“Might like bein’ dead for awhile. This bruised ghost could spook a couple a fellas I’m lookin’ for,” I said.
Frenchy listened with his head hung, then looked up. “And might one of these fellas go by the name Rudy? Among other names I’ve heard him called.” He paused, “The same bastard who gave you the cut on your cheek?”
I glanced to Billy. “This slight cut seems to be looked upon as somethin’ known about by a lot of folks. An’ I’m the one left out a’ knowin’ . . .”
Both of them smiled at each other, then at me.
“Mate, what’s amazing is that you ain’t died twice, first by Rudy’s knife and then by Gerard’s thunder gun.”
“One lucky son-of-bitch you are.” Frenchy snickered. “No matter, you are now with friends.” He raised an eyebrow. “To whom you must tell the tale that brought you to stand here this evening.”
“Ah, but first, might we have that drink you promised?” Billy said, licking his lips.
Frenchy strode back to the fireplace, threw on a couple of logs, and gestured for us to sit on stools. The windows let in cool evening air to mix with the warmth of the fire. Frenchy poured us drinks. This evening had been well prepared for.
I told them everything, from the fight with Fitzpatrick and Fontenelle up at the Green River Rendezvous and the bushwhacking by Jeffery, Rudy, and Baumgartner, to the time spent healing with Dr. Keynes and his daughter. I did not mention my affair with Anna. It was not their business.
Afterward, I felt drained, as if most of those memories I kept bottled tight inside were poured into the fire and burned up. I was relieved, but I dared not show it to my two new friends.
“Baumgartner, eh?” Frenchy shot a glance at Billy.
“Eh, mate, a good man once, until . . .” Billy exclaimed.
Frenchy sat quiet for a second and then answered, “. . . Until Benjamin Brody.”
“Benjamin Brody, a Brit livin’ in New Orleans?” I asked. “Baumgartner mentioned him, before he shot my brother. Probably figured we both would be dead so no matter to say his name. And now you bring him up?”
But for the crackling of the fire, a heavy silence filled the room. I did not know if I had said too much.
At last, Frenchy spoke. “A tale I will tell you now, Monsieur Jebadiah.” He stood and beckoned me to join him at a table covered with knives and swords. He picked up a rather plain looking long knife and held it to the firelight. The glint off the steel blade matched the shine in his eyes.
“This is what cut me . . .” He ran a finger across the blade then traced the tip from his upper chin down to the red tattoo on the right side of his neck. He stared absently into the fire with a slight grin, as if he enjoyed reenacting the cut. His stare grew cold and blue as the scar. “By the hand of Brody.”
He spat on the floor then gave me the knife. The slightly curved blade and oak handle were in precise balance, a design to slice under a ribcage and cut out a bear’s heart. A hint of blood stained the guard.
“Betrayed by a woman, I was. But, it was Brody. He cut me up enough, but not dead.” He jerked back his shirt to reveal that the scar continued down to the center of his chest. “She wanted my heart, but he did not have the . . .” Frenchy turned to Gerard. “Comment vous dire courage?”
“Courage.”
“Oui, he did not have the courage to cut out my heart. Yet, I leave my life en disgrâce, with only a petit bébé bundled in my arms, and this scar. Eleven years I raise the child.” He held his arms up wide and spun in a slow circle. “I was the king of Louisiana, my Barataria, and all the warm waters of the Caribbean. I come here, I build this from nothing in St. Louie, Frenchy’s Emporium.”
He stopped spinning and faced me. My bewilderment must have shown as disbelief for he frowned and slowly closed his shirt, covering the lower portion of his scar.
Frenchy’s voice became a low growl. “You, my new friend, will take that knife you hold in your hand to New Orleans and avenge the loss of my legacy.”
I shook my head as my bewilderment turned to incomprehension.
“I am no assassin.”
He stepped closer. “Ah, Monsieur . . . Jebadiah, one is only an assassin if he is paid.” His blue eyes sparkled as his upper lip and mustache trembled. “You, sir, owe me a life.”
I stepped backward, bumping the table and rattling the blades of the knives and swords. “How is this?”
“You killed my precious Pepe.”
“Who, who the hell is Pepe?”
He gritted his teeth. “My precious pet, Pepe, my fucking wolverine.”
