The River Nymph (9 page)

“That happens all too often,
alors.
But never aboard a boat of which I was captain. I’ve seen the carnage when steam boilers explode. I do not race against any
other boat on the river.” The haunted expression in his dark eyes indicated that he had witnessed such senseless destruction
…and perhaps had been taunted by white captains for not taking their dares. “But pushing against high, swift currents
can place a strain on boilers equal to racing. I have never lost a boat. I will never lose one by starting upriver before
it is safe to do so.” He smiled now. “If we arrive a few weeks later than those more foolhardy, the demand for our wares will
be no less. You have my word on it. The mining camps have an insatiable demand for supplies.”

“What about the risks involved in carrying whiskey? The army does comandeer boats caught smuggling, does it not?”

Dubois shrugged. “Very rarely, and those occasions are when the whiskey is sold to Indians, which is the real reason for the
prohibition.”

“I understand the profits are quite high,” Horace interjected.

The captain cited the same figures Clint had given them, and Delilah deflated as he continued, “Evading detection during inspections
at Levenworth is quite simple. I confess I’ve done it many times over the years, although more often a small bribe will suffice.”

She sat back, keenly disappointed. Daniels had not exag-gerated the profits or minimized the risks. They would have to wait
longer before departing. There was no help for it. She knew now that she could trust Captain Dubois implicitly. She smiled
at him. “I accept your word without question, sir.”

Horace smiled to himself.
But you wouldn’t accept Clint’s.

“However,” she added, noting the gleam in her uncle’s eye, “I do not feel comfortable breaking the law by carrying contraband.
No matter the profit.”

The captain nodded. “I shall be most content to abide by whatever decision you make.”

They shared the cool, tart drink and discussed the length of the journey and what other hazards, such as hostile Indians,
they might face. “Not all Sioux have been educated in white schools as has my wife. Their entire way of life is being systematically
destroyed along with the buffalo,” Jacques explained.

“All we’ve heard in Eastern newspapers are gory tales of savage depredations—journalism at its worst, I suspect,” Horace said.

The captain and his wife gave grisly accounts of the atrocities visited upon native populations by whites. “Earlier we spoke
of the vile treatment of people of African blood by whites. What is being done to the Red peoples is every bit as monstrous,”
Jacques said. “Treaties are made only to be broken. Corrupt agents of the federal government steal food and supplies intended
for the tribes. Instead, they sell them to the highest white bidders.”

“Or make the Indians pay again for what is already supposed to be theirs,” his wife added quietly.

“But that’s illegal as well as morally reprehensible,” Delilah said, setting her glass carefully on a frilly white doily to
keep it from staining the cherry-wood table.

“I appreciate your indignation, Mrs. Raymond, but just as the government upheld slavery until the very end of the late war,
it is the stated plan of those in power in Washington today to clear the land of all its native inhabitants so that farmers
and miners can put it to —more productive use.— ”

Dawn Woman’s emphasis on the last words reminded Delilah of something Daniels had said the day they struck their business
arrangement…something about the army making western lands “safe for civilized people.” Had he actually lived as a Sioux
in the wilderness? Jacques Dubois knew him from upriver. The captain’s further elaboration interrupted her disturbing thoughts.

“General Sheridan, commander of the Missouri Division of the army, has been given the task of herding all the great Sioux
Nations onto reservations…or annihilating them. So far, disease and starvation have worked even more effectively than
military campaigns,” Dubois added sadly.

As they talked about the injustice of Indian policy and racial tensions that forced a man as skilled as Captain Dubois to
hire guards for his family, Delilah’s mind kept returning to thoughts of Clint. A kinsman of this Sioux woman? How could that
be? And how could a Southerner like he become friends with Dubois?

All Delilah could be certain of was that she had been a fool to feel drawn to a man she knew nothing about. His past was shrouded
in mystery. If even his friend, the captain, felt it prudent not to discuss Daniels’s time upriver, that certainly did not
bode well. She and her uncle were entrusting their lives and everything they owned to Clinton Daniels. Would they come to
regret their devil’s bargain?

