The old man shook his head. "Me, I'm not sayin' nothin'. All I'm sayin' is you shouldn't be shakin' my tree. Her tree is much better for shakin'."
Duke tipped his hat at the old man, then turned and walked back toward the boat.
"You not gonna listen to me, no? I don' care!" he spat. "You believe what you wanna believe."
"He always does," I whispered back at the old man as I followed Duke and Van Helter back to the boat. "He always does."
***
"Just answer the question!" Duke barked at Dominique du Blanc. His abruptness shattered her veneer of civility. It was obvious she was not used to being talked to like that.
She leapt to her feet and screamed into Duke's face. "Yes! All right? Yes!"
Then, the adrenaline of the moment seemingly rushing out of her, she collapsed back into her chair and began to cry. "It's true," she wept. "I did meet with Mr. Gris."
"And you paid him to murder your husband?" Van Helter asked the question like he really didn't want to hear the answer.
"No!" the widow shouted in despair and disbelief. She looked at each of us in turn, desperation dawning in her deep, dark eyes. "Is that what you all think of me? That I would want my husband dead?"
The woman fell to weeping again. After a long moment, Duke reached over and patted her on the shoulder. "That's all right, ma'am. Why don't you tell us what really happened?"
After taking a minute to collect herself, Madame du Blanc began her tale.
"Guillame and I had been having our troubles lately, it's true. For some reason, he seemed to prefer the company of—well, other women," she sniffled. "But I never stopped loving him. That's why I went to that man, Mr. Gris.
"I asked him for a potion that would make my husband love me again, and he was only too ready to help me out. We never discussed the price, but I was sure that whatever it was I would be able to cover it.
"I'd never been so wrong in my life."
The widow took a moment to steel herself before she went on.
"The potion worked just like Mr. Gris had said it would. Before long, Guillame and I were as happy as newlyweds. It seemed like nothing could put an end to our joy.
"Then Mr. Gris came back into my life, and he demanded payment. The filthy bastard actually asked for my first-born child!"
The widow's demeanor suddenly changed from desperate sorrow to indignant anger. "We don't have any children yet, but I had recently realized that I'd become pregnant. Either way, I was certainly not going to give up my own flesh and blood to this horrible creature. In no uncertain terms, I told him no.
"I offered him money instead, but he just became furious. He began screaming at me, and he told me that if I wasn't ready to pay his price, then he would take it from me on his own terms. I didn't know what that meant, but I kicked him out of my house.
"I hoped never to hear from him again, but three days later, Guillame turned up missing. I didn't say anything to the police about Mr. Gris because it all seemed like some horrible fantasy. I mean, they never would have believed me anyway," she said, trailing off into sobs once again.
Duke reached out to comfort the mournful woman again, but it was Van Helter who broke the silence.
"That's not true, madame," he said quietly. "I've seen stranger things then you could imagine over the past 10 years.
"For once, I wish my brother was here," the detective muttered under his breath. "This kind of matter is really more his department."
***
By the time we got back out to the bokkor's shack, the long shadows that had fallen across the bayou had collected into dusk. The single lantern I held aloft for us didn't seem to do nearly enough to beat back the gloom. A single oil lamp burned fitfully in one broken window of the ramshackle structure, and as we approached, the light suddenly picked itself up and disappeared.
It just as suddenly reappeared at the shack's front door, this time with Mr. Gris' long, spindly arm holding it unsteadily into the air. The flickering light played off his wrinkled features, transforming his weathered face into a devil's mask.
"That woman," Gris cackled, "she sent you back to me, no?"
"That's the way of it," growled Van Helter. I looked over to see he'd filled his hand with his Peacemaker. The wan moonlight glinted thinly off its barrel, as if it was some otherworldly weapon called into service against the rickety-thin demon that stood before us. The same light flared in Van Helter's eyes.
Duke reached out and put his hand on the detective's arm. With a single look from the older man, Van Helter lowered his gun. "You've got one chance," he whispered hoarsely. "Then I'm taking that monster down."
