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don’t know.”
    â€œHas he gone to get us something to eat?”
    Anna paused. The two of them stared out of the window.
    â€œYes,” she said. “I think so.”

11
    Peacemaker
    H ow things unwind.
    Mean and makeshift, the black heart of the brawling, gambling, thieving, starving slop bucket of Nome was its half-built saloon. With no way out of the camp, even those with money or gold had soon realized that they couldn’t buy food or drink if there’s none to be had, and the saloon was the last supply of both.
    Einar went up to the bar, a few eyes on him, but many too absorbed in their own problems to worry about the idiot who’d brought two kids and a woman who wasn’t a whore to this hellhole.
    He stood at the bar.
    The barkeep, a thin, surly man called Jack, wandered over, wiping the bar top with his cloth as he came, as if this were some fancy joint in San Francisco with a mahogany counter, not three planks nailed to the top of a couple of filthy barrels.

    â€œEinar?”
    â€œDrink.”
    â€œWhisky or gin?”
    â€œGin.”
    Jack plonked a bottle without a label and a dirty glass down on the bar, and Einar helped himself to a long drink. His hand was shaking, and he spilled some on the rough-grained wood.
    â€œHey,” said Jack. “It’s not like we have any to spare.”
    He grumbled, wiping the mess while Einar drank the whole thing in one go. He set the glass back down and immediately began to refill it.
    â€œDollar,” said Jack, taking the bottle from Einar’s hand before he could spill any more.
    â€œAnd another for that,” the barkeep added. “Two dollars.”
    Einar lifted the glass to his lips and drank it down in one swallow again.
    â€œI don’t have any money, Jack,” he said quietly.
    â€œWhat you say?”
    â€œI said, I don’t have any more money. Or any gold. Or any food. I have a wife and a daughter and my boy, but I don’t have any money.”
    â€œYou have to pay for that drink,” Jack said, his face clouding. “You have to pay for both of them, or what’s to happen next, if people don’t pay.”
    Einar shrugged.

    â€œHey!” Jack cried, grabbing Einar’s sleeve.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” said a voice at Einar’s shoulder, and he turned to see a man whose face was familiar but whose name he didn’t know.
    â€œWon’t pay for his drink,” Jack snarled.
    â€œThat so?” said the man, his voice level and his face impassive.
    Jack still held Einar’s sleeve, but imperceptibly Einar began to edge his other hand behind him, under his coat, his fingertips feeling for the heel of the grip.
    Suddenly Einar felt himself whipped around, as the stranger spun him as easily as a top. There was a loud slap on the counter, followed a moment later by a second, lighter one, with the tinkle of metal.
    â€œYou looking for this?” the man said, glaring at Einar.
    On the bar top sat Einar’s revolver, still rocking from the force with which the man had set it there. Next to it lay three dollars. The man shoved the coins at Jack.
    â€œThat’s for his, and for the one you’re about to pour for me.”
    Jack poured a shot and went off grumbling, taking the bottle with him.
    Einar made to take back his gun, but the man caught his wrist.
    â€œYou fool. What are you doing, walking in here with that thing?”
    Einar shrugged again.

    â€œIs that your answer to everything?”
    â€œI don’t know what to say,” Einar said. “I … I don’t know what to do.”
    â€œSo you came in here trying to get your head blown off?”
    â€œNo …”
    â€œNo? Or were you going to stage a heist all by yourself? Once someone starts shooting in this place, every gun in the room is going to get warm. Then we might as well all lie down in the snow and die.”
    He picked up the gun.
    â€œColt Single