by Shirl Henke
The roosters hoisted barrels and boxes carelessly on their shoulders and nimbly climbed the gangplank to deposit them in the vast open area on the main deck. But one item they handled with utmost care: dynamite. A vital tool of the miners, it would become increasingly unstable as the weather grew hot under cloudless western skies.
Clint watched from the top of the gangplank as the mate directed the loading. Occasionally, when a particularly heavy or unwieldy load was being brought aboard, Daniels would help with the heavy lifting.
Gone were the fancy gambler’s duds. Now he wore denims that fit his long legs indecently, in her opinion. His arms were bare, the sweat-soaked white shirt’s sleeves rolled up above his elbows. “I wouldn’t doubt he’ll remove it and work bare-chested,” she muttered to herself.
Horace walked up behind her in time to hear her words and smiled. And wouldn’t she enjoy that in spite of herself! “Ah, child, it is a very warm day. Look at how many of the other men have already divested themselves of shirts. Of course, if it offends you, you should perhaps retire to our sitting room.”
She shook her head. “No, Uncle. You know I saw far worse in hospitals during the war.”
He knew she wanted to stay and watch Clint, so he suppressed his smile when she turned to him. With a worried frown, he said, “I overheard a rumor this morning that Red Riley’s sending teamsters with heavy loaded wagons to fill the levee with the intent of sabotaging our cargo.”
“What can we do?”
“I have faith that Clint knows how to handle the matter. That is why he is down there with the mate.”
“Must he work like a common laborer, half dressed?” She snapped open the frilly little parasol she’d carried out onto the deck. Suddenly the morning was growing very warm.
Horace made no reply, only stood beside her as she watched every move of Clint’s tanned, muscular body. He brushed that straight thatch of straw-colored hair from his forehead, then removed a red workman’s handkerchief from his pocket to wipe perspiration from his face. When he turned and looked up at her, Delilah felt as if she had been caught like a peeping Tom peering in a bedroom window.
“Want to lend a hand, Deelie? After all, you are majority owner of the cargo,” he called up with a chuckle.
Insufferable lout. “I’m scarcely dressed for the occasion.” A paltry retort, and she knew it.
His eyes swept over her yellow dimity dress trimmed in frilly white lace. She looked as delectable as a sunflower, only she was shaded from the bright sky by a silly little parasol instead of a leafy tree. Walking over until he stood directly beneath her, he said, “No, you’re certainly not dressed for heavy labor, but that pretty outfit is a real treat for the eyes. Once we’re on the river, you’ll have to wear more practical clothes. Still, I’m happy to see you’ve decided to dress for life instead of hiding from it.”
Somewhere during the time their exchange had begun, Horace disappeared. He’d seemed to do that often these past weeks. That, as well as Daniels’s insult, stung. Delilah stiffened, her earlier mood of buoyant optimism ruined. “I see that you’ve given up pretensions to being a dandy. A dirty red handkerchief instead of monogrammed white linen, denims and a stained shirt instead of fancy lace and black wool tailoring. This suits your true nature better.”
“And just what would you know about —my true nature—?” he asked with a dark undertone in his voice.
Delilah would not back down. “Oh, I cannot be cer-tain…bordello owner, imposter posing as a gentleman, womanizer, Southern sympathizer.”
“That last one is what you dislike the most, isn’t it?” Without waiting for a reply, he added, “I notice you didn’t mention gambler, since you’re one yourself. Not respectable for a man, but for a woman…” He shrugged and walked back to the gangplank, where Mr. Iversen, the first mate, yelled at a teamster whose freight wagon blocked another half-unloaded wagon of cargo.
Delilah watched as he strode down to the levee, where Iversen and the teamster were ready to engage in fisticuffs. From what she could gather, the man worked for Red Riley. He must be one of the ruffians employed to delay loading their cargo. Glad of any excuse to stop their backbreaking labor, the roosters urged their boss to give the intruder a sound thrashing—only not in such genteel terminology.
