By the time she reached Royal Street a cold determination had settled upon her. She turned down an alley when she realized the crowd in front of the door held more New Orleans police than gawkers. In the house had to be even more. Jacques would have accused her of the death by now, and the partygoers in the courtyard would give testimony how she had fled past them, bloody and clutching money to her chest. The horse was missing from its stall. What conclusion could be reached other than she had murdered her father because of his insistence on her marriage to Ezekiel Clarke, then fled after robbing him?
Claudette found a secret spot where she had left and returned to the family home many times without anyone knowing. A young girl had to explore, and she had found this route within a week of leaving the ship that had brought them to New Orleans from Paris. She reluctantly tethered the horse, knowing it might be found by the police or even stolen. New Orleans was a terrible town filled with crooks and confidence men.
And murderers.
She stood on the barrel, found the two notches cut in the stone wall and reached the ledge above. Inching along it brought her to a second story room unused for anything but desultory storage. She moved the unfastened iron bars away far enough to slip into the room. Careful not to leave footprints on the dusty floor, she went to the door and peered out into the upstairs corridor that led to the suite of bedrooms. Hers was next door. Her parents occupied the room closest to the top of the stairs, with Jacques' between.
The mere thought of her brother caused her to grind her teeth together. Claudette forced herself to relax. She eased into the corridor and went to the head of the stairs in time to see two police officers shake hands with Jacques and Jonah Clarke before leaving.
Jacques started to speak, but Clarke held up his hand until the police were out of earshot. Only then did he give the younger man permission to speak.
"This is a terrible matter, Mr. Clarke, but there is no reason the merger cannot proceed."
Clarke laughed until his gut bounced. He clapped Jacques on the shoulder in a fatherly fashion, then shoved him hard against the wall and thrust his face within inches of Jacques'.
"You need money. I'll buy the entire company for $50,000."
"What? The five ships alone are worth ten times that. And we have contracts. The—"
"I won't make the offer a second time. You own the company now that your pa's dead. Either agree to my terms or I'll buy the company in bankruptcy."
"Then give me $75,000."
Claudette caught her breath. She would have kneed Clarke in the groin for such an insulting offer, but her brother hardly flinched at the low price.
"Sixty thousand is my final offer. And you must leave New Orleans. I don't want to encounter you at some soiree. Also," Clarke went on, easing back and looking around. Claudette froze as he glanced in her direction up the staircase. "The house is included in that. Ez needs a place of his own. Hell, I want to get him out of my house over in the Garden District. This is far enough away that I can do as I please." Clarke gave his odious laugh. "And so can he. His tastes are . . . unusual."
Claudette hardly believed the deal she heard—or how her brother solemnly shook hands to seal the agreement. Jacques had killed their father to become the sole owner of the shipping company. Pierre Dupree's body wasn't even properly interred and Jacques sold the company to Clarke.
"I must tell Mama we will be returning to France immediately," Jacques said. "Immediately after payment for the company is securely in the bank, of course."
"Tomorrow morning, when the doors open." Clarke wiped his right hand on his tailcoat, as if this erased both blood and knowledge of a terrible crime.
Claudette realized this might be the least of the shipping magnate's crimes, and he was not legally responsible for anything that had left Pierre Dupree dead.
She edged back, then hurried to her room. She shucked off her bloody gown, stuffed it under the bed where it wouldn't immediately be seen, then packed a carpetbag. Jacques was right about the need for her to flee. Nothing kept her in New Orleans, and if she was caught the trial and execution would be swift. Jonah Clarke would see to that to gain clear title to the Dupree shipping company.
Her touch swept over a hardness in her lowest dresser drawer. She pulled out the small pistol, held it up and considered going downstairs to use it on her brother. Then she realized she was not a killer. Not like Jacques. She dropped the pistol into her coat pocket, finished packing the carpetbag with sturdy clothing, leaving her fine gowns hanging in the wardrobe. The days and nights of wearing such finery were gone for her.
