The Dawn of Fury (24 page)

Nathan and Eulie were awake well before first light, with time on their hands. For a while they sat on the edge of the bed in silence, and it was Nathan who finally spoke.

“You got reason enough for bein' here, but what can I say about me?”

“Tell them you're a gambler,” Eulie replied. “How else can you account for spending all your time in town?”

“Damn it,” said Nathan, “I was just trying to be considerate. Once they learn I'm a saloon gambler and house dealer, they'll likely kick us out.”

Eulie laughed. “Hell, Nathan, saloon gambling and house dealing sounds downright respectable, compared to what you're really after. Suppose you just tell them the truth, that your only goal in life is to track down and kill six men?”

“Maybe I'll just do that,” he snarled.

He saddled his horse and rode out, uncertain as to what his next move would be. Remembering the saloons near the river, he made his way there first. But it was early—not quite ten o'clock—and most of the places were empty, except for a bored bartender. Nathan tried the Baltimore, the Amsterdam, Mother Burke's Den, and the Emerald Dragon.

“Where is everybody?” Nathan inquired of the Dragon's barman.

“How the hell should I know?” the man answered sourly. “Sleepin' it off, I reckon. It's too early. Onliest reason I'm here, I got to mop up all the vomit and spilt beer from last night.”

Nathan left in disgust, and without any destination in mind, rode north. Eventually he found himself on St. Charles, and before him was the largest and fanciest hotel he had ever seen. It was three stories, and it seemed to be a local watering hole, with a good portion of the first floor devoted to a thriving restaurant. Nathan dodged buckboards and men afoot, riding all the way around the great hotel. There were entrance and exit doors on all four sides, with little room at any of the hitching rails. Many of the horses and mules were harnessed to buckboards and wagons, and among the many saddled horses, a few carried side saddles. A well-dressed man slumped on the seat of one of the buckboards, apparently waiting for someone. Nathan spoke to him.

“Pardner, what kind of place is this? What's going on in there?”

The man laughed. “It's dinnertime, and the St. Charles is the best place in New Orleans to eat.”

Eventually Nathan found a place at one of the hitching rails for his horse and made his way into the restaurant. He had to wait until an all-in-black waiter showed him to a table. The menu looked as big as a wagon tailgate, and Nathan ignored it. Eventually the waiter returned, raising his eyebrows.

“Bring me a steak,” Nathan said. “Rare. Besides that, I want potatoes, fried onions, and coffee.”

When the food arrived, Nathan tried to pay, and was given a handwritten bill. He looked at it, then at the waiter, and the man backed away.

“God Almighty,” said Nathan. “Seventy-five cents? Why, I rode all over Texas and I never paid more than a dime.”

“Then perhaps you should take all your meals there, sir,” the waiter said. “This is the St. Charles, in New Orleans. You may pay as you depart.”

He turned his back before Nathan had a chance to glare at him. At the next table, a man laughed over the top of the newspaper he had been reading, and before Nathan could redirect his anger, the stranger spoke.

“Relax, friend. This is the fanciest diggings between here and Frisco.
⁸
They treat us all like we're not quite good enough to belly up to their bar or pay six times what their grub's worth. I'm Byron Silver, not long out of Texas myself.”

Nathan found himself facing a man no older than himself. Silver had gray eyes and hair as black as a crow's wing, and looked to have some Indian or Cajun in him. His gray pin-striped suit was well tailored, and he made no attempt to conceal the pistol belt beneath the coat. A black, flat-crowned Stetson with silver band lay on a chair next to him. Nathan spoke.

“I'm Nathan Stone, and I don't take kindly to having highfalutin' varmints talking down to me. With the South on the losing end of the war, how in tarnation can all these folks afford to come here?”

“You're here,” said Silver, “and I'm here, so obviously we aren't broke. We're paying for the privilege of rubbing elbows with the gentry, the elite of New Orleans. Some of us always have money, Stone. Even with the country going to hell, we've made even more money, while some damn fools were getting their heads blown off at Shiloh and Gettysburg.”

