The Chisholm Trail

by Ralph Compton

  “That’s enough!” bawled a voice. “This is the captain! Stop it or I’ll have the lot of you jailed when we dock. What’s the meaning of this?”

  “Cheating,” somebody shouted. “That old bastard in the white suit was caught slick-dealing!”

  They yielded to the captain’s authority. He ordered LeBeau brought to the captain’s quarters. Bruised and disheveled, LeBeau and Sneed left the saloon amid grumbling and cursing. The big man in the bowler hat remained where he was. Ten holstered his Colt. Somebody handed him the $240 pot. He now had nearly three hundred dollars. He had shown up LeBeau for the cheat he was, but had it been worth it? He hadn’t even reached New Orleans, and he already had two enemies there. Standing on deck, watching the big paddle wheel churn the muddy water of the Mississippi, he sensed somebody behind him. He spun and dropped to one knee, the Colt cocked and steady in his hand. He found himself facing the man who had held the three queens.

  “You’re mighty sudden with that iron, my friend. When we reach New Orleans, I’d like to talk to you in private. Here’s my card.”

  Without another word the man turned away and Ten looked at the card. The stranger’s name was John Mathewson, head of the New Orleans division of United States Customs. Ten dropped the card into his shirt pocket and started back to his cabin, unaware that Sneed had seen the brief encounter with Mathewson. The little gunman stepped out into the narrow corridor and Ten halted, thumbs hooked in his pistol belt. Sneed spoke.

  “That was slick, kid, but not very smart. Mr. LeBeau ain’t thinkin’ kind thoughts of you. The captain raked us over from here to yonder, and we won’t be allowed to gamble on the boats anymore.”

  “My heart bleeds for Mr. LeBeau,” said Ten, “and your concern is touching. Who are you, his daddy?”

  “I’m just deliverin’ a message, kid. Whatever business you got in New Orleans, tend to it and get out. I kind of admire your nerve, and I don’t really want to kill you.”

  “Only one way you could do it, Sneed, and I don’t aim to turn my back.”

  He said no more. Sneed stepped back into the cabin he shared with LeBeau. Ten entered his own cabin, and for the first time since coming aboard, bolted the door. Suddenly he was very tired. He removed his hat, dragged off his boots, and stretched out on the bunk. He was awakened by a knock that he at first thought was on his door. Then LeBeau’s door opened and there was a rumble of voices. Ten got up and eased his own door open just a little. He was in time to see Sneed emerge from LeBeau’s cabin and wander down the narrow corridor.

  3

  When Sneed answered the knock on the door, he found himself facing the big man with the unlit cigar and bowler hat. The stranger didn’t beat around the bush.

  “I’m here to talk to LeBeau,” he said. “In private.”

  Sneed turned to LeBeau, but the man in the corridor didn’t wait. He stepped into the room and closed the door.

  “Get out of here!” snapped LeBeau. “I don’t have any business with you.”

  “Oh, but you do,” said the big man with a grim smile. “Some past-due business. You don’t know me, but you know who sent me, and you know why.” He turned to Sneed. “Take a walk, friend. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Sneed looked uncertainly at LeBeau, and LeBeau nodded. Sneed went out, closing the door behind him.

  “You have no right to follow me, to spy on me!” snarled LeBeau.

  “Wrong, LeBeau. I have every right. A man that owes us twenty-five thousand dollars and loves the cards like you do, he gets our undivided attention. You do have the money in a safe place, do you not?”

  There was no humor in his faint smile, and the chill in his hard eyes touched LeBeau’s spine with icy fingers.

  “I…yes, but—how do I…Who are you?” stammered LeBeau.

  “Bradley Montaigne. Remember that. It’s me you’ll be dealing with, until your account has been settled. One way or another.”

  “What happened to…?”

  “Hardesty? He made mistakes, LeBeau. Big mistakes. Just as we were about to teach him the error of his ways, he went mad. Blew his brains out.”

  The grim warning wasn’t lost on André LeBeau. He shuddered.

