Читать книгу Winter Kill - William W. Johnstone - Страница 6

Trench’s angular face appeared to be completely serious. Frank was intrigued enough by his old friend’s claim that after a moment he nodded and said, “All right. I reckon we can have that drink.”

“Good. I feel mighty guilty about you almost getting ventilated because of me. Seems like buying you a drink is the least I can do to settle the score.”

“That and tell me why somebody wants to kill you,” Frank said as they started across the street toward the Cascade. Some of the men they passed must have recognized Frank as being involved in the shooting from a few minutes earlier. He saw the looks they cast in his direction and heard the whispers, but he was able to ignore them.

He’d had plenty of practice.

The Cascade Saloon was a good-sized establishment doing a brisk business. It was noisy enough inside, what with the tinny notes of a piano, the clicking of a roulette wheel, and the bawdy laughter and raucous talk of the customers and the girls who worked there, that Frank was confident nobody would be able to eavesdrop on him and Trench as they sat down at a table in the corner with a couple of beers.

Frank wasn’t much of a drinker, but he liked a cold beer now and then. The beer in the Cascade was icy and went down smoothly. After a healthy swallow, Frank set his mug on the table and said, “All right, Jacob. Let’s hear it.”

Trench took another drink from his mug, then thumbed his hat back on his thinning hair. Like Frank, he was well advanced into middle age, but still a vital, powerful man.

“I was walking along the other side of the street from you,” he began, “although I didn’t know it at the time. Just as I passed that alley, I heard a little noise, and I reckon I was jumpy enough that it made me duck. That’s when the fella who was lurking there pulled the trigger. The bullet came mighty close to parting my hair anyway, but it missed and went on across the street.”

“Where it went right past my ear and busted out a window in the building I was passing,” Frank said. The moment was still vivid in his mind.

“Yep. That’s about the size of it,” Trench agreed.

“Question is, if he was trying to kill you, why did he keep shooting at me?”

“Because you were shooting at him,” Trench said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

And it was, Frank supposed. When he had felt the hot breath of that bullet, his instincts had taken over, making him whirl toward the source of the shot, drop to a knee, and return fire. Once things had gone that far, the man in the alley had kept shooting to try to save his own life. Frank could see now that that was the way it must have been.

He took another sip of his beer. “All right, that explains part of it,” he said. “Where were you while the rest of it was going on?”

“I got the hell out of the line of fire, of course. Once Haggarty opened the ball and you accepted his invitation to dance, there was nothing I could do to stop it.”

Frank grunted. “You knew the fella, then?”

“Damn right. His name was Leon Haggarty. Mean as hell.”

“Had a grudge against you, did he?” Frank guessed.

Trench shrugged. “Yeah. He and his brothers think I killed a cousin of theirs over in Idaho a while back.”

Frank’s eyebrows rose. “Brothers?” he repeated.

Trench rubbed a hand over his jaw and grimaced. “Yeah.”

“How many brothers are there?”

“Three more.”

“They as mean as Leon?”

“Meaner,” Trench admitted with a sheepish grin.

Frank shook his head. Despite his reputation, he had the most peaceful intentions in the world, especially now that he was getting on in years, and yet he still managed to walk right into trouble, usually through no fault of his own, again and again.

Both men drank from their mugs, then Trench went on. “It wasn’t until after you’d plugged Leon that I got a good look at you and realized who you were. I didn’t know my old compadre Frank Morgan was anywhere close to Seattle.”

“I wasn’t until today,” Frank said. “This cousin of the Haggarty brothers they think you killed in Idaho…did you?”

“Well…yeah. But I didn’t have any choice. He was trying to open me up from one end to the other with a bowie knife. He found an extra jack somewhere in a game of cards we were playing and took exception to it when I pointed out that fact.”

Frank nodded slowly. He supposed he couldn’t blame Trench for getting in that jam. He couldn’t abide anybody who cheated at cards, either.

So it wasn’t really Trench’s fault that Leon Haggarty had tried to ambush him from that alley, or that the bullet had come within a whisker of Frank’s head. It was just bad luck all around.

Not too bad, though, considering the fact that Haggarty was dead and Frank and his old friend were still drawing breath.

“Anyway, when I recognized you, I knew I had to talk to you and let you know what was going on,” Trench continued. “It’s on my account that the other Haggarty brothers will likely come after you, too, now, just like they’re after me. I figured I had to warn you.”

“I appreciate that,” Frank said. “To tell you the truth, though, this won’t be the first time I’ve had people gunning for me.”

Trench laughed. “I should hope to smile it’s not. Hell, you’re Frank Morgan, The Drifter. You must be used to it by now.”

“I didn’t say that,” Frank drawled.

Trench drained the last of the cold beer from the mug and then said, “Well, you don’t have to worry too much about it, because I’ve got a plan.”

“You do, do you?”

“Yeah. You’re coming with me to Alaska.”

Frank started to shake his head. “I already told you—”

Trench lifted a hand to stop him. “Just hear me out, Frank. I’ve got a good deal working. The money’s not great, but it’s not bad, either. The work’s easy and downright pleasant.”

“The money’s good enough to split two ways?” Frank still wasn’t interested in whatever Trench was proposing, but he was curious to hear what the man would say.

Trench hesitated. “Well…sure. I guess.”

Frank knew then what was going through Trench’s mind. Trench was afraid that the Haggarty brothers would follow him all the way to Alaska to settle their grudge, and he wanted Frank along to help him handle that trouble. Frank didn’t really blame him for that, but he didn’t want to be roped into Trench’s ruckus, either.

“You said that in a few weeks, it’ll be winter up there. Do boats get in and out once that happens?”

Trench grimaced a couple of times, then admitted, “Not to speak of.”