She slipped back into the hallway, then retraced her steps through the empty room, along the ledge and to where her horse still waited patiently. Common sense told her to ride from town immediately, but she had other business. Business down by the docks along the river on Tchoupitoulas Street.
"You sure you don't want a bit of this mighty spar 'fore I go?" The sailor made an obscene gesture, thrusting his hips forward and grabbing his crotch.
Claudette forced down her revulsion and moved closer to him. The noise in the dockside saloon quieted as everyone watched. She put her left hand on the sailor's cheek. He moved to grab and kiss her, then doubled over as she grabbed his ear and drove her knee into his groin. She held him upright using the grip on his ear until he squealed, then yanked him around, draping him across the bar so he wouldn't collapse and curl up on the sawdust strewn floor amid rats and other vermin.
"Give him a shot of whiskey to put him right," she said.
The barkeep chuckled as he poured two shots.
"We can discuss that part of your pay afterward," Claudette whispered in the still groaning sailor's tormented ear before she released it. "What fine American sailor wouldn't love to have a French girl like me?"
"Good lookin', too," piped up the bartender. He shrugged at Claudette's dark glare and moved away.
"No hard feelings?" She moved the liquor over to the now gasping sailor.
"You drinkin' with me?"
A thousand things flashed through her head. She picked up the shot glass of unknown liquor and stared into its cloudy amber depths. Once she had sampled her papa's finest Napoleon brandy. It had burned all the way down her throat and threatened to sear her belly. She had never taken so much as a swig of it again. But she had grown up drinking wine. How bad could a single shot of this rotgut be?
"Cheers," she said, lifting the glass. She steeled herself and knocked it back. The quick toss sailed it past her tongue. The back of her throat felt as if a fire raged. She kept from choking as she lowered the empty glass to the bar. "Good," she got out in a hoarse whisper.
The sailor recovered enough to drink his whiskey. His reaction ran counter to hers. He strengthened as the liquor revitalized on him. He even smiled.
"A deal, missy." He spit onto his dirty paw of a hand and held it out.
Claudette spit on her palm and shook. A roar of approval went up throughout the saloon, and she found herself deluged with offers to buy her a drink. She successfully tossed most onto the floor where even the vermin refused to go, but she was still tipsy and wanted nothing more than for the sailor to carry out his part of their business.
"Come on, let's seal the deal in bed and then—" The sailor again tried to kiss her. This time she shoved her pistol into his groin.
"I said later and meant it. If you hurry you can be done before dawn."
The sailor looked at the gun, chewed his lower lip as he considered the situation and backed away. She had made a point of cocking the pistol before aiming it at his privates.
"Be back quicker 'n a shot across your bow." The sailor left, muttering to himself about the good times to be had when he returned.
Claudette heaved a sigh. He was as reliable as any of the men in the bar. She had to wait to see if he carried out her scheme.
"Another drink, missy?" The barkeep sat the half empty bottle on the wood plank in front of her.
Claudette knew she would
pass out if she took many more drinks, but she seized the bottle and held it high over her head.
"Which of you gentlemen, would like a drink? Half price!"
"Whoa, wait!" The barkeep grabbed for the bottle, but she stepped away just far enough to keep him from taking it back.
"Don't worry," she mouthed.
Claudette began going from table to table, pouring drinks, taking money, then returning for a full bottle and to pass over the money she had collected. The barkeep looked at the pile of coins, then at her and smiled.
By the time the sailor rolled back into the saloon, his sea gait obvious, Claudette had stripped those few remaining customers of all their money and made them glad for both her quick smile and saucy words accompanying the whiskey.
The sailor motioned her over to a table. He sat heavily and waited for her to join him. He looked about as if the demons of hell were after him.
"Ran into a spot of trouble. Police was everywhere. Thicker 'n fleas on a mangy dog."
"But?"
