Texas Timber War

by Jon Sharpe

  Kiley stopped and looked at him. ‘‘Captain Russell’s in no shape to command a riverboat again.’’

  ‘‘He can as long as he’s got a helmsman and a crew. I can handle the wheel.’’

  Kiley rubbed his jaw and frowned in thought. ‘‘When Baxter hears about this—and it’ll be impossible for you to get out of Jefferson without him hearing about it—he’ll try to stop you. He’ll know that he can’t afford to let you come back here with a real lawman. Chances are, he’ll get word to Red Mike McShane and send those river pirates after you.’’

  ‘‘He can try that,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Doesn’t mean he’ll succeed.’’

  ‘‘You’ll be risking your life,’’ Kiley pointed out.

  ‘‘No more so than I am if I stay here and wait for Dirkson or one of Baxter’s other men to bushwhack me. At least going down the bayou I’ll be a moving target.’’

  ‘‘Well, that’s true, I guess,’’ Kiley conceded. ‘‘But what about Captain Russell and the rest of the crew? They’ll be in danger, too.’’

  ‘‘No more than they have been every other trip they’ve made. They’ve already been jumped once by McShane’s gang.’’

  Kiley mulled it over some more and finally nodded. ‘‘I suppose you’re right. Things have gone too far. There’s no safe way out for anybody now. I’ll try to keep a lid on things here while you’re gone.’’ He gave a humorless laugh. ‘‘Just don’t waste any time getting back.’’

  ‘‘We’ll leave first thing in the morning,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I’ll go talk to Captain Russell right now. He’ll have to agree if we’re going to do this.’’

  Kiley laughed again, and this time it was a warmer, more genuine sound. ‘‘He’s got a grudge of his own against Baxter and McShane because of the things those river rats have done in the past,’’ Kiley said. ‘‘If I know that old gator, he’ll be raring to go.’’

  Kiley was right about Captain Russell. Sitting up in the bed in his room at Dr. Fearn’s place, Russell clenched the fist on his good hand and said, ‘‘Damn right we can take the Princess back down the bayou. And let Red Mike and his gang do their worst. I’ve been itchin’ for another shot at those bastards ever since I’ve been laid up here.’’

  The doctor wasn’t so sure that this was a good idea. ‘‘You’ve only had a couple of days’ rest, Captain,’’ Fearn said. ‘‘You lost a lot of blood, and you haven’t recovered your strength yet.’’

  Russell’s bandaged left arm rested in a black sling.

  ‘‘Is riding in the wheelhouse gonna hurt this wing of mine?’’

  Fearn shrugged and said, ‘‘Not really. Not as long as you don’t do anything to break the wound open and start it bleeding again.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be careful with it,’’ Russell promised. He looked at Fargo, who had explained the plan, and went on. ‘‘You’ll need to find Caleb and tell him what’s going on. He’ll have to have at least two firemen for the boilers. More would be better.’’

  ‘‘You know where I can find him?’’ Fargo asked.

  Russell grinned. ‘‘Try the Snapping Turtle. It’s a tavern down by the wharves.’’

  Fargo nodded. He remembered seeing the place when the Bayou Princess docked a couple of days earlier.

  ‘‘The timber and cotton I’m supposed to haul down to Shreveport was loaded today,’’ Russell went on, ‘‘so we don’t have to worry about that. We can leave first thing in the morning, as soon as it’s light. I know that bayou about as well as anybody in these parts, but not even I would try to navigate it in the dark. The sandbars don’t shift around much, like they do over in the Mississippi, but you never know when there might be a new snag that wasn’t there before.’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘First thing in the morning it is, then. I’ll go find Thorn, and we’ll start rounding up a crew. Probably be wise not to say anything about this to anyone, Captain. Maybe we can slip past McShane before he gets wind of it.’’

  ‘‘Maybe,’’ Russell said, but he didn’t sound convinced. ‘‘That son of a buck’s probably got spies here in Jefferson, though. Soon as we swing around in the Turning Basin in the morning, somebody will be on his way to McShane’s camp.’’

  ‘‘We’ll deal with that when the time comes,’’ Fargo said. In a way, he almost hoped that McShane would try to stop them. Like Cap’n Andy, he wouldn’t mind another shot at the river pirates himself.

