The Dawn of Fury

by Compton, Ralph

The Queen of Diamonds docked on schedule, and only then did Captain Lambert appear. The gamblers would remain on the steamboat until the coaches arrived later in the evening. Then they would be taken to Stumberg’s various gambling houses. Nathan and Silver reached the St. Charles late in the afternoon, taking supper there. After the meal, reaching the third floor, they paused before the door to 301.

  “Damn it,” said Silver, “somebody’s been in there.”

  “Maybe the maid,” Nathan said.

  “I’ve told them to stay out of there, except on Sundays, when I’m here.”

  Silver drew his Colt, and with the key in his left hand, unlocked the door and kicked it open. The room apparently was empty and the beds had been neatly made. Unsatisfied, Silver stood to one side of the closet, turning the knob, easing the door open. Again his suspicions were unfounded. Except for the few clothes left hanging there, the closet was empty. Nathan and Silver waited in uncomfortable silence until the scheduled arrival of the Concord coach. It arrived on time, carrying four of the gamblers from the Queen of Diamonds. They nodded politely as Nathan and Silver took their seats.

  Nathan wondered if Captain Lambert was, as that very minute, telling Stumberg what had happened in St. Louis. To Nathan, it seemed the worst kind of intimidation, pitting one man’s word against that of another, but it was unquestionably effective. By the time Nathan and Silver faced Stumberg, the man would likely be in a towering rage. Even if the gambler accepted the deaths of Shekela and Harkness as unavoidable, how could he possibly accept Trinity’s escape? It was conclusive proof, whatever Stumberg said to the contrary, that his “pretty girls” were virtual prisoners. But it went beyond that. What Barnabas McQueen had said about Stumberg being involved in white slavery fitted in perfectly with the shackles, chains, and barred doors on the lower deck of French Stumberg’s Queen of Diamonds . . .

  When the coach drew up before the Old Canal House, another Concord was just leaving. Nathan and Silver stepped down, but allowed the quartet of guests to enter the house ahead of them. By the time Nathan and Silver went into the first parlor, one of the near-naked “pretty girls” was leading the visitors up the spiral stairs. Silver flashed Nathan a weak grin and spoke softly.

  “Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”

  Nathan had no response to that, and almost immediately his and Silver’s attention was drawn to the head of the stairs, where Captain Lambert stood. He descended slowly, holding to the rail as though fearful he might fall. He somehow seemed smaller, less barrel chested, his demeanor exhausted. He spoke just four words.

  “He’s waiting for you.”

  Silver nodded to Nathan and they mounted the stairs. Silver knocked on Stumberg’s door.

  “All right,” said the voice from within.

  Silver entered and Nathan followed, closing the door behind him. Stumberg sat hunched behind the big desk as though he hadn’t moved since Nathan had last seen him. He glared at them through cigar smoke, as though he hadn’t quite decided their fate. Finally he stubbed out his cigar in a porcelain cup and spoke.

  “In the morning, I want both of you checked out of the St. Charles. You are to ride immediately to the Mayfair House, at McDonoughville.”15

  Looking from Silver to Nathan, he found no change in the expression of either man. He continued, more arrogantly than before.

  “There is a stable and an exercise track behind Mayfair. There are two thoroughbreds in the stable. You are to feed, water, exercise, and rub them down daily. You will take your meals at Mayfair. There are bunks in the stable. Now get out.”

  For a long moment, Nathan and Silver stood before the gambler, unmoving. While they said nothing, their eyes spoke volumes.

  “By God,” Stumberg roared, “I said get out!”

  Almost imperceptibly, Nathan nodded to Silver, and slowly they started backing toward the door. It was the ultimate insult, a show of contempt, the frontier way of showing French Stumberg they didn’t trust their backs to him. Silver reached the door first, and with his left hand behind him, opened it. He backed into the hall and Nathan followed. Still facing Stumberg, Nathan closed the door. Neither man spoke, and when they reached the first parlor, Captain Lambert was there, looking even more dejected. Nathan and Silver sat down, for they, like Lambert, must wait for the eleven o’clock coach to town.

  “Damn it,” Silver said, “it’s goin’ to be a long night.”

  “You think you got troubles,” Lambert growled, some of his old spirit returning, “but you’re a young man. I’m sixty years old, with forty years on the river, and by God, I’ve been fired. Fired!”

