William Johnstone - Winter Kill

“Creede,” Frank said suddenly. “I remember.”

Smith inclined his head to acknowledge that Frank was right.

“You had a pretty shady reputation there, as I recall.” Frank didn’t preface the statement with the words “No offense,” because he didn’t really care whether or not he offended Smith.

“That was due to another series of misunderstandings,” Smith said without hesitation.

“Like the ones in Leadville and Denver?” The memories had come back to Frank in a flash once Smith’s mention of Colorado triggered them. Smith had been well known in those places as a swindler and thief and a suspected killer. Clearly, he hadn’t changed his stripes when he came to Alaska.

Smith picked up his beer and drank from it. He set the mug down and licked his lips. “If anyone would know about how a man’s reputation follows him, whether it’s deserved or not, it would be you, Frank,” he said. “I seem to recall that you’ve been run out of a few towns yourself.”

“If I was asked to leave by the local law, I went along with it because I didn’t want to cause trouble,” Frank said stiffly.

Smith gave a lazy shrug and smiled as if Frank’s answer proved his point. “I didn’t ask you in here to argue with you,” he said. “I really am glad to make your acquaintance. It’s not every day that Skagway gets such a famous visitor. When word gets around that Frank Morgan has been here, it’ll just attract more people to the settlement. I’m for anything that helps Skagway to grow and prosper.”

“So you’ll have more people to fleece?”

For a second, anger danced in Smith’s eyes before he banished it. “Think whatever you want about me. I’m just trying to help this town.”

“Like you helped yourself to all the gold in Salty Stevens’s poke?”

Smith frowned. “Who?”

His puzzlement seemed genuine, Frank thought. Then he realized that it probably was. Smith had had so many victims, he couldn’t be expected to remember them all.

“The old-timer who hangs around the hotel and Ike’s Saloon, begging for drinks and food because he’s broke.”

“You mean that sourdough who looks like a walking pile of furs?” Smith chuckled. “He’s still alive? I thought the booze would have killed him by now.”

“Nope. He’s alive, and he’s going to help me and my friends take those ladies to Whitehorse.”

Smith’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Really?”

“That’s right. And I’d appreciate it if you’d return what you stole from him.”

“Now, I didn’t steal anything from the man. As I recall, he was in violation of one of the local ordinances, and Judge Van Horn had to levy a heavy fine on him. After that, someone stole the rest of his gold, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. And I don’t really appreciate anybody saying that I did.” Smith waved his hand above his beer mug. “But that’s not really important. I’m used to people telling lies about me by now. What matters is the two of us.”

Frank was taken aback and couldn’t help repeating it. “What do you mean, the two of us?”

Smith leaned forward with a wolfish grin on his face. “You know where the real gold mine is, Frank? It’s not across the line in the Klondike. It’s right here!” He slapped the table. “Skagway is the gold mine. It’s where I’m making my fortune, and it’s where you can make your fortune, too. All you have to do is throw in with me!”

Frank stared. “You want me to work for you?”

“No, I want you to be my partner, fifty-fifty. And all you have to do to seal the deal is give me those women.”

Chapter 21

For a long moment, Frank battled the impulse to stand up and smash his fist into the middle of Smith’s face. When he had it under control, he said steadily, “You want me to give you those mail-order brides.”

“I know, I know, they’re promised to prospectors over in Whitehorse. But just think about it. Why should you collect just one time on each of them, when you can collect again and again and again?”

“You want to make soiled doves out of them.”

Smith leaned back languidly in his chair. “They’re reasonably young and healthy, and they look unspoiled, whether they really are or not. They’ll stay innocent-looking for a while, too. Men up here will pay through the nose for something like that, maybe a whole poke full of nuggets or dust.” He laughed. “A poke for a poke, eh? And even once the bloom is off the rose, so to speak, they can still generate a lot of money for us. A man spends five or six months holed up alone in an eight-by-ten cabin, he’ll fork over most of his worldly goods for a few minutes with a woman, especially one who ain’t an Indian.” Smith took another swallow of beer. “The women aren’t the only reasons I want to come to an agreement with you, though.”

“Go on,” Frank said flatly.

“You saw Joe Palmer and Big Ed outside, and you met Yeah Mow and Sid earlier. They’re good men, all of ’em. Tough as nails, and they do what they’re told. Big Ed and Yeah Mow can bust a man in half with their bare hands, and Sid’s real handy with a knife when he ain’t been on the nod too much. Joe handles the gun work, and he’s slick at it. But he’s nowhere near as slick as The Drifter, and none of those boys will strike fear in a man’s heart like the name Frank Morgan will.”

“So you want me to handle your dirty work for you.”

“I want you to earn your share,” Smith snapped. “Fifty-fifty, like I said. Of course, expenses come off the top before we divvy up.”

Frank nodded. “Of course.”

Smith took that as an encouraging sign. He leaned forward again. “Well, what do you say?”

Frank picked his beer up and took a sip from the mug for the first time. The brew was sour and bitter, as he had figured it would be. He wouldn’t expect anything else from a snake like Smith.

“First of all,” he said as he replaced the mug on the table, “those women aren’t mine to give you, and I wouldn’t even if they were. I’m taking them to Whitehorse like I promised I would. Second, when we leave tomorrow, Salty Stevens is going with us, and I expect you to return his gold before we leave.”

Smith stared across the table at him, eyes narrowing until they were slits of evil. “You son of a bitch,” he breathed.

“Talk like that can get a man killed.”

“Yeah, you! Take a look at that table to your right. Yeah Mow’s over there with a gun pointed at you, Morgan, and all I have to do is say the word for him to pull the trigger.”

“You see my right hand?” Frank asked quietly.

“What?” Smith looked at the table. Frank’s left hand was still wrapped around the handle of the beer mug, but his right was nowhere to be seen.

“I’ve had a .45 lined up on your belly pretty much from the moment we sat down,” Frank went on. “My thumb’s over the hammer, and that’s all that’s holding it back. You can have your boy Yeah Mow shoot me, but you’ll get a bullet in the guts at the same time. I’ve got a hunch there’s not a doctor up here who could pull a man through with a wound like that. You’d be a long, slow, hard time dying, too.”

Smith’s lips writhed with hate. “You…you…”

“Don’t call me a son of a bitch again,” Frank said.

“Get out.”

“Have Hopkins put his gun on the table first, then stand up and move away from it.”

Smith hesitated, and for a second Frank thought the man was going to call his bluff…although it really wasn’t a bluff at all. Frank was prepared to shoot his way out of here if necessary. Then Smith made a curt gesture to Yeah Mow and said, “Put your gun on the table and get out.”

“But, Boss—” the man started to protest.