Render Unto God...

by S. F. Wood

  It had been two years since Dexter. Draw a line under it. Won’t bring anybody back. Was only holding himself back. But oranges? Was that all that there was to look forward to now? Oranges?

  Jackson could see the tension on the older man’s face. Lined and weathered, yes. Maybe the Preacher had aged beyond his years. War did that to a man of course. But something bad had affected the Preacher. Turned him closer to his religion yes. For comfort most probably, maybe for answers too. But maybe those answers hadn’t been forthcoming.

  “You are looking for someone here. In Sioux City?” Jackson hardly dare ask the question he most wanted to have answered. “One of the men in that newspaper article I saw on the train from Ellsworth?”

  “I will help him toward redemption, Mr. Beauregard. Redemption. It’s what we all yearn for, in the end. But look to yourself, Mr. Beauregard. You have your ticket up river. My advice is: ensure you have enough money for your ticket back down again. Otherwise, it will be winter in North Dakota for you. And if that happens, not only will you have nothing to write to your newspaper about, you won’t have any ink for to write with either - the ink will have frozen!”

  The Preacher removed his pipe from his side pocket, and began to crumble some leaves from a small leather pouch into the bowl. Not too dense, else he would not be able to get them alight easily. Jackson knew best not to interrupt. He produced a flint, which the Preacher took when ready. Then he puffed away, seemingly content.

  Jackson knew he had pushed the subject of the Preacher’s visit to Sioux City as far as he could. So he would take a final trip north, then head south for the winter, which was but a few weeks away, if that. The Preacher had suggested St Louis as a place to spend the winter months. But there was always Fort Wallace of course. That would be a good place to spend the winter. Well it would be if the young Katie were still there.

  “And talking of writing...”

  “Were we?” said Jackson.

  “You said sometime back that you had had your fill of writing about Lawmen, did you not?”

  “That was indeed the case. Hickok and Bear River Smith are certainly interesting men. Although in truth I preferred Smith as a person. I would gladly meet with him again. Hickok... well he makes good copy, but not good company.” The Preacher nodded in agreement. “The editor liked my report on the Hays City gunfight. And one or two of my gambling stories. He wants more like them.”

  “Bad men and bandits. Is that right, Mr. Beauregard?”

  “That is right.”

  “Well I think you will have an interesting story to write on your trip north.”

  “How so?”

  “And I would most definitely keep your purse in your pocket Mr. Beauregard. See that fellow there?” The Preacher pointed down at the quayside, pointed at a thickset man, dark haired, with an extended goatee beard. His eyes, dark too, were frowning at something. Smartly dressed, this man had money. He was about to board the Missouri Belle.

  “Do you know him?”

  “That, Mr. Beauregard, is George Devol.”

  They eventually made their farewells. But these farewells were little more than the touch of a hat followed by: “You take care, y’hear!” They had a rudimentary plan to meet down river in Atchison in a few weeks. Both men hoped that this would indeed be the case. But neither would say so.

  The following day found the Missouri Belle heading away from Sioux City, against the flow. A waiter had told him how pilots treated upstream and downstream as separate rivers, so vastly different were the respective vagaries, currents and demands.

  The cabin of the Missouri Belle was warm, fuggy even, what with the tobacco smoke. It ran the length of the boiler deck pretty much, all the covered area anyways. There was a bar at either end and tables with white linen, and a baby-grand piano. At one end was the restaurant area, and at the other, gaming tables. Many captains frowned on gambling, while others insisted that the House exacted its price. It was the latter case with the skipper of the ‘Belle.

  However, some games did take place out of sight - and beyond the reach - of the captain’s commission. The barbershop was where such games could be found. But being mid-afternoon it was too early for anything approaching serious gambling and too late for a shave. Jackson entered the cabin feigning nonchalance. He saw the man the Preacher had identified as Devol sitting alone at a small table, tumbler and a half bottle of bourbon to his right, a game of Solitaire spread before him. Jackson ordered a whisky and, with glass in hand, passed by the man’s table, trying not to show his interest in the game.

