Free Sitka by Louis L’Amour

LaBarge didn’t stop there. He went to town to see the man who sent them.”
    “And ... ?”
    “He sent him out of town—walking. He had only what he stood up in, and a broken arm.”
    Duane was thoughtful. His friends from Sydney Town had been wary of LaBarge, and this might be the reason.
    “I hear he’s growing wheat,” Herndon commented.
    “He bought property from you, didn’t he, Sam?” Weber asked.
    “I handled the sale. Yes, he’s growing wheat, which more of us should be doing.   He’ll sell his crop this year for much more than many a miner will get from a claim. If you’re doing business with them it isn’t a good idea to underrate anything either Hutchins or LaBarge are doing.” Weber turned a cigar in his fingers, then bit off the end, his manner thoughtful. “What,” he asked then, “is all this interest in Alaska? I hear he’s forever asking questions about it.”
    “You’ll have to ask him,” Brannan replied shortly.
    Jean LaBarge moved from group to group, pausing only briefly here and there.   More than one pair of feminine eyes lingered on his broad shoulders and his dark, lean face with its high cheekbones and scar. His manner and dress was that of a gentleman, but his face was that of a pirate. He was carefully dressed: well-tailored suit, ruffled shirt and a black tie; but no matter how carefully he combed his hair it soon resumed its natural tumbled curliness. His boots were of Spanish leather, handmade. Turning away from the group where Hutchins stood, he came to an abrupt stop, audibly catching his breath.   Before him, wearing a satin evening gown surely from Paris, was the girl from the wharf ... and as his eyes found her she turned slightly and saw him.   For an instant their eyes held, then moved away as if by agreement. Jean felt a queer excitement. His mouth was dry. He turned to answer some comment from Hutchins, and replied to the question without really knowing what he said. The man who stood beside the girl was tall, much older, with iron-gray hair and the thoughtful face of a scholar. There was something about his poise, his dignity that commanded attention. But it was the other man who immediately drew Jean’s attention so that he scarcely noticed Royle Weber, who stood between them.   He was an inch taller than Jean’s six feet two inches, as broad of shoulder as Jean himself and somewhat heavier in the body. His hair was blond clipped high on the sides and close-cropped on top. His eyes were gray-white and closely set.   He carried himself with a military bearing; his white uniform coat was ablaze with decorations. His trousers were black with a thin white stripe down each leg and he wore black boots. Yet the insignia he wore, despite the uniform, was of the Navy. This could only be Baron Paul Zinnovy.   “Mr. LaBarge?” Weber spoke loudly. “May I present Count Alexander Rotcheff? You were asking about wheat, sir. Jean LaBarge is one of the few, these days, who think of planting. If anyone will have wheat to sell, it will be Mr. LaBarge.” The older man bowed slightly. “It is good to know, Mr. LaBarge. It is the reason for our visit. We must have wheat at Sitka.”
    “Well, we have the wheat,” Jean answered. At once his mind seized upon the idea.   Wheat for Sitka? Free, unquestioned access to the islands? It was just what he had been hoping for, planning for. “I am sure we can reach an agreement.” Rotcheff turned to include the girl and the tall blond officer. “Mr. LaBarge?
    May I present my wife? And Baron Zinnovy, of the Imperial Russian Navy.” Some of his dismay must have been evident, for there was something in her eyes that responded to his ... was it regret?
    “Baron Zinnovy,” Rotcheff continued, “is in command of the patrol ships at Sitka.”
    “To a dealer in wheat that will not be important. If Mr. LaBarge dealt in fur it might be very important indeed.”
    Jean smiled, but his eyes held a challenge. “But I am a dealer in