She had heard language as bad in gaming halls from the Atlantic to the Mississippi. Still stung by Clint’s insult, she stepped back from the rail, intending to go in the salon. Then Daniels interposed himself between the two giants, either of whom outweighed him by fifty pounds. Her heart inexplicably leaped into her throat. Was he insane? He could be crushed like a bug!
She could hear him trying to placate the brutish teamster after ordering Iversen to return to work. The mate stepped back, but his foe tried to shove Daniels aside to get at him. That proved unwise. The whole thing happened so quickly that Delilah could scarcely believe it. In a blur, Clint slid his leg in front of the heavier man and tripped him. When the teamster lost his balance, Daniels pushed him forward. He landed hard on the uneven cobblestones.
In an instant Clint knelt with one knee squarely in the center of his back, seized a fistful of the troublemaker’s hair and raised his head, smashing it onto the stone surface. The teamster lay unconscious and bleeding, his nose obviously broken, and heaven only knew what else! Delilah watched Clint stand up and look around at the other men on the levee.
He pointed at one man standing at the rear of the gathering crowd, which had now gone quiet, disappointed that the entertainment hadn’t lasted any longer. “You pick up this bastard and haul his ass back to Riley. Tell the little son of a bitch to come himself next time he wants a fight.”
The man singled out glanced nervously around, as if checking to see who might back him up. Men sprinkled through the crowd nodded ever so slightly. He began to swagger down the cargo-filled levee, passing roustabouts and teamsters hired by the Nymph. When he reached his fallen companion, he knelt down to hoist him up, then slung the big thug over one brawny shoulder and turned.
But instead of walking back up the embankment, he spun around toward Clint and swung the considerable weight of his cohort’s inert body directly at Daniels. Clint dodged the human club by a hair, then punched the big teamster carrying him hard in his gut. Not expecting such a swift retaliation, the thug doubled over. Daniels chopped the back of his neck with the side of his hand and sent him and his unconscious cohort sprawling.
But unlike the first of Red’s men, this one did not stay down. Shaking his head, he stumbled away and rolled back to his feet. On a prearranged signal, the whole levee erupted in a free-for-all. Crewmen leaped from the boat to join their compatriots on the bank. Everything was a blur as men cursed, kicked and punched each other, crashing into the loads of carefully stacked cargo. Delilah lost sight of Clint in the melee.
Then she heard a shot and her mouth went dry.
Chapter Eight
Horace stood at the top of the gangplank, holding a lethal-looking .56-caliber Colt revolving rifle, complete with a telescopic sight. He had fired it in the air to get everyone’s attention. It worked. Men stopped in mid-swing, their heads swiveling toward the Nymph, where the tall, frightening-looking man with the piercing dark eyes now casually pointed the weapon toward the thick of the fight.
“The next man to throw a punch will be shot. In case you fear my bad aim might hit some innocent bystander—” he paused for the irony to sink in—“I shall demonstrate that I do not bluff, nor do I miss my intended target. The letter i on the side of Mr. Slikes’s freight wagon.”
With one smooth action, he brought the weapon to his shoulder and fired so swiftly that no one saw him take aim. But they could see the result.
“By damn, he plumb erased the i!” one of the crewmen said in awe.
“Dead center.” A teamster working for their supplier inspected the lemon-sized hole where the letter had been, jamming two big fingers in the perfectly centered target.
“Niver seen sech shoot
in’,” another avowed.
Murmuring swept through the crowd as every man stared up at the cadaverous figure looming over them like some gargoyle from childhood nightmares. The big Colt swept across the assembly, its scope winking in the sunlight like a malevolent eye. Horace Mathers paused each time he came to one of Riley’s men, zeroing in, letting them know that he would nothesitate to kill them where they stood. Not a man in the crowd doubted he would do it.
