It was cooler out here, but not a great deal quieter. The windows of the saloon had been thrown open to allow at least some of the heat and cigar smoke to escape, but these twin discomforts were pursued by a hubbub of talk, laughter and discordant piano music.
Wes pushed all such sounds into the background as he mulled over the happenings of what had been an extremely traumatic day.
He was surprised that the fact he had taken the lives of fellow men did not trouble his conscience at all. In fact, it affected him less than the occasion when, as a boy, he had accompanied his gamekeeper father on an expedition to kill a fox that had slaughtered chickens on one of the estate farms.
On the contrary, he admitted to feeling a certain satisfaction at seeing the bodies of the river pirates laid out in a double row on the deck of the riverboat – and this did trouble him.
Wes had been brought up to believe that human life was sacred, yet here he was gloating over the killing of so many men – albeit men to whom human life was cheap.
No doubt his father would have understood his feelings, having spent fifteen years in the army before being invalided from the service at the early age of thirty because of a wound sustained during service in Africa.
The wound had prevented Curnow senior from taking underground work when he returned to the Bodmin moor mining area, where he had been born and had worked as a boy. However, because of his skill as an army sharpshooter he was offered work as a gamekeeper at Trebartha, a large estate bordering the moor and had soon married and settled down happily.
Wes grew up to share his father’s prowess with long-barrelled weapons, but there was mining in his blood from both sides of the family and he chose to work on one of the moor’s copper mines.
He soon considered himself to be a highly skilled ‘hard-rock’ miner and looked forward to a career which would ultimately lead to him becoming a respected mine captain.
Unfortunately, mining was a fickle business, copper mining in particular being at the mercy of a great many pressures originating outside the industry. When, in the early 1870’s a nationwide financial collapse coincided with a slump in the price of copper, many mines were forced out of business. Before long, the mine where Wes worked became one of them.
He might have hoped to be able to emulate his father and become an assistant gamekeeper on the estate where he had worked, but the estate owner had been a heavy investor in the mines on Bodmin moor. Although unlikely to be bankrupted, he was feeling the pinch and there was a surfeit of unemployed men seeking work. The wages he offered to Wes proved unacceptable, so Wes looked elsewhere.
A great many out-of-work miners were leaving Cornwall – leaving England – and seeking new lives in far off places that were no more than a name to most of them: Australia, South Africa, Chile, Peru, Mexico – and the United States of America.
There had been a growing exodus of miners from Cornwall to all these places over the years and it was a letter from Wes’s uncle which fired his imagination. It told of the good life to be had in the lead mine communities of South East Missouri where new machinery meant mines were able to go deeper underground, creating work for experienced hard-rock miners.
The letter writer painted a glowing picture of the wages that could be earned and the standard of life that was enjoyed, declaring there to be unlimited prospects for a man who possessed a sound knowledge of mining and a willingness to work hard.
After thinking the matter over for some time, Wes decided he would leave Cornwall and begin a new life in far off Missouri.
He set off on his great adventure with a considerable advantage over most of his fellow emigrating miners. They were for the most part married men who had left behind any money they possessed to provide a meagre existence for their families until such time as they could send them more, or until they felt secure enough to call for their loved ones to come and join them in the new land.
Wes had no such commitments and during the good years of copper mining had managed to save money. He would not be leaving Cornwall through desperate necessity, but with a sense of adventure and looking forward to the opportunity to better himself.
‘What are you doing out here, Wes, feeling troubled about what went on this morning?’
Lola not only brought the tang of the smoke-filled saloon with her, but had been adding to it with the slim cheroot she held between two fingers.
‘No,’ Wes admitted. ‘I feel I should be, but if I am troubled at all it’s because some of the men we were fighting succeeded in escaping … Gottland in particular. I would be much happier knowing he was about to receive all he deserves.’
Taking up a position beside Wes and resting her arms on the top safety rail, Lola took a drag on the cheroot. Then, breathing out smoke with her words, she said, ‘With sentiments like that, Aaron will make a lawman of you yet.’
Wes shook his head, ‘I’m a miner, Lola, not a fighting man.’
‘Tell that to the men licking their wounds in the military prison at Vicksburg,’ Lola retorted. ‘Aaron says you’re a natural gunfighter. He won’t be happy until he’s pinned a deputy marshal’s badge on your chest.’
‘Then you’re going to have to get used to him being unhappy,’ Wes replied, ‘I’m heading for the Missouri mines and a place called Harmony.’
‘We’ll see,’ Lola commented, enigmatically. Then, changing the subject, she said, ‘There’s plenty of time to get bored before you leave the Missouri Belle. Would you like me to introduce you to Anabelita?’
‘Anabelita? Who is she?’
‘She’s a croupier, like me. The small, black-haired girl. She’s half-Mexican too – and has taken a shine to you.’
He knew who she was talking about. Black-haired and strikingly beautiful, Anabelita was a girl who would attract attention wherever she happened to be. The most influential and well-to-do passengers on board the Missouri Belle were to be found at her gambling table whenever the saloon was open for business.
