Seven Days to Hell

by William W. Johnstone

  “Guns and gold, and plenty of both.”

  Kate eyed him with new interest. “You got?”

  Johnny nodded yes. “I’ve got the gold, the gold will get the guns.”

  “You ain’t just whistling Dixie, son. Let’s get to where the deals are made,” Kate said.

  “Deep Hollow,” Johnny said. It was not a question. This was not his first time on the Blacksnake.

  Kate nodded. “Any reason why we can’t get started now?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “My mule’s tied up in that clump of trees yonder,” she said, gesturing at a grove in the far side of the clearing. “You boys saddle up and we’ll be off directly.”

  Kate started tromping off in that direction taking big-legged strides. Bill called her name, bringing her to a halt.

  “You reckon Cullen knows about Julie?”

  “It’s no secret she’s gone, Bill. Her resting place is in plain sight. Anybody who came to the Crossing couldn’t help but see. Julie being who she was—wife to Cullen Baker—word was sure to spread like wildfire. The prison grapevine being what it is,” she added. “Word is sure to have reached Cullen. Even if they’re keeping him apart from the other prisoners.”

  “They lit a fire that won’t quit,” Bill said darkly.

  “They figure to quench that fire by killing Cullen Baker,” Kate said. “In seven days.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Time to get down to the nut cutting,” Johnny Cross said. “Let’s deal.”

  He and Bill Longley sat at the Big Table of the Council Flatboat in the bayou backcountry hideout of Deep Hollow.

  It was night. A sputtering kerosene lantern sat at the center of the big table, an oblong slab of cypress wood the size of a billiards table. Seated there with Johnny and Bill were some of the Powers of Deep Hollow, that last refuge and redoubt of the most wanted, most desperate, or purely most ornery folk on the Blacksnake:

  George St. George, leader of the night runners, a band of river pirates.

  Swamp cat Belle Nyad, one-eyed hellcat who served as acting chief of the Skinner Kondo River Rats smuggling gang.

  Albert “Gator Al” Hutchins, part Tonkawa Indian and speaker for the small but potently lethal tribe of Tonks and their blood-kin, a force to be reckoned with in the swamp.

  “There’s others in the Hollow just as dangerous and with even larger followings, but you can trust these three,” Crawdad Kate had confided earlier to Johnny Cross when he and Bill Longley were plotting whom to bring in on their plan to save Cullen Baker.

  “I know George. He and I did some work together the last time I was in Moraine County,” Johnny said.

  “Oh? Who’d you kill?”

  “Nobody important, just some thieves who stole a fish cannery payroll and kicked when we stole it from them. Nobody hollers louder than a thief who’s being robbed. George is a good man. I hope we can do business.”

  “He’s your best bet. He’s liable to throw in just for the chance to get at Barbaroux.”

  “Why’s that, Kate?”

  “The Commander killed his kid brother. Or had him killed. Same thing.”

  “Little Ned? They killed Little Ned?” Johnny said, shocked. “Why, that young’un wasn’t even old enough to wear a gun!”

  “When you was last here, maybe. But they grow up fast in the swamp, and a few years can make a big difference. Poor Neddy was sweet on some Halftown gal that Barbaroux had his eye on and she looked on the boy with some favor. Too much for the Commander. One of his Combine gunmen picked a fight with Neddy and shot his eyes out,” Kate said.

  “That’s a damned shame,” Johnny said feelingly.

  “George did for the shooter all right—fed him alive piece by piece to the gators, so I heard—but he held Barbaroux responsible for the killing and is sworn to get him. Yes, George St. George is a pretty sure bet for any go that’ll sting the Commander.”

  “Well, I’ve got a whopper for him.”

  “Swampcat Belle and Gator Al both have good reasons to hate Barbaroux,” Kate continued. “His Gun Dogs river police sank Belle Nyad’s steam-powered boat.

  “And the Commander is pure hell on the Tonks, swore a blood oath to wipe them out to the last man, woman, and child. Any Tonk the Combine takes they kill out of hand. That puts Gator Al Hutchins right square in your corner.”

  Kate continued. “One more thing about those three, you can trust them. Once they’re bought, they stay bought. No worry about them selling you out to the Combine.”

