Summer of Pearls (19 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Summer of Pearls
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HENRY COLTON SAT IN HIS ROOM READING THE LATEST EDITION OF THE
Steam Whistle
. He had booked an upstairs suite on the north side of Widow Humphry's inn. Through the rain-streaked glass of his window, he could watch the movements around the Treat Inn and keep tabs on Trevor Brigginshaw. He still frequented Esau's saloon with the captain, too, and had learned that Trevor intended to take the first steamer to New Orleans, now that the rain had brought an early end to the pearling season.
September had come on wet. Day after day of rain and drizzle had dampened the spirits of the pearl-hunters and sent the farm families packing for their fields. After several days of rain, the Caddo Lake pearling camps had become little more than ash heaps and leftover wood piles.
The tourists left town as fast as Joe Peavy's stagecoach could carry them off. Many of them were concerned about getting back to Marshall before the road got too muddy. Wagons had been known to bog down between Port Caddo and Marshall.
In Port Caddo, however, morale remained high. These early rains
would raise the lake level and bring the riverboat traffic back. It looked as if the town's run of luck would hold. The
Steam Whistle
predicted that the steamer season would begin early, supplementing the economic lift the pearls had brought to Caddo Lake during the summer.
That John Crowell is a hell of a booster, Colton thought as he turned a page. Hardly a dreary word to report in the whole newspaper. He glanced through the windowpane, then returned to the article Crowell had written about the steamer traffic.
The government snag boats had virtually finished removing the Great Raft from the Red River. Steamers would find a more navigable channel into Caddo Lake once the giant logjam was gone. True, Marshall was getting a railroad, but Jefferson, upstream on Big Cypress Bayou, had decided against the iron horse, preferring to stick with the familiar riverboat trade. Steamers would ply Caddo Lake for many years yet, according to the
Steam Whistle.
Sentimental fools, Colton thought. Riverboats couldn't compete with railroads. They were slower, smaller, less reliable, and more sex-pensive. Any town that chose steamboats over trains was signing its own death warrant.
The pearls, though—that was a different matter. Crowell's editorial headlined “Sustainable Pearl-Based Economy Challenge to Port Caddo” seemed to make sense, if the local folks would take it to heart.
“Our mussel beds,” Crowell had written, “are more valuable than any deposits of gold or silver found elsewhere upon the continent. Our resource is a living, renewable one that if protected, will continue to produce fine gems for generations to come … .”
Crowell quoted extensively the two local pearl experts—Treat and Brigginshaw—and finally arrived at four laws recommended to protect the Caddo Lake mussel beds for future generations:
1.
Divide the lake into four sections and allow pearling in just one section each year.
2.
Establish limits regarding sizes of mussels to be opened and number of mussels allowed to each pearler.
3.
Close the pearling season from January through May.
4.
Prohibit destructive apparatus (such as George Blank's mussel rakes and tongs).
Maybe the pearl industry would last, Colton thought. But even if it did, Trevor Brigginshaw wouldn't be a part of it. His days as a pearl-buyer were numbered. If only he could get into the Australian's leather satchel. That was proving to be the toughest part of this assignment. The captain rarely let the thing get out of his grasp, much less his sight. Colton couldn't be sure of success until he got into that case, and the sooner the better.
This was his last chance. He had to see this job through, or find employment elsewhere.
He was about to doze off with the newspaper on his lap and the rain beating against the window, when the faint blast came. A single note from a faraway steam whistle. The pearl season was over and the steamer season had begun.
 
 
The boat was an ugly patchwork of unpainted lumber that had reached the age of ten in a rare case of longevity among light-draft steamers. She was called the
Slough Hopper,
and her pilot was an infamous old rake by the name of Emil Pipes, who had no objection to wiles such as price-gouging, smuggling, and graft, though he had never gotten rich off of any of them.
