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  It tasted as good as it smelled, he discovered as he began to eat. Earlier in the day, he had thought that he wouldn’t have an appetite again until the ship docked and he had dry land under his feet. He was surprised now by how hungry he was. He’d always had an iron constitution, though, and he supposed that included his stomach.

  The dime-novel reader sidled over to him again. “How many men have you killed, Mr. Morgan?” he asked.

  A frown creased Frank’s forehead. “I don’t carve notches in my gun butt, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “There are so many, you don’t even know anymore, do you?”

  “I never killed anybody who wasn’t trying to kill me or somebody else,” Frank said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. “I don’t see any point in keeping count of how many fools there are in the world. That’d be a never-ending job.”

  “I just can’t imagine what it would be like to shoot all those men, to have that much blood on my hands. How do you sleep at night?”

  Frank didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked curtly, “Where are you from, mister?”

  “New York City. Why?”

  Frank nodded and said, “I figured as much.”

  The man bristled. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  Conway came up in time to hear that last exchange. He said, “Take it easy, Neville. I asked Mr. Morgan to join us. I don’t want you getting in an argument with him.”

  “I’m not arguing with anybody,” Neville insisted. “But he insulted New York.”

  Frank shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I reckon it’s a fine place. But it’s been settled for a long time. It hasn’t been a real frontier for, what, a couple of hundred years? So you folks back there have forgotten what it’s like to have to fight to defend yourself and your loved ones. You’ve never known any real danger.”

  Neville sneered. “If you’d ever been in certain parts of New York City, you wouldn’t say that, Morgan.”

  “You might be right,” Frank said with a shrug. “All I’m saying is that you look at things different than folks who grew up out West do. We’re used to relying on ourselves. And if you’re going to Alaska to hunt for gold, that’d be a good thing for you to learn, too, amigo.”

  That seemed to mollify Neville a little. He said, “I suppose you’re right. I didn’t mean any offense, Morgan.” He changed the subject by asking, “How pretty are those girls you’re taking to the Klondike?”

  The other would-be prospectors crowded around to hear Frank’s answer.

  “They’re nice-looking young ladies,” he said. “And they’re ladies, don’t forget that. They’re all engaged to be married.”

  “To men they’ve never met,” Peter Conway pointed out. “It might as well be us.”

  “But it’s not. Like I told you, Pete, they’re spoken for, and that’s the way it is.”

  One of the other men suggested in a plaintive voice, “Maybe they wouldn’t mind dancin’ with us, or just talkin’ to us a little?”

  “I can ask them,” Frank said. “But it’s up to them.”

  Or more likely, it was up to Fiona, he thought. She was in charge of this expedition. He would go along with whatever she said and enforce her wishes…within reason, of course.

  He polished off the stew and had a cup of coffee with the cheechakos as well. Then he told them good night and started back toward the door that led belowdecks.

  He went around one of the low, square structures that housed a hatch opening into the cargo hold. As he strode past the corner of it, he suddenly heard the scuff of shoe leather on the deck behind him. Instinct made him pivot sharply toward the sound, but whoever was behind him struck with deadly swiftness. Something hard crashed against Frank’s head with stunning impact. The blow drove him to his knees.

  He struggled to get up, but his attacker grabbed him from behind, looping an arm around his neck and tightening it like an iron bar. Frank’s breath was cut off. His head was already spinning from the hard clout on his skull, and now a red haze began to settle over his vision, brought on by the lack of air. He realized that he was about to pass out.

  And as the man behind him began to rush him toward the rail, Frank knew that if he lost consciousness now, he was dead. His attacker intended to shove him over the rail into the icy waters of the Pacific.

  Chapter 10

  Frank managed to thrust a booted foot behind him, between the legs of the man who had hold of him. Their ankles tangled up, and with a startled curse, the man tripped and fell forward, taking Frank with him. They crashed to the deck about five feet short of the railing.

  Frank still couldn’t see or think very straight, but again his instincts served him well. He lashed out with a foot. The kick connected with his assailant and drove the man away from him. Frank got his hands on the deck and pushed himself up.

  This area of the ship was fairly dark. A light burned on the bridge, but the glow from it barely reached this far. Frank’s attacker was only a shadowy shape as he got to his feet and rushed again. Frank recognized that move, though. Brewster had tried it on him the day before. Frank knew it was a feint.

  He went the other way, the way he knew Brewster was going to dodge at the last second, and threw a punch. Brewster ran right into Frank’s fist. The blow knocked him back, but Brewster managed to stay on his feet. He bore in, swinging wild punches. Frank was able to block most of them, but a few thudded against his body. Brewster forced him back a step, then another and another, until Frank reached the railing. He felt it pressing into his back.

  Brewster suddenly changed tactics. His hands shot out and locked around Frank’s throat. With a grunt of effort, he heaved up, and Frank felt his feet come off the deck. In another second, Brewster was going to force him over the railing.

  In desperation, Frank lifted his knee into the officer’s groin. Brewster groaned in pain but didn’t loosen his grip. That made him hesitate, though, and in that moment, someone else loomed up out of the shadows and yelled, “Hey! Let him go!”

