by Brett Waring
“Means nothin’,” the captain growled. “Anyways, you just watch your step on board. Took on some new passengers at St. Louis and we dunno who they might be.”
“I’ll take it easy, Cap’n,” Spar promised. “What about Chips? When’s he boardin’?”
“Should pick him up at Beacon Point. If he ain’t there, he’ll either be at Saber Bend or we’ll get him on the down-river run. Personally, I hope he’s at Beacon Point. I want him aboard to make the decisions. There wouldn’t be so much damn heat from Wells Fargo if he hadn’t been loco enough to try to kill Hume. Never even made a good job of it. I hear he’s off the critical list.”
Spar smiled crookedly. “You want I should repeat them remarks to Chips when I see him, Cap’n?”
The captain’s hard eyes slitted and he brought up a rocky fist, cracking it solidly against the other man’s jaw. Spar hurtled back and jarred violently against the cabin wall.
“Try it,” the captain invited, then turned and walked out, leaving the cabin door swinging.
On the deck, he almost cannoned into Nash as the Wells Fargo man came around a corner from his cabin. The captain nodded curtly and threw Nash a brief salute.
“Settled in all right, Mr. Clayton?”
“Fine, thanks, amigo. Say, when’s the action start on this tub? I mean, I been led to believe that riverboats got non-stop gamblin’ and non-stop everythin’.”
He winked at the captain who kept his face hard.
“This ain’t no tub, mister. It’s a sternwheeler paddleboat and I’ll thank you to remember it. As for the gamblin’, why, give it another thirty minutes or so. Law says we have to be two miles upriver.”
“This is your own boat, Cap’n?” Nash asked.
“It’s one of a fleet, but I own it. Joinin’ a fleet gives me a lot of concessions I wouldn’t get if I went it alone, is all.” He squinted at Nash. “First time on the river?”
“Near enough to it,” Nash replied. “Rode a riverboat up the Sabine once from San Augustine to Port Arthur, but it was mainly passengers and cargo, not so many ... facilities ... as the Jewel.”
“Won’t find better anywhere on the river. We run a square table and the gals are served real drinks. You’ll get value for your money.”
“I sure as hell aim to try,” Nash grinned, patting a bulge in his coat pocket.
“Lemme know if you got any problems,” the captain said and saluted again as he pushed by.
Nash watched him go, glanced at the door of Spar’s cabin as the big man closed it, nodded in a friendly manner, then continued along the deck towards the gambling room ...
The captain whirled at a sound behind him, his hand flashing to the hip where he kept his long-bladed seaman’s knife. But he relaxed when he saw that it was only Frenchy. She still showed signs of her mauling by Deadlight, but the captain felt no sympathy for her. She was just an added responsibility until Chips appeared.
Until then, she would work the customers on the boat as a percentage girl, and she would work damn hard, too, he would see to that.
“What the hell you doin’ here?” the captain growled. “Get on down to the saloon. They’ll be openin’ the tables shortly and I want to see you bringin’ in your keep.”
“Sure, Cap’n, I’ll get along there, in just a minute.”
“You’ll damn well get along right now when I tell you,” he roared and lifted a hand threateningly. She cowered, and peered at him from under her protecting arm.
“I ... I’ve got somethin’ to tell you that I think you should know.”
He lowered his hand. “Well?”
“That feller Clayton,” Frenchy said, her mouth working nervously. “I think I know him.”
“So? In your job you’re likely to run across a hundred hombres who’ve bought your time.”
“I didn’t say he’d done that. I said I thought I knew him.”
“Get on with it, damn it. I got work to do.”
She ran her tongue across her split lips.
“All right. I worked a saloon once in Dallas, Texas. I had a friend named Honey who had a boyfriend who rode the owlhoot. He got into some trouble for holdin’-up a Wells Fargo stage or a train with a Wells Fargo express van or somethin’. I forget which. He came to Honey for help, with a bullet under his shoulder. I helped her dig it out in the room we shared and ...”
“Judas Priest! Will you get on with it,” the captain snapped impatiently.
