Hawken Fury (Giant Wilderness Book One)

by Robbins, David

  Shakespeare and Tricky Dick exchanged looks, but neither made any reply.

  Fuming with impatience, Nate allowed about five minutes to elapse before he headed for the Devil Tavern. There was something about his expression that caused a number of passersby to stop and stare, but he paid no attention to them. All he could think of was Rhey and Adeline and the suffering they had put Winona through. At the fancy door containing a glass pane he paused to take a breath, then jerked the door wide and strode into the cool interior.

  Immediately a husky man in a suit detached himself from a stool by a bar on the right and came over, all smiles. “Pardon me, mate, but I think you want one of the taverns down the street.”

  “I want this one,” Nate said. There were few customers at the bar due to the early time of day. At a table sat four men playing cards. Ahead was a narrow, dark corridor leading to other rooms. Since the Debussys and Adeline weren’t near the bar, they must be back there.

  “No, you don’t,” the man said, still smiling as he placed a firm hand on Nate’s arm. “Now why don’t you be a good fellow and leave?” He glanced around as the door opened and Shakespeare and Tricky Dick came in. “What is this, a party?”

  Nate hit him. His right fist swept up from below his waist and landed solidly on the man’s jaw. Teeth crunched, the man’s head snapped back, and then Nate had to catch him to keep him from crashing to the floor. He slowly eased the unconscious man into a chair and looked at the server behind the bar, who was gawking in amazement. “The Debussy brothers,” he demanded.

  “Who?” the server blurted out. Then he said, “Oh. Them. They’re in the third private room on the left.”

  “Thanks,” Nate said, and stalked down the corridor until he reached the indicated door, which was closed. Not bothering to knock, he flung the door open and stepped into a plush dining room that would have suited the queen of England. Seated at a round table were Jacques, Rhey and Adeline, and three other men. They glanced up at his unannounced entrance, Jacques and the other men in surprise, Rhey and Adeline in bewilderment.

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Jacques said, rising with a napkin in his hand. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”

  “I’m here to extend an invitation,” Nate said coldly, never taking his eyes off Rhey. He knew the bastard carried a derringer, and held his right hand near his flintlock in case Rhey became reckless.

  “An invitation?” repeated a portly man with a wine glass. “I don’t understand, young man. Explain yourself.”

  “This son of a bitch,” Nate said, pointing at Rhey, “shot my wife. I demand satisfaction, and I demand it today.” So saying, he strode over to the table and before any of them could deduce his intent, he slapped Rhey Debussy full across the mouth.

  Rhey recoiled at the blow, then snarled like a rabid wolf and went to reach under his jacket.

  “You do and you’re dead,” Nate assured him. “If you’re not a coward, meet me on Bloody Island in two hours to settle our differences.”

  Silent until that moment, Adeline shot out of her chair and clasped a hand to her throat. “Bloody Island? Are you insane? You won’t leave it alive.”

  “That remains to be seen,” Nate responded, his eyes locked on Rhey. “What will it be, Debussy? Do you have a shred of honor left in your soul?”

  Livid with rage, Rhey stood and shook a fist. “You should have left St. Louis while you had the chance. I accept your challenge!” He angrily pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. “My seconds and I will be on Bloody Island at six P.M. Show up if you dare.”

  “I’ll be there,” Nate vowed.

  Rhey stormed out of the dining room, brushing past Shakespeare and Tricky Dick.

  “I’ll make sure he leaves,” McNair volunteered. “Wouldn’t want him to hide and shoot you in the back on your way out.” Turning, he hastened off.

  The portly man set down his wine glass and folded his arms on the tabletop. “Young man, perhaps you would care to offer an explanation? My name is Thaddeus Hamilton and I have considerable influence in this city. Maybe you have heard of me?”

  “No,” Nate replied.

  “I have,” Tricky Dick interjected. “Hamilton is the richest man in St. Louis, even richer than Jacques Debussy.”

