Blackwater

by Abe Dancer

  8

  Ten days later, it was a warm, quiet day in Blackwater. On the shadowed front porch of the High Chair Saloon, rambling honeysuckle dappled the light that fell across its weathered benches.

  The popular, well-patronized saloon had recently become a hangout for a group of men who carried prominent Colts and proddy temperaments. Most of them were in the pay of the railroad, the lumber company or the town mayor.

  There was no formal leader of these ill-tempered men, but Harry Grice saw himself as such, and no one was yet moved to challenge him. He was Morton Pegg’s henchman who had forged himself a reputation with his fists and gun, occasionally his knife. The upshot was, whatever Grice considered worthy of his attention, others were similarly minded.

  What grabbed Grice’s attention now was the appearance of someone in the main street. The man was astride one of the unmistakeable mounts of Gaston Savoy, and as Grice stood up to get a better look, two men rose with him.

  ‘Is that him?’ one of them wanted to know. ‘Is that Rogan?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s him all right. Jack Rogan,’ Grice said, immediately turning towards the batwings.

  ‘Where’s he goin’?’ another asked, as Grice disappeared inside the saloon. Then the man turned his attention back to the street. ‘Interestin’ feller by all accounts,’ he added as the new arrival drew level with them. ‘Out o’ sorts lookin’, though.’

  ‘Probably a reaction to folks blowin’ raspberries,’ the other man suggested with a snort.

  Meantime, upstairs on the saloon balcony, Grice was pointing out the rider to three of the most influential men in the county. Mayor Hockton Marney, Morton Pegg and the railroad tycoon, Benedict Bunce.

  The men showed a keen interest as Jack rode by. There was a fascinating local rumour that Jack Rogan had been hired to put some kind of society polish on Gaston Savoy. But these men thought he might be something more. Maybe a gunsman.

  ‘What do you think, boss?’ Grice asked. ‘You want him watched?’

  ‘Later, maybe,’ Pegg murmured. ‘You don’t ride into town unarmed, sitting a ploughboy mule if you’re looking for trouble.’

  Unconcerned about the interest he created, Jack rode direct to the telegraph office. He mailed a letter to his folks in Beaumont, Texas, but didn’t tell them he was in a fix. He just gave them fibbery about his delay in getting home.

  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ the liveryman said five minutes later. ‘Last time you had a good-lookin’ sorrel. You sure come down in the world,’ he added, with a meaningful look at the Savoy mule.

  ‘Yeah. It seems a long time ago; I didn’t take your advice,’ Jack conceded with a wry smile. ‘But it’s not this animal’s fault.’

  After sorting out what was to be done with the mule, Jack was soon in the nearest dog hole bar. The small, canvas-fronted eatery was a remnant of the railroad workers, and he drank four shots of Pass whiskey, two before, and two after a bowl of biscuits and gravy. After being held against his will, he was taut and ready for a stretch. But he was bearing in mind the next few days, and decided to look around, try to estimate where there would be trouble for Savoy’s when more than one of them made their way around town. He knew Melba was already there. It was no secret she was one of the Savoy clan’s smartest. As such, she was getting on with integrating with the townsfolk in advance of others from Whistler who were moving into the tent camp.

  Jack found her sitting on the porch of the Children’s Orphanage. With another woman, she was handing out corn bread and milk. A wretched outcome of the railroad that had now pushed on further west into Texas was the abandoned offspring of its itinerant workforce. Curious as to her general intent, Jack took a quick look around him then crossed the street.

  Melba stood up and smiled amicably when she saw him approaching. ‘I was hoping to see you,’ she said, and introduced the unhappy-looking lady as Elspeth Tedder. Melba explained to Jack that she was afraid that something had befallen her husband.

  ‘It occurred to me that you could find out where he might be,’ she said. ‘He’s disappeared. Just disappeared without a word.’

  Jack wanted to say he knew how a close relative might feel about that. He appreciated that Melba was mindful of the irony, but now she was being expedient. It was a practical concern that wouldn’t do her any harm in establishing herself in the town.

  Elspeth Tedder explained that her husband had last been seen near the old holding ponds at Lis Etang. He was with two men, one of them definitely being Harry Grice. But since then, the man had claimed to know nothing about Tedder’s disappearance.

