Winter Kill

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.

The thought of Trench made Frank grow sober for a moment. Fiona must have seen the reaction, because she asked, “Is something wrong?”

“I lost an old friend earlier tonight,” Frank told her.

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“He brought it on himself in a way. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.” He shook his head and changed the subject by saying, “You didn’t tell me your last name.”

She smiled at him. “That’s right, I didn’t. No offense, Mr. Morgan, but a woman traveling alone can’t be too careful. I give you my word, though, that I’m not one of those…what do you call them?…soiled doves.”

Frank’s eyes widened in surprise. “I swear, ma’am, that’s not what I was thinking. Not at all. I mean, a fella can tell just by looking at you that you’re not…well…”

“That’s all right, Mr. Morgan. I know what you mean. And I take it as a compliment, I assure you. I’ve always tried to conduct myself as a lady.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m sure you have.”

Their meals arrived a few minutes later. The orders had gone in close enough together so that the waitress brought them to the table at the same time. Frank dug in. He tried to be polite about it, but he was hungry. Fiona didn’t seem bothered by his hearty appetite. She even smiled slightly as if she enjoyed watching him eat.

The food was good, and Frank followed it with a serving of apple pie that hit the spot. Fiona passed on the pie. “I don’t keep this girlish figure by indulging too often,” she said, the rasp in her voice giving the words a touch of dry humor.

When Frank was finished, he leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. “What brings you to Seattle?” he asked. “Or is it improper to ask?”

Fiona shook her head. “Not improper at all. I’m here on business.”

Frank arched an eyebrow.

“I know, not many women are involved in business,” Fiona said. “But as I told you, I’m a widow, and I have to do something to provide for myself.”

“You’re still young. You could—”

“Marry again?” she broke in. “I suppose I could. If I could ever find someone I wanted to marry. The problem is that I’m very selective. Are you in the market for a wife, Mr. Morgan?”

Frank sat up straighter and frowned. “Me?”

She laughed. “Take it easy. I was just joshing you.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good, because I’m not looking to get married.”

Not after he had buried two wives because of the violence that followed him.

“What brings you to Seattle?” Fiona asked.

“My horse.” Frank smiled. “I’m what they call a drifter. A saddle tramp, I guess you could say.” He paused, thinking again of Jacob Trench. “But as it turns out, I’ve got some business I need to take care of, too.”

Fiona lifted her coffee cup. “Well, then, here’s to good luck for us both in our endeavors.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Frank agreed.

“Although it would be more fitting with a nice slug of brandy in this coffee, wouldn’t it?”

He grinned. “I reckon so. You think we should ask the waitress?”

“I think we’d give the poor girl palpitations if we did.”

The coffee cups clinked together.