Grimacing, he said, ‘It would take far more money than I have to be able to buy her time,’ Wes said, ‘I’ve seen the company she keeps.’
Lola’s head came up and she turned to stare at him, ‘You think she’s a whore?’
‘Probably … but I don’t doubt that she’s a very high class one.’
‘Then it’s just as well I haven’t already introduced you,’ Lola said, with an indignation that Wes found surprising coming from a New Orleans bar-girl. ‘Anabelita is no angel, but she earns her money from gambling, not getting laid. If she lifts her skirt for a man it’ll most probably be because she’s reaching for the derringer she keeps strapped to her leg – and she’s a crack shot!’
Intrigued but sceptical, Wes asked, ‘Where did she learn to shoot – and to gamble?’
‘Her father was a professional gambler. When her mother died he took Anabelita with him for a while. Sometimes he’d come to the saloon in New Orleans and bring her with him … that’s where I first met her. One day, when they were down Texas way, it seems he accused a man he was playing poker with of cheating, but wasn’t quick enough drawing a gun to back up the accusation. His death hit Anabelita pretty hard, but instead of going into mourning for him she asked a riverboat company to let her work on the steamboats as a croupier. They agreed – and you’ve seen the results for yourself. She probably knows every gambling trick in the book but has a reputation for playing an honest game. That and her looks means that she makes more money for herself – and for the company – than any other gambler on the river.’
‘I’m glad you’ve told me about her,’ Wes said, ‘I’ll look at her in a different light from now on and, yes, I would like an introduction to her.’
CHAPTER 7
It had been a long and eventful day and Wes turned in early that night, with the result that it was not until the following evening he decided to follow up his conversation with Lola and visit the saloon for a while to watch Anabelita at work.
The gambling saloon was a popular pl
ace with the steamboat’s passengers. Croupiers employed by the steamboat company worked at five gambling tables and a roulette wheel, a number of other tables being provided for private card games.
There was also a well-stocked bar in a corner of the saloon and this too was well frequented. As a result the air inside the saloon was hazy with tobacco smoke.
The gaming tables were busy, the largest crowd being gathered about the table where Anabelita was dealing blackjack … but tonight Wes sensed an attitude of unease in the mood of this particular crowd.
Although he could not at first detect exactly why this was so, he realized that others were aware of it too. Lola was operating the roulette wheel some distance away and he thought he detected a hint of concern in the glances she occasionally threw in her friend’s direction.
Aaron was seated on his own behind Lola and he too seemed to be taking a particular interest in Anabelita’s table. Wes was about to cross the room to join the US marshal, when there was a sudden eruption of sound from those about Anabelita and an angry voice began protesting loudly about the last card that had been dealt to him.
‘Hell … just look at it! What kind of card is that. I haven’t had a good hand since I was dealt in. I’m losing a fortune here.’ The voice sounded to Wes like that of a young man who had drunk too much.
The impression was heightened when one of the others at the table said something quietly in the angry man’s ear, only to receive the retort, ‘I’ll back my cards with as much cash as I damn well want. All I’m asking is to get a fair deal, that’s all.’
Wes moved closer to the table until he was able to see the irate young player. He remembered seeing him joining the steamboat at Vicksburg with a well-dressed and overweight older man. They had arrived late. The steamboat should have already left, but the new arrivals were obviously important and were accompanied to the levee by the Vicksburg mayor, town officials and a group of senior army officers from the local garrison.
The aggrieved young man was probably hardly out of his teens and was as well dressed as the older man who had accompanied him on board the steamboat. The flushed, lightly perspiring appearance of his face might have been caused by the heat and stuffiness of the saloon but something about the young man’s eyes confirmed Wes’s belief that he had been drinking heavily.
‘I can only deal the cards as they come from the shoe.’ Anabelita spoke for the first time, referring to the holder from which she drew the cards dealt to the punters.
There was a murmur of support from the others about the table, but her reply did not appease the young man.
‘Then why is it just me who is losing so much money? You’ve damn near cleaned me out.’
Looking straight at the dissatisfied blackjack player, Anabelita replied, ‘It could be because you are being reckless with your money. Perhaps you’d do better to “stand” occasionally, instead of asking for another card. Had you done so you would have won at least five or six hands, instead of losing money. But if you are not happy with the way I deal you should move to another table.’
Anabelita spoke perfect English but with a Mexican accent that Wes found charming.
Not so the irate young gambler. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to walk away and leave you to gloat over the fact that you’ve fleeced me and got away with it. I’ll stay right here – but I’d better start winning … you hear me?’
Smiling in what she hoped might be a disarming way, Anabelita said, ‘Don’t tell me, mister. You’d better speak to the cards.’
There was a ripple of laughter from the other players at the table but it was hastily stifled when the disgruntled player looked about him angrily.
Turning back to Anabelita he pushed a pile of gambling chips across the table in front of him and said, ‘Right, there’s my stake – now let’s see you deal some cards that I can do something with.’
