The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  He was still alive and free, so his had certainly been answered—so far.

  Not knowing how long he had, he slipped inside and began hunting for the section of apartments for visitors. Panic began to set in by the time he reached the second floor of the main building. Then he heaved a sigh of relief. Sitting in a chair at the far end of the hall was the most beautiful sight in all the world.

  “Evie!”

  His outcry startled her. She looked up from the book she was reading and half stood. Frozen there for a moment, she finally came fully to her feet and turned to face him. By now he had run the length of the hall. He swept her up in his arms, whirled her around, and kissed her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked as she pulled her lips away from his. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  “Mac, I—” She pushed away from him, looking flustered. “I never thought I’d see you again.”

  “It takes more than your pa and Pierre Leclerc to stop me.”

  Her face turned to stone.

  “Evie, please. What’s wrong?”

  “They put me in this convent until the wedding.”

  “It’ll be our wedding, not yours to that... scoundrel.”

  “Pierre? You mean him?”

  “He’s got a mistress in the French Quarter. You’re not even married yet and he’s cheating on you. I swear I’ll never do a thing like that, Evie. Ever. I love you.” He tugged on her hand, but she resisted. “Come on. We have to get out of here, out of New Orleans.”

  “I can’t, Mac. Not now.”

  “You haven’t taken vows for the order, and your father’s not going to boss you around.” She might be angry with him later, but he wasn’t going to tell her that her father was dead until they were safely away. “You’re all grown up. You know your own mind. Say you don’t want to stay here.”

  “No, I don’t. I—”

  “Then let’s go. The nuns are in vespers now. We can get out before they know you’re gone. I have a horse. We can ride until sundown, then camp and we’ll be away from the city and—”

  “Mac, you—” She heaved a sigh, pulled free of his embrace, and sat heavily in the chair. “Everything is so confused.”

  “We can straighten it out together, Evie. Please, we have to go. We have to.”

  She stared at him emotionlessly for what seemed an eternity.

  “I need to do a few things before we go, Mac. That’s my room. Wait in there while I tend to them. It . . . it won’t take too long. Not more than an hour.”

  “An hour!”

  “Less, then. I can hurry. Go wait for me.”

  “All right. I trust you. While you’re gone, I can pack for you.” His mind raced. “If I can get the trunk to the ground floor, I can load it onto a cart. There must be one by the back gate.”

  “My things,” she said in a dull voice. “I never thought about them. Yes, do pack them. Keep busy, and the time will pass more quickly.” She stood and let him kiss her.

  “The time you’re gone will be an eternity. Are you sure I can’t help you?”

  “This is something I must do on my own.” She shooed him toward the room.

  He saw that it was more of a narrow cell, with a hard bed and a crucifix mounted on the wall over the head. A window, more like a slit in the wall, let in faint afternoon light. Her trunk and two carpetbags were stacked at the foot of the bed. A small writing desk and stool were the only other pieces of furniture in the room.

  “Stay here, Mac. I beg you.” She closed the door.

  He heard her quick, light steps in the hall as she hurried off. Moving restlessly, he thought to pack the trunk and bags, then realized they had never been unpacked. There wasn’t a wardrobe in the room to hang her clothing. He began pacing, now and then wanting to open the door to peer into the hallway to see if she had returned from her mysterious mission. To do so was dangerous if anyone else in this section of the convent was out and about.

  Not knowing how long the devotional would run, he began to worry that they would be caught by the nuns. He had no desire to threaten any of them, but he would if that’s what it took for him and Evie to get away.

  He sat on the bed, then stood and paced. Not able to hold down his nervous energy, he finally opened the door a crack. He couldn’t see much of the corridor, so he opened it a little farther. A smile spread across his face.

  “Evie!”

  She came down the hallway. He stepped out to meet her and suddenly felt as if he had been tossed off a cliff.

  To her right strode Pierre Leclerc. And to her left a policeman kept pace.

  “There he is! That’s him! That’s the man who killed my papa!” Evangeline Holdstock pointed an accusing finger, but all Mac saw was the pitiless look on Pierre Leclerc’s face.

