On December 3rd, Teddy came down with the flu. His face was flushed, he had a temperature, and his eyes were glazed. I filled a tub with cool water for his bath and Millie gave him some herbal medicine, which brought the fever down a bit.

Teddy wants Bean-Trap to stay home with him. Bean-Trap looks kind of helpless sitting there, but seems determined to do the right thing.

“Tell me a story,” Teddy murmurs.

Bean-Trap scratches his head. His hair has grown longer than usual and is quite shaggy, as is his beard and scraggly mustache. “I got business pressures,” he’d said gruffly when I mentioned his appearance. “I don’t have time to think about my looks.” But I know his real problem is Black Mike Michaluk.

“A story,” Teddy repeats.

“Okay. I know one. It seems....”

“No! You have to say ‘Once upon a time!’”

“Oh, okay.” Bean-Trap clears his throat and starts again. “Once upon a time there lived a famous casino card player, a Greek man named Nico Zographos. He was the boss of the Greek Syndicate, a huge organization that operated famous casinos in France, at Cannes and Deauville.

“Nico specialized in a game called baccarat, where the bank is auctioned off among the players. Highest bidder takes all. His bid sets the amount the other players bet against.”

Teddy nods, quick to catch on.

Bean-Trap begins pacing the floor, swinging his great arms for emphasis. “So, one night at the casino in Deauville, Nico stands up and cries, ’Tout va!’ This means there are no limits-his syndicate will cover any bet that a player wants to make.”

“Were they really rich?”

“Really rich. But he’s taking a big, big risk-the syndicate’s money could all be lost on this one game-a game with the biggest and best gamblers in the world around the table.”

“That’s brave!” Teddy says.

“Brave, yes, but Nico’s also smart! And he’s an expert at baccarat. He can count faster than any man alive. Six packs-three hundred and twelve cards-are used in this game. They’re dealt from a shoe, until less than nine cards are left. Then six more packs are shuffled, cut, and dumped into the shoe.”

He leans toward Teddy, almost whispering, “Nico was so good, that when only nine cards were left he could name what they were. That means he could remember every card that had been played-over three hundred of ‘em!”

Teddy’s eyes are shining, from the fever and from excitement.

“Well, the great gamble worked, and hundreds of dollars changed hands. The syndicate cleaned up.

“They were honest men,” Bean-Trap continues. “Their win was based on skill. They took one percent in profit and the rest went to the players.”

“How much profit do you take?” I ask.

He ignores me.

“But one night, a few years later, Nico gets himself into real hot water. The syndicate has been losing for a long time, some said they were down to their last million francs. That’s French money, and not very much. So, the big gamblers closed in for the kill, like a pack of wolves circling a moose stuck in a ten-foot snowbank.

“They force the syndicate to put up all its money on one game-everything could be lost with the turn of one card! When the cards were dealt the other players had good cards, but Nico-he drew the King of Hearts and the Queen of Spades-horrible! Nico got one more chance. He drew a third card, hoping it would improve his luck.

“No one around the table dared to breathe. Nico drew his card, and turned it over. The nine of diamonds!”

“The Curse of Scotland!” Teddy yelps.

“Right, son. Good boy. Well, it was the best card old Nico could possibly have drawn. With that nine of diamonds, he won the game, and the syndicate’s fortune was saved. After that, the nine of diamonds became his good-luck charm. He put it on everything-dishes, cuff-links, even on the flag he flew from his boat. With that nine of diamonds, the Greek Syndicate was out of danger, and on its way to fame and fortune.”

“Are those men still playing?”

“You bet. An old gambler never dies-he just throws in his chips,” he laughs.

I can’t help but notice that Bean-Trap’s big gold-rimmed teeth are stained yellow from the plug tobacco he buys now, instead of expensive cigars. He refuses to clean his teeth with baking soda and salt, like Mom taught us to do. I know he hadn’t been having the good luck Nico did; his nine of diamonds was still out there, but how could we know when it would turn up?

Early the next morning I awake to a knock at the door. Bean-Trap is still sleeping so I answer it.

A man dressed in tanned moosehide from head to foot stands in the doorway: a jacket decorated with beadwork and long fringes on the arms and across the chest, breeches, high wraparound mukluks, and gauntlet-type mitts that reach almost to his elbows. I can tell he was not from around here. He has ice-blue eyes the colour of a Husky dog’s, wild black hair, and a black beard. He is tall and strong, and obviously surprised to see me. He turns as if to leave, but then changes his mind and speaks, with a strange-sounding accent.

“Missy, I’m looking for your fadder.”

