CHAPTER FOUR
Beaches of Gold

June 28, 1900

This rope goes here.” Sally hammered a wooden stake into the sand.

The tent was halfway up and it flapped in the chilly wind. I tried to help by holding the stakes in my mouth until she and Mama needed them.

Sally and Mama had stayed at a boarding house run by a family called Owen for many days while they found their bearings in Nome and the right place to pitch their tent. No dogs were allowed inside the boarding house, so I slept in the livery with two skinny horses. Sally visited me every day, but the barn was not a home. I was excited when they chose a spot on the beach and moved out of the boarding house.

Crouching, Sally studied the ground. “Look Mama, there is gold in the sand, just like Mr. Owens said.” Letting some slip through her fingers, she picked out several small flakes.

“We’re not here for the gold,” Mama said. “We’ll make a living off the prospectors and shopkeepers. They will need advertising, contracts, and wills.” Poking her head around the side of the tent, she added, “And letters home.”

“But if we find gold, you won’t have to work in an office.” Sally dug again in the sand. “We can stake our own claim and find enough nuggets to buy a house for the winter.”

“That is if we stay.” Mama bent over to pound a stake. “You’ve heard your grandfather’s stories about Nome winters.”

I barked for them to hurry. Summer nights were cold in Alaska; we needed to finish getting the tent up. When the sun finally fell, so would the temperature. Sudden storms sometimes blew in from the sea without warning, and shelter was important. Prickles of fear filled me as the sun dropped lower in the sky—and not just because of the weather.

Nome was a reckless town. Two ladies on the beach attracted a lot of attention, and many men had come by to introduce themselves this afternoon. All had been gentlemen, but that would not always be true. Darkness brought out the worst in men. I needed to stay vigilant. And the tent needed to be up for some protection. I woofed again.

“Yes, we will hurry, Murphy.” Sally checked the tent peg and rope. “We will all need a bath before turning in for the night. You smell like rotten fish and horse droppings, and I smell like cigar smoke and sauerkraut.”

“I doubt the ladies of San Francisco would invite us to tea,” Mama murmured.

Sally laughed. I jumped up to lick her cheek, my paws leaving black streaks on her pinafore. “Oh, Murphy, the ladies would definitely not invite us now,” she said as she tried to brush off the dirt.

When the last stake was in and the tent secure, Sally, Mama, and I eyed it with pride.

“This is our new home,” Sally said softly.

Home. The word sounded wonderful. As wonderful as bacon.

“For now,” Mama said. “Let’s hope we can save enough for a cabin. Though with a can of peaches costing five dollars, we may spend all our money on food. Come. Let’s gather fresh clothes and find a bathhouse. Mrs. Owens said the best one for ladies was in the Dexter Hotel.”

Sally grabbed the end of the trunk and began to drag it inside the tent. When I tried to follow her, she shooed me away. “After your bath, Murphy.”

There was that word again, bath. I had never heard it before.

“When you are clean, you can come in and help us organize our new home.” She dropped the canvas flap.

I stared forlornly at the closed flap, my ears pricked so I could catch their voices. I didn’t want to be away from them for an instant.

“Our money needs to be safe, Mama,” Sally said. “We must have it with us at all times.”

“It has stayed safe in the pocket I sewed in my bloomers.”

“I should carry some as well. In case you are robbed.”

“No gentleman would attempt to tear my bloomers!” Mama gasped.

“These are not all gentlemen.”

Mama sighed. “You are correct, Sally. We were warned—there are no laws in Nome.”

“Yes. Grandmama warned us of that at least ten times a day.” Sally giggled.

“Perhaps we should have heeded her advice.”

“Which has been as constant as the rising sun and as stern as a preacher’s sermons—for the past twelve years of my life.”

“You are only eleven, child.”

“I know.” They both broke into laughter. I did not know what made them so giddy, but the sound made me bark.

Sally threw open the flap. “Murphy says he is ready for his bath.”

“I do not believe the hotel will allow a dog in its washtub.” Mama followed Sally out of the tent, carrying a satchel. “Especially not one as huge and filthy as Murphy.”

“Then we will ask someone where the workers bathe. It will save us money as well.”

Mama stopped. “Oh, Sally, are we lowering ourselves to the status of scullery maids already?”

“We must be practical, Mama, if we are to thrive in Nome—and escape Grandmama’s grip.” She shuddered and I pressed my nose into her palm. She stroked my head. “Perhaps we will make our fortune with your typewriter. Perhaps we will find gold. I don’t care how we survive, but we will. Because I will never go back to San Francisco and Grandmama’s house. Never.”

I did not understand Sally’s words. But I heard the determination in her voice. That same determination had helped me escape from Carlick. Tipping back my head, I bayed like a hound to let Sally know that I understood.