  He had won, and Dewey Mackenzie had lost everything.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Evie, no!” Mac cried. He shook his head in denial of the accusation and disbelief that she would betray him.

  “There he is,” she insisted. “That’s the man who killed my father.”

  “She’s right, Officer. Arrest him.” Pierre Leclerc reached into a coat pocket and drew out a small-caliber pistol. He cocked it and aimed down the hallway at Mac. “Stop, you filthy killer. Stop or I’ll shoot.”

  Mac took everything in with a stunning flash of insight. Leclerc had brought along the policeman to witness a murder. Without doubt, Leclerc had killed Micah Holdstock, and now he intended to kill the only man standing in his way to marrying Evie and controlling a huge fortune.

  Mac reached for his pistol but did not draw. If he started flinging lead, he might hit Evie. He wasn’t that good a marksman. He fancied himself quick on the draw, but he had never been flush enough to buy the ammunition to learn to be a good shot.

  “Do as he says. You’re under arrest.” The police officer rushed forward and blocked Leclerc’s aim. For a horrifying instant, Mac worried Leclerc might shoot the man in the back.

  Then they both realized how complicated that would make things. Evie would know Leclerc had tried to blame anyone else—and Leclerc would certainly think to pin that murder on his rival, too. Such a lie would turn Evie against him. Leclerc might succeed without her family’s fortune, but the entire scheme had been to gain control of Holdstock’s bank and all its assets.

  Mac reacted rather than thought through his next action. He shouted to Evie, “Don’t marry him. Leclerc murdered your pa!” Using that to sow confusion, he lowered his head and ran as hard as he could for the window behind the chair where Evie had been reading. Arms crossed in front of his face, he crashed through the glass and plunged downward.

  Somehow, he turned in the air and got his feet under him. He hit with knees bent and rolled. In the twilight, he lost himself among the flower beds. Flat on his back, he looked up and saw the policeman in the second-story window trying to locate him. The officer might have been armed, but Leclerc definitely was. He shouldered the copper aside and started shooting.

  The bullets kicked up tiny fountains of dirt all around. Staying still stretched Mac’s nerves almost to the breaking point, but he saw that as long as he lay quietly, he remained hidden.

  But from the sounds in the courtyard at the far end of the garden, the gunshots had brought other police running. Again he took the daring route to escape. He waited for two officers to pass him before standing.

  “That way. I saw him run that way.” He pointed toward the wall. “He’s trying to climb the wall!”

  When they reacted, he sprinted in the other direction, toward the back gate. Leclerc either didn’t see him or had come up empty. No bullets whipped around him. He reached the gate where he had seen supplies being unloaded earlier in the day. The locking bar was heavy and resisted him pushing it aside.

  “Come on, come on,” he grated as he put his shoulder to the bar. “Nuns move it. I can do as good, even if God’s not on my side right now.” Heaving with all his strength, he finally slid the bar back far enough to let h
im slip into the street.

  He heard his horse neighing loudly. In the gathering darkness, he couldn’t see the horse at all until he almost bumped into it. That worked in his favor. If he couldn’t find a horse he knew was tethered here, the coppers would miss it, too. He vaulted into the saddle and turned the horse back into the heart of the French Quarter.

  Only then did an officer spot him and open fire. The whistle of bullets past his head spurred him to greater speed. His horse strained as it galloped away from the convent. As he bent low, hearing the police whistles summoning more officers, he experienced the full impact of what had happened.

  Evie had turned him in. She had gone to Leclerc, and he had brought the police. She was going to marry the man who had killed her pa and had no idea how evil he was.

  “Why did she stop trusting me? That son of a bitch can’t be that persuasive.” At least Mac hoped that was so. Maybe he had mesmerized her. He had seen a snake sway back and forth and seemingly paralyze a bird. How Leclerc did that to a woman who had once loved him baffled Mac.