  “Sounds like a basis for negotiations,” Johnny said. He asked Kate to come to the meeting but she declined.

  “I’ll help set it up but it’s your bit, you do the talking,” Kate said. “Everybody in the Hollow—hell, on the Blacksnake—knows about Cullen Baker. He gave Barbaroux a real hard time, killed a lot of Combine men. Then the Combine tricked him, lured him into a trap when he went to meet some folks he thought were friends. They took Cullen alive. Tried him in a show trial in one of Barbaroux’s kangaroo courts and sentenced him to hang. You say George St. George knows you—that’ll help. Belle and Gator Al know Bill, so they’ll give you a fair hearing at least. The rest is in the horse trading. You’ve got to give them something they want. It may be gold or guns or who knows what.”

  “You’ll find out tonight at the meet,” Bill said.

  * * *

  Deep Hollow was way out in the bayou backcountry. A number of paths led there: by horse, on foot, by water. It was easier to get into than to get out of alive, especially if the folk there were against you.

  The local Tonkawa tribe first fled to the Hollow to escape far-eastward ranging Comanche bent on wiping out the whole Tonkawa nation. Next came runaway slaves, indentured servants, and fugitives from the law.

  Now the Hollow was in crisis because of the recent influx of several hundred refugees fleeing the wrath or tyranny of Barbaroux. The permanent colony in the swamp was never equipped to handle such numbers.

  Whole families by the score were living in primitive lean-tos, tents, and hovels. Food shortages were common. The refugees lived on the edge of starvation. The swamp was full of fish and four-legged varmints, but the foragers had to range ever farther afield to take some daily catch for their cooking pots.

  The refugee camp of Deep Hollow was a powder keg waiting to explode. Bad for them but good for Johnny Cross, according to the hard logic of necessity. Folks with nothing to lose are more likely to get up on their hind legs and scrap, particularly if they think they’ve got a fighting chance.

  Johnny meant to give them that chance. He was not the only one.

  There was the Major, for instance.

  Johnny couldn’t help but notice a considerable number of repeating rifles in the hands of the hardcore swampers, the river pirates, smugglers, and thieves who’d already been long established in the Hollow before the current influx of newcomers.

  The weapons were new model Winchester 1866 repeating rifles, pretty much state of the art in the killing trades. To Johnny’s eyes they looked like U.S. Army issue. He and Bill did some discreet asking around: Where did the rifles come from?

  The Major, came the reply. The Major was the source for the Winchesters. The way the newly armed gun toters said his name, you could almost hear the capital letters: “The Major.”

  Who was the Major?

  The Major had first appeared little more than a fortnight ago, partnered with Captain Quent Hazard, the craftiest, most dangerous smuggler on the river. Hazard was at the very top of the list of men Rufus Barbaroux would most like to hang.

  Captain Hazard’s credentials were impeccable, gaining the Major access to the higher-ups in the Hollow. The Major would deal only with the bigs and damned few of them, only those Captain Hazard would vouch for personally.

  The higher-ups were more than ready to come in when they saw the Major’s deal: crates of Winchester Model 1866 repeater rifles and ammunition to match. The swampers were used to getting the worst firear
ms on the river. Barbaroux had decreed a death penalty on anyone selling weapons to the Hollow.

  Then along comes the Major with more and better hardware than ever before seen in the swamp, and at bargain prices, too.

  The swampers figured that was because the ordnance was stolen, from a bluebelly army arsenal somewhere. So much the better; it only made the deal all the sweeter. They bought every box of rifles and ammunition the Major had to offer.

  And the supply was plentiful. Captain Hazard was making three runs a week. It seemed like the Major was intent on flooding the hardcore element of Deep Hollow with first-class weaponry.

  Whoever the Major was, he was sure enough in the anti-Barbaroux business, Johnny Cross said to himself. He very much wanted to meet the Major.

  All in due time. First, the palaver with George St. George, Belle Nyad, and Gator Al Hutchins.

  The council flatboat was just that, a keelboat-type barge moored in the middle of a bayou lake. A one-story cube-shaped cabin was built in the center of the barge.