  “If it’s any consolation,” said Silver, “so were we. Hell, while we’re waiting for the coach, let’s go to the kitchen and eat.”

  “Thanks,” said Lambert, “but I’m not hungry.” The Captain remained in the parlor, seemingly deep in his own bitter thoughts. Nathan and Silver went to the kitchen they had visited before, and with hot coffee and food to be had, they took their time. After an hour in the kitchen, Nathan and Silver returned to the parlor to find Captain Lambert gone.

  “Where in tarnation did he go?” Silver wondered. “It’s nowhere near time for the coach to town.”

  “Maybe he’s outside,” said Nathan.

  “I don’t think so,” Silver said, “and I don’t like the feel of this. We won’t step out that door until the coach arrives. Even then, we’ll be perfect targets for a bushwhacker with a rifle.”

  Nathan Stone shared the eerie, uneasy feeling. He couldn’t dismiss the premonition that something had happened to the old captain, and with that in mind, he examined the chair in which Lambert had been sitting. There, on the chair’s oval mahogany back, he discovered what appeared to be a single drop of blood. Using a corner of his handkerchief, Nathan allowed the white fabric to absorb the stain. Without a word, he passed it to Silver.

  “By God,” said Silver softly, “if I’m any judge, that’s blood.”

  “I’ve seen enough blood that I don’t have any doubts,” Nathan said. “It looks like somebody found the old man here alone—somebody he knew, or they couldn’t have gotten that close—and drove in a knife where it would do the most damage. It wasn’t enough just to fire him. He knew too much.”

  “Hell,” said Silver, “except for disposing of the bodies, we know as much as he did.”

  “That’s why we’re the highest-paid horse handlers on the face of the earth,” Nathan said. “What better way to dispose of us than to send us to some godforsaken place and have us shot dead?”

  “Enough, damn it,” said Silver. “Keep a lid on it until we’re out of here.”

  It was good thinking, and Nathan nodded. There was little they could discuss, and time lagged. They each sat in chairs next to the wall, so that they could see not only the front door, but the spiral stairs to the second floor and the doorway from the first parlor that led down a hallway to the kitchen. A grandfather clock stood just inside the second parlor, and the ticking seemed inordinately loud. They listened as it struck ten times, and waited impatiently until it chimed once on the half hour. Finally there was a clatter of hooves and the rattle of the Concord as it crossed the wooden bridge below the Old Canal House.

  “He’s early,” Silver said. “Let’s get aboard.”

  They did so, knowing that the coach must wait until the appointed hour before leaving. Finally the front door opened and the other passengers got into the coach. Oddly enough, the same four gamblers who had ridden with Nathan and Silver to the gambling house were returning to town. They, as did all of Stumberg’s guests, had the option of spending the night on Stumberg’s Queen of Diamonds or taking rooms at the hotel. The ride back to the hotel was a silent one, and Nathan had the feeling that the visiting gamblers had been sobered by their first night at Stumberg’s tables. There would be other coaches at three o’clock in the morning, returning to town those persistent—or perhaps more foolish—men who had chosen to remain at the tables just a little lon
ger. Nathan and Silver got out at the St. Charles and quickly made their way into the lobby. A clerk dozed at the desk, but nobody else was in sight. They ascended the stairs, and reaching the door to 301, Silver found the slender thread unbroken. He quickly unlocked the door, they entered, and he locked and bolted the door behind them. Silver was the first to speak.

  “I’ll be glad to get away from here. The first thing I’m doing in the morning is buying myself a saddle and a good horse. There’s something that’s unnatural, a Texan bunking in a fancy diggings like this.”

  “You’d better get yourself a Winchester too,” Nathan said, “and a saddlebag full of shells.”

  “You could just ride out in the morning and keep going,” said Silver.

  “So could you,” Nathan replied, “but you won’t.”

  Silver laughed. “I ain’t that smart. I’ve always regretted that I wasn’t around for the fight at the Alamo. I’d’ve fitted right in. Hell, a Texan would go after a cougar with a cottonwood switch. That’s my excuse, Stone. I’m a Texan, born and bred.”

  “So how do you know I’m not?” Nathan asked.