Then Captain Dubois called out from the wheelhouse, “Should any gentleman on the levee fire upon Mr. Mathers, I will personally shoot him.” The little Creole rested a Springfield carbine on the windowsill of the wheelhouse. He leveled it downward at the crowd. His skill as a marksman was already well established from St. Louis to the far West.
“Sonofabitch, Riley didn’t say shit ’bout takin’ a bullet fer ’im.” This from a burley teamster who turned and stalked up the levee. He jumped aboard his wagon and backed the team skillfully away from the cargo on the ground, then whipped his horses into a brisk trot up the hill.
The rest of the intruders followed his lead, backing away from the fight. The men driving wagons quickly returned to the reins. Those unlucky enough not to catch a ride ran down the waterfront. One fellow tripped over a shovel and sprawled face down in an offering just deposited by a draft horse that regarded the cursing man with large, impassive eyes.
Delilah found herself scanning the levee for Clint’s tall figure. Where had he gone? Was he injured? She had seen that the damage she’d done to his lip was healed, but the gash on his shoulder could not possibly be mended. It might bleed. Then she chastised herself for worrying when she saw him hoist a scrawny little roustabout up on one broad shoulder.
As Captain Dubois issued crisp orders to the crew and the Nymph’s teamsters, Clint strode effortlessly up the gangplank. That long, straight lock of hair hung over his forehead and his shirt was filthy and torn half off his body, but she could see no traces of blood on his broad shoulder.
Oh, and what a magnificent set of shoulders he had! Stop it! Delilah could see that a number of their crew had been injured. Since coming to St. Louis, she had used her nursing skills more than in the preceding decade since the war’s end. She leaned over the deck railing and called out, “Uncle Horace, have the injured sent to the dining room. I’ll tend to them there.”
Horace listened to her footsteps overhead as she rushed to her cabin to retrieve her medical kit. He saw Clint with the semiconscious boy and nodded to him. “I believe you heard my niece.”
“So did everyone else on the levee. She’s good at givin’ orders.”
“She is also a fine nurse, as I know you can attest,” the old man said with a smile he did not attempt to conceal.
Clint wasn’t certain he liked the guile behind the grin, but there were more important things to consider now. “Captain told Iversen to post armed guards with the cargo while those who aren’t hurt start to clean up the mess, but Riley isn’t done with us by a long shot.”
“An excellent plan, although I agree about Mr. Riley. I shall keep watch from here,” Horace replied.
“By the way, that was one hell of a demonstration. If I’d known you could shoot that well, we could’ve appointed you our meat hunter.”
“Alas, no. I do not like to kill things,” Horace replied gravely.
Clint gave him a dubious look. “Could’ve fooled me. Did fool everyone else who watched you drill that target.”
“I did not make myself clear. I dislike killing animals. They are innocent creatures of God. Most men, on the other hand, can make no such claim. Suffice it to say, I’ve had no problems dealing with them as circumstances demanded.”
Clint digested that, never doubting the old man would do whatever circumstances demanded to protect his niece and anyone he cared for. “You just made it considerably harder for Red to hire cheap thugs. Also made yourself a target. Red Riley’s a bad man to cross. Captain Dubois and I, we’re already on his list. Now you are, too.”
“I shall bear that in mind,” Horace replied serenely.
Clint carried the boy—Currie was his name, as he recalled—up the stairs and into the salon. Several other men with everything from bloody noses to broken knuckles and cracked skulls were beginning to assemble. Normally, rivermen tended to fisticuff injuries themselves, spitting out loose teeth and wrapping bleeding cuts with dirty rags. But that was before a beautiful angel of mercy came onto the scene.
As if reading his mind, Currie asked hopefully, “Will the gambler lady really take care of us?”
“Those who really need care.” He sat the boy down on a chair with the admonition, “Don’t you move until she’s checked your head. It may be hard, but the cobblestones you landed on are harder.”
