Alaskan Vengeance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  WITHOUT WARNING

  Fargo glided up behind them. The last man either sensed or heard him and began to turn. Fargo did not tell him to drop his knife. He did not call on them to give up or shout for help. He simply stepped in close and buried his toothpick to the hilt in the seaman’s back.

  The would-be murderer bent like a bow and his mouth opened wide, but all he did was gasp. Then his eyes glazed and his legs buckled and he collapsed in a dead heap.

  The gasp had been enough, though. The man in front of him heard it, and whirled. With a sharp bark of anger, the man attacked, cleaving the air with a big knife. . . .

  SIGNET

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, August

  The first chapter of this book previously appeared in California Carnage, the three hundred ninth volume in this series.

  Copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007

  All rights reserved

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  The Trailsman

  Beginnings . . . they bend the tree and they mark the man. Skye Fargo was born when he was eighteen. Terror was his midwife, vengeance his first cry. Killing spawned Skye Fargo, ruthless, cold-blooded murder. Out of the acrid smoke of gunpowder still hanging in the air, he rose, cried out a promise never forgotten.

  The Trailsman they began to call him all across the West: searcher, scout, hunter, the man who could see where others only looked, his skills for hire but not his soul, the man who lived each day to the fullest, yet trailed each tomorrow. Skye Fargo, the Trailsman, the seeker who could take the wildness of a land and the wanting of a woman and make them his own.

  Alaska, 1861—where old hatreds snare the unwary in a web of deceit and bloodshed.

  1

  Skye Fargo did not like being taken for a fool. He did not like it at all.

  Dawn found him winding down a hill below a sawmill. A big man, broad of shoulder and slender of hip, he wore buckskins, a white hat brown with dust, and a faded red bandanna. A Colt with well-worn grips was at his waist. Piercing blue eyes surveyed the scene below.

  At the docks a schooner was making ready to leave, her crew scurrying to hoist sails and lift anchor. Scores of seagulls engaged in aerial acrobatics out over the bay, their raucous cries rising to the few fluffy clouds in the blue sky. A large fish jumped, too far off for Fargo to tell what kind it was, making a tremendous splash.

  Fargo liked Seattle. It was not as worldly and sophisticated as New Orleans or as wild and woolly as Denver, but it had a rustic charm those cities lacked. Already, though, that charm was being taxed by business interests out to turn quaint Seattle into a bustling seaport.

  Those interests accounted for the hotels that had sprung up along the waterfront. Only three so far, the best being the Royale. The other two catered to patrons with more modest means.

  Fargo went to each in turn and inquired at the front desk. Did they have someone named Frank Toomey staying there? The clerk at the Shanty checked the register and said that they did. ‘‘Mr. Toomey is in room twenty-seven. Go down this hall to your right and turn left when you come to the end. His room is the third on the right.’’

  The hall smelled of the sea and less pleasant odors. Fargo knocked twice but received no answer. About to knock again, he tried the latch on an impulse. The door creaked as it swung open.

  ‘‘Toomey?’’ Fargo said, poking his head inside.

  The smell was worse. A lot of it had to do with the blood that had pooled under Frank Toomey’s wrists. Near the old man lay an open razor.

  ‘‘Damn.’’ Fargo sprang to the man’s side and sank to one knee. Quickly, he felt for a pulse and found one. A weak one, but Toomey was still alive. How long he would remain that way was anyone’s guess. There was a terrible lot of blood.

  The desk clerk was scribbling in a ledger when Fargo flew into the lobby. ‘‘You need to fetch a sawbones. The man in twenty-seven slit his wrists.’’

  ‘‘He did what?’’ the clerk asked in disbelief. ‘‘Are you sure? Maybe I should take a look.’’

  Reaching across the counter, Fargo grabbed him by the front of his shirt. ‘‘Am I sure? What kind of stupid question is that? Get a doctor and get one fast or the gent in twenty-seven won’t be the only one who needs one.’’

  ‘‘But I’m not supposed to leave the front desk unattended,’’ the young man complained.

  Fargo’s temper flared. ‘‘Were you born a jackass or have you worked at it?’’ Extending his other arm, he hauled the clerk up and over the counter and practically threw him to the floor. Several onlookers gasped but Fargo didn’t care.

  ‘‘A doctor!’’ he bellowed, and planted the tip of his boot on a sensitive part of the clerk’s anatomy. />
  Scrambling upright, the young man fled as if his life were in peril.

