âYou donât just walk out on the Boss, Stromgren. Stay a spell and enjoy some of the best hospitality youâll find north of a Texas barbecue on Uncle Samâs birthday.â Ace sneered and pulled the gun another inch from the holster. To decline the âinvitationâ meant a permanent numbing of the taste buds.
Albinâs mind squirmed with the vigor of a snake in an eagleâs claws. The little freak wouldnât dare, not in here, would he? Surely the bark of a gun would be heard, and the Mounties summoned. Then again, perhaps this place was a vault, able to ricochet sound in an endless cycle, until expiration. To devil with the noise, thereâd be a body to dispose of! Speak up, man! State your reasoning and save your life! But for the second time that night, Albin was mute, crippled by a chalk tongue dissolved in heavy rains.
It was just as well, a creature like this couldnât be bargained with, for the troll craved blood, not gold. A body could be incinerated, given the proper tools and knowledge. âJust having a Texas barbecue, Constable. Want some long pork?â
Jackson was the key . . . the only one who could muzzle Ace.
But why would he? Why spare a mad drifter, whoâs life had the worth of a fruit flyâs? The âKingâ and his musketeers probably believed Albin wouldnât be missed, and therefore no report would be filed with the Mounties. Time to gather the backbone and reveal his true identity.
âI came here by boat!â Albin yelled. âThe Seraphin carried us from Seattle to Saint Michael and the ill-fated Wilton brought us downriver, that is, until that drunkard Beckett ran her onto a shoal! Miles of travel on foot accounts for my current appearance! I am a man of means and of connections! I carry my tickets, sewn into my jacket, as proof. If you do this, my people will cry for justice and the Law will have no choice but to investigate!â
A mirthless belly laugh emanated from the office and the wiry killer added his own brand.
âStromgren, you are by far the best entertainment for today! Bring him back here, Ace. Weâll hammer out a deal.â
Entertainment? Albin was conflicted between relief and anger, as he stepped back into the one room palace.
The despot hefted his bulk off the chair and plodded towards an ornately carved bar hutch, from which he retrieved a bottle of whiskey.
âThirsty?â
Albin shook his head but thanked him.
Jackson shrugged. âSuit yourself.â He filled a crystal goblet to the brim, took a sip, and sauntered back to the desk, with bottle and goblet in hand.
âSo, Mister Stromgren, you are a man of means, I see.â The half-full bottle landed hard against the green leather desk cover. Jackson remained standing as he swept his beverage free hand around the room. âIâve noticed you admiring my dĂ©cor. I like it too. As a man of your standing can appreciate, most of these pieces are from the early part of this century and older.â He gave a dismissive wave, then continued. âI donât care much for anything newer than the twenties.â Thus, an in-depth sermon was launched about each article, with a heavy emphasis on value and acquisition. The deviant was a library about the finer things.
Fascinated, Albin was fully engaged, and flicked away the guilt that tugged at his ear. He would beg the Fatherâs forgiveness when he crossed paths with the starving. Luciferâs lair was beguiling.
âAnd here, this right here, is the soul of this place. You understand, Stromgrem?â Jackson caressed the top of a Regency-Era mahogany card table. âYou like games, Stromgren?â
âI-I,â Albin was at a loss. Gambling was a sin and he wasnât a card player, at least not anymore. As a boy, heâd enjoyed Skitgubbe at the kitchen table with his brothers and cousins, but this table had seen far less innocence. The whole tour was bait to get him to this point. Albin was a pawn in a game, an object of amusement for a bored monarch.
Stone grey eyes deadpanned Albin in demand for the inevitable response. Albinâs tongue was lashed by fear and morals ingrained since early childhood.
âSimple question, Stromgren.â
Albin cleared his throat. âIs this for sport, or is there a reward?â
The granite mouth bent into a smile. âWe each have something the other wants. I want the gold, I always do, but what is it you want? Food? New clothes? A bath?â He winked at Albin. âThe company of one of my girls? Of course, youâll need the last two before any of them will âaccompanyâ you.â
âA claim of my own. What I came to Dawson for. It seems theyâve all been spoken for.â
Jackson snapped his thick fingers, bent over his desk, and retrieved a large scroll from the top drawer. He unfurled it across the desktop, revealing a map of every creek and river surrounding Dawson.
Albinâs heart palpitated at the sight of numbered claims.
Jackson fingered a spot at the juncture of the Bonanza and Eldorado creeks. âThereâs your claim. Well, not yet. Only if you win.â
Albin moved in to get a closer look. âGold Hill?â
The boulder-sized head shook. âNope. Those are taken. French Hill, just next to it, on the other side of Irish Gulch.â
Albin used the scale at the bottom of the map to determine that French Hill was about fifteen miles from Dawson. Not a bad trek, considering how far heâd already come. Bonanza and Eldorado were renowned for their yields, so why not try French Hill? The proverbial fly in the ointment was that claim eleven sat on a hill above Eldorado Creek rather than along the creek itself.
Jackson read his mind. âItâs a bench claim, and theyâve gotten a bad rap. Everyone wants the creeks but,â he pointed to his temple. âThe smart folks think differently. Besides, thatâs all thatâs left. Take it or leave it.â
Albin sighed. Heâd never heard of a bench claim, but the Klondike King waited for an answer.