  The participants had been rowed out to the barge early at night, at moonrise. A steamy haze hung over the lake, blurring the outlines of the swampy nightscape. The moon was a fuzzy yellow crescent shining through the trees.

  Before the meet began, Johnny Cross went off to one side with George St. George.

  George St. George was long, lean, lithe. His hair was combed straight back from his forehead. A pair of pistols was tucked into a cummerbund-type red sash worn low around his middle, pirate style.

  “Johnny Cross, long time no see,” George said.

  “So you’re still alive and kicking,” Johnny said. “Glad to see it.”

  “Likewise. Thought we’d seen the last of you here on the river.”

  “That’s what I thought, but . . . here I am. Listen, George, this is apart from anything else, the meet and all. I heard about Little Ned. It’s a damned shame. You know I always liked the boy.”

  “I know it,” George St. George said, smiling sadly. “Little Ned . . . once he got his growth, or thought he did, he couldn’t bear to be called that, Little Ned. He’d fly into a rage when I forgot. But he was and always will be Little Ned to me.

  “I couldn’t side him always. You know how it is. He wanted to stand on his own two feet, and it was right that he did. But it wasn’t right that that redheaded son in the Big White Boat had him killed over a no-account slip of a Halftown gal.” George sighed before continuing.

  “I swore I’d get him and I will. But it ain’t easy. Barbaroux surrounds himself with an iron ring of shooters. Gun one down—and believe me, I’ve gunned down plenty—and more rise up to take their place. But I’ll get him, no matter what.”

  “I believe it,” Johnny said. “I’ve been studying on how to give Barbaroux a bloody nose . . .”

  They went inside, into the cabin. It was dim, hot, close, and smoky. A lone kerosene lamp sat in the middle of the big cypress table that the players sat around. The chairs were a mixed bag, no two alike and not a one comfortable. It helped keep meetings short.

  Johnny Cross sat at one end of the rectangular table, with Bill Longley seated on his right. George St. George sat opposite Johnny at the far end of the table. Belle Nyad sat on his right and Gator Al Hutchins on his left.

  Bunches of slow-burning dried punk reeds were scattered around the space. Their smoke was harsh and burned the throat, but it seemed to keep the swarming mosquitoes at bay.

  Belle Nyad looked the very picture of a piratical femme with a black eye patch worn over the left eye. She was a raven-haired wench, her looks hard but comely, her body ripely curved. A silver earring pierced her left ear. From it hung a thin silver chain several inches long, attached to the top of an acorn-sized silver skull with a death’s-head grin.

  She was acting chief of Skinner Kondo’s River Rats gang. Kondo was a legendary terror on the river. In recent years a crippling wounding had laid him low, but not so low that he wasn’t a figure still to be respected and feared.

  Belle Nyad was not to be underestimated, either, not if she could lord it over Kondo’s crew of cutthroats, Johnny reminded himself.

  Gator Al Hutchins was a long-limbed, raw-boned giant with a thatch of thick coarse dark hair streaked with gray, high cheekbones, bright eyes set back deep in their sockets, and a slash of a mouth. In the Indian manner his face was free of facial hair save for his brows. He wore a wildly out of place black top hat of the type swells wore to the opera and theater. It clashed oddly with his necklace made of alligator claws.

  He was a power among the Tonkawas, themselves a power in the swamp.

  George St. George, Belle Nyad, and Gator Al stared with poker faces at Johnny Cross.

  Johnny was a direct actionist. He slammed a leather pouch the size of a quart bottle down on the table. It hit with a heavy thunk in which was mixed the resounding ring of metallic coin. The impact jarred the kerosene lantern, making its oily flames dance.

  The pouch was open at the top. From its mouth spilled a rush of gold coins, fanning out across the tabletop. It was one of the bags of gold Johnny had brought from Hangtree.

  The space suddenly brightened with the golden glow reflected from the mass of coins, throwing weblike golden highlights on the faces of George St. George, Belle Nyad, and Gator Al, all of whom leaned forward as one, alert and intent, quivering like hound dogs on point.

  “I aim to bust Cullen Baker out of Clinchfield Gaol before he hangs,” Johnny Cross said. “Now what’s it going to take to get y’all to come on board?”