Unlike most Caddo Lake steamers, the
Slough Hopper
was a side-wheeler. Most people considered her unsafe because her paddle wheels were exposed. Huge fenders had once enclosed them, until Pipes decided to strip all unnecessary woodwork from the
Hopper
to lighten her and make more room for cargo. Now there was nothing to keep a man from falling into the churning machinery of the giant wheels that reached from the waterline to the texas. The exposed wheels presented danger to passengers and crew on the main deck, the boiler deck, and the hurricane deck.
If the
Glory of Caddo Lake
had once headed the list of favorite Port Caddo riverboats, the
Slough Hopper
anchored the other end. Her so-called
“staterooms” were separated by moldy curtains. Her galley fare was barely edible. Her drab appearance was enough to drive a man to depravity, which was probably why the
Hopper
carried such a large stock of poor whiskey and hosted nightly poker games.
It was a sorry way to start the riverboat season, but it was a start nonetheless, and an early one at that.
The rain had let up some by the time the
Hopper
moored at the Port Caddo wharf. Townspeople started appearing on the street, easing toward the wharf to greet the first steamer of the season and to get the latest news from New Orleans.
Through his window, Henry Colton saw Trevor Brigginshaw and Billy Treat leave the Treat Inn and slog through the mud to the wharf. The captain had his leather case with him, of course. Colton folded his newspaper and left his room to join the throng.
A considerable commotion obscured his approach. People were talking and shouting to crew members on the steamer. Roustabouts sang a coonjine as they carried huge loads of firewood aboard. Colton reached the end of the cobblestones and slid down the muddy flood-bank between the Treat Inn and Constable Hayes' log jailhouse. Reaching the wharf, he eased up behind Billy and Trevor, who were looking at the
Slough Hopper
when he drew close enough to hear them speak.
“Why don't you wait for another boat, Trev? This thing's barely floating.”
“The sooner I can get back to New York, the better.”
“Why? What's your hurry?”
Trevor lifted his satchel and patted it. “Thanks to your little pearl rush, Billy, I've made enough in commission on this trip to buy a new sloop. The
Wicked Whistler. Two,
I'll call her. I'll be back among the Pearl Islands next summer.”
“You're not coming back here next year?”
“Afraid not, mate. I belong on the open seas, not in these bloody bayous.”
Colton removed himself from the pair of friends and joined several Port Caddoans who were boarding the
Slough Hopper
to talk with the crew members. He had to jump between two wood-toting rousters to
climb the mud-slick gangplank, which bounced under the weight of men and cordwood. He climbed the creaking stairs to the boiler deck and entered the saloon from the front of the passenger cabin.
Passing the whiskey bar and the dirty dining table, Colton came to the first of the berths enclosed by curtains. He pulled back the tattered cloth. He imagined Trevor lying in the berth, intoxicated. He might find his chance to open the leather satchel while aboard the Slough Hopper,. He could reach in through the curtains and have a look-see while the Australian was sleeping off one of his violent drunks.
He left the saloon and climbed the next flight of stairs to the hurricane deck. He saw Emil Pipes smoking a cigar outside the grimy glass pilothouse standing above the texas.,
“Afternoon, Captain,” he said.
Pipes shook some ashes down on Colton, but didn't return the greeting.
“What's the schedule?” Colton queried.
“Ask the clerk.” He turned into his pilothouse to avoid further interrogations.
Colton found the clerk on the bow taking note of some cargo the rousters were off-loading to the wharf. “What's the schedule?” he asked again.
The clerk was all of nineteen. “Take on wood and head upstream for Jefferson. We'll be back here, probably tomorrow night, for the downstream run to New Orleans.”
Colton thought for a moment. “Can I take a berth upstream to Jefferson, then hold on to it for the downstream run to New Orleans, too?”
The clerk glanced from his ledger book. “Of course.”
“I'll be back directly with my belongings.”
 
 
Colton trotted back down to the wharf with his suitcase, but stopped before climbing the gangplank and veered toward Trevor and Billy. “It was a pleasure drinking and pearling with you, Captain, but it's time I headed back to my squaw in the Indian Territory.”