  “There’s another matter we must discuss, LeBeau. Your gambling. The customs people are aware there is—and has been—a considerable amount of black marketing and smuggling going on, but the government’s been involved in a war. Now the war’s over and they’re looking for weak links in the chain. Like you, LeBeau. High rollers, men who spend beyond their means. We approached you because of your position, your credibility. But you’ve become flamboyant and careless, drawing attention to yourself. Like that episode at the poker table a while ago. A man should never gamble, LeBeau, if he can’t afford to lose. When a man’s in as deep as you are, I get nervous, seeing him cheat on a twenty-dollar bet. John Mathewson, the chief of U.S. Customs in New Orleans, was at your table, LeBeau. He was later seen talking to the young man who exposed you as a cheat.”

  “Our business arrangement is just that,” said LeBeau. “It doesn’t entitle you to dictate my every move, to intrude in my personal life. Now that the war’s over, the blockades will come down and normal commerce will resume. You’ll be out of business, and I’m getting out, Montaigne. I’m gone.”

  “In more ways than you know,” said Montaigne, with an evil half smile. “The customs people would love to know who masterminded this despicable scheme that took advantage of a nation at war. There’s more than enough evidence to convince them it was all your idea, LeBeau. You could be sent to Federal prison for more years than you’ve got left.”

  “You bastard!” shrieked LeBeau. “You cheap, double-crossing bastard!”

  “Don’t bother looking for me, LeBeau. I’ll find you exactly thirty days from today. Remember, it’s as much for the sake of your wife and daughter as for you. No scrip, no checks, no excuses. Just gold.”

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. When he spoke again, his voice was low, deadly, almost a hiss.

  “Today, LeBeau, before the elite of New Orleans, you became far less valuable to us. You made a total, irrevocable ass of yourself. Don’t let it happen again.”

  He closed the door and was gone. LeBeau gave in to his trembling legs and dropped onto one of the bunks. He could feel the sweat soaking the armpits of his shirt, and he wiped his sticky palms on the legs of his trousers. Where—how—could he possibly raise $25,000 in gold in just thirty days? Or for that matter, in thirty years? There was Emily’s trust fund, and the lawyer who had set it up was a personal friend. Why couldn’t he use that money to get Montaigne off his back, and replace it before Emily was the wiser? Given time, he could win that much, and more.

  While Ten had heard the angry exchange between LeBeau and Montaigne, he hadn’t been able to distinguish their words. He was at his own door when Montaigne departed. Ten wasn’t surprised to find Sneed eating supper alone. He felt a momentary twinge of pity for LeBeau, but the old fool had gotten off easy. Men had been shot dead or hung for similar offense. Ten saw John Mathewson occasionally and was tempted to talk to him. But he had the impression Mathewson didn’t want them seen together, so he would wait until they reached New Orleans. On one wall of the saloon there was a display board on which businessmen and drummers were invited to post their cards. Ten was looking at the board when a man of maybe thirty stopped to post his card. Ten’s eyes went to the card, finding the man’s name was Maynard Herndon, that he dealt in livestock, and that his was a New Orleans address. Herndon left the saloon, walking out on the cabin deck. He was leaning on the rail, watching water roll off the paddle wheel, when Ten approached him.

  “Your card says you buy and sell livestock. I’m going to New Orleans with a load of trade goods, but was planning to talk to some stock buyers while I’m there. I’m going to Texas and trail wild longhorns to market. Is there a chance for a drive to New Orleans? Would it be worth it?”

  “I doubt it,” said Herndon, “unless you could
ship them by boat to the northern markets. I call myself a livestock dealer, because it’s easier than admitting I’m unemployed. Louisiana folks like beef, but we’re broke, like the rest of the South. During the war, we’ve lived on fish and whatever else we could catch in the bayous, rivers, and creeks. Only the rich can afford things like coffee, tea, sugar, and beef.”

  “And steamboat trips to Natchez.”

  “My uncle Drago, an old mountain man, owns the horse track at Natchez. Sometimes I go there and help him with the horses, and he pays the steamboat fare. You didn’t see me at the poker tables. Best I could manage was a couple of beers at the bar.”