By mid-April, the massive clumps of debris passing the levee were almost gone. The current slowed. The muddy taint of the
Missouri no longer colored the Mississippi quite so brown. At last, Clint and Captain Dubois agreed it was time to load the
cargo and head upriver. They would have plenty of time to make the run, sell their wares along the way, book passengers from
the gold fields ofMontana for the return trip and reach St. Louis before the winter freeze-up began.

Delilah could hardly contain her excitement when she came out onto the hurricane deck. She leaned over the railingto watch
the burly, sweating teamsters dump crates of mining machinery, picks, shovels and axes on the levee. Unwieldy stacks of wheelbarrows
were lined up alongside barrels and boxes of flour, sugar, salt and tinned foods. A tower of crates containing men’s heavy
work boots, denim pants and flannel shirts sat beside lesser stacks of seeds, plows and a few other farming implements. Seeing
the bolts of calico, she remembered her foolish gaffe at the fabric store. Everything Clint Daniels did seemed calculated
to infuriate or embarrass her.

The roosters hoisted barrels and boxes carelessly on their shoulders and nimbly climbed the gangplank to deposit them in the
vast open area on the main deck. But one item they handled with utmost care: dynamite. A vital tool of the miners, it would
become increasingly unstable as the weather grew hot under cloudless western skies.

Clint watched from the top of the gangplank as the mate directed the loading. Occasionally, when a particularly heavy or unwieldy
load was being brought aboard, Daniels would help with the heavy lifting.

Gone were the fancy gambler’s duds. Now he wore denims that fit his long legs indecently, in her opinion. His arms were bare,
the sweat-soaked white shirt’s sleeves rolled up above his elbows. “I wouldn’t doubt he’ll remove it and work bare-chested,”
she muttered to herself.

Horace walked up behind her in time to hear her words and smiled.
And wouldn’t she enjoy that in spite of herself!
“Ah, child, it is a very warm day. Look at how many of the other men have already divested themselves of shirts. Of course,
if it offends you, you should perhaps retire to our sitting room.”

She shook her head. “No, Uncle. You know I saw far worse in hospitals during the war.”

He knew she wanted to stay and watch Clint, so he suppressed his smile when she turned to him. With a worried frown, he said,
“I overheard a rumor this morning that Red Riley’s sending teamsters with heavy loaded wagons to fill the levee with the intent
of sabotaging our cargo.”

“What can we do?”

“I have faith that Clint knows how to handle the matter. That is why he is down there with the mate.”

“Must he work like a common laborer, half dressed?” She snapped open the frilly little parasol she’d carried out onto the
deck. Suddenly the morning was growing very warm.

Horace made no reply, only stood beside her as she watched every move of Clint’s tanned, muscular body. He brushed that straight
thatch of straw-colored hair from his forehead, then removed a red workman’s handkerchief from his pocket to wipe perspiration
from his face. When he turned and looked up at her, Delilah felt as if she had been caught like a peeping Tom peering in a
bedroom window.

“Want to lend a hand, Deelie? After all, you
are
majority owner of the cargo,” he called up with a chuckle.

Insufferable lout. “I’m scarcely dressed for the occasion.” A paltry retort, and she knew it.

His eyes swept over her yellow dimity dress trimmed in frilly white lace. She looked as delectable as a sunflower, only she
was shaded from the bright sky by a silly little parasol instead of a leafy tree. Walking over until he stood directly beneath
her, he said, “No, you’re certainly not dressed for heavy labor, but that pretty outfit is a real treat for the eyes. Once
we’re on the river, you’ll have to wear more practical clothes. Still, I’m happy to see you’ve decided to dress for life instead
of hiding from it.”

Somewhere during the time their exchange had begun, Horace disappeared. He’d seemed to do that often these past weeks. That,
as well as Daniels’s insult, stung. Delilah stiffened, her earlier mood of buoyant optimism ruined. “I see that you’ve given
up pretensions to being a dandy. A dirty red handkerchief instead of monogrammed white linen, denims and a stained shirt instead
of fancy lace and black wool tailoring. This suits your true nature better.”

