Alaskan Vengeance

by Jon Sharpe

  ‘‘What’s this I hear about your kids and grandkids?’’

  Toomey’s face lit like the sun. ‘‘You must have been talking to Nestor. I have a son and a daughter, both married, and six grandchildren. We have never had much money. Hand to mouth, year in and year out, that’s always how it has been. My strike could have changed that.’’

  ‘‘Yet you gambled it away,’’ Fargo criticized.

  ‘‘I explained why,’’ Toomey wearily said. ‘‘Equipment doesn’t come cheap. Yes, it was a gamble, and yes, it was probably stupid of me, and if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t, but that’s life.’’ He studied Fargo intently. ‘‘Why all these questions? What do you care about my family?’’

  ‘‘I don’t,’’ Fargo said, and left. On the way out he passed the doctor, who snagged his sleeve.

  ‘‘I thought you were watching my patient for me?’’

  ‘‘He’s awake and gabbing up a storm,’’ Fargo said, pulling free. ‘‘Tell him I’ll be back to see him in the morning. Provided he is still alive.’’

  ‘‘Where are you off to?’’ Dr. James inquired.

  ‘‘To buy a bottle and see a lady and beat my head against a wall.’’

  2

  The brigantine was called the Sea Hawk and she was almost as old as Frank Toomey, but she was as seaworthy as any vessel in service. For days she had been forging steadily northward. The weather had cooperated and given them sun and not storm, and wind to fill the sails.

  Fargo had not been on a ship in many months. He liked it. The constant roll of the deck did not make him sick as it did others, maybe because he was so used to the rolling gait of his pinto. He had left it stabled in Seattle. Better for the horse, he reasoned, than days cooped up in a dark pen belowdecks.

  He loved to stand on the bow with the spray in his face and the wind in his hair. The bright glare made him squint, but it was no worse than the glare of the prairie on a hot summer’s day, or the glare of a desert most any day of the year.

  He was always on the lookout for sea creatures. Once he spotted whales, the great bulk of their enormous bodies rising up out of the sea with a grace that belied their size. Gray whales, the captain told him. They grew up to fifty feet long, and God knew how many tons.

  ‘‘Devilfish, we call them,’’ Captain Stevenson said.

  ‘‘Why is that?’’ Fargo asked while admiring a behemoth that had reared up out of the deep.

  ‘‘The females protect their young with the ferocity of lionesses,’’ Captain Stevenson related. ‘‘I have seen them kill orcas that tried to get at their calves. And once I saw a mother ram a boat that got too near her young one.’’ The old salt had paused. ‘‘Strange, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘That we call the young of whales and cows by the same name. Yet one lives in the sea and the other spends its days in a pasture.’’

  The sixth day out, Fargo actually saw orcas. He was on the bow when several appeared to port, leaping clear of the water in flashing streaks of black and white.

  The captain came up and grunted. ‘‘Grampus,’’ he said sourly. ‘‘Killer whales. The wolves of the sea. They will attack and kill just about anything.’’

  ‘‘You don’t sound fond of them,’’ Fargo noted.

  ‘‘I’m not. I once saw orcas rip a baleen whale to near bits, then leave it helpless and in pain. They didn’t eat it. They didn’t finish it off. They just took delight in tearing it apart and swam merrily away.’’ Stevenson spat over the side. ‘‘If you ask me, orcas are the true devil-fish.’’

  ‘‘Wolves eat what they kill.’’

  ‘‘Eh? Oh. Rabid wolves, then. I have never heard of them killing a man but I would not care to be the one who puts them to the test.’’

  The very next day Fargo spotted ten to twenty creatures that were black and white like killer whales but had much shorter dorsal fins.

  As usual, Captain Stevenson was a fount of information. ‘‘Porpoises. They are often mistaken for orcas. You don’t often see them this close to shore.’’

  Suddenly one of the porpoises broke from the rest and sheered toward the brigantine. For a few moments, it looked as if the porpoise was going to slam into the bow, but instead it turned and rode the bow wave, keeping pace with the ship.

  ‘‘They like to do that. Playful cusses,’’ Captain Stevenson said. ‘‘The Japanese like to harpoon them and eat them, but that’s not for me. I could never kill a porpoise or a dolphin. They’re too friendly. Sometimes they almost act human.’’

