The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  His chest tightened at the memory. His cock somehow hardened further until every button in his fly seemed branded on it.

  “No, thank you, Evans. I am deeply appreciative of the honor you’ve given me by this invitation but I must return to my boat.” At least he’d managed a reasonable excuse, rather than saying he’d be useless with any woman other than Rosalind.

  Evans spread his hands politely. “A pity. Perhaps another time when matters are more settled.”

  Settled? The best resolution would be Rosalind as his wife, and that was an impossibility. She was gone now, and perhaps soon she’d marry someone else.

  “Perhaps,” Hal said noncommittally. He couldn’t bring himself to consider Rosalind enacting fantasies with another man. He signaled the waiter for the check.

  Rosalind sauntered across the street, careful to stay on the planks that bridged the mud. Pushing through the doors, she was immediately hit by the reek of alcohol, tobacco, and unwashed men. But she didn’t break stride: She’d been in similar gambling resorts too often to be taken aback by a stench that would have sent her mother into hysterics.

  A solidly built, blue-uniformed guard stopped her with a silent request for her guns, the standard method for reducing fights in respectable saloons. She handed them over calmly, saw them stowed in a large, locked cabinet drawer, and accepted the numbered receipt. Then she was free to view the setting for her confrontation with Lennox.

  An immense bar covered the far wall, with mirrors on the few flat surfaces and bottles in every carved niche. Four bartenders served beer or poured whiskey, as fast as they could, to the men standing five deep in front of it. Negro waiters, all in neat black uniforms with white aprons, carried trays loaded with glasses and bottles to patrons at the tables.

  Immense gaslight candelabras hung overhead, and elegant sconces on the red brocade-covered walls brightly lit Dan Allen’s saloon. The floor was wood, of course, with sawdust scattered across it. There were no bloodstains on the threshold or immediately inside, so Allen either demanded gentlemanly behavior from his rough clientele, or his staff was very fast at cleaning up after dust-ups. She’d bet a golden eagle that the answer lay somewhere in between.

  An elegant staircase rose beside the bar, with two narrow-eyed, uniformed gentlemen standing at the base. The private gambling rooms, where poker or whist were played, must lie beyond, their sanctity preserved by those guards.

  Roughly dressed men crowded the saloon, all with drinks in their hand. Many stood three and four deep around the faro tables, calling out bets or yelling encouragement to the cards. The few poker players seemed more intent on imbibing than playing a game of skill.

  Underneath the roar of voices, a piano pounded out something that might be called music. It was pleasant enough for a place like this, but nothing like the Chopin or Beethoven songs that Hal’s sister loved to play.

  A dozen gaudily dressed loose women loudly encouraged the betting, while simultaneously displaying their own wares to all comers. Rosalind paid little heed to the whores, an attitude that had more than once earned her a reputation as a man who loved men. She’d laughed before at the truth in that, but not tonight. She had other business to attend to.

  She forged her way through the crowd as she searched for her quarry, politely excusing herself whenever a ruffian was disturbed by her passage. As she’d expected, Lennox was nowhere to be found in the very public and noisy saloon.

  To find him, she’d have to gain admission to the private rooms above. She could do that either by working her way up from one of the few poker tables in the saloon or by simply bribing her way in. Eager to attack, she opted for the faster method and approached the guards at the staircase.

  “Good evening, men. Can you tell me where I can find a good game of skill in this town?” She rolled a half eagle across her knuckles.

  One of the guards swallowed hard, watching the half eagle as if it were his hope for heaven. “There are private rooms upstairs, sir, for short cards. Stud poker, draw poker, whist…”

  “And the high-stakes game?”

  “That’d be the regular stud poker game, sir, which is just setting up now. Up the stairs and all the way to the back,” the other answered, his eyes flickering back to her face from the coin.

  “Thank you.” She quietly tipped each man a half eagle and headed up the stairs.

  “Thank you, sir. Just tell Brittain that Charlie and Bill sent you,” the first guard responded as his gold vanished from sight.