Trevor was unusually formal because Billy was there, and Billy was still mad at Colton for having groped Carol Anne. “Very well, Mr. Colton.”
“I've told you a dozen times, Trevor. Don't ‘mister' me. It's Henry to my friends.”
The shrill whistle of the
Slough Hopper
blew.
“So long, Captain. You, too, Mr. Treat.”
Billy frowned, but tipped his hat.
HENRY COLON STOOD ON THE BOW OF THE
SLOUGH HOPPER
AND WATCHED
the dark bayou pass in the night. The rain had stopped while the boat was taking on cargo and a few passengers at Jefferson. Now the
Hopper
was steaming downstream for Port Caddo, New Orleans, and all points in between. The sky had cleared and stars were shining.
He would have seen them more clearly but for the burning pine knots. They flared and popped in a large iron basket that extended over the water from the bow, like a flaming figurehead. Coals fell into the bayou, but occasionally a spark blew back and landed on the deck.
It's a wonder this boat hasn't burned yet, he thought.
He was hurting pretty bad. He had pulled a good drunk in Jefferson. He had made unwise advances toward the girlfriend of a bully in a billiards hall. He could still feel the cue stick breaking over his head. That glorious drunk would have to stave him off until New Orleans. He would have to stay sober on the riverboat if he wanted to get a look into Trevor Brigginshaw's satchel.
He knew the captain was waiting to board at Port Caddo and ride to New Orleans. There was no other way the big Australian could get
out of town. The roads were too badly bogged to get to Marshall.
A rouster came forward with a shovelful of fatwood chunks and threw them into the big iron basket to burn. A few sparks flew past the hogshead Colton was sitting on. “Watch it, boy!” he said.
The big black man didn't reply.
The trunks of huge cypress trees flickered strangely in the shadows, very near the boat in the narrow bayou. Emil Pipes rang the bell often. He used his side-wheels well to steer the
Hopper
through the crooked bayou, sometimes shutting down one wheel to take bends, or turning the wheels in opposite directions to make sharp turns in the channel.
“Good evenin', Mr. Colton,” someone suddenly said over the pop and hiss of the steam engines.
Colton turned to see the
Hopper's
young clerk smoking a pipe. “Howdy,” he said. “Glad you happened. along. I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“When we get to Port Caddo, a big fellow named Brigginshaw is going to board for New Orleans. Wears a beard, talks with an Australian accent. You can't mistake him.”
“And?”
“Well, I'd just as soon he didn't know I was on board. Personal matter. You understand.”
“No, not really.”
Colton took a gold coin from his pocket and flipped it into the air. “Well, if you could refrain from using my name out loud, and see that I get my meals behind the curtain in my berth, I would make it worth your while.” He held the double eagle out for the clerk to take.
“I don't see any harm in that, Mr. Colton.” The youth slipped the coin in his pocket.
“Now, don't ‘mister' me, son. Just call me Henry.”
 
 
He was watching from the shadows of the hurricane deck when the
Hopper
moored at the Port Caddo wharf. It was the middle of the night. He expected to see no one but Brigginshaw board. But as soon as the
gangplank fell on the wharf, a burly man trotted from behind the jailhouse, to the wharf, and sprinted up the gangplank.
Colton got only a glimpse in the dark, but recognized the new passenger as the man with the gator eyes. He had learned at Esau's that Kelso was suspected of blowing up the
Glory of Caddo Lake
three months before. And, he had a grudge against Brigginshaw. Colton sighed. He didn't care for complications at this point. What did Kelso have in mind?
Brigginshaw didn't leave the Treat Inn until the final whistle blew. Billy came out on the front porch and shook the big man's hand. Carol Anne hugged him. They were good friends to see him off past midnight.
As the captain boarded, Colton went quickly to his berth and pulled the curtain. He strapped on a shoulder holster holding a .44-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver. He pulled a light jacket on over the weapon and lay down on his berth to listen.
There was a card game going on in the forward part of the saloon, but he heard the Australian's long strides tramp across the floor, muting the swearing voices and clinking glasses.
