Chapter 3: Gold, Silver, and Scotch

Two days later, the late afternoon air was crisp as Kodiak walked along the boardwalk of Lincoln Street toward the hand-hewn timber building of the Sitka Trading Company. He passed beneath the steeply pitched gable roof and stepped through the recessed doorway.

Inside, a long, heavy pine service counter stretched before floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with all manner of goods and wares. Overhead log tie-beams and timber walls held an assortment of pelts and furs: land otter and beaver brought in by local Tlingit traders, sea otter trapped from the sound, mink, red fox, arctic fox, and bearskins. Hundreds of pelts of every description filled the room, with surplus stock neatly stacked and baled in protective canvas along the floor. The space hung heavy with a damp, earthy aroma—musk from raw pelts and the sharp, dry tang of cured leather. In the far corner of the counter, a teller stood before a heavy cast-iron safe, flanked by a balance scale, brass weights, and a set of bound ledgers.

Kodiak approached the counter. “Good afternoon.”

“Afternoon, Kodiak. What can I do for you?”

Kodiak presented the draft letter Mosley had written him that morning. “This is from Mr. Mosley. He’s new in town.”
The teller took the paper, examining the signature with a practiced eye. “Yes, met him a couple of days ago. Daft Englishman… how would you like this exchanged?”

“I’d like one hundred dollars in cash—ninety in gold, ten in silver. I’ll also need a two-hundred-dollar note for Mr. Walker.”

“Very good,” the teller acknowledged.

“And I’d like to transfer two hundred to Juneau so I can withdraw it there.”

“Will you be sending that via Wells Fargo or Northern Pacific?”

“Wells Fargo.”
“There’s a one-dollar surcharge.”

“Take it out of the silver, please.”

“Of course. Give me a few minutes.”

The teller opened his record book, drafted the payment to the innkeeper, and entered the transaction into the ledger. Next, he penned a draft on Wells Fargo stationery and placed the notice in the outgoing mail tray for the steamship clerk.

“You hear they’re planning on putting in a telegraph line?” the teller asked casually as he returned to the counter.
“You don’t say?”

“Military ordnance, supposed to begin planning it out next year. Then we won’t be having to send these notes back and forth by steamship.”

Glancing up briefly to scan the room, the teller unlocked the safe and pulled open its heavy iron drawer. He counted out three twenty-dollar double eagles, two ten-dollar eagles, and two five-dollar half-eagles—the small gold discs sounding with heavy, dead thuds on the pine. Nine Morgan silver dollars followed, ringing sharply against the wood.

Kodiak swept the coins into his leather purse, the heavy jangle of silver and gold settling deep in his pocket. He took a moment to appreciate the weight—unable to recall the last time the leather had pulled so hard against his belt—before gathering the innkeeper's voucher and the steamship receipt.

“Gonna be spending the winter in Juneau, I see,” the teller remarked.

“Looks like it,” Kodiak said, folding the notes into his coat pocket.

“Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well, good luck out there to you, Kodiak. Hope to see you next year.”

“Much obliged.”
Kodiak nodded, then stepped further down the heavy pine counter to where the clerk stood. Reaching into his front coat pocket, he pulled out a folded slip of paper written in Mosley’s neat, narrow hand. “Afternoon. I have a list of supplies to order.”

The clerk—a man in his twenties wearing a clean linen smock—took the paper and unfolded it. “Shouldn’t be a problem with any of this. I can have it ready for you by noon tomorrow. Where would you like it delivered?”

“Have it dropped off at the hotel.”

“All right, sir.” The clerk made a quick entry in the store’s work log. “How will you be paying?”

“Charge it to the account for an Englishman named Mosley.”

The clerk glanced down the counter toward the bank teller. Receiving a nod of confirmation, he jotted Mosley’s name into the customer ledger. “All right, we’ll have this sent over for Mr. Mosley tomorrow morning.”

“Appreciate it.” Kodiak paused, tapping his knuckles against the wood. “Add a couple of bottles of whiskey to that, if you would.”

The clerk grinned. “American or Scotch?”

“Make it Scotch.”
“You got it. Pleasure doing business with you, Kodiak.”

“Same to you.” Kodiak tipped his hat, turned, and stepped out through the doorway into the crisp late-afternoon air.

Sunlight was fading fast over Baranof Island, casting long shadows across the mud-churned thoroughfare. As Kodiak stepped back out onto the street, the heavy weight of ninety-nine dollars in gold and silver pulled against his belt with every step. Crossing Lincoln Street to the boardwalk past the Post Office, he headed into the newer, American-built section of town.