“So if I go with you, we’ll be stuck up there until next spring.”

“You could look at it like that. But we’ll be in Skagway, Frank. It’s a new town, a boomtown. All the prospectors go through there on their way to the Klondike, just over the border in Canada. That’s where the big strike is going on. The closest, easiest way in and out is through Skagway.”

“Have you been there?”

“Not yet, but I’ve heard plenty about it. There’ll be saloons and whorehouses, and all we’d have to do all winter is sit by the stove and roast our old bones. Maybe sip a little whiskey and cavort with the soiled doves when the mood struck us.” That infectious grin appeared on Trench’s face again. “Doesn’t sound like a bad way to spend the winter, now does it?”

“I sort of had in mind staying here.”

“In Seattle?” Trench sounded like he couldn’t believe it. “Hell, it’ll rain for three or four solid months, Frank. You don’t want that.”

“I don’t want to sit in the middle of a blizzard for three or four months, either.”

“It won’t be that bad. I give you my word.”

“Thought you said you’d never been there.”

Trench leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “All right. I’m not going to argue with you. I was just trying to show my gratitude to you by letting you in on a good deal, but if you’re not interested…”

Frank heaved a sigh. “When are you leaving? I’m not saying that I’ll go with you, but I reckon it won’t hurt anything to think about it.”

Trench leaned forward again, the eager grin reappearing. “That’s all I’m asking,” he said. “The boat’s called the Montclair. It sails day after tomorrow. I’m expecting the cargo to arrive tomorrow.”

“You didn’t say anything about any cargo, Jacob,” Frank pointed out. “Are you in the freight hauling business again?”

“Not exactly…Anyway, I can tell you all about that if you decide to come along, which I sure as hell hope you will.”

Frank downed the last of his beer. “I want to get on to the hotel now and get something to eat. Why don’t you drop by there tomorrow? I’ll have made up my mind by then.”

Trench nodded. “Sure thing, Frank. Thanks for considering it.”

Somewhat to Frank’s surprise, he actually was considering Trench’s proposition. He still wasn’t sure about spending the winter in all that snow and ice up in Alaska, but he didn’t like the idea of being waterlogged by spring in Seattle, either. Maybe he ought to turn around and ride south instead, he thought. He had spent a number of winters in Mexico.

Mexico was a hell of a long way off, though, and there was something to be said for passing the long winter months with a friend. Trench didn’t make Skagway sound half bad, either. The idea was worth thinking about.

But not until he got some hot food in his belly. He put his hands on the table and pushed to his feet. Trench stood up as well. “I’ll walk across to the hotel with you,” he said.

Frank nodded. “All right.”

They threaded their way through the crowd in the saloon and stepped out onto the Cascade’s porch. A fine mist had started to fall, a precursor to those rains Trench had mentioned, Frank supposed. He could see the mist haloing the lights in the hotel across the street, and he felt its cool caress on his cheek as he and Trench stepped down off the porch, clearing the overhanging awning.

“You murderin’ sons o’ bitches!” a man yelled to Frank’s right.

His eyes flicked in that direction as instinct once again caused the Colt to leap from its holster into his hand as if by magic, in a blur of speed too fast for the eye to follow. He saw a man rushing toward them, pistol in hand.

From the corner of his left eye, though, he caught another flicker of movement in front of them. Men in the street yelled and jumped for cover as a second attacker leveled a shotgun at Frank and Trench. That was the most immediate threat. At this range, a double-barreled shotgun blast would blow them to bloody pieces.

Frank’s gun came up smoothly, flame stabbing from its muzzle. His bullet went into the chest of the shotgun wielder, rocking the man back on his heels. He didn’t go down, though, and the Greener was still in his hands, so Frank shot him again.

As he pulled the trigger, he heard guns roar from both left and right, which came as no surprise to him. Trench had said there were three more Haggarty brothers. They had bided their time, waiting for Frank and Trench to come out of the saloon, then attacked from three directions at once. It was a good strategy.

At least it would have been if they were throwing down against anybody but The Drifter. As the shotgunner fell, discharging both barrels almost straight up into the air as his dying fingers spasmed on the triggers, Frank pivoted back toward the first man he had seen. The man fired again, but he rushed his shot and the bullet plowed into the dirt next to Frank’s right boot. Frank took his time and drilled a slug through the hombre’s throat. Blood fountained from the wound as the bullet’s impact sent the man reeling backward.

Frank kept turning, dropping into a crouch as he leveled his gun at the spot where he thought the third Haggarty brother would be. The man was down, though, kicking out his life in the street as Jacob Trench stood over him, gun in hand. Trench had never been anywhere near as fast on the draw as Frank, but he didn’t lose his head in a fight, and that counted for a lot when it came to gun-handling. Obviously, Trench had been able to deal with the threat of the third man.

Frank moved quickly to check on the other two. He nudged the shotgun and the pistol well out of reach. The man he had shot in the throat lay with his head in a rapidly spreading pool of blood that was black in the light from the saloon. He was either dead or soon would be. The shotgunner lay on his back, arms spread, his chest heaving as he struggled to get some air in his bullet-riddled lungs. Frank heard the whistling as the air went right back out again. It was an ugly sound, as was the dying rattle that came from the man’s throat a moment later.

As Frank turned back toward Trench and the third man, he started to reload. “You all right, Jacob?” he asked.

“Not…really.”

The painful rasp in Trench’s voice made Frank’s head jerk up. He took a hurried step toward his friend as Trench turned toward him. Frank saw the black trails of blood leading down from both sides of Trench’s mouth and the dark stains on the front of his shirt. The gun slipped from his fingers and thudded to the ground.

Then Trench doubled over and pitched forward.