The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  Lew raced out of the trees and dragged his horse to a sliding stop near the men on the levee. He reined the mount to the side so that the barrel of the Paterson lying on his lap pointed straight at the three.

  “What’s happening here?” Lew questioned. “Why did you shoot that man?”

  The men had heard the pounding iron-shod hooves of the running horse and had spun to face the rider. The third man scrambled up the slope to stand with his cohorts.

  The leader suppressed his surprise at the sudden appearance of the stranger. His face hardened and he shifted his cocked pistol for a quick shot.

  Lew saw no badges on the chests of the dirty, scruffy trio. Their expression was not that of lawmen, but rather of men caught doing murder. Lew felt the wolf rising in his chest at the ruthless killing of the traveler.

  “What man did we shoot?” asked the leader. “I see no body. All that’s here is an empty camp.” He spread his thick lips and a mouthful of broken teeth showed in a wicked, jeering smile.

  With panther-cold eyes, Lew watched the men. A prickle ran over his body as his anger built. Without a corpse, murder could not be proved. And there were three of them to swear no man had been in the camp. He glanced along the bank of the river to see if by some slim chance the man who had been shot had lived and swum back to the shore. There were only weeds and the lapping muddy water.

  The leader of the outlaws measured the young man in the broad-brimmed Texas hat and wearing the big silver spurs. He appeared confident, uncaring that there were three of them against him. Overconfident, for he should be easy to kill. The leader saw the Texan turn his view to look along the bank.

  “Kill him,” shouted the leader. He jerked up his pistol.

  Lew had expected the assault. He raised his Colt and burst the leader’s heart. He rotated the barrel of the weapon to point at the next man, who was swiftly raising his gun. Lew fired, the lead projectile shattering the thick sternum bone of the man and plowing onward through the soft lung tissue and out the back.

  The third man halted the movement of his pistol, holding it only partway lifted. He stood looking directly down the black open bore of Lew’s gun.

  The outlaw slowly shifted his stare from the gun to Lew’s face. He shuddered as he saw the chilling enigmatic gray of the Texan’s eyes. The danger in the man was absolute.

  The man is a murderer, thought Lew. He will rob and kill again. There is no justice for the dead traveler. He held his anger at bay as he pondered the situation. What could be accomplished if he took the man into New Orleans? Nothing, except a long inquest, and Lew might himself be in trouble for killing two men.

  Lew’s lips drew back and his teeth showed cruelly white. The man was guilty without a doubt, for Lew had seen the murder committed with his own eyes. The outlaw should die for his crime. Who should be the executioner?

  Lew shot the man through the forehead. He fell backward, to sprawl on the steep bank of the levee.

  Lew dragged the three dead men down to the edge of the Mississippi. He searched them, taking a pocket-book with fifty-two dollars from one of them. The others had only a few coins. He found no identification. That was all right, for he did not want to know their names.

  Lew flung the corpses one after the other into the river. The leader went in last. As the man sank, a chuckling sound came from the water.

  “I think killing them was a good idea too,” Lew told the river.

  He washed his hands in the water, using the sandy silt of the bank to scour them clean.

  3

  Lezin Morissot knelt in the brush on the brink of the Mississippi River. He was on the outside curve of a giant looping meander of the river, and the mighty current struck there full-force and deep. He felt the ground tremble to the pounding of the floodwater that lapped at his knees. Anything caught by the swift water would be carried to the Gulf of Mexico within hours.

  He searched the clothing of Verret’s corpse. He found a purse containing several gold coins and a roll of paper money. The man had won in his last night at cards.

  Morissot shoved the money into his pocket. Nothing else possessed by the dockworker had value, and they were thrown far out into the river. Not one item that could identify the dead man should stay with him.

  Morissot lifted the body by the belt and shoved it headfirst into the river. The water swirled over the black curly head and broad back of the man. The feet disappeared last, the river engulfing the entire corpse, adding it to the jetsam and flotsam and other debris carried in its liquid brown bosom.