  Frank recognized Pete Conway’s voice. The brawny young cheechako grabbed Brewster’s shoulder and jerked him away from Frank, turning him so that he could drive a fist into Brewster’s face. The terrific blow sent Brewster spinning away across the deck.

  Frank slumped as Brewster let go of him. He caught hold of the railing and pushed himself upward. Brewster recovered and charged at Conway, slugging ferociously. The young cheechako was big and strong, but he wasn’t an experienced brawler the way Brewster was. Brewster landed several punches that drove Conway to the deck, half stunned. Then Brewster lifted a brutal kick into Conway’s belly that sent the young man rolling.

  Someone must have seen the struggle and reported it, because Frank heard running footsteps coming closer, and then Captain Hoffman shouted, “Brewster! Belay that! Stop it, you damned fool!”

  Brewster ignored the command. He charged Frank again, and even in the dim light, Frank could see how contorted with hate the officer’s face was. He wasn’t going to stop. He was trying to barrel into Frank, drive him back against the railing, and either snap his spine or force him overboard.

  Frank dived to the deck, going low into Brewster’s legs. Brewster let out a startled yell as his momentum carried him on and he pitched forward. Frank rolled and came up on hands and knees, looking around for his opponent.

  The man was nowhere to be seen.

  A shock went through Frank as he realized what had happened. Brewster had fallen forward, out of control, and went right over the railing. Frank hadn’t heard the splash, but he knew that Brewster must have gone into the water.

  Captain Hoffman confirmed that by bellowing, “Man overboard! Man overboard!” as he rushed to the rail. He turned toward the bridge, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “All engines stop! All stop!”

  The Montclair slowed as whoever was on duty on the bridge relayed the command to the engine room, but the ship didn’t come to a stop. The sails were sti
ll raised and full of air.

  “Strike the sails! Strike the sails!” Hoffman leaned over the rail and searched the black water. “Brewster! Can you hear me? Brewster!”

  Frank and Conway climbed to their feet and stumbled over to join the captain. Frank peered over the railing, but couldn’t see anything out there except darkness. He listened, but heard nothing except the slapping of the waves.

  Sailors came running with life preservers tied to thick ropes. They threw them out into the area in which Brewster had disappeared. The ship finally shuddered to a dead stop in the water as the sails were lowered. With the engines stopped, there was an eerie quiet on board, broken by the shouts of the crew as they called out to Brewster.

  No response came back from the sea.

  Some of the officers brought bull’s-eye lanterns to the rail and swept the beams from them over the waves. The searching and shouting went on for a good half hour before Captain Hoffman sighed and turned away from the rail, wearily shaking his head. He motioned for the other men to step back as well.

  “It’s been too long,” he said. “Brewster was a good swimmer, but no man could stay afloat for this long in water that cold. He might have been knocked out when he struck the surface. He must have gone down quickly.”

  Frank said, “I didn’t mean for him to go overboard.”

  Hoffman shook his head again. “I know that. He wouldn’t have if he had obeyed my order and stopped fighting. His stubborn pride just wouldn’t allow him to admit defeat, either this time or the time he clashed with you before, Morgan.” Hoffman looked at Frank and added, “You may not believe this, but that quality was one of the things that made him an exceptional sailor. He never quit.”

  “I reckon I can understand that. A man needs to stick to what he starts…most of the time, anyway.”

  “Are you all right? Were you injured?”

  “He hit me a pretty good wallop with something when he first jumped me,” Frank said. He felt of his head and found a sore, swollen lump. “There’s a little goose egg up there, but this old skull of mine is too hard to dent very easily. I’ll be fine.”

  Hoffman turned to Conway. “What about you, young man?”

  “I’m fine,” Conway replied. “The fella got in some good licks, but that’s all.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “I sure did. That man jumped Mr. Morgan and tried to force him over the rail.”

  Frank said, “He likely would have, too, if you hadn’t pitched in when you did, Pete.”

  Conway shrugged. “When I saw what was going on, I just tried to help.”

  “You probably saved my life. I won’t forget that.” Frank turned back to Hoffman. “I’m sorry for the loss of your officer, Captain, but this wasn’t my fault or young Conway’s.”

  Hoffman waved a hand. “No, as I said, it was Brewster’s foolish pride that caused his death. An unfortunate tragedy, but no one else is to blame.”

  “I wouldn’t want anybody trying to get back at me by hurting Mrs. Devereaux or the young ladies. Any members of the crew who have a problem with me need to take it up with me.”

  “There won’t be any of that,” Hoffman said firmly. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll make it clear that there are to be no repercussions.” The captain paused, then added, “I doubt if there would have been, anyway. Brewster was admired for his qualities of seamanship, but he wasn’t well liked.”

  That was the impression Frank had gotten, so he wasn’t surprised by Hoffman’s words.

  The captain turned to his first mate and said, “Go up to the bridge and tell the engine room to get some steam up again. The wind’s dying for the night, so we won’t raise the sails.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Ahead full, on the same bearing, once we have steam?”

  “Aye,” Hoffman said. He cast one final look at the stretch of dark water where Brewster had disappeared. “We’ll be heading north again.”

