Winter Kill

by William W. Johnstone

  “We’ll have to buy some fresh meat when we get there, of course,” Frank said, “and then I can probably bag some game while we’re on our way from Skagway over the pass to Whitehorse.” He smiled. “Did you ever have moose steaks?”

  A little shudder went through Fiona. “No, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Well, I bet you’ll be trying them before we get where we’re going. But we’ll stock up on sugar, flour, salt, things like that, before we leave here. Also ammunition.”

  “How many bullets do you think you’ll need?”

  “It’s not just for me,” Frank said. “I intend to pick up some pistols for the ladies, and a couple of extra rifles.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened. “You intend to arm them? They’re mail-order brides, Frank! I doubt if any of them have ever even held a weapon.”

  “I don’t know. That Meg strikes me as the sort who might’ve burned some powder sometime,” Frank said with a grin. “She’s pretty feisty.” He grew more serious as he went on. “I can give them some pointers while we’re on board the ship. But I think it’s important that the ladies be able to protect themselves, at least a little. There’s no telling what might happen along the way. If I wound up dead, the bunch of you wouldn’t be totally defenseless.”

  “Don’t even say such a thing! We’re relying on you, Frank. Nothing can happen to you.”

  He frowned. “Out here, it’s best to be able to rely on yourself as much as possible. I’m not trying to scare you, Fiona. I just want you—and those gals of yours—to go into this with your eyes open. Seattle can be a rough place, but it’s still civilization. Alaska’s not. It’s just as much an untamed frontier as the country west of the Mississippi was fifty or sixty years ago.”

  “Bad weather, bad food, and bad men, as you said earlier, eh?” she said, cocking an eyebrow at him.

  “That’s right. And I forgot to mention the bears and wolves and varmints like that.”

  Fiona shook her head. “Why would men even want to go to a place like that?”

  “For what they think is the best reason of all…gold.”

  “But you don’t think that?” she asked with a shrewd look on her face.

  “I’m old enough to know that there are a lot of things in this world gold can’t buy you.”

  “Then you’re a wise man, Frank Morgan.”

  “I don’t know that I’d say that. Anyway, maybe you’d better not say anything to the ladies about the guns until we’re on board the Montclair. I think Miss Gertrude might have a fit if she thought she was going to have to learn how to shoot a pistol.”

  “I think you’re right about that,” Fiona said.

  After they finished their meal, Fiona went back upstairs to her suite, while Frank headed for the waterfront again. He wanted to talk to Captain Hoffman again and make arrangements for Stormy, Goldy, and Dog to come with him.

  A different officer was on deck this afternoon instead of the surly Brewster. He was pleasant enough as he told Frank to come aboard and said in answer to Frank’s question, “Captain Hoffman is in his cabin, sir. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah, I do. Thanks.”

  Frank went below to the captain’s cabin and rapped on the door. When Hoffman asked who was there, he said, “Frank Morgan, Captain.”

  “Come in, please.”

  Frank went in and found Hoffman sitting at the desk, looking over some of the charts spread out there. The captain glanced up with a smile.

  “Is your business with Mrs. Devereaux all squared away, Mr. Morgan?” he asked.

  Frank thumbed his hat back. “Yeah, she’s agreed that I’ll be coming along to Alaska with her and her young ladies.”

  “Mail-order brides,” Hoffman said with a shake of his head. “I’d heard of such a thing, of course, but this is the first time I’ve encountered it. Have you met the young ladies?”

  “I have,” Frank said. “Seems like a fine bunch. I’m not sure how well some of them are going to like living in the Klondike, but that’s not my business. All I have to do is get them there.”

  “Much like me,” Hoffman said. “I’ll deliver my passengers and cargo to Skagway, and there my responsibility ends.” He tapped one of the charts. “I was just looking at the route I intend to follow.”

  “You’ve sailed to Alaska before?” Frank asked as he leaned over and looked at the map. This late in the season, he wasn’t too fond of the idea of setting out with an inexperienced captain.

  “Oh, yes, many times,” Hoffman replied. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. We’ll have no trouble.”

  “What about the weather?”

