Treadwell, A Novel of Alaska Territory: Book One of the Gastineau Channel Quartet by Stoney Compton

Prologue —Durango, Mexico, October 23, 1915 — Saturday afternoon For five hours the train sat baking in the desert sun. Although every window in the first class coach yawned open, the interior lay heavy with suffocating heat and resentment. Baroness Amanda Ganbor rolled her head listlessly, silently praying for the train to move out of this furnace called Mexico. She wouldn’t speak of it to her husband. He would only respond that if not for her they wouldn’t be in this situation. She ignored his truculent presence and peeked at the young swell sitting at the opposite end of the coach. Three days earlier at Tampico, in the cool of the evening, they had boarded the train. The dark, intense man with a thin scar across his left cheek had moved out of the station shadows ahead of them. Rather than board the coach first, he stood to one side, clicked his heels and bowed with the finest court manners she had seen since leaving Austria. She rewarded him with a wide smile while staring deep into his eyes. Missing nothing, he stared back at her unwaveringly. The intensity of the moment nearly became electric and her groin responded with the stirring sensation preceding sexual desire. At that point Georg pushed her up the steps into the coach. “You forget, my dear, that you are on honeymoon, yes?” As he herded her the entire length of the coach she silently disagreed with him. Georg’s snore brought her back to the prickly present and she glanced over at him. He remained the hulking, spoiled youth she had married two years ago. His mouth hung open child-like under the heavy mustache. Pimples peeked from the shadows beneath his sweat-stained collar, and body odor misted swamp-like about him. Amanda wrinkled her nose in familiar disgust and silently berated herself. When she first met Georg Fredrich Ganbor at the Spanish court she had seen only the land, wealth, and title his ancient father possessed. All three would become Georg’s upon the baron’s death. Her childhood of nannies, tutors, and continental travel had honed her for what came next. The daughter of a member of the British diplomatic corps, she had little but her youth and beauty to offer a young man of Austrian nobility. He hadn’t been astute enough to note her lack of virginity. Both families looked askance at the marriage. After a lifetime of service to the crown, her father felt openly antagonistic toward the Austrian nobility. Baron Ganbor believed his son was marrying far beneath himself. Her father, however, had been prescient to the point of asking her not to forget her heritage. “You’re British born, my dear. When gadding about with your new husband, keep your eyes and ears open for dangers to your homeland. Do write often.” When war broke out last summer, Amanda had been amazed at her father’s vision. She hadn’t seen all that much since then, but she did write regularly, delineating her observations. She never mentioned her convictions that her marriage was a mistake and being married to a nobleman not at all what girls believe. Two Mexicans in cheap linen suits, one grossly fat and the other a spare splinter of a man, also boarded in Tampico. For a time she puzzled about the pair before deciding they were businessmen or investors. The fat one ate constantly from a lidded wicker basket large enough for a good-sized dog to sleep in, while the other pulled fistfuls of paper from a calfskin valise, shook them in front of his masticating companion and harangued him in a thin whine. Her Spanish was adequate enough to discern accusations of misplaced funds and poor investments, but she soon tired of their conversation and lost all interest in them or their problems. The fat man now complained of thirst and she hated him for reminding her. Shortly after their arrival at Durango with the dawn, the heavy green water bottle had squatted empty. The handsome swell had inquired of the conductor about water replenishment, but was answered with an elaborate shrug. At that point both conductor and engineer disappeared. Amanda could feel sweat running down her ribcage under the smart dress purchased in Paris. Paris! My God, what on earth had possessed her to demand a trip to the American continent? All she had seen of Mexico was squalor, poverty, dust, and heat. The granular patina on her dress rebuked her as thoroughly and silently as Georg’s scowls. Voices rose and boot leather scraped across the wooden platform outside. Amanda turned her head to see the conductor and engineer arguing with three other men. She elbowed Georg to mute his snoring and listened intently. Two of the men wore uniforms. The off-white uniform was unknown to her, but the other belonged to the Imperial German Hussars. How curious, she thought. The third man evidently served as stationmaster; he continually held a large pocket watch up in one hand, pointed at it with his other hand and complained about the train being off its schedule. “Pray tell what is going on out there?” Amanda’s eyes swung back to look at the handsome