Worth His Weight in Gold

The saloon doors swung open followed by a frigid wind and a quick accumulation of snow. A rude chorus amounted to a demand for the stranger to shut the doors. He did so, taking his time, and brushed the snow off his fur hat and shoulders. In the heat of the room, warmed by a blazing cast iron stove, the melting ice on his long beard dripped to the floor. The saloon stunk of stale cigars, cheap whiskey, and filthy miners. 

“Well if it ain’t Stonewall Jackson himself,” said a black mustache with a man behind it. He was leaning back in a chair at a card table, surrounded by depressed players staring at losing hands. “Look at that beard fellas” There were a few laughs from the other players who bothered to look at the stranger, more bear than man, eyeing the place. Most had beards of equal proportion. The mustached man at the table thought his wit deserved more attention. “Say, Stonewall, I thought you bought it at Chancellorsville. But here you are, with a new left arm as well.”

That got others in the room to look up. There was no sign of recognition other than that he must have gone through hell on a night like this. Outside, a blizzard was blowing, the sound of it like a freight train in a town where there were no tracks. When the wind took a break, you could hear sled dogs whining or yelping as they lay under the snow. This one, this stranger, must have come straight from his claim on the worst night of the year. Back home, wherever home was for this lot, it was Christmas or thereabouts. Here, in the hinterlands of the Yukon, at the cold foot of the trail that led to the goldfields, it was just another freezing miserable night.

The men at the tables played their games, some griping and throwing their cards down in disgust. Only Mustache was in a good mood. He was clearly up if his grin and his order of more whiskey for his prey were any hints. Or the pile in front of him; gold coins, gold nuggets, a gold watch, and at least one old revolver in its Mexican holster.

Mustache eyed the stranger who was hobbling to the counter. His boots were wrapped in fur, possibly wolf, maybe wolverine. He kept his heavy coat on for now, despite the heat from the leaky woodstove, sweat starting to take over from the melted ice on his beard. The stranger pulled a heavy bag from his coat pocket and tossed it onto the counter with a loud thud. There was a moment of quiet in the room. “Whiskey please,” he said to the wide-eyed bartender. “F-F-Friend,” he stuttered. “F-F-Friend, that poke could buy this whole establishment.” Others at the bar eyed the pouch. “I’ll just take a pinch. That’ll do,” said the bartender.

The bartender put some gold dust on a scale in front of the stranger and measured out no more than half a teaspoon. “Yessiree, that’ll do you for a few. I’ve got good stuff too, Canadian, if you’re inclined.” The stranger nodded and downed the first shot in one gulp.

Mustache whispered something to a man at his table, who looked up at the stranger and left the table. 

“Got lucky Stonewall. Looks like you did pretty fine out there in the great beyond.”

The bearded stranger turned to Mustache. His sapphire blue eyes locked on the gambler. That man's mustache curled up suggesting there was a smile in there. Not a friendly smile. His dark eyes squinted just a bit. His cheeks rose in accordance with the challenge.

“Not luck,” said the stranger, his back to the room. He returned to the counter and gestured to the bartender who poured out more whiskey. 

“Not luck you say?” Mustache looked about the saloon, hands lifted to the air. “Well, then you must have a nose for it. A good nose, too, to get past your own scent. I’d use some of that poke to get yourself a hot bath and some new clothes.” The laughs ended when the stranger turned around.

“That’s my intent,” he said. “After I see to my dogs.”

“Got a nose for them, too?” said Mustache. He wasn’t grinning now. “Why don’t you sit for a hand first? Next whiskey’s on me. It’ll might kill the smell.” Mustache was the only one laughing now.

“I got better things to do,” said the stranger. 

“Suit yourself,” said Mustache. “Anyway, I gotta see a man about a horse.”

Mustache left the table, took his winnings, stuffed the revolver in his belt, and went to the doors. He made an exaggerated struggle to push the door open against the blizzard’s strength. Turning to the saloon he gave a wink.  