“I was one of those damn fools,” Nathan said coldly. “I reckon I was just lucky some of the Yanks were shootin' a mite low.”

“Too bad,” said Silver, “but as I see it, I speak the truth, and I don't apologize for that.”

Silver folded his paper, donned his hat, got to his feet, and made his way toward an exit. His meal unfinished, Nathan decided he'd had enough of the St. Charles. By the time he had paid his check, Byron Silver was already out the door. Nathan watched as two men hurriedly rose from a table, and he had a strong suspicion the duo had been waiting for Silver to leave. Clearly this was none of Nathan Stone's affair, but he had found himself liking the outspoken Silver. On impulse, he waited for the suspicious pair to reach the street, and as they followed Silver, they were in turn followed by Nathan. He wondered what mischief they had in mind, since it was broad daylight, but he realized he didn't know the city. The men trailing Silver might know where he was bound, and somewhere along the way there might be ample opportunity to waylay him.

Since Silver and the questionable pair trailing him were all afoot, Nathan had left his horse outside the St. Charles. Reaching a cross street, Silver turned south, toward the river. When his two pursuers followed, Nathan wasn't surprised. Obviously they were up to no good, and even in daylight, there were numerous alleys, warehouses, and lonely stretches along the river where they might make their play and disappear without being discovered. However, Nathan thought grimly, that might work against them if the hunted had an ace in the hole. But Byron Silver was no short horn. Reaching the end of what appeared to be a deserted warehouse, he ducked between it and an adjoining building. His pursuers halted just shy of the aperture where Silver had vanished, and when they tried to advance, a slug screamed off the brick wall just inches above their heads. Stooping low, one of them threw himself half a dozen feet, into the protection of the next building. Drawing his pistol, he ran along the front of the warehouse. His intentions were obvious. He would make his way down the opposite side of the building, and between the two of them, Silver would be boxed. It seemed to Nathan that the backs of these warehouses were likely against the backs of similar ones on the next street, but he couldn't be sure. While there might be a crawl space allowing Silver's pursuers to box him, there might be no way he could escape to the next street. Unless someone was attracted by the shooting, the pair could advance on Silver from two directions, and apparently that's what they had counted on. But it didn't work out that way. The gunman who had remained near his original position had drawn his pistol. Twenty yards behind him, his thumbs hooked in his pistol belt, Nathan spoke.

“Drop the gun and turn around.”

Instead, the startled gunman threw himself away from the wall, twisting as he fell. But the jolt spoiled his aim and the shot went over Nathan's head. Nathan allowed him to get to his knees, but before he could fire a second time, Nathan drew his left-hand Colt and shot him dead-center.

“Silver,” Nathan shouted, “It's Nathan Stone. Run for it.”

Silver did, for Nathan could hear the pound of boots. But the second man who had tried to box Silver appeared at the farthest corner of the warehouse, his pistol blazing. One slug went wide, striking the brick wall to Nathan's left, while a second one snatched off his hat. Nathan drew and fired just once, and the gunman's knees buckled. He tried to raise the pistol for a third shot, but was dead on his feet. He dropped the pistol, fell on his back, and didn't move. Silver appeared, a cocked Colt in his right fist.

“I hope you know this place better than I do,” said Nathan. “All this shooting won't go unnoticed.”

“Back the way you came,” Silver said. “I'm not all that familiar with this warehouse district along the river. I suspected I was being followed, and I hoped to reach the saloons and cafes, but they wouldn't have allowed that. You helped me out of a nasty situation, my friend, and should word of it reach certain people, your life won't be worth a plugged peso.”

Reaching the corner of the warehouse, they turned north along the street that led back to St. Charles.

“Damn it,” said Nathan, “I'm not used to so much walking. Don't you own a horse?”

“No,” Silver replied. “My, ah ... line of work doesn't require one. I'm registered at the St. Charles. It's where I live when I'm in New Orleans.”

“By God,” said Nathan, “you're a caution. Two killers trailing you, and you light out for the river. That pair of varmints wouldn't have shot you at the hotel, among all those people.”

