River of Blood

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘Get down, boy!’

  Matt was too long in making up his mind.

  Herne pulled at the right leg, jolting it clear of the stirrup. Another tug brought him out of the saddle and crashing down on to the dirt of the main street.

  No time for waiting now. Two hands drove down and plucked him up like a chicken about to have its neck snapped off Herne held him for an instant with his left hand, then punched hard with his right, plumb into the boy’s stomach.

  The first two times he held tight with the left hand, the third time he let go. Matt’s body jerked back through the air and landed with a sound that made the onlookers wince.

  Herne stood there watching as the kid crawled to his knees, holding desperately to his bruised stomach. He began to cough and retch, unable to stop himself, until finally he began to throw up, spewing over his legs until a trail of vomit ran down into the dirt.

  ‘Next time,’ said Herne grimly, ‘next time, you make sure you’re good and ready. Or else forget about that gun of yours and take up farming or saloon-keeping like your old man. That way you just might live longer.’

  Matt Bronson did not answer; he could not. He was being sick again. Herne turned away and left him lying there, groveling like a dog that has been beaten by its master.

  Only when he looked up at Becky’s horrified face did he consider that what he had done might have been wrong.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he snapped at her. ‘What would you rather I’d done? Killed him?’

  Five

  When they finally reached the Mississippi it was nearing evening. Herne dismounted and helped Becky down from the gig. He told her to follow him and together they walked to the edge of the bluff

  The sun was setting behind them and both water and sky were bathed in a rich golden orange. Becky gasped as she saw the great expanse of water. To her it was more like her imaginings of a sea than a river.

  The far side was only a darkened silhouette, from out of which the occasional tree jutted up into the steadily gathering night. The waters seemed calm and still, unreal even.

  The setting sun cast its reflection over their shoulders and seemed to burn a channel through the river in front of them.

  Becky wanted to tell Jed how beautiful it was and to thank him for bringing her to see it. But they had not really spoken since leaving Little Rock, and she found it awkward to begin again. So she had to content herself with the thought.

  It was Herne who broke the silence. ‘We ought to be driving on into Memphis, else we’re not going to get rooms for the night.’

  Without waiting for her to answer, he turned and walked back from the edge of the bluff.

  That night, Herne was too tired to prowl around from bar to bar, from gaming room to gaming room, seeking out Duquesne. He slept soundly, conscious that the man he had travelled so far to see was probably at that moment awake in the same town, unaware of Herne’s presence or what lay in store for him.

  In the morning, he would have a good breakfast, maybe even walk around the town with Becky a little, so that she could see the sights. Then, come lunchtime, he could start making enquiries about the gambler he wanted to find.

  In the event, there were plenty of places to ask and a good many willing tongues to talk, but Herne drew blank after blank. Some folk had never heard of Duquesne, some claimed to have known him, but said that he had left Memphis and not returned. No-one knew where he was now.

  Herne walked rather wearily over to the faro dealer in the fifth saloon he had been in during the last hour. He was unused to talking to so many people in such a short space of time; a man of actions rather than words.

  The dealer was a swarthy—looking man, with a patch over his right eye and a scar from an earlier disagreement about his handling of the game prominent on his forehead. It disappeared under his shock of dark hair, like a white snake wriggling into the undergrowth.

  There was little business as yet and the man was bored.

  ‘You want to play?’ he asked Herne without a great deal of hope in the question.

  Herne shook his head. ‘I want to talk.’

  The dealer looked down at the man’s gun and sensed from his presence that he would know how to use it. He decided that he would talk. He had nothing more pressing to do.

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  ‘Barton Duquesne.’

  The dealer lowered his eyes and surveyed the toes of his boots. This morning he had polished them as usual until they shone his reflection back up at him. Now, which was also usual, they were dulled over with dust and there was a scuff mark on the left one. Why did he always take the same amount of trouble with his appearance?

  ‘You know him?’ Herne pushed.

  The man’s eyes lifted to the stranger’s face. The reflection in his eyes was clear, right enough.

  He nodded. ‘I know him

  ‘D’you know where he is now?’

  ‘Why do you wish to see him?’ the dealer asked.

  Herne smiled thinly: ‘He paid a visit on a friend of mine recently. Let’s just say that I aim to return the compliment.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ the man said with a slight change in his tone of voice, ‘this call he paid on your friend. Perhaps it was not too friendly — or it was too friendly altogether. Duquesne is possible of either

  Herne said nothing and the man went on.

  ‘If your friend was a lady, that would not surprise me. And it would mean that the visit you wish to pay him would not be a friendly one.’

  ‘You seem to know him well,’ Herne said.

  The dealer returned his attention to his boots for a moment.

  ‘Once - some time ago now — there was a lady that I was friendly with. This Duquesne, he saw her. He must have liked what he saw. And what he likes he has to have.’

  His eyes shut for a moment, then opened wider than before.

  ‘He had her. After that we were no longer friends. But — as I say — it was some time ago. Time goes on: the wheel still spins.’

  He stared hard at Herne, then looked pointedly down at the heavy Colt .45 in its holster.