“And just what would you know about —my true nature—?” he asked with a dark undertone in his voice.

Delilah would not back down. “Oh, I cannot be cer-tain…bordello owner, imposter posing as a gentleman, womanizer, Southern
sympathizer.”

“That last one is what you dislike the most, isn’t it?” Without waiting for a reply, he added, “I notice you didn’t mention
gambler, since you’re one yourself. Not respectable for a man, but for a woman…” He shrugged and walked back to the gangplank,
where Mr. Iversen, the first mate, yelled at a teamster whose freight wagon blocked another half-unloaded wagon of cargo.

Delilah watched as he strode down to the levee, where Iversen and the teamster were ready to engage in fisticuffs. From what
she could gather, the man worked for Red Riley. He must be one of the ruffians employed to delay loading their cargo. Glad
of any excuse to stop their backbreaking labor, the roosters urged their boss to give the intruder a sound thrashing—only
not in such genteel terminology.

She had heard language as bad in gaming halls from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. Still stung by Clint’s insult, she stepped
back from the rail, intending to go in the salon. Then Daniels interposed himself between the two giants, either of whom outweighed
him by fifty pounds. Her heart inexplicably leaped into her throat. Was he insane? He could be crushed like a bug!

She could hear him trying to placate the brutish teamster after ordering Iversen to return to work. The mate stepped back,
but his foe tried to shove Daniels aside to get at him. That proved unwise. The whole thing happened so quickly that Delilah
could scarcely believe it. In a blur, Clint slid his leg in front of the heavier man and tripped him. When the teamster lost
his balance, Daniels pushed him forward. He landed hard on the uneven cobblestones.

In an instant Clint knelt with one knee squarely in the center of his back, seized a fistful of the troublemaker’s hair and
raised his head, smashing it onto the stone surface. The teamster lay unconscious and bleeding, his nose obviously broken,
and heaven only knew what else! Delilah watched Clint stand up and look around at the other men on the levee.

He pointed at one man standing at the rear of the gathering crowd, which had now gone quiet, disappointed that the entertainment
hadn’t lasted any longer. “You pick up this bastard and haul his ass back to Riley. Tell the little son of a bitch to come
himself next time he wants a fight.”

The man singled out glanced nervously around, as if checking to see who might back him up. Men sprinkled through the crowd
nodded ever so slightly. He began to swagger down the cargo-filled levee, passing roustabouts and teamsters hired by the
Nymph.
When he reached his fallen companion, he knelt down to hoist him up, then slung the big thug over one brawny shoulder and
turned.

But instead of walking back up the embankment, he spun around toward Clint and swung the considerable weight of his cohort’s
inert body directly at Daniels. Clint dodged the human club by a hair, then punched the big teamster carrying him hard in
his gut. Not expecting such a swift retaliation, the thug doubled over. Daniels chopped the back of his neck with the side
of his hand and sent him and his unconscious cohort sprawling.

But unlike the first of Red’s men, this one did not stay down. Shaking his head, he stumbled away and rolled back to his feet.
On a prearranged signal, the whole levee erupted in a free-for-all. Crewmen leaped from the boat to join their compatriots
on the bank. Everything was a blur as men cursed, kicked and punched each other, crashing into the loads of carefully stacked
cargo. Delilah lost sight of Clint in the melee.

Then she heard a shot and her mouth went dry.

Chapter Eight

Horace
stood at the top of the gangplank, holding a lethal-looking .56-caliber Colt revolving rifle, complete with a telescopic sight.
He had fired it in the air to get everyone’s attention. It worked. Men stopped in mid-swing, their heads swiveling toward
the
Nymph,
where the tall, frightening-looking man with the piercing dark eyes now casually pointed the weapon toward the thick of the
fight.

“The next man to throw a punch will be shot. In case you fear my bad aim might hit some innocent bystander—” he paused for
the irony to sink in—“I shall demonstrate that I do not bluff, nor do I miss my intended target. The letter
i
on the side of Mr. Slikes’s freight wagon.”

