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had pulled a metal bar out of his jacket, and with an angry shout swung it at Sterling’s head.
    The bar never connected. Instead Sam dropped the weapon, clutched his lower side and crumbled to the ground, all in one smooth movement.
    Angus MacGillivray stood over him, rubbing his right fist.
    â€œAngus,” Sterling said. “Thought I told you to run for the Fort if there was trouble.”
    â€œDidn’t think I had enough time, sir.” “Here, you help this gentleman, and I’ll take care of the other one.” Angus took over the support of the old Indian, and Sterling dragged Sam to his feet. “Assaulting an officer of the law. It’s a blue ticket for you, if I’m not mistaken.” He looked at Jannis. “Coming with your friend?”
    Jannis shrugged his expensively-draped shoulders and straightened his cravat. “Never laid eyes on this ruffian before today.”
    â€œThat was quite the punch,” Sterling told Angus as they led the two moaning men, one carefully, one with much less consideration, to Fort Herchmer.
    â€œTo the kidneys, sir. He was wide open, lifting that bar up that way. Sergeant Lancaster told me a good solid blow to the kidneys will bring a man down every time.”
    â€œNot very sporting.” “Sergeant Lancaster told me that too, sir. He said you never hit a man below the belt in a fair fight.”
    â€œWell, that wasn’t a fair fight. You did good, Angus. But next time—if there is a next time—run to the Fort, will you?”
    â€œYes, sir. What will happen to these two now, sir?” “This one will get a blue ticket and be out of town by nightfall. Permanently. The old Indian? I’ll send someone to fetch one of the ladies from St. Paul’s. They’ll give him a hot meal and a bed in the church for the night and see he gets home to Moosehide tomorrow.” “But he’ll drink again. Why won’t he stop drinking?” “Don’t judge, Angus. The white man took everything from his people and gave them only disease in return. Alcohol is as much a disease for Indians as smallpox or typhoid. It takes longer to kill them, that’s all.”

Chapter Six
    I was in a fine temper when I got home. A bird flew overhead as I crossed the yard. It was a tiny thing, lost and confused amongst the noise and bustle of Dawson, no doubt searching for a tree to nest in, but she was out of luck—the trees had all been chopped down for lumber and firewood.
    I stormed into the laundry shed and stripped down to my bloomers—even my petticoat was filthy—right there and then. Mary and Mrs. Mann watched me with wide eyes. Huge vats of boiling water steamed over open fires, and acres of sheets were being rung out on a wooden press ready to go on the line, which was already filling the yard with men’s undergarments and shirts, billowing in the wind. The whole place smelled of a disgusting mixture of lye soap, filthy water and unwashed men’s clothes.
    â€œIf this isn’t the most God-forsaken town,” I shouted, bundling the dress into a ball and stuffing it into Mrs. Mann’s arms. Mary was holding the huge wooden paddle they used to stir the laundry in the hot water as if this were a tennis court and she were about to return my serve. “I might as well go to work in sackcloth and ashes. I expect you to take care of that dress, Mary. It has scarcely been worn.”
    â€œYes, Mrs. Fiona.”
    I had to cross the yard to get back to the house. I snatched a clean sheet off the folding table and wrapped it securely over my corset, bloomers and stockings. “I’ll bring this back,” I snarled as I stalked out. I had once worn a sheet to an extremely daring party at Lord Alveron’s Welsh country house. The party was so daring, in fact, that it could only have been held as far away from London, and Alveron’s grandmother, as he could get. The sheet was