  “Got any idea how much per head it might cost to ship cows by boat?”

  “No,” said Herndon, “not until the blockade comes down. But I expect it’ll be expensive. An occasional herd won’t be enough to justify regular service, and you’d probably have to charter a boat. Remember, our big crop was cotton, and there hasn’t been a crop in five years. Our land’s grown up in field pines. God knows when we’ll have cotton again. Or, for that matter, even a decent mess of turnip greens or roasting ears. Some of our men never came back from the war, and those who have are too sick and shot up to do much of anything. I was lucky. I got lung fever and they kicked me out after a year.”

  Ten liked the gray-eyed young man, and promised to talk to him later. Despite Herndon’s negative information, he would still do as Jesse Chisholm had suggested, and talk to Roberts and Company. Chisholm had dealt with them for years, and trusted them. But Herndon had made sense, and his words had the ring of truth.

  Ten found New Orleans strung out mostly along the north bank of the river. His first duty was to see Jesse’s freight off the boat and safely into a warehouse. When deckhands had removed and stored the goods, he went to the cubbyhole of an office to determine what he should do next.

  “Go to the Roberts office at four o’clock,” he was told. “By then, the freight will have been checked against the bills of lading.”

  He reviewed what he needed to do while in New Orleans. He still had to talk to Roberts about the possibility of shipping cattle by boat, but he could do that when he went to their office at four. He had more than two hours to wait. He took out the card John Mathewson had given him. The address was in the Vieux Carré, at the corner of Barracks and Royal. There were no numbers on the buildings, but thankfully, the names of the streets and avenues were posted on each corner. Eventually he came to Barracks, turned north and followed it two blocks until he reached Royal. The building he sought was on the corner. It was an old two-story office building with an iron railing across the entire front of the second story. Once it had been a mission; there was an open bell tower on the roof. The office he wanted was on the first floor, identified only by a small sign. Mounted above the door, it read: U.S. CUSTOMS.

  The huge oak door, oval at the top, yielded grudgingly when Ten turned the brass knob and pushed. At the desk, the elderly secretary looked up from her ledger. But before Ten could announce himself, Mathewson stepped out of his office and beckoned. He closed the door behind them, motioning Ten to a plush chair upholstered in red velvet.

  “Now,” said Mathewson, “perhaps you’d better tell me your name. You already know mine.”

  “Tenatse Chisholm. Half-breed Injun. Call me Ten.”

  “Ten it is. Are you related to Jesse, the frontiersman and scout?”

  “He’s my father. I’m here to deliver and collect for trade goods.”

  Mathewson whistled. “You come well-recommended, young man. I suppose it’s time I told you why I asked you here.”

  “I think so,” said Ten. “I can’t think of one good reason why you’d want to talk to me. I reckon I’m here because my Injun curiosity got the best of me.”

  “First,” said Mathewson, “I’d like to know what you know—if anything—about André LeBeau.”

  “Nothing, except what I learned on the boat.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s a man who likes to gamble,” said Ten, “but he’s not very good at it. He can’t leave it alone. He’s likely hurting for money, and that’s why he cheats. The big man with the cigar and bowler hat knew LeBeau, and they had some hard words there in LeBeau’s room, after that fuss in the saloon.”

  “Got any idea what they might have argued about?”

  “No,” said Ten. “They sent Sneed out of the room. I saw him leave.”

  “Know anything about Sneed?”

  “Not much,” said Ten. “I thought at first he was LeBeau’s pardner in a cold-deck scheme. He did stop me in the corridor and tell me LeBeau was a mite upset with me. Threatened to shoot me if I linger in New Orleans.”

  “Do you intend to heed the warning?”

  “No,” said Ten, “I’ll go when I’m ready.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to remain in the face of such a threat, unless by your own choice. Ten, your father has always gone to great lengths to help his country, and I’m wondering if I can ask the same of you.”

  “That depends,” said Ten, “on what you want me to do, and why.”

  “I’d like you to help us gather some evidence linking André LeBeau to the smuggling and black marketing that has taken over and run rampant during the war.”

  “Why me? I’m just a troublesome Injun that got himself booted out of school six months ahead of graduation.”