“Well, before he could leave town, this tough Wells Fargo agent pulled in and tracked him down. There was a helluva gun battle right in my room there with bullets flyin’ every which way ... Result was, Honey’s boyfriend was killed, she was winged and I was scared out of my wits ... I’m pretty sure the agent was that feller who came aboard usin’ the name of Clayton.”
The captain stiffened.
“A Wells Fargo man?”
“That’s him, I think. I’ve been tryin’ to recall his name. It’s not Clayton, but somethin’ like that. He was hell with a gun and I’m just wonderin’ what he’s doin’ on board. I mean, d’you think he could have any ideas that Chips is goin’ to be on later?”
The captain scrubbed a hand across his jowls. “Mebbe. Or mebbe I know now why that marshal suddenly turned Spar loose. All right, Frenchy. You keep this to yourself or I’ll drop you into the gears of that sternwheel, savvy?”
The girl paled, and nodded. She put a hand on the captain’s arm as he made to turn away.
“Cap’n ... Could you ... could you let Chips know what I done? Kind of tell him before he sees me? It’ll kind of make up for that mistake I made back at Silky Magee’s, wearin’ the ring, and all.”
The captain shook free of her grip, took hold of her shoulder and propelled her along the deck.
“Get down to the gamblin’ saloon and start workin’. If you can get close to Clayton, do it. But not if you think he’ll recognize you, savvy?”
The girl stumbled, clutching at the rail and nodded, shaking with fear. “Will you tell Chips what I done to help?” she pleaded.
The captain merely turned and stomped away along the deck.
Frenchy straightened her hair and dress and, taking a deep breath, moved along the narrow deck towards the gambling saloon where passengers were already beginning to gather.
Nash started well on board the Jewel. When he entered the gambling room, the house men and the percentage girls were just taking up their positions.
“Well, howdy, folks. Name’s Nick Clayton and I figure we’re goin’ to be seein’ a heap of each other before we reach river’s end.” He reached into his pocket and took out some coins, walking across to the ornate bar and slapping them down on the polished wood. “’Keep, set ’em up for everyone. An’ don’t forget yourself.” The gamblers and girls crowded around the bar and picked up their drinks, saluting Nash briefly.
“We thank you, Mr. Clayton,” said one of the tough-looking, shifty-eyed house gamblers, allowing a small smile to move his thin lips. “If you lose, I’ll personally buy you a drink.”
“Hell, man, I don’t aim to lose,” Nash said in his brash, trail driver character. He pulled out his bulging wallet. “I aim to have to buy me another wallet to take home my winnings. Now who’s game to take me on first? Huh?”
By that time, other passengers had the word that the gaming room was open and they began to file in. Nash sat down at a card table with the gambler who had thanked him for the drink and it took no time at all to fill up the vacant chairs. As the cards were shuffled, the room seemed to come alive.
There was a loud buzz of conversation, some laughter from the saloon girls, the scrape of chairs and the clink of glasses and bottles. It all but drowned the continual thump-thump of the engines and the churning roar of frothing water at the stern wheel.
The girls were circulating and three in succession approached Nash and leaned over his shoulders, hands squeezing his arms as they coyly asked if he wanted them to stick around, “for luck.” He laughed. “L
uck? Hell, lady, I got plenty of that ridin’ with me at the moment. I just made me the biggest deal I’ve ever had with a trail drive to Newton, Kansas. So hungry for beef there they practically cut steaks off my steers as I drove the herd down the main street towards the holdin’ pens. I could ask my own price. And I sure as hell did.” He held up his wallet then placed it on the table, one hand covering it. “They paid without a whimper and what I got in there is pure profit and I aim to cut loose and have myself a time till it’s either all gone or doubled.” He reached around and slapped one of the girls on the behind. “When I’m runnin’ out of luck—or I got other things on my mind, I’ll look you up. Okay?”
The girls gave him fixed smiles and moved on to try their luck at other tables.