I turn to glance back into the cabin, and nearly jump out of my skin. Dad is sitting up in bed with his revolver pointed at the door-and me. I dart to one side, leaving the stranger in firing range. Quick as a flash, the stranger removes a mitt and draws a gun.

I scream.

“Get away from here!” Bean-Trap yells. The stranger nods to me and backs down the path, his gun still pointed. When he has receded into the trees, I reach over and kick the door shut. My heart is pounding and I can’t speak. Dad still sits up in bed, his revolver resting on the covers between his knees.

“I told them never to come to the house!” he says. “Especially that one.”

“Black Mike Michaluk,” I say, certain he was the famed bandit.

Teddy sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“Black Mike was here, and I was sleeping!” he says, peeved that he missed the action. “I wanted to meet him,” he pouts. It is obvious he is over his fever.

Bean-Trap flings back his covers and strides over to Teddy’s bed, still holding his gun. He’s wearing the same set of long underwear he’s had forever. “You don’t ever want to meet people like him!” he barks at Teddy, who cowers under the covers. Bean-Trap looks at his hand, realizes he’s packing the gun, and lays it on the table. “Sorry, kids. That won’t happen again.”

He slumps down onto a wooden chair. I look over at the table, and suddenly I bite my lip. I’d been looking in my treasure box earlier that morning, re-reading Jay’s letters. His last one is lying in full view. I feel a wave of nausea as Bean-Trap picks it up. He leans forward, squints, and begins silently mouthing the words. When he turns to look at me, his face is red with fury.

“Smith! You’re writing to that no-good Smith?”

“I did. Once,” I say defiantly.

“Oh, you did, once! Well, ain’t that nice. So even after I tell you it was his old man burned me out in Eagle, you still write and let them know where I am!” Dad rises so quickly that his chair falls over backwards. “Well, I got something to say to you!” He takes Jay’s letter and rips it once, twice, then again and again until no piece is larger than a postage stamp. “If Jed Smith sends the cops out here after me, you, little lady, can take full blame!”

That does it. “You can’t blame me for your problems! You are always in trouble, and it’s nothing to do with me, or Jay Smith. You’re in trouble right now with Black Mike Michaluk!”

He leaps toward me, grabs the collar of mydress, and jerks me up until I’m swaying on my tiptoes. I stare at him straight in the eye and our gazes lock for several seconds. He lets me go.

“What’s the use,” he says. “I try to do good, raise my kids the only way I know how. Nothing works out. There’s no use in a fellow like me trying to go straight.”

Teddy is sobbing and I feel awful. “It’s okay, anyway,” I say. “Jay is moving to a sawmill in the middle of nowhere, somewhere way up the Alaska highway. I can’t write him anymore.”

“Don’t matter. We’re blowing out of here soon. Going south, into the Slocan Valley area, southern B.C. I hear there’s dough there, lots of miners. Lots of gold yet in the hills. Get ready. Maybe we’ll leave tonight, or tomorrow night. Trouble’s coming, and when it does this place is gonna blow sky-high.”

He gets up, quickly dresses, and leaves without washing or eating. I have a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. There’ll be a showdown at “the gaff.” I’m sure of it.

In the afternoon, Ernie and Pat ask Teddy to go outside and play. Millie’s little girls have the flu, so we can’t visit in case we get it. I clean up the cabin, bake a cake, and while it’s cooling, decide to go to the trading post to buy some supplies.

Mr. Benton is talking to a group of men, and no one sees me enter. I am standing behind a row of high shelves looking at bolts of cloth when I hear the men mention the names Black Mike and Bean-Trap. I stay quiet to listen.

“...met his match...both scoundrels.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t doubt they knew each other up in Alaska or somewhere. Those kind band together.”

“...either partners in some crooked business, or they’ll kill each other over who gets what,” one man snorts. “Black Mike’s loot came from bad business-worse even than Bean-Trap’s. At least we know where Bean-Trap gets his money!”

“Yeah...from us!” another man says. “Hey, Benton, you seen the colour of Black Mike’s dough?”

“Yeah, I saw it,” Mr. Benton replies. “And I’m not saying a thing about it. A man lives longer that way.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?”

There’s a long silence.

“Of course. The American transport plane that went down last February out in the Tuchodi Lakes region. Right?”

“Funny no one’s ever spotted it. Supposed to be loaded with payroll-American money-and pure gold.” The man’s tone becomes sly. “I recall seeing some of that here lately. Wonder what the police would say if American currency showed up in Weasel City?”

I don’t even breathe. Bean-Trap’s money, the money I watch him count each night when he comes home from “the gaff,” has lately included gold and American money!

