by Jon Sharpe
The captain focused on Fargo. ‘‘I appeal to you, then. You have been all over. You know how these things work. Governments everywhere are the same. They delight in making us jump through hoops.’’
‘‘We won’t say anything,’’ Fargo told him.
Frank Toomey put his hands on his hips. ‘‘I like that. You decide for the both of us? Is that how it goes?’’
‘‘If you want me to buy the equipment you need, yes,’’ Fargo responded. ‘‘It’s not the captain’s fault those men tried to kill you. It’s your own, for waving that claim around.’’
‘‘I did not wave it,’’ Toomey said resentfully. ‘‘I showed it to one person and one person alone. The cook. And I only showed it to him because he treated me so kind and considerate.’’
‘‘I hope you are a better judge of gold than you are of men,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Whatever you do, from here on out don’t show your claim to anyone unless you have to. And don’t talk about it, either.’’
‘‘Can I help it if I am proud of what I have done and want to brag a bit? I am only human.’’
‘‘Finding a dollar in the street isn’t a world-shaking accomplishment. It is luck.’’
‘‘I see. You are implying I am too full of myself, is that it?’’
Fargo sighed. ‘‘I am saying you better keep your damn mouth shut or someone else will do as the cook tried to do and slit your throat.’’
That gave Toomey pause. He stared at the approaching boat, then said, ‘‘Very well. It is against my better judgment but I will keep quiet.’’
‘‘Thank you,’’ Captain Stevenson said with great relief.
The boat contained an officer and six soldiers in addition to several civilians manning the oars. It came alongside the Sea Hawk and a ladder was lowered and the officer and the six soldiers came on board. All six wore bulky coats and hats and carried rifles.
The officer was a tall, striking man, his hair and mustache trimmed short, his bearing ramrod straight. He smiled warmly and offered his hand. ‘‘Captain Stevenson. It is a pleasure to see you again.’’ His English was nearly flawless, with only a trace of an accent. ‘‘I take it you have brought one of your regular shipments and not special cargo.’’
‘‘Captain Petrov,’’ Stevenson said, shaking. ‘‘Just the usual supplies and a few passengers.’’
Petrov’s dark eyes fixed on Fargo and Toomey. ‘‘So I see. Americans? On behalf of the Russian government I welcome you. Keep in mind that you are on Russian soil and under Russian law, and behave accordingly.’’ He smiled and winked and lowered his voice so the soldiers would not hear. ‘‘And may I add, now that the formalities are out of the way, that you are free to do pretty much as you please, short of murdering someone, of course.’’
Frank Toomey looked down at the deck and frowned.
‘‘Awful friendly of you,’’ Fargo said.
‘‘Not at all,’’ Captain Petrov replied, and gestured grandly at the city that was known as the queen of the northland. ‘‘Soon all this will be yours, anyway.’’
‘‘How’s that again?’’ Fargo asked.
‘‘Haven’t you heard?’’ Captain Petrov said. ‘‘Your government has started talks with my government. America would like to buy Alaska from Russia.’’
Captain Stevenson said, ‘‘This is the first I have heard of it.’’
‘‘Oh, yes,’’ Captain Petrov declared. ‘‘Your Mr. Seward has made a few inquiries, and my government is interested.’’
‘‘Your government would sell Alaska?’’ Frank Toomey asked in amazement. ‘‘All of it?’’
‘‘It is my fervent prayer, yes,’’ Captain Petrov said.
‘‘But there is so much land,’’ Toomey persisted.
‘‘Three hundred and sixty million acres, or so I have been told,’’ Captain Petrov said. ‘‘I believe that is the equivalent of almost six hundred thousand square miles.’’
‘‘Dear Lord,’’ Toomey said in awe. ‘‘Why would Russia part with a paradise teeming with game and timber?’’
‘‘What does Alaska offer that Mother Russia does not have in abundance?’’ Captain Petrov rejoined. ‘‘Trees? We are thick with trees. Furs? We have many fur-bearing animals. Fish? Our rivers and the ocean are choked with fish.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘No. Alaska had never been more than a colony to us. To give her up will be but a small affair.’’