  “Because you’re just the right age,” said Mathewson, “and because you have the sheer nerve to make it work.”

  “If you want somebody gunned down, I got to admit I never shot a man.”

  “Nothing as crude as that,” said Mathewson. “I want you to attend a birthday party for a young lady who’s going to be seventeen this Saturday. She’s Priscilla LeBeau, and I want someone close to her that I can trust.”

  “You’ve been grazing on loco weed. I wouldn’t get past the front door. LeBeau would shoot me—or have me shot—on sight.”

  “He won’t be there,” said Mathewson. “This is the doing of Emily, his wife. You’ll be invited as the friend of a friend of hers. I want you to become friends with the girl. You’ll bless me when you meet her. My God, she’s a beauty, the very image of her mother.”

  “You expect me to trick her into betraying LeBeau. He’s a scoundrel, but he’s still her daddy. I won’t do it.”

  “You’re not going to trick her into anything,” said Mathewson. “It’s for her safety and that of her mother. We doubt they’re aware of LeBeau’s activities, and they may be in some danger.”

  “You expect me to move in on Priscilla and her mother without telling them anything of what you’re tellin’ me?”

  “I’m asking only that you become friends with Priscilla. If she knows or suspects anything, insofar as LeBeau’s concerned, she’ll be upset and worried. Is it trickery if she trusts and confides in you as a friend?”

  “I reckon not, but why would she confide in me instead of her mama?”

  “Because her mother and LeBeau are totally estranged,” said Mathewson. “Emily lives in a world all her own, and as far as she’s concerned, LeBeau might as well not exist. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Poor Priscilla needs someone she can trust, someone to confide in.”

  “Your interest in LeBeau I can understand, but what’s your interest in Priscilla and her mother? You seem to know them mighty well.”

  “I’ve known Emily since before she married LeBeau, and I’ve known Priscilla since the day she was born. Emily is—was—more than just a friend, and while I’m forced to go after LeBeau, I don’t want Emily or Priscilla hurt.”

  “How long is LeBeau goin’ to be gone?”

  “The weekend. LeBeau won’t allow Priscilla out at night. The available men in town aren’t even allowed to speak to the poor girl on the street. Given the chance, and if you do your part, she’ll trust and confide in you.”

  “You don’t want much, do you, Mathewson? While I’m performing miracles, you want me to change the Gulf of Mexico into
forty-rod whiskey?”

  Mathewson continued as though Ten hadn’t spoken. “There’s an old brick, two-story hotel—the Magnolia—at the corner of Bourbon Street and St. Louis. Anytime after five o’clock this evening there’ll be a room in your name. For as long as you need it. I can arrange for your meals, if need be.”

  “No,” said Ten, “I can manage that. But what in tarnation do I wear? I’ve never been to any social doings like this, and I don’t have a blessed thing any fancier than what I’m wearing.”

  “Sometime between now and Saturday there’ll be a package brought to you at the hotel. It will contain proper clothes. There’ll be a carriage to pick you up at four o’clock Saturday afternoon. LeBeau owns the old Logan house, in the Garden District, just off St. Charles. I’d like to talk to you again on Monday afternoon. Good luck, Ten, and thanks.”

  There was a wall clock in the outer office, and Ten was surprised to find it already past four o’clock. He hurried back to the offices of Roberts and Company. He asked to speak to Harvey Roberts, and was ushered into a plush office. Roberts was a fat man, mostly bald, wearing a dark suit and red-striped tie.

  “Pleased to meet you, Ten. Shook me, when Jesse didn’t show. Was afraid he’d broke a leg and had to be shot.” He chuckled at his own macabre humor.

  “He wants me to have the experience,” said Ten. “He wants your advice about maybe trail-driving Texas cattle here and shipping them north, by boat. Do you think it’s possible, and is it something we can afford?”

  “Possible, yes,” said Roberts, “but affordable, no. The war sapped our economy, and we’re maybe five years away from producing anything to be sent anywhere. We have Union troops in the state, and we have yet to discover how Federal occupation is going to affect us.”