After the first few hands, Nash called for drinks for everyone at the table. He had won a couple and lost a couple. But he was keeping an eye on the house man. The gambler had his eye on the wallet and its contents. Nash was waiting for him to start dealing from the bottom of the pack. Nash looked up twice from his cards and glanced around the room which was rapidly filling with smoke haze. On both occasions he spotted a blonde girl near the piano studying him. She looked away swiftly as he raised his eyes to her but not quite fast enough. Nash frowned. He didn’t recognize her, and hoped he wouldn’t. It wasn’t likely, for he hadn’t been in St. Louis much in his capacity as a Wells Fargo operative and he hadn’t made a habit of riding the riverboats.
Which really didn’t mean a thing, when he thought about it a little more. She could have been a saloon girl from almost any cow town in the U.S. who had ‘graduated’ to the paddle wheelers.
He aimed to watch her closely. The last thing he wanted was for someone to blow his cover ...
“You playin’, Clayton, or keepin’ them cards as souvenirs?”
Nash snapped out of it, and raised the bet by ten dollars. That particular hand went on for another quarter hour and Nash finally took the pot in the center of the table. It was well over a hundred and fifty dollars and he let out a wild yell as he scooped it across.
“That’s it, old greenbacks,” he chuckled. “Come on over and join your cousins ... I got lots of room to accommodate you. Now, gents, how about we make the game real interestin’ and make the minimum bet ten dollars ...? Nope? A little too steep? Okay ... How about five?”
Two men dropped out and went looking for smaller games but the house man agreed and the other three players said they would try a couple of hands.
By the time evening came, Nash was attracting a lot of attention. He was on a winning streak and the house man had been replaced by his relief.
It was Spar.
The big man nodded civilly as he sat down and called for a fresh pack of cards, cracking his knuckles in preparation.
Frenchy brought the cards on a tray and dropped them onto the table in front of Spar. She smiled mechanically at the men seated around the table, her gaze resting on Nash’s face a trifle longer than the others.
“Well, gents, it’s gettin’ dark and that’s about the time this boat really howls,” she said, winking suggestively. “Anyone feel like a little female company? I’m available.”
There were no takers, though a couple of the men said maybe later. Nash was one of them. He drilled his cool eyes into the girl.
“I’m feelin’ mighty high, ma’am. If I keep on this winnin’ streak ... an’ I got no reason to believe I won’t ... then I’ll be higher’n a mountain hawk by the time I’m finished. You stick around where I can find you and we just might have us a deal.”
“Fine with me, Mr. Clayton,” Frenchy smiled.
“Hell, call me Nick. Now you got the advantage of me. I dunno your name.”
“Just call me Frenchy,” she told him still smiling, but he thought there was a touch of alertness in her face, and he quickly looked towards Spar.
The big man was studying him intently, but snapped out of it and tried to make it seem casual as he slapped the sealed deck into the center of the table.
“You’ll find her all right,” he said, a thin smile touching his lips. “Boat ain’t that big. An’ where could she go?”
Nash smiled and nodded. He flicked a ten dollar bill at the girl. “To keep my place.”
She caught the bill deftly and her smile widened as she balled it up and thrust it down the front of her dress. She leaned down and kissed Nash lightly on the cheek and the other players whistled and yelled. As she trailed her fingers across his neck, he noticed that she was heavily made-up, and that powder had been used to cover the bruises on her face. The top of her dress didn’t quite hide the burns and scars on her shoulder.
Nash gave her a quizzical look and then winked again as she strolled away.
Frenchy, he thought, mechanically discarding three cards and buying others to replace them. It was a common enough name for saloon girls. He had known several called Frenchy over the years. He couldn’t quite place this girl, though. Couldn’t even make up his mind if she were familiar or not. She had the usual used, toughened features of all girls who worked the saloon and riverboat circuits.
Just the same, it sat uneasily on him.
He was aware that someone was speaking to him. He snapped out of his thoughts and looked up.
Spar glared at him across the table.
“For a man who’s s’posed to be hot on a winnin’ streak, mister, you sure let your mind wander. Frenchy ain’t that divertin’.”
