Winter Kill

by William W. Johnstone

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.

  Chapter 4

  Over the years, Frank had seen too much violence and sudden death to let it affect him too much. Because of that, he was able to sleep soundly that night, although as he dozed off he did feel a moment of regret over what had happened to Jacob Trench.

  He thought about the mysterious Fiona as well. They had parted company in the lobby after dinner. She was staying at the hotel, too, and Frank had a feeling she didn’t want him to know which room she was in. That was fine with him. He wasn’t looking for a romance, although he had definitely enjoyed her company during dinner.

  He woke rested the next morning. The bed was comfortable, and after decades of spending a lot of nights on the trail, he enjoyed a few creature comforts every now and then. When he went downstairs to eat breakfast, he looked around the dining room, thinking that Fiona might be there. He didn’t see any sign of her, though.

  When he had finished washing down a mound of flapjacks, eggs, and bacon with several cups of strong, steaming coffee, he went out to the lobby and stopped at the desk to see if there were any messages for him. There was one, from the coroner’s office: The inquest into the deaths the night before would be held at eleven o’clock that morning, at the King County courthouse.

  Frank left the Majestic. He planned to go by the livery stable to check on Dog and the two horses, and then he supposed he needed to locate the Montclair and have that talk with Captain Hoffman, as Trench had asked. He figured he would have time to tend to those two errands before the inquest.

  The misty rain of the night before had blown on out of the area. It was a beautiful morning. The air was crisp and cool and so clear that Frank could see Mount Rainier, miles away to the southeast along with the rest of the Cascade range. Across Puget Sound to the west lay the Olympic Mountains, also clearly visible.

  Frank hadn’t been to Seattle in a number of years, and the town had changed some, he saw now that he got his first good look at it in the light of day. He recalled hearing that a disastrous fire had destroyed much of the downtown area seven or eight years earlier. The buildings that had been rebuilt were of brick now, rather than wood. That give the town a modern look, but it still retained its rugged frontier atmosphere. How could it not, when the streets were full of prospectors, loggers, cowhands, and Indians?

  A different hostler was working at the livery stable this morning. He greeted Frank by asking, “Are you the fella who owns that blasted wolf?”

  “I don’t own him. We just travel together. And he’s not a wolf,” Frank said. “He just bears a certain resemblance to one.”

  “Enough of a resemblance to spook all my other customers. They’re a mite leery of leaving their horses around a creature like that.”

  Having heard Frank’s voice, Dog came bounding up the big barn’s center aisle from the stalls where Stormy and Goldy were being kept. The hostler flinched nervously as the big cur went past him. Dog reared up, put his front paws on Frank’s shoulders, and licked his face. Frank laughed and roughed up the thick fur around Dog’s neck and ears.

  “If he’s gonna stay here, I may have to charge you a little more,” the hostler went on. From the sound of it, he was the owner of the stable as well.

  Frank had been debating what to do with Dog and the two horses, whether to take them with him on the ship or leave them here in Seattle. He had been leaning toward taking them with him anyway, since it might be five or six months before he was able to return, and the hostler’s comments just helped him make up his mind. He didn’t want to leave his old friends anywhere they wouldn’t be taken care of properly.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll all be leaving in a day or two,” Frank said. The look of relief on the hostler’s face told him that was welcome news.

  After checking on Stormy and Goldy and seeing that they were all right, Frank left the livery stable. The shore curved inland around Elliott Bay a couple of blocks west. Frank headed for the waterfront. He didn’t know where the Montclair was anchored, but he figured he could find someone who could tell him without much trouble.

  Like the rest of Seattle, the docks were a busy place. Tall-masted ships were tied up at most of the wharves, and there were also a number of steam-powered vessels with tall smokestacks. Not only was there a heavy traffic to Alaska these days, but a lot of shipping plied the Pacific Ocean between here and the Orient, as well.

  Frank walked over to a man holding a sheaf of papers who was supervising the unloading of cargo from one of the ships. “Can you tell me where to find the Montclair?” Frank asked.

  “No, but I’ll tell you where to find somebody who can,” the man replied. He waved the papers in his hand toward a frame building nestled between two looming warehouses made of brick. “The har
bormaster’s office is in there. He can help you.”

  “Much obliged,” Frank said with a nod.

  “Headed to Alaska, cowboy?”