“Yessir,” Currie replied with a big smile in spite of the swelling lump on the side of his head.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she stitched up that man of Riley’s I took down, just to spite me. He watched as she set out bandaging, using rolls of gauze and antiseptic on one of the tables at the end of the room. He noticed that she did not include the wicked carbolic mixture she’d used on him. Clint walked past the men, who had formed a surprisingly orderly line, checking to see that there were no malingerers.
“Bailey, I’ve seen hangnails look worse than that scrape on your finger. Back to work. You, Masters, wipe your nose clean. The bleedin’s already stopped.” He singled out several others, aware that Delilah had left her post and was headed directly toward him. He could hear the click of her high heels on the floorboards, then over the noisome odors of the crew, smell her floral fragrance.
“Perhaps it would be better if I judged who is in need of medical attention, Mr. Daniels,” she replied in that no-nonsense tone she often used on him.
“I know the difference between a man needin’ medical attention and one needin’ female attention,” he said, looking down at her set, angry expression.
Delilah stifled the impulse to slap the arrogant grin from his face. Touching him in any way always got her into trouble. She never intended to let him near enough for temptation again. But here he stood, half naked, his shirt in tatters, revealing more than it concealed. She could remember how hard his chest was, how crisp the hair, the scars…Delilahshook herself mentally, noting with satisfaction that his right eye was beginning to swell. “Do you believe me incapable of determining a man’s needs?” she asked.
“Oh, you seem to understand a man’s needs all too well.” He cocked that scarred eyebrow at her roguishly. “Just tryin’ to save time, Deelie. You were the one itchin’ to get the cargo loaded and head full steam upriver. Oh, you might want to take a look at Currie first. Kid’s got a nasty bump on the noggin.” He gestured to where the boy sat, staring in rapt fascination at her.
Delilah watched Clint saunter away. Deelie, indeed! But there was no time to worry about Clinton Daniels and his big ego…or broad shoulders. She walked down to where Cur-rie sat and gently probed his thick, unwashed hair to reveal the extent of his injury. “Look in my eyes,” she instructed, checking his pupils as she’d seen doctors do with concussion victims during the war.
By the time the dinner bell rang, Delilah had bandaged, stitched, smeared ointment and generally medicated a score of men. Others who were not really in need of help, she sent back to work, hating to admit that Clint had been right about the crew’s infatuation with her. Although most were respectful, a few had made her feel as if she worked at the Blasted Bud. No one would dare to insult the majority owner of the boat, but she was acutely attuned to how men perceived a woman gambler.
They judged almost as harshly as respectable women. Since she’d been forced to join her uncle’s profession, Delilah had not had a single female friend. Those from her childhood turned their backs on her when they learned that she had taken up with her scapegrace uncle, whose reputation in Gettysburg was as tarnished as unpolished silver. But now, for the first time in all those years, she had a friend, Luellen Colter.
“I’m really not hungry, Luellen, thank you.”
“Pshaw, you’re so thin I swear a good wind on the river’ll blow you clean off the boat. Couldn’t have yew drownin’, so you eat. And don’t be giving me that look. I kin handle the kitchen even if that fool nephew of mine’s laying down with ice on his face.” She harrumphed about men and their foolishness as she slapped two big pink slices of ham and a heaping serving of sweet potatoes on a plate. Then she added another generous portion of fresh green beans and placed the plate on the table, pointing to a chair. “Set and eat.”
Knowing when she was defeated, Delilah complied. The food did taste good—until Luellen started up about Clint Daniels again. At first she’d been disapproving about having a man from a fancy house as her employer, but once Daniels turned on his charm, she had quickly changed her mind.
“That man sure is the soul of Christian kindness. He came in and got a plate fer Todd and one fer thet boy Currie. Takes his responsibilities for the crew real serious, does Mr. D.”
Trying to change the subject and save her appetite, Delilah said, “It’s criminal that a boy so young has to work alongside hardened men. Currie can’t be more than fourteen years old. He should be in school.”