  Fargo hurried back to the room. He had left the door open and someone had seen Toomey and the blood, and now half a dozen gawkers blocked the doorway. He shouldered through them, none too gently, and discovered a gray-haired bag of bones with Toomey’s head in his lap. ‘‘Is he still alive?’’

  ‘‘Barely,’’ the man said sadly.

  ‘‘Do you know him?’’ Fargo asked.

  ‘‘Barely,’’ the man said again. ‘‘I’m in the next room. Nestor Willis is my name. We talked a little yesterday when he got here and again for a few minutes last night after he came back from playing cards.’’

  Fargo gestured at the scarlet pools. ‘‘Any idea why he took that razor to his veins?’’

  ‘‘He was awful upset,’’ Nestor said. ‘‘He wouldn’t say why but I gathered it had something to do with him losing something that meant everything to him. His exact words.’’

  Fargo thought of the claim to the mine, and scowled.

  ‘‘I never thought he would do something like this,’’ Nestor said. ‘‘He was a nice guy. Kept saying as how he was going to do right by his kids and grandkids and give them more money than they would know what to do with.’’ Nestor had to stop and cough to clear his throat. ‘‘I got the impression he really loved them.’’

  ‘‘He’s not buried yet,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘What? Oh. Sorry. There’s just so much blood, and his pulse is so weak.’’ Nestor bowed his head. ‘‘Why does it always have to be like this? Why can’t it leave us be?’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Life,’’ Nestor said. ‘‘Why does it always batter us down and leave us worse off than when we came into the world?’’

  ‘‘You’re asking the wrong person,’’ Fargo said. He had stopped looking for answers about the time it dawned on him that life was a roll of the dice, and the dice were rigged.

  ‘‘Don’t you ever wish things were different?’’ Nestor asked. ‘‘Don’t you ever wish we were happy and healthy our whole lives long?’’

  ‘‘I have never been all that interested in fairy tales,’’ Fargo remarked.

  Nestor mustered a wan smile. ‘‘It just never made any sense to me, is all. Toomey, here, told me I was too gloomy for my own good. Imagine. Him saying that about me, yet he’s the one who goes and cuts himself to end it all. People sure are peculiar.’’

  ‘‘You can say that again.’’

  At that moment shoes pounded in the hall and the gawkers parted to admit the out-of-breath desk clerk and a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit, carrying a black bag.

  ‘‘I’m Dr. James,’’ was all the physician said. He hastily took a stethoscope from his bag and listened to Toomey’s chest, then examined both wrists, and grunted. ‘‘There is hope. Not much, but some.’’ He pointed at the clerk. ‘‘Find six men to help carry him. Then remove the door and we will use it as a stretcher.’’

  ‘‘Carry him where?’’ the desk clerk inquired.

  ‘‘Out front, of course. I will have a carriage brought. I must stitch him but I would rather do it at my office, where my equipment is handy and I won’t have the curious breathing down my neck.’’

  The desk clerk took the hint. He dispersed the gawkers, except for two husky men, and found two more elsewhere. Fargo and Nestor Willis made six. The clerk ran up front for the hotel’s toolbox, and it was Fargo who undid the hinges so the door could be lowered and Toomey carefully placed on top of it.

  Dr. James was ready with a blanket. He covered Toomey to his chin and gestured. ‘‘Off you go. And for God’s sake, don’t drop him. This man is hanging to life by a thread.’’

  No one spoke. Most of the bearers would not look at Toomey. They walked as if they were stepping on egg-shells and dared not break one.

  A carriage was waiting. The physician’s own carriage. There was not enough room for the door so they carefully lifted Toomey up and just as carefully laid him down on the rear seat. The doctor gave hurried instructions to the driver, then surprised Fargo by turning to him and saying, ‘‘I would like you to accompany us, if you don’t mind.’’

  ‘‘What good would I be?’’

  ‘‘The desk clerk told me that you know this man,’’ Dr. James said. ‘‘If I can restore him it would be nice to have someone he knows standing by when he comes around.’’

  Fargo opened his mouth to say that he hardly knew the man, and changed his mind. He climbed in.

  The driver went as fast as was prudent. Twice the doctor yelled up for him to slow down. In due course the driver brought the carriage to a stop in front of a log and stone building.

  The physician’s office was on the first floor. The driver helped them carry Frank Toomey inside and place him on a long table. Dr. James immediately set to work. First he laid out the items he would need: a long needle, much like a sewing needle only the sharp end had a slight curve; a pair of surgical scissors; and the thread he would use to sew the cut flesh. ‘‘You can wait outside if you want,’’ he said to Fargo.

  ‘‘I’m not squeamish.’’

