Summer of Pearls (21 page)

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Authors: Mike Blakely

BOOK: Summer of Pearls
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“I'm not through yet, Hayes. When Trevor was knocked out cold on the boat tonight, I finally got a chance to look in that ledger book of his. According to the ledger, he paid me four hundred, not three-fifty. Now do you get it? He kept the extra fifty dollars for himself. Fifty dollars of his company's money. That's theft.”
“For God's sake, Henry,” the pearl-buyer shouted, straightening so quickly that he bumped his head on the jailhouse ceiling. “Did you stop to think I might have made a mistake and written four hundred accidentally?”
“Now, there you go,” Hayes said. “That explains it, don't it, Colton?”
“I had you repeat the sum three times, Trev. I even tricked you into spelling it out to me as you were writing it in your ledger book. You couldn't have written four hundred unless you meant to.”
“I don't know, Colton. It's just your word against the captain's. I don't feel right about locking him in jail just on your say-so.”
“That colored boy, Giff Newton, was a witness. And some pearl-hunters were standing around listening. Besides, I'm sure I wasn't the only one whose price Trev doctored a little in his ledger book. He's probably done the same thing on every purchase he's made on Caddo Lake. Now, if you'll give me the key and let me lock him in overnight, we'll interview some local pearl-hunters tomorrow. See what they got for their pearls, and compare that to what Trevor's ledger book says. Then if you don't think we have enough evidence to prove what I'm sayin', you can let him out of your jailhouse and put me in there.”
The jailhouse grew so quiet that Trevor could hear the shallow breathing of the wounded outlaw in the cell with him. He shifted his eyes from the leather satchel in Hayes' hand to the pistol in Colton's. How he longed to be aboard the
Wicked Whistler
now, far out to sea, where he made his own laws. Yes, he had skimmed a little off the top, but he had always planned to pay it back later. It was a loan, not a theft.
“Captain Brigginshaw,” Hayes finally said. “I'm sorry, but I'll have to go on his word until we get this straightened out. I'll make sure you're comfortable in here tonight, and we'll sort it out first thing in the morning.”
Colton grinned. “You heard him, Trev. Now, back up and let me close the door.”
The Australian used every measure of control he possessed to cinch his temper in place. “Don't ‘Trev' me, you lying little bastard. It's Captain Brigginshaw to you.”
“Whatever. Back up.”
Brigginshaw grit his teeth. He cast his eyes downward and sighed, as if in defeat. Slowly, deliberately, he slid his foot back from the doorway and took a half-step backward.
Colton pushed the door closed and aimed at Trevor through one of the squares in the iron grating. “The key,” he said to Hayes.
The lone key jingled on its iron ring. Trevor watched Colton's eyes. Colton held his left hand open to take the key from the constable. The key came into view through the grating. Colton's hand closed around it. Trevor stood as if in resignation, but he was ready to explode.
The Pinkerton man's stare merely darted to the keyhole on the door, but it was enough to trigger Brigginshaw's attack. His huge leg kicked toward the iron door in a tremendous burst of angry desperation. Colton jerked his trigger, but the bullet clipped an iron bar and sang into the log wall above the wounded outlaw's body.
The heavy door swung open and caught Colton in the face. His head jerked back. The Pinkerton man flew backward as if blasted in the chest with a load of buckshot. The Smith & Wesson sailed into the darkness.
Trevor exploded from the jailhouse like a bear from its den. He glimpsed the astonishment on the constable's face, saw the lawman reaching for his side arm. He barreled into Hayes, knocking him over backward and wrenching the leather case from his hand at the same time. He struck Hayes in the jaw with his elbow—a blow he thought would surely knock the constable out cold. He began running for the
Slough Hopper,
unsure of what he would do when he reached her. Halfway to the boat, he heard a voice behind him.
“Stop, Captain!”
The words surprised him. The old constable could take a punch. The burning pine knots from the
Slough Hopper
cast a faint light across the muddy ground as he continued to run.
“Stop!” the constable yelled.
Trevor was almost to the riverboat when the bullet caught him in the leg. He fell, then tried to get back up. Another shot echoed across the bayou, and he dove into the mud. He tried to get up again, but the wounded leg slipped. A third shot missed him. He lay still. The shooting stopped. He should get up and run. But where? He was hit once already. The constable was a surprisingly good shot. He was caught. His head
was still hurting. He clutched the leather satchel in his hand. Now how long would it be until he saw the high seas again?
There was a sickening silence about Port Caddo. The gunfire had quieted the bullfrogs. Then he heard Rayford Hayes' boots sucking at the mud. The constable moved cautiously in on him and took the leather satchel away.
“Go get in the jailhouse, Captain,” he said.