  ‘You can ask questions that we can’t,’ Melba said. ‘And probably in places we can’t go.’

  Bearing in mind the feral character of Homer Lamb, Jack didn’t think much for Elspeth Tedder’s husband making a healthy reappearance. And, considering the animosity between himself and Lamb, he saw it as a possible, if not definite setback when all he wanted was a way out. He apologized and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, ladies. There’s some personal stuff here, and right now it’s not the sort of work I’m looking for.’

  But just then he noticed one of the youngsters giving him an unnerving, unflinching look and he quickly changed his mind. ‘Won’t hurt to ask around, I guess,’ he offered, curiously pleased when he saw Melba smiling back at him. ‘I’ve got some places to go. Where’s your pa?’ he asked.

  ‘The saloon,’ Melba said. ‘He’s learning how to drink from a glass.’

  Many of Blackwater’s citizens had heard rumours about Jack Rogan and the Savoy clan. They had speculated at what had happened out on the bayous, and what was going on at the rail workers’ camp. Now, towards the end of the day, they were having a close look at the mysterious stranger.

  ‘He’s leadin’ ’em from their nether world,’ one shopkeeper said, as Jack walked by.

  ‘Whatever he’s up to, he don’t look too different from any of us,’ replied another.

  When local folk saw men like Blanco Bilis or Harry Grice on the streets of Blackwater, they had no trouble recognizing them as drunken troublemakers or professional toughs who were best given a wide berth. But Jack Rogan didn’t seem to fit either category. So far, he was a man holding his own counsel, returning their open scrutiny with a clear lack of concern.

  As for the man himself, Jack was doing what he needed to do because he wanted his sorrel, his Colt and his $1,000 back. He wasn’t working out a contract to hurt anyone, and didn’t want it to look otherwise.

  To him, Blackwater had only been one of many stopovers between the Mississippi and Beaumont, Texas. It was where the liveryman had advised him to go around the swamps, not through them. ‘They ain’t nice people, an’ the land’s crawlin’ with ’em,’ he’d warned.

  It didn’t take Jack long to check out the town’s gambling ground. As he suspected, it was mainly contained within the High Chair Saloon. He had little doubt he could take most of its clients inside a week if he wanted. But he wouldn’t be turning any cards or rolling any dice this night. All he was interested in was serving his time and getting the hell out. So what are you doing seeking out those who’ll likely respond very badly to being asked questions? asked the voice inside his head.

  Now he stood looking at the bright yellow light shining from the windows of the saloon. On one of its outside benches, sitting at a table with a fat, tallow candle, Gaston Savoy was chatting enthusiastically with an attentive, well-dressed lady. Jack guessed immediately she was the one who’d given Savoy his marching orders a decade ago; the lady who’d gone on to marry an ambitious town official.

  ‘Melba told me you’d be here,’ he said. For a moment he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing, if the lady might be concerned about who Melba was.

  Ah, what the hell, he thought, and offered an untroubled smile.

  ‘Mr Jack Rogan, this is Beatrice Marney. We go back aways,’ Savoy said.

  Jack nodded and shook the lady’s hand. ‘How’d you do? Are we all newcomers?’ he aske
d.

  ‘No, Mr Rogan. I’ve been here for more than ten years. If the town hadn’t already got itself a name, it could well have been Marney.’

  ‘On your side?’

  ‘No, my husband’s. He’s the mayor.’

  Jack made easy talk for a minute before saying he had business elsewhere. ‘There’s much to be discovered in a new town,’ he said. ‘How the place operates, who pulls the strings. A lot of it should be starting up about now.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Savoy granted. ‘An’ looking after a big family takes a lot of work. Having moved on and all, folk seem real interested in what we’re doing. Someone wanted to know what we were bringing to the Blackwater table. Maybe I should start to tell ’em.’

  Jack smiled at the change in Savoy. Gone was the ignorant swamper, the hard-nosed clan leader from deep in the bayou. Suddenly the man was of considerate words, smarter appearance, a more thoughtful manner.