  The Snapping Turtle was a squat building constructed of heavy timbers, located only a few yards from the edge of the bayou. Even though the hour was getting late, the tavern was still full of rivermen, drinking and playing cards and flirting with the serving girls in their long skirts and low-cut blouses. When Fargo came into the place, he looked around for Caleb Thorn, and true to Captain Russell’s prediction, the one-legged old-timer was at a table in the corner, sitting by himself and nursing a drink.

  Thorn looked up as Fargo approached, and a grin broke out on his weathered old face. ‘‘Good evenin’ to you,’’ he said as he gestured toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. ‘‘Sit down and have a drink with me, Fargo.’’

  ‘‘I’ve got something more important to talk about than whiskey,’’ Fargo said as he lowered himself onto the chair.

  Thorn looked doubtful. ‘‘More important than whiskey? I ain’t sure such a thing’s been invented yet.’’

  ‘‘How about making a run back down the bayou to Shreveport in the morning?’’

  Thorn’s bushy white eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘‘I thought the cap’n was still laid up at the doctor’s house.’’

  ‘‘He’s still recuperating,’’ Fargo admitted, ‘‘but he wants to make the trip anyway. He’ll navigate, and I’ll handle the wheel. But we need you to tend to the boilers and the engines, and a couple of firemen, more if we can get them.’’

  Thorn shook his head and said, ‘‘Everybody’s scared o’ Red Mike and his bunch. Traffic on the bayou ain’t but about half o’ what it used to be.’’

  And that half was made up of boats whose captains had contracts with Jonas Baxter, Fargo thought. Because they knew they were safe from the river pirates, even if they didn’t know for certain about the link between Baxter and McShane.

  ‘‘What about the men who were working on the Bayou Princess on the way up here?’’ Fargo asked.

  Thorn shook his head again. ‘‘Both of ’em quit once we got to Jefferson. Said they didn’t hanker to get shot at again anytime soon. You can’t blame ’em for feelin’ that way, neither.’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘I don’t suppose you can. What about some of the other men?’’ He waved a hand at the crowd in the tavern. ‘‘Surely some of these hombres would like to have the work and aren’t scared of McShane.’’

  ‘‘Well, I guess I could ask around. . . .’’

  Fargo realized he had neglected an important point. ‘‘What about you, Caleb? Are you willing to make the trip?’’

  Thorn glared across the table at him. ‘‘I been with Cap’n Andy for about as many years as you been alive, mister. Ain’t no bunch o’ damned river rats gonna scare me off.’’

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘I’m glad to hear it. Listen carefully, though. We need to keep it as quiet as possible about the boat leaving in the morning. So think hard before you ask anybody to sign on as part of the crew.’’

  ‘‘You don’t want word gettin’ to McShane,’’ Thorn guessed.

  ‘‘That’s right. We’re hoping to slip past him before he knows we’re on the bayou.’’

  ‘‘I understand. I know a few ol’ boys I’d trust to keep their mouths shut, even if they don’t want the job. I’ll find them and sound ’em out about it.’’

  ‘‘That’s exactly what we need you to do,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘Thanks, Caleb.’’

  ‘‘Save your thanks until we see whether or not I can find anybody willin’ to go along and likely get shot at.’’

  Fargo stood up, clapped a hand on Thorn’s bony old shoul
der, then left the Snapping Turtle. He had put the plan in motion, but now there was something else he had to do.

  He walked back over to Austin Street, to the Excelsior House. He didn’t know if Isabel would still be awake, but she was not only awake; she must have been waiting for the sound of his footsteps, too, because she opened the door of her room as Fargo approached it, before he could knock.

  ‘‘What happened, Skye?’’ she asked. ‘‘Those men Mr. Kiley was talking about . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Dead, all right,’’ Fargo said. ‘‘And they were the ones who were bushwhacked by Dirkson this afternoon, too. So now there’s nothing tying Dirkson and Baxter to the attack except me, and Sheriff Higgins says my word isn’t good enough.’’

  ‘‘He’s as crooked as any of the rest of them,’’ Isabel said.

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘It’s sure starting to look like it. That’s why Kiley and I decided that I have to go to Shreveport and bring a U.S. marshal back here.’’