  “Do you think I should fold?” The player didn’t look up at Jackson. Didn’t even turn his head. Indeed, Jackson momentarily thought the man was talking to himself. “Well, do you?” he repeated.

  “Me sir?”

  “Yes sir, you sir. Do you think I should fold sir? The game does seem to have run away from me.” The player pointed to a chair on the left-hand side of the table. He still hadn’t looked up at Jackson, his eyes firmly on the cards in front of him, as if the merest glance away would give an errant playing card the opportunity to move. “Sit.”

  Jackson did as instructed.

  Only now did the player look up from the table. Dark eyes indeed. Interrogating eyes. Eyes that looked as if they would never suffer from laughter lines on account that they were set in a face that would never countenance amusement. Heavy brows, bushy, black and perpetually knitted. Neat hair, thick, but tidy, as was the beard. This was a man who regularly used a comb; a man who took pride in his appearance. Jackson noted the good quality cloth that made up the man’s dark coat, knee-length as was the fashion amongst riverboat gamblers. His shirt was crisp and white, adorned at the neck with dark red bowtie. In his lapel was a diamond stick-pin. His black hat hung on the back of a chair. In his waistcoat pocket, Jackson could see a large gold watch and chain. The pistol was concealed.

  Jackson took the man to be about forty years of age, which was a remarkably accurate assumption. “I fear you want for a red five.”

  “A red five you say. Why I declare you are right. I am blocked save for a red five.” The player dealt through the remaining cards in his hand. Nothing. Did so a second time. And for luck, a futile third. “The game appears to be up.”

  “I should fold sir. You are clearly beat.” Jackson’s voice contained no hint of mockery, nor superiority. Indeed, he shared the man’s disappointment, for Jackson had that quality about him.

  “Which red five do you think it is that I need?” The player was looking right at Jackson now, asking a pointless question. What did it matter which red.

  “What does it matter which red? Diamond or Heart, it is of no consequence. Either will do. But you sir, have neither. And that is the end of it.”

  “Which red? It matters to me which red you think I need.” This was a voice that carried authority. Menace? Slightly. Not a man who liked losing at cards, noted Jackson. Not even solitaire. And not one to be contradicted.

  “Diamond.”

  “Five of Diamonds? You think that for the want of the Five of Diamonds I have lost the game?”

  “Self-evident I regret to say sir.”

  “You regret to say sir.”

  “I have some experience with Solitaire, and I have a deal of experience of losing at Solitaire. You have run through the pack more than twice, and twice is sufficient to know that the card you need will not turn up. So, you have, indeed sir, lost the game.” Jackson shrugged his shoulders in such a manner as to make it clear he took no satisfaction in this.

  The man dealt the cards in his hand one more time. Turned first the Four of Clubs. Then the Deuce of Spades. Followed by the Trey of Hearts. Then the Five of Diamonds.

  “Well young man, you have brought me luck. Because now...” Jackson watched him lay the card onto a black six. This allowed a black four to go onto the newly laid red five, freeing a blocked Ace, opening up a column... Within a few fast moments the game was no longer up, but won.

  “Well, sir
! I am indeed impressed!” exclaimed Jackson, who was indeed impressed at the sleight of hand that had taken place before his eyes.

  “But you did not come over just to watch me play Solitaire did you, Mr. Beauregard?”

  “How…? How do you know my name?” Jackson was not just curious, he was startled.

  The player collected the cards and proceeded to shuffle them. Holding the deck in his right hand he used the thumb and middle two fingers of his left hand to pull off cards from first the bottom then the middle of the pack and deposited them on the top.

  But he did this too quickly for Jackson to follow. He then dealt the cards, one two three face down, the fourth, the Ace of Spades. Then one two three face down, followed by the Ace of Spades. One two three face down... the Ace of Spades.

  This was repeated until 13 Aces, all Spades, were dealt. “That is a mighty fine trick sir, indeed it is!” said Jackson, and his amazement was genuine. “How...?”

  “It was easier than you think, Mr. Beauregard. Look!” And with that, the player upturned the deck and fanned it across the table to show that all 52 cards were aces of spades.