  “You don’t have the lingo,” said Silver. “I’d give you another five years, if you live that long. You’re an unreconstructed Southerner. I’d say you’ve dodged some Yankee lead, and somebody that’s roosted in your family tree had some education.”

  “I’m a year out of Virginia,” Nathan said, “and all the Yankee lead didn’t miss. My mother was a schoolteacher before the war, and the little I know, I learned from her.”

  It was the most he had revealed of his background to anybody except Eulie Prater, and he said no more. Silver didn’t press him, nor did he volunteer any information about himself. Silver tugged off his boots, evidence enough that he was calling it a night. Nathan followed his example, and Silver blew out the lamp. Nathan lay awake with his thoughts, and he suspected Silver was doing the same, for there was no snoring. It would be a long night . . .

  Chapter 16

  McDonoughville. October 28, 1866.

  Nathan and Silver arose well before first light and had their final meal in the St. Charles dining room. Checking out was a matter of gathering their few belongings and turning in their keys. They went immediately to the livery, and while Nathan paid his bill, Silver went from stall to stall, looking for a horse that appealed to him. Eventually he selected a grulla, a gray so dark it was almost black. He then bought a second-hand double-rigged Texas saddle, with saddle blankets included.

  “God,” Silver growled, “a hundred for the horse and fifty for the saddle. Time I’m fixed with a Winchester, saddlebags, and a bedroll, I’ll be busted.”

  “You could have bought a center-fire rig for ten dollars less,” Nathan observed.16

  “Well, hell,” said Silver, “I could have saved fifty dollars if I’d just bought a long-eared jack. You ain’t even a Texan, and I don’t see you settin’ a center-fire saddle.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Nathan said. “A man drawin’ two hundred a month can afford expensive fixings and fancy horses.”

  When they reached the mercantile, Silver bought bacon, beans, coffee, and salt. To that he added a bedroll, saddlebags, a Winchester, and three tins of shells. Immediately he loaded the Winchester, the mark of a cautious man, for he knew not what lay ahead. It was a turbulent time, and a man who aimed to stay alive planned accordingly.

  “I reckon,” said Nathan as they mounted, “you know the way to McDonoughville.”

  “I’ve never been there,” Silver replied, “but it ain’t the kind of place you’re likely to get lost. We follow the river east and just before it forks, there’s a ferry. We’ll cross there, and it ain’t more’n two miles to Gretna. A little ways past Gretna is what they call McDonoughville. A wide place in the trail, I reckon.”

  “I’ve heard some talk about the track at Gretna,” said Nathan. “That’s where the races are held. Damned convenient for Stumberg, having his Mayfair House in McDonoughville. Who do we report to?”

  “One of the house gamblers,” Silver said. “A surly varmint name of Drew Shanklin. He rode shotgun on the Queen of Diamonds on her runs to St. Louis, until Stumberg replaced him with me.”

  “When you show up,” said Nathan, “I reckon it’s safe to say he won’t be breakin’ out the good whiskey and renewin’ old friendships.”

  Silver laughed. “I’d be flattering myself if I said he hates my guts. I’d say I’m a hell of a lot lower than that on his totem pole. And don’t look for him to take a fancy to you, when you ride in with me.”

  “It wouldn’t matter if he’d never seen either of us in his life,” Nathan observed. “I’d be downright disappointed if Stumberg didn’t send him word last night. If we go astray, somebody’s got to spank us.”

  “Stone,” said Silver with admiration, “I purely like your way of gettin’ a handle on a situation pronto. The time’s a-comin’, if you don’t get shot dead, when you can call yourself a Texan and nobody will disagree.”

  Reaching the ferry crossing, they found the vessel on the south bank of the river and had to await its return. They each paid a dollar, led their horses aboard, and were taken across. The south bank of the river was lined with willows, and when they rode away from the ferry landing, they couldn’t see more than a few feet in any direction.

  “Prime place for an ambush,” Nathan said. He shucked out his Winchester and jacked a shell into the chamber.

  “God, but you’re a doubting hombre,” said Silver, “and so am I.” Drawing his own Winchester from its saddle boot, he cocked it.

  But they heard nothing and saw nobody. The undergrowth and willows diminished until they could see the roofs of a few buildings ahead.

  “That’s Gretna, I reckon,” said Silver. “Let’s ride through there until we reach the south fork of the river. We can follow it to McDonoughville.”