“Wonder how many men he had to finish off to rob the downed plane?”

“Oh, come on!” Mr. Benton slaps something onto the counter; the sound makes me jump. His voice has an angry tone. “So a plane crashed into a mountain. That happens often around here, especially with American pilots inexperienced in northern flying. Likely everyone on board was killed on impact. You can’t say just because a prospector shows up with a bag of foreign coin, he’s knocked someone off.

“Let’s say you come across an American air force transport plane-a C-49-crashed on the side of a mountain, eighty miles south-southwest of Fort Nelson. There in the snow lies the payroll, half a million bucks in leather pouches, and gold, shining in the sun just like it fell from heaven.

“Now, you can’t do a thing for these men. Someone will find them sooner or later, and take their i.d. to the Air Force so their families can be told-but who’ll get the money? The United States government, that’s who! Any of you boys have a particular allegiance to Uncle Sam?”

Mr. Benton pauses to look around.

“The money’s there, and the gold, just like you find it lying in riverbeds, only this time it’s in leather bags, ready to go,” he continues. “So, let’s say Black Mike stumbles on the wreckage, picks up the coin, comes into Weasel City, drops a bit in Bean-Trap’s gambling joint, a bit more here outfitting himself for next year’s mining. Can’t hang a man for that!”

The men mutter, and I hear them shuffle out, one by one. I wait a few minutes, then emerge from my hiding place.

“Well! How long have you been there?” Mr. Benton asks.

“I just came in,” I mutter. Mr. Benton’s eyes crinkle slightly. He knows I’m lying, but he’s going to let me get away with it. That’s the code of the North-hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing. You learn that early on, and as Mr. Benton said, you live longer that way.

I buy some thread and a box of baking soda, put it on Bean-Trap’s bill, and head for home. I can’t get what I’ve overheard out of my mind. Did Black Mike really find a wrecked plane and rob it? Were the people all dead? Some of the money Bean-Trap has won from Black Mike is cached under our floor. Dead men’s-maybe murdered men’s-money.

I see Millie standing in the doorway of her cabin. “I won’t come in, I know the kids are sick,” I say, “but....” Suddenly I don’t know what to say so I run down the path. I hear her call, “Goodbye!” and turn and give a quick farewell wave. Her hair is neatly done in a coiled braid, and she’s wearing an apron over a blue-flowered dress. Later, I remember her that way.

Back at the cabin, I put more wood on the fire and try not to think about leaving Weasel City.

When Teddy returns, I run to the door and hug him hard. He squawks, and I laugh at myself for getting so spooked.

After supper, Teddy and I read stories, but neither of us wants to hear the scary ones. I take out the Bible and start reading from Genesis, but I soon realize I’ve made a bad choice. Abraham is told by God to sacrifice his son.

“Take your son,” God says, “your only son, Isaac, whom you love so much, and go to the land of Moriah. There on a mountain, offer him as a sacrifice to me.”

I think of other peoples’ sons sacrificed on a mountain not far from here, and the gold that rests in a canvas bag under the floorboards beneath our feet.

Teddy soon tires and goes to bed. I can’t sleep so I sit up late with the lamp turned down low just thinking. I can’t read in the poor light and I’ve already read everything here anyway and I can’t write in my journal because Bean-Trap might discover it and cause trouble.

All I can do is think. I think of Jay and Bugs and wish they were here to cheer me up and tell me stories of Jay’s famous uncle, a pilot named Midnight Smith. I decide to write Jay and hope that Bean-Trap won’t find the letter before I can mail it. As I write, I know it will be the last letter

I’ll ever send from Weasel City.

Dear Jay:

We’re moving, very soon. Bean-Trap found your letter and got really mad. I told him you’d moved and were somewhere up the Alaska highway but he tore up your letter and forbade me to write you anymore. We might be moving south to stay ahead of the trouble that seems to follow Bean-Trap wherever we go. I’ll try to write again when we get settled.

Your friend, Loretta.

I seal the envelope, hide it inside my coat pocket, and plan to take it to the trading post tomorrow.

I fall asleep imagining Jay and I-and Teddy-flying over the mountains in his uncle’s plane. Suddenly, we crash against a rocky cliff and the plane bursts into flames, pieces of metal shooting into the sky. I’m lying on the ground, someone is kicking me, reaching into my pockets, stealing my letters.

I wake up, sweating, breathing in gasps. Before I can figure out if I’m awake, the door flies open and Bean-Trap rushes in.

“Quick! Get up, Loretta! We have to pack! Wake Teddy! We’re leaving! NOW!”