  He slowed and looked around to get his bearings. Whatever there had been in New Orleans for him had evaporated like dew in the morning sun. He had no doubt that, if caught, he would hang for murdering Micah Holdstock. No amount of proof would suffice to sway a judge and jury. Leclerc had money to buy them all. After the previous night’s bender, Mac didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Paying a decent attorney to defend him was out of the question. Anyway, Leclerc would buy off any attorney to rig the trial.

  He couldn’t go to Evie or her mother for help, for money, for anything. The few people he knew in New Orleans hardly counted as friends. He worked with them or for them. They would abandon him in an instant rather than get mixed up in a murder case.

  All his plans had exploded in the span of a single day, and all because he wanted to marry the sweetest, loveliest woman in all the world.

  The one who had betrayed him the first chance she got.

  “Out of town,” he said to himself. “That’s the only chance I’ve got. Get the hell out of New Orleans and away from the law.”

  As much as it rankled, there wasn’t anything he could do to bring Holdstock’s killer to justice. Pierre Leclerc would get away with murder. Worse, he would marry Evie and take over her pa’s financial empire. Every card fell to Leclerc. It didn’t matter what Mac played when Leclerc held a royal flush.

  He started north out of town along Canal Street, only to slow and finally stop. Ahead, on streets leading over to the Garden District, were a half dozen policemen. They walked out into the street and eyed everyone moving along toward them. Mac knew it was possible they were after another criminal. He might ride past without being stopped.

  “My luck’s so bad that won’t happen. They’re after me. They want to arrest me,” he said to his horse. The animal turned its head around and peered accusingly at him with a great brown eye. He patted the horse’s neck and turned to head the other way along Canal Street, toward the Mississippi River.

  If his luck improved, he would follow the banks of the winding river away from town and be free of the police by morning.

  His luck didn’t hold. He reached the docks and immediately saw groups of police moving quickly to check every pile of cargo and interrogate the dock workers. Whether they hunted for him or were on some other mission didn’t matter. He dared not risk boldness now if it landed him in the jailhouse.

  He turned to follow the shoreline and immediately saw this way was blocked, too. Reversing course, heading back downriver, toward where Andy Jackson had established his headquarters during the War of 1812, proved equally frustrating.

  “Do they have the entire police force after me?” He bit back a curse when a couple of dockworkers turned and stared at him. He had been alone too much of his life and had gotten into the habit of talking to himself. He pretended he spoke to his horse, though he knew it could never understand.

  Tipping his hat in the direction of the men, he called out, “I heard tell there’s work to be had here, but my directions got confused. Where’s the hiring office?” He made a vague gesture in the direction of Leclerc’s huge building.

  “You ain’t the right color, mistah,” said the nearest dock-walloper. “From your looks, it don’t matter, though. You ain’t got the muscle to do a day’s work.”

  Another chimed in, “You wouldn’t last an hour haulin’ them bales.”

  Mac shrugged, touched the brim of his hat again, smiled, and rode on, alert for the police making the canvass of the area. Turning back into town and going up Canal Street wasn’t possible. An army of blue-coated cops worked their way down to the riverfront. He was caught between the river and a tide of lawmen.

  He touched his six-shooter and wondered what it would take to shoot his way out. He discarded that idea.

  “A last resort,” he told himself. “I’ve got no call to get myself killed. I’d rather fight it out with Leclerc.”

  Whether someone overheard the shipping magnate’s name or finally identified him hardly mattered. The hue and cry went up. Coppers turned in his direction, and more than one pointed at him, accusing him of being . . . Dewey Mackenzie.

  He raked his heels along his horse’s flanks and rocketed away, heading for what looked like an open area just north of Leclerc’s headquarters. As he passed the building, a dozen policemen poured out. All were armed with rifles and used them. A thunderous roar of gunshots filled the air.

  Head down, staying low on the far side of his horse, Mac tried to escape. More than one bullet slammed into his horse’s body. The valiant animal stumbled but tried to keep running.