I looked to Billy. He simply shook his head.
“So, I am to kill a man ’cause I owe you for killin’ a god-damn wolverine?”
He took one step closer. We were almost touching noses. I still held the knife in my hand.
“Oui.”
I glanced over his shoulder and almost stumbled into him. On another table a few feet away, I recognized the very thing that drew me to this man in the first place.
“I’ll do as you ask, but . . .” Gathering my strength, I leaned forward, inching him away. “You’ll give me the tomahawk Rudy sold you.”
Knowing exactly where it lay, he picked up Jonathan’s tomahawk and flipped it to point the handle at my gut. Five scalps hung from two coup rings tied at the base of the blade.
“Yours it is, my friend.”
I took hold of the handle. Frenchy held tight for a second, giving me his cold stare, and let go. He slowly turned back toward the fireplace, laughing.
“Another drink?” Billy asked.
Still leaning against the table, my shaking caused the blades and handles to jingle against one another. I held the knife in my right hand, it draining what strength and will I had that remained from the conversation. My brother’s tomahawk hung from my left hand, its worn handle smooth, except for the death notches cut into the wood. I raised it up to the firelight, the blade clean of any blood and bone from Jeffery’s skull. The hair of the scalps fluttered down, brushing across my fingers. Two were my brother’s and three were mine. I placed the knife in my belt and with both hands swung the tomahawk loosely in a figure eight over and over again, the scalps singing through the air, until sweat beaded on my forehead. I stopped and cradled the blade gently in hand, rubbing my thumb across its sharp edge. Blood trickled to the floor. I held tears in my eyes, but I was no longer shaking.
All three men stared at me. Gerard still stood by the door. Billy took a drink, averting his eyes when I glanced at him. Frenchy, with hands on his hips, gave me the same gleaming look of awe as he had the evening before, after I killed his wolverine. In an instant, that look was gone.
I faced Billy and Frenchy.
“What of Baumgartner and Rudy?” I said quietly.
“Eh, mate, when Rudy’s involved, things go bad quick.” Billy shook his head. “Bloody bad. The cut on your face is found on dead men, not ones still living.”
Frenchy smiled. “A true meurtrier he is, a master. Like I say, you one lucky buck for not being long dead by his knife.”
“By your own words, holding back Rudy, Baumgartner saved yer life, mate.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw something move. A canvas cover lay on a narrow board next to the tall, clothed contraption. The cover moved again. I heard a groan, then, “Oh, son-of-bitch!”
I recognized the voice and froze.
“Speak of the devil.” Frenchy exclaimed. “My former partner awakes.”
He jerked back the canvas, leaving Rudy blinking by the light of the fire.
The bastard was lying there the whole time!
In an instant, my memories came flooding back and I was on the river, that night, smelling the dogwood tree and mint, the smoke of the rifles, Rudy’s whiskey breath. I felt Baumgartner’s stinking top hat pushed down around my ears and the dull ache where the doctor pulled the ball from my shoulder. I heard the pistol shot in my ear, killing my brother.
I felt shame in my hea
rt and hatred in my gut.
I stepped toward Rudy. My urge was to take the tomahawk I still held in my hand—the very tomahawk he bashed me in the head with—swing down, and kill him. It did not matter that his hands and feet were tied. Yet, I hesitated and turned back to Billy. He gave me a nervous grin and shrugged.
“Trussed up like a pig, my old friend is . . .” Frenchy said as he stood next to me. He seemed pleased by my surprise and by my restraint.
“Why you done this, Frenchy?” Rudy slurred. “I been good with you.”
“Oui, and yet you run, as the tide runs along south Terre Bonne.” Frenchy shook his head. “In, out, out and in. Though, because the saw grass always hides you, I cannot keep up with my old friend. One day, the grass will cut my feet, trip me, drag me down. The hidden tide rushes in to drown me, even here, way upriver in St. Louie.”