  Rosalind found a long corridor at the top, decorated in the same red brocade wallpaper as below. Wall sconces lit the way brightly, permitting few shadows in their harsh gaslight. Four doors dotted the corridor, making this a substantial gambling resort, but not the largest she’d ever seen. Of course, the size of the game rarely matched the scale of its setting. She’d once played for two thousand dollars on a muddy levee outside Memphis, for example.

  A very muscular bald man with an immense mustache coldly watched her approach. He was superbly dressed in the best frock coat she’d seen since New York, quite possibly tailored by the same genius who’d created her own suit.

  She stopped in front of him, a golden eagle barely visible between her fingers. “Mr. Brittain? Charlie and Bill sent me.”

  He relaxed slightly, although he was still a very intimidating figure. “Which game are you looking for, sir?” he asked politely, watching her face and not the coin.

  His acceptance of her as a gambler and a man sent the old pregame confidence rising in her veins. She understood houses like this far better than the Missouri River. “High-stakes stud, if you please,” she answered calmly.

  “Right this way, sir.” He pushed open the door beside him, and she entered, slipping the golden coin into his waiting hand. “Good luck, sir.”

  “Thank you, Brittain.”

  “Your eighth player, gentlemen,” he announced and closed the door behind her.

  The room was surprisingly large, with the air of a men’s clubroom, rather than a tavern’s back room. Heavily carved walnut wainscoting lined the walls, with striped red velvet wallpaper rising above it. The wallpaper was almost totally covered by pictures of famous racehorses and trotters, creating an impression of good luck and good cheer. The furniture matched the paneling—carved walnut with luxurious burgundy leather upholstery. A large round table occupied the center of the room, with nine chairs around it. A few scattered side tables and chairs rested against the walls, providing sanctuary for any spectators.

  An immense etched glass chandelier hung directly over the central table, providing brilliant light for play. It also eliminated any shadows, in which a dishonest player might attempt to fudge the cards. A dumbwaiter and bellpull lurked in the far corner, probably directly over the pawnshop, while a sideboard held decanters and glasses.

  Eight men glanced up at her entrance. Or, to be more precise, one dealer in the same dark blue livery as the guards, six well-dressed men—and Lennox.

  Her heart lurched, but she kept her head up and her voice calm and deep. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  A chorus of “good evenings” answered her from everyone except Lennox. “Come to lose your money to your betters, Mr. Sharper?” He sneered.

  Rosalind raised an eyebrow at his rudeness, but kept her voice calm. “Sir, I’m here to play a game of skill with gentlemen,” she answered with a slight emphasis on the last word. Did the fool rely on derogatory talk to win hands for him by distracting the other players?

  Lennox’s mouth tightened, and color mounted in his cheek at her counterattack. He started to say something even more impolite, but a tall well-dressed fellow coughed, his green eyes twinkling under his Stetson. Lennox bit his lip and contented himself with a loud snort. He hadn’t recognized her.

  Suppressing a grin at his blindness, Rosalind greeted the tall man, recognizing him from her time on the Natchez. “Good evening, Bristow.”

  “Carstairs, isn’t it?” Bristow touched his hat in acknow
ledgment. Rosalind bowed politely, glad to see at least one honest poker player present.

  “I’m glad you finally made it to Nebraska for a frontier game of poker,” Bristow went on. “May I introduce you to our fellow players?”

  Exultation surged in her, hot and bright, as he named the other men and she returned their greetings. She could have shouted her relief to the skies, but she forced it back fiercely. Round one might be hers, with Lennox’s lack of recognition, but the game’s end would come only when she plucked every feather he had.

  She seated herself at the round table with the others and purchased her chips, a large sum but not enough to send up warning flags—certainly less than Lennox’s or Bristow’s stakes. She’d keep the size of her bankroll hidden for as long as possible.

  With the casual ease of long experience, the other players finished counting and stacking their ivory chips, all emblazoned with Dan Allen’s initials. Bristow was the most prominent, still exhibiting the graceful, clean-limbed frame of the famous wartime cavalryman. He was always willing to talk a man’s ear off with tales of his beloved shorthorn cattle or his prize horses, and was an excellent poker player, who’d spent a large amount of time at the Natchez’s tables. At the time, Rosalind had wondered if he’d simply sought to avoid the unmarried women who clamored for his company.

