arrived in time. The man would suffer more from a hangover than from the attempted beating.
“Drunken Indian,” the first man said, spitting into the dust. “Arrest