Duke let the detective go, then stepped forward. The old man tottered forward a few steps more. It was hard to believe he could be a threat to three able-bodied men, but Duke and I had been fooled by such appearances before, so he approached with all caution.
"Lemme guess," the old man grinned at us, exposing a maw in which only a few lonely teeth still crookedly stood. "That woman, she tell you I de villain here, no? She tell you I done her wrong. Ha!"
With that, he brought the lantern down closer to his face, and we could see the lamplight dance madly in his large, watery eyes. "She de one done wronged me!"
"What do you mean?" Duke said, holding his voice calm and quiet. He was like a brick house against the storm of the man's insanity.
"I speak plain as I can," the man said. "I did dat woman a service, and she refused to pay!"
Van Helter stepped forward and leveled his gun at the old man. "Monsieur," he said, his voice cracking with emotion, "you are under arrest."
The old man looked straight down the barrel of the gun like it was the strangest thing he had ever seen. He held that expression for a moment, then broke into a wide grin and began to laugh so hard I was afraid he might shake his entire frame apart.
"You crazy, off'cer," he cackled, unimpressed by the detective's serious manner. "I done nothin' wrong here. I don' have that woman's husband no more."
"What do you mean, 'No more'?" I asked, my heart a lump in my throat.
The old man gave a sidelong glance toward his freshly tilled garden. The three of us followed his gaze over there and then looked at each other, each of us certain of what must of have transpired. Van Helter took off at a flat run, his gun held out before him as he stumbled through the darkness. 1 followed close behind him, picking my steps a bit more cautiously as I held my lantern high.
When the detective got to the garden, he stopped dead in his tracks, looked down below his feet, and let loose a low moan. I caught up with him only a moment later and saw what had caused Van Helter such dismay.
There lay an open grave, freshly dug in the garden's loose dirt. Far behind us, I could hear the old man talking to Duke in a stage whisper. "Ha! They go to see what I plant, but I already reap what I sow."
I shone the lantern down into the hole, fearing what we might find. The grave wasn't very deep, and the light easily reached to the back of it.
It was empty.
Van Helter blew out a long sigh of relief and stood there as I knelt down at the edge of the hole and peered in for a closer look. All I saw was more dirt.
It was then that I realized Duke had come up behind me and was staring down over my shoulder. "Damnation," he whispered to himself as his keen eyes peered into the depths of the grave. He pointed down into the hole, and as I followed the movements of his finger, I could make out in the dirt an impression of a man's body.
The hero of many of my dime novels then turned and walked slowly back to the bokkor. "What did you with Mr. du Blanc?" Duke asked the old man pointedly.
"Dat wife o' his, you know, she asked me to kill him."
Van Helter and I crept up behind Duke, the detective's gun still in his hand, although he seemed to have lost confidence in its ability to protect him.
"I believe that," Duke said evenly. "What did you do with him?"
A wide smile cracked the old man's dark-skinned f
ace. "He come to visit wit' me for a while. But he gone now. Back to dat wife o' his."
The old man leaned forward a little bit further, the board under his feet creaking so badly I feared the porch might come tumbling down, and him along with it. "She tell you she no gonna pay me, no? Well, tonight dat bill she come due."
"Is that some kind of threat?" Van Helter demanded through gritted teeth, his voice on edge.
The old man cackled again, the sound as disturbing as breaking glass. "No," he laughed. "No threat from me. All I say is if de woman no pay, den I give back what she asked me to take away."
"You monster!" the detective shouted as he pointed his gun at Gris' bobbing head. "What in Hell's name do you mean?"
"Put that gun down!" Duke snapped at the young man, already walking back toward the boat. "There's nothing more we can do here."
The detective and I looked at each other. Fury raged in his face. He turned back to the old man and pointed the gun directly at his chest.
"Be careful who you threaten, boy," Gris said as he tottered forward to the edge of the porch. Suddenly, the old man's voice turned flat and dark. "You don' know the powers you be toyin' wit'."
