“He’s not that big a damn fool,” said Roberts. “You brought the gold; how’s he going to get that if he has you gunned down?”
“I’m reasonably safe until he gets his hands on the gold, I reckon. As far as he knows, I’ll be stuck here until there’s another steamboat to Fort Smith. Jess wanted me to pull out for Natchez, leaving the gold with you. Once I’m gone, you’re to send LeBeau word to come here. When he does, he gets the gold, and I’m finished with him. Me, I’m ashamed to be sucking you into this. Jess asks an almighty lot of his friends.”
“I see no way it can harm me,” said Roberts. “It’s your gold. All I’ll be doing is acting as a go-between. I’m ashamed that in a town the size of New Orleans the law is under the thumb of a man like Jason Brawn. I’ll go see if I can find old Jake. If he’s free today, I’ll arrange for him to pull out after dark. You can wait here until then, and I’ll wait until tomorrow before I send word to LeBeau. With luck, you can be on your way to Natchez before he knows you’re gone.”
Ten didn’t worry about LeBeau’s killers stalking him, until LeBeau had the promised gold. But Sneed didn’t know about the gold.
Roberts was gone nearly two hours, and Ten was restlessly pacing the floor when the big man returned.
“Jake’s loading some of my freight now,” said Roberts, “and he’ll wait until dark before he pulls out. You know where those three lesser docks are, just below the steamboat landing?”
“I know,” said Ten.
“Jake will be tied up at one of them. Not that many private packets on the river. He’ll be dark; no running lights until he’s safely away. I told him only enough about you and your situation to make him cautious.”
Roberts brought in sandwiches and coffee for supper. After they had eaten, Roberts emptied the saddlebags of their gold, placing it in his big iron safe.
“It’s a lot of money,” said Roberts, “to waste on an old reprobate like André LeBeau.”
“It’s worth every penny,” said Ten, “if it rids me of him.”
Ten waited until it was good dark before leaving Roberts’s office.
“Give my best to Jesse,” said Roberts, “and good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Ten. “You’ve been a real friend; I won’t forget.”
He stepped out into the darkened street and, seeing nobody, began walking toward the river. Not wanting to be encumbered with the saddlebags, he had left them with Roberts. He carried the small satchel in his left hand, and with his right, he unbuttoned his coat. Everything had worked out too well. It was too pat. The night was deadly still, and sound traveled far. The sound, when it came, was faint, but one that no frontiersman ever forgot: the cocking of a pistol. Ten dropped to his knees, and a chest-high slug whanged into the brick wall of a cotton warehouse behind him. Crouching in some weeds, he tossed the satchel ahead of him, and another shot sang off the bricks into the night. This time he fired at the muzzle flash. There was a scuffling of feet as his enemy retreated. It was a bad situation, a standoff in which time was the enemy. There was no way Ten could reach the waiting packet except straight ahead, and the gunman was somewhere out there.
To Ten’s right there was the river; to his left, a long, seemingly endless brick wall of an old warehouse. He suspected the other man didn’t have adequate cover either. The man had probably been taken by surprise when he’d suddenly left Roberts’s office. Ten kept as far away from the warehouse wall as he could, keeping to the high weeds. He managed to get his satchel again, and flung it ahead of him. It drew no response. He carried his gray Stetson in his left hand, lest it give him away. He took a long, slender weed and used it to raise the hat high enough to be seen. It drew a shot, and again he fired at the muzzle flash. This time there was a grunt of pain, and he fired again. Then there was only silence. He crept forward, holding his breath. There was an agonized groan, and Ten cocked his Colt.
“No…more. Don’t shoot…no more. I’m…finished.”
“You’re a damn fool, Sneed.”
Ten waited for a long time. He didn’t doubt the man had been hit, but many a wounded man had played possum until the right moment, and then came out shooting. Ten put on his hat, and nothing happened. He got to his feet and took a cautious step, only to have a slug burn its way across his left side, just above his belt. He drew his Colt and fired once. There was a grunt, and then silence. He waited as long as he dared before taking another step, and when that movement drew no response, he moved ahead until he found Sneed’s body. Ten quickly reloaded his Colt from his shell belt. Then, somewhere behind him, there were inquiring voices. Somebody had heard the shots, and once they discovered the dead man, the riverbank would be crawling with lawmen. He grabbed his satchel and his hat and began to run. He was already well past the steamboat landing, so the lesser docks couldn’t be too much farther.