  That evening when it grew too dark to see much of anything except the blossoming stars, Fargo went belowdecks. He knocked on a particular compartment, and when he was bid to enter, did so.

  Frank Toomey was propped in his bunk, reading a newspaper he had bought as they were about to board the Sea Hawk in Seattle.

  ‘‘How are you feeling?’’ Fargo asked.

  ‘‘Not bad,’’ Toomey said with a smile. ‘‘I have most of my strength back, and my wrists don’t hurt half as much.’’

  There was no furniture. Fargo leaned against the bulkhead and folded his arms across his chest. ‘‘We’ll be in Sitka by the end of the week.’’

  ‘‘So the captain mentioned when he visited me earlier,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘I suspect he thinks we are insane.’’

  ‘‘I half think we are loco, too,’’ Fargo said.

  Toomey put down the newspaper. ‘‘Then why are you doing this? Why are you being so kind to me?’’

  ‘‘Who said I was?’’

  Frank Toomey swung his legs over the side of the bunk. ‘‘I don’t know what to make of you. I truly don’t. I lost my claim to you fair and square in that poker game. Yet you go and offer me half of it back without a word of explanation as to why.’’

  Fargo shrugged.

  ‘‘To me, that smacks of a good deed,’’ Toomey said.

  ‘‘Oh, hell. I’m as selfish as the next hombre.’’ Fargo let out a sigh. ‘‘You say this mine of yours is a rich one, that there is a fortune just waiting to be dug out of the ground.’’

  ‘‘There is!’’ Toomey said excitedly, waving his arms. ‘‘Just wait until you see the vein! Pure gold, as yellow as the sun!’’

  ‘‘Calm down or you will tear a suture.’’

  ‘‘I can’t help it,’’ Toomey replied. ‘‘If you had seen it with your own eyes like I have, you would understand.’’

  ‘‘Let’s say you are right. Let’s say there is a lot of gold to be had,’’ Fargo allowed. ‘‘I’m no miner and I don’t ever want to be. I don’t know the first thing about running a mine. But you do.’’

  ‘‘Ah. The light dawns. I do all the work, and you sit back and rake in your half of the profits without having to lift a finger.’’

  ‘‘So much for my sainthood,’’ Fargo said with a grin.

  ‘‘Be honest with me,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘You don’t believe the strike is as rich as I have made it out to be, do you?’’

  Fargo was a while answering. ‘‘I would like for it to be true. I wouldn’t mind having more money than I know what to do with. But gold fever is a common malady, and it wouldn’t do for me to take your word for granted.’’

  Toomey cocked his head. ‘‘If that is how you feel, then why in God’s name did you offer to buy the equipment we need with your poker winnings?’’

  ‘‘You’re forgetting something,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You don’t get a cent until I have seen the claim with my own eyes. And once the mine is up and running, you are to pay back the money I lent you for equipment.’’

  ‘‘You won’t be disappointed. I promise,’’ Toomey said.

  Fargo bid him good night and went next door to his own compartment. He left the door ajar an inch or so to admit what little breeze wafted below deck. Lying on his back on his bunk with his fingers laced under his head, he stared up into the dark and said aloud, ‘‘Damn me for a fool.’’

  The motion of the ship an
d the creak of the boards soon lulled Fargo into dozing off. He had always been a light sleeper and was even more so in the alien confines of the ship. He could not have been asleep long when suddenly his eyes were open again, and he lay listening for the sound he was sure must have awakened him.

  A shoe scraped in the passageway.

  Silently rising, Fargo cat-footed to the door and put his ear to the crack. Someone was whispering.

  ‘‘We go in quiet and we go in quick and we do him proper. Make sure you get a hand over his mouth so he can’t cry out.’’

  ‘‘How do we know he has the paper on him?’’ asked another. ‘‘Maybe he has it hid somewhere.’’

  ‘‘I’ve told you. He always keeps it on him,’’ said the first man, who had a nasal twang to his voice. ‘‘He has shown it to me often enough when I bring his food. It’s all he ever talks about.’’

  A third man chuckled. ‘‘Not much for brains, is the old landlubber?’’