  Then, respecting the silence because he was speechless, Jackson watched the man gather up the cards and proceeded to shuffle in the same manner, before placing the pack face down on the table.

  “The Hindu Shuffle, Mr. Beauregard. So called because it was taught to the world by an old Hindu Fakir.”

  “Really?” Jackson felt free to speak at last.

  “I have no idea. I made that up for your benefit. Good tale though.”

  Jackson was amused. Then he answered the man’s question. “But I did want to see you play, Mr. Devol, be it Solitaire or any other game. I have heard of your reputation.”

  The player picked up the cards, tied them with a ribbon, and placed the pack in one of his pockets. Then he leant forward, and looked straight at Jackson. The young man could not help but observe the older man’s forehead, hard, solid. The Preacher had told him a story about how Devol would use his forehead to smash the noses of men he was fighting. And he was always fighting was George Devol.

  “Two things you must remember Mr. Jackson Beauregard.” And then an immediate change of tone, from quietly sinister to charm itself. “May I call you Jackson? I do hate formality. Jackson?”

  “Why, Yes.” Jackson was still aware of the forehead, so perilously close now to his own nose, such was the manner in which Devol was leaning across the table. But this sounded like he wanted to be friendly. “Yes, of course. Jackson. Please do.”

  “Well Jackson, the first thing you should know is that I have been aware of you watching me ever since I boarded yesterday morning. I do not know why. Not yet.”

  “Well that is easily explained sir,” said Jackson mightily relieved that he could furnish a very simple explanation. “I know who you are sir, such is your fame and...”

  “And...” said the gambler, reaching with his right hand over the table, taking Jackson by the left forearm and gripping it tight. Very tight. Excruciatingly tight. Arm-breakingly tight. “I do want to emphasize, Jackson, that my name is not, and I repeat not, George Devol.”

  “But sir,” protested Jackson, “I know you are...”

  Jackson thought that his wrist was going to snap. He brought his right hand over and tried with all he could to pull those fingers away from his arm. But while Jackson’s face was contorted in agony, there was not the flicker of effort on Devol’s face. Assuming it was Devol, which was an assumption Jackson was doing his very best to lose as quickly as he could.

  Then suddenly his arm was set free. Jackson pushed his chair away from the table, the better to allow him to double up, squeeze his arm between his chest and his lap, and kneed his newly freed limb vigorously with his fingers, attempting to stimulate the blood back to his hand.

  “My name, Jackson, is Lovéd. Note the stress on the second syllable. Henry Lovéd. Is that, how shall I put it... clear?”

  That this wasn’t clear was clear by the look of bewilderment on Jackson’s face.

  “Let me explain, and please, accept my apologies if I used a little too much force in my enthusiasm just now. You see...” The man best referred to as Lovéd paused and looked around. There wasn’t anyone in earshot. Nevertheless, he dropped his voice to a whisper and motioned Jackson towards him. Jackson could smell the whisky on the man’s breath. Lovéd continued, “This George Devol has, and you may not be aware of this, many enemies. And his reputation for being a fearsome gambler is such that he is not welcome on many of the boats on the Mississippi. Now I accept,” he continued, sitting back a little, “that we are on the Missouri, but nevertheless, I too, am a card player. I too, make my living at the tables. If people aboard the Missouri Belle thought that I was George Devol, well I would be unable to pit my wits against my fellow gamblers, would I? Do you see my dilemma? In short Jackson, if I can’t play because of some mistaken belief that I am someone else, then I would starve. Now Jackson, you wouldn’t want me to starve, would you?”

  “No, no, Mr... er…”

  “Lovéd.”

  “Mr. Lovéd.”

  “Capital! And call me Henry, won’t you? As a way to show that I forgive you this unpleasantness.”

  A bit rich that, thought Jackson, but he also thought it best to keep his opinion as to who exactly caused the ‘unpleasantness’ to himself. The pain in his arm was easing.

  “OK er... Henry.” As Lovéd smiled Jackson was left wondering who exactly this person really was. But if he really wasn’t George Devol...

