The Assassins

by F. M. Parker

  “Mr. Wollfolk always made the bids personally. He trusted no one to do that for him. He was ready to prepare bids on all of the open military and private contracts when he died. We have missed some very large ones.”

  “How about the eighty drays? How busy are they?”

  “The drays are mostly used for hauling and moving the cargo we have contracts for. Nearly all are busy.”

  Lew considered what Spandling had said. With the existing contracts about finished, the business would soon be grinding to a halt. Lew groaned inwardly, for he had little knowledge of bidding on a contract, merely some idle conversation with the supply officer of the Texas Rangers.

  “Tomorrow morning at six, I want copies of all the invitations to bid that the military has, and also all that the private companies have that are still open. Have all your bookkeepers here to help us. Work them tonight to gather our cost figures. We are going to bid.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s boss at the docks?”

  “Karl Gunnard is boss of the docks, drays, and warehouse. Julius Ruffier works under Gunnard and is the boss of the blacks.”

  “All right. Now start planning how we will bid for cargo to haul on our new ship.”

  Spandling smiled his pleasant smile. “I like the way you think. Here is something else for you to consider. Much of the army equipment that goes to Mexico to fight the war must come back to the States. We need our piece of that business also.”

  “Good. Tell me about the contracts the company is working on now.”

  They talked for several minutes. Lew asked many questions to round out the information Spandling gave him. Every contract was quite profitable. Wollfolk had made no mistakes. Lew doubted he could do as well.

  “Thanks for all you have told me,” Lew said.

  He walked past Spandling and left the office. He was worried. He was in over his head, and he knew it. The company could be destroyed by a few low bids. Tomorrow very early he must find out how much money was in the company and private bank accounts.

  The war would not last long, a year, perhaps a year and a half. The big money must be made now. Wollfolk had known that, and that was why he had ordered the building of the ship. Docks, warehouses, and ships made a proper business combination.

  Lew halted at the top of the levee and stood staring down at the river. The great hubbub of noise and activity on the river’s edge still amazed him.

  Hundreds upon hundreds of men and drays pulled by mules hurried about on the waterfront. Ship’s officers came and went to their vessels in preparation to put to sea or up the Mississippi. The long boom arms of the ships swung cargo nets bulging with war goods onto the decks. Army officers watched with zealous eyes the loading of their fighting equipment to see that it was not damaged by rough or careless hands. Scores of craftsmen of many kinds scurried about the docks and the decks of the ships to sell an item or repair something broken.

  Smoke billowed from the stacks of some of the steamships as they built steam to pull away from the docks. Two harbor boats, with eight strong oarsmen and a coxswain at the tiller of each, were warping a clipper ship away from the shore and out into the river current, where the ship could scud away on the power of the wind. Half a dozen ships at anchor in the river were cranking in their anchor chains so that they could beat their competitors into the vacant berths.

  Lew thought the river had stopped rising. However, he had noted that the ships’ captains paid little attention to the water level. The Mississippi was either rising or falling every hour of the day.

  He dropped down the side of the levee and walked along the river’s edge to the Wollfolk section of the wharf. A steamship was tied up and loading. A line of drays was bringing goods down from the cavernous warehouse to the aft gangway. A chugging steam engine drove a windlass to hoist the goods aboard. Stevedores were carrying crated cargo from a long mound on the dock to the forward gangway. The crates appeared quite heavy with two stevedores working at each container. Lew drew close to the navy ensign checking the cargo being loaded against a written invoice.

  “How’s the loading going?” Lew asked the officer.

  “Damn poorly,” replied the ensign, turning an aggravated face to Lew. “The captain wants to leave at daylight tomorrow. The stevedores could do it if they worked hard. But at the rate these men are working, it’ll take another day.”

  He gestured at the black stevedores. “Look. They’re doubled up on that crate and it doesn’t weigh much more than a hundred pounds. One man should be able to carry that with no problem at all. And look over there at those drays bringing supplies from the warehouse. They are hardly moving. I’ve seen this thing before. Wollfolk has a slowdown by his men. Unless he fixes this quick, he’ll not get another navy contract.”