  ‘‘He hasn’t told me where the gold is, though,’’ said the first, ‘‘so he’s not completely dumb.’’ He paused. ‘‘All of you have your blades ready? Good. Remember. Fast and quiet does it.’’

  Fargo was already in motion. Bending, he slid his right hand under his pant leg and into his boot. Strapped to his ankle was an Arkansas toothpick. Not the large belt variety that rivaled bowies in size, but the original version, a short, slender, double-edged dose of wickedness.

  Opening his door, Fargo slipped into the hall. He thought there were three of them but there were four. Crewmen he had seen nearly every day. Their ringleader was the cook, who had spent a lot of time with Toomey of late. Now Fargo knew why. The other three were typical of their breed—hardy, tough, and as salty as the sea. Their knives gleamed in the light of a lantern that hung on a peg at the end of the passageway.

  The cook had opened Toomey’s door and was peering inside.

  Fargo glided up behind them. The last man either sensed or heard him and began to turn. Fargo did not tell him to drop his knife. He did not call on them to give up or shout for help. He simply stepped in close and buried his toothpick to the hilt in the seaman’s back.

  The would-be murderer bent like a bow and his mouth opened wide, but all he did was gasp. Then his eyes glazed and his legs buckled and he collapsed in a dead heap.

  That gasp had been enough, though. The man in front of him heard it, and whirled. With a sharp bark of anger, the man attacked, cleaving the air with a big knife.

  Fargo sidestepped, slashed, and missed. The man crouched to come in low, his blade held close to his leg so Fargo could not see it. Fargo feinted to the left and the seaman took the bait and swung to parry the presumed strike. Which was exactly what Fargo wanted. For as the seaman swung left, Fargo went right, slicing the toothpick up and in between the man’s ribs. Blood spurted from the man’s nose and mouth and he collapsed against the bulkhead.

  The third seaman had turned. A slab of muscle with an anvil for a chin, his knife was more like a cutlass. With a bestial growl he leaped, swinging his blade in an overhand stroke that would have split Fargo’s head had it landed. But Fargo got the toothpick up in time. The clang of steel on steel was followed by the smack of Fargo’s knees on the planking underfoot.

  The big seaman whipped back his arm to swing again. In that brief interval, no more than the blink of an eye, his chest and throat were exposed. He hissed when the toothpick sheared into his jugular. Staggering back, he pressed a calloused hand to the wound but could not staunch the crimson flow. Sputtering and coughing, he keeled onto his side.

  The cook was nowhere to be seen.

  In a bound Fargo reached the doorway to Frank Toomey’s compartment. From within came the sounds of a struggle. He burst in and beheld Toomey on his back on the floor with the cook above him. The cook had one knee on Toomey’s chest and was striving to plunge his blade into Toomey’s heart even as Toomey struggled with all his might to keep from being slain.

  Fargo threw himself at the cook. But as swift as he was, he was not swift enough. The cook spun to confront him, wielding a butcher knife from the brigantine’s galley.

  ‘‘You!’’ The man glanced at the doorway. ‘‘Where are the other three?’’

  ‘‘They won’t be slitting any more throats in the dead of night,’’ Fargo said, circling to get between Toomey and that butcher knife.

  ‘‘We should have done you first,’’ the cook said. ‘‘Up on deck where you would least expect.’’

  ‘‘Give up,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘And be keelhauled? No, thanks. I’d rather it was over quick.’’ And with that the cook attacked, swinging the butcher knife in a desperate frenzy.

  Fargo had no choice but to give way. He parried, he dodged, he ducked, he skipped to either side, but he was forced inexorably back until he bumped into the bulkhead.

  ‘‘Now I’ve got you!’’ the cook crowed, and lanced the butcher knife out and in.

  Fargo twisted aside but not quite fast enough. A stinging sensation confirmed he had been cut. But he did not glance down. That would have been a fatal mistake, a mistake a greenhorn might make, and Fargo was no greenhorn—as the cook found out when Fargo opened his knife arm from wrist to elbow.

  Howling in pain, the cook jumped back. He glared at the blood dripping from his arm, then at Fargo. ‘‘I’ll gut you for that,’’ he snarled, and switched the butcher knife from his right hand to his left.

  ‘‘No, you won’t.’’

