Dance on the Wind tb-1

by Terry C. Johnston

  He held a finger to his lips and hushed, “Shhhh! Don’t tell nobody how old I be.”

  “Shit, no,” Nina replied with sarcasm. “We don’t want no one thinking bad of you for lying ’bout your age, now—what with all your other bad habits. So tell me, child—you got money for a poke with Nina?”

  “I got me a piggy-yune,” he replied, slurring the word.

  The whore held out her hand. “If you gimme your picayune, I’ll make sure this’ll be a night you don’t ever forget.”

  “Just can’t sleep it off with you,” he repeated, stuffing a hand inside his oiled jerkin to produce the three coins.

  In the blink of his bleary eye she snatched them away, stuffed them into that deep cleavage straining against the folds of her dressing gown.

  “Say, Nina!”

  She turned, with Bass clinging to her arm so he wouldn’t fall. He came tottering to a stop, his head wobbling, trying to focus on the two newcomers at the bar.

  One of the pair asked, “When you gonna be done with tender britches there?”

  “Soon enough. You jest be patient, Will. Won’t have to wait long.”

  “Make quick work of him so you and me can have us a poke.”

  Nina didn’t say another word as she wheeled Bass about, leading him down a narrow hallway formed by sheets of canvas hanging from the oak cross beams overhead. Off to the right sat three cribs. Off to the left, the other trio of cribs. He thought he could hear an impassioned grunt from behind one of the canvas walls rising in crescendo as the two of them shuffled toward the end of the flatboat. By the time they pushed past the canvas door flap into her crib, the hard rain was slacking off. Using one candle she kept lit, Nina lit two more. In the dim light Bass could see his breath, squinting cross-eyed at it while the vapors danced before his face. Concentrating on it as hard as he was, Titus bent, and bent some more, and almost keeled over to the side. From the next crib he heard a familiar voice growl.

  “I ain’t giving you no money yet, you whore! First I lay, then I pay!”

  Wobbly, feeling his stomach suddenly lurch, Bass put out his hand to keep himself from falling and stumbled against the canvas wall separating Nina’s from that adjoining crib.

  “Hey! Watch it there!”

  Titus was sure now that he recognized the voice. He stuck his face right up to the wall and hollered in reply, “That you, Ovatt?”

  “No—dammit! It’s Root! Leave that wall be!”

  Laughing easily with the sudden flush of companionship, he identified himself. “It’s me, Titus!”

  “Good for you, Titus,” Root bellowed. “Now, just get on with what you’re about and leave me to my honey-daubin’.”

  “Just don’t you go falling asleep with that whore, Reuben!” Titus replied every bit as sternly as he had been told, then giggled as Nina came over to him to begin pulling off his jerkin.

  She guided him over to her pallet on the floor all of the three steps it took to get Titus there, then nudged him backward. On his back, head dizzied, he sensed her pulling at his wet moccasins, then the bottoms of his canvas britches. His head felt lighter and lighter, as if it might just screw itself off his shoulders and go floating right up through the low roof he fixed with a stare as he fought down the rising intimidation of his troubled stomach.

  Just about the time he felt her cold, fleshy hands wrap around his penis, Bass tried rolling onto an elbow, growling, “I’m gonna be sick.”

  She flew off him so fast he was amazed, struck at the way she moved for being so large. Nina reached over, snatching up the chamber pot that sat nearby, and stuffed its fragrant opening right under his face. It was there she held his head as he screwed up his face at the horrendous stench that filled his face and mouth. Titus emptied his stomach in one explosive lurch.

  “That’s a good boy,” she cooed to him, running her fat, oily fingers over his forehead. “You just go ’head and fill that up if’n you need to.”

  His belly knotted up another half-dozen tries at wrenching itself free from its moorings in his gut, and then he was done. As he rocked uncertainly atop that single elbow, Nina took the chamber pot to set it in the corner, turned, and got back down on her knees over him, her hands wrapping around his softening flesh once more.

  He looked up at her and smiled, gradually collapsing backward while the world slowly went warm and black.