‘‘The American people will never go for it,’’ Captain Stevenson said. ‘‘To most of them, Alaska is nothing but snow and ice and polar bears.’’
‘‘Surely not,’’ Captain Petrov said.
‘‘Wait and see,’’ Stevenson said. ‘‘The public will squawk to high heaven. Alaska is a long way from the rest of the States.’’
Fargo had little interest in their talk. Few things held less appeal to him than politics. He was more interested in the green hills and high mountains beyond Sitka, a wealth of land and wildlife rarely penetrated by white men. He would love to explore it some day.
Captain Petrov had turned to Frank Toomey. ‘‘We have met before, have we not?’’
‘‘I talked to you briefly before I left for Seattle,’’ Toomey said.
‘‘I remember now,’’ Petrov said. ‘‘You have filed a claim with my government. For a gold mine, was it not?’’ He snickered, and caught himself.
‘‘That amuses you?’’ Fargo said.
‘‘I am sorry. But yes. Very little gold has been found in Alaska. That has not stopped men like Mr. Toomey, here, from wasting their lives searching for it. The hardships they endure, month after month of the most severe deprivation, and for what? A few grains of gold dust or, at the most, a few nuggets.’’
‘‘There is more out there, I tell you,’’ Frank Toomey declared. ‘‘More than anyone guesses.’’
‘‘You know this how, Mr. Toomey?’’
Toomey took his claim from a pocket and waved it in the air. ‘‘Because I have found a rich vein myself, and where there is one, there are more.’’
‘‘For your sake I hope you are right,’’ Captain Petrov said. ‘‘But for myself, I think you chase—what is it you Americans say? Oh, yes. A will-o’-the-wisp.’’
On that less than encouraging note, Fargo and Toomey climbed down into the boat and were taken ashore. Toomey could not stand still, he was so excited. The instant they stepped onto dry ground, he snatched at the whangs on Fargo’s sleeve and said, ‘‘Come on. I know a stable where we can rent horses. We will buy what grub and gear we need and be on our way at first light.’’
As much as Fargo wanted to see the claim site, he found himself saying, ‘‘Not so fast. We’ve been at sea for days. I want a hot meal and some whiskey. In the morning we will rent the horses and all the rest.’’
‘‘But I thought—’’ Toomey said, and stopped, crestfallen. ‘‘I guess one more night won’t hurt.’’
‘‘Is there a hotel you recommend?’’ Fargo asked.
‘‘Why spend money for a room when I have friends who will put us up for free?’’ Toomey started off up the street, beckoning for Fargo to follow. ‘‘You’ll like Lester and Earl. They were up here looking for gold long before I showed up but they have yet to strike it rich.’’
Fargo was impressed by Sitka. It was not crowded and cramped like parts of New Orleans or St. Louis. The streets were broad, the buildings spaced well apart. There were trees and grass and even flowers.
The people had a robust vitality about them. The men of Russian extraction were big and brawny, the women big where women should be big. Heavy clothing was favored even though winter was months off yet. Everyone bustled about with a vigor lacking in cities far to the south.
They were passing a squat building with a high roof when the tinny refrain of a piano and a familiar odor brought Fargo to a halt. He regarded the sign that hung over the door. The Russian letters might as well be Greek. ‘‘Is this place what I think it is?’’
Frank Toomey glanced at t
he sign. ‘‘You don’t want to go in there.’’
‘‘Answer the question.’’
‘‘Yes, it is.’’ Toomey said a word in Russian.
‘‘A saloon?’’
‘‘The closest thing you will find anywhere in Sitka,’’ Toomey confirmed. ‘‘But you really should not go in. You are asking for trouble if you do.’’
‘‘Why?’’
Toomey indicated the sign. ‘‘I can read and speak a little of the language. Enough to wrestle with a menu. This place is called the Motherland. Foreigners are not welcome.’’
‘‘Is that a fact?’’ Fargo said, and walked in.
Frank Toomey did not follow him.
The place was crowded with Russians and only Russians. They were drinking, gambling, joking, laughing, doing all the things their American counterparts did for fun. It was no different from walking into a whiskey mill south of the Canadian border, except that in this instance everyone stopped talking and joking and laughing and the Motherland became as quiet as a tomb. A tense tomb, to judge by the stiff postures and the unfriendly stares cast in Fargo’s direction. Ignoring them, cradling the Henry, he strolled to the bar.