  They both looked toward the bunk. On it lay Frank Toomey’s canvas bag, open. From the bag Toomey had taken a Dragoon Colt, an older model so large and cumbersome hardly anyone ever used them anymore. His hands shook as he thumbed back the hammer and pointed it at the cook. ‘‘Drop your knife. I won’t tell you twice.’’

  ‘‘Or what? You’ll shoot me?’’ The cook snorted. ‘‘Maybe you didn’t hear me tell your friend here that I’d rather die quick than slow. So go ahead. Blow out my wick.’’

  ‘‘Please,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘I’ve never shot anyone and I don’t want to shoot you if I can help it.’’

  ‘‘Is that a fact?’’ the cook taunted, and took a step toward him.

  ‘‘Stop!’’ Toomey yelled, more of a bleat than a command. ‘‘I mean it! I will shoot if you force me.’’

  The cook laughed and took another step.

  ‘‘What were you after, anyhow?’’ Toomey tried to stall him. ‘‘What was this all about?’’

  ‘‘Can’t you guess, you simpleton?’’

  ‘‘My gold mine? My claim? But it is filed under my name. The claim would do you no good.’’

  ‘‘Only if I was caught before I dug out enough gold to last me the rest of my days,’’ the cook said. He took a third step and drew back his left arm.

  ‘‘Stop!’’ Toomey cried.

  ‘‘Oh, hell,’’ Fargo said. Drawing his Colt, he shot the cook in the head.

  3

  Sitka, Alaska.

  Fargo learned a little of its history as the brigantine sailed north. The settlement got its start over sixty years earlier when a Russian trader by the name of Alexander Baranof decided that the site, on the west coast of a large island, was ideal for a trading post. With entrepreneurial flair he named the island after himself. A religious man, he named the settlement New Archangel.

  Baranof chose well. Thanks largely to an abundance of lumber and fish, notably halibut and salmon, the settlement prospered and grew. It grew so fast that it was renamed the New World Paris. It also became the capital of Russia’s Alaskan territory.

  Later the name was changed to Sitka. The population was largely Russian, but there were many Americans and other nationalities, overseeing business interests.

  Now, as the brigantine lowered her anchor and her sails, Fargo stood on the deck and surveyed the city he had sailed a thousand miles to reach. Most of the buildings were situated along a fertile belt between the sea and mountains that reared to the east. Snow crowned the highest
peaks. To the north were cabins and homes, rustic and picturesque. The rest was the city proper, the government buildings painted white and constructed in the blockhouse style favored by Russian builders. The Russian flag flew from a tall flagpole near a three-story building close to shore. Farther inland was a five- or six-story structure, the highest on the island.

  ‘‘Sitka, at last,’’ Frank Toomey said. ‘‘It won’t be long now before we can head inland and you will see the claim for yourself.’’

  Captain Stevenson came up. ‘‘A boat is putting out to meet us.’’ He pointed at the dock. ‘‘Once they have boarded and inspected us, we will be permitted to go on shore.’’

  ‘‘I can hardly wait,’’ Toomey said eagerly.

  Stevenson looked at Fargo. ‘‘I apologize, again, for the unpleasantness a few nights ago.’’

  ‘‘You had nothing to do with it,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘No, I did not,’’ the captain replied, with a pointed glance at Toomey. ‘‘Still, they were members of my crew, and I could be held accountable.’’ He coughed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘‘Which is why I would like to ask a favor of you gentlemen.’’

  ‘‘What kind of favor?’’ Toomey asked.

  ‘‘That you say nothing of the incident to the Russian authorities. They can be sticklers about such things. They might take it into their heads to hold a formal inquiry, in which case I could be detained for months.’’

  ‘‘But men died,’’ Toomey said. ‘‘Surely we must report it?’’

  ‘‘To what end?’’ Captain Stevenson rejoined. ‘‘Will it bring them back from the seabed where we dropped them? We couldn’t very well keep their bodies on board. By now the stench would have been frightful.’’

  ‘‘I just meant—’’ Toomey began.

  ‘‘If the Russians find out,’’ Captain Stevenson cut him short, ‘‘it will create no end of problems for me and my crew. The Russians might even ban me from their waters. I would lose considerable income, no matter what they decide.’’

  ‘‘You are asking a lot,’’ Frank Toomey stubbornly maintained.