"Them Brit captains are a suspicious lot, but I found one who was shorthanded and who had sailed in the Royal Navy. He wasn't the least bit hesitant to take on a green deck hand." The sailor reached into his pocket and pulled out six silver dollars. With the precision of a diamond cutter, he divided the coins into two equal piles and pushed one toward her.
Claudette stared at the three dollars. Her share of selling Jacques to a British captain. The English had the only ships docking in New Orleans where impressment was possible. Jacques would awaken by the time the ship reached the Gulf of Mexico and then it would be a long swim back to land.
"For two years, it was, that I signed him up for."
Claudette stared at the three dollars. The price for her murderous brother. It seemed not enough—or too much.
"What? You want more? If me and you go to finish the deal—"
"Bartender," she called. "Bring over a full bottle for my friend." Two of the dollars went for the whiskey that caused the sailor to eventually pass out blind drunk. The other silver dollar she tucked away as a reminder of her family.
Her father had tried to sell her into slavery as Ez Clarke's wife. Her mother had done nothing to stop it. Now Pierre Dupree was dead by his greedy son's hand, because Jacques wanted the shipping company for himself. By the time he worked free of his servitude aboard the English ship, he would know the business from the bilge up.
She stood on wobbly legs. The sailor had waylaid Jacques and done the deed for her. He had been paid for his service and would get no more from her. She started to leave. Dawn was breaking.
As she reached the door, the barkeep called, "Wait a second. You want a job? You got a knack for serving."
"You're offering me a job?"
"I can always use a pretty waiter girl as good as you."
She took out the silver dollar and flipped it into the air. The metal caught the first rays of day. She tucked it back into her pocket and said, "I've got other places to be."
"Where?"
Claudette shook her head, then laughed.
"I don't know. I've heard Denver is a fine town."
In an hour she was four miles outside New Orleans and in a week was working at a gin mill in Hell's Half Acre in Fort Worth on her way to Denver.
Good
"This job's just about right for you, Deputy." The federal marshal hiked his feet to his scarred desktop and leaned back. He picked his broken teeth with a splinter cut from the corner of the desk.
Good tried not to stare at the hole in the lawman's right boot sole. A large blister showed through, or was that a callus showing the hole was something Marshal Legrande had lived with for a spell? Good moved around so he didn't have to stare at the boots or the ragged pant legs protecting the upper parts of the boots. His face a mask, he stared and said nothing.
"You hear what I said, boy?" Legrande dropped his feet to the floor with a loud thump and leaned forward, braced on his left elbow while he continued to dig for whatever was caught between his teeth.
"Why is the job right for me?" Good's ebony gaze darted around and came back to fix on the lawman's rheumy blue eyes. Legrande needed glasses. He would be worthless if he tried tracking. What little use he was came from moving papers about and sending reports to his superiors. Good had no idea who the boss of a Federal Marshal might be, nor did he care.
"You got the skills of a natural born tracker. I seen how you followed Juicy Bennett through the mountains. That varmint didn't leave so much as a smear of shit behind him and you ran him down all the way to St. George."
Good had heard that Bennett had a brother in the Colorado mining town. Finding him there had been less a matter of tracking skill as keeping his ears open. He had been thrown out of several bars that didn't cater to half breeds, but sitting just outside the backdoor of one in Cherry Creek had given him all he needed to bring the horse thief to justice. Bennett had stolen more than five hundred head from ranches as far south as Pueblo and north into Wyoming.
"Good work, that, finding him. How come you didn't stay for the trial?"
Good hadn't been asked to testify. Who would take a black-Creek's word for anything in the court, in spite of him having a deputy marshal's badge pinned on his chest?
"No need."
"Reckon not. Bennett sang like a canary after we got done interrogating him." Legrande pushed a wanted poster across the desk. Good glanced at it. "Go on, take it. This here's the outlaw just begging for your attention. He's another breed. You and him, you just think alike."
"I don't rob stages."
Legrande snorted and shook his head.
"Ain't saying that, no sir, not a bit of it. You're a law-abiding breed. But none of the other deputies has come within a country mile of catching him. So far, all he's done is rob stagecoaches, but he's doing it more often. You know what that means?"
