Natchez

by Paul Lederer

  “He… he’s a hawk,” Joseph managed to say, his finger still suspended in space, pointing after the kestrel.

  “A kestrel,” Ray corrected. “He’s the kestrel. Whatever he needs to be at the moment. Close your eyes, Joseph,” Ray advised him, “tell yourself that it was imagination, that Spectros did not fly away, screeching. Sometimes it’s easier that way.”

  Joseph was a strong man, and one initiated into the rites of voodoo through an aunt, yet this frightened him. With Montak they helped Ray toward the Planter House where Khamsin had been left. And a wagonload of silver which had been deadly to all who had coveted it.

  They had not gone far when they discovered General Toures. He had been crossing a finger of swamp carelessly. Apparently he had stepped into a ball of cottonmouths. Bites from the water moccasins covered the entire half of his lower body. Yet he had struggled to the shore, the woman he believed to be his daughter in his arms.

  Joseph looked at the woman.

  “Old Mrs. Fenner,” he said, his words as unsteady as his legs. “Dead ten years back. Died at the Planter house. She was near to eighty years old, yet…”

  “She was Melinda Toures,” Ray said. “We’ll take them both back and give them a decent burial.”

  A lone hawk dipped low over the blue Mississippi River. The sun was low in the west, flushing the high clouds with rose and copper.

  A great white stern-wheeler paddled slowly upriver, and along the river bank two boys with cane poles glanced up at the kestrel as it winged past, searching.

  The kestrel was not a mile above Natchez, the sky growing rapidly dark, when he saw something which attracted his attention: a slowly drifting flat-boat on the dark river, leaving hardly a wake. The boat hung close to the shoreline, as if waiting for darkness. The kestrel circled low, sharp eyes searching.

  Blackschuster—it had to be. The kestrel screeched and dove. Yet at that very instant he saw the other boat. Upriver a quarter of a mile the black boat floated. A larger ship, it too moved near the shore, in concealing shadows. But behind this ship a man was being dragged in the water. Inkada! The kestrel glanced at the flatboat, but wheeled in mid-dive toward the larger vessel. It was Bangston’s slave boat, and the slave master was trying to drown Inkada.

  Inkada gasped, fighting to keep his head out of the white water wake of the slave ship. It was only a matter of time before he exhausted himself and drowned. There was no way anyone could prove that the drowning had not been accidental.

  Inkada felt the water rush into his nose, burning his lungs. He grabbed again at the rope, his head thrown back. How long had it been? Hours? It seemed an eternity, it seemed that all of his life had been spent watching the stern of the slaver, fighting the knots in the rope which circled his chest and legs. It was growing dark. There was little to be seen. The trees on the bank, only black blisters against the purple sky, lazing past. The rooster-tail of white, assaulting water rising from the blackness of the river, washing over him. He and Kesey had found the boat easily, sneaking aboard in the darkness. Yet they had been seen, or heard. From nowhere Bangston’s thugs had swarmed over them with kicks, fists, billy clubs.

  Inkada fought for breath. There was none. There was only the white water, the night coming on, the last glittering of golden sunlight through the ranks of placid cypress trees along the sandy delta.

  He felt that he was spinning, but perhaps that was only in his mind. He no longer wanted to fight it. It grew darker, colder yet. He was aware of a sound, a different motion. He blinked, struggled again to lift his head. He was being pulled in! He dangled limply against the black stern of the boat for a moment. Then strong hands took him under the arms and drew him onto the deck which was still warm from the sun.

  The man was over him, his face sharp, shadowed. The Kid!

  “Shh!” Soledad put a finger to Inkada’s lips and he nodded.

  Kid Soledad pulled Inkada behind a pile of cotton bales, which Bangston probably kept on board as a part of his camouflage, then he cut free the rope and, making sure Inkada was well concealed, stepped back around to the stern.

  The smell of pipe tobacco drifted through the night air and the Kid drew back into the shadows near the cabin. It was Bangston himself. He was strolling the deck, his conscience troubling him not at all. Almost casually he glanced into the stern wake, his smoking pipe in his hand.