There was no moon, and he stumbled into the heavy wooden pilings of the first dock. But there was no waiting craft, and he ran on. Behind him there was more of a clamor than ever. Looking back, he could see the dim glow of a lantern. He reached the second dock, found it deserted, and kept going. He couldn’t believe Harvey Roberts would have let him down. Jake Daimler’s little packet had to be waiting at the third dock. But when he reached the third and last dock, there was nothing before him but the forbidding black water of the river, lapping softly against the pilings of the deserted dock. Behind him, coming ever closer, were many voices. There was no turning back. He ran on, knowing they had found Sneed’s body, when there was a shot, and the excited babble of voices became more intense. And then he heard what he had been expecting. The ominous baying of hounds.
25
It wasn’t the first time Harvey Roberts had heard gunfire in the darkness along the river, but tonight it held a sinister meaning for him. He stepped out into the unlighted street, away from the building, until he was able to see the murky surface of the river in the starlight. Downriver, bobbing along like a firefly, was a light. There was a distant babble of voices, and finally a single gunshot. Roberts’s eyes searched the river as far as he could see, knowing Jake Daimler’s little packet had to be there. But he saw nothing. Hearing the clopping hoofs of an approaching horse, Harvey Roberts returned to his office building, climbed the steps, and waited just outside his door. The rider reined up, and in the light from his office window, Roberts recognized a policeman.
“That you, Mr. Roberts?” the officer inquired.
“It’s me,” said Roberts. “What was the shooting about?”
“Somebody done us a favor. Killed one of our local bad boys.”
“What about the other man?” Roberts inquired cautiously. “Get him?”
“Naw, and I doubt we will. Took a couple of hounds down there, but they lost the scent at the water. Come daylight, we’ll take another look, but I expect it’ll be a waste of time.”
With a sigh of relief, Roberts stepped into his office and closed the door. The river was deserted, so Daimler could hug the farthest bank and run without lights until New Orleans was far behind.
Ten continued along the river, unsure of any sanctuary, but knowing he must find one. He stopped to catch his breath, and for a moment he thought he saw something on the water. There it was again! The little packet, a dim hulk in the darkness, was running as near to the bank as it dared.
“Jake,” Ten called cautiously, “Jake Daimler.”
If it didn’t happen to be Daimler’s boat, he risked having the searchers hear his voice and send the dogs after him. Sound traveled far at night. Just when he had given up on a response, it came.
“Who be ye?” inquired a cautious voice. “Do I know ye?”
“No,” replied Ten, equally cautious, “but you know Harvey Roberts.”
“I haul some freight fer him,” said the voice. “Where ye bound?”
“Natchez,” said Ten.
“Ye’ll have t’ git wet some,” said the voice. “I ain’t comin’ no closer t’ th’ bank. This ain’t no time t’ run
aground.”
Ten hung his pistol belt around his neck, held his satchel as high as he could, and waded in. When the big hawser was thrown to him, Ten slipped the loop over his head and under his arms. He was hoisted aboard, chilled and winded.
“Sorry,” said Daimler. “I tied up at one of th’ docks, like Harvey said, but he also said I was t’ be almighty cautious. When guns started t’ pop, I set us adrift an’ floated downstream till things quieted some. We’ll ease over along th’ far bank an’ run without lights fer a spell.”
They were far from New Orleans when Daimler lighted his lanterns and hoisted his running lights.