As the words left the bokkor's lips, the rickety old porch finally gave way, the board beneath the old man's right foot snapping like a dry twig. Startled by the noise-or so it seemed—Van Helter squeezed off a shot, catching Gris squarely in the chest.
The old man was flung backward, his body falling limp like an old rag doll. The lamp he was carrying smashed against the shack's front door, shattering and sending burning oil everywhere. Gris' body was instantly engulfed in flames, but he was already far too dead to care.
Van Helter turned and walked back to the boat in silence. I stared into the conflagration for a moment before Duke's call broke the spell and I followed the detective to the shaky dock.
Van Helter put the still-running steam engine in gear, and in a moment we were off into the moonlit bayou. The old man's shack burned brightly behind us like a match that had finally been struck.
"That was unnecessary," Duke told the younger man.
The flames danced in Van Helter's stone-cold eyes as he stared back at the roaring fire. It was a long moment before he answered. "I don't really care."
***
It was late when we got to the du Blanc house, but the lights inside were burning brightly. We trotted up to the front door and rang the bell.
As we did, Duke pointed down at the walk up to the door. A still-wet trail of muddy footprints made their way from the road to the front porch and then continued inside.
For a moment, there was no answer to the bell, but then we heard a woman screaming for her life, and three shots rang out.
Van Helter threw his shoulder into the door, but it was made of solid oak and bolted from the inside. I lent him my strength for another try, but it was no use.
I looked around for Duke and saw him hefting a chair he had taken from the far side of the verandah. As I watched, he hurled it through one of the French doors that lined the front of the house.
Duke stepped in after the chair, and we followed hot on his heels. As we entered the foyer, a hysterical maid ran up to us and screamed, "They're upstairs! In the bedroom, I think! Do something!"
Duke dashed up the front stairs and off in the direction in which the woman was pointing, with Van Helter and myself close behind. Only one of the doors was shut, and as we reached it, another shot rang out.
Duke and the young detective shouldered open the much-thinner door, and the three of us stumbled into the room to see Dominique du Blanc standing over a man's body. As she saw us, she dropped the gun like it had bit her, and she slowly backed away from the body sprawled before her.
Van Helter rushed over to the woman to see if she was all right. In the meantime, Duke knelt down to examine the well-dressed corpse. The back of the man's head had been blown out, and when Duke turned the body over, I could see where the bullet had entered, right between the man's eyes.
There were three other bullet holes in the front of the man's dirty, once-white shirt. I've seen a lot of death in my time, and I was surprised by how little blood there seemed to be.
As Duke let go of the body's shoulder, he stepped up to wipe off his hands. "The man's soaking wet," he said quietly, "and he smells of the swamp. Guillame du Blanc, I reckon."
"That's him, all right," the young detective said from behind us. We turned to see him putting a pair of those newfangled handcuffs on Madame du Blanc.
"Is that necessary?" I asked.
"I'd have to say so," Duke said, nudging me as he did. I looked over in the direction he nodded and saw a butler and two maids standing in the doorway, aghast at the grisly scene.
I faltered for a moment, then tried to explain myself. "I mean, it seems like a case of self-defense."
"That's for the courts to decide," growled the detective as he began hauling the woman past her servants and downstairs. "But with all these witnesses to her shooting down an unarmed man, I don't think they'll agree."
The help followed the detective downstairs, calling for the stableboy to prepare a carriage for taking Madame du Blanc to town.
As we stood there over the corpse, Duke pushed back the man's chin with his toe to reveal a nasty gash along the man's throat. It had been stitched up with coarse, black thread.
"There's the actual murder wound," Duke muttered to himself. "Not that it really matters."
I looked at him askance. "Shouldn't we say something? That woman could very well hang for killing a man already dead!"
Duke looked over at me with weary eyes, a grimace on his face. "Come on, now, Philip. You've been at this game long enough. Who's gonna believe a story like that?"
"But the evidence—"
Duke coughed once. "Sure it seems crystal clear to you and me—and maybe even to that Van Helter fella—but less-experienced minds'll come up with other explanations. No matter how implausible they might be, they'll be easier to swallow than the truth."
