Not much care or attention to detail had gone into the building of the Savoy; the door was soft and badly fitted into its hinges. Richard Sterling threw himself against the door. Unlocked, it crashed open under his weight.
Martha Witherspoon lay across the big central table, screaming at the top of her lungs. Angus MacGillivray was running across the floor, heading for a large body lying at the entrance to the gambling hall. A big man was face down on the floor, blood leaking out from under him. Maggie Brandon still held her pistol, but she appeared vague and confused, as if she didn’t seem to know quite what to do with it.
Sterling charged across the saloon; he vaulted over a chair lying overturned in the middle of the room.
Remembering what the gun was for, Brandon raised it slowly, and aimed it straight at Sterling’s gut. He stopped.
“Put the gun down, ma’am. It’s all over.”
With a flurry of Dawson mud, red silk and black hair, Fiona MacGillivray streamed past him. “You can shoot me, you bitch,” she shouted, “but you leave my son alone.” Fiona ran past Brandon, who didn’t even flinch. Reaching Angus, who was crouching over the body lying limp on the floor, she gathered him into her arms.
“Maggie.” Irene Davidson had followed Sterling. He turned to see her standing in the doorway, the morning light around her. A dark shape was behind her, the Mountie hat unmistakeable, the features in shadow. Behind him, a cluster of officers.
Two men had been dispatched to try to get in through the back and determine if there was a way to gain access to the saloon safely and quietly. They hesitated in the doorway to the gambling hall, waiting for orders.
Martha Witherspoon looked up. Her eyes were wide with terror. She didn’t move.
“Maggie, put the gun down,” Irene said, her voice calm. “I have the tickets.” Brandon patted her skirt pocket with her free hand. “We’re leaving on the noon boat. San Francisco is supposed to be a good place.”
“A very nice place, I’m sure, but I’m not going with you, Maggie.”
Sterling wanted to scream at her. To tell Irene to play along. If they could get Brandon to think she would get what she wanted and put the gun down, it would all be over.
“Not going?” “No. I want to stay in Dawson. They like me here, Maggie.”
“They like you,” Brandon said, her words carrying the weight of the world behind them. Her head and shoulders shook like a dog coming out of the sea, and she raised the gun with steady hands. “Who the hell cares what they like. You belong with me. Once we’re away from this wicked place, you’ll see that all the fancy women mean nothing. You’ll understand I’m the only one.”
“No, I won’t.” Miss Davidson’s voice was a whisper. “I’m staying, Maggie. Why did you have to kill them? That man? I scarcely even knew him.”
“He was a sneak, always watching, listening, following people. He knew about us. He wanted money to keep quiet.”
“Chloe? She was harmless.”
“She had to die.” Brandon started to cry. Big, fat tears ran silently down her cheeks. “That ugly strumpet fooled you; she wasn’t your friend.”
“She wouldn’t have told. I knew how to keep her sweet.”
“Oh, Irene.” Brandon’s words were as light as a butterfly on the wind.
She lifted the gun.
“No,” Sterling yelled. He flew across the floor, kicking chairs out of the way.
Maggie Brandon put the gun to her temple. “I will always love you, Irene,” she whispered as she pulled the trigger.