“This will be your stateroom, here, Captain Brigginshaw,” the clerk said.
“Stateroom, is it?” The deep laughter filled the long saloon.
Brigginshaw was across the saloon and three berths aft. Colton could lie behind his curtains and keep track of Trevor's comings and goings. He hoped Trevor was in a drinking mood. It had been three nights since the big Australian had tied one on. Colton had him pretty well patterned. Yes, the big pearl-buyer would be thirsty tonight.
But where was Judd Kelso? He hadn't come up to the boiler deck. Probably riding among the cargo on the main deck. The fares were lower down there. Every pearler in the Goose Prairie camps knew Kelso had run out of money two weeks ago. He had tried pearling for two days, then disappeared. Tonight was the first Colton had seen of him since then. What was he up to, sneaking aboard like that?
The
Slough Hopper
was backing into the Big Cypress Bayou channel when Colton heard Brigginshaw's boots pace forward to the whiskey
bar. Someone was playing a harmonica, and playing it rather well, Colton thought. The steam engines were barking again. Still, he could hear Trevor's rich voice ordering a drink. The smell of the clerk's pipe tobacco hung in the stagnant air of the passenger cabin.
He found himself wishing for whiskey, though his stomach was still sore from retching this morning. Nothing to do now but wait. Wait for Trevor to get drunk, pick a fight, lay some poor devil out with the satchel, and retire to his berth. It would take till dawn.
 
 
He had been listening to Brigginshaw's loud talk and laughter for over an hour when the steam whistle blew.
“What's that about?” Brigginshaw asked.
“Someone wanting to board at Potter's Point, I guess,” the clerk answered.
“You bloody guess!” The captain was beginning to feel belligerent. “I suppose I'll have to find out for myself.”
Colton peeked through his curtains and saw the captain leave through the forward saloon door. He quickly left his berth and headed aft, climbing the stairs to the hurricane deck as soon as he left the saloon. Once above the passenger cabin, he snuck forward on the starboard side, passing between the texas and the exposed moving members of the huge paddle wheel.
Remaining in the shadows, he looked ahead and saw a lantern on the shore. He saw men and horses in the small circle of light. The bayou was wider here, the cypress trees fewer and farther away from the channel. Stepping momentarily into the light of the burning pine knots, he looked down on the boiler deck and saw Trevor standing directly under him, clutching the satchel, watching the men and horses at Potter's Point.
The
Slough Hopper
made for the lantern light and lowered the gangplank. Five men waited to board, with six saddled horses. Colton didn't think the extra horse unusual, except that it was saddled. Perhaps the men were taking the extra horse and saddle to a friend across the lake.
The clerk went down to the main deck to collect the fees for men
and horses. The first four mounts clapped up the gangplank behind their owners as if they boarded riverboats every day. The fifth animal proceeded with much more caution, balking every few steps and caning its neck to see in the glare of the pine knots. The horse took the last step onto the main deck in a leap that knocked one of the horsemen down.
Colton heard Captain Brigginshaw chuckle.
The sixth horse at first refused to negotiate the gangplank. When finally persuaded to climb the narrow ramp, it got halfway up and jumped off, falling into the shallow water. Trevor stomped the boiler deck and roared with laughter.
One of the horsemen mounted the unwilling animal and rode up and down the dark lakeshore for two or three minutes, whipping and spurring the horse relentlessly. When the animal was well spent, it climbed the gangplank almost anxiously. Trevor laughed down on the entire episode from the boiler deck, and Colton looked down on Trevor from the shadows of the hurricane deck.
When the gangplank was raised and the
Hopper
under way again, the five horsemen climbed to the boiler deck where the Australian stood. Colton saw the buckle of a gun belt at one man's waist. Another carried a gunnysack, apparently stuffed with a change of clothes.
“Bloody fine entertainment!” the captain said as the men reached the top of the stairs.
“From up here, I reckon it was,” the man with the gunnysack said.
“Come inside and let me buy you a drink for your trouble,” Trevor said.