  ‘It would be good to think that Barton Duquesne’s wheel of fortune had swung round to its lowest point. It is about time.’

  A flick of his hand sent the faro wheel smoothly into motion. The two men watched it spin round until it stopped.

  ‘If I could find him,’ said Herne, ‘then you might get the luck you’re looking for — and his might just run out.’

  ‘I know that he went on a gambling train across the country from here. Since then I have seen nothing. There was a rumor that he had been killed. Another that he stayed out West. I only know that if he came back to the Mississippi he would not be able to stop gambling. It is in his blood. And it brings him the money, the fine clothes — the women that he craves.’

  ‘But he isn’t working in Memphis?’ asked Herne.

  ‘No. Of that much I am sure.’ '

  ‘So where?’

  ‘There is only one other place,’ replied the dealer, ‘and that is on the river. On one of the big steamboats.’

  Herne almost smiled again. ‘Thanks. I’l1 find out what I can.’

  As he was leaving the saloon, the man called out after him. ‘I hope you can repay the visit. But take care. All gamblers’ luck runs out sooner or later. But it may not be late enough.’

  Or later than he thinks, said Herne to himself as he pushed through the batwing doors and out into the street.

  The agent in the steamboat office was only too happy to oblige the man from the east who was looking for his long-lost friend. But he knew of nobody called Barton Duquesne.

  ‘You see, sir, there are two kinds of gambler on the boats. There are those who are hired by the management, mostly dealers and suchlike. Then there are the freelancers, who travel the river picking up as much as they can. A good gambler can make a lot of money. Some of the boats are very fashionable and the parties who travel them rich and elegant. A smar
t, good-1ooking man might make more than his fortune.’·

  Herne thought that it sounded just right for Duquesne. But he didn’t want to travel on every boat in the hope of meeting the right man. He had no accurate description of Duquesne — and if he had changed his name, it would be hard to. establish his identity.

  He was on his way from the office, when the agent called him back.

  ‘You could try the steamboats themselves and ask the captains about anyone who travels regularly. They would know more about who uses their boats. the Queen of the West is in at the moment; and the Natchez. They’re both big, fashionable boats.’

  The captain of the Queen of the West was not as anxious to answer questions or to help Herne in any way. He was a busy man and didn’t suffer idiot questions gladly. His moustaches bristled at Herne from above his bow tie and the gunman was tempted to take him down from his perch of authority. But it would achieve very little outside personal satisfaction and it would waste time. Now that they had at last arrived in Memphis, the increased frustration of not being able to Duquesne was beginning to tell.

  Herne told the man at the top of the gangplank of the next boat that he was eager to speak with the captain and was directed towards the cabin. He knocked on the impressive wooden door and waited.

  A voice from within told him to enter. It was, strangely, a woman’s voice.

  Deciding that the captain must be entertaining guests, Herne turned the brass handle and went in.

  Sure enough, there was a woman. But no-one else was in the room.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ said Herne, retreating, ‘I was told would find the captain in here.’

  ‘You will and you have,’ the woman said.

  Herne’s mouth opened in amazement.

  ‘I see you’re new to the Mississippi, or you wouldn’t be so surprised,’ she said. ‘I worked as an officer on this ship under my father, Captain Thomas Paul Leathers. Now that he’s no longer able to command the boat, I’m its captain. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Captain Blanche Douglass Leathers.’

  She reached out her hand to Herne who after a moment’s hesitation shook it with his own. The grip was firm and true.

  Herne looked over the handshake into the woman’s face.

  The dark eyes were true also, though shrouded by heavy brows. The rest of the face was round, yet strong, with a definite jaw-line. Her hair was mid-brown and cut short, with a slight wave over the front of the forehead. Almost the only concession to femininity was the pair of jet earrings I which she wore. Her uniform was similar to that of a normal captain, although obviously specially tailored to meet her own needs.

  The expression with which she met Herne’s eyes was open and frank.

  ‘May I be of help to you then?’ she asked.

  Herne explained briefly who he was and told her as much of the man he was looking for as might help her to identify him. Something in the eyes as he was talking about the gambler told him that she was, at least, suspicious that the man might work her boat.

  ‘There is a man,’ she said, ‘he made the last trip. Very much a ladies’ man. Expensive suits, lace cuffs and perfume. All the trappings that most of my sex seem to expect.’ She made this last comment with a strong tone of disapproval.

  Herne was moved to wonder what kind of approach she might expect or welcome.

  ‘And he gambles?’ Herne asked.

  She nodded her head. ‘Very well, apparently. Or else he cheats with a lot of skill.’

  ‘How would you feel about that?’ said Herne.

  ‘Cheating you mean? No doubt about that, I should want him off my boat. That kind of reputation does business no good at all.’

  She looked at Herne for a moment.

  ‘Is that what you want him for — an affair of cards? Or is it something else?’

  Herne smiled his grim smile.

  ‘Shall I book you a cabin for the journey to Vicksburg?’ she asked him.

  ‘You’d better book me two,’ Herne replied.