  Frank had started to turn away, but he paused and nodded. “Looks like it.”

  “Better not waste any time, then. Only a few weeks left before the weather turns bad.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Frank said, once again thinking that maybe he had made a mistake by going along with what Jacob Trench wanted. When it was a man’s dying wish, though, what else could you do?

  The clerk in the harbormaster’s office told Frank that the harbormaster himself was in a meeting and couldn’t be disturbed. However, the man was able to give Frank the information he needed, telling him where the Montclair was anchored and how to find the ship.

  “That’s a popular ship this morning,” the man commented.

  Frank was about to ask him what he meant by that, when the door of the harbormaster’s private office opened and a florid-faced man with a gray mustache looked out.

  “Boyd, step in here and bring those manifests with you,” the man ordered.

  “Yes, sir.” The clerk stood up and moved toward the office, already forgetting about Frank, who glanced idly through the open door as he turned toward the street.

  He frowned. He had caught a glimpse of a woman sitting in a leather chair in front of the harbormaster’s desk. He couldn’t be sure because her back was to him and she wore a rather extravagant hat, to boot, but she reminded him somehow of Fiona.

  Well, she had said she was in Seattle on business, he told himself as he left the building. That business could easily involve shipping. And most importantly, it was none of his business.

  He found the Montclair without any trouble. It was an impressive, double-masted vessel, but amidships, between those two masts, rose a smokestack, and there were paddle wheels on both sides of the ship, indicating that it was powered by both steam and wind. Frank had never seen a ship like that before, but he had never been around the sea very much, either.

  A gangplank with ropes strung along the sides for handrails led from the wharf to the deck. A ship’s officer in a blue uniform stood at the top of the gangplank. He smiled when Frank paused halfway up and said, “Am I supposed to ask for permission to come aboard, or something like that?”

  “That’s right, mister,” the officer replied. “But if you’re here hoping to book passage to Alaska, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. We’re full up, and we have been for weeks now.”

  “I need to talk to Captain Hoffman.”

  The officer’s smile went away. “I told you, it won’t do any good. Either you’ve already booked passage, or you won’t be sailing with us tomorrow. I don’t care if this is one of the last ships this season. You’ll just have to hope that there’s still some gold left for you next spring.”

  “I’m not a prospector. I just need to talk to the captain. A friend of mine was supposed to sail on this ship, but he was killed last night.”

  “And you want to use his ticket. I see.”

  Frank’s jaw tightened. He didn’t much cotton to the officer. He said, “I’ll bet that water in the bay is cold.”

  “I’m sure it is. What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “You’re about to find out firsthand when I toss you into it,” Frank said. “Unless you get out of my way, that is.”

  That was probably a mistake, and he knew it. The ship’s officer could yell for help from the rest of the crew, and likely if anybody went into the drink, it would be Frank himself. But sometimes his temper got the best of him, especially when he was confronted by some stubborn, officious fool.

  “What’s going on there, Brewster?” another blue-uniformed man called from the bridge.

  “This cowboy wants to talk to you, Captain,” the officer replied. “Something about a dead friend of his booking passage with us—”

  “It’s about Jacob Trench,” Frank said, lifting his voice so that the man on the bridge could hear him.

  “What’s that?” The captain came closer. “Trench is dead?” He made an impatient gesture. “Let the man on board, Brewster.”

  The officer stepped aside. As Frank went past, he said in a low voice, “I don’t like being threatened, mister. I’ll remember that crack about tossing me in the bay.”

  “You do that,” Frank said. He hadn’t set out to make an enemy of the man, but he couldn’t help it that the Good Lord hadn’t put any back-up in him, either.

  He walked along the deck to the steep, narrow stairs that led to the bridge. They were more like a ladder than stairs, he thought as he went up them.

  The captain was waiting for him at the top. “I’m Rudolph Hoffman,” he introduced himself. He was a tall, thick-bodied man with a broad face and graying blond hair under a black uniform cap. “What’s this about Jacob Trench being dead?”

  “He was killed in a gunfight last night,” Frank explained. “I’m an old friend of his. Name’s Frank Morgan.”

  “I’m sorry to make your acquaintance under these circumstances, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Was Jacob a friend of yours, too?”

  Captain Hoffman shook his head. “No. In fact, I only met him once. He was coming along on our voyage to Alaska that begins tomorrow.”

  “As a passenger?”