“Hell, partner, we don't want to drink that rotgut this old tub sells.” He reached for a bottle in his gunnysack. “But you're welcome to drink some of our good whiskey with us.”
Colton could barely hear their voices over the steam engines. The new passengers exchanged introductions, shook hands with Trevor, passed various bottles and flasks, talked and laughed loudly. The
Slough Hopper was
back in the channel, steaming forward, heading for the open water of Caddo Lake.
This might be just the break, Colton thought. These horsemen
might be just what it takes to get Trevor drunk. He was thinking about sneaking back into his berth from the rear of the saloon when he heard a voice call from the boiler deck, below and aft:
“Hey, you ugly Australian son of a bitch!”
Colton recognized the voice as that of the gator-eyed man, Judd Kelso. He had almost forgotten Kelso was aboard. Now it looked as if he wouldn't be aboard for long. Brigginshaw was sure to throw him off.
“Who the hell is that?” one of the horsemen said.
“He must be talkin' to you, Captain. We're from Arkansas.”
The horsemen laughed.
“Aye, he's talking to me, mates,” Trevor said. “And he'll bloody answer to me as well.”
The thin voice of the gator-eyed man rose again: “I owe you a ass-whipping Brigginshaw. Come and get it.”
From the deck above, Colton followed the footsteps and the jingling spurs aft, wondering what he should do, if anything. He knew Brigginshaw could handle Kelso. Maybe that's what concerned him. Kelso should have known it, too. Ol' Gator Eyes couldn't be stupid enough to think he'd fare any better against the big Aussie this time. Maybe he had a gun. Maybe he had murder on his mind.
“Hot-damn, boys,” one of the horsemen said. “Looks like a fight.” When Colton came to the churning paddle wheel, the engine and machinery noises drowned out all the talk from the deck below. He strained to hear above the blasts of the exhaust valve and the rotations of the huge wheel. He didn't know for sure if he heard anything unusual, or if he saw a shadow move in a way it shouldn't have, or if he just plain smelled trouble. But suddenly he sensed that Trevor Brigginshaw needed help bad.
Colton stepped to the rail in front of the paddle wheel, leaned over, and looked below. The man with the gunnysack had put it over Brigginshaw's head from behind. Another man was pulling on the leather satchel in the Australian's right hand. A third held the pearl-buyer's left arm. A fourth had a leg. The man wearing the gun belt had drawn his pistol and was using it to beat Trevor about the head. Firing it would make too much noise, alert too many passengers. Instead, the men were
trying to pistol-whip and push the big pearl-buyer headfirst into the turning paddle wheel. They were going to let the Slough Hopper do their murdering for them.
Trevor still had one leg free and was kicking heroically with it. With his outstretched arms against the structural members and hog chains, he was preventing the robbers from beheading him with the paddle wheel. But Colton knew that not even Brigginshaw could hold out long against six men. He drew his Smith & Wesson from the shoulder holster. No good. From his position above, he could barely see the bandit with the pistol, and that was the one he needed to shoot first.
He pulled himself back onto the hurricane deck and sprinted as lightly as he could to the forward stairs. He took the steps four or five at a time, leaping down to the boiler deck. He turned the corner of the passenger cabin and ran back toward the fight at the paddle wheel, leading with his Smith & Wesson.
Now he heard Kelso's voice: “Move, Christmas, and let me split his head open.” The gator-eyed man wielded the
Hopper's
iron capstan bar over his head.
The bandit with the pistol looked forward. Colton was proud to be sober. His aim was superb when he wasn't drunk.
The Smith & Wesson fired as the capstan bar came down on Brigginshaw's head. The bandit with the pistol fell, and the others scattered, leaving the Australian's body slumped inches from danger on the boiler deck, the sack still on his head. The robber tugging at the leather satchel came away with it and ran aft. Then Trevor's body fell over to one side, and Henry thought the paddle wheel would finish what the outlaws had started. The pearl-buyer's head came so close that the crushing wheel snagged the sack and yanked it off, exposing Trevor's bloody face.

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