White Silence by Ginjer Buchanan

discussion. He stood silent for a while outside the Pack Train, lost in the memory of an autumn night in the Highlands. He’d been with Connor, his kinsman and teacher, only a short time. They’d stopped earlier that evening at a tavern. The wench who’d served them had russet hair, falling in curls over her shoulders. And great green eyes that favored him as she went about her work. His heart had nigh stopped at the sight of her.
    He’d fallen into a dark mood then, and it had taken some urging from Connor before he had finally spoken of Debra. Bonny Debra, who he had loved with all his heart. Dear Debra, who had died of her love for him. Dead Debra, whose ghost he would now have to live with for all of his endless life.
    Connor had listened, and said little. But the next morning, he told Duncan to ready himself for a journey. They traveled many days, until they came to a ruined keep, on a hill overlooking a loch. In the shadow of the broken walls, Connor knelt beside a grave marked with the broadsword of the MacLeods.
    They die, he said. Quickly, like your Debra. Or slowly, like my Heather. But they die, and we live on—
    Alone.
Duncan shivered. Although it was only August, a cold wind was blowing off the cloud-wreathed peaks that cupped the town. He pulled his coat collar higher. Skagway was almost peaceful at this hour, covered in a light blanket of snow that had fallen overnight. But on the Juneau Wharf, men were astir. Duncan thought to try again to find the Indian who’d helped him. He had the red felt hat stuffed in his jacket pocket. Perhaps someone on the wharf would recognize it.
    He’d give it an hour, and if he had no luck, go back to work on the first of his dispatches. Though Witherspoon, when he met him to make the final arrangements for securing the
Belle Claire,
had been puzzled by the decision, he’d refused to have his name on the column. The reports would be run simply as “An Argonaut’s Journal.”
    He set out, snow crunching beneath his boots. As he approached one of the few side streets in the town, a flash of movement and color caught his attention. To the right, just off Broadway, stood Jeff Smith’s Parlour. And peering into the glass top of the shuttered door was the burly thief.
    Duncan stopped short. The man, after rattling the latch, slipped into the narrow passage between the Parlour and the building adjacent.
    Duncan’s first impulse was to raise a hue and cry. But the man’s actions had piqued his ever-present curiosity. So instead he followed, squeezing silently through the opening.
    At the end of the passage, behind the building, was a small open area, bounded by a white wooden fence. The fence was around six feet high. Duncan approached cautiously, bent low, then slowly raised his head.
    The courtyard was empty, save for the recent snow. But fresh footprints led from a gate to the back door of the Parlour.
    Suddenly, the door burst open. A figure flew out, and fell facedown. The burly thief followed. He cursed and kicked the fallen man in the side.
    “Hold up there, Zimmer.” Another man appeared in the doorway. Duncan recognized him, too. Foster had pointed him out the night before. Burns was his name. Big Ed Burns. The bouncer at the Parlour.
    “Mr. Smith don’t want no trouble here,” Burns continued. “Leave the injun be now. We’ll take him up the mountain a way, and deal with him there.”
    Ignoring Burns, Zimmer lashed out again. The fallen man rolled, seeking to avoid the blow.
    He was, Duncan saw, the Indian from the alley. His face was covered with blood, the snow stained where he had first lain.
    Duncan stood. He backed up a few paces, then launched himself, vaulting the fence easily. He faced Zimmer, startled in mid-kick.
    “So you’re a bully as well as a thief?” he said. “Well, let’s see how you handle yourself against a man who can fight back.”
    With an oath, Zimmer rushed Duncan. His weight carried them both back against the fence. This close,