  Lew checked the slow lazy pace of the stevedores and the drays. “It’ll be fixed pronto,” Lew said.

  “Who are you?” questioned the ensign.

  “I’m Wollfolk. You’ll be loaded on time.”

  Lew went swiftly across the wharf and up the slope to the warehouse. The structure was four hundred feet long and high-ceilinged. Wide double doors stood open in all four walls, and the river breeze blew through.

  In the end, where the wind entered, a white man sat with his chair hiked back against the wall and his feet thrown up on a battered wooden desk. A giant black man was near the center of the warehouse. He held a piece of paper fastened to a board and was checking off items as they were being loaded by other blacks into the drays.

  Lew crossed to the white man. “You Gunnard?” he asked.

  “Yes, I’m Gunnard. Who are you?”

  “I’m Wollfolk.”

  Gunnard slowly dropped his legs one by one from the desk to the dirt floor. He climbed erect. “Howdy, Mr. Wollfolk. Welcome to New Orleans.” He hooked his thumbs in his front pants pockets.

  Lew measured the man. Muscles bulged his cotton shirt. His head seemed overlarge and heavy-boned, especially the eyebrow ridges. His eyes were deeply socketed beneath the ridges, like the eyes in a skull. The man would be immensely strong, and from the scars on his face, he was a brawler.

  “Julius, Wollfolk’s here,” Gunnard called out to the black boss. His voice was loud enough that all the other men in the warehouse could hear him. He ran his sight up and down Lew’s expensive clothing. A smirk stretched his lips.

  Lew heard the scuff of the bare feet of the black men on the dirt floor. They halted close behind him.

  * * *

  “That warehouse has Wollfolk’s name on it,” Lezin told Tim. He pulled the wagon to a stop and chucked a thumb at the building on the levee. “I asked around some, and the people I talked with said it still belongs to Wollfolk.”

  “Let’s take a look,” Tim said.

  “Right by me,” said Lew.

  They climbed down from the vehicle and entered the building. Two white men were facing each other and talking. Several Negroes quit their work and gathered near the white men.

  Tim heard the bigger white man, dressed in a working-man’s clothing, speak to the second white man. “Mr. Wollfolk, meet Julius Ruffier. He’s the boss nigger. He keeps all of the other niggers in line.”

  Tim was stunned for a moment. He was the last Wollfolk. So who could this man be? Then an icy anger ran through Tim as he realized what the presence of the man meant.

  Lezin saw the stricken expression on Tim’s face and then the surge of anger. “This explains the attack on you at the river,” he said in a low tone. “It was not just a robbery. It was to be a killing so that this impostor could take your place.” But he can be easily removed, thought Lezin.

  “You are right,” Tim said, his voice a rough whisper. “Now I’ll need more proof of who I am than ever before. Say nothing. We’ll take all my uncle’s property back from this man and he’ll pay dearly for trying to have me killed.”

  Tim moved forward toward the false Wollfolk.

  11

  Lew pointed down at t
he steamship tied to the wharf. “Gunnard, I want that ship loaded by dark. There’s still four or five hours of daylight left. That should be more than enough time.”

  “The men are working as fast as they can,” said Gunnard. There was a mocking tone in his voice.

  Tim had drawn nearer to better hear the conversation and examine the impostor. Now, at the words of the white overseer, the face of the impostor changed, the anger flashing cold and bright like a flame suddenly ignited.

  “You’re a liar, Gunnard. Load the ship like I said.” Lew’s words were sharp, like pieces of metal hitting.

  “To hell with you,” Gunnard snarled. He had taken money from Stanton Shattuck to see that the ship was not loaded on schedule. To fail to accomplish that task would be to sign his own death warrant. He looked Lew over for the second time. This fancy-dressed Wollfolk would be easy to handle. “These men won’t work for you. They know that you probably killed Albert Wollfolk so that you could inherit his property.” Gunnard licked his slack lips and a foxy look came into his eyes. “They might work faster if you whipped the boss.”