  For a moment Morissot remained kneeling, swinging his view downstream as he watched the spot in the fast current where Verret had sunk. The body did not resurface. Lezin began to rise.

  Directly in front of Lezin, a white hand stabbed up from the water. It rose until it extended half a forearm high. The fingers were rigid and stiff. Lezin dodged back from the object.

  The fingers slowly closed and opened, as if trying to clutch something. Almost immediately the hand began to sink. The water rose to the waist.

  Morissot’s long arm snaked out. Even as he did so, he felt his fear. But Verret’s corpse could not have turned white and made its way upstream. It could not now be passing by to entice and trick Morissot into catching its hand so that it could pull him in and drown him.

  Morissot’s strong grip snagged the white hand. Instantly he was yanked toward the swirling water by the pull of the body deeply immersed in the river current. Morissot flung out his left hand and grabbed the stem of a bush near him.

  Stretched out over the water, Lezin clung to the cold hand. If the hand had closed on his, he knew he would have let go of his own hold and tore free. But the hand seemed lifeless.

  The body surfaced, thrust up by the water. It hung in Morissot’s clutch, half-naked and startlingly white. Facedown, it plowed the water. Lezin heaved the white man onto the shore.

  The body lay motionless. Lezin wondered if he had pulled in a dead man. For how could a man live beneath the water? Perhaps he had imagined the hand closing and opening. The river current must have in some manner caused that movement.

  The white body quivered. The man was real and yet alive.

  Morissot stepped astride the man, encircled his waist with his arms, and hoisted him nearly a yard off the ground. Muddy river water gushed from the man’s lungs and mouth. Morissot dropped the body, only to jerk it up forcefully and hold it there while the brown liquid drained out the open mouth. He repeated the action again.

  The body lay flat, face turned out of the dirt, and Morissot vigorously and rhythmically pumped the lungs by pressing and then releasing the wide back. One minute dragged into two as he worked to bring life back into the body. Blood started to flow more swiftly from the wounds on the shoulder and back. That was a good omen.

  A mighty spasm convulsed the body, immediately followed by a giant belch of water. The lungs began to expand and contract on their own, sucking starvingly at the air.

  Morissot moved away from the white man and squatted, considering what he should do next. Had the man been shot and thrown in the river as he had dumped Verret there? Or maybe he had been shot while trying to escape the law. There was no ready answer to the puzzle. But whether the man was victim or criminal was not important to Lezin now. He would wait until the man regained consciousness and then question him.

  He lifted the man and placed him where the corpse of Verret had lain a moment before. He covered the cold, still body with the blanket. Following the roads twisting around the bayous, he drove northeast toward Lake Pontchartrain.

  * * *

  Lew sorted through the scant possessions of the man slain by the robbers. Besides the camp gear, he found a fresh change of dress clothing, including coat and tie. Wrapped in a waterproof oilskin covering was an old tintype photo of a man, woman, and a boy of six or so. On the back the date 1830 had been scratched. A more recent tintype showed the same man, but obviously older. There was a bill of sale for a horse dated three d
ays before, a single-page letter to a man named Timothy Wollfolk, with many smug marks, as if it had been read many times, and lastly three letters of identification. Lew settled down to read the personal letter.

  May 6, 1847

  Mr. Timothy Wollfolk

  802 Front Street

  Cincinnati, Ohio

  Dear Sir:

  I take this sad moment to inform you of the death of your uncle, Albert Wollfolk. He was buried yesterday in the Saint Louis Cemetery No. 3 on Esplanade Avenue. I hired a contractor to build a fitting tomb. Your uncle’s eulogy and interment was most properly conducted.

  As Albert Wollfolk’s attorney, I have information to impart to you. Your uncle left a will and in it you are mentioned. I might say, you being his only living relative, are the main beneficiary. There are some special bequests, but nothing that can’t be reasonably accomplished.

  Several pieces of valuable property were owned by your uncle. Should you not want to travel to New Orleans, I would be pleased to sell these holdings for you and forward the proceeds to you. A power of attorney from you to me would be required. However, I suggest you come to New Orleans so that we may resolve this matter in person.

