They stopped and looked at Frank in surprise. “That fella a friend of yours, mister?” Big Ed asked.
“No, I never saw him before.”
“Then why do you give a damn whether he suffocates or not?”
“Because I wasn’t raised to stand by and let a man die when there was something I could do about it,” Frank snapped.
The other man shrugged. “Then do something about it. You go out there and turn him over. I ain’t gettin’ my boots muddy doin’ it.”
“Yeah,” Frank said, “you are.”
Both men stiffened in anger. “Do you know who we are?” Big Ed demanded.
“A couple of no-accounts, as far as I’m concerned,” Frank said.
“I’m Big Ed Burns, and this is Joe Palmer. Maybe you heard of him.”
Frank shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”
Big Ed sneered. “He’s the fastest gun in Skagway, maybe in all of Alaska, that’s all.”
Slowly, Frank shook his head. “I’ve got my doubts about that.”
He knew from the rage that appeared on Palmer’s face that the gunman was going to rise to that challenge. Palmer stepped forward and pushed his coat back so that his hand hovered near the butt of his gun, fingers curled, ready to hook and draw. Frank was ready, too, although he didn’t make such a production out of it.
“Hold on, hold on,” Soapy Smith said as he stepped out the front door of Clancy’s. “What’s going on here, Joe?”
Palmer nodded toward Frank. “Me and Big Ed threw that drunk in the street to get him off the sidewalk, and this fella took exception to it.”
“I don’t want the man to suffocate,” Frank said.
“Well, of course not,” Smith said with a nod. “Look how he landed. You boys go get him out of the mud.”
Palmer and Burns looked at their boss in surprise. “What’d you say, Soapy?” Big Ed asked.
“I said go get that fella out of the mud,” Smith repeated. He gestured toward the drunk. “Prop him up against the wall so he can sleep it off safely.”
“But—”
“Do what I say now,” Soapy went on softly, but with a tone of menace in his voice.
Palmer and Burns looked at each other. Big Ed shrugged. They turned and went out into the street, slogging through the mud until they reached the drunk. They lifted him and carried him back to the sidewalk, where they propped him against the wall as Smith had told them.
“Sorry about the misunderstanding, mister,” Smith said to Frank with a friendly smile. “My boys and I sort of look out for the well-being of everybody in Skagway. Come on in and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Frank didn’t believe for a second that Smith’s jovial attitude was genuine, but he wanted to talk to the man anyway, so he said, “Don’t mind if I do.”
He walked past Palmer and Burns, well aware that they were giving him hard looks. He had made a couple of enemies there, not that he particularly cared.
Frank followed Smith into the saloon and saw that it was a notch or two above Ike’s. The place had plank floors instead of dirt and real tables and chairs instead of tree stumps. The bar had been nailed together out of planks, but at least they had been planed a little and weren’t just lying on top of whiskey barrels. There was no mirror on the wall behind the bar, but the shelves there held bottles with actual labels on them, although Frank would have been willing to bet that they no longer contained their original contents.
Smith led Frank to a large round table in the rear of the room. This was undoubtedly where the unofficial mayor of Skagway held court, so to speak. According to what Salty Stevens had said, Smith had a tame judge in his pocket, so actual court might be held here, too, although it would be mostly of the kangaroo variety. Smith waved Frank into one of the chairs and asked, “What’s your pleasure, friend? Beer or whiskey?”
“Beer’s fine,” Frank said as he took a seat.
“Two beers, Claude,” Smith called to the bartender. Still smiling, he sat down across from Frank. “Well, I never expected to see the famous Frank Morgan in my town.”
Before Frank could say anything, the Indian whore he had seen earlier came over to the table, carrying a tray with two mugs of beer on it. Obviously she doubled as a waitress, as well as a soiled dove. Frank waited until she set the mugs on the table and returned to the bar before he said, “I don’t recall telling you my first name when we rode into town.”
“You didn’t,” Smith said, “but you looked familiar to me and the name Morgan finally jogged my memory. You’re The Drifter. You rode through a town in Colorado where I was a few years ago.”
“Creede,” Frank said suddenly. “I remember.”
Smith inclined his head to acknowledge that Frank was right.
“You had a pretty shady reputation there, as I recall.” Frank didn’t preface the statement with the words “No offense,” because he didn’t really care whether or not he offended Smith.
“That was due to another series of misunderstandings,” Smith said without hesitation.
“Like the ones in Leadville and Denver?” The memories had come back to Frank in a flash once Smith’s mention of Colorado triggered them. Smith had been well known in those places as a swindler and thief and a suspected killer. Clearly, he hadn’t changed his stripes when he came to Alaska.
