Winter Kill Read online

  Frank nodded slowly. He supposed he couldn’t blame Trench for getting in that jam. He couldn’t abide anybody who cheated at cards, either.

  So it wasn’t really Trench’s fault that Leon Haggarty had tried to ambush him from that alley, or that the bullet had come within a whisker of Frank’s head. It was just bad luck all around.

  Not too bad, though, considering the fact that Haggarty was dead and Frank and his old friend were still drawing breath.

  “Anyway, when I recognized you, I knew I had to talk to you and let you know what was going on,” Trench continued. “It’s on my account that the other Haggarty brothers will likely come after you, too, now, just like they’re after me. I figured I had to warn you.”

  “I appreciate that,” Frank said. “To tell you the truth, though, this won’t be the first time I’ve had people gunning for me.”

  Trench laughed. “I should hope to smile it’s not. Hell, you’re Frank Morgan, The Drifter. You must be used to it by now.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Frank drawled.

  Trench drained the last of the cold beer from the mug and then said, “Well, you don’t have to worry too much about it, because I’ve got a plan.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “Yeah. You’re coming with me to Alaska.”

  Frank started to shake his head. “I already told you—”

  Trench lifted a hand to stop him. “Just hear me out, Frank. I’ve got a good deal working. The money’s not great, but it’s not bad, either. The work’s easy and downright pleasant.”

  “The money’s good enough to split two ways?” Frank still wasn’t interested in whatever Trench was proposing, but he was curious to hear what the man would say.

  Trench hesitated. “Well…sure. I guess.”

  Frank knew then what was going through Trench’s mind. Trench was afraid that the Haggarty brothers would follow him all the way to Alaska to settle their grudge, and he wanted Frank along to help him handle that trouble. Frank didn’t really blame him for that, but he didn’t want to be roped into Trench’s ruckus, either.

  “You said that in a few weeks, it’ll be winter up there. Do boats get in and out once that happens?”

  Trench grimaced a couple of times, then admitted, “Not to speak of.”

  “So if I go with you, we’ll be stuck up there until next spring.”

  “You could look at it like that. But we’ll be in Skagway, Frank. It’s a new town, a boomtown. All the prospectors go through there on their way to the Klondike, just over the border in Canada. That’s where the big strike is going on. The closest, easiest way in and out is through Skagway.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve heard plenty about it. There’ll be saloons and whorehouses, and all we’d have to do all winter is sit by the stove and roast our old bones. Maybe sip a little whiskey and cavort with the soiled doves when the mood struck us.” That infectious grin appeared on Trench’s face again. “Doesn’t sound like a bad way to spend the winter, now does it?”

  “I sort of had in mind staying here.”

  “In Seattle?” Trench sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “Hell, it’ll rain for three or four solid months, Frank. You don’t want that.”

  “I don’t want to sit in the middle of a blizzard for three or four months, either.”

  “It won’t be that bad. I give you my word.”

  “Thought you said you’d never been there.”

  Trench leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “All right. I’m not going to argue with you. I was just trying to show my gratitude to you by letting you in on a good deal, but if you’re not interested…”

  Frank heaved a sigh. “When are you leaving? I’m not saying that I’ll go with you, but I reckon it won’t hurt anything to think about it.”

  Trench leaned forward again, the eager grin reappearing. “That’s all I’m asking,” he said. “The boat’s called the Montclair. It sails day after tomorrow. I’m expecting the cargo to arrive tomorrow.”

  “You didn’t say anything about any cargo, Jacob,” Frank pointed out. “Are you in the freight hauling business again?”

  “Not exactly…Anyway, I can tell you all about that if you decide to come along, which I sure as hell hope you will.”

  Frank downed the last of his beer. “I want to get on to the hotel now and get something to eat. Why don’t you drop by there tomorrow? I’ll have made up my mind by then.”

  Trench nodded. “Sure thing, Frank. Thanks for considering it.”