  Please inform me of your wishes.

  Your Most Obedient Servant,

  Gilbert Rosiere, Esq.

  468 Ursuline Street

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Lew read the letter a second time. Silently he sat and stared out over the wide river. He felt the tragedy of the man’s death doubly strong, for he too was the last of a family line. A most strange coincidence. It is too bad that you died, fellow, for it appears you might have become wealthy.

  Finally, Lew took a deep breath, his chest arching, then let it out slowly. The muscles along his jaw ridged and hardened. He had been selected by the lottery of cold black chance to avenge Wollfolk’s murder. Now he had an opportunity to seize wealth, perhaps a fortune. There were no relatives of Albert Wollfolk, and thus no rightful heirs who would be cheated. Lew would become Timothy Wollfolk.

  He began to read the letters of identification, one from the minister of a Baptist church, a second from a banker, and the third from an officer of a steamboat company. Each described various characteristics of Wollfolk or his life. Lew studied them thoroughly. Every bit of information would be required if he was to succeed in impersonating the young Wollfolk.

  As Lew finished the letters and returned all to their waterproof covering, rain began to fall, fine misty droplets settling out of the dark clouds. He sprang up and began to gather the possessions of Timothy Wollfolk. No. Now they were Lew’s possessions.

  The rain increased, big drops plummeting down. Lew slid into his slicker. He examined Wollfolk’s horse for a brand or other identifying marks. There were none. He released the animal and slapped it away into the nearby woods. The dead man’s saddle and bedroll went into the river. Everything else was packed with Lew’s belongings on the gray horse. He left at once for New Orleans.

  * * *

  The black clouds hung close to the earth and dumped a drenching downpour upon Morissot. He ignored the storm, only now and then calling out to the horse to hurry it along. The animal tried to obey, slipping and sliding on the greasy mud as it pulled on the wagon which cut deeply into the dirt road.

  Morissot turned off the main traveled way and up a narrow lane through large dripping trees. Shortly his home, a two-story house, came into view in a small meadow. A tall brick wall completely enclosed the house and an ample yard.

  The horse halted and Lezin jumped down to open the heavy double iron gates to the carriageway. He clucked to the animal and it followed him to the courtyard and the rear of the house.

  Morissot hoisted Tim to his shoulder and carried him up the outside staircase to the iron railed balcony that completely encircled the house. He entered a large room.

  “Marie, come help me,” he called.

  With a patter of quick steps, a young woman hurried into the room. “Father, what has happened? Who is that?”

  “No questions now. Run and fetch Jonathan. Tell him to bring his needles and thread, and his healing herbs.

  Tell him nothing else. Hurry, daughter. The man is badly hurt.”

  Marie grabbed a shawl from a hook on the back of the door and hastened out into the rain.

  Lezin moved across the room with his burden and into a bedroom. He gently laid the man down on the bed.

  * * *

  The old black man, Jonathan, pressed the wounds to encourage them to bleed. He had discovered that the blood itself sometimes tended to cleanse wounds and lessen the chance for infection. Then, with skilled precise stitches he sewed the raw red lips of the wounds together.

  He arose and went to the kitchen, where he pounded pieces of three species of herbs into a powder. This mixture he moistened with water and carried back to the injured man. After liberally applying poultices over the wounds, he fastened them in place with clean cloth bandages.

  Jonathan faced Lezin and Marie. “He is young and strong. Unless he becomes badly infected, he should heal and live. He will carry bad scars to the end of his days. Cover him with blankets, for he is chilled.”

  Jonathan’s brow furrowed. “Should I know anything about this white man?”

  “You have observed nothing strange here today, old friend,” Lezin said. “If someone has seen you come here and asks you questions, merely tell them that Morissot the fisherman was clumsy and cut himself on his fishing knife.”

  “It is the same knife that you fell on and stabbed yourself in the back last winter?” asked Jonathan with a wry smile.