  Gretna, strangely enough, was strung out on both sides of the river’s south fork, connected by a crude wooden bridge. There was a mercantile, a livery, a single-story hotel, a pair of saloons, and half a dozen residences. Nathan and Silver rode south without drawing any attention.

  “There’s the horse track,” Silver said.

  The track—if that’s what it was—ran for a quarter of a mile along the river and was visible only to the extent that the underbrush and bushes had been cleared away. There were clumps of broom sedge and weeds that reached a horse’s belly. To the west of the track, maybe a hundred yards, was a long, low horse barn. There was a series of slatted stalls, each of which opened into a common corral. Behind the barn, overhanging it, was a line of trees. Between the grown-up track and the river were more trees, so dense that the river was no longer visible.

  “I don’t like the looks of this damn track,” Nathan said.

  “Neither do I, for the same reason you don’t,” said Silver. “Too much cover, too close.”

  Nathan and Silver rode on, and not more than a mile after the track played out, they reached what had to be McDonoughville. There was only a mercantile, surrounded by a few residences. A few hundred yards beyond, on the west bank of the river, sat an imposing two-story house. It was white with green shutters, at the end of a winding lane lined with stately oaks.

  “I reckon that’s Mayfair House,” Nathan said.

  “I reckon it is,” Silver agreed. “Who else but Stumberg would want all that fancy trappings at the tag-end of nowhere?”

  “He can ride that steamboat right up to the front door,” said Nathan, “If the south fork of the river’s deep enough.”

  “It is,” Silver said. “That’s something you’d best keep in mind.”

  There was a rise behind Mayfair House, and beyond it was the stable Stumberg had mentioned. There would be room for a dozen horses, Nathan guessed, and behind the stable was a cleared stretch a dozen yards wide and several hundred yards long.

  “We ought to unsaddle and stable the horses,” said Nathan. “The question is, do we do it before or after we announc
e our arrival?”

  “Before,” Silver said cheerfully. “Whatever we do, he’ll welcome us like a pair of bastards at a family reunion, so why bother?”

  Nathan and Silver bypassed the house, dismounting before the stable. A horse nickered from within, and Silver’s mount answered. There were a dozen stalls within the stable, four of them occupied. Nathan and Silver unsaddled, securing their saddles, bedrolls, and saddlebags in a tack room. Then, using old saddle blankets, they rubbed down their mounts and led each of them into an empty stall. Nathan forked down some hay for them.

  “Only two of them are thoroughbreds,” said Nathan from the loft. “Are we to exercise all of them, or just the two for the race?”

  “Unless we get specific orders to the contrary,” Silver said, “just the two thoroughbreds. I figure the others belong to the house gamblers, one of them Shanklin.”

  The bunks Stumberg had spoken of were in the tack room. There were two, against opposite walls, and they consisted of wood frames latticed with two-inch-wide strips of rawhide. Nathan took one bunk and Silver the other. When they had spread their bedrolls, they stretched out. Silver tipped his hat over his eyes.

  “I reckon you’re in no hurry to renew old friendships,” Nathan said.

  “You reckon right,” said Silver. “Besides, it’s not even ten o‘clock, and that bunch at the house is still gettin’ their beauty sleep. You wouldn’t deny ’em that, would you?”

  But Silver had figured wrong. They had relaxed for only a few minutes when they were roused by a bellow that would have awakened the dead.

  “Get the hell out of those bunks. You peladoes think this is some kind of rest home?”

  Silver eased back his hat and opened one eye. Suddenly he leaped to his feet—acting as if he were in fear of his life, he snapped to attention.

  “My God,” he hissed at Nathan in mock terror, “it’s him. It’s him.”

  Nathan emulated Silver’s performance, falling from his bunk and getting hastily to his feet. It had the desired effect on Shanklin. His pale face flamed red, and when he opened his mouth, speech failed him. Nathan’s first impression of the man verified Silver’s negative description. Shanklin was dressed like a dandy, with black pin-striped trousers, black silk vest, and white shirt with ruffles. He was hatless, his dark hair slicked back. A wide black leather belt with silver concho buckle circled his ample middle, and from it, in a cutout holster on his right hip, rode a pearl handled pistol. Shanklin looked angry enough to draw the weapon and begin firing. Eventually, after a mighty struggle, he recovered enough of his dignity to speak.