âWhat kind of game?â
âName it. Iâve got cards and dice, even a roulette wheel.â He looked at the clock. âI havenât got all night.â
âCan I just purchase the claim? With this gold?â
Jackson burst into laughter. The manâs temperament was unnerving. âI like your humor. Stromgren, you barely have enough dust to buy a pickaxe, at least by Dawson prices. I donât really need your gold, though Iâd be happy to keep it. What I want is some fun. Oh, but I do like to help the less fortunate, such as yourself. Have you dozed through my entire presentation? I have it all, Stromgren! So how about it? Allow me to choose. Weâll play Devilâs Dice. The rules are simple. Number one is that the one who rolls the highest total out of three rolls each, wins.â
He opened a small drawer in the card table and grabbed a pair of ivory dice. âRule number two, we use these. You can examine them, Stromgren. Youâll find them to be of standard weight. Iâm not a cheat. Iâve come by my wealth with old fashioned hard work.â He gave the dice to Albin. âSee for yourself.â
Albin examined them and found nothing out of sorts. He dropped them on the table.
âRule three, the dice must remain on this table after the toss, anything that falls will be disqualified. They must bounce at least once. We shake on this before any dice are cast. A gentlemanâs blood oath if you will. Now pay close attention to this one, Stromgren.â The stones narrowed to pebbles. âIâm honest and will always honor the contract. What about you? What kind of man are you? Iâve placed my trust in you, but I hope itâs not misplaced. If that trust is broken, youâll meet a bad end. Dawson is a viperâs nest full of no-accounts, and Iâll not be victimized.â
After the threat had been delivered, Jacksonâs countenance shifted like the tides. He extended his right hand and grinned. âWhat about it? Do we have an accord?â
Albin gulped but inquired about the obvious. âSo, if I win, I keep the gold and the claim is mine?â
Jackson chuckled, âWell, yes, but Iâll require a thirty percent royalty.â
Albin was initially stunned, but quickly grew indignant. Of course, the royalty. Anyone who dubbed himself a king could demand such. But âKingâ Jackson wasnât omniscient. He couldnât possibly account for every ounce.
âI suppose that if you win, I hand over my gold and leave with nothing. Is that the way of it?â
âWhy, youâre a weasel impossible to catch asleep! I suspect that a man of your wits will take my generous offer.â The hand moved closer.
Albin took it. âYou have yourself an accord.â
The massive hand swallowed Albinâs, the way a snake ate a mouse. âTrekking miles through an Alaskan winter, and now wagering with the King of Dawson. I admire your moxie.â He pointed to the dice. âYou first.â
Albin took a breath deep breath and rolled. The ivory pair skittered halfway across the table and stopped on a total of five. Way too low.
âMy turn,â Jackson snatched the dice and tossed them. They bounced and rolled for a lifetime, before producing a devastating sum of nine.
Ace whooped and clapped.
Jackson smirked, and handed the dice to Albin. âOne down.â
This time he managed twelve. Unless Jackson tied, the round was his.
The crime boss clucked his tongue. The pair shot from his hand and landed on ten.
The score was nineteen to seventeen in Jacksonâs favor. The challenger rattled the dice in his hand and began the Lordâs prayer. âOur Fatherââ but nerves weakened his grip and he watched helplessly as the pair tumbled to the floor.
âPleading to the Almighty, huh? Getting nervous, Cheechako?â Ace said.
âAh, give the poor fella a chance, will ya?â Jackson grabbed the dice and handed them to his rival. âTry again. Last chance.â
A white-knuckled cast earned a seven. This put him five points ahead. Better than a couple, but too close to the firing line for comfort.
âWell, partner, this is it. Though I believe you have more to lose than I,â he gloated. The release appeared nonchalant, but the mouth twitch spoke volumes about Jacksonâs attitude towards losing.
Both dice performed a series of lackadaisical pirouettes before coming to rest on snake eyes.
The room spun, and Albin squeezed his head to stop it. Heâd won! Exuberance changed to fright. What now?
âYou lucky swine!â Jackson was a locomotive boiler about to blow. He flung the dice into Albinâs chest. âGet out of here, before I kill you!â
Albin raced for the door, but the muzzle of Aceâs revolver stopped him cold.
âLeaving so soon? Donât you want to collect your prize?â Ace giggled like an entity that dwelled beneath the cellar stairs.
âGo ahead and shoot, if you must. If I leave here empty handed, I have nothing left on earth.â How was it possible to hear his own voice above the blood rushing in his ears?
Laughter bellowed from behind Albin. Ace cut loose with another hellish peal and he lowered the gun.
âStromgren, you should have seen yourself, just now! Did you really think we were going to send you to the Maker after youâd won fair and square?â
The blood drained from Albinâs face and pooled at his feet. What was all of this? What kind of sick minds threatened death for amusement?
Enough of this! Iâll take my gold and flee. Albin had moved one step towards the hall when a document was thrust into his hand.
âTake it and go, Stromgren, your antics are worth every ounce! Donât worry about registering your claim, Iâll see to it. But donât forget about my thirty.â
The exit was a blur. Albin collected his boots and jacket, then left the building with his feet on fire. The pace was maintained for several blocks before the realization of the victory struck him. Life had changed with the roll of a dice! Literally! A mitt full of gold AND a claim to boot! Hallelujah! He leapt from the boardwalk and click both heels together. He couldnât wait to tell Isabella that he was officially a prospector!
***
âIs he gone?â Jackson took a sip from the whiskey glass.
âYes, thinks heâs all that, now that heâs defeated the legend of Dawson. Howâd you want this one done? Accidental trampling by a horse? Drowning in the river? Or a mining mishap?â
Jackson yawned. âToo many drownings, pick another method. I donât care which, long as the Mounties stay out of it and you remember to nab the gold and fake claim document. Have fun. Iâm going to take a nap.â
âSure thing, Boss.â Ace closed nodded and closed the door behind him.
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