  “It’ll be at least three weeks, probably a month, before the weather represents a danger. We’ll be in Skagway in less than a week.”

  Hoffman seemed to know what he was doing, Frank thought. That eased his worries.

  “Is it going to be all right for me to bring my horses along?” he asked.

  “Horses?” Hoffman frowned. “The Montclair normally doesn’t carry livestock.” He thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “But I suppose we could make a place for them in the hold. We could open one of the hatches for light and air. It might not be very comfortable for them, being cooped up that way, though.”

  “They can stand it for a few days,” Frank said. “I want my own mounts with me when we get there.”

  “I don’t blame you for that. A man likes to have what he’s accustomed to.”

  “I have a dog, too, but he won’t take up much room or be any trouble.”

  “That’s fine, as long as he doesn’t fight with cats. We have a couple who sail with us to keep the rats out of the cargo.”

  “Dog will leave them alone as long as I tell him to.” Frank added, “I’m going to see about having some supplies delivered for us to take along. Better to stock up on things here in Seattle rather than waiting until we get to Skagway.”

  Hoffman nodded. “I believe that was Mr. Trench’s plan as well. There should be adequate room in the hold for whatever you want to bring along. Although having those horses in there will cut down on the available space.”

  “We’ll work it out,” Frank said. He held out his hand. “Sounds like it’ll all be fine. I’m looking forward to sailing with you, Captain.”

  Hoffman shook with him. “I hope it’s a pleasant journey for you, Mr. Morgan.”

  Frank said so long and went up on deck again. He was headed for the gangplank when he heard a step behind him. A man said, “Morgan.”

  Frank turned and saw the ship’s officer called Brewster. He gave the man a curt nod.

  “You’re coming along to Alaska?” Brewster asked harshly.

  “That’s right.”

  “I think we should get something straight between us, then, before the voyage starts.”

  “What’s that?” Frank asked, his voice cool.

  “This,” Brewster said. He sent a punch rocketing at Frank’s jaw.

  Chapter 7

  The attack didn’t take Frank totally by surprise. Over the years he had learned how to sense the intentions of other men. That was one thing that had helped him stay alive as long as he had. As soon as he turned around and saw Brewster’s hostile stance, he knew the officer was looking for trouble.

  With that much warning, Frank was able to pull his head aside so that Brewster’s punch missed completely, sailing past his ear by a good two inches. Thrown off balance by the missed blow, Brewster stumbled forward. Frank twisted at the waist, grabbed Brewster’s arm, and kept pivoting, hauling hard on the arm as he did so.

  With a startled yell, Brewster lost his footing and crashed to the deck. He rolled over a couple of times before he came to a stop.

  “You took your shot, mister,” Frank said in a hard, flat voice. “Let it go at that, and we’ll call it even.”

  “The hell we will,” Brewster snarled as he climbed to his feet. He lowered his head and charged at Frank.

  That bull rush was just a feint, though. When
Frank started to dart aside from it, Brewster stopped suddenly and lashed out again with his fist. This time the punch landed cleanly on Frank’s jaw and knocked him back several steps. Like most sailors, even officers, Brewster obviously had plenty of experience as a bare-knuckles brawler. He charged again while Frank was off balance, and this time it was the real thing. Brewster wrapped his arms around Frank in a tackle that sent both of them slamming down onto the deck. Frank was on the bottom, and the impact drove the air out of his lungs.

  As he gasped for breath, Frank was vaguely aware of shouting and knew that other members of the crew were probably gathering around to watch the fight. That meant he would be heavily outnumbered if the other sailors decided to take a hand.

  He could only fight one battle at a time, though, so as Brewster tried to lock his hands around his throat, Frank sent a short punch straight up at the officer’s chin. It rocked Brewster’s head back and kept him from getting the choke hold he sought.

  Frank arched his back off the deck, grabbed the lapels of Brewster’s uniform coat, and flung him off to the side. Frank rolled the other way, came up on hands and knees, and paused long enough to drag a deep breath back into his lungs.