Trevor tried to get up. “You've shot me, Rayford. I can't bloody walk.”
“Then crawl, damn it. Get in the jail!”
Trevor saw the crew of the
Slough Hopper
watching him from the bow of the boat. He heard the door of the Treat Inn open. Looking back, he saw a guest peeking into the street. Thank God it wasn't Billy. Don't let Billy see you crawl. He managed to stand on his good leg and started hopping toward the jailhouse. He slipped once, and glanced up at Constable Hayes, the lawman's nightshirt caked with mud, looking so comical that Trevor almost laughed.
He hopped past the lantern on the ground and past Henry Colton, still stretched out motionless on his back. He ducked into the log jailhouse and collapsed on the floor.
Hayes covered the doorway with his pistol and went to get the jailhouse key from the mud beside Colton. When he came to the door, he said, “Back up, Captain. All the way across the floor.”
Trevor obeyed and Hayes closed the door, locking the Australian in. Next, the constable went to check on Henry Colton, thinking to rouse him out of the mud. But he sighed as he put his pistol back in the holster.
“You've done it now, Captain. You've really done it good. Henry Colton's skull is split. He's dead.”
I NEVER DID HAVE MUCH OF A MIND FOR LARCENY. WORRY IS WORK TO ME,
and I get nervous just thinking about criminal activity. That's why I had such a hard time understanding Pop's explanation of what had happened to Trevor Brigginshaw. I could comprehend stealing something like a chicken or a watermelon—actually sneaking in to grab it and run. But to think of a man going to all that trouble with the pearls and the ledger book and his company's money was a little more than I could grasp.
The town was usually pretty quiet when I left for Goose Prairie at dawn each morning. But that day the streets were humming with excitement as soon as I stepped outside. Pop was coming in at about that time, and I could tell he had been up a while.
“What's goin' on?” I asked.
That's when he took me into the house and told me all about the death of Henry Colton and the jailing of Captain Brigginshaw. He had heard the gunshots in the night and had gone out to investigate. Light sleepers make good small-town newspaper reporters.
“ … and the outlaw from the Christmas Nelson gang died half an
hour ago,” Pop finally concluded. “They just carried him out. Constable Hayes sent a rider to Marshall to fetch the doctor. He let Brigginshaw take some laudanum to kill the pain. His leg is busted and swollen up pretty bad.”
“What'll happen to him now?” I asked.
“He'll probably stand trial for stealing his company's money and for killing Colton.”
“What'll happen to him then?”
My pop looked at me with a hard set to his eyes. “In this county, aggravated murder is a hanging offense. It just goes to show you, Ben. Even a little crime like shaving some money off the top can drag you deeper and deeper, till you wind up where Captain Brigginshaw is now.”
I vowed right then to give up stealing watermelons forever.
The sun was high by the time Pop got finished with the story, so I ran to Esau's place where Adam and Cecil were waiting to run the trotline. They hadn't heard about what had happened overnight, so I got to tell them. It was all we could talk about the whole time we were catching our fish and baiting the line.
“You reckon any pearl-hunters will ever come back?” Adam asked. “Now that Captain Brigginshaw's gonna hang?”
“Yeah, they'll come back,” I replied. “As soon as the road to Marshall dries up some. Pop said the pearl company will probably send another buyer once they find out Captain Brigginshaw's in jail.”
“You're just hoping that Cindy comes back from Longview,” Cecil said. “I saw you two on the lakeshore at night.”
That changed the subject for a while, but by the time we put the catfish in the holding tank, Cecil and Adam were wanting to sneak down to the jailhouse and look at Captain Brigginshaw through the iron grating. I wanted to go, too, but couldn't. I had invested in a gill net and was catching fish on my own in my bateau. I hadn't invited Cecil or Adam in on this enterprise with me, and they were still mad about it. Once you get started doing business with friends, it's hard to stop without hurting somebody's feelings.
They ran off for the jailhouse as I shoved off alone in my bateau. I
didn't feel so left out once I got onto the lake. After all, I had an Ashenback, and they didn't. Cecil and Adam had squandered about all the money they had made over the summer on trinkets and hard candy.
My net was a small one and didn't take long to run. I caught enough to halfway fill the fish box in my bateau and started paddling for Port Caddo, where I could sell them. I had owned my Ashenback about three weeks by that time, and it was still a thrill to me. It was that summer that I learned the joy of paddling the lake alone in a good boat.
When Port Caddo came into view around the last bend in the bayou, my eyes pulled toward the jailhouse. I knew Trevor Brigginshaw was in there. For the first time, I felt sorry for him. Everybody in town liked him, except maybe when he got drunk. He was part of our pearl rush—almost as big a hero as Billy. When I thought of him lying wounded in that cell, or worse, dangling by the neck from a gallows, I got a sudden pang of remorse. I felt as if I had had a hand in it. I was part of that summer of pearls, after all, and now it had gone wrong. A Pinkerton detective and two outlaws were dead, and a fourth man was doomed.
