The River Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  But the riverboats were dying, as his mother had so irrefutably argued. In ten years—or even five—the only work on the Missouri River would be pushing barges, because the railroads would have taken everything else. It would be enough to keep his boats running, but when they inevitably succumbed to the Missouri’s wild caprices, would he be able to rebuild them? Not as they were now, he couldn’t, not with their fine staterooms and gilded carvings. Only a fool would deny that passenger traffic was disappearing faster than a summer rise.

  What then? Other men had wives and families waiting for them, who’d welcome them no matter what monies came from the river. But he had no one, now that he’d lost Rosalind.

  He was a very wealthy man, and he was alone. He was losing the great love of his youth—the power and prestige of ruling a riverboat. He wouldn’t have a pilothouse to stand in, with the wind in his face and a fine boat trembling under his command.

  And he’d lost the woman who could be the great love of his maturity, the one woman who’d ever made him want to stay. He’d never again see those brilliant gray eyes of hers, which could gleam with intelligence or blaze with passion.

  He came to the last corner before the levee, which was vividly marked by the big white barrel in the middle of the intersection. NO BOTTOM, it announced accurately and succinctly. A thin film of ice, making it look deceptively welcoming, covered the road. He’d seen more than one arrogant fool try to cross it in years past, only to speedily sink into chest-deep mud, a peril undoubtedly worsened by this spring’s wet and changeable weather. The boardwalk here was uncovered and as wide as many rooms, silent testimony to the locals’ willingness to work hard for dry feet even in this rough neighborhood.

  In a small tavern just ahead, its entrance distinguished by a tumble of barrels and crates, men sang loudly and drunkenly. A single oil lamp glowed in an upstairs window, then disappeared.

  Hal turned up the collar of his overcoat and marched on. He’d welcome a cup of coffee as soon as he rejoined the Belle. Or perhaps whiskey, which might be better suited to blocking thoughts of Rosalind in another man’s arms.

  Cicero growled.

  Strange footsteps sounded in the fog. The planks underneath his feet quivered. Hal stiffened, every sense alert.

  Suddenly, a crate hurtled out of the fog at his head, propelled by a running man. Hal ducked and twisted away. The crate missed him by mere inches.

  As his attacker went past, Hal whacked him across one knee with his blackthorn. The additional energy was just enough to send the fellow pell-mell off the boardwalk and well into the street before he could recover. Ice cracked and mud slurped. The man hollered in pain and disgust as he tried to free himself from the morass.

  Cicero erupted into a torrent of barks.

  A whistling blow came out of the fog at Hal. He instinctively snapped his blackthorn sideways to block it and heard the solid thump of his well-made cane striking another.

  He whirled to meet his new attacker and swore inwardly. He faced a square-set brute holding a shepherd’s crook with the ease of an experienced fighter. The brute attacked again, thrusting at Hal with his crook’s blunt end. Hal parried, pushing it aside.

  Cicero jumped at the thug, but grabbed only a mouthful of cloth. The man was able to easily shake him off, at the expense of a torn pants leg. He struck at Hal again, clearly planning to stand off and cause damage.

  Hal snapped his blackthorn to block the strike and charged, simultaneously shifting to a two-handed grip. Now he could punch with his stick as if he were boxing. He landed a punishing blow to the other’s ribs.

  The thug snarled, and a new respect entered his eyes, shown by the fitful light from the saloon.

  Cicero barked as if his life depended on making noise, circling behind the thug.

  Hal closed in, his blackthorn punching hard and fast from both directions. The thug blocked and counterpunched, using the classic one-handed grip of the stick fighter. Their fight became a windmill of violence on the boardwalk. The only sounds were the rattle of their sticks or the muffled thuds of wood against flesh, all backed by the men’s grunts and the dog’s incessant barking.

  Some strikes reached their targets, including many to the ribs. Hal’s blackthorn tore the thug’s scalp open, sending blood gushing. The brute counterattacked furiously, as if desperate to win quickly. Hal sidestepped, but his boot caught a loose nail, and he stumbled slightly.