"But that woman's life!" I protested.
Duke gave me the kind of understanding look most people reserve for a stubborn child. "I'd say she's gonna get what's coming to her. Even if she wasn't the one who actually slit her husband's throat, she was sure as shootin' behind it."
Duke turned away from me and the corpse and looked out the window at the full moon shining brightly down on us. "Justice was done here. Like Mr. Gris said, The bill, she come due.' "
We turned and walked out of the room, leaving the dead man's body behind. As we got back up on our horses and followed the du Blanc carriage back into New Orleans, I swear I could almost hear the old bokkor's cackle drifting in on the wind.
(Duke's adventures continue in The Anthology with No Name Volume 2: For a Few Dead Guys More.)
HOMECOMING
By John R. Hopler The setting sun hung just above the Rockies like a huge, red wound, streaking the sky with its blood. A lanky man on horseback was silhouetted briefly against this bloody orb as his mount topped the ridge and began descending the western slope.
Griff McAllister leaned back in his saddle as his horse scrabbled on the loose rocks of the steep mountain trail. His mount slipped momentarily, then regained its footing and continued its slow descent.
The horse slipped again, and the tall man dismounted. He wore denim jeans, a pale, blue, cotton shirt, cowboy boots, and a wide-brimmed Stetson—nothing that would set him apart from any ordinary cowpoke. Nothing, that is, except for the pair of twin Colt Peacemakers riding on his hips in well-oiled, leather holsters.
McAllister stood a few inches over six feet tall. He would have been an imposing figure had he not been blessed with one of those thin, lean frames that earned most cowhands the name "Slim"-a nickname he detested. No one ever made the mistake of calling him that twice; not after seeing the way his normally friendly features and warm, brown eyes transformed into an expressionless mask when his anger was aroused.
Hell,
Griff thought, I need to stretch my legs anyway. So much for shortcuts. Me and Scabby Joe are going to have a long talk once I get back to Virginia City Taking the reins in his hand, he carefully led the animal along the trail.
A cool breeze blew through the short Colorado pines with a long, mournful sigh and brought a chill to the beads of sweat on Griff's skin. It also brought the faint smell of burning wood. His horse whinnied softly at the scent and tugged at the reins.
"It's okay, Charger," Griff said soothingly as he patted the beast's neck, "It's just a cook fire."
There was another smell there, beneath the smoke. Griff inhaled deeply as he tried to identify it. It smelled like...a cooking ham.
"Well, maybe I won't be so hard on Scabby. It seems like that trading post he talked about may exist after all. Let's see if we can get ourselves some dinner."
The trail descended steeply into the forest below Griff worked his way down the rocky switchbacks as quickly as the failing light allowed, and twenty minutes later, he and Charger were down among the trees. Half of the sun had sunk below the horizon and the pines cast long, dark shadows. Griff remounted and continued through the gathering twilight.
Five minutes later, the source of the smell came into sight: a sturdy-looking log cabin. Smoke poured from the chimney and warm light spilled out of the cabin's windows. Tables heaped with beaver and raccoon pelts filled the porch. Beside the structure was a small corral and barn. Griff could just make out a pigpen and chicken coop in the shadows behind the building.
As Griff moved closer, a dog began barking. It appeared around the corner of the cabin a few seconds later. A small hound of indeterminate breed, the dog halted at the sight of the man and horse, but continued barking as it jumped up and down in place.
"You're a ferocious one, aren't ya?" grinned Griff as he dismounted.
From the corner of his eye, Griff caught the sight of a small head with straw-colored hair appear in one of the cabin's windows. It disappeared as he turned to look.
The front door swung open and a man emerged from the cabin. He looked to be in his mid-forties. He was of average height and build, with brown hair and eyes. His plain gray pants had been patched a number of times and they were held up by a pair of suspenders which framed the man's slight gut. He wore a shirt which may have been white at some point in its history.
A Fist Full O' Dead Guys Page 4
