The River Nymph

by Shirl Henke

  Clint saw the hard, angry expression on Banjo’s face and braced himself. “This have anything to do with Riley?”

  Banjo nodded. “Looks like Mathers ’n his men’re dead, Boss….”

  As he relayed the rest of what he’d heard, Clint walked over to the bar and poured himself a stiff bourbon. “Yeah, Banjo, the smart money’d bet on Riley hiring river pirates to kill all of them.” His friend Horace was gone. The loss of their money didn’t even register as his thoughts raced to Deelie. Horace was all the family she had left in the world. What would she do now? Life had once again left her alone and penniless. He tossed back his whiskey and felt the burn. It matched the one in his eyes…and his heart. He would have to be the one to tell her.

  “ ’N thet ain’t all.”

  Clint turned, unbelieving. “What more could there be?”

  “Big Red bought the note on Krammer’s Mercantile not long after you took off upriver. He’ll be ’round to gloat and collect his money real soon.”

  Clint poured himself another drink, cursing beneath his breath. He would have to kill Riley somehow without getting Deelie involved. With the glass halfway to his mouth, he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

  “Welcome home, baby,” Eva said in a sultry drawl as she posed artfully on the stairs. Her silver-blond hair lay like polished sterling around her shoulders. She leaned forward just enough for her silk wrapper to show off the creamy curvesbeneath. One slender ankle showed when she bent her leg on the step. “I’ve missed you.”

  He had, in fact, barely given a thought to Eva since leaving St. Louis with Delilah and Horace. When he turned and nodded to her, she sensed something was wrong.

  Deserting her position above him, she rushed down into the deserted bar, which would fill with customers in a few hours. “What’s wrong, Clint? Did that Yankee bitch and her uncle separate you from your money? You still have the Bud…and me.”

  The high heels of her lavender silk mules stopped midclick when she saw the icy glint in his eyes. He set the glass carefully on the bar without drinking. “Mrs. Raymond and her uncle didn’t steal my money. Riley’s most probably killed Horace and left Delilah destitute.”

  Eva approached in spite of his hostile stance. “I’m sorry, Clint. You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you?”

  “Horace Mathers was my friend. He’d never cheat me,” he said, evading a declaration of his feelings for Deelie. “Now I have to tell his niece that she’s lost the only living relative she had left in the world.” With that, he turned to Banjo, who had stood motionless during their conversation. “Is Samson in the stable out back?” he asked.

  Banjo nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing with his head. “Shore is. I kin saddle him fer you pronto.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” Clint said, heading for the back door of the Bud. En route, he paused and told Banks, “Keep your ear to the ground about those thugs Riley hired to go after Horace. Probably river pirates. They might have stolen the money and hightailed it. Mrs. Raymond will need a stake to carry her through if her uncle’s gone. We have to find them.”

  “I’ll do thet, boss. Got me an idee or two ’bout who they might be.”

  “Find out for certain and let me know.”

  When Clint reached the levee, he reined in the gelding and let the great black beast’s reins lie across the pommel of the saddle. No one on the riverfront would try to steal the valu-able animal. Everyone knew the horse would allow no one but Daniels to ride him. As Clint walked up the gangplank, he rehearsed for what seemed the hundredth time how he would tell Deelie about Horace.

  There was no good way. He would just have to give her the awful news straight out. He only prayed no one in town had beaten him to it. Krammer might not have heard the waterfront gossip that Banjo was assigned to monitor. He climbed the stairs to the second deck and walked to her cabin. When he knocked, he could hear her stirring within. She opened the door with an expectant look on her face that broke his heart.

  “Is my uncle here?” she asked.

  He took her arm and stepped inside, then closed the door. “I have some bad news, Deelie. Banjo’s heard rumors on the levee. His sources say Riley sent thugs to wreck the packet your uncle and the captain’s men were on. Make it look like an accident. Kill them and steal their money.”

  She swallowed hard. “Did they succeed?” she asked, her voice almost breaking. She knew the answer.

