Winter Kill. William W. Johnstone
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but this is the first time I’ve encountered it. Have you met the young ladies?”
“I have,” Frank said. “Seems like a fine bunch. I’m not sure how well some of them are going to like living in the Klondike, but that’s not my business. All I have to do is get them there.”
“Much like me,” Hoffman said. “I’ll deliver my passengers and cargo to Skagway, and there my responsibility ends.” He tapped one of the charts. “I was just looking at the route I intend to follow.”
“You’ve sailed to Alaska before?” Frank asked as he leaned over and looked at the map. This late in the season, he wasn’t too fond of the idea of setting out with an inexperienced captain.
“Oh, yes, many times,” Hoffman replied. “Don’t worry, Mr. Morgan. We’ll have no trouble.”
“What about the weather?”
“It’ll be at least three weeks, probably a month, before the weather represents a danger. We’ll be in Skagway in less than a week.”
Hoffman seemed to know what he was doing, Frank thought. That eased his worries.
“Is it going to be all right for me to bring my horses along?” he asked.
“Horses?” Hoffman frowned. “The Montclair normally doesn’t carry livestock.” He thought about it for a moment and then shrugged. “But I suppose we could make a place for them in the hold. We could open one of the hatches for light and air. It might not be very comfortable for them, being cooped up that way, though.”
“They can stand it for a few days,” Frank said. “I want my own mounts with me when we get there.”
“I don’t blame you for that. A man likes to have what he’s accustomed to.”
“I have a dog, too, but he won’t take up much room or be any trouble.”
“That’s fine, as long as he doesn’t fight with cats. We have a couple who sail with us to keep the rats out of the cargo.”
“Dog will leave them alone as long as I tell him to.” Frank added, “I’m going to see about having some supplies delivered for us to take along. Better to stock up on things here in Seattle rather than waiting until we get to Skagway.”
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.