  The stitching up took about half an hour. Dr. James worked quickly, and efficiently, and when he was done, he stepped back and mopped his brow with his sleeve. ‘‘That’s all I can do. His life is in higher hands than mine.’’

  ‘‘Will he make it?’’ Fargo asked.

  ‘‘Hard to say,’’ the sawbones admitted. ‘‘He has lost a lot of blood. Perhaps too much to live.’’

  ‘‘Is there any way to replace it?’’

  ‘‘Not that I know of, no,’’ the physician replied while replacing the curved needle and the scissors in his surgical kit. ‘‘Oh, there have been a few reports from Europe where the blood of one person has been introduced into the veins of another. Transfusions, they’re called. But most of the recipients died. I wouldn’t want to chance it.’’ He thoughtfully regarded Toomey. ‘‘The theory is sound. But it doesn’t work like it should. The best medical men have worked on it but no one has any idea why.’’

  ‘‘Maybe all blood isn’t the same,’’ Fargo speculated. It made sense to him. No two people were ever exactly alike, so why should their blood be any different?

  Dr. James smiled. ‘‘A quaint notion, but blood is blood. No, it has to be something else. In any event, I am not about to risk giving Mr. Toomey a transfusion when it very well might kill him.’’ He made for the door. ‘‘I will be back in a while to check on him. In the meantime, if you could stay and watch over him, I would be grateful.’’

  ‘‘I’ll stay,’’ Fargo said. He had his reasons, which had nothing to do with the health of the patient. Pulling out a chair, he propped his boots on the operating table and settled down to wait.

  The doctor had been gone about an hour when Frank Toomey groaned and stirred. His eyelids fluttered but he did not open them for another five minutes. He gazed about the room in dazed confusion until his eyes found Fargo. Then he licked his lips and said weakly, ‘‘You.’’

  ‘‘We have to talk.’’

  ‘‘Where am I?’’ Toomey asked. ‘‘Why am I still alive? I thought for sure I did myself in.’’

  ‘‘You are at a doctor’s office,’’ Fargo enlightened him. ‘‘He’s stitched you up but you still might have your way.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ Toomey sounded relieved. ‘‘I want to get it over with. I have nothing to live for now that I’ve lost my claim.’’

  ‘‘That’s what I want to talk about,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘You hoodwinked me, you old goat.’’

  Toomey was struggling to stay conscious. ‘‘I beg your pardon? I wagered my claim in good faith in that poker game. You won the claim fairly.’’

  ‘‘This is the United States of America, not Russia,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘Yes. So?’’

  ‘‘So your precious claim is in Alaska, and Alaska is Russian territory. You were clever in forging the claim, but you made the m
istake of writing it in English. It should be in Russian.’’ Fargo was proud of his deduction. Most people would not have caught on.

  A sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a gurgle bubbled from Frank Toomey’s throat. ‘‘You don’t know much about Alaska, do you?’’

  ‘‘I’ve never been there,’’ Fargo admitted.

  Toomey swallowed a couple of times, then said quietly, ‘‘If you had been, you would know that Alaska has been run by the Russian-American Company for over sixty years. The Russian government wants nothing to do with it.’’

  ‘‘How does that affect your claim?’’

  ‘‘It’s not my claim any longer—it’s yours,’’ Toomey replied. ‘‘And what it means is that there are a lot of Americans up there. English is spoken as much as Russian. It is not unusual for a document like a claim to be drawn up in English if the person who owns the claim is American.’’

  ‘‘Then it’s real?’’

  ‘‘Haven’t you been paying attention? I told you that at the start. Yes, the claim is real. The Russian-American Company will honor it as they would any other legal document. You really and truly won the right to dig up however much gold as is there.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be damned,’’ Fargo said.

  ‘‘Is that why you looked me up? You wanted to call me a liar to my face?’’

  Fargo did not say anything. He did not need to.

  ‘‘You are a hard man, mister,’’ Frank Toomey said. ‘‘But you can rest easy. Take the next ship to Sitka and soon you will be rolling in riches.’’ Toomey went to say more but passed out, his chin lolling on his chest.

  Sliding his boots off the operating table, Fargo stood. He pressed his fingers to Toomey’s wrist, then went to the outer office. No one was there. The physician had gone off somewhere.

  With a sigh, Fargo went back into the other room. He stood staring out the window for the longest while, until once again Frank Toomey groaned and opened his eyes. Fargo went and stood over him.

  ‘‘You’re still here?’’ Toomey croaked. ‘‘I figured you would be packing for your trip.’’