by T. K. Lukas
“If something happens to you? What I expect will happen is that you’ll rest, recover your full health, and you’ll enjoy a passel of grandkids one day, each one having inherited your beautiful green cat eyes.”
Clutching his lapels in her weak grasp, she said, “Be careful, Hughes. I wish I could tell you that this is without risk, but I cannot. If Seamus Flanders is still alive, there will be danger.”
“I don’t shy from danger,” Hughes said, a sharp edge to his words. “I hunt down outlaws for a living and bring them to justice. I think I can handle Seamus Flanders if we cross paths, and I hope to God we do. But I know my mission. I’ve given you my word that your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you, Hughes.” Leighselle blinked away tears.
“I’ll respect your wish for privacy until I hear otherwise from you. Remember, stomp the floor three times by the window if you need Jameson. I’m off. I don’t want to miss the midnight train.” He kissed Leighselle on each cheek, hugged her in a tight embrace, then turned and disappeared down the stairs.
“Your package,” called Leighselle after him. She ran out into the hallway with a large, thick envelope in hand.
Hughes looked up from the lower landing. “Drop it.”
She did and he caught the package with one hand, saluting her with the other, and then blew her a kiss.
She saluted, sending an air kiss back, her gesture awkward and clumsy, which made her laugh. The laugh dissolved into a racking cough, the blood bright red and metallic in her mouth. She stumbled to her room, closed the door, and leaned her back up against it, waiting for the dizziness to pass, waiting for coolness. Her vision became fuzzy, the room’s furnishings out of focus. She leaned forward, moving her hands through the air for a place to lie down, like a blind person groping for something familiar.
Slow feet shuffled and scraped their way across the wooden floor to the four-poster canopied bed. She eased herself onto the downy duvet cover, her breathing shallow and fast. “Please find her. Find my Barleigh,” whispered Leighselle as darkness closed in. “But please keep your word. . . .”
Boots on the ground—stomp, stomp, stomp—ghost soldiers on patrol. She heard the echo of their heavy footfalls, the noise muffled in her ears like a throbbing pulse. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. A faint smile eased across her mouth moments before she fell unconscious, a trickle of blood staining the white, feather-filled pillow.
A Comanche moon lit up the Menger Hotel and bathed it with a brilliant radiance, as if it were the middle of the day. Guests lingered on the patio, enjoying the dazzling splendor of the remarkable lunar display. Privileged companions danced in the moonlight and toasted to its magical spell, while the moon gilded the hour and all below with its otherworldly light.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SEPTEMBER 27, 1860
Hughes gave the coded knock: two fast, three slow, two fast. When Jameson answered the door, Hughes stepped into the room, giving him a list of instructions regarding Leighselle’s care, a note for the doctor, and a telegram for Jameson to send to New Orleans ahead of his arrival.
“Yes, sir. Anything else?” asked Jameson.
“I’ve looked over the package. I’ll study it further on the train,” said Hughes. “I’ll be in Saint Joseph by the end of next month, but I’ve encountered a minor delay.” He hoped it would be minor, anyway. He considered himself among the best when it came to tracking wild animals. How difficult could it be finding a nineteen-year-old girl?
Hughes gave Jameson a brief description of his impending search mission once his visit to Louisiana was complete. He expected it would take a few days to find the girl. Then, he would send Jameson a telegraph once that was done and he was on his way to Missouri.
“Very well, sir,” said Jameson, taking notes. “One other question. Should Miss Beauclaire’s condition become dire, what should I do beyond sending for the doctor?”
“She’s already beyond dire. I’m sure the doctor will do his best to make her comfortable.” What else was there to do, thought Hughes, besides hope like hell she had the strength to hang on until he found her daughter?
*****
The San Antonio to New Orleans train chugged east, yet Hughes’s thoughts drifted west. With a few other passengers aboard the midnight freight run, the car was quiet except for the clanking of wheels on metal and the occasional whistling of the horn. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the rhythmical cadence of the rails.