  “Hey!” Bangston pulled at the slack rope, noticing the cut end. “What in the hell?” He turned and saw the tall man standing there.

  “Just keep quiet, Bangston,” Kid Soledad said. He stepped forward from the shadows.

  “I don’t know you,” Bangston snarled. “How’d you get on board?” The tall man’s clothes weren’t even wet.

  “I want you to turn this boat and run into Natchez.”

  “The hell I will! My men will cut you to bits.”

  “You won’t be around to see it,” Kid Soledad said in a soft voice. “You’ll go first.”

  “I haven’t got much to lose, do I?” Bangston asked. He still smoked his pipe, arms crossed on his massive chest. “In Natchez they’ll have to hang me—I’d rather take a bullet.”

  Bangston shrugged, and his eyes flickered to the deck beside the cabin. Soledad’s eyes followed automatically, and when he glanced back Bangston had gone for the chrome derringer he kept behind his belt.

  “Don’t,” the Kid said, but the man would not be stopped.

  Sharply he brought the derringer up and the Kid unloaded on him, black smoke from the .44’s filling the night air as the thunderous echoes rolled across the water.

  Bangston nodded, and toppled backward into the river, his stuffy pipe still in his mouth.

  Soledad’s shots might as well have hit a powder keg. Instantly the night erupted with sound, men’s feet pounding up from below decks, cursing, questions which could not be answered. The first man around the corner of the cabin got a crease in his scalp for his troubles as Soledad brought down the barrel of his Colt. A second and a third sailor appeared, both were armed with shotguns and the Kid’s guns thundered. Both men fell back, one almost going over the rail as he pitched back.

  Soledad picked Inkada up with one arm and backed toward the hatch. A shot exploded, a bullet thudded into the cabin wall next to their heads as the Kid ducked inside, dragging Inkada.

  “Will…” Inkada gasped. He pointed to a doorway and Soledad’s boot smashed it down. Inside Will Kesey was tied to a chair, his face a bloody mask. Inkada struggled to untie Kesey as Soledad stood guard. One curious head poked around the corner and the Kid grabbed the man by the neck, throwing him against the wall where his head collided with solid oak, and he went out cold with a tiny, peaceful sigh.

  “You all right?” Soledad asked Will Kesey.

  “All right. Beat up some. Mad, mostly.”

  Soledad slipped Kesey his other pistol and reloaded the one in his hand.

  “Inkada, can you walk?”

  “I can make it, Kid.”

  “Let’s get us some help, then,” Soledad said, his voice grim. There was a ring of keys on the wall and the Kid took them.

  “Help?”

  “Let’s get those Telingas above decks.” He tossed the keys to him. Inkada smiled faintly and led the way into the holds. It was dark, musty. Overhead they could hear the sounds of rushing feet as Inkada found a lantern and lit it.

  Kid Soledad winced as the yellow-orange of the lantern flared up in the interior of the ship. They sat there. A hundred men and women, as they had been sitting in the dark of the hold for so long.

  Dark faces peered from out of the shadows which curled like smoke across them. Some hostile, others curious, still others resigned to whatever it was which had again disturbed their peace.

  “Woman!” Inkada hobbled forward between the ranks of scarred, tattooed men. The Moorish girl was there, holding her son. With astonishment she watched Inkada come to her. He found the right key and unlocked her chains.

  “I thought I would not see y
ou again.”

  “Tell these people that we have come to free them. Tell them that we must fight with the slavers.” Inkada took her hand and she let him, trusting this tall stranger.

  She spoke rapidly to the Telingas. Eyes lifted to Soledad and Kesey who watched nervously up the hatch, gun in hand.

  “They will fight,” the Moorish woman said.

  Inkada worked quickly back up the aisle, sliding the chains free of their anchors. The men gathered around, wanting this test of their strength to come.

  Like silent ghosts they stole onto the dark deck. One man after the other, Soledad leading the way. Starlight gleamed on a piece of metal and the Kid drew back, taking a Telinga with him as a gun exploded, filling the night with red fire. Soledad fired back and there was a grunt, the clattering of metal onto the deck.