A pair of burly patrons glared but moved aside. Fargo set the rifle down with a loud thunk and placed his bedroll beside it, then smacked the bar to get the bartender’s attention. Not that he needed to. The bartender, like nearly everyone else, was giving him the sort of look that said he was distinctly unwelcome. ‘‘How about a drink?’’
Scowling and wiping his thick fingers on his dirty apron, the stocky barkeep growled, ‘‘What you want, American?’’ His accent was atrocious.
‘‘Didn’t you hear me? I would like a whiskey and I would like it now.’’ Fargo pounded the bar for emphasis.
A sly grin lit the bartender’s unhandsome features. ‘‘No whiskey here. Only Russian drink. Only vodka.’’
‘‘I’ll take a vodka, then,’’ Fargo said. He smiled at the men and women on either side of him but not one smiled back.
‘‘You not like vodka,’’ the bartender said. ‘‘Too strong. Too much for puny man. Go to Northern Lights. They have whiskey. Plenty whiskey.’’
Fargo pointed at a shelf behind the bar, a shelf lined with a variety of bottles. ‘‘No need. That’s whiskey right there. Give me the bottle and a glass and you can go back to doing whatever it is you do when you’re not lying to folks.’’
A red tinge crept from the bartender’s thick neck to his nearly bald pate. ‘‘You mistake. That not whiskey. That vodka.’’
‘‘Prove it,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Give me a taste.’’
The bartender leaned over the bar. ‘‘Leave, American. Leave or we make you leave.’’
‘‘We?’’
The bartender smirked and gestured.
Fargo slowly turned. Fully a third of the men were edging toward him. They had spread out in a half circle, cutting him off from the door. ‘‘So this is how it is.’’
4
The bartender was right. The smart thing for Fargo to do was get out of there while he still had all his teeth. Instead, he laughed at the menacing ring and said loudly, ‘‘Twenty against one? Is that your notion of fair odds? Where I come from, we call it yellow.’’
Several Russians started toward him but stopped at a word from another of their number seated at a table over against the wall. The man rose and kept on rising. He was a human bear, an impression heightened by his bushy black beard and mane of hair. A half-full glass in his hand, he came toward the bar. From the way others quickly moved aside, he was no ordinary reveler. He downed the contents of his glass as he approached and plunked it on the bar. ‘‘I am Vassily. I welcome you to Sitka.’’
‘‘Someone with manners,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘And your English is a lot better than Porky’s.’’
‘‘Porky, as you call him, is a friend of mine,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘I do not take it kindly when my friends are insulted.’’
‘‘I don’t take kindly to insults, either. How about you let me buy you a drink and then you can buy me one?’’ Fargo proposed.
‘‘It is not that simple,’’ Vassily said.
‘‘I didn’t reckon it would be,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘What do you have in mind?’’
‘‘I will try to beat you senseless. You will try to stop me from beating you senseless.’’
‘‘And if I beat you senseless?’’
Vassily’s mouth quirked upward. ‘‘Many have tried but no one has ever done it. If you can, the drinks are on us.’’
‘‘My kind of place,’’ Fargo said, and hit him on the jaw. He did not hold back. He started his swing from below the hip and delivered an uppercut that should have stretched the Russian out on his back, unconscious. But the man called Vassily only staggered a few steps, and then, holding on to the bar for support, he slowly straightened and rubbed his jaw.
‘‘Ready to give up?’’
Vassily grinned and balled his fists. His knuckles were the size of walnuts. ‘‘On the contrary, American. I have never been hit as hard as you hit me. I am encouraged. You might be more of a challenge than I dared hope.’’
Fargo did not know where the fist came from. One instant the Russian was five feet away talking to him and the next instant a sledgehammer slammed into his jaw and he was knocked sprawling over a table. Shaking his head to clear it, he regarded Vassily with renewed interest. ‘‘Your punch has the kick of a mule.’’
‘‘That is good, I take it. Although I spent two years at an American university in Boston, your figures of speech are sometimes confusing.’’
