The Passionate and the Proud

by Vanessa Royall

  “Traveling alone all the way?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re figuring on claiming land out there?”

  “That’s right. For a farm.”

  With difficulty, Garn kept from shaking his head in disbelief. “Miss Alden, I know Olympia,” he said instead. “Believe me, making a land claim will be the easy part. First you have to get there. I’ve crossed the Great Plains quite a few times…”

  Emmalee could not help laughing.

  “Did I say something fanny?”

  “You may brag if you like, but I seriously doubt your story. You’re not old enough.”

  “It’s true, though. I know the high plains well, and the difficulty of surviving with bad food, little water, lame horses. Not to mention the problem of eluding Indians. Let me see your hands.”

  “What?”

  “Your hands. Let me see them.”

  He stopped walking, took her hands, and held them palms-upward.

  “Well, I see that you have done some work.”

  “Of course I have.”

  “That’ll help. There’s no end of hard work on the trail. The weak and the fainthearted either die or turn back long before a wagon train gets as far as Denver. Then there are the mountains to cross. Do you have any money?”

  “I don’t answer questions like that,” she snapped, thinking of her poverty.

  “I guessed as much.” He sighed and started walking again, leading her toward the casino. It was clear to Garn now that Emmalee was not what he’d thought her to be when he’d first seen her running along the Cairo dock. He still wanted her, just as he’d desired her on sight, but she was too young, she would be too unrealistic about the temporary liaisons he enjoyed. There was, of course, still a chance that he could bend her to his will on the journey upriver, but what then? She might want to cling to him. She might even fall in love. Young girls were like that. And, as much as he craved the pleasure her body had obviously been created to give, Garn Landar did not wish to sacrifice one iota of his freedom nor surrender a speck of his will.

  He decided to make sure she arrived in St. Joe safely. Then she could fend for herself, which was what she claimed to want.

  Walking beside him, rather excited now at the prospect of visiting an actual casino, Emmalee tried to read Garn’s mood. He was no longer insulting her with unsavory suggestions, that was true, and he was undeniably attractive. But she sensed in him a carelessness, an insouciance that could only spell trouble. He was, she thought, one of those men who simply used women, paralyzed them with charm and pleasure until they were all used up, until he owned them.

  She decided that he was the height of risky business. Still, it did seem an adventure to be visiting the casino with him. I’ll be fine if I stay on guard, she thought.

  Entering the casino, Emmalee glanced warily about. She’d half expected a circle of ragged, wild men crouched gloomily over clattering dice, knives in their teeth and desperation in their bloodshot eyes. But to her surprise, the gambling casino of the Queen of Natchez looked eminently civilized, almost like the parlor of the Jannings home back in Cairo.

  “Here again, Mr. Landar?” asked a suave-looking, waistcoated man at the doorway. “Glad to see you’re going to give us the opportunity to win back some of our money.”

  “Not a chance, Jason. I’ve brought real good luck with me this time. Miss Alden, this is Jason Bascomb, treasurer here on the Queen.”

  “A pleasure, Miss Alden. Care for refreshments?”

  “A mint julep for me, thanks. Bring the lady one too. Emmalee?”

  “I guess so,” she said. A mint julep sounded like a very good thing.

  Bascomb twirled his finger in the air and a huge ebony fellow appeared, carrying a tray laden with all manner of drinks.

  “Thanks, Brutus, don’t mind if I do,” said Garn, helping himself to a julep in a frosty glass.

  Brutus proffered the tray to Emmalee. She shrank back slightly. The man was about seven feet tall. His face was totally devoid of expression. He looked intimidating just standing there.

  Garn and Jason Bascomb laughed. “You need not fear our Brutus,” Bascomb told Emmalee. “He is here to maintain order in the casino, something that he can do effortlessly. No one has ever taken a swing at him. I don’t know what would happen if anyone did. Have a drink, please. On the house.”

  Emmalee took a mint julep and sipped it tentatively. It was very good.

  “Mr. Landar, may Brutus take your hat?” Jason asked.

  “No, sirree. Might need this hat if I get in a pinch.”

  Bascomb smiled thinly. “I most fervently wish it,” he said.

  Garn led Emmalee across the floor of the gaming room. Several varieties of card games were going on; dice rattled in cups and upon the taut green-felt tops of tables surrounded by equally taut men and women. At still another table, a large clattering wheel spun and ceased, its every cessation followed by mingled cheers and groans.

  “That’s what I want,” said Garn, taking a long swallow of his drink. “Let’s try roulette. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know anything about…what is it? Roulette?”

  “Easiest thing in the world.”

  “What did Mr. Bascomb mean about your hat?”

  Garn looked at her, then removed the headpiece and showed her that unusual band. “See these pieces in the hatband? Hammered silver. Hopi handiwork. Each of these pieces is worth fifty dollars.”

  Emmalee counted frantically. There had to be at least twenty pieces of silver in the hatband. Garn nonchalantly put the hat back on.

  “This hatband is my insurance. I’ll never gamble it.”

  “I should hope not,” said Emmalee. But she did not entirely believe him. His reckless streak was too apparent.