  Two sailors with thick clubs dropped silently to the deck and were met by Telingas. Another sailor had been caught near the bow, and a man dove overboard, followed by another as Telingas closed around them.

  Kesey rounded the cabin to meet a man face to face. They touched off simultaneously, powder singeing Kesey’s face painfully, but his shot was truer and the slaver staggered backwards, dead on his feet.

  Suddenly it was silent. Silent so that they could hear the bow of the slaver cutting through the dark water. “Someone better take the wheel,” Inkada suggested.

  “I will,” the Kid said. He looked unsteady on his feet, utterly weary. Inkada watched Soledad turn toward the wheel.

  “He’s nearly done,” he said to Kesey.

  Kesey was swabbing at his face with a rag dipped in a water bucket. He glanced up toward the Kid. It was true—yet Soledad took the wheel firmly and guided the boat around a bobbing sawyer, heading southward.

  They worked their way gradually toward Natchez, with Soledad detouring into oxbows, coves and inlets, searching the black shadows for that flatboat. Searching still for his Kirstina who at that moment slept under the Mississippi moon.

  Inkada stood at the rail with the Moorish girl as they glided toward the lights of Natchez on the bluffs.

  “They are worried,” the girl told Inkada.

  “Worried?”

  “The Telingas do not want to stay here. They cannot speak your language. They are afraid they will find no work on the moon. They are afraid of the moon gods, and long for their wives, children.”

  Inkada watched the Telingas who sat or squatted on the deck, puzzlement, fear still in their eyes. They could not chart their destiny, nor comprehend it.

  “And you, woman?” Inkada asked, not looking at her.

  “Me?”

  “Are you afraid of the moon men? Do you want to return to your home?” he asked.

  “I have an old mother,” she said. “She has not seen her grandson. Her heart must be broken now…” her voice trailed off. The moonlight was on her glossy, black hair. Inkada turned to her, and taking both her shoulders he kissed her, letting their lips linger.

  “Woman…”

  “No.” She put a hand on Inkada’s lips, silencing him. Her lips trembled as she spoke. They stood close together, eyes meeting. “I must do my duty,” she said. “Perhaps someday I shall come back. To see the moon once again.”

  “Someday?”

  “Someday—and where can a man such as you be found on this moon we wander? Where can Inkada be found by one who might one day search for him?”

  Inkada shook his head. Where, indeed? Their road was a winding, treacherous one. Inkada was the first to realize that any day, any moment might find him dead. The girl saw that he had no answer for her, and she turned from him. Side by side at the rail they watched the boat slip into the harbor and nudge the wharf. The Kid threw a line ashore and Kesey tied them.

  “Kid?”

  The man was pale, wobbly as he moved. “Get Montak. My wagon,” Kid Soledad said. He leaned dizzily against the rail, anger surging through him. It was over for now. Over! He had used up his strength. Blackschuster could knock him over with a feather. Angnly he clenched his fists, throwing back his head, letting a savage growl leap from his throat against the star-flecked night skies.

  Suddenly Soledad collapsed, falling to his hands and knees against the damp wood of the rough wharf. Torches flared up downtown, and as people gathered at the docks, hearing of a shipload of Telingas, they came down the wharves in curious processions, many of them drunks, or simply people with nothing better to do.

  They found the Telingas gathered on the wharf, around a man who might have been an Indian. This man propped up the head of another man, a white man with a pair of silver mounted Colts.

  “What is it?” someone in the crowd wanted to know.

  “Somebody’s hurt.”

  “Somebody—hell, that there’s Kid Soledad, seen him down in El Paso! Guess somebody finally got him. Hey, Indian!” a rough, lurching drunk asked Inkada, “what was it done him under?”

  Inkada’s face lifted to the torchlight, the Kid’s head in his arms.

  “Compassion,” he said.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The doctor’s eyes flickered open. The interior of the wagon was lighted softly. Ray Featherskill sat opposite him, furrows of concern etched in his face.

  “Hello, Ray,” Spectros said weakly.

  “Doctor!” Ray came out of his chair, smiling with relief. “You had us frightened this time, sir.”

  “It was near, Ray. I must learn to act my age,” Spectros said smiling faintly. He smoothed his silver hair with a hand which trembled slightly.