  Somewhat to Frank’s surprise, he actually was considering Trench’s proposition. He still wasn’t sure about spending the winter in all that snow and ice up in Alaska, but he didn’t like the idea of being waterlogged by spring in Seattle, either. Maybe he ought to turn around and ride south instead, he thought. He had spent a number of winters in Mexico.

  Mexico was a hell of a long way off, though, and there was something to be said for passing the long winter months with a friend. Trench didn’t make Skagway sound half bad, either. The idea was worth thinking about.

  But not until he got some hot food in his belly. He put his hands on the table and pushed to his feet. Trench stood up as well. “I’ll walk across to the hotel with you,” he said.

  Frank nodded. “All right.”

  They threaded their way through the crowd in the saloon and stepped out onto the Cascade’s porch. A fine mist had started to fall, a precursor to those rains Trench had mentioned, Frank supposed. He could see the mist haloing the lights in the hotel across the street, and he felt its cool caress on his cheek as he and Trench stepped down off the porch, clearing the overhanging awning.

  “You murderin’ sons o’ bitches!” a man yelled to Frank’s right.

  His eyes flicked in that direction as instinct once again caused the Colt to leap from its holster into his hand as if by magic, in a blur of speed too fast for the eye to follow. He saw a man rushing toward them, pistol in hand.

  From the corner of his left eye, though, he caught another flicker of movement in front of them. Men in the street yelled and jumped for cover as a second attacker leveled a shotgun at Frank and Trench. That was the most immediate threat. At this range, a double-barreled shotgun blast would blow them to bloody pieces.

  Frank’s gun came up smoothly, flame stabbing from its muzzle. His bullet went into the chest of the shotgun wielder, rocking the man back on his heels. He didn’t go down, though, and the Greener was still in his hands, so Frank shot him again.

  As he pulled the trigger, he heard guns roar from both left and right, which came as no surprise to him. Trench had said there were three more Haggarty brothers. They had bided their time, waiting for Frank and Trench to come out of the saloon, then attacked from three directions at once. It was a good strategy.

  At least it would have been if they were throwing down against anybody but The Drifter. As the shotgunner fell, discharging both barrels almost straight up into the air as his dying fingers spasmed on the triggers, Frank pivoted back toward the first man he had seen. The man fired again, but he rushed his shot and the bullet plowed into the dirt next to Frank’s right boot. Frank took his time and drilled a slug through the hombre’s throat. Blood fountained from the wound as the bullet’s impact sent the man reeling backward.

  Frank kept turning, dropping into a crouch as he leveled his gun at the spot where he thought the third Haggarty brother would be. The man was down, though, kicking out his life in the street as Jacob Trench stood over him, gun in hand. Trench had never been anywhere near as fast on the draw as Frank, but he didn’t lose his head in a fight, and that counted for a lot when it came to gun-handling. Obviously, Trench had been able to deal with the threat of the third man.

  Frank moved quickly to check on the other two. He nudged the shotgun and the pistol well out of reach. The man he had shot in the throat lay with his head in a rapidly spreading pool of blood that was black in the light from the saloon. He was either de
ad or soon would be. The shotgunner lay on his back, arms spread, his chest heaving as he struggled to get some air in his bullet-riddled lungs. Frank heard the whistling as the air went right back out again. It was an ugly sound, as was the dying rattle that came from the man’s throat a moment later.

  As Frank turned back toward Trench and the third man, he started to reload. “You all right, Jacob?” he asked.

  “Not…really.”

  The painful rasp in Trench’s voice made Frank’s head jerk up. He took a hurried step toward his friend as Trench turned toward him. Frank saw the black trails of blood leading down from both sides of Trench’s mouth and the dark stains on the front of his shirt. The gun slipped from his fingers and thudded to the ground.

  Then Trench doubled over and pitched forward.

  Chapter 3

  Moving with the same speed that had made him a frontier legend for his gun-handling, Frank holstered his Colt and leaped to catch Trench before the man could hit the ground. He eased Trench down, resting his old friend’s head on his leg.