‘‘It is a compliment,’’ Fargo clarified.
‘‘I begin to like you, American,’’ Vassily said. ‘‘It is unfortunate I must teach you to show more respect for the customs of your hosts.’’
Fargo grinned wholeheartedly. ‘‘Me, I just need the exercise.’’
Vassily laughed and waded in, and for a while they battled toe-to-toe, trading blows and misses, each taking the measure of the other while trying to avoid being knocked out.
Fargo was no stranger to fistfights. He had been in more than a few, rarely by choice. He had learned a skill or three, and he put those skills to excellent use. He boxed as he had seldom ever had to. He blocked, he countered, he landed blows. He gave about as good as he got but he had to admit he was not faring as well as he expected. Vassily was good, very good, and plainly had his own share of fights under his wide leather belt.
They had been at it a solid five minutes, with the Russians hollering their heads off in support of Vassily, when the front door opened and in rushed a figure in uniform, trailed by Frank Toomey.
Vassily immediately stepped back and lowered his arms. Winking at Fargo, he whispered, ‘‘Be careful what you say, American.’’ Then, adopting a broad smile, he spread his arms wide and declared in English, ‘‘Captain Petrov! What a pleasure to see you again. You so rarely come in here these days.’’
Petrov had a hand on the flap of his holster. ‘‘I have been informed a fight was taking place,’’ he said suspiciously, ‘‘and when I came in, the two of you had your fists up.’’
‘‘I was showing my American friend here the style of boxing we use in Mother Russia,’’ Vassily said.
‘‘And I am to believe that?’’ Captain Petrov demanded.
‘‘Ask the American if you do not believe me.’’
The officer’s dark eyes bored like twin drills into Fargo’s. ‘‘Is he telling the truth? Were you having a friendly talk?’’
‘‘As friendly as this place gets,’’ Fargo said.
Captain Petrov took his hand off his holster. ‘‘You do not do him a favor by protecting him. Vassily is a Baranof, a cousin of the man who founded this colony. But he is not here because he is an able trader or administrator. He is here because his own family has disowned him. In American parlance, Vassily is the black sheep of the Baranofs.’’
‘‘Are you quite through?’’ Vassily
asked.
The officer ignored him. ‘‘How you are associated with this man, I cannot begin to guess,’’ he said to Fargo. ‘‘But I warn you. It is in your best interest to have nothing to do with him. He is not to be trusted. Not even a little bit.’’
Vassily had poured himself a drink. Taking a swig, he sighed with contentment, then said, ‘‘You must forgive the good captain. His manners are deplorable, but in his defense, he is only doing his job as he thinks it should be done. He and I have never seen eye to eye, you see. We are on what you would call the opposite sides of the fence.’’
‘‘That we are,’’ Captain Petrov agreed. ‘‘I am on the side of law and you are on the side of breaking the law.’’
‘‘If that is true,’’ Vassily replied, ‘‘why am I not in prison?’’
‘‘Because you are clever. That I will grant you. Clever enough that we can never tie you to the criminal activities you engage in.’’
‘‘You have tried often enough,’’ Vassily said.
‘‘And I will go on trying until you are held responsible for your many crimes and spend the rest of your life behind bars.’’ Captain Petrov smiled coldly at Fargo and departed, brushing Frank Toomey roughly aside.
‘‘Is what he said true?’’ Fargo asked.
Vassily Baranof grinned. ‘‘I might have done a few things the law would frown on, but who among us has not? I do what I must to keep myself in vodka, good clothes, and women. No more, no less.’’
Frank Toomey picked that moment to tug at Fargo’s sleeve. ‘‘Can we go? I want to get an early start tomorrow. It will take us over a week to reach my gold claim.’’
‘‘Did he say gold?’’ Vassily asked.
‘‘He found some fool’s gold and thinks he is rich.’’ Fargo tried to cover for them. Gripping Toomey by the elbow, he propelled him toward the entrance, saying in Toomey’s ear, ‘‘You and that mouth of yours. Let’s find those friends of yours and bed down for the night.’’
‘‘What about your drink?’’
‘‘I made a mistake coming in here,’’ Fargo said. He squinted as they stepped out into the bright glare of the sun.