  Clint spread his hands helplessly. “No one knows for sure. Banjo’s been trying to find out if Riley’s come into any large amount of cash. So far, nothing, but the thugs may have failed—or double-crossed Riley. Banjo’ll keep after it until we know what happened. I’ll take care of Riley.” His voice was flat and cold.

  Delilah sat woodenly, no tears, no more expression on her beautiful face than she’d had sitting at a poker table. He got up and poured a shot of brandy—Horace’s good stuff—into a glass. “Drink this,” he said gently, holding it to her lips as he knelt beside her.

  With a surprisingly steady hand, she took the glass and sipped. “I knew something was wrong. He should have arrived days before us. I thought Riley might have been responsible.”

  Now he could see the icy calculation in her eyes. Anger was better than the numb shock she’d first exhibited. “If he knew Horace was aboard The River Race, it wouldn’t be hard to have it sabotaged,” he said.

  “Riley would do anything to break us…even kill my uncle.”

  Clint took her ice-cold hands in his. “Two things seem sure: Riley would never let all that money be swept down the Missouri, and he would’ve told the cutthroats he hired to leave no witnesses.”

  Delilah stood up, clutching the glass in her hand so tightly that she might have broken it if Clint hadn’t pried it from her fist. “I’m going to make him pay, Clint. It’s the least I can do to honor my uncle’s memory. For his whole life, Horace Mathers paid his debts—and we owe Captain Dubois, our crew and Mr. Krammer. I promised him his mercantile back, and by heavens, he will have it! And I will have a marble grave marker for my uncle placed at the front of Bellefontaine Cemetery. Red Riley won’t be king of the levee for very much longer. I’ll make him crawl.”

  He could see her dark cat-green eyes narrow. “What are you thinking, Deelie?” Already he knew it would be dangerous.

  “Arrange a meeting with Riley for first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “To talk about what? You know he’ll demand the money we owe immediately.” He studied her as she walked over to the open door into Horace’s room.

  She picked up a volume of Blake’s poetry and turned to a well-read page. “ ‘Songs of Experience.’ I know all about that,” she said bitterly.

  “You also knew about ‘Songs of Innocence,’ ” he said softly. “Horace wouldn’t want you to risk—”

  “Risk what? All I have left is 51 percent of this boat and a fortune in debt,” she said, then immediately calmed herself.

  “So you figure to tempt Riley into a card game using the boat.” It was not a question.

  She looked up at him, clutching the volume of poetry to her heart. Now her eyes brimmed with tears that she refused to let fall. He crossed the room and took her in his arms, rubbing her back and pressing her head against his chest. But he knew she would not cry. Not now. Not until it was finished.

  She let him hold her for a moment, composing herself, then looked up and met his gaze. “If I sold my share, there still wouldn’t be enough to cover our debts. A card game is our only chance.”

  “Riley will hire a card shark to play for him, you know that.”

  A mocking, almost cruel smile barely touched her mouth. “Yes, I expect he’ll get the best he can find between St. Paul and New Orleans. Uncle Horace could beat any one of them. So can I.”

  Clint knew there was no way to reason with her in her present emotional state. And she was right about being one of the very best players he’d ever faced. “Then let’s see if Riley will bite,” he said, pressing a kiss on her forehea
d before releasing her. One way or another, Big Red Riley was a walking dead man. When he reached the door, he turned and added, “If you’re sure about risking the boat, it’ll be the whole damn shootin’ match. I’ll throw in my 49 percent to sweeten the bargain.”

  Suddenly, the tears escaped, gliding crystalline down her pale cheeks, but she did not make a sound, just swallowed hard and nodded. As he closed the door behind him, he thought he heard her say very softly, “Thank you, Clint.”

  As Clint expected, Riley refused to come to the boat or to the Bud. If Mrs. Raymond and Mr. Daniels wanted to talk to him, they could come to his establishment in town. At ten the following morning. The man known on the levee as Rat Turner delivered the reply to Clint’s message. Riley’s small, stoop-shouldered messenger had a narrow face, close-set eyes and an elongated nose. Some said that was the reason for his unfortunate nickname, but others said it was because he was sneaky, mean and would kill anyone, then gnaw on the carcass.