  ‘It’s interesting to hear what Gaston has to say about his family, his people,’ Beatrice said, as if of similar thought. ‘We’re somewhat isolated here, don’t really know much about the lives of folk from other parts. He paints quite a colourful and interesting picture.’

  Hah, don’t I know it, Jack thought. ‘Perhaps one day he’ll be running for office,’ he suggested more light-heartedly. ‘A delegate of the common citizen … the underdog, even. You’d best warn your husband, Mrs Marney.’

  ‘Are you suggesting my Hockton spreads his concerns unequally, Mr Rogan?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, would I, ma’am? It’s just that in my experience, those that live off the land often have very little to represent. Two years ago, a judge asked an Arkansas dirt farmer why he robbed the local bank. The man’s reply was, “because that’s where all the money is, Your Honour”. Looking at it with a squint, you can kind of see what he was getting at.’

  ‘Can you?’ Beatrice replied with an inscrutable smile. ‘Don’t leave just yet. I’ve asked my niece to join us for a drink. I’m sure she can shed some light on to the twilight activities of Blackwater. Play your cards right and she might even show you, if you ask nicely.’

  ‘Hah, I can see you hittin’ it right off, Jack,’ Savoy joined in. ‘Here, these are yours I believe. You must feel near naked without ’em,’ he said, handing over a small sack.

  Jack took it, knew what it was without looking. He just couldn’t immediately fathom out why. Savoy still had his sorrel and his grubstake, so giving him back his guns was hardly setting him on the road to freedom. Maybe it meant he was close to what Savoy really had him in town for. Makes more sense, he thought dryly.

  He put on his gunbelt and adjusted it, pushed the pocket revolver into the waistband of his trousers. Suddenly he felt a tad more secure than when he’d ridden into town. He had no interest in the personal business of Beatrice Marney and Gaston Savoy. He was asking about some of the town’s night-time activities, when Beatrice smiled broadly and held out her hand.

  ‘Lauren dear,’ she said happily as her niece arrived. ‘This is Gaston Savoy and Mr Jack Rogan.’

  ‘How do you both do?’ the woman responded to the introduction.

  Jack, smiled at the economical response, the voice that sounded more Georgia swank than Louisiana swamp. Luck’s changing, he thought, removing his hand from the stock of his Colt.

  A quarter hour later, Jack was sipping coffee with Lauren Kyle in the lobby of the Blackwater Hotel. He indulged himself in eager conversation, talking of fashions on Mississippi riverboats, and amusing local patois for whiskey and beer. Lauren was a timely reassurance that not everyone between the Mississippi and Sabine rivers was coarse-grained and uneducated. He was totally unmindful of the passage of time, of what he’d meant to do before meeting Beatrice Marney’s niece.

  Jack’s appreciation for Lauren was clear, and he thought reciprocal, after he had walked her home. He left her with an agreement that they would get together again. He wasn’t certain when this would be – was hoping for sooner, because it wasn’t likely there’d be a later.

  He was walking back past the High Chair Saloon listening to the music spilling over the batwings before he remembered. He’d done nothing about Elspeth Tedder’s disappearing husband, hadn’t even thought about it.

  The saloon was filled with raised voices and hearty laughter. The music of a mechanical piano tried to make itself heard through the spirited noise.

  Harry Grice wasn’t hard to spot. He was standing at the far end of the long bar flanked by several of his armed cronies. Jack weaved his way through the busy customers towards him, stopping momentarily when he saw the broad-shouldered man standing with his back to him was Homer Lamb.

  He’d been surprised when Elspeth Tedder had mentioned Lamb’s name in conjunction with Grice, but now he was thinking, why not? Their qualities were probably ideally suited. He continued a pace, turned to the bar and ordered whiskey.

  Lamb either heard Jack’s voice or noticed him in the back-bar mirror. He turned sharply, his face already darkening as their eyes met.

  Jack raised his glass. ‘Coincidence, or what?’ he said. ‘Why don’t you introduce me?’

  ‘I was introduced earlier in the day. You weren’t,’ Grice suggested. ‘What do you want?’

  Jack half grinned. Twisting the shot glass in his fingers, he leaned back against the bar. ‘Fellow by the name of Winge Tedder. It seems you were the last person to see him before he went missing. So his wife’s wondering why no one knows anything. I told her I’d ask.’

