Ralph Compton Straight to the Noose

by Marcus Galloway

  Knowing he wasn’t about to dissuade her, and realizing that a bath didn’t sound half-bad, Mason began unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt. “Will you be joining me?” he asked Maggie.

  She grinned and replied, “That would only distract you. Don’t forget there’s work to be done.”

  As she stepped out of his room, the two who’d brought in the tub returned with pitchers of steaming water. After two more trips, the tub was filled and steaming as well. Mason closed his door, locked it, and stripped down so he could slip into the inviting water.

  Maggie was right. He felt better almost immediately.

  * * *

  The rest of the day passed into early evening. He was cleaned up, ate lunch, and found himself involved in a poker tournament organized by a small group of passengers. Mason played through dinner, working his way up the ladder to become a true contender for first place. When he got a low straight after drawing two cards during one of the pivotal hands, he thought it was a bad omen. This time, however, the straight held and he took the pot. Several hands later, he was busted by a greenhorn from Philadelphia who managed to stumble into a full house. Since second place paid a hundred dollars, Mason was satisfied with the outcome.

  He and Maggie had dinner followed by dessert in the moonlight. And still, there was no sign of Greeley. The only time Mason caught sight of an overman was when a drunk got a bit too loud at the roulette wheel in the main room. He was dragged out, kicking and screaming, to be taken somewhere he wouldn’t be a nuisance to the rest of the passengers.

  “Say what you will about Greeley,” Maggie said. “But he does run a fine riverboat.”

  Mason nodded. “Even with that taken into consideration, I’d say his faults far outweigh his virtues.”

  She snaked an arm around his waist as they turned back toward the door that would lead them inside where seats at the poker tables were quickly becoming scarce. “You’re getting quiet. That means you’re thinking too hard again.”

  “I don’t rightly know what to do until I know where I’m going or when I’m supposed to leave or any number of other details.”

  “That’s right. We don’t know, but you can’t drive yourself out of your mind while waiting. That’s no way to live. You’ll come up with something and it will be fine. One thing’s for certain, no matter what you decide, Greeley’s not going to like it, and that makes me feel pretty good about the whole thing. Until then,” she added, “shouldn’t I send you off properly?”

  Mason allowed himself to be steered in the direction of the stairs that would take them to the second deck. From there, he would allow her to take him to his cabin, and once inside . . .

  “No,” he said, and then winced as if he’d stubbed his toe on a rock.

  “What do you mean, no?”

  “I mean . . . we probably shouldn’t. Or . . . I shouldn’t . . .”

  “You don’t sound sure of yourself,” she said.

  Still wincing, Mason replied, “I’m not.”

  “Then let’s go with our instincts. My instinct is telling me to put one more smile on your face.”

  “You know what mine says?”

  “Something tells me I don’t want to know,” Maggie sighed.

  “My instinct,” he continued despite her protests, “tells me that when we’re in the middle of . . . being indisposed . . . that’s when Greeley will send one of his gorillas to fetch me.”

  “That’s just expecting the worst.”

  “Greeley wants to rake me over the coals for that bet I placed,” Mason said, “and there’s no better way than that to torture a man.” Somehow he found the strength to peel himself away from her. “Besides, there are still some preparations I need to make.”

  Maggie let out a labored breath. “Fine. If you insist. Are you sure I can’t change your mind?”

  “I’m positive you can change my mind,” he said. “That’s why we should say our farewells right now.”

  Although she was unhappy with his decision, she respected it. Of course, that didn’t mean she wasn’t about to torture him a little before they parted ways. She pressed herself against him and gave Mason a lingering kiss that he would feel for the next couple of days. Leaning back just far enough for their lips to stop touching, she said, “I’m going back in there to find a game.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too. And be careful.”

  Mason let her start to turn away from him and then pulled her back fiercely. She barely had enough time to be surprised by that before being wrapped in his arms and given a kiss that would linger just as long as the one she’d given to him. Judging by the stunned expression on her face when he left her, it might even last a bit longer.

  * * *

  Once he was in his cabin, Mason picked up his carpetbag and checked it over. As far as he could tell, it hadn’t been tampered with since the first time.

  He’d already cleaned and prepared his weapons, so Mason set those on the bed.

  The next thing he took was from the very bottom of the carpetbag. It was a polished mahogany case with an interior that was divided into three rows of two compartments each. The two compartments on the left and the two on the right were of equal size, containing markers of various size carved from polished sandstone that were used as betting chips or playing pieces in several different games of chance. Many sporting men carried markers made of more exotic or expensive material, but these were the first markers Mason had ever had. More than that, they’d been given to him by his father. On a whim, he took one of the markers out and tucked it into a vest pocket. The two compartments in the middle of the case were split so the lower one was larger than the upper. Dark blue poker chips were packed into the upper compartment. Tucked within the lower was a deck of cards, two pairs of dice, and a .22-caliber derringer.