  “Hold on,” Frank said. “Somebody can fetch a doctor—”

  “Too…late for that,” Trench cut in. “I’m shot…through and through…Frank.”

  Trench was smart and experienced enough to know that he had only moments to live. Frank didn’t see any point in lying to him. So he said truthfully, “I’m sorry, Jacob. At least you can cross the divide knowing that we sent all three of those bastards to hell.”

  “Yeah, but…I’ll just have to deal with ’em again…when I get there.” Trench chuckled, and more dark blood welled from his mouth. His right hand came up and fastened desperately on Frank’s forearm. “Frank…you gotta promise me…you’ll finish…that job for me.”

  “The deal you were trying to get me to come in on with you?”

  “Y-yeah. People are…countin’ on me. I can rest easier…knowin’ they won’t be…let down.”

  Frank bit back a curse. It was true that he had been considering Trench’s offer, but if he’d accepted, it would have been his own choice. This way, he felt like he had an obligation, and that was never a feeling he liked.

  Trench’s fingers clawed spasmodically at his arm. “Frank…you gotta…promise…”

  “All right,” Frank said. “What do I do?”

  “Go to…the Montclair…tell Captain Hoffman…what happened. You’ll need to talk to—”

  The blood in Trench’s throat choked him then, so that he coughed and gagged as he tried to continue speaking. He got a few more words out, but the only one Frank understood was a name: Devereaux.

  “All right,” he said as he leaned closer over Trench. “I’ll talk to Captain Hoffman and this fella Devereaux, and whatever that cargo is you were taking to Skagway, I’ll get it there, Jacob. You have my word on that.”

  Trench’s eyelids started to droop, but a smile curved his mouth. “Knew I could…count on you, Frank,” he murmured. “And you’re gonna have…a hell of a time…”

  Frank wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t argue with the dying man.

  “Just…one more thing…Something you…need to know.”

  “What’s that, Jacob?”

  “The fella who played…the extra jack…in that poker game…that was me, Frank…not the Haggartys’ cousin. But he really was…tryin’ to gut me—”

  Trench’s eyes were still half open, but his head suddenly lolled to the side against the arm that Frank had around his shoulders, supporting him. Frank said, “Jacob?” But Trench didn’t respond. Frank lifted his other hand, searched for a pulse in Trench’s neck, and didn’t find one. The man’s eyes were already starting to turn glassy in death.

  “Is he dead?” a familiar voice asked from behind Frank.

  “Yeah.” Frank lowered Trench’s head to the ground, then looked back over his shoulder and saw the beefy policeman who had shown up after the first gunfight.

  The man said, “You again, Morgan? The dead bodies just pile up around you like cordwood, don’t they?”

  Frank suppressed the urge to stand up and throw a punch at the policeman. It would feel good to plant his fist right in the middle of the son of a gun’s smug face.

  But it wouldn’t actually accomplish anything except to maybe get him thrown in jail. He got to his feet, but he just said curtly, “There were plenty of witnesses to this shooting, too. Those three men—there and there and there—attacked me and my friend as we came out of the saloon. We defended ourselves. If you ask around, that’s the story you’ll get.”

  “How’d your friend wind up dead while you’re still alive?”

  “He wasn’t quite as fast as me, or quite as lucky. He did for one of them, but the bastard got him, too.”

  “You know why these fellas came after you? Or was it just another case of some hotheads trying to kill the famous Frank Morgan?”

  Frank’s jaw tightened in anger, but again, he controlled it. “As a matter of fact, I do know why this happened.” Quickly, he sketched in the story of how the Haggarty brothers had followed Jacob Trench to Seattle to try to avenge their cousin’s death. He left out the part about how Trench was really the one who’d been cheating at cards and provoked the fatal fight.

  “Sounds like you’re in the clear again, Morgan,” the policeman said when Frank was finished. “I’d say you were a mighty lucky man.”