  Unable to part the blackness that enveloped him like a suffocating hood, Titus instead let his head hang as he shuffled blindly beside the one who was dragging him along, lunging forward beside him a step at a time. As much as he wanted to wake up, he couldn’t. For all he knew, the big whore was dragging him off—maybe it was even one of those who had hollered at her from the bar a while back. They’d get him to the other side of the flatboat, away from the wharf, stab him—then throw his body into the harbor.

  He wouldn’t be able to swim—wasn’t all that good at it anyway. Hell, he wasn’t even walking for himself right now, getting pulled along as he was. And if they pushed him into the Mississippi, he was bound to die. Sober, he might well fight his way through most any water if he had to. But not like this. Titus knew he’d sink like a boundary stone, struggling only a little before he sank all the way to the bottom of the river—unable to stroke and paddle. Hell, he couldn’t even open his eyes!

  It was still black. As black as it would be on the bottom of the river where these killers hid the bodies of the men they robbed. They stumbled over something. A man grunted. Then Bass was wheeled suddenly, his shirt ripping.

  If he was lucky, Titus thought, they’d slit his throat first, maybe shoot him in the head. No, they wouldn’t do that. Too much noise. Just slit his throat, and then he’d never reach St. Louis to see if Levi Gamble had made it there last summer.

  “What the hell business is it of yours?”

  He felt the rumble of angry speech in the chest of the man who held him against his side.

  “That’s my friend you got there.”

  Titus wondered about that. Who was this friend of the one who slung him around again and took a few steps back toward the far voice? Sounded just like Root’s.

  “I seen you afore, ain’t I?” the one holding him growled.

  “Maybeso,” the far voice said. “S’pose you put that boy down and come on over here in the light. Then you can take a good look at me.”

  The one carrying him lurched forward another step, then stopped. “Say, now—lookee there. Just what you got in mind to do with that big sticker, you ugly son of a bitch?”

  “Told you, put that boy down.”

  “He a friend of yours? Whyn’t you say so in the first place?”

  His senses all firmly dulled, Bass nonetheless felt his body flung toward the far voice, tumbling, colliding with a man who tried to step out of his way as Titus hurtled past, limp arms and legs akimbo. When he struck the hard-planked floor, it was with enough force that his eyes blinked open in shock at the sudden blow.

  Above him for a long moment he watched a candle lantern sway precariously, its dirty-yellow corona swishing this way and that above the two shadows grappling between the two dark walls at his feet. Then he remembered: this was the narrow canvas hallway strung between the half-dozen cribs. The grunting pair rolled through the foot of one of the walls, gouging at eyes and pulling at hair for all they were worth.

  Within that invaded crib a woman’s falsetto shriek rose above a man’s low, angry curse as the combatants tumbled back from the canvas wall, rolling toward Bass.

  He blinked, wanting to see, make sense of it all, slowly clawing his hands up the canvas wall, pulling himself to his bare feet.

  One of them was yelling names, sprawling atop the downed man, holding his opponent with one strong hand gripping the throat and the other raised above his head in a cruel fist. But the other arched his back violently, unseating his enemy to immediately begin hollering out for help of his own. Names that, though muffled in his foggy mind, snagged a familiar chord within Bas
s:

  “Ovatt! Kingsbury!”

  Titus knew them. Ungainly, he lunged forward a step, stood there wobbling, ready to take another when the voice ordered him:

  “Back off or I’ll gut you like I done a hunnert afore you!”

  Bass pitched to his hands and knees again.

  “Christ a’mighty, they’re gonna kill the boy!”

  Someone was behind him as suddenly as he tried to pull himself up once more. Whoever it was grabbed hold of Titus, tearing his old shirt nearly off his shoulders as they dragged him aside and lunged past him into the fray. Now he wasn’t sure how many there were as another kicked him aside and hurtled into that heap of grunting, cursing bodies … when the whole mass of them reversed direction in a blur, wheeling over him in cries of pain and gasps of exertion, that great roiling beast of many arms and legs careening this time toward the parlor, where women shouted and screamed in hysterics.

  In that distance wrought of fog and the spiderweb of time distortion made sticky by his drunken stupor, Bass heard clay shattering—its aftermath echoed by the high-pitched, feral screech of a man’s voice—sounds of some frightened, cornered animal. More and more hard body blows delivered against muscles and bone, each like a maul cracking against the tough, tight grain of newly felled hickory. At each blow came an accompanying grunt of pain.