  A long narrow knife dropped into the thug’s free hand. He lunged forward, bringing the gleaming blade up to rip Hal’s face. Hal pivoted his blackthorn, desperate to stop the sharp edge.

  The thug staggered abruptly. Cicero’s jaws were locked in the brute’s leg, just above the knee. “Damn cur,” he swore, but his knife never wavered in its rush at Hal.

  But Cicero’s attack had given Hal just enough time to block the blow. Then he kicked his attacker twice in the balls, the high left-right dance step called the jig kick.

  The thug gurgled with pain and dropped his shepherd’s crook. But he didn’t give up: He kept the deadly knife coming straight at Hal’s face.

  The sharp edge nicked Hal’s ear as he skillfully sidestepped. He slapped his blackthorn across the other’s unprotected ribs below the knife. And, as the thug went past, Hal reversed his blackthorn and whacked him over the head with the knob.

  The brute grunted once and collapsed, his head and shoulders hanging off the boardwalk, inches from the frozen mud.

  Cicero snarled at the vanquished foe, then sniffed him warily. The man stirred slightly, then went limp again.

  The first attacker had finally crawled free of the mud to stand on the opposite side of the street, teetering on his one solid leg. Hal brushed back his coat to show his revolver. The man turned and quickly hobbled off, using the building’s wall to support himself, and moving as if the devil were at his heels.

  Satisfied, Cicero let loose a string of triumphant barks and yips, while his tail wagged like an admiral’s flag.

  Hal had won, thanks to some timely help from the stray dog he’d rescued during another waterfront fight. The time had definitely come to admit that having a family was advantageous. He reached down and patted his terrier on the head. Cicero promptly arched into the caress and barked again.

  Hal pulled out his handkerchief and pressed it to his ear to stanch the stream of blood. Hopefully, his ribs weren’t broken; they’d certainly need to be wrapped when he returned to the ship. Ten years ago, he would have gloried in this fight and happily retold it in tavern after tavern. Now he just wanted a snifter of brandy, a hot bath, and Rosalind.

  “Come along, Cicero. You’re starting to sound vainglorious,” he ordered. “Let’s go home.”

  The dog looked at him, then uttered a few more barks, clearly trumpeting his clan’s superiority. Ears high and tail wagging, he strutted down the boardwalk beside his human.

  Hal grinned and fixed the sight firmly in his memory, to recount to Rosalind later. Perhaps this tale of Cicero’s prowess would coax her into listening to him long enough to hear his apology. He could live without the Cherokee Belle, and all she stood for, if he just had his lady at his side.

  He had to find her. He had friends in Omaha, and further upstream, who’d help. Then he’d court her properly with flowers and every pretty word he could manage. Women liked that. He’d also make damn good and sure no other man ever came close enough to whisper honeyed words in her ears.

  And one day, when she smiled freely at him again, he’d ask her to marry him. He couldn’t promise her children, but he’d give her anything else she wanted.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rosalind leaned back in her chair, careful to keep her hole cards—with her pair of queens—far from prying eyes. Two aces rested in plain sight on the table, as part of her board cards. The private room, which had once seemed spacious, now had spectators in every corner, not surprising given the size of the pot and the game’s length.

  Half past four in the morning and the minimum bet
s had doubled twice, as warned. More than twenty-five thousand dollars in chips rested in the pot, waiting to be claimed by one of three players: Lennox, Bristow, or herself.

  All the other players had left the table, their money gone to either Bristow or herself. Now they dallied nearby, watching and whispering as they eyed the game. She suspected they were saving up stories to tell their friends, and possibly grandchildren. One of them had already called this the richest poker game in Omaha’s history.

  Other sporting men and a few loose women had come to watch, many arriving at two, when the bets doubled for the last time. Rosalind had overheard more than one side bet on who would win tonight.

  One of the soiled doves was very tall, an almost perfect match for Rosalind’s height. She’d arrived with two other females and seemed more intent on the winning players than any of the spectators. She was a beautiful willowy creature, superbly dressed in a spectacular creation of rose pink watered silk, decorated by rows of roses and matching pink flounces. Back in New York, Rosalind would have envied her both the dress and the self-assurance to wear it.