  An old friend was dead, and he had been roped into some deal that might be shady or dangerous or both, Frank thought.

  Yeah. Mighty lucky.

  After warning Frank that he would have to testify at the inquest into these deaths, too, the policeman let Frank go on about his business. “Just try not to kill anybody else,” he added.

  “Not unless they try to kill me first,” Frank replied.

  He went into the Majestic Hotel and rented a room from an inquisitive clerk. “There was all sorts of uproar out there in the street a little while ago,” the man said. “Shooting and yelling and everything. Did you happen to see what was going on, Mister…” He glanced at the register, reading upside down the name Frank had written there. “Morgan?”

  Frank shook his head. “Sorry. Didn’t see a thing. I try to avoid trouble whenever I can.”

  With that, he took his room key from the clerk, tipped his hat at a rakish angle on his head, and went into the hotel dining room to get that long-delayed hot meal.

  Like everywhere else in Seattle, the dining room was busy. The clerk at the desk in the lobby had informed Frank that he was lucky the hotel even had a vacant room. Looking at the crowd in the dining room, Frank could believe it. He didn’t even see an empty table.

  “Sir?”

  It was a woman’s voice, and at first Frank didn’t figure she was talking to him. Then she said, “Sir?” more insistently, and he looked in her direction. She was alone at one of the nearby tables. She gestured at the chair across from her and went on. “You can join me if you like. I don’t think you’ll find a table to yourself. Unless you have some objection to my company…”

  Frank didn’t think many men would object to this lady’s company. If they did, there was sure as hell something wrong with them. She was about thirty, old enough so that the few lines on her face were interesting, rather than unattractive. Short, dark brown hair framed her features. She wore a dark blue, high-necked traveling gown that was snug enough to reveal a mature, shapely figure. Her voice had a slight rasp to it that made it intriguing and distinctive.

  She also had a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand.

  Frank took his hat off and held it in front of him as he stepped over to the table. “I appreciate the invitation, ma’am,” he said, “but I don’t reckon your husband would appreciate it if he came in and found you sharing a table with a strange man.”

  She smiled up at him, and he saw that her eyes were a rich brown, like her hair. “First of all,” she said, “my husband doesn’t appreciate anything anymore, since he’s dead—”

  “I’m sorry,” Frank
said.

  “And secondly,” the woman went on, “I pride myself on being a good judge of character—a woman on her own has to be, you know—and you don’t strike me as strange at all, Mister…?”

  “Morgan,” he supplied. “Frank Morgan.”

  “My name is Fiona,” she said. “Please, sit down.”

  Frank didn’t hesitate. He placed his hat on the table and took the empty chair opposite the woman called Fiona.

  “I know it was terribly forward of me to speak to you like that,” she went on.

  “I’m glad you did. Otherwise I’d still be looking for a place to sit.”

  She returned the smile he gave her. He saw that she had a cup of coffee in front of her, but no food.

  “You haven’t eaten yet?”

  “No. In fact, I just gave the girl my order a short time ago.” Fiona lifted a hand. “I’ll get her attention, and you can tell her what you want.”

  “As long as it’s hot and halfway cooked, it’ll be fine with me.”

  A waitress in a long, starched white apron made her way through the tables to them a moment later. When Frank asked for a steak, she shook her head.

  “Sorry, we’re out of ’em. The way these gold-hunters eat, I’d be surprised if there’s a cow left in the whole state of Washington! We’ve got pork chops and potatoes and greens, though.”

  Frank chuckled. “Bring ’em on. And coffee.”

  “Right away, mister.”

  When the waitress was gone, Frank looked around the room and commented, “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen so many men bound and determined to make their fortune.”

  It was true. Most of the men in the dining room already wore the flannel shirts, canvas trousers, and laced-up work boots of prospectors. The clothes were new, though, which told Frank that the men hadn’t yet set out on their quest for gold. As Jacob Trench had told him, Seattle was the place where the Argonauts outfitted before leaving for Alaska.