William Johnstone - Winter Kill

Fiona pushed back the hood of her parka and said, “All right, ladies, let’s go inside.” She turned to Frank and went on. “Would you come with us, Frank? You’ve been with us all the way, so I’d like for you to see the end of this.”

“Well, sure, I suppose I can do that,” he said with a smile. “Be nice to be there for the finish.”

Meg turned and gave him a sad smile as the group started to file into the place. He sensed that she was saying good-bye to him.

Hargett’s looked even more like a saloon when Frank stepped inside. He saw a long hardwood bar on the right, poker tables and faro layouts to the left and rear, and some stairs at the end of the room leading up to a second-floor balcony with rooms opening off it. The main room was full of men, most of them hard-faced hombres in thick coats. A couple of potbellied stoves in the corners gave off some heat, but the room still held a chill.

Alarm bells suddenly went off in Frank’s brain. Something wasn’t right here. His hand had started to move toward his gun when boot leather scuffed on the floor behind him. Even with all the speed he could muster, he wasn’t fast enough. The blow was already falling. Just as his fingers touched the Colt, something crashed against the back of head, driving him forward off his feet. He heard screams as he landed on his face, scraping it on the rough floor. Blackness swirled around him, trying to close in and carry him away.

But he was still aware enough to hear Fiona say, “You really should have taken me up on my offer, Frank.”

That was the last thing he knew for a while.

As he had told Conway after the shipwreck, pain meant life. Pain was a good thing, because the absence of it was death.

So Frank knew he was alive, because his head hurt like hell.

He had been knocked out before, and the experience hadn’t improved any. Now he was cold, too, he realized as awareness seeped back into his brain, and lying in darkness on what felt like cold, rocky ground. He got his hands underneath him and tried to push himself up. As he did, he bumped into something beside him. He heard a groan and then a muttered, “What in tarnation…?”

“Salty?” Frank rasped. “Salty, is that you?”

“Yeah. Frank? What…what the hell happened?”

Frank struggled to a sitting position and reached out to explore around him. His fingers brushed what felt like a log wall. He leaned against it to steady himself and ease the pounding in his skull.

“We got double-crossed, that’s what happened,” he said grimly.

“Double-crossed? By who?”

“Fiona.”

“Miz Devereaux? But that don’t make no sense!”

It was starting to, Frank thought. It was all starting to make sense now, and he didn’t like the picture that it formed in his head.

“There were men waiting for us when we went inside,” he said, “but they weren’t miners who sent off for mail-order brides. I don’t reckon those ladies were ever intended to have husbands. Fiona made a deal with this fella Hargett to bring them up here and turn them into whores.”

Salty cursed bitterly. “That’s the most low-down, despicable thing I ever heard. Why would anybody take advantage o’ innocent gals that way when there’s already soiled doves up here?”

“You just said it yourself. They’re innocent. Hargett can charge a premium price for them, and he can keep on charging higher prices for a while, just like Soapy Smith intended to do.”

“Shoot, if that’s what’s goin’ on, why didn’t Miz Devereaux just throw in with Smith whilst we was in Skagway, ’stead o’ comin’ all the way through that snow and ice to Whitehorse?”

“Maybe Hargett promised her a bigger cut than she thought she could get from Smith,” Frank guessed. “I don’t know, and I don’t reckon it matters. Did they bushwhack you, too?”

“They durned sure did. Some fellers came up and started talkin’ to Pete and me, and the next thing we knowed, they walloped us over the head with their guns. Then I reckon they dragged us off and locked us up in…what is this place, anyway?”

“A smokehouse would be my guess,” Frank said. “Is Pete in here, too?”

“Danged if I know. Lemme feel around…Yeah! I got him, Frank. He’s here. Got a big, sticky goose egg on his head where they clouted him, too. He’s breathin’, though.”

Conway regained consciousness a few minutes later. After he let out a few groans, his senses returned enough for him to ask where he was and what was going on. Frank and Salty filled the young man in, and he then exclaimed, “Jessica! You mean they’re going to turn Jessica into…into a…”

“Not if we have anything to say about it,” Frank said.

“But what are we gonna do?” Salty asked. “They bushwhacked us ’cause they knew we wouldn’t stand for what they’re plannin’ to do. They got our guns and locked us up in here.”

“How come they didn’t just kill us?” Conway wanted to know.

Frank said, “I reckon they had their reasons. As for what we’re going to do…well, I haven’t figured that out yet, but since we’re still alive, I don’t see any point in giving up.”

Salty chuckled. “You sound like that big galoot of a lawman I used to know. Mighty stubborn cuss, he was.”

“So am I,” Frank said.

The rattle of a chain somewhere outside made them fall silent. Frank spotted an orange glow filtering into the sturdy shack through cracks around what appeared to be a door. A key turned in a lock, and the door swung open. Light from a lantern spilled into the square room, making the prisoners squint against its glare for a few seconds before their eyes adjusted. Frank saw a man standing outside the doorway, holding the lantern. He was flanked by two more men carrying shotguns.

The man with the lantern wore a suit instead of a parka, but didn’t seem to be cold. He was a narrow-faced hombre with dark hair under a flat-crowned hat. The lantern was in his left hand, a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver in his right. He covered Frank, Salty, and Conway with the gun as he grinned and said, “Welcome to Whitehorse, gentlemen. Come on out.”

Chapter 32

“My name is Jack Hargett,” the man went on by way of introduction as the three prisoners filed out of what proved to be a smokehouse, as Frank had suspected. “You’re already acquainted with my partner, Mrs. Devereaux.”

“If that’s the case, you ought to know that she’s been looking for a new partner,” Frank said. He didn’t think it would do any harm to try to drive a wedge between Fiona and Hargett. “She wanted me to throw in with her. I reckon I would’ve been taking your place if I’d said yes.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Hargett said, evidently untroubled by Frank’s accusation. “You would have wound up working for us. Fiona told me all about you. It would have been good to have The Drifter backing us. Nobody would have dared to give us any trouble then. But we’ll make do without you, Morgan. We’ve been getting along just fine.”

Night had fallen, but light from the buildings showed Frank that the smokehouse was located behind Hargett’s saloon. Hargett and his shotgun-toting henchmen marched them inside through a rear door. The place was cleared out now except for Fiona, who stood at the bar with a drink in her hand.

“Sorry, Frank,” she said. “I wish things had worked out better between us.”

“Hell will be as cold as Chilkoot Pass before that would have happened,” Frank grated.

Fiona’s face hardened. “Fine,” she snapped. “You had your chance. The three of you are lucky to still be alive. But after tonight, Jack and I won’t need you anymore. The only reason we kept you around was so that the ladies would be a little more cooperative. You see, we promised them that we’d let you go if they went along with what we wanted.”