As Frenchy spoke, Rudy’s eyes glazed. Gerard stepped up to the other side of me, reached over, and slapped him, hard, on top of his head. Rudy yelped and then squirmed, trying to get out of his bonds. He almost fell to the floor and Gerard shoved him back onto the narrow piece of wood. It was then I noticed the board was attached to the tall, covered structure. Frenchy casually reached up and pulled on the cloth. It fell away to reveal two ten-foot-tall pieces of thick wood, connected at the top by a short piece, equally thick, with a large pulley hanging in between. A rope was strung through and tied to a brace, holding in place a steel blade cut at an angle. Below was a block for a person’s head to fit in to. I had heard of this contraption. It was an ingenious way to kill someone. For a few short seconds, I stood wondering how it came to be in St. Louis.
“I ain’t the buck ya want. Baumgartner, you want him, an’ the shit Brit name of Brody. I made some side money is all, on them pelts,” Rudy said, as a matter of fact. “Didn’t make much, not like them other bastards makin’.” Now much more alert, he stared up at the shiny blade. “I was always comin’ back, Frenchy, you know . . .”
“Dead are Baumgartner and Brody.” Frenchy gave me a quick sideways glance, as if I would say something. “The last one is you, Rudy.” He paused. “Unless . . .”
Rudy noticed me. “I know you. The buck we stole from.” He stopped, as if to collect his memory. Then his eyes grew wide. “We, we left you fer dead by that creek.”
“Ain’t dead now,” I exclaimed, swinging Jonathan’s tomahawk, as Rudy had the night he hit me.
Frenchy stepped in front of me with both hands in the air. “Aucun, aucun! You don’t kill him yet!” He leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “Another question or two my new friend, Then . . .” His eyes gleamed with delight.
Gerard grabbed Rudy by the scruff of his smock and belt, flipped him over, face down, and shoved his head into the block. He pulled down the upper piece and latched it into place. Frenchy motioned Billy to bring him one of the stools and he sat down next to Rudy.
“Tell me what is to happen now,” he calmly demanded, brushing the hair out of Rudy’s eyes.
“I tell you nothing, you goddamn bastard, ’cause I already tell you everything.”
“Who else is tied with you that is not dead?”
“I tell, you still cut off my head, you fucking prig.”
Frenchy laughed and looked up. “If I cut off your head, you will not know. But, if you give me one name.” He began to slowly untie the rope that held the blade in place. “One last chance I give to redeem, Rudy Dupree. One name, I tie the rope back and you take your chances with Monsieur Jebadiah.” He let the rope slip. The blade slid down a couple of inches.
“Fitzpatrick! He set us up at Rendezvous. He knew they was goin’ down the river alone. Easy takin’ then sell to Brody in New Orleans, is where Baumgartner went. But you say them both are dead right?”
Frenchy turned to me then back to Rudy. “Soon enough, they’ll be dead.”
Rudy sighed and became very still. “Cut me loose. I’ll kill the red nigger lover an’ be on my way.”
His face was turned sideways in the block. He watched as Frenchy finished untying the rope and handed it to me. The blade was surprisingly heavy to hold in place.
“Be done with him by letting go.”
In one hand, I clutched a taut rope, from the other hung a tomahawk with five scalps. Rudy stared up at me. I saw no remorse, no fear, only disgust.
I handed the rope back to Frenchy and stepped into a fighting stance. “Cut him loose.”
“An honorable man you are, Monsieur Zebadiah. However . . .” Frenchy stood up and stretched, then leaned down and looked Rudy in the eye. “I am not.”
The rope slipped from his hand.
CHAPTER 15
No one sang a song for the dead man.
When Billy and I left Frenchy’s museum by way of the staircase, Rudy’s head was still in a basket below the guillotine. Gerard had begun to clean up the mess by covering the body and on his knees, scrubbed the drying blood off the floor with a brush and bucket of water. Frenchy sat on one of the stools, leaning forward staring into the fire, his long hair shadowing his face. Before leaving, Billy tried to gain his attention, but he sat silent, ignoring the both of us.
With the knife I was given to kill Brody still in my belt, I absently carried the tomahawk in hand through the halls back to my room, a few women and their customers scurrying to clear a path. Whispering began as soon as I passed. Not until I saw myself by candlelight in a small wall mirror did I realize my face and white shirt were spattered with blood.
I blew out all but one candle and sat quiet on the bed for a long while, staring out the open window, the moonless night somehow comforting. Though the late-evening air was not that cold, I could not stop shivering.