  The horse trading began. It ran long and hard, the back and forth frequently heated. This was serious business. In the end, the answer to Johnny’s question was:

  Gold, of course. But not just gold.

  Belle Nyad wanted gold and revenge on the Gun Dogs, Barbaroux’s elite river police, for sinking her boat.

  Gator Al wanted gold and his people who were being held in Clinchfield Gaol freed.

  “I want to sink Barbaroux,” George St. George said. “Busting open Clinchfield Gaol is just what’s needed to set him up for the kill. And I want gold, too. I’d do this just for the doing, but my people need to be paid for risking their lives.”

  “Done!” Johnny Cross said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Six days until Cullen Baker was hanged.

  “See Sharkey at the Dead Drunk in Halftown,” George St. George advised. “He’s smart—smart enough to know that he’s next in Barbaroux’s gunsights. He’s exposed in Halftown, out in the open. No swamp to hide in. He may want to come in. If he does, he’ll be a big help. If not, he’ll keep his mouth shut. He wouldn’t give Barbaroux the time of day if his life depended on it.”

  That night, Johnny Cross set out for Halftown.

  The Blacksnake River ran south-southwest through Moraine County. It ran south until reaching a boggy peninsula on the north bank known as Pirate’s Point, where it took a sharp curve to the southwest.

  Clinchfield town, capital of the county, lay downstream of Pirate’s Point, nestled in the crook where the land thrust out into the river. From there the Blacksnake ran southwest before joining the larger Sabine River, which ultimately emptied into the Gulf of Mexico.

  Halftown lay a few miles upstream from Pirate’s Point, off the south bank. It was sited on an oval-shaped almost-island, connected to the mainland by a narrow spit of ground.

  Halftown began as a pirates’ base founded by Jean Lafitte. Now it was a settlement of roughly a thousand souls. In most ways it was a typical river port. A sheltered safe harbor for waterborne traffic, its shore thick with docks and warehouses where goods were loaded and unloaded day and night.

  The waterfront district was a gridded maze made up of unpaved streets and crooked alleys. River Street, the main drag, bordered the dockside area. A row of warehouses and storage sheds lined the shoreline side of the thoroughfare.

  The other side of the street was crowded with wooden frame buildings that served the needs of the rough men who
plied their trade along the Blacksnake. There were rooming houses and flophouses, eateries and saloons, gin mills, gambling houses, low dives, brothels, and suchlike.

  Halftown was still a smugglers’ paradise and thieves’ market, dealing almost exclusively in contraband and stolen goods. It was a hard place, rowdy and violent. Shootings were common, virtually an everyday occurrence.

  The hordes of blue-clad Federal occupation troops whose presence was such an oppressive reality throughout the former Confederacy had yet to be seen in Moraine County. The Federals’ resources were stretched to the limit trying to garrison the big cities and vital towns of the Southland.

  While most of Dixie wore the yoke of Yankee occupation troops, Moraine County was under the thumb of Rufus Barbaroux.

  The powers in Halftown were the brotherhoods, gangs, and clans of smugglers, dealers in stolen goods and river-borne crime. These were commercial associations dedicated to turning a profit. Open hostility to Barbaroux might be a costly mistake, some argued. Barbaroux was a power in the land, a big operator with big ideas and a not so small army of gunmen.

  Clinchfield was Barbaroux’s and Halftown was next on Barbaroux’s list. He was already in the opening stages of a massive offensive against the thieves’ haunt.

  By any measure Halftown was dangerous by day, doubly dangerous by night. The farther one traveled from the center of the waterfront district, the greater the threat.

  The Dead Drunk lay on the outskirts of town, at the westernmost edge of River Street where the warehouses played out. It was set on a long pier stretching out into the water.

  Johnny Cross came to the dive not by land but by water, seated in the middle of a pirogue. With him were George St. George and Roe Brand, a strong supple youth who was one of Gator Al’s most trusted men.

  The watercraft was something like a hollowed-out dugout canoe but lighter and with a more shallow draft. Roe Brand was perched at the stern, wielding a double-bladed paddle, George St. George at the bow.

  It was a sultry night with a welcome breeze on the river blessfully blowing the mosquitoes away, mostly. A hazy sickle moon sliced through scudding clouds.