Shrugging with a nonchalance she did not feel, Anabelita dealt two cards from the shoe to each of the men at her table. Then she began to go around the table again, dealing the extra number of cards asked for by each man in turn.
Two of the players dropped out, surrendering their coloured counters to the dealer. Two others decided to ‘stand’, satisfied that the cards they held stood a chance of beating the dealer.
Then it was the turn of the disgruntled young man. With three cards in his hand, he said, ‘All right, hit me again – but make it a good one.’
Anabelita drew a card from the shoe and placed it face down on the table in front of him.
Picking it up and adding it to the three he already held, the young man’s expression changed to one of fury once more and he cried, ‘Goodammit … you’ve done it again!’
Throwing his four cards face up on to the table, he said angrily, ‘Look at that! If you’d dealt me a four or under I’d have won … but no you gave me a six.’
‘You could have stood with the seventeen you held with three cards,’ Anabelita said, ‘I’ve paid out on seventeen more than once tonight.’
As she was speaking she reached out to scoop his stake towards her. Clumsily, he beat her to it, some of the chips falling off the table and landing at his feet.
‘Leave it! You’ve taken enough cash from me tonight. We’ll play that hand again – but this time there will be no cheating … you hear me?’
Anabelita glanced around the room hoping to catch the attention of the man employed by the steamboat company to deal with such situations as this when they arose, but he was nowhere to be seen. She would need to handle it on her own.
The other men at the table were appalled by the young man’s behaviour but Anabelita was aware none of them were likely to come to her aid. Beginning to rake in the remaining cards but leaving the stakes untouched, she said, ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this table is closed. I am sure you’ll find places at the other tables – and good luck to you all.’
She reached out for the young man’s cards but as she did so he grabbed her wrist.
‘Oh no you don’t. You’ll play on until I’ve got at least some of my money back.’
His grip was causing her arm to be stretched out at a painful angle but, trying to remain calm, she said, ‘Do you mind letting go of me…? You’re hurting my arm …’
‘Not until you say you’ll carry on dealing – even if it’s only you and me playing.’ As he said this, a number of the other players hastily deserted the table.
When the dissatisfied man caught hold of Anabelita’s wrist, Wes had started towards the table. Now, pushing his way through the watching gamblers, he arrived in time to hear the man’s reply to her pained request.
Reaching out, he took a tight grip on the young man’s own wrist, at the same time twisting it in order to relieve the pain being suffered by the dark-haired croupier.
‘You heard what the lady said, you’re hurting her arm. Let go.’
Recovering from his surprise but still maintaining a grip on Anabelita, the young man said, ‘Keep out of it, this is none of your business.’
‘I’m making it my business,’ Wes retorted, increasing pressure on the other man’s arm so much that the man’s body twisted towards him.
The young man held on to Anabelita for as long as possible before suddenly releasing her. However, instead of immediately trying to pull himself free of Wes’s grip, he fumbled awkwardly beneath his jacket with his left hand.
‘Look out! He’s got a gun.’ The cry from Anabelita caused a stampede away from the table by the spectators attracted to the table by the altercation.
Years spent below ground in Cornish mines, wielding pickaxe, shovel and sledgehammer had developed exceptional muscle power in Wes’s arms and he used every ounce of it now to twist the young man’s arm sharply up behind his back, causing him to double over, his face coming into violent contact with the baize covered table top.
The revolver he was trying to draw had almost cleared his waistband but he did not have a firm grip on it and as it fell to the floor Wes kicked it ben
eath the table before releasing his hold on the young man who was now shouting loudly that Wes was breaking his arm.
Wes hoped the pain would be sufficient to dissuade his opponent from continuing his violence and that he would leave the saloon. Instead, he came at Wes, arms flailing like a schoolboy involved in his first fight.
Wes, on the other hand, had been drawn into more than one brawl when drunken miners from rival mines were paid out their monthly wages in the same local hostelry.
Easily avoiding the other man’s wildly inaccurate blows, it took only two well-aimed punches to send him crashing to the saloon floor. Here, he lay on his back with only a twitching face muscle to show he was still living.
The noise that erupted from the crowd in the saloon was a combination of relief, approval and admiration. It died away when the overweight man whom Wes had seen board the steamboat at Vicksburg with the now unconscious young man, stormed into the saloon.
He had apparently been made aware of what was happening and, looking about him angrily, demanded, ‘Who did this? Who attacked my son?’
By this time the young man was showing signs of regaining consciousness and Wes replied, ‘If you mean, who dealt with him when he was about to shoot me, then I’m the one you are looking for, but …’
‘I want this man arrested … immediately!’ Raising his voice, the young man’s father cut across Wes’s explanation.
When no one moved to carry out his order, the large man said angrily, ‘I demand that my son’s attacker be locked away and handed over to the authorities when we reach Memphis.’
At this point, Aaron pushed his way to the front of the unresponsive onlookers standing about the father and his son, who was now trying to sit up.
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