  “The very same,” answered Lezin. “That’s a very unlucky knife.” The man he had killed that time had been a very strong fighter, and also very lucky. Lezin had slipped in the struggle and his guard had dropped for a moment.

  “So be it,” replied Jonathan. He gathered his bags of herbs and needle and thread and walked to the door. Without looking back, he donned his tattered old rain slicker and went out the door.

  Marie spread a blanket over Tim. She marveled at the whiteness of the man’s skin that had been protected by his clothing. He was as fair as any woman she had ever seen. His hair was very light brown, almost blond.

  Marie glanced at her father. “Why don’t you want anyone to know that we are helping this man?”

  “I pulled him wounded and naked from the river. That is very strange. Perhaps he has enemies who would come to kill him should they learn he is still alive. It is best that we wait until he can speak and tells us what he wants us to do.”

  “Very well. Father,” Marie said. “I’ll watch him first. You have been up all night and must be tired. Please go to bed.” She looked down at the man on the bed, then back up at Lezin. “Oh, by the way, did you win at cards?”

  “Yes, it was a very profitable night.” He did not like to lie to her. But he must.

  For a few seconds he studied her face, finely chiseled, delicate. Her skin was like ivory. The eyes were large and a dark shade of green. Long black hair was pulled back in a bun to the nape of her neck. A most beautiful daughter. Lezin tenderly ran the tips of his fingers along the smooth curve of her cheek. His hand was several shades darker than her face.

  His heart cramped. Soon he would have to send her away from him. The remainder of his life would be a terrible loneliness, an emptiness that no one could fill.

  * * *

  Lew entered New Orleans in the second hour of daylight. For half a mile he traveled through an area of large new houses with spacious grounds. Then he crossed a wide avenue with horse-drawn cars moving along it. A battered wooden sign labeled it Canal Street. He was immediately surrounded by the old houses of the Vieux Carre. Most were two or three stories with iron-railed balconies jutting out over the sidewalks. With the rain so recently ended and the water sluggishly draining away, the buildings seemed to stand on flooded lots.

  Block after block Lew wandered the dirt streets lined with brightly colored stucco hous
es. Often the lower floors were used for businesses, offices, coffeehouses and cafes, grocery stores, and haberdasheries, and for half a hundred other purposes.

  At the corner of Conti Street and Exchange Alley he heard the ring of fine steel striking fine steel. He dismounted and stood in the doorway of a fencing school and watched a thin, quick mulatto teaching a group of attentive young men the use of the rapier. Promising himself he would return and see more of these deadly lessons, he remounted the gray and rode on through the narrow streets.

  Once he pulled to the edge of the street and waited while a chain gang of black men, guarded by two white men with pistols and long whips, worked their way along. With pitchforks and shovels the black men scooped up the dead animals and other waste and trash from the gutters and the drainage ditch and tossed them into the huge wagons that accompanied them.

  Lew halted his gray horse and sat watching a company of soldiers pass in front of him along Barracks Street. The soldiers marched in a column of ten abreast, their arms swinging, mud-splattered boots lifting and falling in unison. They ignored the damp mist remaining after the rain, as did everybody else.

  Traffic blocked by the parading soldiers piled up around Lew. There were scores of people on foot, several buggies, a few men on horseback, and an omnibus with every seat full. Lew glanced around at the Frenchmen, Spaniards, Anglo-Saxons, Kaintucks, Irish, Germans, and Italians. Not one person complained about the delay, but rather a sense of excitement seemed to hold everyone.

  “Another company of riflemen for Scott’s army,” a man said to a companion.

  “I hear as many as three thousand soldiers will leave today.”

  “Yes. Four transport ships, the Telegraph, Galveston, James L. Day, and the New York are scheduled to sail before noon,” said the first man.

  “The army barracks will be full again with recruits before nightfall,” the second man said.

  “Louisiana is more than doing its fair share. And Fort Jesup is overflowing with soldiers who have come downriver from other states. Scott will give the Mexicans such a whipping that they won’t ever think again of trying to take back Texas.”