passenger. His head craned over his hands on the windowsill. His long coat swung open far enough for her to see the butt of a holstered pistol strapped to his side. His accent rang of pure Oxford. While the others watched silently, the German officer walked purposefully over to the man’s window and peered up at him. “And who might you be?” the officer asked with excellent English. “M’ name’s Williams. I’m a journalist. And you?” Their voices carried easily in the heat. Georg snored quietly beside her. “A journalist for whom?” the officer asked. Williams answered in flawless high-German, “For a newspaper you aren’t likely to read, my good Hauptmann.” Amanda’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Now who are you?” he finished in English. “Hauptmann Rolf Heintzmann, Imperial Hussars. Seconded to General Carranza by order of General Ludendorf,” he replied in English, coming to momentary attention. Amanda glanced back to the Mexican officer. He certainly didn’t look like a general. But then Williams didn’t look like a journalist, either. With his cleanly hooked nose and sharp jaw he looked more the aristocrat than her husband. She looked back in time to see the Hauptmann smile grimly. “You certainly don’t speak German with an English accent,” he said. “What’s happening here? What’s the delay?” Williams demanded. “Colonel Rojas,” Heintzmann indicated the corpulent Mexican in army brown, “has been ordered by General Carranza to guard the railroad with his troop of cavalry.” He spat on the ground. “Three days ago the last train to pass through was ambushed north of here, at Abasolo, by Villistas.” The Hauptmann slapped dust from his trousers and glanced at Williams. “The engineer and conductor request the colonel to embark his troops on the train to protect it. The colonel feels he needs orders from the general, but the telegraph lines to the north are out. The station master just wants to get the train moving.” “A problem worthy of your General Staff,” Williams said with a smile. “What do you think, Hauptmann Heintzmann? Should the colonel go with the train or stay here?” Heintzmann stared into the distance and pulled off his spiked field helmet with one hand, wiped his forehead with the other. After carefully replacing the helmet he looked up at the journalist. “The colonel and his troop have been here for some weeks. Revolutionary fervor in this area is abating at an alarming rate. The people no longer feel it necessary to treat us in the manner to which we have become accustomed.” Amanda smiled for the first time in hours. “I think the colonel should put his troops on the train and go find Carrenza.” Both men glanced over at the Mexicans. Colonel Rojas pulled his shoulders back half an inch, causing his great stomach to protrude even further. “Is this man part of your legation?” Rojas asked in Spanish. “What did he say? Williams asked. Heintzmann told him. Williams grinned widely. “Tell him, yes. Tell him I feel he should board his men and seek out, ah, who is it you’re fighting with?” “Pancho Villa.” “Ah, yes. He should go to where General Carranza was last reported in an attempt to seek further orders. Failing that, he should seek out Pancho Villa and kill him.” Williams’ smile grew even wider. “If he can, of course.” “He cannot,” Heintzmann said. The Hauptmann turned and walked back over to the Mexicans, speaking quickly in heavily accented Spanish. Amanda found herself staring at Williams admiringly. Georg, she reflected, merely waits for events to unfold. This man makes them happen. As Williams pulled his head back into the coach his eyes found hers. Once again the visceral electricity all but crackled between them. She saw desire and need in those blue eyes. He nodded to her. Heintzmann returned, spoke to Williams. “Colonel Rojas thanks you for your opinion and is pleased to agree with you. We will all ride together as far as Chihuahua. The train will leave as soon as everyone is loaded.” “Thank God!” Williams said, echoing Amanda’s thoughts. Heintzmann disappeared for a time and then reappeared at the coach door carrying saddlebags reeking of horse sweat. He hesitated near her and Georg for a moment while he ostensibly fastened a loose flap. She felt his eyes on her and after a moment she looked up to catch his gaze. He was brown as a Spaniard, which she found enticing. Beneath the Kaiser Wilhelm mustache bright white teeth suddenly appeared in a smile. His eyes danced at her as he spoke in English. “Good afternoon, Madam. I thank God for providing such a lovely traveling companion.” She felt the flush come into her cheeks, smiled and nodded. “You are too kind, sir.” Georg jerked awake, shifted his holstered revolvers fussily and changed his position on the thinly padded bench, groaning slightly. Hauptmann Heintzmann gave her a small salute and walked down the aisle to where Williams sat watching. “How do you do it?” Georg asked heavily. “In the middle of a desert you can draw men like bees to a budding rose.” “It’s certainly not due to your aroma.” He looked away from her, through the windows on the other side of the coach to where