  A rush of footsteps told him that Brewster was charging him again. Frank twisted in that direction and saw Brewster swinging a foot at him in a vicious kick. Frank got his hands up in time to catch hold of Brewster’s ankle and stop the blow from landing. He surged up, still holding on to Brewster, and sent the officer toppling over backward. Brewster landed so hard on his back that Frank felt the deck vibrate a little under his feet.

  “Damn it, stay down,” Frank growled.

  “You go to…hell, Morgan,” Brewster panted as he climbed laboriously back to his feet. Chest heaving, he came toward Frank. He weaved a little from side to side as he bunched his hands into fists and got ready to start swinging again.

  Frank didn’t wait. He stepped in, hooked a left into Brewster’s midsection, and then when Brewster hunched over in pain, Frank brought around a looping right that landed with devastating impact on the officer’s jaw. Brewster hit the deck again and didn’t move this time. He was out cold.

  With that threat taken care of, Frank looked around to see if any of the other members of the Montclair’s crew wanted to take a hand in this game. Half a dozen roughly clad sailors and a couple of blue-uniformed officers were standing there with surprised expressions on their faces. Clearly, they hadn’t expected Frank to emerge triumphant from this fracas.

  “Mr. Morgan!” Captain Hoffman’s voice came sharply from the door that led belowdecks. “What’s going on here?”

  Instead of answering right away, Frank looked around for his hat, which had fallen off when Brewster tackled him. Spotting it on the deck, he bent and picked it up, then punched it back into shape and settled it on his head. Then and only then did he turn to face the captain.

  “That fella Brewster didn’t care much for the idea of me sailing with you,” he said.

  Hoffman stalked across the deck, his face set in grim lines. He looked around at the other members of the crew and asked, “Is this true? Did Brewster attack Mr. Morgan?”

  No one answered him. Frank figured the men wanted to be loyal to their fellow seaman. But then one of the sailors spoke up, saying, “Aye, that he did, Cap’n. The cowboy didn’t do anything except defend hisself.”

  Another man said, “Aye, that’s the way it happened, Cap’n,” and the other sailors nodded. Frank began to sense that Brewster wasn’t well liked among the crew, at least not by the common sailors. The other officers were reluctant to speak against him, though.

  “I see,” Hoffman said. He turned to Frank. “My apologies, Mr. Morgan. I’ll deal with this matter. I’ll tell you right now, though, I don’t plan to dismiss Mr. Brewster. He’s a very competent seaman, despite his touchy nature at times.”

  “Wouldn’t ask you to throw him off the ship,” Frank said. “Just tell him to steer clear of me, and we’ll get along fine.”

  “That much I can and will do,” Hoffman vowed.

  Frank nodded. As far as he was concerned, the ruckus was over and done with, and he was willing to leave it that way.

  As Frank started to turn away, the captain added softly, “Thank you for not killing him.”

  “That would’ve been a hell of a way to start the trip, wouldn’ it?” Frank said.

  Since Fiona agreed with him about the advisability of stocking up on supplies here in Seattle, she had left it to him to make those arrangements. Frank went to the largest general store he could find and talked to the proprietor, laying out a list of what he needed. The man’s advice came in handy. He had outfitted plenty of travelers to Alaska and knew what was necessary and what wasn’t. Of course, this was a little different, since the young women traveling with Fiona weren’t going to prospect for gold themselves. But they needed the same sort of warm, heavy clothing and easy-to-carry provisions as the gold-hunters.

  The storekeeper raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise, though, when Frank asked for twelve .32-caliber pistols. He didn’t figure the young women could handle anything heavier than that.

  “I thought you was takin’ mail-order brides to Skagway, Mr. Morgan,” the man said, “not puttin’ together a small army.”

  So word had gotten around town about the “cargo” he and Fiona were delivering to Alaska, Frank thought. He wasn’t surprised. News traveled fast in frontier settlements, and that’s what Seattle still was.

  “Just because they’re women doesn’t mean they can’t protect themselves,” he said. “They’re going to some rough country.”

  “They sure are,” the storekeeper agreed. “And I reckon it’s a good idea for them to be armed. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, that’s all.”