Around and around, blood thoughts swirled through my mind, the imagined fight to the death with a man I swore to kill. Rudy was the reason I left Anna, Rascal, and Dr. Keynes, leaving a peaceful life on the river behind. Rudy Dupree and Baumgartner were the only reasons for me to be in St. Louis, sitting on an empty bed in a whorehouse. The burn of indignation was not cooled by mere satisfaction that Rudy was dead. Yet, all I could see were his eyes staring up at me from the guillotine’s basket. I slammed my fists down on the windowsill and howled with rage, tears seeping from my eyes. A couple of men down the street answered with their own howls, then yelps and laughter. I yelled back, “Go to hell, you sons of bitches!” Their laughter drifted away into the night.
The door swung open. I swiftly stood, pulling the knife from my belt. The bright glow of the hall candles cut a silhouette of Frenchy’s daughter. She set my travel case on the bed.
“Père says you may go now.”
She turned to leave, then stopped. Even as a silhouette, I could see her eyes, blacker than two shadows. “You will know my mère in New Orleans.”
The door closed behind her with a click. I sat back down for a while longer, wondering what she meant by her last words.
I re-lit the room candles and washed my face, turning the water in the bowl red.
A little after midnight, I walked downstairs to the smoke-filled tavern, past the spot where the evening before John Brigham had hit Christine and met with Frenchy’s cutlass. The doors to the parlor where the pit lay were slightly ajar. Whether it was my imagination or not, I smelled rotted meat and almost gagged. As I walked past a couple of women and their prospects, they grew quiet but for whispers. I paid little attention to them.
Billy Frieze stood with his back to the bar and a bottle in his hand. He nodded as I stepped up next to him and ordered a beer. The barkeep seemed to recognize me and hesitated, then slowly pulled a draft. The beer tasted as bad as the evening before, but I still drank it.
“Might fine buckskins, mate.” Billy looked me up and down. “A natural fit, I’d say.”
“All I have to wear.” It was the first time I had worn them since the bushwhacking. With my brother’s knife showing at my belt and a beer in my belly, I was feeling more comfortable, and confident.
I ordered another beer.
The room was still quiet, with most everyone talking low and staring at Billy and me.
“You know, mate, these folks think you’re dead. A walking ghost, so they whisper. Are you?”
“If you stick me with a knife I’d bleed, like a bloody stuck pig,” I answered, reminding him of the first sentence he ever said to me. I turned to face him. “Right?”
Billy chuckled. “Ah, a few days seems like a year now. As I recall, that evening you were going to stick me a couple a times, ’til I set the truth straight.”
“Yes, the truth . . .” I sighed. Looking down, I saw that he had not changed his clothes, that dark bloodstains were spattered on his brown britches. “As I’ve come through the last couple a’ days, knowin’ the truth was the least of my worries.”
Billy saw I noticed the blood and shrugged. “The truth is relative to who you’re speaking with, where you happen to be standing at the time, and where you want to go. Right, mate?”
The tavern became noisier as more men came in off the street. The women gradually turned their attention away from us, back to drinking and the evening’s propositions.
“We leave for New Orleans tomorrow, at first light. On the Diana,” Billy stated. “First-class, paid for by Frenchy.” He paused. “And as guests of his partner Fontenelle.”
“Frenchy and Fontenelle, partners?” I asked, shocked by this new development. I knew Billy spoke the truth about other folks’ comings and goings. It was everything in his personal life I suspected was a lie. “Partners in what?”
“Why, the American Fur Company, of course, along with Fitzpatrick.”
“I don’t understand, the company’s owned by a man name of Aston, one of the richest bastards in the country. Everybody knows that.”
“Not anymore, mate, John Jacob Astor is his name and sold it to Fontenelle and Fitzpatrick no more than a year ago, up at Fort Union.” Billy lowered his voice. “Secret is, Frenchy’s, shall I say, a silent partner in the deal.”
I turned back to the barkeep and instead of ordering another beer, I asked for an empty glass. I motioned to Billy to fill it from his bottle, and then gulped the whiskey down. At that very moment, I wished badly to be back upriver with Anna, warm and safe from any controversy in which I had found myself involved. No matter that Rudy was dead and I was on my way to finding Baumgartner.
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