  “Well, Henry,” said Jackson, standing now, “I had best bid you farewell. I shall continue my search for Mr. Devol elsewhere.”

  But as he turned to leave, Lovéd reached out and again took Jackson’s arm - only not so aggressively this time - and said, “Jackson, tell me, why you are looking for this man.”

  Jackson stopped.

  Lovéd added: “You don’t look like a Pinkerton man.”

  Jackson laughed. “No Mr. Lovéd. I am no detective. I am, how shall I put it, from one of the investigative professions, but not police. I am a newspaper correspondent.”

  “Newspaper!” Lovéd’s surprise was genuine. “Newspaper? What interest has a newspaper got in George Devol? Please please, sit down again. You have engaged my interest.” Jackson resumed his seat. “I see you have a glass, so let us share this bourbon.” Without waiting for a response, Lovéd soon had a full glass of bourbon in front of Jackson. “Now, Your Health!” Lovéd raised his glass. A momentary pause and then Jackson followed suit.

  Jackson took a decent sip, then settled in his chair and crossed his leg. He was feeling comfortable. “As I said, Mr... I mean, Henry, I am a journalist and I am looking to interview the great Mr. George Devol. He is, and I am sure this you will acknowledge, the most famous of Mississippi steamboat gamblers.”

  “Famous you say, great you say.” Lovéd’s voice tailed off. “The most famous, is he?”

  “Well some would say infamous. Though I do not judge. But if I cannot find him, I shall have to pursue my other plan.”

  “If you cannot find him?”

  “If I cannot find him.”

  “May I ask you a question Jackson?”

  “Please, Henry, feel free.”

  “If you cannot find Devol, what pray, is your other plan?”

  “Why Henry,” smiled Jackson, “If I cannot find the most famous of the Mississippi riverboat gamblers, then I will look for the second most famous.”

  “The second?” Lovéd’s curiosity could not be hidden. “And just who is that?”

  “Canada Bill Jones.” Jackson felt that the Preacher would admire his nonchalant air at that moment.

  “Canada Bill Jones!” spluttered Lovéd. “Canada… Bill… Jones!” Lovéd sat upright in his chair and shook his head in disbelief. “Now mark my words Jackson, Canada Bill is a fine fellow, a lovely man. He is a master at Monte, one of the best. But he is a fool nevertheless. I will allow that he has w
on a deal of money. But he is the type who won’t have enough to pay his funeral bill when the time comes. No, you cannot interview him above Devol! I won’t allow it!” Lovéd was indignant, almost affronted.

  “But Henry!” said Jackson. “You know I would prefer to interview Devol. But as you have already acknowledged, he is not you. And I was sure that... But please,” Jackson thought it prudent to pour some more liquor in Lovéd’s glass at this moment. “Please, I do acknowledge that you are who you say you are and not whom I thought you were.”

  “Whom?” mocked Lovéd. “You are indeed a journalist.” He took the glass readily. “So you were going to write about Devol indeed. What were you going to write?”

  “Devol is surely a man of the world.”

  “Indeed he is.”

  Jackson helped himself to some more liquor. A generous amount. “And he has undoubtedly had more adventures than most men.”

  “Indeed he has. And I can vouch, more than Canada Bill Jones.” Lovéd snorted in disgust.

  “Although of course I cannot guarantee that Mr. Devol would want me to write an article about him. That is always a risk for a newspaper correspondent.”

  “Indeed he does, Jackson. Or I should say, he would do. If he were here.”

  “If indeed.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Yes Henry.”

  “I have an idea. I know Devol. I mean, knew Devol. I can tell you all the things your readers would like to know about the man.”

  “Really?” said Jackson, sensing the opportunity. “Of course, everything you say shall be in the strictest confidence.”

  “Of course,” said Lovéd. “Naturally.”

  “No one need know, apart from thee and me, as they say.”

  “That is reassuring.”

  “But of course, I would not want to make him appear as a sainted man. The readers of my newspaper are not interested in the tales of sainted men.”