His plan was clear in his mind. He would depart Louisiana late the next day while riding a fine horse, head back to Texas, be in Corpus by week’s end, head north to Fort Worth if required, and then before you know it, have word to Leighselle that he’d located Barleigh. How difficult could it be?
He made a pillow of his topcoat, stuffing it between his shoulder and the window. Resting his head against the cool glass, he tried clearing his mind of his troubled thoughts of Leighselle. It was easy to picture his dear friend as she was when he left New Orleans those many years ago—stunning, vibrant, sassy, funny, intelligent. And clever. That woman was clever. He drifted off to sleep, his memories melting into vivid dreams.
*****
February 24, 1852
Winter Carnival season was in full swing and La Verne’s Tavern was a hotbed of activity. It was Fat Tuesday, and all around the French Quarter, parades would clog the streets and pass in front of the tavern, bringing in customers, revelers, and troublemakers alike. The final masquerade ball celebrated Mardi Gras and the end of frivolity before Ash Wednesday ushered in Lent and the Holy Holidays—and along with it, the expectation for decorum. But for one last night, unbridled pleasures for all the senses were abundant. Exuberant revelers didn’t have to look far to find them.
Leighselle was draping the final strand of an English ivy and eucalyptus garland around the life-sized oil painting of a charcoal-gray and silver Brahmin bull that took up most of the wall above the mahogany bar. She had commissioned the painting when she’d purchased the business, adding a brass nameplate on the bottom of the frame. The plate was etched with the words Henry’s Folly.
“You need a hand with that?” asked Hughes as he strolled through the swinging doors of the saloon.
“You’re early. Did your father shut down Lévesque Sugarcane and Shipping in honor of our Mardi Gras masquerade?”
“He’d drop dead before that would happen. Hop down off that ladder and let me help you. You’re making me nervous way up there.”
Leighselle climbed down, handing the garland to Hughes. “Drape this over the top of the painting, please.”
“Henry’s Folly. I’ve always wondered if there was a story behind the name.” Hughes climbed the ladder, finishing the decorations.
“Yes, a long story.” Leighselle’s bright green eyes darkened, her smile faded.
“I’m sorry. Did I say something wrong?” Hughes climbed down and then folded the ladder, stowing it behind the bar.
“It’s all right. I get asked that question often. I should be used to it by now.” She smiled, but the smile sat flat, not reaching her eyes.
Hughes studied her face and her petite, graceful form. The way she looked, the way she moved, reminded him of a cat, but a sad cat on the verge of tears. “All finished,” he said as he put away the ladder. “Anything else you need done while I’m here?”
“Just a few more decorations.” Leighselle placed candles on each table. “Thank you for helping. I’m glad you managed to sneak away from work. Your father grooming you to take over the business is taking you away from being my handyman and security guard. I’m sure I’ll be in need of your services tonight. The crowds the last few evenings have grown more boisterous.”
“It’d be wiser if Father groomed John-Pierre to take over. Even Mother sees that he’s better suited to running the business,” said Hughes, handing candles to Leighselle for placement.
“Won’t your father consider what your mother thinks about the situation?”
Hughes snorted. “List
ening to a woman’s point of view, even if that woman is his wife, ranks just below him shutting down business for a holiday.”
“You’re twins. Why can’t he groom John-Pierre for the business?”
“That would go against tradition, God forbid. I’m the elder by a whopping two minutes.” Hughes adopted a comical, mocking tone to his voice, causing Leighselle to laugh.
John-Pierre was more suited. He didn’t act like an ‘irresponsible eighteen-year-old always looking for trouble,’ to quote Father. He acted more like a ‘responsible young man on the cusp of adulthood.’ But, Father would try anything, including guilt and bribery, to get his way—to try and force his eldest son into fitting into the mold that shaped all the men of the Lévesque Sugarcane and Shipping dynasty.
“What I want is to know if you brought your mask for the ball tonight?” asked Leighselle, putting the finishing touches on the bar’s centerpiece. “I want you to mingle. I don’t want you standing out as the hired gun. That would put a damper on a festive mood.”
