Natchez

by Paul Lederer

  There would likely be gunplay if the Questlers put in an appearance, and neither Inkada nor Montak carried guns. That left only Ray.

  They rode the long, straight moonlit path toward the big plantation house. Montak rode just behind Ray, to the right flank. The house was still completely dark, blue in the moonlight. There seemed to be no one around; maybe there wasn’t. If they had gone into the swamps after the silver, Toures would want all his men with him. Ray felt the plantation wasn’t as deserted as it appeared.

  The Toures plantation house was beautiful, graceful columns, bathed in blue moonlight, gently swaying willow trees, the scent of magnolias in the air. A grove of black walnut trees grew to the south of the main house, and to the north a park with scattered oaks and cultured ponds. What more could the man have wanted? What more could he have wished for on that night when he agreed to ambush soldiers of his own army?

  “Which way?” Ray whispered. Montak could only shrug. Neither of them had been this close to the house before. Somewhere on the grounds Joseph’s relatives were housed, perhaps in the old slave quarters, perhaps in cabins built since they had become sharecroppers. In either case they were away from the main house, in a direction neither Ray nor Montak knew.

  Ray glanced around again, seeing danger in the moving shadows of the willows, the clouds moving before the silver half-moon. “That way,” Ray said. Montak nodded and circled to the south, his massive bulk blotting out the moon through the trees for a moment as Ray watched before walking his horse to the north, in the opposite direction.

  There was nothing at all. Ray worked his way forward, through the ranks of cypress which ringed the expanse of lawn. Far off he thought he saw a reddish light, yet even that blinked off. The house lay cold and blue beneath the Mississippi moon. Nothing.

  It was late, growing cooler. The fog drifted in off the swamps, rolling toward the plantation house, lending an unearthly air to common objects, a tree, a fountain looming suddenly out of the fog to startle him. He drew his collar up, leading the horse forward. Dew dripped from the saddle, the gear chinked faintly.

  Then she was there.

  Ray’s head snapped up, his hand going to his gun butt automatically. Then he froze, seeing it was a woman. A woman in sheer white robes standing on a low knoll, the drifting fog screening her as it lazed past.

  “Melinda?”

  She smiled and beckoned to him with a finger. Melinda Toures. Alone in the middle of the night, in the damp of the fog—she stood there, pretty as any woman Ray could remember, and he’d known some.

  She did not speak, but she beckoned to him again and then disappeared, vanishing like a puff of smoke as the fog drifted past in shifting, pale screens.

  He hesitated, his gun in his hand now. Cool, damp. He searched the shadows with his eyes, but saw nothing, not another living thing. The night was shrouded in fog, utterly silent. His first thought had been of a trap. Yet would Toures use his daughter for bait?

  It seemed unlikely. The girl had been seriously ill not long ago, and then Toures had been frantic with worry. It hardly seemed likely he would expose her to gunfire.

  Ray crept forward, still leading his horse. At times he could not even see the animal, so dense was the fog. Where was she? He could see nothing still. He had wandered off from the house, still unable to understand what the girl was doing out at such an hour on such a night. He chanced a low call.

  “Melinda.”

  Nothing again. The black, somber shadow of a cypress broke the milk white of the low fog. Was he going mad? Had he seen her at all, or was it only an image cast by the twisting fog? No. He had seen her. But why? Maybe the girl was ill, and was simply wandering about, confused. The injury, if he recalled, had been to the head. A blow on the head can cause odd behavior, he knew. Inkada had lost his memory once from such a blow.

  Yet she seemed aware of herself. She was there again, suddenly, near to him. She stepped into Ray’s arms and her arms were around his neck.

  “Miss Toures…”

  She looked up, smiled, touched his chin with one finger and she kissed him. Greedily, her mouth searching his. Yet her lips were not warm, but cool, bloodless it seemed, and when she drew back, still smiling, Ray touched his mouth involuntarily, wiping the kiss away.

  “I’m looking for a man,” he whispered. “His name is Joseph. You know him, don’t you? Big Joseph?”

  “I know Big Joseph,” she said.

  “He came up here tonight. Have you seen him?”

