Wimmera Gold

by Peter Corris

  The schoolteacher need not have bothered. Lincoln left the train in El Paso, determing to travel to Port Stockton by coach. He wanted to feel the Texas earth under him rather than steel rails, and to smell and taste the air free of locomotive smoke. He found that he had to wait several days in El Paso for a connection and he spent the time walking through the town, investigating the horseflesh and sampling the pleasures of the saloons. He drank beer and whiskey, played cards and lost money in Robbins' saloon to a skilled cheat whose contemptuous gaze challenged Lincoln to accuse him. The man was a professional gambler with a pockmarked face and smooth quick hands and Lincoln sensed that he might be as good with a gun or a knife as with the cards. His reactions dulled by opium and beer, Lincoln shambled away from the table.

  Early the next day, he hired a horse and rode out of town until he found a dry creek bed, remote from human habitation. He had with him his Colt, a rifle, several boxes of ammunition and his Bowie knife. He spent every available hour of light practising with the weapons on close and distant targets and was far from happy with his results. He had lost speed, accuracy and confidence in his judgment and instincts. He had been dosing himself regularly with laudanum since the operation on his hand. The pain had lessened and the exercises had greatly increased the flexibility of the hand, but he had become dependent on the drug for sleep and relief from boredom. He knew, however, that it unsteadied his hand and he refrained from using it after the first shooting session. He repeated the process the following day and the day after that until his head was ringing from the explosions and his shoulder, arm and hand were aching from the recoil of the guns and the actions of quick-drawing the Colt and throwing the knife. But he had recovered the skills and it was now merely a question of confidence.

  He went back to Robbins' and sat down with the gambler and two other men to play poker. The saloon was really no more than a rowdy, smoke-filled beer hall, but the serious card players had a screened-off area at the back for their own use. A waiter served drinks in a desultory fashion and the drinkers and whores occasionally wandered in to watch the action. Lincoln, almost seventy-two hours without opium or alcohol, was edgy and nervous. The size of his pile of chips indicated the seriousness of his intention. He was no great card player but, by bluff and reckless raising of the stakes, he forced the other two men from the game.

  There was a sizeable amount of money on the table when Lincoln ordered a pot of coffee. 'Could be a long night, Mr Brookes,' he said.

  The gambler lit a cigar and ordered whiskey. 'So you know my name. I'm flattered, mister. What might yours be?'

  Lincoln exaggerated his drawl. 'Tom Shelby, from Snakehole, Texas. You'd be some kinda Northerner, less'n I miss my guess.'

  'Indiana.'

  Lincoln winked at the men who'd withdrawn from the game and several of the loungers, male and female. 'I'd call that way north. Yes, sir, way north of here.'

  The waiter plonked the coffee pot and cracked mug on the table and slid a glass towards Brookes. 'Leave the bottle,' the gambler said. He poured a full measure and took a drink. 'Are we going to play cards or talk about the War Between the States?'

  Lincoln filled his mug and sipped at the dark, bitter brew. Just for an instant his eyes flickered to the whiskey bottle and he longed for the comfort of liquor. He put the thought away and shuffled the cards. 'Ten to call, twenty to raise?'

  The watchers murmured and Brookes took another sip of his whiskey and puffed on his cigar. 'That's pretty heavy betting, Mr Shelby. Are you sure you're up to that kind of game? Seems to me you didn't do so well last time.'

  Lincoln put the cards on the table and waved at the drifting smoke. He coughed once and spoke clearly. 'True, but that time, Mr Brookes, you cheated.'

  The men and women gathered around the table became still and silent and the noise from the bar seemed to recede into the distance. Brookes carefully balanced his cigar on the edge of the ashtray. 'I'll give you a chance to withdraw that. Maybe I'll let you crawl out of here on your hands and knees.'

  'I say you're a cheat. I say you couldn't deal an honest hand to your own mother.'

  The gambler's chair slid back. 'Stand up.'

  Lincoln was already moving, rising to his feet, swaying a little to one side. Brookes' hand dropped to the pistol holstered high on his right hip. Lincoln's Colt was in his fist, cocked and levelled at Brookes' nose before the gambler's fingers had closed on his gun butt.