While killings along the New Orleans waterfront didn’t attract too much attention, Sneed’s did. The man had been seen in the company of André LeBeau as a “bodyguard,” and while nobody was quite sure why LeBeau needed a bodyguard, it was something that came to mind when Sneed ended up dead. LeBeau told the law nothing, except that he knew nothing. But he suspected plenty, and had it verified when a hack brought a message from Harvey Roberts. He cursed Sneed for a damn fool, and then himself for depending on the little gunman. Tenatse Chisholm had arrived, Sneed had pursued some fool plan of his own, and had been shot dead for his efforts. LeBeau’s devious mind was in a turmoil when he entered Harvey Roberts’s private office. Roberts glared at LeBeau like he was some hairy-legged varmint just out from under a rock, but LeBeau didn’t notice. Roberts placed a single sheet of paper on the desk. It was a receipt for the gold, stating that André LeBeau had received, for services rendered, $25,000 from Tenatse Chisholm. Without a word LeBeau signed it, adding the day’s date. Beneath his signature, Harvey Roberts signed as witness to the transaction, again adding the day’s date. He took the paper, put it in his big iron safe, and removed the canvas bag in which he’d placed the gold. He hoisted the heavy bag to the desk. LeBeau took it, and without a word left the office. He went immediately to the bank where he had his account, often overdrawn. He left most of the gold in a rented safe deposit drawer, for which the bank had ungraciously demanded payment in advance.
Ten arrived in Natchez without incident, two days ahead of the next steamboat for Fort Smith. He avoided the several hotels, taking a room in an out-of-the-way boardinghouse. There was something Priscilla had asked him to do once he was safely away from New Orleans. From his satchel he took an oilskin pouch, and from it he removed an envelope. Unsealed, it was addressed to Prudence Edgerton, Priscilla’s grandmother. Priscilla wanted him to read the letter, and he had promised to, before sealing and mailing it. He unfolded the single page. Despite her concern for Ten and her misgivings about his going to New Orleans, Priscilla had written a frank letter. Briefly, she told of her marriage, of the trail drive from Texas, and said she was happy. She mentioned LeBeau only to say that he had opposed the marriage and that she had deceived him only for that reason. In closing, she promised a future visit when Ten would accompany her. He was about to seal the envelope when he thought of something. It was a thing so ironic, it left him chuckling to himself. Where LeBeau was concerned, it would be just the kind of knee in the groin Prudence Edgerton would appreciate. Ten took from his satchel a tablet and pencil and began to write. First he introduced himself and told her of his and Priscilla’s plans. Then he repeated Priscilla’s promise of a future visit, and closed with a suggestion. Since Priscilla was done with New Orleans, wouldn’t it be appropriate for notice of her marriage to be sent to the newspapers there? Priscilla had given no details as to when and where the marriage had taken place, so Ten wrote down the information. Reading what he had written, he felt guilty. Not once had he mentioned Jesse Chisholm. He owed his successful cattle deal with the Lipan Apaches to their recognition of Chisholm, yet, as he had admitted to Priscilla, he resented being forever in the old plainsman’s shadow.
“Ten,” Priscilla had said in Chisholm’s defense, “tell him you’re proud of him.”
Ten discarded what he had written. In the background on himself, he identified Chisholm as his father, giving him credit for his government service as scout and mediator with the plains Indians. He folded the page he had rewritten, along with the others, placed them with Priscilla’s letter and sealed the envelope. Once news of Priscilla’s marriage was made public, André LeBeau was going to be almighty glad he had taken his money and run out.
Ten hadn’t underestimated Prudence Edgerton’s hate for André LeBeau, and the information that letter contained would wreak more vengeance than the old woman had ever dreamed possible.
The police investigation of Sneed’s death accomplished nothing except to stir up gossip involving LeBeau. Somebody had remembered seeing him and Sneed in conversation in the St. Charles Hotel lobby less than a week prior to Sneed’s death. While there was no proof, there was speculation that Sneed had undertaken some less-than-respectable mission for LeBeau, and had died when things went awry.
While LeBeau ignored the gossip and speculation, Emily didn’t. A week after Sneed’s death, she confronted LeBeau. Not with an argument, but with a trunk and three traveling cases.
“Where are you going?” LeBeau demanded.
“Home,” said Emily. “For good.”
“After twenty-one years you don’t regard this as home?”
“No more,” said Emily. “Your drinking, gambling, and carousing was bad enough. Now we’re about to lose the house, the law is hounding not only us, but the neighbors, and I won’t tolerate it another day. I’m leaving.”
