“Not hardly,” Winslow scoffed.
“An investor, perhaps?”
“Just give me the money.”
Having crossed his arms, Mason placed a finger on his chin and made a face as though he was contemplating one of the world’s great mysteries. “He must be someone important to catch the attention of a man like yourself.”
“I’m here to collect a debt. You either got it or you don’t.”
“How do I know you’re not just here to get the money for yourself?”
Winslow reacted to that question in much the same way that a large machine reacted to a wrench being tossed into its gears. “I already told you I was here for money. Are you deaf?”
“No. I mean, how am I supposed to believe that you’re here for Giff’s money? For all I know, you overheard him talking about the debt I owe to him and came along to pass yourself off as a collector. Saying you’re a prospective overman could just be a way to lend some credence to your story.”
As the wrench still worked its way through the machinery in his head, Winslow grimaced and grabbed hold of Mason’s throat. “I don’t give a damn what you decide about me. You’ll hand over that money right now!”
“Or what?” Mason asked.
“You’re trying my patience, mister.”
Despite the fact that he was dangling from an ever-tightening fist, Mason somehow managed to smirk as he said, “If you intend to police men like myself and others on this boat, you’re going to have to be well versed in making threats. If I was to grade your performance right now, I’m afraid I’d have to—”
Pinching Mason’s windpipe shut, Winslow snarled, “You’re about to be in more pain than you ever thought possible. That threatening enough for ya?”
“Actually,” Mason croaked, “that’s not bad.” After saying that, he grabbed hold of Winslow’s wrist with one hand while kicking the other man’s knee using the heel of his boot. When Winslow grunted in pain, Mason used his free hand to relieve him of his Colt. Rather than fire a shot with the pistol, Mason thumped it against Winslow’s ribs to loosen his grip.
Once he was able to pull free, Mason filled his lungs with a deep breath. “One should never harm another unless the situation calls for it,” he said while rubbing the tender skin on his neck. “Bad luck.”
“I’ll give you bad luck!” Winslow grunted as he charged forward like an enraged bull.
All Mason had to do was take a large step to one side to clear a path. As Winslow rushed past him, Mason dropped the pistol’s grip down like a hammer between Winslow’s shoulder blades. It was a quick, glancing blow that did more damage to Winslow’s pride than anything else. It also made his next few steps so wobbly that Winslow nearly tripped over the side and into the cold water below. Mason kept that from happening by quickly reaching out to grab the larger man’s belt.
“You might want to reconsider your employment options,” Mason said. “Seems you’re not exactly cut out for this sort of thing.”
Winslow placed both hands on the railing and pushed straight back. Since Mason still had a solid grip on his belt, Winslow found himself pulled off balance once more when he was swung toward the closest wall. He bounced off, staggered for a step or two, and then wheeled around to face Mason. Gritting his teeth through the pain that accompanied his next breath, Winslow said, “I’m gonna kill you!”
With a snap of his wrist, Mason sent the Colt he’d taken sailing through the air. A second later, the pistol hit the water with a heavy plunk. “You can try,” he said, “but it won’t be so easy.”
Winslow’s first instinct was to reach for his holster where he’d put Mason’s Remington for safekeeping. Mason lunged for that holster as well and got to it just as the Remington cleared leather. Both men struggled to gain control of the weapon, swinging the pistol toward a nearby window looking into a roomful of card tables before it was forced in another direction to point toward the river. Winslow grunted with the effort of pushing the gun back toward Mason, who quickly snapped his head aside so the gun was no longer pointed at his face. Instead it was pointed at the face of a portly gambler on the other side of the nearby window, who gawked at the gun barrel and promptly dropped to the floor and out of sight.
Mason could hear some small amount of commotion behind the wall that Winslow had run into a few moments ago, but he knew better than to think any help was on its way. At least, none that would arrive quickly enough to do him any good. Shifting his grip on the other man’s wrist, Mason dug his thumb into a tender spot as deep as it could go.
“Owww!” Winslow hollered. In less than a second, he couldn’t help opening his hand and letting go of the Remington.
As soon as the pistol hit the deck, Mason kicked it away. Although he eased up on his grip somewhat, it was only so he could twist Winslow’s arm around and bend it against the swing of the elbow.
When Winslow opened his mouth to let out another anguished groan, no sound emerged. His eyes were wide and his lips curled into an ugly sneer until he finally managed to suck in enough breath to clear some of the fog from his head. Winslow clenched both hands into fists. While he might not have been able to do much with the arm being held by Mason, he had plenty of options where the other was concerned. First, he delivered a chopping uppercut to Mason’s stomach. Then he cocked back that arm to swing a hooking punch to Mason’s jaw.
That second punch snapped Mason’s head to one side, but hurt him less than the first, which had forced a good portion of the breath from his lungs. He tried his best to hang on to Winslow’s right wrist. That proved to be impossible, however, when Winslow grabbed onto his own hand and pulled it back like a lever. He quickly pried himself loose and took a few staggering steps backward.
Since his holster was empty, Winslow reached for the other hip, where a hunting knife hung from a scabbard. By the time he’d taken hold of the thick bone handle, another smaller blade was already whistling through the air. Mason’s arm had snapped forward like a whip and the little blade flew from his hand as though it had been shot from his fingertips.
