MAN OVERBOARD
Greeley held up a hand, which stopped the overman in his tracks. The other two tightened their grips on Mason’s arms and moved him back just enough to give him a taste of what it might feel like to topple backward into the water.
“Do you know how these men earned their names?” Greeley asked.
Mason’s eyes darted back and forth in their sockets to get a look at the men who had ahold of him. “You mean . . . overmen?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve heard a few things, but I don’t know for certain which are true.” Mason had heard more than a few things, but he didn’t want to discuss them at that particular moment.
“Part of their duties involves ridding my boat of troublemakers,” Greeley explained. “To do that, they pitch undesirables over the rail and into the water.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
“Cheaters are tied to the side of the boat, way down low, and dragged for a few miles over rocks, through mud, and across a couple sandbars until their bones are turned to powder.”
“I didn’t cheat!”
“I know,” Greeley said. “Men who can’t pay their debts aren’t dragged, but they are also tossed over. Only difference is that they’re tossed into the paddle wheel.”
SIGNET
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First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
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Copyright © The Estate of Ralph Compton, 2015
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ISBN 978-0-698-18078-9
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Excerpt from SHOTGUN CHARLIE
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
— Ralph Compton
Chapter 1
Mississippi
1869
The Delta Jack was one of the most luxurious riverboats to float down the Mississippi. If one were to look at her plush carpets, sample the fine selection of liquor served in one of many bars, or taste the food prepared by its well-paid chefs, one might guess the riverboat to be exclusive to rich men or prominent gamblers. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Everyone was welcome aboard the Delta Jack. All a man needed to become a passenger was enough money to sit in at one of the gambling tables scattered throughout its three decks.
Such a man didn’t even need to be rich. He could stay aboard as long as he kept gambling. The Delta Jack made frequent stops, and as soon as a man’s bankroll ran out, he was promptly escorted onto dry land. If he didn’t want to separate himself from the Jack’s many hospitalities, he could always apply for a line of credit from the boat’s owner. Cam Greeley was always willing to consider such an application so the man in need of funds could remain on board for a while longer. It was generally a good arrangement, if only for one of the two parties involved.
Games played on the Delta Jack ran the gamut from gin rummy and simple rolls of the dice all the way up to roulette and backgammon. But most men didn’t board the Jack to play anything but poker. If all those other games were appetizers and dessert, poker was the steak and potatoes served in between. Some men dined for days on that steak. Others choked on it.
Abner Mason was one of the better-known faces on the Delta Jack. When he left his small but elegant cabin on the middle deck, he was greeted by friendly smiles by everyone from the young men hired to sweep the halls to the young women hired to convince certain players to stay on board for just a bit longer. At the moment, Mason’s rounded face reflected every hour of the last twenty he’d played five-card stud before he’d gotten three hours of sleep. His light brown eyes were slightly bloodshot and black stubble sprouted from his chin. Even so, he did his best to return the smiles he was shown with one of his own, which was always well received.
“A good mornin’ to you, Emma,” he said to the young lady who walked toward him.
She was a fresh-faced little filly with blond curls and eyes that told a man she could teach him a thing or two. Having already taught some of her lessons to Mason during his many stays on the Jack, she smirked and nodded. “Afternoon is more like it,�
�� she said.
Mason wore a rumpled blue suit that had obviously doubled as pajamas. Since one hand was being used to keep his jacket hooked over his shoulder, he used the other hand to fish a watch from the pocket of his vest. The hallway was too narrow for both of them to pass each other while he stood facing her head-on, so Emma stopped as he flipped the watch open to check the time.
“Why, you’re absolutely right,” he said.
Remaining less than two inches away from him, she replied, “I may not know a lot of things, Abner, but I know how to tell the time.”
“You know plenty, sweet thing,” Mason said with just a hint of a Mississippi drawl.
“Up for another lesson?”
“Not just yet. I need to have breakfast.”
“You mean lunch,” she said.
“Not hardly. I’d never skip over breakfast. After all, even a man in my condition needs his coffee and bacon.”
“And a woman in my condition,” Emma said as she placed a hand on his chest to give him a little push, “needs to keep her schedule.”
Allowing himself to be moved to one side like a door in a rumpled suit, Mason said, “By all means.”
Emma traced her hand along his chest as she passed him. Once she’d taken a few more steps, she broke into a stride that caused her golden curls and a few other things to bounce in time to her gait.
Mason watched her strut all the way down the narrow hall. “A fine day indeed,” he muttered before checking his watch once more and snapping it shut. “Or afternoon.”
A good portion of the second deck was set aside for amenities to keep passengers comfortable. Apart from the small sleeping cabins, there was a dining room, a kitchen, and even a barber. It was to the latter that Mason went, and he wasn’t the only one. When he arrived, there was already a man in the barber’s chair. Mason helped himself to one of the newspapers that had been picked up when they’d last visited New Orleans and stepped outside again. There were chairs on either side of the door to the barber’s cabin, but no other customers waiting for a trim. Grateful that he wouldn’t have to make any polite conversations for a few minutes, Mason sat down, opened the newspaper, and pulled in a deep breath of warm air.
It was a balmy day with no shortage of insects buzzing around the chugging riverboat. Mason flipped through the ink-covered pages, skimming through the outdated stories without actually reading any of them. The words bounced off his swirling mind like flat rocks upon the water’s surface. Finally he folded the paper up and placed it on his lap.
“Hell of a day, ain’t it?” asked the freshly shorn man who emerged from the barber’s cabin.
Mason looked up at him and replied, “I suppose so. You planning on playing more faro today? Or will you be taking another crap game to the cleaner’s?”
“How’d you know all that? Did we meet during a game?”
“We sure did,” Mason said, even though he only remembered the man’s face after walking past the faro tables so many times the previous night. “You had a good run of luck.”