Mustache wasn’t gone for more than a few minutes when the patrons heard a bark, then a howl, then a scream. And a gunshot. Everyone jumped. Gunshots, even in this raw town, were rare. Out in the fields, if the cold didn’t get you, starvation probably would; other than some drunken fistfights, violence wasn't needed. The stranger jumped at the sounds as well, glaring as Mustache flew back leaving the door open and the snow pummeling in.

“Goddamn, someone get me a rag,” Mustache said.

“What the hell was that all about?” asked the bartender tossing him a whiskey-soaked towel. There was blood, a lot of it, pouring between his fingers as he gripped his thigh through torn pants.

“Goddamned dog bit me. Just like that. Son of a bitch probably got rabies,” he said trying to laugh. “He ain’t gonna bite me again, that’s for sure.” Mustache was on the floor, squeezing the towel over his wound. “Someone get me whiskey,” he demanded.

A miner handed him a green bottle, which Mustache poured over his thigh. “You’ll be good for that I hope,” said the miner. “I’m good for it,” said Mustache. “Don’t piss me off more than that damn wolf out there.”  

“A dog, huh,” said a miner hovering over him. “What happened?”

“Damn dog was lying right in front of the steps, stupid thing. Blocking my way. I kicked him, that’s all. He growled, and I kicked him again. Sonofabitch rose up and bit me just like that,” said Mustache. “Ruined a good pair of pants, too.”

The stranger threw his glass on the floor, shattering it. He pushed the saloon doors open and ran out. The wind shut them with a bang louder than the earlier gunshot. There was another howl, almost human. It sent chills down the spines of the men in the room. Some understood. Most understood. A dog, a good dog, a big dog. A dog was the most important friend. And Mustache, a man who mined his gold at the card table, had just crossed a line.

The doors swung open again. The stranger stood there, shaking. The snow and wind blowing his hair made him look as crazy as his red eyes. He held a massive animal in his arms, its beautiful grey fur disturbed only by a large patch of blood spreading over its shoulders.

It might have been melting snow dripping down the stranger’s cheeks, but these men who knew the value of a dog knew otherwise. Those at the card tables moved back. The ones at the bar stepped aside. 

“You shot my boy. You killed my Mister Phelps,” he said, his voice shaking. “My lead dog.”

“Well, he bit me, damn it. Look at my leg,” said Mustache. “Why didn’t you tie that thing up? You owe me for this leg. And these pants. Cost me $50 in Dawson. $50! I’ve half a mind to report you the Mounties.” He sat there cradling his leg, moaning away.

A voice from the back of the saloon spoke up. “No Mounties here. They come by every couple of weeks, but they're not here now. And you murdered his lead dog. You don’t do that.” Heads around nodded.

“Look at my leg!” said Mustache.

“You could’ve stepped over him,” said the bartender.

A grizzled man spoke up. “I did just that when I came in,” he said. “Patted him on the head, too. Nice dog that.”

The stranger lifted Mister Phelps to his face. There was one brief sob. He took the dog outside. The wind kept the doors open long enough for everyone to watch him put Mister Phelps down on the snow-covered wooden walk. He nuzzled the dog and touched its head. He seemed to be talking to it.

When he came back in he stared down at Mustache, a pained look on his face. He reached into his coat and came out with that big poke of gold dust. It had to weigh two, maybe three pounds if it weighed an ounce.

“Whoa there Stonewall. Let’s just call it even. Or maybe enough just to pay for these pants. What say you?” 

The stranger grabbed Mustache by the collar and dragged him outside. “What the hell?” Mustache’s protest was meek; no one came to his aid. The wind blew the doors closed with another bang. If any of the miners heard the screaming they didn’t let on. When the stranger came back, he announced he was in the market for a dog and would pay up for one. Then, dropping a blood-soaked leather pouch on the counter, he announced, “Drinks on me.”

“A good dog he was?” asked a grateful miner.

“Worth his weight in gold,” said the stranger. “Worth his weight in gold.”