Winslow might not have been able to see the blade as anything but a glinting flicker, but he could feel it as it sliced through the meat in his forearm. Out of reflex, he jerked that hand to the side, which also caused him to toss the hunting knife he’d just pulled. The larger blade clattered noisily against the deck while the smaller one stuck into the railing a couple of paces behind Winslow. In response to the surprised expression on Winslow’s face, Mason smirked and shrugged one shoulder.
“I’ve got enough blades on me to do this all night long if that’s your game,” Mason lied.
Apparently his bluff was good enough to keep Winslow from trying to make a grab for the knife he’d inadvertently tossed. Instead he dropped to one knee and pulled up the cuff of his pants to reveal a holster concealed in that boot.
Mason lifted his shirt from where it was tucked into the front of his trousers so he could get to the pistol that was stashed there. The handle and cylinder were that of a.44 Remington very similar to the one that had already been taken from him. When he drew the gun from where it had been stashed, the second Remington proved to be very different from its brother. It had been sawed off just over an inch from the trigger guard, which allowed Mason to move freely while it had been concealed. That freedom of movement, however, came at a price.
Mason pulled his trigger, aiming several inches to the left of the man in front of him. Rather than send a shot wide where it would either take a chunk out of the railing or possibly get lodged into the paddle wheel, the bullet tore into Winslow’s shin just below his knee.
At first, when Winslow dropped his gun, he couldn’t make a sound. All the color drained from his face and he gulped for his next breath. As soon as he grabbed his bloody shin, he found his voice and let it fly with a warbling cry. His head craned all the way back and then drooped forward. Crumpling like a wilted flower, Wi
nslow flopped over onto his side. After that, he was in no condition to do much of anything as Mason stepped forward to search him for any other weapons.
“Y-you killed me,” Winslow groaned.
Having found nothing of note on Winslow’s person, Mason kept the sawed-off Remington in an easy grip while hunkering down to the other man’s level. “I did no such thing,” he said. “It just feels that way. Perhaps you’ll reconsider what I mentioned before about you choosing another line of work.”
“I—I need a doctor.”
“You sure do,” Mason said while walking over to the railing where his knife had been stuck. The narrow blade was a bit longer than two inches, and its double-ring handle was only slightly shorter. Once the knife was in his hand again, Mason slipped a finger through one of the rings between the handle and blade and set the dagger to spinning. It was a finely balanced weapon that was as familiar to him as part of his own body. With an occasional wiggle of the finger around which the blade spun, he kept it twirling in a glinting display of sunlight reflecting off sharpened steel.
“I’d recommend waiting until we get to the next port,” Mason said. The dagger fit into a scabbard hidden at the small of his back. Once it was in its place again, Mason didn’t even feel it there. “I’m sure the captain wouldn’t mind making a stop at the next town whether it’s on the agenda or not.” Dropping his voice a bit, Mason added, “I’d avoid the boat’s doctor if I were you. He drinks most of the laudanum in his stores and doesn’t have very steady hands.”
Winslow nodded meekly. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Just . . . get me . . . offa this boat.”
Tucking the Remington back into place beneath his belt against his belly, Mason asked, “Are those the extent of your manners?”
“Get me offa this boat . . . please?”
“There, now,” Mason said as he began the process of lifting Winslow to stand on one foot. “That’s more like it.”
Chapter 4
Mason had rarely seen any of the genuine overmen. When they were called into service, it was only in response to the kind of situation that no man wanted any part of. Since gamblers were, by their very nature, instinctual creatures, they tended to find somewhere else to be when those kinds of situations arose. After some time had passed, the Delta Jack was indeed brought to the next port, which belonged to a small town that could barely be seen from the banks. It should have been large enough to have a doctor at least. Mason watched from the third deck as one large fellow in a pearl gray suit dragged Winslow down the gangplank.
“It was a lucky shot,” Winslow said while hopping on his good leg to keep up with the other man. “I swear! Tell Mr. . . .”
Having reached the end of the gangplank, the man escorting Winslow stopped and spoke to him in a low growl. He stood at average height and had a solid build. On a strictly physical basis, Winslow was larger. Something about the other man’s demeanor gave him a more imposing bearing that seemed to shrink Winslow down to a smaller size. Mason strained to hear what he was saying but couldn’t make out much from his vantage point. What he did see, however, was the short club hanging from the man’s belt that marked him as one of the Jack’s enforcers.
“I understand,” Winslow said. Strangely enough, his voice cut through the thick balmy air just fine. “Will I at least get the pay I was promised for this job? After all, I did put the scare into him pretty good and nearly managed to collect some of the debt.”
The overman straightened up and glared at Winslow. For a moment, Mason was certain Winslow was about to catch a beating. As a few more seconds passed, Winslow slowly recoiled. All the other man had to do was keep glaring at him to convince Winslow that he needed to drop the subject he’d just broached and just walk away.
“All right, then,” Winslow said as he hobbled along the short dock leading into whatever town was nearby. “I’ll be on my way. Never mind about my fee.”