  Jacques Debussy’s face betrayed his anxious state. He dropped his napkin and took a step forward. “Thaddeus, I assure you this mountain man’s grievance is of no consequence. It is a personal thing between Rhey and him.”

  Nate faced Hamilton. “Were you aware Jacques Debussy is a smuggler and that he deals in slaves from Africa?”

  “I was not,” Hamilton said sincerely. “All of us here have always been under the impression Jacques makes his money in land and by selling crops and stock.” He appraised Nate carefully. “Do you have proof of this allegation?”

  “I saw the operation with my own eyes,” Nate said.

  Jacques placed his hands on his hips. “Don’t listen to him, Thaddeus. He’s spreading falsehoods to get his petty revenge on my brother.” Turning to Nate, he said, “May I speak to you alone?”

  “Lead the way.”

  The older Debussy stepped to a corner of the room and put his back to the wall. Lowering his voice, he declared, “Why are you doing this to me? It was Rhey and that woman who abducted you, Rhey who shot your wife. I’ve forced them to tell me everything, and I must say I do not agree with the manner in which they conducted themselves.” He ran a hand over his slick hair. “I was not even home when all this occurred. You have no reason to cause me trouble.”

  “You’re a slaver,” Nate said. “That’s reason enough.”

  “Think, man!” Jacques said. “It would be worth your while to forget this whole thing and return to your mountains. I will give you enough money to live comfortably the rest of your days. Or I will buy you a house here in St. Louis. All you must do is agree not to spread any more stories about me. Is it a deal?”

  “No,” Nate said.

  In exasperation Jacques hissed like an aroused cottonmouth. “Why not? What can you possibly gain by opposing me? Thaddeus isn’t the only one with influence. I’ll crush you like I would a fly.”

  “You’ll be too busy hiding from the federal authorities to pay any attention to me,” Nate predicted.

  “You contacted them?” Jacques asked in horror.

  “I sent a letter over an hour ago. Within a week the military should pay your estate a visit.”

  Jacques’s face was beet red from his chin to his hairline. His lips moved but no words came out. He leaned on the wall for support and sagged. “Do you have any idea what you have done? I will be arrested and imprisoned.”

  “Only if they catch you.”

  A minute went by and Jacques was silent. At last he seemed to get a grip on himself and straightened. “I should be angry at you, but I’m not,” he said gloomily, looking into Nate’s eyes. “Rhey and Adeline are to blame for this, not you. And I am partly at fault for being stupid enough to allow them to live at my mansion while I was gone.” His mouth became a thin slit. “If you don’t kill my idiot brother I may do so myself.” A thought seemed to strike him. “Was it you who killed Yancy?”

  Nate nodded. “It was a fair fight.”

  “Because of the part he played in Rhey’s plot?”

  “Can you think of a better reason?”

  Jacques Debussy’s features were pallid. “No,” he said, so low the word was barely audible. “In your shoes I would have done the same.” He smoothed his jacket and coughed lightly. “I trust you will excuse me. There is much I must attend to.”

  Nate stood aside and allowed Jacques to leave unmolested. Inwardly a conflict raged. Had he done the right thing? After all, Jacques had not been involved with the scheme to steal his inheritance. Why bring the man’s criminal empire crashing down? The answer was easy, supplied by the memory of a frightened African woman named Tatu. He returned to the table.

  “Might I inquire as to what transpired between
Jacques and you?” Thaddeus Hamilton asked. “He looked as if he had seen a ghost.”

  “I imagine you’ll find out soon enough,” Nate responded, and bestowed a smile on Hamilton and the others. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, for barging in. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must prepare for my duel.” With a nod he headed for the door but Adeline barred his path.

  “Nate, I need to talk to you.”

  “No.”

  “But it’s important. Please.”

  “If you need someone to talk to, find your husband,” Nate snapped, and walked around her. Where once he had cared for her with all his heart and would have done anything to please her, now it required all of his self-control not to punch her in the face. Simply being close to her filled him with bitter, choking fury. He hurried outside and found Shakespeare waiting.

  “Rhey walked off in a huff.”