  Mason removed the derringer from the case and looked it over. It had two barrels, each holding one round. Not only was the pistol light and compact, but it was also narrow, which made it well suited for several different purposes. Just to be safe, he disassembled the pistol, checked to make sure each vital part was in good working order, and then put it back together again. He set the pistol on the bed before searching through the narrow markers within the third compartment. The one he was after looked similar to all the others, but with one crucial difference. When he pressed it between his thumb and forefinger, he was able to slide the marker into two slender halves.

  One half was thinner than the other and its top edge had two raised notches. Mason ran that edge along the interior corner of the box lid until he found a set of corresponding slots hidden by the grain of the wood. Once the notches were fitted inside the slots, he could lever open the panel, which created a false top in the case. Having unlocked the panel, Mason slid the marker shut again and fit it back in with the others.

  Secreted between the panel and the genuine top of the case were components of a device that looked more like random bits of junk taken from a tinkerer’s workshop. There was a canvas band with straps and buckles stitched to it, a set of flat zigzagging metal sticks connected to what looked like a hollow metal clamshell, and a few thin bands of rubber. A set of small screwdrivers were attached to the back of the panel, and Mason took those out so he could get to work.

  Assembling the device had taken quite a lot of practice. It wasn’t an overly complicated mechanism, but if it didn’t work perfectly, it could very easily get a man killed. Mason went through each step with extra care to make sure he got every last thing right. He attached the interlocking metal sticks to the top of the canvas strap, oiled the screws holding them together, and then put a rubber band in place. One end looped around the strap mechanism and the other hooked around a post midway up the diagonal rows of sticks.

  “There we go,” he said. “Now to make sure I still have the touch.”

  Mason rolled up his left sleeve so he could
buckle the strap around his elbow. The metal pieces rested on his forearm with the clamshell several inches below his wrist. When he bent his elbow, the metal sticks extended like an accordion to move the clamshell toward the bottom of his palm. Straightening that arm again allowed the band of rubber to pull the accordion bank in so the clamshell slid down along his arm once again.

  “Perfection in motion,” Mason said proudly.

  Such devices were called holdouts and they were used for delivering stashed cards when they were needed most. They weren’t uncommon among gamblers. Illegal, most definitely, but not uncommon. Mason’s holdout was a quality model, although not one of the most impressive ones. Among some cheats, designing a holdout specific to their needs was something of an art form. Mason preferred simplicity and reliability.

  The idea for the modifications he now attempted had only just occurred to him; otherwise he would have started much sooner. He considered going to ask Greeley when they would be arriving at the next port of call or at least asking where the port was. Doing so would only have used up more precious time, and Greeley seemed intent on preserving an air of mystery on the subject. Mason was inclined to let the man have his mystery. He didn’t think he would need much time to make the modifications to his holdout anyway.

  Reaching for the deck of cards in the mahogany box, he pulled out one card and slipped it into the metal clamshell. That card lay flat against his forearm until he bent his elbow to deliver the card into his hand. Keeping it extended, Mason took hold of the card using his free hand and waggled it back and forth to test the grip of the clamshell that was holding it.

  “This should be easier than I thought,” he muttered under his breath.

  Operating a holdout device took a good amount of practice. Simply having the mechanism buckled onto his arm caused Mason’s muscles to grow anxious. He straightened and bent his elbow a few more times, delivering the card to his hand and plucking it from the clamshell with greater ease every time. Once the card was out, he prodded the clamshell with his fingers to get a feel for how it was constructed.

  “Only one way to see if this’ll work, I suppose.”

  Before Mason continued with his modifications, he turned over the card that he’d plucked randomly from the deck. It wasn’t just an eight, but an eight of the same suit as the one he’d used to make what he thought was going to be a winning straight.

  “Funny,” he said to God or the Fates or whatever deity might be in charge of toying with gamblers. “Very funny indeed.”

  Chapter 31

  As it turned out, Mason had plenty of time to make his modifications. Nobody came to his door until dusk the following day, which also gave him the opportunity to do a bit of sewing. Mason had never been much of one to work with needle and thread, but necessity had made it prudent for him to do some of his own alterations from time to time. Mainly, the use of a sleeve holdout like the clamshell device of his required a looser cuff to accommodate the draw. Rather than tip his hand by using a tailor, Mason did his own work. In fact, he’d gotten quite good at it and was finished well before an overman came to fetch him.

  When the knock rattled his door, Mason was more than ready. He answered wearing his newly stitched shirt beneath a black suit and a vest chosen specifically for this occasion. “Yes?” Mason said to the large man in the hallway.

  “Mr. Greeley wants to see you,” the overman grunted.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll take your weapons.”

  Mason held his jacket open and allowed the overman to take his pistols. Using rough, pawlike hands, the gunman turned Mason around and then plucked the knife from the scabbard at the small of his back.

  “Happy?” Mason asked.

  The overman answered that by quickly examining Mason’s pockets. Only when that was finished did he say, “Now I’m happy. Move.”