The overman stood at the end of the gangplank, silently watching.
“Give my best to Mr. Greeley!” Winslow shouted.
By now, a few locals had appeared on the road leading from the dock into town. When they saw the bloody, hastily bandaged wound on Winslow’s leg, they rushed forward to help him walk. One of them shouted, “This man’s been hurt! What happened?”
The man at the end of the gangplank shifted just enough to turn his gaze toward the locals. He held it there for a second and then showed his back to all of them.
The locals watched the overman walk away but had no interest in approaching him or even asking another question. Instead they spoke to Winslow, who quickly hushed them and did his best to hurry toward town.
Mason watched the whole scene while leaning with his elbows against the railing. He let out a low whistle and said, “I’ve gotta learn how to silence someone like that.”
Once the overman was back on board and the gangplank was raised, the riverboat’s engines turned the paddle wheel once more. The Delta Jack let out a whistle and was on her way upstream. One of the doors behind Mason was opened and a gentleman in a tan suit emerged from a room where a bawdy song was being played on a banjo.
The gentleman brought a cigar to his lips, took a long pull from it, and exhaled a smoky breath. “Were we stopped?” he asked.
“Just for a short spell,” Mason said.
“What for?”
“Had to get rid of some extra cargo.”
Taking another puff from his cigar, the gentleman asked, “Must be an awfully small town at the end of that road. Any fresh fish come aboard?”
“Nope.”
Since he didn’t have any new players to scout, the gentleman shrugged and shifted his attention farther along the deck to where one of the working girls was having a stroll. He approached her and was eagerly greeted, which marked the end of his interest in the Jack’s unscheduled stop.
Mason was fairly certain almost everyone else aboard the riverboat either cared just as little for the distraction or hadn’t even noticed it at all. They had their own business to conduct and might not have noticed if the riverboat chugged past a raging battlefield. He reached into his pocket to check his watch. It was early evening, which meant the regular folks in the town where Winslow had gone would be eating dinner soon. The gamblers on the Delta Jack, on the other hand, would be eating their evening meal anytime between now and midnight. Time didn’t mean much at a card table. At least, not in any traditional sense. There was simply a time to start playing and a time to stop. Mason’s starting time was swiftly approaching. He felt it in his bones. The hands on his watch were merely there to let him know what schedule the rest of the world was observing. He snapped the watch shut and promptly put such things out of his mind.
“Damn,” he said to himself. “I love my job.”
* * *
Over the course of the next hour, Mason prepared himself for that night’s work. He went to his room where he could splash some water over himself so he was nice and fresh beneath his expensive suit. To give himself a more formal appearance, he pulled on a coat that came down to just above his knees. The standard.44 Remington was tucked into a holster beneath his left arm, but that was mostly for show. Everyone on the Delta Jack was armed. In fact, the first thing most passengers looked for was what kind of firepower another man was packing. If they saw what was in Mason’s shoulder holster, they would most likely overlook the other weapons stashed throughout his person.
The sawed-off version of his Remington was tucked against his belly.
The dagger went into its scabbard at the small of his back.
Mason paused while going through the carpetbag containing his belongings. Reaching inside, he found an old knuckle-duster that he’d carried with him since his earliest years on the gambling circuit. It was a crude, simple weapon made to slip over four fingers to reinforce his fist to deliver one mighty wallop. In addition to being a set of brass knuckles, the
set Mason carried also had a short point on one end. When worn, the point extended from the bottom of his hand like a small dagger clenched in his fist. He slipped the weapon on, closed his fingers around the weathered metal, and smiled. That knuckle-duster had always brought him luck. And when his luck took a turn as it always did, the little weapon went a long way in getting him out of it.
Even though the knuckle-duster was very useful, he decided against taking it along with him this evening. Mason packed it away at the bottom of his bag, patting it with the tenderness someone might show a family heirloom.
There were other weapons in that bag along with various, less lethal, tools of his trade. Mason ran his hand over all of them in a specific order at a specific speed until he’d brushed his fingertips against everything in there. Feeling centered and calm, he closed the bag and stood up.
His room was small, containing a narrow bed, a dresser, and a washbasin. On any other day, he was anxious to step outside the confined space to get a breath of fresh air before delving into the cornucopia of sights and sounds filling the card rooms and saloons packed into the Delta Jack. Tonight, he welcomed the quiet of his room and the way his four walls muffled the sounds of music, shouting, and revelry coming from all three decks.
He closed his eyes and gave himself a moment for all of his senses to drink in whatever they could.
After taking his moment of calm, Mason opened his eyes. He set his carpetbag on the floor between his bed and the cabin’s back wall where it couldn’t easily be seen. Standing in front of his door, he straightened the lapels of his coat and shot his cuffs.
“All right,” he said. “Time to go to work.”
Chapter 5
Mason’s feet carried him quickly and lightly to the stairs and brought him all the way down to the first deck, where the night’s biggest games would be played. There was plenty going on around him along the way, but Mason would not be distracted.
The prettiest girls on board all came out in the evening and yet none of them could hold his gaze for any longer than it took Mason to smile and tip his hat.
Ralph Compton Straight to the Noose Page 3