  But he certainly was handsome, she had to admit. That long swatch of rich, black hair curled down across his forehead when he removed his hat. An almost perpetual glint of amusement around his eyes and mouth softened his strong, young face. And when he spoke, whether to her or to someone else, Emmalee could not help but thrill to a voice that seemed to have the range and flexibility of a musical instrument. She wondered how it would sound if he whispered.

  The setting, too, enhanced his attractiveness, as well as Emmalee’s growing sense of enjoyment and adventure. The casino was on the port side of the Queen, with walls of windows overlooking the dark, irregular outline of Missouri, as well as affording a glimpse of the majestic white paddlewheel to the stem, which drove the big ship through the roiling waters of the Mississippi, upriver into the night. Perhaps for the first time since she’d left Pennsylvania with her parents, Emmalee felt completely free. All America waited for her now, wild as wind or time or tempest, and anything could happen.

  “Dealer. Chips, if you please,” commanded Garn, easing into a space at the edge of the table and positioning Emmalee beside him. His gray eyes gleamed with anticipation.

  “Hey, Mr. Landar! Nice to give us your trade again,” said the man in charge of the roulette table. Several dozen men and women surrounded the table, either gambling or watching, and they, too, called out greetings to Garn. Obviously he was not a stranger there. Emmalee did not fail to notice the frank, appreciative glances given Garn by many of the women—who somehow contrived not to notice Emmalee at all—and she was irritated with herself when she discovered just the smallest twinge of jealousy way down deep inside her. How incredibly ridiculous! She barely knew this Garn Landar, planned to get away from him as soon as the boat docked in Hannibal, and already realized that he was not at all what a man should be. Namely: responsible, reserved, and sober. Garn was the exact opposite: carefree (if not careless!), flamboyant, and self-indulgent.

  She hoped he wouldn’t lose too much of his money though. In the orphanage, she’d been told many times that gamblers always lost. So Emmalee was very surprised when Garn won. Sipping her drink, she watched as Garn exchanged greenbacks for piles of colored chips, which he placed on numbered sq
uares. Then the dealer spun the big wheel, everyone waited breathlessly, and—voilá!—Garn won money. Gambling, Emmalee reflected, was not at all dangerous, or difficult, and it was a lot of fun too.

  But then Garn began to lose. It happened gradually. At first, he lost a bet only now and then. As the evening progressed, though, he lost more frequently, until, at around midnight, he was losing almost every time he made a wager. Despite herself Emmalee had begun to feel a certain proprietary inclination toward Garn, especially after she’d overheard a couple of men murmuring about what a fool he was, but her mood was composed equally of concern and disgust.

  “You’d better stop now,” she told him during a break in the gaming, while Brutus and a score of stewards served more drinks, succulent sandwiches, and other delicacies Emmalee couldn’t identify.

  “Splendid advice,” Garn responded, wolfing a sandwich of rare roast beef, “but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m behind. When I catch up again, I’ll quit.”

  “You mean you’ve lost all that money you had?” She couldn’t believe it.

  “More. I’m in the hole.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  “All right,” called the dealer, “play will resume!”

  “But what will happen,” Emmalee asked, “if you keep losing?”

  “I won’t. I’ll win. You’re my good-luck charm, remember? You just have to try harder.” He started toward the roulette table, ransacking his pockets for spare bills. Then he did something so cavalier, so idiotic, that she was too appalled to do anything but observe.

  He removed his splendid gray hat, unclasped the band of silver pieces, slipped them from the thin leather thong to which they were bound, and held them out for all to see. “More chips!” he ordered the dealer. “Let’s get that wheel spinning!”

  Over the heads of the people around the table, he tossed one of the hammered silver discs to Emmalee.

  “Alms for the goddess!” he called expansively. Instinctively Emmalee caught the piece as it flew toward her through the air. Everyone cheered.

  Garn began to win again. Action at the craps table ceased, poker and blackjack players ended their games, waiters and stewards and everyone else drifted over to watch Garn duel with the roulette wheel. Jason Bascomb, in charge of money on the Queen of Natchez, stepped over and said something to the dealer. Emmalee could see a fine film of sweat on his forehead.

  “All right.” The dealer grinned, after Garn raked another particularly large pile of chips to his end of the table. “All right, you’ve got your money back. Congratulations. The wheel’s closing for the night.”

  “Hell, no,” cried Garn. “Keep the damn thing rolling.” He was supported by the onlookers, who let out a refined chorus of protest. They wanted to see more action.

  “You can’t do this now,” Garn complained. “Jesus!”

  “Come now, Mr. Landar,” Jason Bascomb said, “the rules are the rules. Closing time.”

  “It’s not fair,” said someone in the crowd. “Let him get a little ahead or even go behind again, but you can’t end it this way.”

  “Damn right,” agreed Garn, swaying slightly. “And let’s make it interesting. Double or nothing.” He’d been drinking mint juleps all night and his words were a bit slurred.

  An excited gasp rose from the spectators. Bascomb looked at Garn to see if he was serious. He was. The dealer and Bascomb conferred in whispers.