  Given the diamond stickpin he wore, another player appeared to be another professional gambler, although she didn’t recognize him by name. The others seemed to be wealthy townsmen, comfortable with each other and the game.

  Hamilton, the dealer, a sturdy middle-aged fellow with the stolid demeanor and all-seeing eyes of a first-rank faro dealer, calmly announced the house’s rules. Quarter eagle ante, half eagle for a full bet. All minimums doubling at midnight, and again at two, for those still playing. It would definitely be a high-stakes game, played for serious gamblers and not amateurs. He expertly dealt the first three cards as soon as every player had paid the ante to enter the hand.

  Rosalind quickly checked her hole cards—a mismatched three and six. It would be very difficult to build a winning hand from them and the ten looking at her from the table, although the ten and six were both diamonds. She’d need to fold and wait for a better chance at Lennox.

  That decision made, she studied the other players, eager to start learning their tells. Lennox grinned at the three of hearts displayed before him, then caressed his chips, obviously eager to bring in the first bet.

  Bristow glanced at Lennox and yawned, a definite sign he thought he had an excellent chance. His visible jack had to be matched by something else in his hand.

  “Five dollars, gentlemen,” Lennox announced, pushing the chips into the center. “Anyone brave enough to try to claim them?”

  A slight rustle ran around the room at Lennox’s bravado, but no one spoke. The next player folded quietly, which was what Rosalind had expected. Then it was Bristow’s turn.

  “I’m in,” he announced, matching Lennox’s large wager. But Rosalind had played him before and knew him as a tight player. If Bristow was willing to bet like this, he must be very confident of winning the hand.

  Two more players folded, probably unwilling to match their cards against the two men already jostling for the pot.

  Then it was Rosalind’s turn. She started to fold, but hesitated, strategies flashing through her brain.

  What did it matter who took Lennox’s money, so long as he was empty-handed at the game’s end? She had a good card visible, so no one would be surprised if she wagered aggressively. Perhaps she could build up the pot by raising the stakes, then fold on fourth or fifth street, which would still minimize her risk. If Bristow took the pot after that, Lennox would have lost more money than if she played conservatively.

  It was a very unusual strategy, one that required deep pockets and was far different from a professional’s tactic of only chasing the hands that seemed winnable. But her bankroll was substantial, mute testimony to how well she’d done on the Mississippi riverboats. Now was the time to use her winnings to defeat her enemy—and protect Hal.

  “I’ll see you—and raise you two,” she announced, increasing the minimum bet to seven dollars. Bristow and Lennox would each have to add two more dollars to stay in. She could lose her wager if anyone called it, since she had no cards to back it. Her stomach was doing cartwheels behind her stiff vest.

  Bristow stretched slightly, so he’d stay in. Good.

  “How generous of you to fatten the pot for me.” Lennox sneered. She ignored him. He stroked his mustache, mouth pursed, then relaxed. He’d definitely stay in.

  The remaining players quickly folded. Lennox matched her bet, as did Bristow. Rosalind relaxed subtly, careful to show none of her tension. Her strategy had worked. Lennox would lose more money, thanks to her, if Bristow took the pot.

  Hamilton dealt the next round of cards, for fourth street. Surprisingly, Rosalind received a seven of diamonds, matching her six and ten. Could this be the start of a straight flush? It would be an amateur’s gamble to stay in, hoping to be dealt that exceedingly desirable hand.

  Lennox raised again, Bristow matched him, as did Rosalind.

  She received the eight of diamonds on fifth street, moving her a step closer to a straight flush. She wondered what Bristow was holding; his board cards hardly seemed worthy of serious play, from where they lay exposed to sight on the table.

  The usual murmurs were barely audible now, as the other players watched the game. Bets doubled on fifth street, and any player who stayed in now would probably see the hand through to the end.

  Lennox now had two pairs showing, all black aces and eights. “Dead Man’s hand,” whispered the fellow who’d been standing behind him. He edged away from the table.

  Lennox wagered fifty dollars, all the while sneering at Bristow.