  Although Mason had seen this overman several times by now, he didn’t know the gunman’s name. He was beginning to suspect that Greeley forced his highly paid guards to give up their Christian names altogether as part of their entry fee into calling the Delta Jack their permanent home.

  Mason was taken down to the lowest deck and along the perimeter. Greeley and two other big men in pearl gray suits stood clustered together at a spot that was gated off from the normal flow of foot traffic. It was one of the few spots on the Jack that Mason hadn’t visited yet.

  The engines had stopped, allowing the roar of voices from other parts of the boat to roll through the air like rumblings of distant thunder. Music drifted from several rooms as well, making the night feel strangely festive. Mason looked toward the shoreline and asked, “Why is the boat stopped?”

  “This is where you get off,” Greeley said.

  Mason looked toward the shore one more time, only to see the very same thing as before. “But there’s no dock.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You want me to swim?”

  “You’ll be taking the rowboat.”

  Sure enough, the little boat that had been beached when the overmen came to take care of Winslow was bobbing in the water alongside the Jack’s hull. It was so small that Mason had all but lost it in the fading traces of daylight.

  “Do I have any particular destination in mind, or should I get in and just start rowing?” Mason asked.

  “Look farther up along the shore,” Greeley said. “There’s a dock. Row to it and get out, and you’ll see a house. That’s Seth Borden’s place. Bring his wife and daughter out to the dock in two hours and we’ll meet you there.”

  “Don’t you think a man will try to defend his family?”

  “Probably.”

  “And you want me to just walk in there and take that family from him?”

  “I didn’t say it was gonna be easy,” Greeley replied. “You may get yourself killed, but that’s why I’m having you do it instead of risking one of my boys. Do you know how much I’ve got invested in these men? More than your sorry hide is worth, I can tell you that much.”

  “You seem rather cross this evening, Cam,” Mason said.

  Stabbing his finger at him, Greeley snapped, “I had to step away from one hell of a game to see you off like this, and my streak ain’t gonna warm up for at least another hour or two. You hear them sounds? That’s every soul on this boat gambling away every dime to his name, and I wanna get my piece of it.”

  “Don’t let me stand in your way,” Mason said. “If I get this done quickly enough, perhaps I can sit in on a game or two myself.”

  “It should be a walk in the park. Even for you. Borden isn’t known to have much in the way of firearms. If you can get them two outside and to the dock, you shouldn’t have much trouble.”

  “Should I be wearing a mask or something?” Mason asked. “Isn’t that what outlaws do?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Just go and do your part.”

  “How much of my credit will this clear?”

  Greeley had already started walking away from the small group. He stopped and wheeled around to say, “Don’t you worry about that. When I tell you to do something, you just do it!”

  Mason shook his head. “This is all about that debt of mine. If I’m not chipping away at that, I’ve got no reason to do this at all.”

  “Half,” Greeley said.

  Studying the other man’s face for a hint that he was lying, Mason replied, “That would have sounded good at the start, but I’ve already cleared half. You saying this will square me up?”

  “No. I’m saying this’ll clear half of what’s left of your debt. You got one more job after this, and that will square things between you and me.”

  “All right, then. That’s better.” Looking to the overmen, Mason asked, “Which of you men is going to help me row?”

  Greeley might not have been in very good spirits that evening, but the overmen in attendance got a good
chuckle out of that. By the time Mason had climbed into the boat and gotten settled, two of the three overmen had gone. The one who was left reached over the railing to hand Mason’s guns back to him.

  After holstering both Remingtons, Mason asked, “What about the knife?”

  The overman produced the blade from beneath his jacket, but held on to it just a bit too tightly. “Think I may hold on to this.”

  “Why? You’ll hand me back my guns, but keep the knife?” He checked the sawed-off.44 quickly to find that it was indeed loaded.

  “I just like this,” the overman said as Mason checked the.44 under his arm. “You can get another one.”

  “The hell I will. Give that back or I don’t go.” After a few seconds, Mason added, “You really want to tell your employer why I refused to paddle away from here?”

  Even the feared enforcers weren’t quick to annoy Greeley that night. With a snap of his wrist, the overmen sent the knife spinning through the air to stick in the rowboat near one of the brackets holding an oar. “Damn gamblers and yer good luck trinkets.”

  After sheathing the blade, Mason asked, “What should I be expecting when I get to that house? Or is Greeley just sending me off to get killed?”

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “Have you met this Borden fellow?”

  The overman nodded. “A stiff wind could knock him over.”

  “And a job like that will wipe away so much of my debt?” Mason asked.

  “I don’t make the decisions. I just see they get carried out. You’d best get going. Otherwise I’m supposed to knock you around some.”

  Having been knocked around more than enough already, Mason untied the rowboat from the hull and pushed away using one oar. He started rowing and took a look at the Delta Jack as he slipped away from her. He thought he saw Maggie on the third deck looking down at him, but it was just one of the other women on board. He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t guessed when he was leaving or where he would make his departure. In fact, Mason hoped she was having better fortune than he was.