"He's getting bolder."
"Every robbery gives him more experience. He's learning the ropes. So far, he ain't killed anybody, but that'll change."
Good wondered how Thomas T. Thurlow, half black and half Cherokee from the written part of the wanted poster, had singlehandedly robbed five stages without gunning down someone. The likeness on the poster was hardly a smear of black ink across poor pulp paper. Identifying him from that was impossible. The photograph was so bad it might have been a picture of him rather than Thurlow. Or any of the dozen freed men he knew working as freighters and drovers between Denver City and Colorado Springs.
"We don't much care if you bring him in dead or alive. Just stop him 'fore he creates a real ruckus."
Good stared at his boss and held his tongue. He had never brought back an outlaw dead. Some had been shot up and tied belly down across their saddles, but they had all been alive. What happened to them after he put them in their cell wasn't any of his concern. And it didn't bother Legrande's superiors much what the marshal did to his prisoners since he still wore the marshal's badge and Good remained a deputy.
He let a tiny, rueful smile curl his lips at that. A half dozen others would be given Legrande's job ahead of him. And if lightning struck them all down, leaving their smoking corpses piled up in the middle of Colfax Avenue, the marshal's replacement would come from some other region. Good had no chance to become the federal marshal in charge of Colorado from the border of New Mexico Territory all the way north into Wyoming, no matter how effective a lawman he was. He held out his hand. Coffee colored. No amount of scrubbing would get the color off so it would suit the director of the US Marshals Office. Not since it was formed in 1789. Not now. Never.
That was fine with him. He saw how Legrande had to kiss ass when the politicians came calling. The position was a federal job, but Colorado politics confused the boundaries between the state and federal too often. Good was content to fetch back outlaws, if content was even the right word. He did the job. It satisfied him matching wits with criminals and running them to ground.
"Not even content," he muttered.
"How's that?"
Good shrugged. Legrande stared at him hard, but the impact was lost in those watery eyes.
"Get yourself some supplies and onto the trail. Rumor has it Thurlow is holed up somewhere east of the Springs. All the stages he's been robbing were ones running from the Springs north to Denver. Make of that what you will. Anything you want to ask?"
Good said nothing and watched the marshal for any sign this was a chore beyond what it seemed. His very first assignment had sounded easy enough until he discovered he had to sneak out onto Ute land and arrest the son of a war chief. But now Legrande showed none of the shifty-eyed look of that time.
"Then get your carcass outta here and after the owlhoot." Legrande leaned back in his chair, got his feet back onto the desk and finally rooted out the offending bit of meat caught between his teeth. He spat in the general direction of a cuspidor, flipped his toothpick after the gob and laced his fingers behind his head. His eyelids drooped, and before Good reached the door, the marshal snored loud enough to drown out the sounds coming from the street outside.
Good sat on a large rock beside the road running between Denver and Colorado Springs, sucking on his teeth and thinking about nothing in particular. Letting his mind wander allowed strange ideas to float up where he could examine them carefully. The last week had been spent fruitlessly hunting Thurlow, trying to find where he might hang out, who his friends were, anything that might provide a dangling thread that could be tugged, gently at first, then with greater insistence until the stagecoach robber popped into sight at the far end, all wrapped up and ready to cart away to jail. But there hadn't been the smallest lead.
Good thought more on the matter. Legrande, in his oafish way, had picked the right deputy to hunt down Thurlow. The outlaw was a loner. So was Good. Mingling with the white folks wasn't in the cards, nor was drinking. Good took a sip now and again, more for medicinal reasons than enjoyment of the way whiskey chewed at his guts and made his hands shake. No one fessed up to selling Thurlow whiskey, and Good had asked the lowest of the low who wouldn't care if it was illegal selling firewater to an Indian. If anything, a couple of the men would boast on it. They had tried to sell him a bottle, and they knew he was a deputy. He had made no secret of the badge pinned to his coat lapel.
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