  A nerve twitched under Grice’s right eye as he took a step back from the bar. ‘That’s very good o’ you,’ he said icily. ‘But nobody knows what happened to him. What are you suggestin’?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything. I’d like to know from that “nobody”, what happened.’

  ‘You got a smart way with that mouth o’ yours,’ Grice said venomously. ‘I can see why it’s got you into so much trouble.’

  Grice’s cronies shuffled uneasily. Homer Lamb smirked, crooked his thumb around the sheath knife that hung around his shoulder. They were all clearly enjoying the verbal scrap, sensed it was leading to more.

  ‘I told Mrs Tedder I’d find out what happened to her husband,’ Jack said. ‘You were seen with him near some old holding ponds. He wasn’t noodling for catfish, so you just tell me what was going on, and there’ll be no more of that trouble I get into.’

  ‘That sounds to me like a threat, Rogan,’ Grice responded. ‘Now, you got a handful o’ seconds to tell me you’ve made a big mistake. If you don’t, you’ve a lesson comin’.’

  Jack could see what was coming, but he wasn’t unduly bothered. Grice was on the back foot, the talk was his thinking time – the gambler bluffing with a bum hand. Jack had tangled with that sort all along the Mississippi, and he’d always got the better of them. It came with the territory, one of the adrenalin-fired appeals of gaming for money. But it was also part of the life he was supposed to have turned his back on.

  ‘For Chris’sakes, Grice, I just want to know what happened to him,’ he snapped angrily. ‘If you know something, tell me.’

  Jack’s demand was deliberately provoking. The smirk disappeared from Lamb’s face. As he shuffled sideways, Grice’s henchmen got away from behind him.

  ‘I’m through talkin’, feller,’ Grice rasped.

  The man had the speed of a hired gunman, but Jack was more prepared. The flash and resounding blast of a single shot filled the barroom. With one hand clutching his shoulder, Grice staggered back, cursing, as his gun clattered to the floor.

  ‘That’s why you don’t see turkeys wearing guns,’ Jack said. ‘They’re too slow by half. If I’d wanted, I could have put that bullet through your mouth.’

  It was instinctive for Jack to swing his Colt to cover Lamb. But the big, bearded swamper made no move for his gun. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open, his dark eyes filled with loathing.

  ‘If there’s law in town, go get it,’ Jack commanded, his
words cutting the breathless silence.

  Lamb worked spit around his mouth. He shrugged insolently, walked to the saloon doors like a man with short-lived allegiance.

  9

  By ten o’clock in the morning, the mayor already smelled of alcohol. He wanted another belt as he looked out from the balcony above the Gulf Railroad offices.

  He had an uninterrupted view of the Whistler families, their flat-bed wagons, hand-carts, hogs and mules that were taking up residency at the Chinese railroad workers’ tented pitch on the outskirts of town.

  Until the past few days, Mayor Hockton Marney had had no concerns about the removal to Blackwater. It all made for an easier, trouble-free takeover of the bayou township, its occupant-free land. It was a venture which he’d been deeply involved with for months, but almost overnight, things had changed.

  Although central to the deal, Marney had originally laughed at the notion of Gaston Savoy leading his swamper families to a promised land, giving them a voice for openness and equality. But now, the arrival of Savoy’s forceful presence concerned him. With the upcoming elections, it could create a distraction he didn’t need.

  The two men had been foes ever since Marney won the hand of the woman they were both smitten with. In the ten years since, he had grown rich and powerful while Savoy lived out on the wetlands, relatively deprived and remote.

  Unexpectedly, Savoy was now assuming the manner of a civic-minded resident of Blackwater and was putting himself around a bit. To make matters worse, Marney’s wife had been seen drinking with Savoy, while he’d been busy elsewhere.

  Marney thought there was more to it than just swampers moving into town. And he was taken aback at the lack of interest shown by his business associates. He let his gaze drop to the street below. A couple of passersby glanced up, but their acknowledgment appeared more courteous than friendly.

  ‘Looks like these folk have suddenly got something on their minds,’ he said, stepping back into the room. ‘If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they were giving themselves room for thought.’