“There’s more to it than luck, my friend. Don’t let anyone tell you any different!”
Mason got to his feet and tucked the newspaper under one arm. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair and he picked that up to drape over the same arm. “Is that a fact?”
“Sure is.” Squinting, the man scratched his smooth chin and said, “I don’t seem to recall your name.”
“Abner Mason. We were both slightly inebriated at the table, so it’s no wonder we’re in rough shape. Don’t feel bad, though. I can’t remember your name either.”
The man smirked and nudged Mason’s shoulder as he stepped up to the railing to get a look at the green riverbank sliding idly by. “Virgil Slake’s the name. Next time I see you, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“And I’ll buy the next one!”
“Well, all right, then.” With that, Virgil extended a hand so Mason could shake it. Mason did so with exuberance and Virgil was on his way.
Mason knew plenty about faro players even though he rarely played the game any longer. Like most gamblers, he’d gotten his feet wet by bucking the tiger. The day he chose gambling as a profession instead of a pastime, he swore off faro and the terrible odds that came along with it. Faro players, who always made a habit of drifting toward dice games as well, would always hold a spot in Mason’s heart. They had to be wide-eyed, gullible, or full of themselves to keep playing a game that so clearly favored the house. Oftentimes, they were a smattering of all three, which meant they frequently lined the pockets of men in Mason’s line of work. What’s more, they were often drunk while at the table. Mason had been banking on that fact when he lied to Virgil’s face about standing beside him at the faro table the night before. Because Mason had been correct in his assumption, Virgil didn’t know enough to call his bluff and would most likely greet him like an old friend when they crossed paths again.
Smiling to himself, Mason turned on his heel and walked into the barber’s shop. “Looks like I’m next,” he announced.
The barber was sweeping his floor and didn’t look up. “You’re next,” he said. “Just as soon as I’m done cleaning and have some lunch. Come back in an hour or so.”
“Then maybe I should just go to the place down the street. I hear they’re more accommodating to their guests.”
“Down the street? What are you . . . ?” Finally looking up from his broom, the barber smiled broadly when he saw his customer’s face. “I should’ve known it was you, Abby! Most other men wouldn’t look like they just rolled out of bed at this time of day.”
“Most men who sleep on this boat as often as I do roll out of bed even later than this, Dell.”
“Yeah, but they look better than that.”
“Fair enough,” Mason said. “Can you help me freshen up or not?”
“For you, I’ll postpone my lunch.” He swept the pile of clipped hair toward the door and, when Mason stepped aside, through it. A few more strokes from the broom sent the clippings under the railing and over the side of the boat. Dell then turned around and marched back into his shop, where Mason was already making himself comfortable in the barber’s chair.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Slake?” Mason asked.
“You mean the fellow that just walked out of here?”
“That’s the one.”
Shrugging, Dell replied, “Not much, apart from the fact that he likes his hair cut shorter on the sides than on top. Why?”
“No reason.”
Dell draped a large white cloth over Mason’s chest and tied it around the back of his neck. “Something tells me I’m not the only one that’ll be fleecing that man.”
“Fleecing? Such an ugly term. You’re much better at your job than that!”
“I wasn’t referring to my job,” Dell said as he picked up a shaving brush, dipped it in lather, and painted it across Mason’s face. “I was talking about yours.”
“Oh. Well, then . . . you’d be correct.”
Picking up his razor, Dell said, “In that case . . . I may remember a thing or two about that fellow. Standard arrangement?”
“Five percent.”
“Make it seven.”
Everyone who worked on board the Delta Jack had at least one story attached to their name. Even the boy who dumped the chamber pots over the side was rumored to have taken part in some bit of nastiness involving a wayward soul. There were plenty of rumors swirling about in regard to Dell and his dealings with various men who’d sat in his chair. Having become acquainted with the stout man sporting a curved waxed mustache, Mason knew for certain that some of those rumors were true. Others, however, were simply too unsavory to fit a man of Dell’s character. Seeing the look in the barber’s eyes as he opened that razor, Mason thought he might have to reconsider some of his previous conclusions.
Mason raised an eyebrow but was careful not to turn his head. “Seven percent? He just looked like another faro player who comes aboard the Jack for a night or two of the sweet life.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention. He mentioned a thing or two about some good money he brought along with him that was turned into something even better.”
“Surely you’ve worked on this boat long enough to know better than to believe the boastings of men who sit in this chair.”
“He flashed a fat wad of bills when he paid me,” Dell said while commencing his shave. “And he had no problem peeling off a mighty healthy gratuity for a simple haircut and shave.”
“Doesn’t exactly mean he’ll be so generous to another player. Even one as amicable as me.”
“No,” Dell admitted. He scraped a bit more from one cheek and then moved on to the other side. “But it does point to the idea that he may have even more money than that stashed away somewhere nearby. Maybe,” he said as he evened out Mason’s long sideburns, “even on his person or in his cabin.”
“Cabin?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Looking into the mirror on the wall in front of him, Mason watched the barber work. “Maybe he’s traveling with someone else who might have loaned him that money or could be watching over it for him?”
Dell shifted his attention to Mason’s neck. After making his first pass, he glanced up to meet his reflected gaze. “Didn’t bring anyone with him. As for the company he kept, that was limited to one of Greeley’s girls.”
“Which one?”
“Emma.”
Mason grinned.
When he saw that, Dell smirked as well before turning his focus back to his job.
“You sure it was Emma?” Mason asked.
“Oh yes. She was all he could talk about. Even mentioned the little heart-shaped mole on her—”
“That’s Emma all right. This is some good information, to be certain, Dell. Now that I’ve got it, though . . .”
“What makes it worth an extra couple of percentage points?”
Ralph Compton Straight to the Noose Page 1