I could feel the gloom settling over the town, though the sky was clear for the first time in days. People were standing on the cobblestone street talking and looking down toward the jailhouse. The bayou ran muddier and faster than usual, owing to all the runoff.
It was an unnatural day—a dark day for my town. I found myself doubting what I had told Adam earlier, what my pop had told me at dawn. They couldn't send anybody to take the captain's place. How could there be another pearl-buyer after Trevor Brigginshaw? It seemed over. I suddenly got the feeling that I would never experience another summer of pearls.
I pulled my bateau up on the bank as usual, and prepared to hike up to town to see who wanted to buy fish. But when I looked toward town, I realized something I hadn't noticed before. The log jailhouse obscured my view of the cobblestone street. The only doorway I could see was that of the Treat Inn, and nobody was standing there. I was hidden.
I don't know exactly why I wanted so badly to look at the Australian in the jailhouse. Maybe I had to see for myself that it wasn't just rumor, even though I had heard it from my pop, who never repeated rumor. Maybe a morbid fascination for the doomed man had fixed a hold on me. I had never seen a murderer before, with the exception of Judd Kelso, and there was no solid proof against him yet.
Whatever the reason, I couldn't overcome it. The tiny window on the bayou side of the log jailhouse drew me like a magnet. I had to have a look.
The mud oozed between my toes as I sneaked silently up the slope to the jailhouse. I felt like as much of a thief as Brigginshaw himself, though all I wanted to steal was a peek. I never got the chance.
When I reached the window, I heard a familiar voice:
“ … but why, Trev? Why did you need to
steal
it?”
“I have no excuses, Billy.” The Australian's voice was muted in defeat, and slurred a little by the laudanum, I supposed.
“I'm not asking for excuses. It's too late for excuses, anyway. But you must have had a reason.”
There was a brief silence, then the captain's voice rose with a touch of the familiar bravado. “I'm an independent, Billy. These bloody freshwater-pearl rushes are like hell to me. I go to sleep feeling the
Wicked Whistler
under my feet. I see the palm trees, and the island divers. The bare, brown breasts of the women. All the beautiful women. And the waters so clear you can see six fathoms. I dream of them at night, Billy. You probably do, too.”
“I used to.”
“Yes, well, I'll never make it back now any more than you will.”
I heard Billy sigh. “If there's any way,” he said, “I'll get you out of this. I'll do everything I can.”
The jailhouse bench creaked under Brigginshaw's weight. “Leave it alone, Billy. There's no use.”
“I felt the same way that morning the pirates came down on Mangareva. I didn't think I deserved to live after that. But you got me out of there, Trev. And I'll do everything I can to get you out of this.”
“Mangareva was different. It was the pirates who should have been
punished there, not you. In this case, I'm the guilty one. I killed a man. Didn't bloody mean to, but that does him little good. No, Billy, there's nothing you can do for me now … .”
A sudden unexpected image drew my attention away from the jailhouse conversation. I saw my Ashenback drifting slowly down Big Cypress Bayou. It took a second for me to make sense of it. I knew I had pulled the boat up on the bank. It had never dislodged itself before. It didn't seem possible. But I knew my bateau, and there it went.
I sprinted from the jailhouse and dove off the wharf, splashing into the muddy water. When I came up and caught the gunnel, I heard some townspeople laughing at me. Everybody knew how I treasured that boat. As I swam back to the wharf, pulling my bateau, I glanced up at the jailhouse window. The huge bearded face filled it, smiling. Captain Brigginshaw had roused himself from the bench to witness the commotion. Any embarrassment I felt was worth it. I had given a doomed man reason to smile. There was nothing more I could have done for him.
I didn't figure out until later why my bateau had taken off on its own. The bayou was rising and had lifted it from the place I had beached it. It was raining hard somewhere upstream.
I sold my catch and went about my daily routine, which seemed sadly empty since the pearl camps had been struck. There were no water barrels to haul, no dead mussels to feed our hogs. My partners and I had been buying corn to feed them, but we didn't have the cash reserves to do that for long. We were thinking about turning them back out into the woods, or selling them, unless the pearlers came back soon. Anyway, lessons would take up at the Caddo Academy in a couple of weeks, and we wouldn't have time to fool with hogs.
I hid my bateau under some pine branches at Goose Prairie Cove and made the evening trotline run with Cecil and Adam. We had no idea that it would be our last run. When the sun set beyond Port Caddo, we had no way of knowing it was setting on the summer of pearls, and even on the town itself.

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