  “I want a couple of Winchesters, too. .44-40s.”

  The man nodded. “I can do that. If you’re goin’ over Chilkoot Pass, you’d better be armed for bear…or worse.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Frank asked with a slight frown.

  “Just that there’s things up there worse’n wild animals. From what I’ve heard, that Yukon and Klondike country is full of two-legged varmints, too. Outlaws, claim-jumpers, and just pure-dee mean hombres lookin’ for trouble. A bunch of young women travelin’ together…” The man shook his head. “That’s gonna be a mighty temptin’ target. I don’t reckon I’m tellin’ you anything you don’t already know, though.”

  “No,” Frank said, “you’re not.”

  The storekeeper agreed to put the order together and have it delivered to the Montclair the first thing in the morning. Captain Hoffman intended to sail by ten o’clock.

  “Do I send the bill to Mrs. Devereaux at the hotel?” the man asked.

  “Send her the bill for half of it,” Frank said. “I’ll take care of the other half right now, if you’ll accept a draft on my bank in San Francisco.”

  “Well, now…”

  “The draft is good.”

  “Oh, I never doubted that, Mr. Morgan,” the storekeeper said quickly. “I didn’t mean no offense.”

  The story of Fiona’s trip to Alaska with the mail-order brides wasn’t the only information that had gotten around Seattle, Frank thought. So had the news of the two gunfights in which he had been involved the night before. The storekeeper knew that he was dealing with the notorious Drifter.

  “I’ll be glad to take your draft, Mr. Morgan,” the man went on. “I was just a mite confused, that’s all. I was under the impression you’re workin’ for Mrs. Devereaux.”

  “I am,” Frank said. “I just thought I’d help her out a little.”

  The amount was more than a little, of course, but Frank knew he would never miss the money. When his attorney, Claudius Turnbuckle, got wind of the expense, as Claudius always did, he might raise an eyebrow, but he had learned over the years that Frank usually did as he damned well pleased, and arguing about it didn’t serve any purpose.

  The arrangements c
oncluded, Frank left the store and headed back to the hotel. It was late in the afternoon by now. Along the way he stopped at the livery stable and informed the proprietor there that he would be picking up Stormy, Goldy, and Dog first thing the next morning. The man’s sour expression as he nodded indicated that it couldn’t be soon enough to suit him.

  By the time Frank got back to the hotel, people were going into the dining room for supper. He looked through the arched entrance for Fiona, but didn’t see her. Turning instead to the stairs, he started up to the second floor.

  Fiona appeared at the landing when Frank was halfway up, followed by the twelve young women. Frank stopped and watched as they started to descend, talking and laughing among themselves. It was a sight to behold, he thought. True, not all of them could be considered beauties, but they were all sweet and appealing, even the somewhat prissy Gertrude. Frank was old enough to be their father, of course, so he didn’t feel drawn to them himself, but he could imagine how some miner stuck in the wilds of Alaska would react to any one of them. It was no wonder that Fiona’s business was successful. A man could get mighty lonely, and only the soft touch of a woman could ease the ache he felt inside.

  Fiona paused and smiled at him. “Is everything ready, Frank?” she asked.

  “It will be. Our supplies will be delivered to the boat tomorrow morning in plenty of time for Captain Hoffman to sail on schedule.”

  “That’s wonderful!” She came on down the steps and linked her arm with his. “You’ll join us for supper?”

  “Well, I thought I might clean up a little…” He didn’t mention that he’d been rolling on the deck of the Montclair a couple of hours earlier, tussling with Brewster.

  Meg came down the steps and took his other arm. “I think you’re fine just the way you are, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “Don’t you, girls?”

  Several of them smiled and nodded. Frank had no choice but to say, “All right, then. I’d be honored to join you ladies.”

  He thought about all the solitary meals he had eaten on some lonely trail, often with men pursuing him who wanted to kill him, not knowing if he would live to see the sun rise the next morning. Now he was about to sit down to eat at a table with a snowy white cloth on it, set with fine china, surrounded by a dozen young women and a somewhat older one who was even lovelier. He regretted Jacob Trench’s death, of course…