“Just…one more thing…Something you…need to know.”
“What’s that, Jacob?”
“The fella who played…the extra jack…in that poker game…that was me, Frank…not the Haggartys’ cousin. But he really was…tryin’ to gut me—”
Trench’s eyes were still half open, but his head suddenly lolled to the side against the arm that Frank had around his shoulders, supporting him. Frank said, “Jacob?” But Trench didn’t respond. Frank lifted his other hand, searched for a pulse in Trench’s neck, and didn’t find one. The man’s eyes were already starting to turn glassy in death.
“Is he dead?” a familiar voice asked from behind Frank.
“Yeah.” Frank lowered Trench’s head to the ground, then looked back over his shoulder and saw the beefy policeman who had shown up after the first gunfight.
The man said, “You again, Morgan? The dead bodies just pile up around you like cordwood, don’t they?”
Frank suppressed the urge to stand up and throw a punch at the policeman. It would feel good to plant his fist right in the middle of the son of a gun’s smug face.
But it wouldn’t actually accomplish anything except to maybe get him thrown in jail. He got to his feet, but he just said curtly, “There were plenty of witnesses to this shooting, too. Those three men—there and there and there—attacked me and my friend as we came out of the saloon. We defended ourselves. If you ask around, that’s the story you’ll get.”
“How’d your friend wind up dead while you’re still alive?”
“He wasn’t quite as fast as me, or quite as lucky. He did for one of them, but the bastard got him, too.”
“You know why these fellas came after you? Or was it just another case of some hotheads trying to kill the famous Frank Morgan?”
Frank’s jaw tightened in anger, but again, he controlled it. “As a matter of fact, I do know why this happened.” Quickly, he sketched in the story of how the Haggarty brothers had followed Jacob Trench to Seattle to try to avenge their cousin’s death. He left out the part about how Trench was really the one who’d been cheating at cards and provoked the fatal fight.
“Sounds like you’re in the clear again, Morgan,” the policeman said when Frank was finished. “I’d say you were a mighty lucky man.”
An old friend was dead, and he had been roped into some deal that might be shady or dangerous or both, Frank thought.
Yeah. Mighty lucky.
After warning Frank that he would have to testify at the inquest into these deaths, too, the policeman let Frank go on about his business. “Just try not to kill anybody else,” he added.
“Not unless they try to kill me first,” Frank replied.
He went into the Majestic Hotel and rented a room from an inquisitive clerk. “There was all sorts of uproar out there in the street a little while ago,” the man said. “Shooting and yelling and everything. Did you happen to see what was going on, Mister…” He glanced at the register, reading upside down the name Frank had written there. “Morgan?”
Frank shook his head. “Sorry. Didn’t see a thing. I try to avoid trouble whenever I can.”
With that, he took his room key from the clerk, tipped his hat at a rakish angle on his head, and went into the hotel dining room to get that long-delayed hot meal.
Like everywhere else in Seattle, the dining room was busy. The clerk at the desk in the lobby had informed Frank that he was lucky the hotel even had a vacant room. Looking at the crowd in the dining room, Frank could believe it. He didn’t even see an empty table.
“Sir?”
It was a woman’s voice, and at first Frank didn’t figure she was talking to him. Then she said, “Sir?” more insistently, and he looked in her direction. She was alone at one of the nearby tables. She gestured at the chair across from her and went on. “You can join me if you like. I don’t think you’ll find a table to yourself. Unless you have some objection to my company…”
Frank didn’t think many men would object to this lady’s company. If they did, there was sure as hell something wrong with them. She was about thirty, old enough so that the few lines on her face were interesting, rather than unattractive. Short, dark brown hair framed her features. She wore a dark blue, high-necked traveling gown that was snug enough to reveal a mature, shapely figure. Her voice had a slight rasp to it that made it intriguing and distinctive.
She also had a plain gold band on the third finger of her left hand.
Frank took his hat off and held it in front of him as he stepped over to the table. “I appreciate the invitation, ma’am,” he said, “but I don’t reckon your husband would appreciate it if he came in and found you sharing a table with a strange man.”
She smiled up at him, and he saw that her eyes were a rich brown, like her hair. “First of all,” she said, “my husband doesn’t appreciate anything anymore, since he’s dead—”
“I’m sorry,” Frank said.
“And secondly,” the woman went on, “I pride myself on being a good judge of character—a woman on her own has to be, you know—and you don’t strike me as strange at all, Mister…?”
“Morgan,” he supplied. “Frank Morgan.”
“My name is Fiona,” she said. “Please, sit down.”
Frank didn’t hesitate. He placed his hat on the table and took the empty chair opposite the woman called Fiona.