  'Jee-sus,' one of the watchers whispered. 'That's a killing draw.'

  'Don't shoot me,' Brookes said.

  Lincoln's hand was rock steady. 'That'd be murder. Worse than cheating at cards. I want you to move sixty dollars worth of your chips to my side of the table. That's what you cheated me out of three nights back.'

  A nerve was jumping in the gambler's pitted face as he slowly moved his right hand towards the table. Lincoln lowered his pistol as Brookes' smooth white fingers fumbled at the chips. Suddenly, he flicked one of the counters at Lincoln's face. His left hand darted to his right armpit and a knife blade flashed in the flaring oil light. Brookes, limber and long-armed, thrust at Lincoln's chest. Lincoln swayed slightly back and fired. The slug tore through the gambler's throat, smashing his larynx, severing his windpipe and tearing a chunk of bone and flesh from his skull. The knife fell from his fingers to land, quivering on its point, on the table.

  Lincoln looked at the shocked spectators as he laid the smoking pistol beside his chips. 'I think someone should call the law,' he said. 'Be grateful if the rest of you folks could stick around and say what happened.'

  Heads were nodded all around the table.

  There were a number of sporting types among the passengers aboard the Alabama Lass and Perry quickly became a celebrity. He easily won a shooting match in which the contestants fired at markers trailed behind the vessel and he was prevailed upon to put on the gloves against a seaman named Bright who had fought in the prize ring. Bright was a big, shaggy man, heavier than Perry and almost as tall. His looks belied his style; he was no weight-throwing bruiser, but a boxing master—quick on his feet with a solid defence and a punishing straight left.

  The fight was conducted on a lower deck on a sheet of canvas stretched over the planks. The day was warm and Perry and Bright, both wearing only breeches and light shoes, were soon sweating freely. The audience consisted of most of the male passengers and such members of the crew as could be spared from their duties. Theoretically, there were difficulties in making bets because the terms under which the bout was conducted had been agreed on—twenty rounds only with no decision to be given unless one man could not continue. Not to be daunted, the shipboard Fancy had laid money on who would be first to draw blood, who would go down the most times in the twenty rounds and who would throw the most telling punch. Perry had been known to be reluctant to fight, while Bright was eager, so there was some money to say that the sailor would knock his man out.

  Perry realised at once that he was rusty and that his timing was astray. The skilful Bright penetrated his defence several times and landed solidly while Perry was having trouble finding the range. His wind was good but he went down after taking a short punch to the ribs, calculating that he needed a minute to think. His second, an old tar with a face that had been in many fights, sponged him down.

  'He's a clever bugger, Mr Perry,' he said. 'Wouldn't think it to look at him, would you?'

  Perry rinsed his mouth and spat through the ship's rails into the sea. 'You would not. Seen him fight before have you?'

  'That I have. I've never seen him lose. I've sparred with him, too. My advice to you is to forget the head and go for the bread basket. He's a touch soft there and if you dig in enough times you'll bring his hands down. Mind you, don't let him get a clear shot at your own scone while you're doing it.'

  Perry followed his advice for several rounds without noticeable effect. Bright's crisp punching was dangerous and a shout went up from the crowd when a straight left from the sailor brought blood from Perry's
lip.

  'Claret!'

  'He's tapped it, by jove! That's a sovereign you owe me.'

  Perry slipped to the canvas to end the round. As he was lowering himself towards the knee presented by his second he caught the wink the man gave to his opposite number. So that's your game, is it? he thought. In the next round he abandoned his crouch and body attack, stood tall and flicked jabs and crosses at Bright's head. The sailor was surprised at the change in tactics and floundered. Perry pressed his advantage, landed a solid left hook and Bright lost balance and fell heavily.

  'He won't come up to scratch.'

  'Course he will, you fool. It was only a tap.'

  Perry's second said nothing during the interval. The following sessions became decorous. Respecting each other's skills, neither man attempted to inflict serious damage. They gave an exhibition of boxing skill, going down at about equal intervals in turn until the twenty rounds had been fought.

  'You're good,' Perry said, touching gloves with the sailor.

  Bright was breathing heavily. 'You're better. Thanks, I enjoyed that.'