“No,” Silver agreed, “but they'd have hounded the hell out of me, waiting for a time and place.”

“So you aimed to pick the time and place, salting them down before they got you,” said Nathan.

“Exactly,” Silver said. “I have—or I should say my employer has—friends at most of the saloons. They collect handsome rewards for providing sailors to sailing ships bound for ports around the world.”

“Then you had no intention of shooting these coyotes who were hell-bent on shooting you.”

Silver laughed. “Of course not. That's a messy solution, involving the law. Mind you, I'm not diminishing your skill with the pistols, but there may yet be a problem resolving the killings. I regret that I was unable to lure them into a position where they could have been shanghaied and sent to sea.”

“I doubt we were seen after the shooting,” said Nathan.

“So do I,” Silver said, “but you're a stranger in town, and somebody may recall seeing the dead men leave the St. Charles with you trailing them.”

“Where are we going now?” Nathan asked.

“Back to the St. Charles Hotel,” said Silver. “I have a room there and I suppose your horse is somewhere near there.”

“When you refer to the law, are you referring to an elected sheriff or the Union soldiers?”

“Neither,” Silver said. “As long as you don't shoot a soldier or make a questionable move against the Union, the Federals won't bother you. As for an elected sheriff, there is none. The town—or parish—has a mounted police force, overseen by a commissioner name of Quay Becker. He's entrenched to the extent a keg of black powder wouldn't move him, and he's the bastard who'll take your gunplay personal.”

“I reckon he's got some reason,” said Nathan. “Do you aim to tell me what it is?”

“Yes,” Silver said. “You've earned the right to know. The truth, Stone, is that New Orleans is a gambling town, and as such, it's pretty well divided into two camps. Most of the saloons and halls within the city where high-stakes gambling is allowed are controlled by Hargis Gavin, brother-in-law to Commissioner Becker.”

“Slick dealing with kickbacks, then,” said Nathan.

“Yes,” Silver said, “but you're getting ahead of me. There are a dozen gambling houses over which Gavin has no control, and these have become quite a thorn in Gavin's side. These legitimate halls are situated in the country, and patrons are taken there by coach, and by invitation only.”

“So the hombres gunning for you were Gavin's men,” said Nathan, “so that puts you on the other side. Who's the tall dog in the brass collar?”

“French Stumberg,” Silver replied. “He moved in during the war, taking one hell of a bite out of Gavin's business. He owns a steamboat, a big sidewheeler called the
Queen of Diamonds.
The
Queen
makes a run to St. Louis and back every week. High rollers coming to New Orleans with gambling on their minds get a free ride both ways, with grub and sleeping quarters.”

“Before Gavin can get his hands on them, they've been sucked dry,” said Nathan. “Where do you fit into all this?”

“I'm in charge of security for the steamboat,” Silver replied, “and that consists mostly of seeing that nothing happens to it while it's docked here. One dark night a couple of Gavin's men took a dinghy into the river beyond the
Queen.
They had a keg of black powder, but something went wrong and they were blown to hell and gone. Gavin's had it in for me ever since.”

“So I've earned myself a place right alongside you,” said Nathan.

“I wouldn't be surprised,” Silver said. “That is, if you expect to remain in New Orleans.”

“I'm almighty damn tired of being told where I can and can't go,” said Nathan. “I'm paid up for a month out at McQueen's, and I aim to be there for the race the Saturday after Christmas.”

“The track's at Gretna,” Silver said, “and so far, McQueen's managed to keep Gavin out, but he won't be so lucky with Stumberg. French owns horses, and he aims to enter them.”

“You're telling me, in your own roundabout way,” said Nathan, “that the McQueens won't take kindly to me saving your hide.”

“Barnabas won't,” Silver replied, “but that's the least of your worries. What concerns me is Gavin, and he's the reason I go to such lengths to avoid shooting the skunks he sends after me. He has the local law in the palm of his hand, and he can trump up enough charges to chuck you in the
juzgado.
He can't hold you for more than a day or so, but that's long enough to have you gunned down while trying to escape.”