Hughes shook his head. “I respectfully disagree. I think having visible security would help keep things from getting out of control, like it did last year.”
“You worry too much,” chided Leighselle. “Dress up, wear a mask, mingle, have fun, but be on your guard for anything that needs tamped down.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Hughes helped finish decorating the tavern with crepe paper and colorful streamers before going out to watch the parade.
A comical troupe of men and boys, women and girls, on foot, on horseback, or riding in wagons, carts, or buggies, paraded past La Verne’s. Grotesque, horrible, diabolical masks seemed to be the theme. Some costumes were human bodies with heads of beasts, fowl, or fish. Others were animal bodies with distorted human heads made of papier–mâché painted wild, graphic colors. All sorts of garish beasts wound their way up and down the street in rich confusion and with much foolish laughter and singing.
Some revelers wore disguises of mermaids or monks, some were beggars or robbers, while a few opted for body paint that left many guessing if they were clothed underneath. The carnival spirit had erupted over the French Quarter, spewing decadence and debauchery all around.
Later that evening at the tavern as the masked party crowd swelled to capacity, Hughes moved through the room, elbowing his way around the bar. Jostling his way across the dance floor, pushing and shoving, he made his way toward Monique. Peacock feathers masked half her face, with the other half covered in blue and gold glitter paint.
“Having a good time, Monique?”
“I’m in disguise. You’re not supposed to recognize me.”
“I’d recognize your fiery red hair anywhere. You should have worn a powdered wig, like that one over there.”
He pointed to a tall, beautiful woman in a gold brocade gown cut low in the back, showcasing her exquisite form. Her mask was black feathers that formed a beak-like point over her nose, giving her a dramatic avian appearance. Her costume kept one guessing if she were a well-dressed raven or King Louis XV’s mistress with a feather affliction on her face.
Monique laughed. “It’s Madam Pompadour all right, but the king will be shocked when she disrobes. She is a he.”
“A he? Are you sure? But, her back is so feminine. A he?” Hughes cocked his head for a look from a different angle.
“Positive. That’s Liberty’s cousin Boyd Guzzleman, in from Mobile.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. He’s prettier than Liberty, but don’t tell her I said that.”
“I won’t, although she says as much herself. I’ll catch up with you later.” She glanced over at the bar and saw Leighselle pointing a man her way.
“Be careful tonight. There are people in town we don’t know.” Hughes studied the man walking toward Monique.
“Yes, big brother, I know the rules.” Monique gave him a peck on the cheek and slipped away. Dressed as a cowboy, a red bandana pulled up over the lower half of his face and wearing six-shooters at his hip, the man took Monique by the arm and led her upstairs.
Hughes had never been with her. Monique and Leighselle were like sisters, Leighselle the older, wiser sister and Monique the younger, naïve one who caused him to feel protective. He had been with a few of the other whores who worked at La Verne’s, had lost his virginity one enjoyable, drunken night to Liberty, cousin of Boyd the cross-dresser, but Leighselle and Monique were off-limits. They were family.
After midnight when the masks came off and the crowd thinned, Hughes made his way to the bar for a whiskey, the one drink he allowed himself when on duty. He was all coffeed up, jittery, and in need of a calming spirit. The small splash of water swirled in a sensual fusion with the dark amber liquor. He sipped, sighed, enjoying the warming sensation that melted away the tension as he swallowed that first taste.
Spying Leighselle presiding over a game of poker, he strolled over, his soft black leather mask tucked into the breast pocket of his wine-colored vest. His white tuxedo shirt was rolled at the sleeves, exposing masculine wrists, his evening coat long ago discarded. He was handsome and comfortable in his casual elegance despite his youth, turning the heads of women and men alike.
Leighselle looked up and smiled. “Like I told you, nothing to worry about tonight. Thankfully, no repeat of last year’s Brawl at the Ball.”
He watched as Leighselle dealt the cards with deft, quick movements, placing one face down, one face up, then waiting for hit-mes or stays or folds from the men around her table. Dealer’s face card was the queen of diamonds. Half the players folded; the other half wished they had when Leighselle flipped over the ace of spades.
