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.
“Just because they’re women doesn’t mean they can’t protect themselves,” he said. “They’re going to some rough country.”
“They sure are,” the storekeeper agreed. “And I reckon it’s a good idea for them to be armed. I wouldn’t have thought of it myself, that’s all.”
“I want a couple of Winchesters, too. .44-40s.”
The man nodded. “I can do that. If you’re goin’ over Chilkoot Pass, you’d better be armed for bear…or worse.”
“What do you mean by that?” Frank asked with a slight frown.
“Just that there’s things up there worse’n wild animals. From what I’ve heard, that Yukon and Klondike country is full of two-legged varmints, too. Outlaws, claim-jumpers, and just pure-dee mean hombres lookin’ for trouble. A bunch of young women travelin’ together…” The man shook his head. “That’s gonna be a mighty temptin’ target. I don’t reckon I’m tellin’ you anything you don’t already know, though.”
“No,” Frank said, “you’re not.”
The storekeeper agreed to put the order together and have it delivered to the Montclair the first thing in the morning. Captain Hoffman intended to sail by ten o’clock.
“Do I send the bill to Mrs. Devereaux at the hotel?” the man asked.
“Send her the bill for half of it,” Frank said. “I’ll take care of the other half right now, if you’ll accept a draft on my bank in San Francisco.”
“Well, now…”
“The draft is good.”
“Oh, I never doubted that, Mr. Morgan,” the storekeeper said quickly. “I didn’t mean no offense.”
The story of Fiona’s trip to Alaska with the mail-order brides wasn’t the only information that had gotten around Seattle, Frank thought. So had the news of the two gunfights in which he had been involved the night before. The storekeeper knew that he was dealing with the notorious Drifter.
“I’ll be glad to take your draft, Mr. Morgan,” the man went on. “I was just a mite confused, that’s all. I was under the impression you’re workin’ for Mrs. Devereaux.”
“I am,” Frank said. “I just thought I’d help her out a little.”
The amount was more than a little, of course, but Frank knew he would never miss the money. When his attorney, Claudius Turnbuckle, got wind of the expense, as Claudius always did, he might raise an eyebrow, but he had learned over the years that Frank usually did as he damned well pleased, and arguing about it didn’t serve any purpose.
The