With one smooth action, he brought the weapon to his shoulder and fired so swiftly that no one saw him take aim. But they
could see the result.

“By damn, he plumb erased the
i
!” one of the crewmen said in awe.

“Dead center.” A teamster working for their supplier inspected the lemon-sized hole where the letter had been, jamming two
big fingers in the perfectly centered target.

“Niver seen sech shootin’,” another avowed.

Murmuring swept through the crowd as every man stared up at the cadaverous figure looming over them like some gargoyle from
childhood nightmares. The big Colt swept across the assembly, its scope winking in the sunlight like a malevolent eye. Horace
Mathers paused each time he came to one of Riley’s men, zeroing in, letting them know that he would nothesitate to kill them
where they stood. Not a man in the crowd doubted he would do it.

Then Captain Dubois called out from the wheelhouse, “Should any gentleman on the levee fire upon Mr. Mathers, I will personally
shoot him.” The little Creole rested a Springfield carbine on the windowsill of the wheelhouse. He leveled it downward at
the crowd. His skill as a marksman was already well established from St. Louis to the far West.

“Sonofabitch, Riley didn’t say shit ’bout takin’ a bullet fer ’im.” This from a burley teamster who turned and stalked up
the levee. He jumped aboard his wagon and backed the team skillfully away from the cargo on the ground, then whipped his horses
into a brisk trot up the hill.

The rest of the intruders followed his lead, backing away from the fight. The men driving wagons quickly returned to the reins.
Those unlucky enough not to catch a ride ran down the waterfront. One fellow tripped over a shovel and sprawled face down
in an offering just deposited by a draft horse that regarded the cursing man with large, impassive eyes.

Delilah found herself scanning the levee for Clint’s tall figure. Where had he gone? Was he injured? She had seen that the
damage she’d done to his lip was healed, but the gash on his shoulder could not possibly be mended. It might bleed. Then she
chastised herself for worrying when she saw him hoist a scrawny little roustabout up on one broad shoulder.

As Captain Dubois issued crisp orders to the crew and the
Nymph
’s teamsters, Clint strode effortlessly up the gangplank. That long, straight lock of hair hung over his forehead and his
shirt was filthy and torn half off his body, but she could see no traces of blood on his broad shoulder.

Oh, and what a magnificent set of shoulders he had!
Stop
it!
Delilah could see that a number of their crew had been injured. Since coming to St. Louis, she had used her nursing skills
more than in the preceding decade since the war’s end. She leaned over the deck railing and called out, “Uncle Horace, have
the injured sent to the dining room. I’ll tend to them there.”

Horace listened to her footsteps overhead as she rushed to her cabin to retrieve her medical kit. He saw Clint with the semiconscious
boy and nodded to him. “I believe you heard my niece.”

“So did everyone else on the levee. She’s good at givin’ orders.”

“She is also a fine nurse, as I know you can attest,” the old man said with a smile he did not attempt to conceal.

Clint wasn’t certain he liked the guile behind the grin, but there were more important things to consider now. “Captain told
Iversen to post armed guards with the cargo while those who aren’t hurt start to clean up the mess, but Riley isn’t done with
us by a long shot.”

“An excellent plan, although I agree about Mr. Riley. I shall keep watch from here,” Horace replied.

“By the way, that was one hell of a demonstration. If I’d known you could shoot that well, we could’ve appointed you our meat
hunter.”

“Alas, no. I do not like to kill things,” Horace replied gravely.

Clint gave him a dubious look. “Could’ve fooled me. Did fool everyone else who watched you drill that target.”

“I did not make myself clear. I dislike killing animals. They are innocent creatures of God. Most men, on the other hand,
can make no such claim. Suffice it to say, I’ve had no problems dealing with them as circumstances demanded.”

Clint digested that, never doubting the old man would do whatever
circumstances demanded
to protect his niece and anyone he cared for. “You just made it considerably harder for Red to hire cheap thugs. Also made
yourself a target. Red Riley’s a bad man to cross. Captain Dubois and I, we’re already on his list. Now you are, too.”

