Winter Kill

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 concluded, 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…

But right now he was sort of glad he had come to Seattle.