“Let’s take a break, gentlemen. I’ll be back in half an hour. Spend your money at the bar or on the dance floor with your favorite girl, but save a little for me and the queen of diamonds.” Standing, she hooked her arm through Hughes’s. “Fresh air would be nice. How about a walk outside?”
Hughes finished his whiskey. As he set the glass on the table, his amber eyes swept across the room one last time before escorting Leighselle out onto the sidewalk. Despite the late hour, it was crowded with costumed people in high carnival spirits.
“It’s been a great night for La Verne’s Tavern,” Leighselle said with a smile. “The bar’s been doing a brisk business as usual, the card tables are lively, and the girls have a steady stream of escorts twirling them around the floor and up the stairs. Have you had any problems?”
“Everything seems peaceable enough. I’ve tried keeping track of the girls and their escorts. I haven’t seen Monique since early evening, though. Have you?”
“I think the last time I saw her was when she accompanied her first client, the man disguised as a gunslinger.”
A sinking feeling came over Hughes, a sense of dread chilling him from the inside out. He recalled the man’s red bandana mask and how the man walked with the six-shooter at his hip like a gunslinger—it was not a costume. Fuck. He spun around, racing back into the tavern and up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
Monique’s door was locked. Hughes could hear muffled voices inside the room. A faint whimper, a sharp word—a slap—stifled moaning. Pounding the door with his fist, he demanded, “Open up. Security.”
“Go away, I’m busy,” said a male voice, mumbled and slurred with alcohol.
“Monique? Are you all right? It’s Hughes. Open the door.” He pounded again with his fists, rattling the knob. “Goddamnit, I said open the door!” he shouted.
A hush fell over the crowd downstairs. They collectively looked up, straining to see what was happening in the room at the head of the stairs. The tavern grew quiet except for the player piano, which continued to plink out “Molly Will You Be My Bride,” the thin notes seeming to levitate and ride on the heavy cigar smoke that filled the tavern’s space.
Stepping back, Hughes raised his leg and kicked his booted foot against the door, splintering the frame into pieces. What he saw revolted him—enraged him—the grotesque scene hitting him
like a sickening gut punch that displaces oxygen, leaving one gulping for air.
“Move away from her,” he said through gritted teeth, easing his gun out of its holster.
Monique was tied to the bed, a rag stuffed in her mouth. Her breasts had been slashed, clumps of her hair chopped off, the red curls lying in shiny tufts on the floor. Round, angry burn marks from a cigarette dotted the length of both arms, but it was her face he couldn’t bear to look at. Blood smeared the blue and gold glitter paint on half her face; the other unpainted half where the feathered mask had been removed was now covered in dark purple bruises. Both eyes were blackened and swollen shut, her nose streaming blood, her bottom lip ripped half off, exposing several missing teeth.
“I wouldn’t draw on me if I were you,” the man said with a drunken slur, his body wobbling with the effort of standing. “You ain’t got no idea who you’re dealing with, do you?”
Hughes eased into the room, finger steady on the trigger. His eyes darted around, making a quick assessment of the situation. On the nightstand by the bed stood a near-empty bottle of whiskey, a revolver lying next to it. Another pistol lay on the bed between Monique’s legs, employed, he was sure, in all kinds of horrors. The man he held steady in his sight was dirty and small, his mean eyes bloodshot and watery, his hands twitchy and empty and hovering.
“I don’t give a damn what your name is,” said Hughes in a dead-calm voice, not wanting to alarm the half-conscious Monique, who moaned quietly in between gasping for breath on the blood-soaked bed. “Raise your hands, slow and easy. Walk toward me.”
“My names Whitt. Dalton Whitt. Me and my brothers Monroe, Raymond, and Arthur make up the Whitt Gang. I’m sure you’ve heard about us. My brothers’ll come looking for me if I don’t make it back to camp.”
“I said get your hands in the air, you son of a bitch.” Hughes stepped further into the room, blood pounding in his head like a drum. “Walk nice and easy toward me. Now.”
