Winter Kill. William W. Johnstone

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.

      Chapter 3

      Moving with the same speed that had made him a frontier legend for his gun-handling, Frank holstered his Colt and leaped to catch Trench before the man could hit the ground. He eased Trench down, resting his old friend’s head on his leg.

      “Hold on,” Frank said. “Somebody can fetch a doctor—”

      “Too…late for that,” Trench cut in. “I’m shot…through and through…Frank.”

      Trench was smart and experienced enough to know that he had only moments to live. Frank didn’t see any point in lying to him. So he said truthfully, “I’m sorry, Jacob. At least you can cross the divide knowing that we sent all three of those bastards to hell.”

      “Yeah, but…I’ll just have to deal with ’em again…when I get there.” Trench chuckled, and more dark blood welled from his mouth. His right hand came up and fastened desperately on Frank’s forearm. “Frank…you gotta promise me…you’ll finish…that job for me.”

      “The deal you were trying to get me to come in on with you?”

      “Y-yeah. People are…countin’ on me. I can rest easier…knowin’ they won’t be…let down.”

      Frank bit back a curse. It was true that he had been considering Trench’s offer, but if he’d accepted, it would have been his own choice. This way, he felt like he had an obligation, and that was never a feeling he liked.

      Trench’s fingers clawed spasmodically at his arm. “Frank…you gotta…promise…”

      “All right,” Frank said. “What do I do?”

      “Go to…the Montclair…tell Captain Hoffman…what happened. You’ll need to talk to—”

      The blood in Trench’s throat choked him then, so that he coughed and gagged as he tried to continue speaking. He got a few more words out, but the only one Frank understood was a name: Devereaux.

      “All right,” he said as he leaned closer over Trench. “I’ll talk to Captain Hoffman and this fella Devereaux, and whatever that cargo is you were taking to Skagway, I’ll get it there, Jacob. You have my word on that.”

      Trench’s eyelids started to droop, but a smile curved his mouth. “Knew I could…count on you, Frank,” he murmured. “And you’re gonna have…a hell of a time…”

      Frank wasn’t sure about that, but he didn’t argue with the dying man.

      “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