  “We’ll be there, Rat. Tell Riley to be punctual,” Clint said, knowing the little thug had no idea what the last word meant.

  In the morning, Clint and Delilah rode from the levee through the more elegant red-light district and headedtoward the rail yards, passing some of the roughest parts of the city. “It looks like a far larger version of Fort Benton,” she said, appalled at the offal strewn on the streets and the shifty-eyed men lurking in the shadows of doorways. She thanked heaven it was too early for the whores to be up, catcalling from the open windows above them.

  Clint shrugged. “Wait till you see Red’s place,” was all he said.

  The saloon and bordello was made of brick and took up a city block. Big Red had obviously spared no expense in building his palace. The pity of it was that he had far more money than taste.

  “Crenellated towers?” Delilah said as the carriage pulled up in front of the pseudo-castle.

  “He wanted a moat, but the mayor and city council balked at that. Said it would breed insect pests,” he replied as he helped her down.

  She paused, looking at the garish doorway but speaking to Clint. “Are you certain you want to risk your share of the boat? I don’t want to—”

  He placed a fingertip on her lips and smiled sadly. “Yes, you do. You want to avenge Horace and so do I. Besides, we’re kinda joined at the hip…financially speaking. The only way Red’ll go for a game is if he can get full ownership of the boat.”

  They entered the front door of the saloon and smelled the stale acridity of tobacco chaw mixed with cheap whiskey. Spilled beer had soaked into the wooden planks of the floor, swelling them so they buckled and creaked. Above the bar a garish painting of a voluptuous nude stared down at them with heavy-lidded, knowing eyes. Delilah blinked and looked away. There was absolutely nothing left to the imagination when the artist had finished his masterpiece.

  Although the room was cavernous and filled with expensive fixtures, the overall effect was one of clashing colors and textures, reds and purples, rough wood and garish velour upholstery. A man with hideously large liver spots disfiguring his face stood behind a bar carved with gargoyles. He busily rubbed a soiled rag over a row of smeared glasses, ignoring the newcomers until Clint spoke.

  “Howdy, Leo. We’re here to see your boss. Go fetch him.”

  Leo “the Leopard” Lewinski looked up, and his mottled face grew red with anger. “I ain’t yer errand boy, Daniels. Boss is down thataways,” he said, gesturing carelessly to the long hallway at one side of the barroom.

  “Into the lion’s den,” Delilah said softly.

  “More like a rattler’s pit,” Clint replied, guiding her down the hall.

  Daniels knocked on the door, and Riley’s nasal voice echoed from the other side, “Drag it in. Door’s open.”

  The little man sat behind a desk that dwarfed him, feet up on the top, which was littered with legal documents, overflowing ashtrays and dishes with various stages of green mold growing on them. He sipped a whiskey, even though it was midmorning, and puffed on an Elegant Gent cigarette. When they stepped inside, Delilah nearly gagged at the stench.

  Raising his glass as if for a toast, Riley recrossed his boots, shifting ankles, and leaned back until his spring chair squeaked. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand up. Only do that for ladies,” he said with a nasty smirk, as if waiting to see what Daniels would do.

  “You wouldn’t recognize a lady if one were desperate enough to clean her boots on you, Riley,” Clint replied as Delilah put a cautioning hand on his arm.

  Her voice was cool and even, without a trace of the hatred she felt for the cowardly murderer. “We won’t waste our time by taking a seat,” she said, looking contemptuously at the low, grimy crimson chairs placed like kneelers in front of the altar of Baal. “We’re here to discuss a business proposition with you.”

  “Z’at so?” He puffed more, letting the vile-smelling tobacco smoke fill the stale air.

  It made a potent blend with his macassar-oiled hair and unwashed body. She could see the greasy gray edge staining his shirt collar. “We’ll put up the Nymph as a stake for a poker game. It’s in prime condition now, worth well over forty thousand. Me against you.” She expected him to haggle about bringing in another player, but he merely hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and chuckled.

  “Honey, I don’t have to play tiddledywinks to get my boat back. All I gotta do is wait. You owe my mercantile three thousand, due next week. Oh, and that there loan from Consolidated Planters for ten thousand? Soon as you default, I’ll just buy the note and have the Nymph free ’n clear. See, no risk…no nothin’…no deal.” He bit off the words between puffs from his nasty cigarette, smirking at them with hard dark eyes.

