William Johnstone - Winter Kill

Hoffman nodded. “I believe that was Mr. Trench’s plan as well. There should be adequate room in the hold for whatever you want to bring along. Although having those horses in there will cut down on the available space.”

“We’ll work it out,” Frank said. He held out his hand. “Sounds like it’ll all be fine. I’m looking forward to sailing with you, Captain.”

Hoffman shook with him. “I hope it’s a pleasant journey for you, Mr. Morgan.”

Frank said so long and went up on deck again. He was headed for the gangplank when he heard a step behind him. A man said, “Morgan.”

Frank turned and saw the ship’s officer called Brewster. He gave the man a curt nod.

“You’re coming along to Alaska?” Brewster asked harshly.

“That’s right.”

“I think we should get something straight between us, then, before the voyage starts.”

“What’s that?” Frank asked, his voice cool.

“This,” Brewster said. He sent a punch rocketing at Frank’s jaw.

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.