a long line of ragged soldiers pushed emaciated nags and dark-eyed women carried babies toward cattle cars farther back on the train. The soldiers were identifiable as such only by virtue of the long rifles and bandoleers they bore. Amanda looked away, wondering at the animosity she felt for the man beside her. Williams and Heintzmann chatted and laughed. It took all of her will power to stay seated and not join them. Georg scratched idly at his stomach and continued watching the human drama outside the coach. Prior to their marriage his father told him a woman was like a good horse—an occasional slap would bring improved performance. On their wedding night, while they disrobed, he told her to fetch his smoking jacket. She responded she was busy just then and would help him in a moment. His slap knocked her to the floor and spots swam before her eyes. As she rose she pulled her Spanish stiletto from its garter sheath and went for his face. The thick oak door of the bedroom saved his life. A chattering group of women paraded past, breaking her reverie. From their rouged cheeks, painted lips, and bright clothing, Amanda knew them for prostitutes. Their bobbing, tight bodices gave ample testimony to the lack of foundation garments in Mexico. The conductor stopped them, saying they needed to buy tickets. A large woman with over-hennaed hair pushed into him with her bosom. “You think these men would fight without us? We are part of the revolution also!” She marched past him and went into one of the cattle cars with the rest of her group close behind. A knot of soldiers applauded and whistled; the conductor found business elsewhere. Two sweaty men brought in a full bottle of water and wrestled it onto the heavy stand at the other end of the coach. Instantly Amanda jumped to her feet and hurried toward it. Williams stood and blocked the two Mexican businessmen, allowing Amanda and Georg to surge past, before stepping into line behind them. Amanda drank two full cups before wiping her mouth and wryly deciding she had never before truly appreciated water. While Georg slurped she moved slowly past Williams, and murmured “Thank you,” while staring at him boldly. She knew she was shamelessly flirting, but what was the difference? She would probably never see him again. He was a very handsome and exciting man. Twilight purpled the distant mountains and the village lay bereft of livestock when the train finally built up steam and lurched out of the small station. Colonel Rojas and two junior officers joined the other first class passengers under the three swinging compartment lamps. The heat dissipated, making the trip almost pleasant. “¡Adios, Durango!” Colonel Rojas cried, holding up a bottle of clear liquid. He offered it to Williams. “¿Senor?” Georg and Amanda watched avidly. “No, thank you, Colonel,” he demurred. “¿Capitan?” Rojas swung the bottle toward Heintzmann, who accepted. “How can you drink that swill?” Williams asked in German. “When in Rome, Herr Williams,” he said in the same language, taking a long pull. “Where are you bound?” Amanda felt her ears prick up. Williams hesitated and she thought about her own destination—San Francisco. After banning Georg from the bridal chamber, she told him the marriage was off. He must begin courting her all over again. He agreed, but insisted they go about it quietly as he didn’t wish his family to know. She demanded the grand tour and he acquiesced. Two days later word reached them that his father had died in his sleep and Georg was now truly a baron. Not until they reached Istanbul at the edge of Asia did she allow him to consummate the marriage, and only then because she was deliciously besotted on sweet wine and hashish. Someone told her of the lovely little city of San Francisco in the American state of California, and she demanded they see it. Williams glanced at Heintzmann and still in German, said, “To the Alaska Territory of the United States.” He drew a metal flask from his valise. “Perhaps now that you have choked down that local product, you might like a drink of honest German schnapps?” As Amanda watched Heintzmann take the flask and stare at it in astonishment, Georg said, “There is more to that journalist than meets the eye.” She sniffed but said nothing. Eavesdropping proved more entertaining than talking to her husband. Williams said something to the captain. Heintzmann drank deeply. “He speaks high German with a Hessian accent,” Georg continued, “and he appears to have noble blood. Perhaps at the next stop I will reveal myself to him.” “I’m sure he will find that greatly amusing.” He winced at her words and she found herself once more in that maddening middle ground between sympathy and loathing. There were so many women who would have made this boor a perfect wife; why had he asked her? Georg was a perfect copy of Baron Ganbor, mores the pity. Georg lapsed into silence and she heard Heintzmann’s next comment clearly. “I would wager you are less English than you appear. Thank you for the schnapps.” Williams smiled. Colonel Rojas drank from his own bottle at an incredible rate. The two junior