  Later, applying a caustic stick to his split lip, Perry realised that he had enjoyed the bout himself, although he was concerned at how slow his footwork had been and the number of misjudged punches he'd thrown. He resolved to spar as often as possible and recover his sharpness. He had been giving much thought as to how he would conduct himself in America. No easy matter for a coloured man to travel about looking for a white Texan. Boxing might provide the solution.

  On landing in San Francisco Perry wasted no time in contacting the city's chief sporting paper, the Western Sports Intelligencer. He entered the newspaper office wearing a modified version of his Prince Asias Asawar clothes. This created a sensation and he was ushered into the presence of the editor, Hugh Sloan, who took his cigar from his mouth and gaped at the elegant mulatto leaning on an ebony cane. Perry removed one of his gloves, glided forward and extended his hand across the cluttered desk.

  'John Perry,' he said. 'Heavyweight champion of the South Pacific. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Sloan.'

  Sloan was a Northerner who had come west after the Civil War. He had served with negro soldiers and had no prejudice against black men who could fight. This one, however, looked as if he might be better at dancing.

  'Oh, yeah?' Sloan said. 'Who've you fought?'

  Perry reeled of a list of meaningless names, his opponents in the colonies, and concluded with 'Jem Mace.'

  'Mace? He's in America right now, in the east. You fought him?'

  'Exhibitions,' Perry said, sweeping some old papers from a chair and sitting down. 'You send him a telegram. He'll remember "Black" Perry.'

  The editor's cigar had gone out. He lit it with a match struck on the scarred surface of the desk. 'Say I believe you, what's on your mind?'

  Perry took his pocketbook from the breast pocket of his jacket, leaned forward, opened it and extracted three banknotes. 'I want you to announce a challenge. Perry offers to fight any man in California for a purse of two hundred dollars with a side wager of one hundred. The other side to put up a similar surety. Winner takes all. I nominate you, Mr Sloan, as the stake holder.'

  The editor tapped ash from his cigar. 'Prize fighting's illegal in this state.'

  'I'm disappointed, sir. I thought you had influence. I also was given to understand that the governor was a sporting gentleman.'

  Sloan smiled. 'That he is. I'll be pleased to hold the stakes for this contest of skill. Bare knuckles, skin gloves or mufflers?'

  Perry slid the money across the desk. 'I'll leave that to you.'

  'I'd suggest skin gloves. The knuckles gets the do-gooders worried and the mufflers turn away the Fancy.'

  'Skin gloves it is then.'

  Sloan took up a pen and pulled a pad towards him. 'Give me some of them names again, and what do you tip the scales at?'

  Perry ran through the names. 'One seventy-five pounds and I stand six feet one inch.'

  'Black Perry you call yourself?'

  Perry shrugged.

  'Stay outa the sun. Black Perry might scare a few customers off. Things have been very quiet in the milling game lately, this'll be a shot in the arm.'

  Perry smiled. 'Splendid. And there's one more thing you might put about. I'm looking for a backer to do a barnstorming tour through the South. I've always had a hankering to fight in Texas.'

  34

  Five citizens of El Paso swore at a hearing conducted before Judge Rufus S. Tuckwell that Thomas Shelby had killed Alexander Brookes in 'defence of his life and person'. Lincoln, who had been ordered to post a bond and required not to leave the city precincts pending the hearing, was released from all constraint but advised by the judge 'to moderate his language and behaviour and attempt to avoid situations likely to produce violence'. Lincoln thanked the judge and adjourned with his lawyer, Lester Adair, to a nearby saloon to celebrate and reckon up.

  Adair was a tall, pale New Yorker who had gone west in a failing effort to defeat consumption. He coughed constantly into a handkerchief sprinkled with a medicinal perfume that to Lincoln smelled like horse piss. He'd handled the legal business smoothly enough though and Lincoln was expecting to pay a hefty fee, perhaps as much as $50. He bought the drinks, whiskey for himself, sarsparilla for Adair, and they touched glasses.

  'Good job, Les,' Lincoln said. 'I'm in your debt.'

  'You sure are, to the tune of three hundred dollars.'