  Mac barely kicked free of the stirrups before the horse collapsed. He hit the ground and rolled, momentarily stunned. On his belly, he saw the lawmen running in his direction, firing as they came. His choices narrowed to dragging out his hog leg and shooting at the police or running like a scalded dog. Facing so many armed men didn’t look to have a good outcome for him.

  He rolled over and over, getting soaked in mud and filth. That saved him. He camouflaged himself so he blended into the shadows of an alley.

  “He went this way,” came a shout.

  “No, no, he’s over here!”

  Mac touched his gun, wanting to silence the man who was actually on his trail, but if he took the shot, he would announce where he had gone. Besides, even with the terrible danger he was in, he didn’t want to kill an innocent man.

  Crouched behind a pile of debris washed up on the shore, he waited to see who would prevail. Those thinking he had gone directly to the riverbank won the argument, leaving the solitary cop to stare almost directly at him. Mac barely breathed, not daring to make a move.

  But he jumped a foot when something moved beside him. He yanked out the Smith & Wesson and almost fired on a rat bigger than any alley cat he had ever seen. The rat stared at him with fierce red eyes, sizing him up for supper, then walked boldly out from the garbage heap.

  The cop saw the rat, drew a bead on it, and fired. His bullet caused the rat to jump into the air and flop over, landing with its life extinguished by a crack shot. The cop came over, kicked the rat, and then called, “Wait for me. Don’t leave me behind.” He hurried after the others.

  Mac relaxed, dropping his revolver back into his holster. Saved by a rat!

  He realized his respite was brief, though. When they didn’t find him down on the docks, they’d come back in this direction. He stared at the lifeless body of his horse and heaved a sigh of resignation. That was about all he owned in the world, that horse. It had served him well, bringing him all the way south from Missouri.

  He stared at the gear and especially the saddlebags still secured to the horse. What few belongings he had were in those pouches. He had dressed in his best clothes to propose to Evie and had never changed when he went on his binge and finally showed up at the Dueling Oaks.

  A change of clothes into something more suited to dodging the law rested in the saddlebags. B
esides, he wore a coat of mud, and every step he took squished with water that had seeped into his boots. He had always been careful about his appearance and hygiene, having been raised by a family that had avoided the worst of the diseases ravaging Missouri after the war. His ma insisted they had kept free of scarlet fever and cholera because he washed behind his ears, and his pa had always nodded when she was giving that particular sermon. Mac had never been convinced, but the plagues took lives all around the Mackenzie homestead and left them intact.

  He decided being clean felt good, too. Idly scratching an itch, he found some of the tiny mites infesting the Mississippi mud and crushed them. The only way to get rid of them entirely was a hot bath. That wasn’t in the cards, but maybe getting his possessions back was.

  Advancing slowly in a crouch, he reached the side of his fallen horse. He laid a hand on the horse’s neck for the last time. The body had cooled already. A quick try to free the saddle convinced him that wouldn’t be possible, trapped under the dead weight as it was.

  Anyway, lugging a saddle around while the police hunted him like a mad dog would only lead to ending up like the horse. He turned his attention to the saddlebags. Half were trapped under the horse’s body, but the free one had an extra box of cartridges for his S&W and his work shirt, riding coat, and denim jeans. He pulled them out. Everything else he had to leave.

  “He’s gotta be over here,” a policeman said from not far away. “Ain’t no way he got past us to the river.”

  Mac cat-footed through the shadows by the Leclerc building as the police returned from their futile search along the riverbank. He tensed when one discovered he had taken clothing from the saddlebags.

  “He’s around here somewhere. He rifled through the saddlebags.”

  “That could have been anybody,” another officer said. “The dock’s full of thieves. You know that, Ralls. Damn me if you ain’t the dumbest copper in New Orleans.”

  The insult provoked a scuffle between the two lawmen. As others worked to break it up, Mac stood and walked slowly past them, heading in the direction they had already searched. The route was veiled in pitch-blackness. The only way he knew he approached the river came in the way his boots sucked free with every step he took in the mud and the increasing lap-lap-lap of water against the hulls of ships tied to the docks.