  Bristow stacked and restacked his remaining chips, his green eyes occasionally flickering from Lennox to Rosalind.

  Rosalind had a scant twenty dollars in chips before her, the remains of her bankroll and pawning her stickpin. If she won, she’d be able to reclaim her reminder of her father’s wisdom. But that meant little to her. Only the game, and defeating Lennox, mattered now.

  Lennox also had twenty dollars of chips remaining. He’d pawned his gold watch, ruby stickpin, and swordstick to come this far.

  “Get ready to read ’em and weep, gentlemen,” he challenged and took another swig of whiskey. He’d grown more and more frantic as the evening had progressed and the cards had turned further against him. This hand, with its potential for a straight, was his best chance of winning in the past hour.

  Rosalind ignored his chatter, as did Bristow.

  And Hamilton imperturbably dealt each of them their river card facedown. The room was very quiet, except for the saloon’s piano music reverberating through the walls.

  Rosalind serenely checked her river. It was the queen of diamonds, giving her a full house. An excellent hand, even if Bristow held an entirely possible four-of-a-kind.

  She took a slow breath, careful not to show any emotion. But she could feel the current running strongly in her favor, the way the Missouri River had felt from the Cherokee Belle’s pilothouse.

  Lennox chortled as he stared at his hand. Then he pushed his remaining chips into the center, with a triumphant, “I’m all-in and I’ll send you to hell.”

  Rosalind raised an eyebrow at his cockiness, but said nothing.

  Now it was Bristow’s turn.

  “Fold,” he announced calmly and set his cards down. He pushed back from the table, but didn’t stand up, his eyes steady on Lennox.

  Rosalind glimpsed his left hand, away from Lennox, resting on his wrist, as if ready to draw a knife. Surely, Lennox wouldn’t try anything, not with so many watchers, but his temper was wearing so thin as to be capable of almost any affront.

  “I’m in,” Rosalind announced with preternatural calm and pushed in enough chips to match Lennox’s final wager. Her stomach’s earlier shenanigans had long since given way to an icy detachment, familiar but more acute than anything she’d previously experienced at a card table.

  The room seemed to hold its collective breath.

  Lennox flipped over his hand—a straight. Five cards in sequence, from three suits.

  Rosalind revealed hers: full house, queens over aces. Now she held every penny he’d owned when he walked in. But she still wanted the ledger book.

  Lennox flushed hard as he stared at her cards. His mouth worked, but he said nothing as he drummed his fingers on the table.

  Hamilton began to gather up the chips as the spectators erupted into a chattering horde. Lennox threw Rosalind a last, fulminating glare and pushed back his chair.

  “Congratulations, Carstairs,” a former player gushed, charging towards her chair through the crowd. “May I buy you a drink to celebrate?”

  She held up a hand to forestall him. “One moment, sir. Mr. Lennox,” she called. One last gamble to take and pray that the river’s current held true. “May I offer you one more bet?”

  Lennox spun on his heel and stared at her, the swordstick held tightly in his hand. The room was abruptly silent again, full of goggling eyes. “What are you thinking of?” he answered warily.

  “Everything on the table against a single item from your pockets, chosen by me. The winner to be decided by cutting the cards.”

  The spectators gasped. Lennox’s tongue ran out across his lips, and he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His face was transfigured by lust, savaging his Narcissus-like beauty.

  “Very well,” he agreed. He tossed a gold card case onto the table and sat back down.

  “Remember, Mr. Lennox, I choose the item,” Rosalind corrected him. Her voice was low and harsh, like the growl of the Cherokee Belle’s engines taking her through crooked water.

  Lennox’s mouth tightened. He glanced around the room, as if looking for support. No one spoke. “As you wish,” he said finally. Reluctantly.

  “Turn your pockets out on the table,” Rosalind ordered. Great God in heaven, may he not have hidden the ledger book anywhere else, while I wasn’t present.