  Lew was surprised at Gunnard’s charge that he had harmed Wollfolk. His desire to smash that grinning face to a bloody lump soared within him. “Gunnard, I’m going to beat the hell out of you.” Lew slid out of his jacket. “Get ready to fight,” he warned.

  Gunnard smiled craftily. “Not me. You’ve got to whip Julius. And there ain’t a man in all New Orleans who can do that. Many have tried, but everyone ends up with broken bones, or with a brain so addled that they’re not men anymore.”

  For the first time Lew really looked at the giant black man. He was nearly a foot taller than Lew and twice his weight. He was the strongest-appearing man Lew had ever seen. There was a keen intelligence behind his black eyes. He was not some dumb ox that Lew could out maneuver.

  Lew pivoted slowly, letting his view wash over the thirty or so other black men intently watching. He smelled their hostility. Farther away toward the door, a white man, three or so years younger than Lew, and a mulatto were approaching. The white man walked stiffly, as if crippled or injured. Both men had hard unfriendly expressions. Lew had seen that type of look before upon outlaws he had fought. The mulatto looked especially ready and willing to do murder. Why was that?

  “You!” Lew pointed at the young white man. “Are you with Gunnard?”

  “No.”

  “Can you use a pistol?”

  “I can hit a reasonable target,” Tim said.

  Lew pulled his Colt from his belt and turned it butt-first toward Tim. “Then come here and take this gun. It seems I’m going to have to fight. Don’t let a second man jump me while I’m busy.”

  Lew saw the man’s eyes sharpen with some thought, then they became hooded, hiding his feelings completely.

  A cold tickle ran up Tim’s spine at the offer of the pistol. He could accidentally—yes, quite accidentally shoot the impostor. Then a better plan came full-blown to him, jelling quickly in his mind. Something strange and dangerous was happening here. It was deeper than a mere fight over loading a ship. He knew it at some primal level. Why not let the impostor take the brunt of the unknown peril? Let the giant black kill him if he could. If that did not happen, then wait and see what followed. Tim stepped forward and took the pistol in his hand.

  Tim backed away a few paces as the impostor stripped off his shirt. Muscles rippled and flowed like steel wires across his back and deep chest. His wrists were thick and the fists broad and heavy-boned. He glanced at Julius.

  The Negro said not a word. He motioned with his hands for his workers to stand back and give him room for the battle.

  The impostor uttered a savage growl and spun away from Julius. He leapt, his body moving with unnatural speed and formidable strength, upon Gunnard. He struck the man a mighty wallop to the face. Tim heard the crushing sound of a fist striking forcibly against flesh and bone.

  Gunnard staggered backward. He twisted to the side, trying to draw away from the unexpected assault and catch his balance.

  But Lew pressed his attack, boring in, striking the half-dazed man a second blow to the face. Then he swiftly sprang to Gunnard’s side and flung out his arm to catch the man around the neck.

  Lew jerked Gunnard down into a half-bent position. At the same time he brought up his right fist. A sickening crunch echoed throughout the warehouse. Three times, almost too fast for Tim to see, the impostor’s fist pistoned up to crash into Gunnard’s face.

  Gunnard hung unconscious on Lew’s arm. Blood spouted from his broken nose and mouth. Lew flung him aside as so much offal.

  Lew shook himself as some great wolf might do upon coming out of a cold, drenching rain. The rims of his nostrils were ice-white and his eyes burned with a fury barely controlled. The veins in his neck were thick blue cords. He whirled to face the giant black man.

  “One bastard down, and you’re next. Come and fight,” Lew exclaimed with furious impatience. He flicked the dripping blood from his torn knuckles. “I did not harm Albert Wollfolk. But believe that I did if you want. Come show me how good a man you are.” His mouth shut with a grim snap.

  Julius hesitated, but not from fear. There was the ring of truth in the white man’s voice. He knew Gunnard was a liar and trickster. If there was a choice to be made between the two men, Julius would choose the word of a Wollfolk over Gunnard’s.

  “Come on and let’s fight,” Lew challenged. “You are a dead man either way. If you kill a Wollfolk, then other white men will come and hang you. If you don’t kill but merely cripple me, then I’ll come back with my pistol and kill you. Either way you die.”