  “I saw Big Joseph,” she said in a child’s tone. She held her hands together. Her white, sheer gown flattened against her legs in the slight breeze. Her pale hair framed her face. She still smiled, her toe scraping at the damp earth.

  “Where?” Ray asked. “Where did you see him?”

  He stepped to her, but she backed away, tossing her head. “No.”

  “Where is Big Joseph, Melinda. I need to find him.”

  “No.”

  The girl shook her head again. Then she turned and walked slowly away. Ray called after her, but she did not stop.

  “Melinda.”

  She turned her head back over her shoulder, smiled and walked on. Ray stepped into the saddle and followed, not wanting to lose her again.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, riding beside her, but she said nothing, putting a finger to her lips, lifting her skirt as she walked briskly forward, into the deeper woods beyond the plantation.

  “Big Joseph,” she said at last. Her hand touched Ray’s leg for a moment, again that haunting smile curved her full lips, and she turned, walking energetically on, her head moving from side to side, her skirt high, only from time to time turning to make sure the cowboy on the big roan was still behind her.

  Montak crouched behind the hedgerow. A lantern had flickered on in the window upstairs. He waited, unmoving, eyes riveted to the lighted room. Was it Toures, or someone else stirring? As far as he knew only Toures and his daughter lived in the mansion, yet there might have been a guest, or a servant.

  A figure moved across the room, a woman’s figure. She had long, blond hair, a slender build. From the descriptions, she had to be Melinda Toures. It was too late when Montak heard the footsteps behind him. They came on him with a rush.

  A club fell on his shoulder, at the base of the neck and the giant threw out a left hand which caught someone’s face. The man fell back with a grunt and Montak kicked out, coming to his feet.

  “Get him,” a voice broken with pain growled.

  An arm was thrown around Montak’s neck, but he was able to reach back and find a grip on the man’s head with one massive hand. Montak’s other hand took the attacker at the wrist and heaved, ducking as he rolled. The man flew over his head and landed on his back with a thud, the breath going from him.

  Panting, Montak turned. There were two men in front of him and one kicked out; Montak blocked the kick with his hands which were crossed at the wrists. Then he locked his hand on the man’s foot and jerked up, hard, landing a stunning kick of his own on the off-balance man’s kneecap.

  The man howled and went down. The other attacker lunged forward, knife in hand. Montak was able to slap the knife aside, but not before it bit him hard on the ribcage, drawing instant blood.

  Yet the man who had wielded the knife paid dearly. As Montak had slapped the hand aside with his left, his own right had found the man’s wrist and with all of his strength Montak had folded the hand back on itself until bone grated against bone and the wrist snapped.

  “Damn it, John!” someone screamed. “Kill him!”

  From the house and behind it there was the sound of approaching feet; a torch flared up, lighting a path, reddening the dense fog. Montak stood, shirt torn and bloodied, arms hanging menacingly, hair in his eyes.

  There was no way to get out of this now. The man behind him had struggled to his feet, shaking his head, and he had found the presence of mind to draw a Smith & Wesson revolver from his belt.

  “He won
’t be going anywhere,” the man said. He drew back the hammer of the blue steel pistol and grinned toothlessly. “Nowhere on this earth.”

  In a rush the party from the house burst into the clearing, the torch lighting the faces of the men around Montak.

  “What in the hell is this?” General Toures demanded. He was in a silk robe. His dark hair was hastily swept back, eyes black as coal.

  He swept the field with his gaze. One man lay on the ground, moaning pitifully, holding a broken wrist. Another lay flat on his back, out cold. A third man lay across the hedge.

  Lou Questler was bleeding from the nose, holding a gun. John Questler, muttering black oaths, stood beside his brother. And at the center of it all was the giant. Massive, indomitable, eyes only curious, not frightened or cowed, a thatch of grayish hair across his forehead. Lord, he was big!

  “You.” Toures pointed a Finger. “You’re with that doctor. Spectros.”

  Montak nodded. He had to hold a hand to his side to stem the flow of blood.

  “What are you doing here?” Toures demanded. His eyes were wild, his lips moved woodenly. Montak shrugged. He saw someone else out of the corner of his eye.

  “Daddy?”