  Her eyes widened in surprise. ‘‘You’re leaving?’’

  ‘‘First thing in the morning on the Bayou Princess. We’re going to make the run down there and back as fast as we can.’’

  ‘‘But Cap’n Andy’s in no shape to do something like that!’’

  ‘‘As long as he’s got somebody else to handle the wheel, he ought to be all right,’’ Fargo explained. ‘‘Even the doctor agreed with that, even though he wasn’t too happy about it. So I’ll be the helmsman, and Captain Russell won’t have to do anything except navigate.’’

  ‘‘If Red Mike finds out about this, he’ll try to stop you.’’

  ‘‘More than likely,’’ Fargo agreed. ‘‘But we’ll deal with that when the time comes. McShane won’t take us by surprise, that’s for sure.’’

  Isabel drew in a deep, troubled breath. ‘‘I don’t want to be selfish, Skye . . . but what about me? If Gideon knows that I’m here, I’ll be in danger.’’

  ‘‘Not if you stay here in the hotel until I get back. Don’t let yourself get caught without plenty of people around. Unless Cutler’s completely out of his mind, he won’t try anything if he knows there’ll be a lot of witnesses.’’

  ‘‘Well, maybe.’’ Isabel didn’t sound convinced of that, however.

  ‘‘With any luck I’ll only be gone a couple of days, three at the most,’’ Fargo said. He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘‘And as soon as there’s some real law here in Jefferson, we’ll deal with Cutler so that he’ll never bother you again.’’

  ‘‘I’m afraid Gideon may never give up, as long as he’s alive.’’ She moved against Fargo, molding her body to his. ‘‘But like you said about McShane, we’ll deal with that when the time comes. Right now, since you’ll be leaving in the morning, I want to make the best use of the time we still have together.’’

  Fargo smiled. ‘‘I like the sound of that.’’

  Isabel returned the smile, although the expression was a little strained with worry, as she said, ‘‘Then you’ll like the sound of this, too.’’ She came up on her toes, put her lips next to his ear, and whispered what she wanted to do the rest of the night.

  Fargo’s smile widened into a grin. Isabel was right. He did like the sound of that.

  He got a little sleep that night. Not much, but enough, especially when he was fortified with a pre-dawn breakfast washed down with several cups of strong black coffee. He had left Isabel sleeping soundly, her head snuggled down into one of the pillows and her blond hair spread out around it, and he carried that image with him in his mind as he left the hotel and walked toward the waterfront, carrying his Henry rifle.

  He wasn’t too distracted by sweet memories, however. He knew he was still a threat to Baxter and Dirkson and was well aware they might try to eliminate him, so he kept his eyes open for any sort of ambush.

  No one bothered him as he came up to the Bayou Princess. Lamps were burning on the riverboat, lighting it up in the early-morning gloom. A couple of men were stoking the firebox with pieces of cordwood from the big pile heaped on the deck just in front of the boilers. Fargo didn’t recognize either of them, but he was prepared to put his trust in Caleb Thorn’s judgment and accept them as part of the crew. He couldn’t do much of anything else, under the circumstances.

  Fargo crossed the broad gangplank to the deck and lifted a hand in greeting to Thorn, who came up the deck from the engines located in the stern, next to the big paddle wheel. The old-timer gestured toward the two firemen and said, ‘‘This here’s Rollie Burnley and Jasper Milton. They’re a mite long in the tooth, but they’re hard workers.’’

  ‘‘We ain’t as old and decrepit as you, Caleb,’’ one of the men said with a grin.

  Fargo shook hands with the men and said, ‘‘You know you may be letting yourself in for some trouble?’’

  Tall, gangling Jasper Milton spat over the side into the bayou. ‘‘Let those blasted river pirates do their worst,’’ he said. ‘‘Me an’ Rollie ain’t a-scared of ’em, are we, Rollie?’’

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ the shorter, stockier Burnley agreed. ‘‘We’re anxious to show that we ain’t ready to be put out to pasture just yet.’’

  Fargo nodded, but he drew Thorn aside and said in a low voice to the engineer, ‘‘Let me guess. . . . None of the other riverboat captains will hire those two anymore—is that right?’’