  Clint was not taken by surprise nearly as much as he knew Deelie must be. The king of the St. Louis levee had spies everywhere. But she stood calmly, her outer facade unshaken as she nodded to him.

  “You win this hand, Mr. Riley. But the game is far from over.” With that she turned and walked out.

  Clint waited until they were outside on the street before he spoke. “I’m sorry, Deelie. I should’ve figured Riley would find out about the bank loan in St. Charles.”

  Delilah took a deep breath. “I will find another way to entice him into a game. Perhaps if I went to the owner at Consolidated—”

  “No, that wouldn’t work. Word of our predicament’s reached him now. Riley will have seen to it. Consolidated would never give an extension. Hell, we can’t even get one for the cargo since Riley ruined Krammer. But there may be another way I can light a fire under the little big man.”

  She looked at the cunning grin shaping his lips. It did not reach his cold gray eyes. “What are you going to do?” She was dragging him into her personal vendetta. He still owned a viable business and had built a successful life here in the city. She had no right to ask him to risk it.

  “Just let me handle it. Riley’s greedy as a hog hip-deep in swill. If we’re goin’ to lose the Nymph anyway, let’s see if we can convince Red we’re selling it before the note comes due.”

  “But that won’t do any good. What we owe is still more than what we can get for the boat under these conditions,” she protested.

  He assisted her into the carriage and took his seat beside her as he murmured, “Just trust me, Deelie, all right?”

  She studied him for a moment. “Clint, I don’t want to wreck your life—”

  “Darlin’, the minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you were bound to do just that.”

  Clint entered the telegraph office and wrote out his message in bold, slashing strokes, then handed it to the telegrapher. It read:

  To Strickland Freighting:

  Hear you are buying stern-wheelers for Fort Benton trade. Will sell River Nymph for thirty thousand cash. Boat appraised by Consolidated Planters at forty-two. Response required within forty-eight hours.

  Clinton Daniels, Delilah Raymond, owners.

  He paid the operator, then walked out without waiting for
the clerk to send it. Clint knew Buddy Sanfield sold information to Riley. No message went through the Western Union office without first being given to Big Red. He slipped quickly into the alley behind the office and waited a moment. Sure enough, Sanfield, without his green eyeshade, scurried from his office and headed toward Riley’s saloon.

  Grinning grimly, Daniels mounted Samson and rode back to the Blasted Bud to await developments. Old man Strick-land was a shrewd businessman who would probably consider the remarkably generous offer, but he would also first check to see that the stern-wheeler was indeed worth the investment.

  Clint was certain Riley would not let the boat slip from hisgrasp again. He’d offer Delilah her poker game before any reply could come from the Strickland office in Bismarck. Clint had no sooner ridden his black into the stable behind the Bud then Eva came rushing toward him, her usually artful morning dishabille not in place. Her hair was uncombed and she was wearing scuffed old carpet slippers. “Eva, what’s happened?” he asked, fearing Riley had done something to Deelie.

  “You ain’t gonna believe this, Clint, honey,” she said, breathlessly.

  He barely did when she explained, but a sharkish grin spread across his face as he followed her inside, where Banjo Banks was writing out directions to his cousin Clem’s place in the old settlement around Spanish Lake, north of the city.

  By late that afternoon, word had spread across the levee and throughout the sporting district of St. Louis. Clint Daniels had sold his 60 percent of the Blasted Bud to Eva St. Clair and Justus Brummell for eleven thousand dollars. Both of them had been so frugal with their money that they could pay him in cash. Daniels was out of the saloon and fancy house business!

  What would he do now? Rumors were quickly substantiated that he’d ridden that big black horse of his out of the city. No one knew where he was bound. Some said his skill with cards would lead him to use the cash as a stake. He would end up gambling on the big side-wheelers running up and down the Mississippi. A few others speculated that he would head back to Dakota Territory to live with the Sioux, since stories about his violent past had followed him downriver.