  “Get back to the house. It’s chilly here.”

  “I heard a disturbance.” Melinda Toures caught sight of Montak then, and of the other men lying around him. She grasped her father’s arm, clinging to him.

  “See what you’ve done!” Toures shouted at Montak. “Where’s Isabell? Someone! Get her back to the house.”

  Melinda looked ill. Her legs trembled as she walked away, leaning on the shoulder of her maid.

  “You—you have no business here!” Toures ran a harried hand through his hair. “Was there anyone else?” he asked John Questler. The big red-haired man shook his head.

  “Why are you here?” Toures asked Montak, stepping nearer to him. The fog had dampened his hair, his eyes were ruthless. “You have no business… I could have you shot as a trespasser. No one would question it, not in Natchez.”

  “Want me to make him talk?” John Questler asked. He wiped the blood from his own nose and glared maliciously at Montak.

  “It would take more skills than you have,” Toures said sourly. “The man’s a mute.”

  “A—”

  “Take him away. Out back. Lock him up, and by God! don’t let him out. If he moves, kill him. If he gets away, Questler,” Toures said, leveling that finger as if it could kill, “you’ll pay for it yourself.”

  With that Toures spun on his heel and walked away. John Questler watched the general stride away toward the big house. “The big man,” Questler muttered to his brother. “Still thinks we’re nothin’ but trash. Maybe someday he’ll learn a thing about our clan.”

  Lou Questler watched his brother. John’s teeth worked row against row, his face red as his hair, the tendons in his neck taut. The younger man’s hand trembled, the gun he held on Montak wavering slightly.

  “He just don’t know,” John Questler sputtered. The Questlers were not a family, but a clan. The Tillers of Alabama were in the clan by marriage, the Po Thomas band in Louisiana. Strike one head of the clan and, it was said, another head grew in its place.

  The Questlers had always been professional fighters, going back to medieval times, it was said the black-lance Questlers had ridden against the Monk Gregory in Ireland. There had been highs and lows in the family history. Virginia had not been fertile soil, nor Mississippi where men like Toures—the old families—ruled haughtily.

  “He thinks we’re nothing,” John Questler muttered again. “I’ve a notion to turn the trick on him.”

  “John,” Lou Questler said nervously, “we’ve a contract.”

  “The man threatened me,” John said, and he said it as if the man had flogged him. “I don’t brook it, Louis. I don’t brook it. Maybe I’ll have a thing or two to show him. Maybe we should gather the family.

  John Questler’s voice trailed off thoughtfully as he scratched his whiskered chin. “You!”

  He turned suddenly on Montak. “You’re the cause of this. You big ape! And what were you looking for?” He stood close to Montak, eyes sparking. “As if I didn’t know. The silver, Lou. But you won’t have any of it, big man. Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “General Toures won’t have any of it either. Come on now!”

  He took the pistol from Lou’s hand and shoved Montak forward, along a gravel path which led behind the house, through the walnut grove.

  As they turned the corner of the house, Montak saw Melinda Toures being helped to bed in the lighted bedroom. The girl seemed utterly weak, nearly helpless. The pistol jabbed him sharply in the back and he stumbled forward.

  There was a small root cellar with a sloped roof and a heavy oaken door. Lou Questler unlocked the chain on the door and Montak bent forward. John Questler’s broken laugh followed him as a foot shoved Montak forward into the pitch darkness. Montak landed with a thud, the door to the cellar immediately closing, being locked behind him.

  “Welcome, Montak. Welcome to my home.”

  Montak knew the voice, though in the darkness it was a time before his eyes picked up the seated Joseph in the far corner of the dank root cellar.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The reddish lights in the distance grew brighter. The twisting fog wound among the dark cypress trees. The horses’ hoofs made soft splashing sounds as Kid Soledad led the small party across a narrow channel, the night filled with the humming of insects, the occasional hoot of an owl, the piping of a nighthawk. There was a splash a hundred feet or so upstream, perhaps an alligator awakened by their passing.

  Kesey’s face streamed with perspiration, though the night was no longer warm. Inkada rode silently, dark eyes constantly searching the swamp depths. Only Soledad, astride the magnificent Khamsin, seemed unconcerned, almost as if he had no fear of the night, the guns, the swamps.