  Lincoln almost dropped his glass. 'What? For talking to a few witnesses and saying the right words in court? You're joshing me. C'mon, what's the real bill?'

  'I told you, three hundred. I had to persuade those witnesses. Fifty dollars each, plus fifty for me. That's fair all round.'

  'Persuade 'em? Why, they only had to tell the truth. I'd be happy to pay for lost wages and buy them a drink, but fifty bucks … '

  Adair drank some sarsparilla and went into a coughing spasm that seemed to last for minutes. He buried his face in the handkerchief and his thin shoulders shook violently. Lincoln finished his whiskey and ordered another. He felt he needed it. Two hundred and fifty dollars would take a bigger bite of his capital than he was prepared to accept. There was blood on the handkerchief when Adair finally surfaced and wiped his mouth.

  'What you don't realise is the thinking a lawyer has to do. That's what you pay for, the thinking, not just the words. Now when I looked into this thing I found that Brookes had a lady friend, name of Shirley Carstairs, and she isn't the forgiving kind. Seems she met up with a feller who knew you from before by another name. She got busy down at the telegraph office and it seems she came up with a piece of your history—something about a silver mine robbery a few years back.'

  Lincoln groaned and drank most of his second whiskey.

  The lawyer was enjoying himself. 'Yes, sir. Old Shirley, she got to talking about this and a couple of those witnesses of yours started to see things a little different. But money talks louder than words, lucky for you. I can't show you any receipts, Wesley, but believe me, that two hundred was well spent. Judge Tuckwell has himself a nice arrangement with the prison authorities around here and they've got a deal with the farmers. You don't have to be a nigger to be a slave in Texas. The chain gang's slavery, near enough.'

  Lincoln shivered. 'I can get the money wired in from 'Frisco. Take a day or so.'

  With difficulty, Adair suppressed another coughing bout. 'That's fine. I've got all the time in the world, or no time at all—depending on how you look at it. I found it an interesting case. I've got an account at the Wells Fargo bank. You can just pay the money in there.'

  Lincoln did so, reflecting that the exercise in regaining his shooting skills had cost him dearly. He checked the schedules and discovered that he could get a stagecoach to Fort Stockton the next day. There he could buy a horse or a rig and make the last stage of his journey to Snakehole. The weather was hot with the sun climbing high in a cloudless sky and no breeze to move the heated air aro
und. The nights were oppressive, steamy and still with mosquitoes and other bugs looking to bite and suck blood. Insect bites and boredom drove Lincoln from his hotel room to walk the streets in search of some entertainment and a cold drink. Although he was tempted, he avoided the street where the whores stood in the doorways of clapboard houses under red lanterns and bared their flesh. Whoring was best done drunk in his experience, and he had to be up early to catch the stage. Besides, it was just too damned hot to be pounding the mattress tonight.

  He found no relief from the heat and turned back towards the hotel thinking to get a beer in the bar. After a few steps he became aware of movement behind him. He was being followed in a dark, deserted street. Fear flared inside him. Mindful of the judge's warning, he had come out unarmed except for his knife. He took it from its sheath, moved closer to the building line and increased his pace. Suddenly a figure appeared in front of him. A man had stepped out of a doorway and was blocking his path. Lincoln jumped from the boardwalk onto the road and realised that he was not alone there. Two men were walking parallel to him on the other side.

  He ran at them hoping they would scatter and he could break through to a side street. The men stood their ground and were joined by the one who'd blocked him. He stopped in the middle of the road as two others came up behind and surrounded him.

  'Drop the knife,' one of them said.

  Lincoln crouched. 'Don't come no closer if you don't want to get cut.'

  'Thought he looked like a greaser.'

  Lincoln heard a rifle being cocked and turned slightly towards the sound. A blow knocked his hat off and staggered him. Then the men were swarming all over him, wrenching the knife from his hand and jerking his arms up behind his back. They pushed him across the road and pinioned him against a post that supported a shop awning. A woman moved from the shadows. She was small and well-fleshed with a heavy head of dyed blonde hair under an elaborate bonnet. She was perspiring and the drops of sweat were cutting tracks through her thick face paint. Her teeth and breath were bad and Lincoln caught an odour of rot, liquor and tobacco as she brought her face close to his and spat.