  Again, she regarded him inquisitively. He thanked her and left the cabin, closing the door quietly but firmly behind him.

  Herne enjoyed the sound of the liquor passing along the neck of the newly opened bottle on its way into his glass. Southern Comfort. From the town of St Louis, higher up the Mississippi, in the state of Missouri. He closed his eyes as he put the glass to his lips, tasting the rich orangey flavor against his palate, then savoring the slight burning effect along the roof of his mouth. He moved his tongue easily on to his top and bottom lips, taking the traces down into his mouth.

  He held the glass at eye-level and looked through it at the table he had recently quitted. Especially he looked at the man who was currently dealing the cards. The liquid only permitted the most obscured of outlines to appear. He drank again, then set the glass down.

  The man he was interested in was wearing a midnight blue suit, with several inches of French lace emerging from each sleeve. A lace handkerchief flopped down from the pocket at the right hand side of his waistcoat. His dark hair was slicked back with grease and had obviously been sprayed with some kind of extravagant cologne. Each movement of the head or the hand wafted a little more of the sickly-sweet perfume across the card table.

  But for all his effeminate ways, for all his over-pronounced Southern accent, he was a fine card player. And Herne had not been able to detect that he was dealing off the bottom of the pack. Nor was there any opportunity for the cards to be marked. It was due to his own skill that he won: an iron nerve, a straight face and a cool hand · and the luck of the devil.

  Herne had pulled out when his money started to run low. His excuses had been accepted with excessive civility by the gambler dealing. The man who had introduced himself as Bertrand Duvall - of the Venice Duvalls, you know, suh. Venice, Louisiana, that is, not Venice, Italy.’

  It had not been possible to engage the man in conversation during the game and when he had asked the barman about him he had learnt very little.

  There might be nothing for it but to get him on his own and confront him straight out.

  Time, Herne thought as he looked down into his glass, would have to provide the opportunity.

  At that moment he became aware that the gambler’s attentions were no longer totally concentrated on the game. He was looking across the room. Herne followed his gaze and saw — Becky.

  Yet it was not Becky: or no Becky that he had seen before.

  She was standing just inside the velvet-padded doorway, looking around the room but in no way seeming daunted by her surroundings. She was wearing a dress which Herne had not known existed; she must have bought it on their travels and kept it hidden — until this moment.

  The dress was white, gathered together at the bust, then lowing out from the waist to sweep the richly carpeted floor. Her dark hair had been partly tied back with a ribbon and curled over her ears. At her neck she wore a plain band of black velvet, in the centre of which there shone a silver butterfly. She saw Herne and began to walk towards him. As she did so, the flesh at the top of her breasts quivered slightly.

  For a second, Herne thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. Then he remembered Louise.

  When she sat by him, Herne saw that the gambler had followed her movements right across the room and was staring at her still. Herne caught his eye and the Southerner nodded politely, then returned to his cards.

  Becky said, ‘Have you found him? The man you’re looking for?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not for sure. But there is one man who seems too much like the man I want for it not to be him. Only thing is, I can’t be definite.’

  Becky looked round. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Well, don’t stare over there right away, but you see that group of card players over to the right?’

  After a moment, Becky nodded.

  ‘See the dealer with the blue suit?’

  ‘Is that him?’ she blurted out.

  ‘Quietly,’ Herne told
her. ‘That’s something we don’t know yet.’

  She turned back to face him and he was struck again by how grown-up she looked in different clothes, and how lovely.

  ‘But how will you find out?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘I guess I’ll just have to ask him,’ Herne replied.

  Eventually, the man known as Bertrand Duvall excused himself from the card table and left the room. Herne waited several minutes and then followed him. He hoped that the man would not go straight to his cabin, but would take a stroll around the deck to enjoy the evening air.

  His wish came true.

  The gambler had walked along the side of the middle of the three decks which the steamboat boasted and was standing at the rear, watching the spray whirling up into the moonlight. For the Natchez was a sternwheeler.

  He stood alongside the flagpole and directly above the nameplate that was attached to the rail.

  Herne stepped towards him lightly, not wishing to send him into any kind of anxiety. Not yet. The gambler turned to greet him and recognized Herne from their earlier game of poker.

  He bowed slightly.

  ‘You were not the luckiest of men tonight, suh. I judge you to be a better player than the cards allowed. Perhaps we may be allowed to vie with each other on some future occasion?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Herne returned. ‘But I am not really a gambling man. You are, I take it?’

  The man bowed once more and smiled archly. ‘It is my honor, suh, to have certain — ah — which make it possible for me to make a living doing the one thing in life I enjoy.’

  ‘The one thing?’ Herne queried.

  He smiled again. ‘Well, suh, there are always the ladies. But then, I see from your charming companion this evening that although you may be unlucky in cards you are lucky in other spheres.’

  ‘The girl is under my protection, that’s all.’

  Herne’s voice was flatter this time, more dangerous. The gambler realized this and apologized quickly for his mistake.

  ‘You must know most of the men who gamble on the Mississippi,’ stated Herne.