  Thorn shrugged. ‘‘Stokin’ a firebox is normally a job for younger fellas, but I’ve worked with Rollie and Jasper before. They won’t let us down.’’

  Fargo hoped Thorn was right. At this point, they didn’t have any choice. They had to do the best they could with the help that was available.

  ‘‘Nobody else wanted the job?’’

  Thorn shook his head. ‘‘Not with Red Mike and his bunch on the rampage.’’

  ‘‘All right. Is Captain Russell already on board?’’

  ‘‘Up in the wheelhouse,’’ Thorn replied, jerking a thumb in that direction.

  Fargo climbed to the upper deck of the riverboat and entered the wheelhouse. Andy Russell, his wounded arm still in its sling, sat on a stool at the table, studying the charts spread out in front of him. He wore a blue jacket draped over the sling and a black river-man’s cap on his head. He greeted Fargo with a curt nod and said, ‘‘We’ll have steam up in about fifteen minutes. By then it’ll be light enough to see what we’re doing.’’

  Fargo propped the Henry against the wall where it would be within easy reach as he stood at the wheel.

  ‘‘You reckon you’re gonna need that rifle?’’ Russell asked.

  ‘‘I hope not,’’ Fargo replied, ‘‘but I’d rather have it and not need it than need it and not have it.’’

  Russell chuckled. ‘‘Those are words to live by, all right.’’

  Fargo took the wheel, wrapping his fingers around the handles at the end of a couple of the spokes and getting used to the feel of it. Handling the big stern-wheeler was quite a responsibility, and he would be handling it by himself, without anyone to relieve him, since the Bayou Princess was operating with a skeleton crew. They might be able to pick up some more men in Shreveport, though, for the return trip.

  Fargo looked through one of the wheelhouse windows toward the stable where he had left the Ovaro. He had gone by there on the way to the waterfront, and the Mexican liveryman had promised to take good care of the big stallion while Fargo was gone. Fargo and the Ovaro had been trail partners for a long time and had pulled each other through many a dangerous scrape. He would miss the big fella while he was gone on this trip down the bayou.

  A few minutes later, Thorn reported through the speaking tube that the boilers had been heated up enough. They had steam up. Russell stood up and called back through the tube, giving the order to engage the engines. With the bayou widening out into the Turning Basin next to Jefferson’s waterfront, there was no need to reverse the engines. The Bayou Princess simply pulled away from the timbered wharf, curving into the basin as the paddle wheel revolved fas
ter and faster. In the wheelhouse, Russell told him how much to turn the big wheel, and the Trailsman followed the orders.

  It took several minutes for the riverboat to turn around so that it was headed back down the bayou, and by that time people were gathering on the shore to watch it depart. Normally, the captain of a riverboat would let off a couple of blasts on the steam whistle to signal his intention of pulling out, but Russell hadn’t done that. Still, despite the early hour, enough people were out and about so that the Bayou Princess had been unable to slip away unnoticed.

  As Fargo glanced at the small crowd, he couldn’t help but wonder if any of them were spies for Baxter and McShane. Even if none of them were, the word would spread quickly. A man on horseback could probably reach the river pirates’ camp on Alligator Slough before the stern-wheeler could steam past it. The likelihood was that trouble would be waiting for them somewhere along the way.

  But at least the journey had gotten off to a good start. The air, while still humid, was cooler early in the morning, and the sky was a beautiful shade of pale blue, tinged with rose in the east where the sun was coming up. The steady chugging of the engines had a music of its own.

  ‘‘Well, we’re on our way,’’ Captain Russell said.

  Fargo nodded. ‘‘Yes. We’re on our way.’’

  And only time would tell what the voyage had in store for them.

  11

  The first couple of miles went past without any trouble. It didn’t take long for Fargo to get a feel for the way the helm responded. Captain Russell moved his stool up next to the wheel so he could sit there and watch the bayou as it twisted and turned in front of them. His intimate knowledge of the stream made it possible for him to tell Fargo how to turn the wheel well in advance of the sandbars and other obstacles they wanted to avoid. Both men kept a close eye on the surface, watching for any snags. The sluggish current in the bayou meant that a jagged log could be lurking just under the water without causing a telltale ripple to warn the men on the riverboat.