  Bristow ostentatiously doubled Lennox’s bet—and yawned when Lennox lectured him about the superiority of Lennox’s hand. While Lennox vilified Bristow’s logic, Rosalind silently matched Bristow’s bet.

  Lennox then matched Bristow’s bet, after the briefest glance at Rosalind’s board cards. His exposed two pair were still far better than hers.

  Bristow shot her a quick, searching look, but said nothing. Did he suspect that she wanted to fleece Lennox for personal reasons? Heaven knows her board cards were no more worthy of this much action than his were.

  On sixth street, Rosalind received a four of diamonds. If she received a nine of diamonds on the river, she’d have her straight flush and take Lennox’s money. Her mouth quirked at the unlikely prospect.

  But she could feel a current flowing her way, luck carrying her forward. If she’d learned one thing from Hal on his beloved Cherokee Belle, it was to trust the river. Her fingers flexed, as if searching for a riverboat’s wheel.

  Lennox was definitely showing all the cockiness of someone holding a full house. Bristow might have three of a kind, if his hole cards were a pair and matched one of his otherwise pitiable board cards.

  Lennox wagered a hundred and fifty dollars. Bristow matched him coolly. Rosalind doubled their bets, as calmly as if she’d been sitting in her parlor on Long Island, then she took a sip of coffee.

  “Why, you foolish puppy, to give me your money so easily.” Lennox sneered.

  Rosalind shrugged. “Are you going to match my bet or fold?”

  Grumbling loudly about insolent fools, Lennox matched her bet. Bristow silently did the same.

  The room was now so quiet that Rosalind could hear everyone’s river sliding onto the table. The last card of the hand, dealt facedown as one card per player. She quickly turned up an edge to see: The nine of diamonds had come to her on the river. She waited.

  Lennox stared at her, his handsome face finally thoughtful. “One hundred to call,” he announced. Of course he wanted to see her hand.

  “Fold,” said Bristow with a sigh.

  Rosalind peacefully matched Lennox’s wager, then turned over her cards. “Straight flush, gentlem
en, ten high.”

  Lennox’s language descended into the gutter as he watched the dealer gather the chips and pass them to Rosalind. But he stayed in the game. She still had a chance to empty his pockets and take the ledger book, too. And on that hope, she tipped Hamilton a larger sum than might have been expected.

  Hal walked briskly down the boardwalk, alert and wary amidst the swirling mist. The earlier warm drizzle had stopped, and fog was building now, shrouding buildings and streets in swathes of damp gray. When he’d left Morgan, he could see fifteen or twenty paces away in the brilliant light from any saloon’s windows. Closer to the Missouri now, he could see only ten paces away in the glimpses of gaslight from the grubby taverns. His steps were muffled, and it was difficult to tell where other sounds came from, or how far distant their origin.

  Cicero was equally silent as he trotted beside Hal.

  There were far fewer people on the streets here, so close to the levee, than there had been just after the war, when the Missouri was covered with men racing west and wild men and women crowded the levees to take their money. He’d have been jostled every step back then, but now he simply exchanged glances with the few passersby and ignored the loose women. Far away, he could hear the rail yards and their attendant saloons—where money grew fast on the Union Pacific payroll, and the sporting men and whores now gathered.

  He was alone, bitterly alone in this world of swirling mist and shabby wooden buildings. Oh, the Cherokee Belle was waiting a few blocks ahead, and his friends would search for him, if he went missing. But here and now, where a footstep could be blocks away or just a few feet, he was a solitary human being.

  If Lennox had paid someone to attack him, he wouldn’t be able to see a blow coming as easily as on the Belle. But he had his blackthorn, his knives, and his gun—more than enough to discourage any paid thug, or two. Still, he kept his head up and his eyes alert, although his heart ached for Rosalind and the excitement of bygone days.

  For the first time, he faced the inevitability of loss. He’d dreamed from earliest childhood of becoming a riverboat pilot, the king of all he surveyed on the river. He’d achieved that and more. He owned the Cherokee Belle, the Cherokee Star, and others. He held sizable chunks of land in many river towns—hell, even in Chicago.