officers, a few seats behind Williams and Heintzmann, begged and cajoled until he joined them with his mesçal. Heintzmann took another pull from the flask and handed it back. “Alaska. Isn’t that near the North Pole?” Williams laughed. “Not the part where I am bound.” He took a drink. Amanda wanted to put her lips to the flask, wanted to sip liquor that still held his breath. I must stop this, she thought, or I shall torture myself to death. She turned her gaze out the window. Outside the rocking coach stars winked in brittle flirtation from the surprisingly cold, clear sky. No moon, she thought, that’s why it’s so dark. The conductor came through and shut most of the windows. Rojas and his two officers slumped in their seats, their snores rolling off into the night. Williams and Heintzmann talked in tones low enough not to be overheard. The steady clatter of bogies on track created a lulling effect. A bullet shattered her sleep along with the windowpane two seats away from them, and she screamed in alarm. Suddenly a volley of shots rang out and window glass fragmented along the entire length of the car. Colonel Rojas jerked to his feet, a huge revolver in his hand, and screamed, “¿Villistas?” “¿Quien sabe?” one of the officers yelled back. The three Mexicans milled about, peering out windows as bullets snapped around their heads. Hauptmann Heintzmann rose to a crouch and Williams threw himself to the floor, pistol in hand. “Get down, Rolf, they can see you!” he screamed. As Heintzmann turned to respond, the window beside him shattered and his forehead exploded in a spray of gore. “Oh, my God,” Amanda said, looking away and fighting the automatic urge to vomit. She felt faint. She’d seen sudden death once before, in Turkey. Two men had fought a knife duel on the far side of the square from where she watched. But this! Georg reached across her, smashed out the only remaining window glass, and fired into the night with one of the two revolvers he owned. I laughed at him for bringing those, she thought dully. He shoved one into her hands. Outside she saw horses and riders in the flashes of light. “Here!” he hissed. “You’re good at destroying men; make yourself useful!” The light at the other end of the coach winked out. She looked up to see Williams coolly smash the middle lamp with one shot from his pistol. She identified it as a Lugar and wondered from where that bit of knowledge had surfaced. Amanda’s heart thumped in her chest. She bit back her fear, acutely aware that one of those bullets from the darkness could hit her as easily as the German officer. The coach stank of gunpowder and blood. Shots continued in a steady rain, hammering into the side of the car. The remaining lamp swinging wildly over the aisle felt like a spot light on a stage. A bullet whined past her head and she shrank down in the seat, trying to disappear. More glass shattered and shards nicked her cheek in passage. Frightened tears rolled down her face. Yells, punctuated by the crack of rifles, rose above the din. The train rattled on mechanically, oblivious to mere flesh and blood. Colonel Rojas fired his revolver at the riders. The other two officers fired steadily. The small businessman squirmed under the seats. His fat companion huddled wide-eyed on the floor, jammed between the benches, sobbing audibly, his face slick with tears. The sight of them put steel into Amanda and she pushed up to peek out the window again. Muzzle blasts from long rifles illuminated the hard-charging horsemen for montage instants, freezing them into Kodak-like images that burned into the retina before vanishing into the night. When another muzzle flash bit at the car Amanda aimed at its center and pulled the trigger. The pistol bucked in her hands and she thought she heard a scream of pain. Gunfire poured from the cars farther back on the train, making her hopeful. One of the Mexican officers jerked back from the window, gurgling something to his friend, then fell dead in the aisle. The racket of battle shredded the night as the train thundered along. On the other side of the wall at her back, loud thumps sounded from the coach platform. Suddenly the door swung open and gunshots cut down Colonel Rojas and his remaining officer. Williams was nowhere to be seen. Dead, thought Amanda, and promptly forgot him. A bearded revolutionary, bandoleers draped around him like lethal boas, pushed into the coach, a pistol in each hand. Amanda shuddered and sank into her seat again, hiding behind Georg. Georg twisted and shot him point blank. The man stumbled backward and fell on the bench across the aisle from them. A hand holding a revolver snaked around the doorframe and fired. Georg slammed back against her, blood spurting from his chest, and then fell forward. Ice enveloped her. The owner of the hand stepped into the car and grinned down at her husband. The man’s eyes traveled up and saw her, widening in surprise. “¿Una senorita?” he said. She bit her lip and shot him in the face. He recoiled back and bounced off something to fall in the aisle. The something became another revolutionary who stared