Nash shrugged and pushed some money into the pot. “My apologies, gents. I raise ten.”
The card game continued. Frenchy, dancing with a tanglefoot lumberjack across the room, looked past his shoulder as his big hands pawed her and watched Nash closely.
She hoped she wasn’t mistaken. For, if he were a Wells Fargo agent, he could save her from a hell of a beating at the hands of Chips. She smiled faintly.
Hell. What did it matter whether he was or not? All she had to do was tell Chips he was—and, hopefully, the fact that she had been alert enough to identify him would put her in the killer’s good books.
If it didn’t, he might well beat her to a pulp and then drop her over the side.
She shuddered and the lumberjack grinned, pulling her tighter against him.
Chapter Eight – Killer
By the time the Jewel pulled into the small landing at Beacon Point, Nash had decided that the blonde girl was just another percentage worker who resembled so many others he had seen over the years. But there was still a nagging at the back of his mind, so he didn’t dismiss her entirely as a stranger.
That first night, after his winning streak at the card tables, he had met her as arranged and, during the course of a desultory conversation with her, had thrown in a few casual questions about her background. She had answered readily enough and mentioned the names of towns she had worked in or been through over the years. It was entirely possible that they had crossed trails on more than one occasion and she had even admitted that she figured she had seen him someplace.
She seemed quite open about it all and, except for that small reservation, he put her from his mind.
Just the same, whenever he saw her—in the gaming rooms or on the decks—he watched closely enough to see who she kept company with and who she spoke to.
He later made the acquaintance of another percentage girl called Riverboat Lil and she told him, with curling lip, that Frenchy had worked ashore in St. Louis in the Red Light District in The Sinkhole. Her boss had been none other than the notorious Silky Magee and the word was she had done something wrong and she had been beaten silly.
“She was lucky to get a job on the riverboat, then,” Nash said.
Lil laughed hoarsely. “Hell, Magee’s got shares in this tub.”
Nash frowned. “If she’d crossed him, it’s a wonder he helped her out by lettin’ her work aboard.”
Lil shrugged. “Who knows what Magee’s got in mind? Anyway, you’re buyin’ my time and it ain’t polite to talk about someone else to a lady y
ou’ve paid for.”
Nash had grinned and agreed.
Frenchy was starting to worry him as he leaned on the rails outside his cabin and watched passengers filing aboard and going ashore. She was waiting tensely at the inboard end of the gangplank and he saw her stiffen as a tall bearded man, maybe in his late twenties, came aboard, shouldering a cabin trunk. He couldn’t see more than the lower half of the man’s face because of the hat he wore and the angle he looked down, but Frenchy smiled, tentatively, and slipped an arm through the man’s and they passed from sight beneath the overhang of the deck.
Spar had been leaning on the rails near the gangplank and he flicked his cigarette butt over the side and straightened his coat as he looked after Frenchy and the new arrival then glanced up at Nash.
He waved briefly then hurried after the others. Nash smoked for a spell and was moving back towards his cabin when one of the crew came hurrying towards him, holding an envelope.
“Telegraph wire for you, Mr. Clayton.”
Nash took the envelope, tipped the man and went into his cabin. The message was from Garth and it was brief.
R. THE MOST LIKELY. WHEREABOUTS NOT KNOWN AT THIS TIME.
Nash burned the paper. So Rigby seemed the most likely candidate for the role of killer and stagecoach bandit. Pity Garth hadn’t sent a description. But then that would have been a difficult and probably dangerous move ...
Nash wondered just what kind of face that man had who’d been greeted by Frenchy.
The blonde girl stifled a scream as the blow took her across the side of the face and sent her lurching across the cabin. She thudded into the wall and started to bring up her hands protectively.
The bearded man lunged across the room, smashed her hands down with his left fist and belted her across the other side of her face. She screamed, but he was on her in a second, one hand twisted in her hair. He slammed her face into the pillow on the bunk, twisted an arm up her back then drove his knee several times into her body ... Her cries were muffled by the pillow.
