Free White Silence by Ginjer Buchanan

melodies. Some Danny knew from the war. “Sweet Lorena” and “Tenting Tonight.” One he’d heard from boyhood, a song from Londonderry, in the Old Country.
    He found he was holding his breath. The piano could be clearly heard now.
Why, the room’s gone quiet,
Danny thought. He glanced around the table. Hugh, MacLeod, even Jim, who must have heard her before, were watching in silence.
    As the last notes of the song called “Aura Lee” echoed, the girl lifted her hands from the keyboard. She lowered her head. A well-dressed dark-haired man stepped to the side of the piano.
    “Gents—and ladies—Minnie Dale.” He extended his hand. The girl rose, turned, and bowed. The room fairly shook with the clapping and whistling.
    She’ll be coming out among the tables now,
Danny thought.
Jim will know her. He can call her over here.
But the girl withdrew through the door next to the bar. Danny waited, absently pouring himself another drink. After a time, he sighed aloud. He knew she would not be back.
    Aura Lee, Aura Lee. The price of loving a mortal. Duncan thought of Alec Hill, sobbing over the broken body of his beautiful young wife. Young Danny’s face was far too easy to read. He caught Fitz’s eye. His friend looked amused and indulgent as the young Immortal left the table. Foster had told them Minnie Dale would play again later. Danny wanted to be much closer to the piano.
    But Foster was still with them. So Duncan knew that a conversation with Fitzcairn—however futile it might be—on the subject of Danny’s love life would have to wait. He poured another drink.
    “Gentlemen?”
    He looked up. The man who’d introduced Minnie Dale had approached their table.
    “I’m Jefferson Randolph Smith,” he said. His voice was low and pleasant. “Might I join you?”
    “It’s your Parlour, isn’t it?” Fitzcairn said, gesturing toward Danny’s empty chair.
    Smith laughed and sat down.
    “Duncan MacLeod.” He extended his hand. Smith’s hand was small and well cared for. “The pipe-smoker is Hugh Fitzcairn. And this is Jim Foster.”
    “I know Foster,” Smith replied. “His brother is the bartender here.” He picked up the whiskey and examined the label. “That’s how you came by a bottle of my private stock. Right, Jim?”
    “I told these argonauts yours was the best place in town, Mr. Smith. Tom was just helping me prove it.”
    Smith had an easy laugh. All in all, he seemed a gentleman. Good manners. Good clothes, including a heavy gold watch fob prominent against his silk vest. His dark hair and beard were neatly trimmed, and his clear gray eyes were intelligent.
    A gentleman,
Duncan thought.
Or a very effective imitation of one.
    “You’re the men who were accosted this afternoon at Reliables, are you not? I just wanted to say that the good citizens of Skagway—and there are some of us—are pleased that at least one of the villains was caught.”
    “There was just one,” Duncan said, “and for all the good it did, he was indeed caught.” He swallowed his whiskey straight back.
    Smith looked puzzled. “I’d heard there was an Indian involved.”
    “Yes.” Duncan nodded. “But he helped bring the thief down. I want to thank him. And I’ve not been able to find him.”
    “Foster here knows everybody,” Smith said.
    “So I’ve heard,” Duncan replied. He reached for the bottle. He wondered if he might get an opportunity to speak with Smith alone. The man treated Foster with a certain disdain. Duncan suspected that he would be a good source of information about Slim Jim.
    “This fellow must be new around here, Mr. Smith,” Foster said. “I can’t place him.”
    “Try me,” Smith said. “Up here, Indians and white mix pretty well. Your man might have been in my Parlour.”
    Duncan described the Indian as best he could, aware that his fleeting contact hadn’t given him a clear impression.
    Smith looked thoughtful. “Sounds like any one of a half dozen tribes. Athabascan.