firebrands.
“Are you him?” the policeman demanded. “Are you the notorious gunfighter Frank Morgan? The one they call The Drifter?”
Frank didn’t see any point in denying it. He nodded wearily and said, “That’s right.”
The policeman gestured toward the corpse. “Then this fella probably just wanted to be known as the man who killed Frank Morgan. He didn’t care that he had to do it from a dark alley.”
That theory was probably correct. Similar things happened all too often.
“I’ll have the undertaker fetch the body and then I’ll file a report. Where are you stayin’, Mr. Morgan?”
“I don’t have a hotel room yet,” Frank replied with a shake of his head. “I just rode in and found a stable for my horses.” He had left Stormy and Goldy down the street at Jessup’s Livery, along with Dog, the big, wolflike cur who was also one of Frank’s trail partners.
“Well, when you get settled in, let headquarters know where to find you. Somebody’ll be in touch with you about the inquest.”
The policeman’s tone had turned to one of mingled respect and wariness. Lawmen across the West knew about Frank Morgan’s reputation. Most of them didn’t like him because in their opinion he brought violence and danger to their communities. Many considered him a cold-blooded hired killer like the infamous Jim Miller, although that was the farthest thing from the truth. They never stopped to think about the fact that Frank had worn a lawman’s badge himself on several occasions, and he had never killed anyone except in self-defense or the defense of someone else.
Politely, he agreed to do as the policeman said. With that, the blue-uniformed officer turned to the crowd and bellowed, “All right, break it up, break it up! There’s nothing to see here!”
“Nothing but a dead body and a famous gunfighter,” one of the men in the crowd pointed out. That just made the policeman’s already florid face flush even darker with anger.
Chuckling grimly, Frank turned and started making his way along the street. The bystanders got out of his way. He spotted a decent-looking hotel down the street and headed for it. MAJESTIC HOTEL, the sign over the door read. The place didn’t appear to be all that majestic, but it looked clean and well kept up.
Frank hadn’t gone very far when he became aware of a man falling in step beside him. A glance over in that direction revealed a tall, lean man with a lantern-jawed face and steel-gray hair that hung down over his collar. He wore a flat-crowned hat and a long coat. His features had a hard cast, as if he was a man accustomed to trouble. He grinned, though, as The Drifter looked at him, making his face a lot friendlier.
“Howdy, Frank,” he said.
Frank stopped short. “Jacob?” he asked. “Jacob Trench?”
“That’s right. How long’s it been? Ten years?”
“At least that.” Frank stuck out his hand. “It’s good to see you again.” The men shook hands for a moment, then Frank went on. “The hell with that.” He pulled Trench into a rough hug, pounding the man on the back as he did so. Trench returned the boisterous greeting.
“What are you doing in Seattle?” Trench asked.
“Same as always. Drifting.”
“I thought maybe you were headed up to Alaska to get in on the gold rush. That’s why the town is so crowded. Lots of prospectors outfit here before they sail north.”
Frank shook his head. “I’m not interested in hunting for gold.”
He didn’t need to. Thanks to the vast, varied, and highly lucrative business interests he had inherited from Vivian Browning, his first love and his son Conrad’s mother, Frank Morgan was one of the richest men west of the Mississippi, though an observer would never know that from his broken-in boots, well-worn jeans, faded blue work shirt, and time- and weather-stained hat. His gun and holster—the tools of his trade, so to speak—were well cared for, but there was nothing fancy about them, either.
“Same as always, all right,” Trench said with a laugh. “You’re one of the most unambitious men I’ve ever met, Frank. I think that’s one reason I like you. You don’t ever try to horn in on a man’s plans.”
“You have plans, Jacob?” Frank asked. The last time he had seen Trench, ten years or more in the past, the man had been running a freight line down in New Mexico Territory. Frank had helped him deal with some outlaws who had been plaguing the line.
“I always have plans. I’m headed up to Alaska myself.”
“To prospect?”
Trench shook his head. “I’ve got another sort of bonanza in mind, if you’re interested.”
Frank held up a hand to stop him. “Nope. Whatever it is, I want no part of it. Shoot, Jacob, I’m from Texas. I can’t take the cold up there in that country. It’s all snow and ice, from what I hear.”
“Not just yet,” Trench said. “Winter hasn’t set in yet. There are a few weeks left before the weather turns bad. That’s what I’m counting on, anyway. I’ll be in Skagway before the snow starts to fall.”
“I hope so.” They had reached the hotel. Frank stopped in front of it. “Well, good luck to you, whatever this venture of yours is. It’s mighty good to see you again—”
“Wait a minute, Frank,” Trench said, interrupting. His smile vanished and was replaced by a serious expression. “Come across the street and have a drink with me.” He jerked a thumb toward the Cascade Saloon.
“I don’t know…I’ve been in the saddle most of the day, and I was looking forward to a hot meal and then a good night’s sleep.”
“Before somebody threw down on you from that alley, you mean.”
A frown creased Frank’s forehead. “You saw that, did you?”