  Then the sudden, blinding flare of a muzzle flash, brightening the whole of that end of the parlor where the first pair of cribs began. Someone screamed, and a body crashed through the canvas siding with a great ripping of coarse cloth. The man scrambled and attempted to rise—but sank slowly back, crumpling to the floor.

  Root’s voice thundered down upon him, “Watchit! That bitch’s got a gun!”

  Lurching to his knees, Bass felt his head complain, blood throbbing against one temple, then the other, side to side like Mississippi trashwood adrift inside his skull—battering this temple with shrill pain before tumbling for the other. He grew thirsty immediately: his mouth tasted as if he’d been sucking on the bitter contents of a hog’s gallbladder as he tried to speak, desperate for the attention of the shadows lumbering back and forth before him.

  “I’ll slit your throat, whore—you don’t drop that gun of your’n!” Kingsbury threatened with a snarl.

  Gazing up, with all his strength struggling to focus on the lunging shapes of lamplit shadows, he found them: Annie Christmas—all six feet eight inches of her—swinging a big horse pistol about, clutched in both hands, that skinny Hames Kingsbury clinging to her back like a tick on an ox, his wiry arms locked around hers as she careened past Titus, headed wildly toward the mahogany bar, and toppled against the wall behind it. As she came closer, all Titus could think to do was to lash out with his feet. He tripped Annie, the pistol flying into the dark as she pitched forward against the bar, toppling it against the wall behind with a crash and clatter of glass and clay and tin.

  Kingsbury stuck to her like a cocklebur as they landed in a tangle. With a grunt she lay still beneath the boatman, groaning.

  As those two had landed, Titus’s wide, fleshy whore burst from the shadows to straddle Kingsbury, starting to pummel the sides of his head with her big, soft fists. Back and forth Nina rocked the river pilot as Bass painfully dragged his legs under him, put his hands out to steady himself, and laid one atop something round. Bringing it up before his eyes for all of a heartbeat, not consciously recognizing what it was. Yet in some dim, primal way realizing he held in his hands Kingsbury’s fate.

  Unsteadily Bass rocked backward, his head feeling like a burlap bag loosely filled with a load of stream-washed rocks. Righting himself, he rose to one leg. Closing one eye seemed to help him keep the fat whore in focus as he shakily got to his feet and careened forward, his hand swinging that leg busted from one of the broken chairs back and forth before him. Over his head he raised it, then brought the leg down across the woman’s shoulders. Time and again he struck her on the back, with no effect but that she turned and cursed him, trying unsuccessfully to grab him with her left hand.

  “You li’l pissant!” she screamed, fending off the chair leg with one fleshy arm while she choked Kingsbury beneath the other. “I’ll cut your no-good pizzer off when I’m done here!”

  In that instant he hated the mocking cruelty in her eyes, the angry curl to the folds of skin around her mouth. And struck out at them blindly, sneaking in beneath her arm to lay the hardwood leg against the whore’s cheekbone with a smart crack. Her face immediately opened up in a long, dark line that spurted a glistening spray over the yellowish lamp-lit paleness of her skin. He dragged the lathe-turned hardwood leg back behind his head for another blow.

  Spitting blood from the corner of her mouth, her eyes became even more menacing as she turned on him, rising from Kingsbury’s body. “Now I’m gonna chop your balls off and feed ’em to you while I cut your heart out!”

  As she was lumbering to her feet, he swung, connecting with the top of her skull just above the ear. Nina’s head snapped to the side, she rocked unsteadily, stunned as Bass brought the chair leg to his left and swung it back at her head with even more force. She growled at him, both her arms held out in his direction, hands opening and closing like claws before her eyes began to glaze. A third blow—this time driving it under her chin. Blood darkened her lips as her eyes half closed. Nina weaved atop Kingsbury, both arms still outstretched to grab at the youngster, fingers clutching, releasing, clutching again, with nothing caught between them but the smoky air.