down at his companion in shock, then up to her gun barrel pointed at his face. Perfect acceptance shone in his eyes. He knew he was dead. Amanda pulled the trigger. The hammer snapped down on a spent cartridge. “Funny,” Amanda said, calmly looking at him, “I don’t remember firing that many times.” Confusion washed over his face for an instant before resolving into anger. He brought his revolver up with a snarl and leveled it at her head. She wondered if it would hurt to die. “¡Hola, amigo!” someone shouted. The weapon swung as the man looked around. Williams shot him between the eyes with a three-round burst. The man collapsed in the doorway. Amanda stared at this magical man, her savior, who appeared from nowhere. She swallowed, her ears popped and the racket crashed back in on her. She glanced down and found a pile of cartridges nesting in her lap. Georg’s last gift. She opened the revolver’s cylinder, dumped the spent casings and began thumbing in fresh rounds. As she snapped the cylinder back into place something caught her eye. A rider was next to the coach, reaching for the windowsill next to her. She shot him out of the saddle. “My pleasure, madam,” Williams said dryly from behind one of the seats. She realized she hadn’t thanked him and blushed. It occurred to her San Francisco was still a great distance away. She hadn’t known she would have to fight her way there. The shooting faltered, and then stopped. A blue haze of gun smoke eddied in the coach before venting through broken windows. Glass, wood splinters, blood, and bodies littered the floor and benches. Amanda put her hand on Georg’s back. He lay quite still and she knew he was dead. She looked up at Williams, standing in the aisle. Part of her wondered if this man was now going to be part of her life while another part recoiled in horror over the death of Georg and the others. At least the killing had stopped. Williams ejected a clip from his pistol and snapped another into the butt. His left eye had developed a tic. Something scraped behind him and he whirled, the pistol an extension of his brain, seeking the noise. “¡Se- , senor!” the fat man blurted and held out flabby, pink hands, palms up. “Wait!” came a muffled cry in German from under the seats. “He doesn’t understand your language, but I do.” The small man’s head appeared as he pulled himself into the aisle. Williams hesitated, his pistol still pointed toward the men. What’s wrong with him? Amanda wondered. “That’s a pity,” Williams said in German. He shot the small man through the head. The fat man’s eyes bugged out in terror. “¡No, senor!” “I can’t leave you as a witness, even if you don’t speak German,” he said in that language. “I don’t know what he told you. I just can’t take the chance.” He fired twice and the Mexican screamed and thrashed for a horribly long moment before growing silent. Amanda held her revolver in both hands, resting it on the seat back in front of her. She carefully aimed at the center of Williams’ back. He turned around and faced her, his pistol pointing up slightly. If he brought the muzzle down toward her, she decided, she would kill him. He dropped the pistol into the holster. His trigger finger pointed at Georg. “I’m sorry about your friend,” he said in German. “Pardon?” She frowned up at him, not allowing the gun barrel to waver from his chest. He repeated the statement in English. “Thank you. He was my husband.” She felt hot tears pop from the edge of her eyes and shook her head angrily. “Why did you shoot those men?” “Perhaps we should have a chat,” he said easily. “My name is Williams. Arnold Williams.” “Certainly, Mr. Williams,” she said with a tight smile. “Have a seat.” She jerked the barrel to her right, and then centered it on his chest again. “Over there.” San Francisco was so far away! “What might I call you?” He carefully sat down. “We’ll skip the formalities,” she said, feeling light-headed. “Just call me Amanda. Why did you shoot those men?” “Obviously you don’t speak German.” His deliberate gaze fastened on her face. “No,” she said, trying not to shake. “They thought the attack was my doing. They said they would kill me.” Georg had been right. There was much more to this man than met the eye. He had a secret he would murder to hide. She felt sure he would murder her to eliminate his only witness, unless he thought it worth his while to keep her alive. Her heartbeat slowed toward normal and she tried to sort out her feelings. She imagined riding a tiger might be like this, exhilarating but deadly. As he waited for her response she balanced her fear and fascination for this man. Austria held nothing for her until the war stopped. She didn’t wish to return to her father’s house and waste away in widow’s weeds. He thought her interesting but would kill her to protect himself. She knew more about him than he did her. His stated destination lay far beyond San Francisco. She was now alone, destitute, and very distant from England in so many ways. I’ll travel that far with him, she decided. Then I’ll decide what to do next. “I see,” she said. “So where do we go from here?” Continues...