  “Then let’s go to Tricky Dick’s,” Nate said. He took a few paces, then turned and rested a hand on each man’s shoulder. “I’d be honored if the two of you would be my seconds.”

  “I ain’t never been a second before,” Tricky Dick said. “What do we do?”

  It was Shakespeare who answered. “That’s simple. We insure the rules are followed.”

  “That’s all?” Tricky Dick asked.

  “And we cart Nate home if he gets his fool head blown off.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Bloody Island was situated in the middle of the Mississippi River. The only way on or off was by boat unless a person was foolish enough to try to swim and contend with the sometimes swift currents that swept past the narrow island on both sides. No one lived there. Birds made their homes in the few trees and occasional snakes and frogs paid the place a visit, but otherwise a shroud of deathly stillness normally blanketed the island from one end to the other.

  Decades ago, shortly after the turn of the century, the island had been the site of a duel between two prominent St. Louis residents in which one of the participants received a ball through the heart and bled copiously before dying. Ever since, the nickname Bloody Island had stuck.

  Over the decades scores of duels were held there. The island was isolated and afforded privacy. More importantly, the duelists need not worry about accidentally hitting innocent bystanders since only the aggrieved parties and their seconds would be present. The field of honor had claimed the lives of seven of the city’s most distinguished citizens, not to mention all those who barely rated a mention in the newspaper.

  Nate had viewed the island from a distance several times, but he had never been as close as now. The rowboat in which he sat was making slow progress from the riverbank to the island as the oarsman labored strenuously. He sat in the stern, facing forward. In the middle seat was a local boatman, who added to his meager income by ferrying duelists. Near the bow sat Shakespeare and Tricky Dick, the latter fidgeting nervously and frequently licking his lips.

  Nate could see another rowboat already on the shore of Bloody Island. Close by were three men and a woman with radiant blond hair. Adeline! What was she doing there? Women, as a matter of decorum, were rarely present at duels. He wondered if Rhey had brought her deliberately, knowing full well her presence would distract him.

  The current jostled the rowboat and the oarsman grunted as he struggled to keep the boat steady.

  Nate glanced down at his flintlocks and swallowed. Although he had been the challenger, he couldn’t quite believe he was actually going to take part in a duel. He knew a lot about them, as did most everyone else in the country. Duels were the accepted way of resolving otherwise irreconcilable disputes, and many famous men had fought a duel at one time or another.

  President Andrew Jackson himself was a noted duelist. Before assuming the presidency he had nearly lost his life when his opponent struck him in the chest a second prior to his own fatal shot. The heavy coat Jackson often wore had saved his life by stopping the ball before it could reach his heart.

  Then there had been the relatively recent duel between Secretary of State Henry Clay and Senator John Randolph of Virginia. Both had emerged unscathed, but the fact that such notable political figures routinely engaged in duels testified to the widespread practice by both the high and the low.

  And here he was about to do the same, Nate reflected. They were almost to the island now, the boatman making for a strip of shore near the other rowboat. He remembered how fiercely Winona had clung to him before he left Tricky Dick Harrington’s and the worried look in Zachary’s eyes, and hoped he wouldn’t let them down.

  A tall man in a beaver hat approached as the boatman beached his small craft. “Greetings, gentlemen,” he welcomed them. “I’m Abner Collins, one of Rhey Debussy’s seconds.”

  Nate had to wait until Shakespeare, Tricky Dick, and the boatman stepped out before he could do the same. He walked over to Collins. “This is Shakespeare McNair and Dick

  Harrington,” he introduced his friends. “They will serve as my witnesses.”

  Debussy’s party walked up, Rhey Debussy standing rigid and stern.

  “May I introduce Maurice Evans,” Collins said, indicating a short man sporting tremendous sideburns.

  There were nods all around.

  “Since Monsieur Debussy has been challenged, he has the choice of weapons,” Collins mentioned.

  “I know,” Nate said, dreading a miscalculation on his part. According to the stories making the rounds, Rhey had slain four men in duels, each time with a pistol. Rhey was neither an accomplished swordsman nor very skilled with a knife. As Nate was a competent marksman, he was counting on Rhey selecting pistols as the weapon of choice. “Has he decided?”