  “In a manner of speaking. He was working for one of our passengers, guarding some…precious cargo, I suppose you could say.”

  Frank didn’t care for the air of mystery behind this deal, whatever it was. He told the captain, “I was with Jacob when he died. He asked me to take over for him and see that the job he was supposed to do gets done. I reckon you can give me all the details about that.”

  Hoffman frowned. “I’m not sure I should do that. It seems to me that you should be talking to Trench’s employer. Do you know who that is?”

  “Some fella named Devereaux,” Frank said. “That’s all I know. Can you at least tell me where to find him?”

  The captain’s frown deepened. “Well…not exactly. But as it happens, I can tell you where to find her.”

  “Her?” Frank repeated as his eyebrows rose in surprise. “Devereaux is a woman?”

  “Indeed.” Hoffman nodded toward the dock. “And here she comes now.”

  Frank turned to look along the wharf in the direction Hoffman indicated. He spotted her immediately, making her way through the throngs of dockworkers with an assurance that caused them to step aside and give her a clear path.

  Fiona.

  Chapter 5

  Even with the shock of seeing her and learning of her connection to Jacob Trench, Frank recognized the dress Fiona was wearing and knew he’d been right. That was her he had seen in the harbormaster’s office.

  Even as he saw her, she spotted him as well. She stopped short as they locked eyes. Only for a moment, though, and then she strode forward as if with renewed determination. When she reached the gangplank, she started up it without hesitation.

  “Allow the lady aboard, Mr. Brewster,” Hoffman called to the officer on duty on the deck.

  “Aye, Captain,” Brewster replied. He stepped aside to allow Fiona to board the ship.

  Hoffman started to leave the bridge to go down and greet her, but she held up a hand to stop him. “Stay there, Captain,” she called. “I want to come up and talk to you…and to Mr. Morgan.”

  From the sound of the way she said his name, she wasn’t happy with him, Frank thought. He wasn’t sure why she would feel that way. He hadn’t done anything to offend her, at least as far as he knew. He thought they had parted on good terms the night before.

  Fiona came up the steep stairs with ease, and when she reached the bridge, she confronted Frank and Hoffman with her handbag clutched tightly in her fingers. “Are you following me, Mr. Morgan?” she demanded.

  “How do you figure that?” Frank asked. “I was here talking to Captain Hoffman when you showed up.”

  “And before that you were at the harbormaste
r’s office when I was.”

  So she had seen him, too, or maybe just heard and recognized his voice. He supposed that under the circumstances, she had a right to be a mite suspicious of him.

  “I’m not following you,” he said. “I didn’t know you had any connection with Jacob Trench.”

  “Mr. Trench? What about him?” Fiona’s gaze darted to Hoffman. “Have you seen him this morning, Captain?”

  “You…don’t know?” Hoffman asked heavily.

  “Know? Know what?”

  Frank broke the news to her. “I’m afraid Jacob’s dead, Mrs. Devereaux. He’s the old friend I told you I lost last night.”

  Fiona looked more than surprised. She was shocked. “Dead?” she repeated. “But…but that’s not possible. Mr. Trench is accompanying me to Alaska.”

  Frank shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I was with him when he passed, though, and he asked me to take over for him. I promised him that I would.”

  The suspicion was back in Fiona’s eyes suddenly, stronger than ever. “What are you talking about? Exactly how did Mr. Trench die?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it, if that’s what you’re worried about. I wouldn’t horn in on a friend’s business, and I sure wouldn’t kill him over it.” Quickly, Frank explained how the four Haggarty brothers had followed Trench to Seattle from Idaho, determined to settle the score for their cousin’s death. He told her about the two ambush attempts and how the second one had taken Trench’s life, then concluded by saying, “If you’re not satisfied with what I’ve told you, you can come to the inquest and hear the official verdict. It’s at eleven o’clock this morning.”

  Fiona’s anger and suspicion had faded somewhat as Frank told her what happened. Captain Hoffman had listened with great interest, too. When Frank was finished, Fiona said, “I don’t think I need to attend the inquest. I suppose I can take your word for what happened, Mr. Morgan. As I told you last night, I pride myself on my judgment, and you strike me as an honest man.” She paused. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to take you along with me to Alaska, though. Why, I don’t even know you. I have no idea whether you’re qualified to take over for Mr. Trench.”