Inside, the Sitka Hotel saloon was filling up for the evening. Stampeders and grizzled locals clustered over drinks alongside a few local women, the warm room thick with pipe smoke, stale beer, and the scent of damp wool. Kodiak cut through the crowd toward the bar, where Walker stood pouring a glass of whiskey. Out on the floor, the old man’s grandson hustled between tables, wiping sticky wood and clearing empty glasses.

“Howdy,” Kodiak called out. “Business good tonight?”

“Just fine, just fine—Connor, boy, move that washrag faster!”

“Yes, sir!”
“Lousy good-for-nothin’,” Walker muttered, leaning his forearms on the bar and looking Kodiak square in the eye. “Speaking of good-for-nothins...”

“I’ve got you covered here, and then some.” Kodiak reached into his coat and laid the folded note from the teller onto the counter.

Walker picked it up, unfolding the paper to read the teller's mark. “Well now, ain’t that kind of you? And after all I hear about you being a cheap, mean scoundrel.”

Kodiak clapped the old man on the shoulder. “You’ve been good to me these last couple years. Least I can do.”

Walker stepped out from behind the counter and caught Kodiak in a sudden, rough embrace, patting his wide shoulders. “You’re good people, Kodiak. You’re welcome back anytime, y’hear?”

“Appreciate it,” Kodiak said, stepping back. “Have you seen Mosley?”

“Limey’s up in his room. Got his dinner order,” the innkeeper chuckled. “Gonna send the boy up with it later.”

“Best go have a word with him before that,” Kodiak nodded. “By the way—the store’s sending a mess of supplies over tomorrow for him. Just keep them downstairs. We’re taking them with us to Juneau.”

“Gonna have a lot of fun up there,” a customer chimed in, sliding onto the stool next to Kodiak and dropping a nickel onto the wood. Kodiak shifted his weight and leaned on the counter.
Walker paused to pour the man's drink before turning back. “Women in Juneau get lonely over the winter. All them ladies don’t have their regulars lining their little petticoats. Man like you should be in for a mighty good time.”

“You know I will,” Kodiak said with a grin, tapping his purse. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got business with my employer.”

“Go on with it then,” Walker said, reaching for a bottle of Scotch as Kodiak turned for the stairs, adjusting the heavy leather coin purse hanging by his belt as he climbed upwards.
Kodiak knocked on the door. “Mr. Mosley, it’s me. I’ve just come back from the trading company.”

“Just a moment,” came a familiar British voice, faint from the other side.

Kodiak heard the scrape of wood as Mosley pushed back his desk chair, followed by the crisp, light click of leather heels across the floorboards.

Mosley opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Kodiak. Do come in.”

“Thank you.” Kodiak nodded, stepping inside as Mosley smoothed his waistcoat.

“Please, have a seat,” Mosley gestured.

“No, thank you. I’ll be brief. I know you’re waiting on your supper.”

“Quite right,” Mosley said, pulling his desk chair out and sitting down. “I trust everything went smoothly with the local provisioner?”

“Yes. Supplies will be dropped off tomorrow morning. I also settled my accounts in town, so we’re clear to leave whenever you’re ready.”

“Excellent. I had a productive day myself with the local magistrate and have nearly everything sorted. There is one loose end, however—a trading post my father owned nearby. Apparently, no one has made contact with them all season.”

Kodiak raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Where’s the post?”

“A cove out near Silver Bay.”
“Hm. That’s a couple hours south by water. Plenty of trappers and small mining outfits up those inlets. Odd that no one’s heard a word from them.”

“Would it be possible for us to pay them a visit? Reconnoiter the area?”

Kodiak nodded. “If we leave at first light, a couple of Tlingit traders can take us out in a dugout canoe. It’s the fastest way along the shoreline.”

“The native watercraft, yes? I don’t suppose there’ll be time for a proper breakfast?”
“We’ll pack smoked salmon and biscuits. Just be up by five tomorrow—we need to be on the beach before six.”

“Why so early?”
“The ebb tide pulls out just after six. Miss it, and pad-ling against the inlet chop gets twice as hard. We’ll catch the flood tide back before dusk.”

“Right then, five o’clock it is.” Mosley stood up. “Care to join me for supper? It would be a pleasure to have your company once more.”
“Mr. Mosley, I don’t know if that’s entirely appropriate—”

“Nonsense. We have much to discuss before tomorrow’s venture. Come now, don’t be a spoilsport. Give the kitchen’s menu a thought, and I’ll ring for the boy to take our order.”

Kodiak looked at the Englishman for a moment, felt the heavy drag of the hard money at his hip, and let out a quiet breath. “Suit yourself,” he said, and pulled out a chair.