  “He has,” Collins confirmed. “He has selected flintlocks and graciously allows you to use your own if you wish.”

  “Thank you,” Nate said, relieved. By the strict code of conduct all duelists adhered to, Debussy had the right not only to pick the type of weapons used but the actual weapons themselves. Frequently the challenged party would arrive at the prearranged site bearing a set of pistols or swords with which he was intimately familiar but which his opponent had never so much as touched; the opponent was thus at a distinct disadvantage. Since Rhey was an accomplished duelist and aware of the edge he would have by supplying the arms, Nate wondered why Debussy was allowing him to use his own gun. It didn’t quite make sense.

  “If you have no objections, I will do the counting,” Collins proposed.

  “It’s fine with me.”

  “Excellent. I will do a standard ten-count, at which time you both will wheel and fire. As Monsieur Debussy demands satisfaction, you realize that if by some chance both of you should miss, you must reload and duel again.”

  “I understand,” Nate said. To demand satisfaction at a duel meant that it must be waged until one of the combatants died. There were duels, like the one between Randolph and Clay, in which both parties walked away unhurt because neither insisted on the ultimate sacrifice.

  “Shall we?” Collins said, and motioned at a field bordering the shoreline.

  They walked to the field, Nate and his friends bearing to the right, Debussy and his party to the left. Nate saw Adeline staring intently at him, but refused to meet her gaze. He halted after going fifteen yards and handed one of his flintlocks to Shakespeare. “I’ll want this back in a bit,” he said, grinning.

  McNair hefted the pistol and frowned. “Remember to turn as soon as you hear the count of ten. Don’t rush your shot, but don’t take forever to aim either.”

  “I know what to do,” Nate said.

  “Oh?” Shakespeare said, and poked Tricky Dick with an elbow. “He’s never fought a duel in his life yet he acts like an expert.”

  “I could never do this,” Tricky Dick said. “I’d rather tangle with a grizzly.”

  Nate smiled.

  “Gentlemen!” Abner Collins called. He had moved farther into the field and was standing between the two groups. “Shall we begin?”

  Grasping the remaining flintloc
k in his right hand, Nate walked to where Collins stood. Rhey approached and stopped, glaring his spite.

  “You both know the code,” Collins said. “Stand back-to-back and wait until I begin my count. At each number take a step. On ten turn and fire. Do either of you have any questions?”

  Rhey impatiently shook his head. Nate responded, “No.”

  “If you are both ready, assume the position,” Collins directed them.

  Nate positioned himself in front of Collins and pivoted on his heel, then felt Rhey’s back bump his as Debussy complied. He held the pistol with the barrel pointed skyward, as was traditional. Memories of the only duel he had personally witnessed flitted through his mind, a contest between two gamblers that had left one man dead, the other seriously wounded. Would he wind up a corpse? he wondered, and shook his head in annoyance to clear his thoughts. Now was not the time to indulge in such speculation.

  “Are you ready?” Collins inquired.

  “I am,” Rhey replied.

  “Yes,” Nate said.

  “Then we shall begin,” Collins said, and cleared his throat. “One.”

  Nate took a measured stride and felt his mouth abruptly go dry. He also felt oddly flushed.

  “Two,” Collins stated loudly, the sound of his hurried footsteps clear as he rapidly backed away from their line of fire.

  Again Nate took a pace. His palm had become moist with sweat and he tightened his grip on the flintlock. He began to think that Tricky Dick had been right. He should have jumped Rhey on a darkened street somewhere.

  “Three!”

  Nate noticed that Collins was calling out each number louder than the one before. He was tempted to look at Shakespeare and Tricky Dick, to be reassured by their presence, but he stared straight ahead as the unwritten rules dictated.

  “Four!”

  An appalling weakness crept into Nate’s limbs and he managed the step with an effort. What was happening? Was fear taking over? He couldn’t permit that to happen.