  “We combed the river, Doctor,” Ray said, knowing that it would be the first thought on Spectros’ mind. “Nothing. Montak had a scuffle with a gator—to the gator’s sorrow—but no sign of the man. No sign of him, Doctor.”

  Spectros said nothing more about Blackschuster. Instead he asked: “The Telingas, Ray? Are they all right?”

  “They’re all right. Fact is, sir, they’re on their way home, but for one man who wanted to stay and look for his brother.”

  “Home? But how?”

  “I got to take credit for it, sir. It all came to me suddenly. I got together with Bennett…”

  “The river man?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, it seems he had him an itch to see the deep waters again. We took the silver Blackschuster left behind and set it up for Bennett to purchase a sea-going vessel. I reckon those folks are half way back to Africa by now, Doctor. We watched ’em slip out of the harbor, and it was a proud sight. We stood until she was out of sight, downriver. Some stood a while longer.”

  “Inkada?”

  “Yes, sir. He had a case for that woman.”

  “No luck with New Orleans?” Spectros asked.

  “No, sir.” Featherskill hooked his bootheels on the chair and tipped his hat back. “Dan, he wired us back several days ago. No sign of Blackschuster. Either he got by them, or he’s heading back for more silver.”

  “I see.” The old man’s head nodded slowly, his eyelids growing heavy. He closed his eyes for what seemed a moment and was overwhelmed by a sudden, vivid image of the smiling dark-eyed girl awaiting their marriage in the flowering garden at the Yahif’s palace. He blinked and opened his eyes, surprised to find that Ray was gone, that it was light outside. Montak grinned and helped him to his feet. Recoiling from the brilliant yellow light of day, Spectros went with the giant to the big house.

  Big Joseph was there, and Kesey. They were loading a wagon with trunks and furniture.

  “Doctor!” Joseph took his hand warmly. “I’m so happy you’re about. Lord, that black horse of yours has been fussing.”

  Dr. Greene was on the porch, in shirt sleeves, a bundle of papers in his hands. Berta Greene was there as well, in a gingham apron, sorting through a barrel of household items.

  “You’re moving?” Spectros asked Greene.

  “Yes, sir. We are. When people thought I was a traitor and General Toures a hero, it was unbearable here. Now they stay away for other reasons—they are embarrassed
. It will never be home for us again here. Berta and I have decided to take your advice and go to the West where there is a need for a doctor.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Dr. Spectros said warmly. “It’s a broad, great land we live in, and there’s a place for everyone. But it takes a move sometimes to find out just where that place is.”

  He nodded to Montak who went to hitch the bays to the black wagon. Khamsin nickered in the stable. Ray and Inkada had gone. Searching once more.

  “Will.” Dr. Spectros took Kesey’s hand and thanked him. “Which way will you be riding, Will?”

  “West, I reckon,” Kesey said, his eyes turned down. “I thought I’d help these folks over some of the rough trails, seein’ as they know nothin’ of them deserts or high mountains.”

  Spectros glanced at Berta Greene who blushed and turned her face away. The doctor took Kesey’s hand once more. “Luck to you, Will. I think maybe you’ve found yourself a place too.”

  Montak had come back, sitting the box of the black wagon. Khamsin snorted, stamped, and pulled at the tether until Spectros patted the big black.

  “Will we see you again, Doctor?” Kesey asked.

  “Perhaps. We too are traveling west. Colorado, I believe.”

  “To the silver fields?”

  “Yes.”

  To the silver fields where the man waited. The man—and the woman who was his prisoner, still a captive of changeless time. She who slept in innocence, enduring a life no better than death.

  She who had smiled so brightly one summer afternoon in a flowering garden so far away.

  Kirstina.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Spectros series

  CHAPTER ONE

  The moon was a haloed silver glow above the western mountains. The night trembled with the cold of the desert. Giant saguaro cactus cast eerie shadows across the silver sands. Beautiful, desolate, deadly, the desert, bathed in quicksilver, slept in peaceful coolness. By noon it would be a hundred and thirty on the flats. The sun would be a meteor searing across the empty, white skies.