  Lennox obeyed, muttering all the while. A small, flat, leather wallet. A toothpick case. Keys.

  “Coat pockets, too,” Bristow drawled before she could mention Lennox’s omission.

  Rosalind’s mouth quirked. She was glad he was helping her, rather than hindering her. Especially since she should pretend to be a gentleman of superior manners.

  Lennox glared at Bristow, then reached into his coat’s breast pocket. A handkerchief fluttered down. Finally, he set a small leather-bound volume on the table, its edges stained with water and blood. It had to be Etheridge’s ledger book.

  Rosalind ran her fingers over the various articles on the table and managed to pretend an interest in the gold card case, while their audience whispered and pointed. Finally she picked up the ledger book and flipped through the pages, which mostly recorded the purchase of supplies, such as tobacco, and their later sale to Fort McGowan’s soldiers. Every receipt of money and every expenditure were neatly noted, with the resulting account balance entered in the right column.

  Two entries sprang off the pages at her.

  “June 8, 1871. Withdrew $1,500.00 in cash from my account at the National Bank of C—”

  And the next line said, damningly:

  “June 8, 1871. Paid $1,500.00 in cash, by hand, to Wm. W. Belknap at West Point, New York.”

  The initials J. E. sat beside each entry, conclusive proof that Jebediah Etheridge had been openly paying off the Secretary of War. Once she held this and all of his money, Lennox would no longer be able to blackmail or bribe Belknap into destroying the reputation and livelihood of Hal’s brother-in-law.

  If she lost, and Lennox took this book, plus all the money on the table, he’d have a fortune with which to make further attacks.

  She set her jaw and looked back at Lennox. “This will do,” she said, pretending a carelessness she didn’t feel. “It’s a handsome book and will serve me well.”

  Someone whispered and was quickly hushed.

  “Not the book, not that,” Lennox objected. He shook his head vehemently, his eyes wide and appalled. “Surely, you’d prefer the card case, or my wallet.”

  “Are you reneging on your bet?” Rosalind asked. “One item from your pocket, of my choosing, against everything else on the table. Do you wish to withdraw?”

  “No, damn your eyes. I’ll see this through to the end. And buy everyone here a drink with my winnings,” he asserted with an attempt at his previous arrogance.

  “Very well. Mr. Allen, will you please shuffle a fresh deck for us?”

  “You can’t—” Lennox started to
object, then hurriedly stopped as the crowd muttered.

  She’d known from the beginning that he’d been marking the cards, nicking them with his gold pinky ring. The old technique had given him little advantage; her father had taught her and her brothers the same method when she was seven. So she’d read the cards as easily as he had and used the knowledge against him. But she wasn’t about to let him attempt the same trickery again.

  And their audience knew that past chicanery was the only possible excuse for refusing a fresh deck. Their surprise—and the unspoken threat of frontier justice for cardsharps—had clearly shut his mouth.

  Allen slid smoothly into Hamilton’s seat and ostentatiously opened the new deck. He shuffled with a great professional’s elegance and speed, and riffled the cards until they flowed like a river between his hands.

  Hal had had the same relaxed mastery of his environment when he stood in his pilothouse, his fair hair shining in the sun and his blue eyes gleaming as he studied the water. Dear, beautiful Hal…

  Allen slid the cards over to Lennox.

  He swallowed hard, rubbed his fingers together, then quickly split the deck into two sections. He turned over the top section, showing the bottom card.

  Jack of clubs. Only a queen, king, or ace could bring her victory. Without hesitating, Rosalind picked up the other section and exposed the bottom card.

  A blond king, in elegant red robes emblazoned with hearts. The king of hearts had defeated Lennox.

  Etheridge’s ledger book—and its ability to create, or block, threats to William—now belonged to Rosalind. Lennox could no longer threaten Hal or his kinsman.

  “No!” Lennox exploded. “You can’t win! I must have the book and the money!” He started to pull a knife from his sleeve.

  Rosalind promptly drew hers, a second after Allen, Bristow, and most of the male spectators. Lennox growled in frustration as he measured his opponents.