  The rest of the group of cheechakos had come up while the search for Brewster was going on. As the crewmen scattered to go about their tasks, the novice gold-hunters gathered around Frank and Conway. They threw questions about the fight at the two men.

  “I guess this is what you meant about a life-and-death struggle, Morgan,” Neville, the man from New York, said. “That trouble came at you without any warning, and you had to deal with it. The same thing’s liable to happen to any of us in Alaska.”

  “Not exactly the same thing,” Conway said. “Nobody’s going to throw us off a ship up there.”

  “There are plenty of other things that can kill a man,” Frank said.

  The gold-hunters talked about the fight and Brewster’s death for a while longer. Then Frank finally managed to get away from them. He motioned for Conway to follow him as he started once again toward the door leading belowdecks.

  “I’m obliged to you for your help, Pete,” he said quietly. “I reckon you really did save my life.”

  “I’m glad I could lend a hand, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Make it Frank.”

  “All right. I’m glad I could help, Frank. I didn’t really think about it. I just saw that you were in trouble.” Conway hesitated, then went on. “But if you really want to thank me…maybe you could talk one of those ladies into having a dance with me before they all have to go off to Whitehorse and get married.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Frank said.

  An air of gloom hung over the ship the next morning. Brewster might not have been well liked, but his loss still affected most of the passengers and crew on board. People couldn’t help but think about how easily the sea could claim them, too, if they were unlucky enough to fall overboard.

  Fiona was getting her sea legs, and since she felt better, she spend part of the time fussing over Frank. “That man could have killed you!” she told him. “I intend to speak to Captain Hoffman about this.”

  “No need for that,” Frank said. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “In a way it was. He should have had better control over his crew.”

  Frank couldn’t argue with that, although he wasn’t sure anybody could have controlled a stiff-necked son of a bitch like Brewster. He managed to talk Fiona out of filing an official complaint with the shipping line that owned the Montclair. He didn’t see how that would do any good.

  Fiona wasn’t too receptive to the idea of the young women spending some time with Pete Conway and the other novice gold-hunters. “How do we know we can trust them?” she asked.

  “Well, Pete saved my life,” Frank pointed out. “I owe him a favor.”

  “And since you’re working for me, I suppose by extension, I do, too. If I still can’t talk you into becoming my partner, that is.”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t figure that would be a good idea. Once we get these gals where they’re going, I’ll have kept my promise to Jacob.”

  “What about making sure I get back safely to Seattle next spring?”

  Frank thought about it and nodded. “I reckon I could do that.”

  “Good.” She smiled up at him. “That gives me all winter in Skagway to change your mind about, how do you Westerners say it, throwing in with me. I can be quite persuasive, you know.”

  Frank didn’t doubt that for a second.

  Fiona went on. “And as far as having some sort of little…get-together…with those prospectors, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt anything.”

  Frank smiled. “Good. I’ll tell Pete.”

  “But I’m holding you responsible for their good behavior,” Fiona warned. “If they get out of line, I’m counting on you to put a stop to it.”

  A short time later, Pete Conway let out an excited whoop when Frank told him about Fiona’s decision. “One of the fellows plays the fiddle,” he said. “We can have a regular dance, right here on the deck of the ship!”

  “Just make sure they all understand that they can’t try anything improper.”

  “Just some dancing and conversation, that’s all,” Co
nway said with a grin. “That’ll give us some good memories to hang on to when the temperature is forty below, the snow is ten feet deep outside, and there’s a bear trying to get into the cabin to eat us!”

  “When you put it like that,” Frank said dryly, “it almost makes me want to go hunt for gold, too.”

  Chapter 11

  The dance was scheduled for that night. Fiona gathered the young women and spoke to them about it. Most of them were feeling better now as they became more accustomed to the motion of the ship, and all of them agreed that they could go along with the plan, even Gertrude. “Those prospectors had better keep their hands to themselves, though,” she said. “I’m a respectable woman, even if I am a mail-order bride!”

  “Mr. Morgan assures me that they’ll be on their best behavior.” Fiona looked at Frank. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “If they give any of you any trouble, just let me know.”

  Word got around the ship about the gathering. Frank overheard some discussion of it among the crew, and he wondered if some of the sailors planned to show up and ask the women to dance with them, too. That could lead to problems. The gold-hunters might feel that the sailors were horning in and take offense to it. He didn’t think it would be anything he couldn’t handle, though, so he didn’t mention it to Captain Hoffman.

  The captain must have heard about it on his own, because he sought out Frank late that afternoon. “I hear there’s going to be some sort of soiree on deck tonight involving those young women of yours,” Hoffman said.

  “Well, they’re not exactly my young women,” Frank said with a smile. “There’s just going to be a little dancing and some conversation with Pete Conway and the rest of those gold-hunters.”

  “My crew has heard about it, and some of them resent the fact that they weren’t included in the arrangements. They’d like to know if they can dance with the young ladies as well.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me,” Frank said. “That’s up to the young ladies. I promised Mrs. Devereaux there wouldn’t be any trouble, though.”