  Inkada knew, as Kesey could not, that it was only because the Kid’s mind was far ahead of this, waiting for the one moment which he had anticipated for so many years. That single moment when he could reclaim his Kirstina.

  “What was that?” Kesey pulled up, his hat casting a shadow across his narrow face. “Did you hear it?”

  “What?” Inkada listened, but heard nothing, only the constant murmuring of insects deep in the swamp.

  “Sounded for a minute…” Kesey shook his head and wiped the sweatband of his hat. It was getting damned spooky in the swamp. The moon flashed faintly, a blue globe suddenly swallowed up by the cobweb fog. That and the Kid. The man was unnerving just being there. Kesey looked hard at the man in black, those two tied-down silver-mounted Colts. He sat straight in the saddle, face smooth and hard as stone chiseled from dark granite.

  The Kid started Khamsin forward once more. He had heard the sound too, and as they worked toward the reddish glow, it became louder, more rhythmical. The sound of insects, darting mosquitoes? Hardly.

  Inkada speculated that it was so. A swarm of bees, perhaps.

  “It’s cold for them,” Soledad said. “Late.”

  They walked their horses forward, weaving through the ranks of cypress, making hardly a sound on the boggy earth. The sound, the constant humming, grew louder as they worked their way closer.

  Kesey’s hand was tight on the stock of his Winchester.

  The moon appeared from time to time, dimly lighting the swamp, the faces of the searching men, yet mostly it was dark, cool as they wove among the waving shadows, winding toward the constant humming, the red light playing against the fog-swept skies.

  Kid Soledad had half-expected it, yet when they came upon it suddenly, breaking from the deep woods on a low, sandy knoll, it was an overpowering sight, a tragic one.

  “Look at that!” Kesey gasped. Inkada sat utterly still, reverently at the sight of the spectacle below them in the deep bog.

  Torchlight ringed the clearing, painting pennants on the silky fog. The people murmured, chanting low in whispered voices. It wa
s a demonic procession, a Hadean scene. Kid Soledad held a hand on Khamsin’s neck, eyes narrowed with subdued disgust. There were fifty black men and women knee-deep, hip-deep, shoulder-deep in the swamp slush. Heavy, four-inch ropes bound their shoulders as they tried to walk forward, dragging some tremendous weight from the depths of the bog.

  They worked in a double row, taking a step at a time, rhythmically swaying, a low chanting buzzing as they worked by the eerie torchlight.

  “Telingas,” Inkada said. He was beside the Kid, eyes fixed on the operation below them. “Africos. Slaves!”

  Leaving the horses, they scooted forward, the blue moonlight on the barrels of their weapons. Kid Soledad waited until the moment was right, then leapt to his feet, jumped a small creek and again went flat, Inkada’s soft breathing near him. Kesey wriggled forward, the brush rustling against his clothing.

  They were near enough now to see clearly the faces, the strain etched there as the Telingas dragged against the heavy lines.

  There were a dozen guards strung out around the clearing. All of them were well armed, all in good defensive positions.

  “Bangston.” Inkada pointed a finger at a broad, narrow-eyed man in a striped shirt. The slaver had personal charge of this project. The others were unknown to them, though Kesey knew a few.

  “One with the suit is a carpetbagger called Potter. That man with the white shirt and two pistols, he’s Ty Dewey. Fancies himself as a gun-fighter.” Kesey whispered, pointing them out.

  Many of the others were dressed as sailors, yet they appeared a rough outfit. Soledad suddenly stiffened as his eyes locked on another figure. A man in black, broad-shouldered, he stood coolly aside, watching the slaves work. Beside him stood a man with a golden earring and a badly scarred face.

  “There they are,” Kid Soledad said.

  His voice was hard-edged, his eyes cold. Inkada saw them too. Blackschuster and Wango. And across the clearing, in the shadows of the torchlight, Sam Toures.

  “Now what?” Kesey asked nervously. “We can’t go down there. They’d cut us to bits.”

  “Let’s wait,” Kid Soledad said. “Let’s see what they’re going to pull out of that bog.”