“Like hell you are!” snarled LeBeau. He moved like a striking rattler. She dodged, and his fist only grazed her head, but the force of the blow slammed her against the wall.
For a moment she leaned there, breathing hard, fumbling with the small handbag she still clung to. From it she extracted a pistol. It was a .41 caliber Remington double-barrel derringer. Her hands were steady as she cocked the lethal little weapon. She backed toward the door. Reaching it, she paused. LeBeau took a step toward her.
“Take one more step,” she said, “and I’ll kill you.”
LeBeau didn’t move. Hearing the commotion, the butler came to investigate the cause.
“Joseph,” said Emily, “please take my trunk and bags to the front porch. When someone comes for them, see that all of them are taken.”
The butler looked at Emily, at the gun, and finally at LeBeau. Then, without a word, he began removing the baggage. He took the trunk last. It was too heavy to carry, and he dragged it. Emily followed him out to the porch and, saying nothing, continued past him. LeBeau watched her walk away for as long as he could see her, a strange lump in his throat. He went to the dining room, and from a cabinet took a nearly full bottle of bourbon. He hooked his boot under the lower rung of a chair, dragged it out and sat down. He had neglected getting himself a glass, and drinking straight from the bottle, he contemplated his future.
He would lose the house, but what did it matter? Priscilla was gone, Emily was gone, Sneed was gone, and the neighbors, damn them, were looking down their noses at him. Well, he didn’t need any of them. He had money, and he could leave too. But how long would $25,000 last? He needed a bigger stake, but how to get it? Then, in a moment of drunken inspiration, the answer came. He would double, maybe even triple his stake at the poker tables. Jason Brawn’s wasn’t the only game in town. There were other houses, likely more honest. He shoved the cork back into the bottle and returned it to the cupboard. When he judged himself sober enough, he left the house, went to the bank and took five thousand dollars in gold coin from his safe deposit drawer.
On its way to New Orleans, The Saint Louis made a fuel stop at Natchez, bringing the latest St. Louis newspapers. Ten bought one. He had time on his hands. He had another night in Natchez before there would be a steamboat from New Orleans to Fort Smith. He went carefully through the newspaper, and had no trouble finding an updated story on Joseph McCoy’s efforts to build a cattle town at Abilene. McCoy had won the enthusiastic support of most Kansans, including that of the governor. There were some who st
ill feared an outbreak of tick fever from the longhorns, but McCoy had an answer for that. He would guarantee payment for loss of any Kansas cattle infected by Texas longhorns. Tenatse Chisholm vowed to have his herd in Abilene first, if he had to arrive a month early and wait.
André LeBeau couldn’t believe his unbroken streak of bad luck. He had lost ten thousand dollars in three days, none of it at Jason Brawn’s tables. He couldn’t afford such a loss, and promised himself that once he recovered it, he would take the $25,000 and go. He would visit the tables one more time. His luck simply had to change.
Ten reached Fort Smith on August 10, 1866, and rode out the following morning for the Chisholm trading post. He arrived in time for supper on the third day, and they rejoiced at his return. Priscilla laughed and cried by turns. He told them nothing of his fight with Sneed or of his narrow escape from New Orleans. Instead he got them excited over the success of Joseph McCoy’s plan to make Abilene the first cattle town.
“We’ll move out the herd on September ninth,” said Ten. “We’ll follow the Chisholm trail all the way to the Arkansas. From there it’s seventy-five miles to Abilene.”
“Then we’re going to St. Louis,” Lou said.
“Yes,” said Ten, “but not from Abilene. First we’ll return here with our riders and our horse remuda. Then we’ll take a steamboat from Fort Smith to Natchez, and another from there to St. Louis.”
“Whoa,” said Jesse Chisholm. “What’s wrong with going from Abilene to St. Louis? I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about that, and I reckon this is as good a time as any. Don’t take it any farther until I get my maps.”
He spread out his wrinkled map of Kansas, aligning it with that of Missouri. On both he had drawn laddered lines representing the completed portions of railroads. In blue ink he had drawn rough lines representing the rivers.
The Chisholm Trail Page 27