“I shall bear that in mind,” Horace replied serenely.

Clint carried the boy—Currie was his name, as he recalled—up the stairs and into the salon. Several other men with everything
from bloody noses to broken knuckles and cracked skulls were beginning to assemble. Normally, rivermen tended to fisticuff
injuries themselves, spitting out loose teeth and wrapping bleeding cuts with dirty rags. But that was before a beautiful
angel of mercy came onto the scene.

As if reading his mind, Currie asked hopefully, “Will the gambler lady really take care of us?”

“Those who really need care.” He sat the boy down on a chair with the admonition, “Don’t you move until she’s checked your
head. It may be hard, but the cobblestones you landed on are harder.”

“Yessir,” Currie replied with a big smile in spite of the swelling lump on the side of his head.

I wouldn’t be surprised if she stitched up that man of Riley’s I
took down, just to spite me.
He watched as she set out bandaging, using rolls of gauze and antiseptic on one of the tables at the end of the room. He noticed
that she did not include the wicked carbolic mixture she’d used on him. Clint walked past the men, who had formed a surprisingly
orderly line, checking to see that there were no malingerers.

“Bailey, I’ve seen hangnails look worse than that scrape on your finger. Back to work. You, Masters, wipe your nose clean.
The bleedin’s already stopped.” He singled out several others, aware that Delilah had left her post and was headed directly
toward him. He could hear the click of her high heels on the floorboards, then over the noisome odors of the crew, smell her
floral fragrance.

“Perhaps it would be better if I judged who is in need of medical attention, Mr. Daniels,” she replied in that no-nonsense
tone she often used on him.

“I know the difference between a man needin’ medical attention and one needin’ female attention,” he said, looking down at
her set, angry expression.

Delilah stifled the impulse to slap the arrogant grin from his face. Touching him in any way always got her into trouble.
She never intended to let him near enough for temptation again. But here he stood, half naked, his shirt in tatters, revealing
more than it concealed. She could remember how hard his chest was, how crisp the hair, the scars…Delilahshook herself
mentally, noting with satisfaction that his right eye was beginning to swell. “Do you believe me incapable of determining
a man’s needs?” she asked.

“Oh, you seem to understand a man’s needs all too well.” He cocked that scarred eyebrow at her roguishly. “Just tryin’ to
save time, Deelie. You were the one itchin’ to get the cargo loaded and head full steam upriver. Oh, you might want to take
a look at Currie first. Kid’s got a nasty bump on the noggin.” He gestured to where the boy sat, staring in rapt fascination
at her.

Delilah watched Clint saunter away. Deelie, indeed! But there was no time to worry about Clinton Daniels and his big ego…or broad shoulders. She walked down to where Cur-rie sat and gently probed his thick, unwashed hair to reveal the extent
of his injury. “Look in my eyes,” she instructed, checking his pupils as she’d seen doctors do with concussion victims during
the war.

By the time the dinner bell rang, Delilah had bandaged, stitched, smeared ointment and generally medicated a score of men.
Others who were not really in need of help, she sent back to work, hating to admit that Clint had been right about the crew’s
infatuation with her. Although most were respectful, a few had made her feel as if she worked at the Blasted Bud. No one would
dare to insult the majority owner of the boat, but she was acutely attuned to how men perceived a woman gambler.

They judged almost as harshly as
respectable
women. Since she’d been forced to join her uncle’s profession, Delilah had not had a single female friend. Those from her
childhood turned their backs on her when they learned that she had taken up with her scapegrace uncle, whose reputation in
Gettysburg was as tarnished as unpolished silver. But now, for the first time in all those years, she had a friend, Luellen
Colter.

The large-boned, plump woman with kind hazel eyes had become almost maternal toward Delilah. “Now, yew set a spell and let
me get yew some cool water and a couply slices of my fresh-baked ham,” she said when her boss lady came into the kitchen to
help her serve the meal for the hungry crew. Todd, who normally performed that task, had both eyes swollen almost closed from
the brawl.