  “It is not because I’m afraid that I don’t fight you,” Julius responded. “I believe what you say, that you didn’t kill Mr. Albert.”

  “Well, so you’re smart enough to know the truth when you hear it,” Lew jeered.

  “Yes,” Julius replied simply.

  Lew examined the black man’s face, searching for the falseness in him, for the deception.

  “So what is next?” Lew asked.

  “We’ll load the ship as you ordered.”

  “Good. But first throw that son of a bitch off Wollfolk property.” Lew stabbed a finger at the unconscious Gunnard.

  “Take him to the hospital,” Julius directed two of his men. “If you are questioned by the police, tell them the truth, that he fought Mr. Wollfolk and lost. That it was a fair fight.”

  The two men lifted Gunnard’s loose-jointed body and lugged it off to an empty dray.

  Lew spoke to Julius. “Can you handle Gunnard’s job and your own?”

  “He did very little.”

  “Then you are the boss of the warehouse and docks. And your pay is doubled.”

  Julius nodded his agreement. He stepped forward and held out his hand. Lew felt the strength of the man, like a vise close to crushing the bones in his hand.

  Julius released his powerful hold on Lew and turned to his men. “You heard Mr. Wollfolk. That ship gets loaded before the sun goes down.”

  The men hastened off. Lew saw pleased grins on some of their faces. He looked at the white man who held his pistol.

  “You did not have to shoot anybody. Could you have done it?”

  “I can kill a man, in the right circumstances.”

  “I believe you could,” Lew said. He spoke to the mulatto. “I know you could too. I hope neither of you plan to kill me.”

  Neither man replied. The outcome of Lew’s battle had not changed their thoughts about him at all.

  “So why are you two here?” queried Lew. “Are you looking for work?”

  Morissot shook his head in the negative. Tim’s mind raced. What better way to know what was happening to his properties than to work for the impostor?

  “I could use a job,” Tim said.

  “What can you do?”

  “I’m an accountant.”

  “Where did you learn that?”

  “In Saint Louis,” Tim lied.

&nb
sp; “Do you know anything about ships and cargo?”

  “Not oceangoing ships, but I do about river steamboats and contracting.”

  Lew concentrated his attention on the man. “What is your name?”

  “Sam Datson,” Tim replied, making a quick decision to use his grandfather’s name on his mother’s side of the family.

  “I need an accountant. How about working for me? I’ll pay twenty dollars a week.”

  “Twenty-five,” Tim said. Twenty was more than a fair salary, but the impostor seemed generous . . . with someone else’s money.

  “Twenty-five it is,” agreed Lew. He put out his hand and shook Tim’s. “Meet me at my office at Front Street and Toulouse tomorrow at six a.m. We have much work to do.”

  “I’ll be there,” replied Tim. He nodded at Morissot and both men walked toward the wagon.

  Lew stared after the two men until they were out of sight. A very odd pair. And they did not like him. He would have to be on his guard.

  * * *

  The old huntress placed the bait in the trap and leaned back. Her breathing became shallow and slow, and she moved not at all. The prey were about, but they were very wary.

  She ignored the flow of time past her. After seventy years she knew it could be neither slowed nor hurried. A breeze came over the levee from the river, carrying the sound of men and equipment working. She culled out the obnoxious human noise and sensed only the breeze.

  One of the prey she sought landed with a flutter of wings on the ground a few feet distant. Another one came down beside the first. They clucked their bird talk back and forth. Hesitantly they began to draw closer, pulled by the sight of the bait. The heads of the birds flicked from side to side as first one sharp eye and then the other peered hard at the woman near the tempting food.

  The huntress dreamed of the evening meal, which would consist of one of the birds. She would pluck it carefully and then light a piece of paper to singe off the hair-like feathers that remained. The bird would be tough, they usually were, so she would cook it for a long time. Then, toward the end, potatoes and butter and many spices would be added. She had been carefully hoarding tiny amounts of these things until today. All would be simmered until a thick broth remained and the flesh tender and falling off the bones. Her old mouth moistened at the anticipated meal.