Gold Dust by Emily Krokosz Page A

Hayes turned out to be a crook. Jonah Armstrong had very definite ideas about what women should
     do and should not do, and what Katy wanted to do certainly didn’t fit his picture of what was proper or possible. Too bad.
     She was beginning to like the fellow, even if he was too citified to be of much use. It would be a shame if he got into trouble.
    “Miss O’Connell?” Captain Jeffries’ voice boomed from behind her. “I believe the time has come when I can be rid of you. The
     next raft is the last.”
    “I appreciate the ride, Captain,” Katy said as she picked up her valise.
    “Just don’t let me catch you on my ship again, young woman.”
    As she started down the companionway to the lower deck, Hunter at her side, the captain’s mouth twitched in what might have
     been the sparse beginnings of a smile. “And Miss O’Connell…”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You know how to do a day’s work. Good luck to you.”
    Katy smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
    She would need luck, Katy admitted when the raft finally beached against the sand and she and the other passengers waded through
     cold, calf-deep water to dry land. Everywhere was confusion: men shouting, dogs barking, mules braying, carts creaking and
     rumbling. Towering above the tents, noise, and chaos were the mountains the goldseekers had to cross to reach the goldfields.
     Wrapped in dignified, eternal silence, the great massifs frowned down upon the town that sat so precariously on its little
     fluvial fan of a beach. Looking at the mountains, Katy almost felt dizzy. Her heart expanded at the awesome splendor.
    But less poetic concerns had to be dealt with, such as finding a place to sleep and something to eat—and in the long run,
     buying the supplies she needed for the trek to the goldfields.
    She called Hunter from where he was dodging in and out of the little waves that foamed onto the sand. “Playtime’s over,” she
     told him. “Time to go to work.” With the possibilities of gainful employment in mind, Katy set out to explore the town.
    The exploration did not take much time. The mountains and the sea left little room for civilization to gain more than a toehold
     on the edge of the land. The Skaguay River flowed out of the mountains to a sandy beach. Perched on that beach and the little
     river plain behind was the scraggle of tents and hastily constructed shelters that was Alaska’s newest boomtown. The streets
     of the town were muddy paths running between ramshackle structures. The canvas walls of the tents flapped and shivered in
     the wind and sagged beneath the wet weight of the drippy weather.
    Yet, for all its humble appearance, Skaguay teemed with life. The beach was not the only area that was busy. The streets were
     clogged with humanity as well as mud. Carts bumped their way through muddy ruts, horses stood with heads down in the cold
     drizzle, dogs barked and wove through the traffic, chasing each other, nosing people and garbage, and generally getting in
     the way. Katy turned up a street and saw a pig rooting through a heap of refuse behind a large tent. The tent boasted a brightly
     painted sign that promised a delicious dinner for seventy-five cents. The pig obviously thought the food was delicious, until
     a pack of three dogs spotted it and set off in pursuit with pork dinner on their minds. The pig ducked into the next tent
     down the line, a large, dingy gray structure from which lively piano music emerged. The pack of dogs followed. Several bulges
     in the canvas walls bore evidence of the fracas inside, as did the thumps and curses audible above the piano music, whichnever faltered. A moment later, all three dogs shot through the tent exit, tails between their legs. The pig stayed.
    Katy laughed and scratched Hunter’s head with one finger. He looked up at her with a wolfish smile, tongue lolling. “Yes,”
     Katy agreed. “Wolves are much smarter than dogs. There’s no denying it. If you had taken out after that pig,