“I’m really not hungry, Luellen, thank you.”

“Pshaw, you’re so thin I swear a good wind on the river’ll blow you clean off the boat. Couldn’t have yew drownin’, so you
eat. And don’t be giving me that look. I kin handle the kitchen even if that fool nephew of mine’s laying down with ice on
his face.” She harrumphed about men and their foolishness as she slapped two big pink slices of ham and a heaping serving
of sweet potatoes on a plate. Then she added another generous portion of fresh green beans and placed the plate on the table,
pointing to a chair. “Set and eat.”

Knowing when she was defeated, Delilah complied. The food did taste good—until Luellen started up about Clint Daniels again.
At first she’d been disapproving about having a man from a fancy house as her employer, but once Daniels turned on his charm,
she had quickly changed her mind.

“That man sure is the soul of Christian kindness. He came in and got a plate fer Todd and one fer thet boy Currie. Takes his
responsibilities for the crew real serious, does Mr. D.”

Trying to change the subject and save her appetite, Delilah said, “It’s criminal that a boy so young has to work alongside
hardened men. Currie can’t be more than fourteen years old. He should be in school.”

“He’s lucky to have a job on a boat like this ’un. Lots of street boys, them without families—or families that has too many
mouths to feed—end up working for the likes of Red Riley, or signing on with captains what works ’em to death. Goin’ upriver
ain’t easy, but it beats goin’ hungry.”

“You’ve been upriver before, haven’t you, Luellen?” Delilah asked.

As she continued slicing from the huge hambone, Luellen nodded. “Twice. Wanted ta see what my late husband’s great uncle seen
in the far West. John never stopped talkin’ ’bout the man he was named fer.”

“John Colter, the man who went with Lewis and Clark?” Delilah had heard stories about the fabled expedition to the Pacific
at the opening of the century but had not considered that her friend might be related to one of its members.

“The same. He saw boiling pots o’ colored mud that spewed into the air like ole Satan hisself was stirring ’em up. Bears with
paws big ’nough ta split logs and Injuns…all kinds o’ tribes. We’ll be meetin’ up with what’s left along the way. Some’s
friendly, some not.”

“Captain Dubois and his wife explained about the government’s plans to place the Indians on reservations—or kill those who
refuse to go. It’s monstrous.”

“Cain’t rightly say I blame the heathen for fightin’ back,” Luellen agreed. “On my last trip—” Her words were cut short by
a commotion down on the levee. “Whut in tarnation now?”

“It isn’t Red Riley’s men back for more trouble, is it?” Delilah asked, shoving her plate away. This time she’d get in a little
target practice herself.

“No. It’s Mr. D’s rig. He’s got a rooster unloadin’ luggage. Looks ta me ta be female fixin’s.” Luellen’s voice was puzzled
as she peered out the window. “Real expensive stuff.”

That was absolutely the last straw! Delilah snapped her napkin as she flung it onto the table. She stood up, letting her chair
wobble as she shoved it out of her way. If that whore-master thought he was going to bring a fancy woman aboard to keep him
company—just because she would not succumb to his blandishments—well, he had another think coming.

Luellen watched in startled amazement as the Missus stomped from the kitchen and headed toward the stairs at the opposite
end of the boat. “Whut in tarnation got her tail-feathers all ruffled?” Then she smiled. Well, if another female could get
the Missus this riled up, maybe she and Mr. D weren’t feuding the way everyone thought they were.

Clint, all bathed and dressed in a frilly white shirt and gray linen suit, jumped from the rig and helped the woman alight.

“Your eye is better, but you could’ve been badly hurt, Lightning Hand. I don’t like it that you’re crossing Big Red Riley.
He’s dangerous,” his companion said.

“Not as dangerous as the woman headin’ our way,” Clint replied as he looked over her shoulder to the advancing Deelie. As
the young woman turned, he said, “Way she’s stompin’, she’ll bust up the cobblestones.”

“This, I take it, is the —ancient crone,— your partner?” she asked with one black eyebrow raised.