  Bringing the chair leg over his head, Titus brought it down on Nina’s skull as her eyes rolled all the way back, their sockets showing nothing but whites. With a loud snap her neck popped backward, and she toppled her great bulk into a heap beside the river pilot, like a forest slug spilling off the stem of some ground ivy.

  Trudging forward one step, then another, Bass wobbled over to her, holding the chair leg high all the time, suspended there as he stared blearily at the whore sprawled on the floor … when the room erupted again with women’s screams.

  One of them screeched right in his ear, “You killed Nina!” just as she landed on his back and they both went down in a heap against the overturned bar.

  At their feet Kingsbury clambered slowly to all fours, gasping for breath, dragging it in noisily, labored and wheezing, as would a drowning boatman who was just pulled from certain death beneath a turbulent river. Hames pulled his knife as he came up, clutching one arm against his side with a pasty grimace.

  “Get off him!” Kingsbury ordered.

  Immediately the whore riding Titus’s back stopped pummeling Bass with her fists, whirled, and lunged for Kingsbury, baring her teeth like a fighting dog’s. As she flung herself at the river pilot, the whore fell against the long blade of his belt knife—stumbled suddenly with eyes wide, her mouth moving without a sound—then stared down at his hands gripping that knife pressed into her belly, up to the hilt.

  With a grunt of great exertion, Kingsbury dragged the blade to the side, splattering the youth beneath him with the whore’s warm blood, then quickly snapped his head forward, cracking it against the woman’s forehead smartly. She lurched back, only then pulling herself off the knife blade as the front of her dirty dressing gown darkened like the underbelly of a thunderstorm.

  “Let’s get!” Root hollered.

  As the dying whore crumpled beside him, Bass turned slowly, numbed, to find Reuben holding down the Negro bartender, a knife at his throat. The slave’s white eyes muled angrily as he glared up at the boatman, his great coffee-colored hands spread in surrender, but his face bearing nothing but undisguised scorn for the victor. Backing slowly away before he inched the blade from the glistening black skin of that muscular neck, Root finally straightened as Heman Ovatt limped over, having held a pistol on two of the women through the last minutes of their whorehouse fight. Kingsbury hobbled up beside Reuben, half-bent at the waist, his left arm wrapped around his middle as he wheezed in pain with each shallow breath.

  �
�Get up,” the pilot ordered Bass, his voice strangely hollow. It reminded Titus of how a person might sound if cast down a well. Hames turned to Ovatt and Root as they all three surveyed the scene. “Any of you know who them two was?”

  With a nod Heman answered, “Think I seen ’em afore, yeah.”

  “I thought so—first they came in here tonight,” Kingsbury replied, pointing at the white man’s body sprawled half in the parlor, half in the narrow hallway. “They was on the crew what took Mathilda to their boat last summer.”

  “I cain’t be sure as you, Hames,” Reuben said as they stood huddled together, their eyes moving over the scene of blood and death, tattered furniture and broken clayware. “You two was what seen ’em in the Kangaroo afore Ebenezer took off on his own to break Mathilda loose.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Kingsbury answered quietly, stonily. “They come in here tonight, looking us over—I got more sure of it. Can only be the two Ebenezer said jumped the boat afore he kill’t them other two.”

  “All that over a whore,” Root moaned, wagging his head as he kept the knife held on the big slave. “And now this—with some more goddamned whores.”

  “There’ll be others comin’ soon,” Ovatt warned.

  “You best take me to the boat,” Kingsbury said as Root dragged Titus to his feet.

  Ovatt asked, “You hurt bad?”

  “Dunno,” and Hames swallowed down some pain that grayed his face even more. “Just get me there now!”

  “What we gonna do with these whores?” Root asked.

  “Take ’em up back there in them cribs. Have ’em tie each other up and gag ’em,” Kingsbury snapped, his eyes clenched fiercely. “Just do it quick—dunno how long I can stay on my feet like this.”

  Bass and Ovatt did just that. While the pilot and Reuben held a pair of Annie Christmas’s big horse pistols on the whimpering prostitutes and that big, bald-headed bartender, Titus and Heman tore dressing gowns and petticoats into strips they forced the whores into tying around ankles and wrists, as well as knotting a tight gag around each mouth.