  Emmalee found her way to Garn’s side. He was painstakingly stacking piles of chips.

  “What on earth is the matter with you?” she hissed. Emmalee knew that this was none of her business. She had no right or reason to be angry with him in a personal way. Yet she was.

  “What?” he asked. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “No one who’s ‘perfectly fine’ would risk a bet like this. How much money does it amount to, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Somewhere in the neighborhood of nine or nine fifty.”

  “Nine hundred and fifty dollars? Oh, my God.”

  “No. Nine thousand dollars, or maybe nine thousand and five hundred.”

  Emmalee felt herself grow lightheaded.

  “I can double it,” he told her. His eyes were shining.

  “You could lose it all.”

  “If you never take risks, you don’t get ahead. Look, let me give you some money, if that’s what you’re worried about. That silver piece should easily get you as far as St. Joe, but a little extra…” He grabbed a handful of chips and handed them to her. “Just cash these in at the window over there. Bascomb’ll redeem them for you.”

  “I don’t want them!” Emmalee flared, pushing his hand away. “You don’t have to take care of me.”

  “Hey! But I want to!”

  “You can’t even take care of yourself! Don’t worry about me. I’ll make it on my own!”

  He grinned at her. “I like that spirit,” he said. “I like to see that in a gal. But, hell, you’re just a little kid.”

  “Well, at least I know not to throw money away!”

  “I’m going to double it.”

  “You don’t even care!” she accused him.

  There in the crowded room, his expression and tone changed. Just for a moment, he looked deeply into her eyes. So intense was his gaze that she was alone with him in a private world of meaning. It was as if the rest of the people no longer existed.

  “That’s right,” Garn told Emmalee then. “I don’t care. But there will come a time when I do, and when that time comes, you can bet money, body, and soul that I will not lose whatever it is that I choose to care about.”

  “All right, Landar,” Mr. Bascomb called. “Double or nothing, just as you wish.”

  The crowd cheered, pushed close to the table, then quieted. Even mighty Brutus, whose disdain for everyone and everything had persisted throughout the evening, strode over to watch the spin of the wheel.

  “Let’s see,” said Garn, glancing at Emmalee. “Tonight’s a special occasion. I’m putting all my money on number sixteen.”

  “As you wish.” The dealer shrugged, setting the wheel in motion.

  The entire casino and everyone in it were caught in a hush. In the distance, foghorns sounded on the river. Outside, the paddlewheel churned and water splashed. And, on the table, the roulette wheel spun and clattered, fast at first, slower, more slowly still, until, notch by notch, the numbers passed, each lingering for what seemed an eternity. Nine. Ten. Eleven. The wheel coming down to the end of its spin now. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. “Come on, come on!” cried Garn, now on his feet. Come on! prayed Emmalee. She felt as if her heart was slowing like the wheel, as if her heart would surely stop forever when the wheel did. Fifteen. Barely moving, just one more, just one more…

  Sixteen!

  The crowd let out a wild, exuberant howl.

  Emmalee suppressed an impulse to give Garn Landar a congratulatory embrace. He would be insufferable enough as it was.

  Click!

  “Seventeen,” called the dealer in a bored voice. “You lose, Landar.”

  The quiet in the room was now as deep as it had been while the wheel was spinning, but the character of that silence was completely different. Then it had been filled with the tension of risk. Now it was colored by the imminence of danger.

  “Funny thing,” said Garn. His voice was as taut and certain as he was, filled with an imminence of its own. “I swear I never saw a roulette wheel behave the way this one just did. Maybe it’s got a busted spring or something. Or maybe an extra spring. Surely you won’t mind if I have a look?”

  Sensing trouble, people started backing slowly away from the table, the men shielding the women. Garn stood on one side of the table, the dealer and Jason Bascomb on the other. Brutus looked on, impassive and glowering.

  “I’m sure we can settle this without incident,” said the suave Bascomb.

  “Sure we can,” replied Garn, his voice clear and tense now. “Sure we can
, as soon as I have a look at the workings underneath that roulette wheel.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not permitted, Landar. There is no law providing for such an examination.”

  Garn put his hands beneath the edge of the table and started to lift it. Chips and coins slid as the table tilted.

  “Stop it, Landar, or you’ll be sorry,” Bascomb threatened.

  “No,” replied Garn. “You’ll be sorry at the next port if I find that this wheel’s been doctored.”

  The dealer stepped toward Garn and grabbed his shoulder. Garn dropped the table, spun around, and sent the dealer to the floor with a straight right jab. He lay there moaning and twitching.

  Bascomb made his decision. “Brutus, get Mr. Landar out of here.”

  The black giant had biceps larger than country hams and a breadth of shoulders two axe-handles across. He was monstrous. No man had ever dared challenge him.

  Please, no, prayed Emmalee, as Brutus came around the table toward Garn, who stood his ground.

  “Come quiet and no get hurt,” rumbled the giant.

  “Stay where you are!” Garn told him. “Don’t come a step nearer.” The danger of his situation had cleared Garn’s head. He showed no traces of alcohol now.

  Astounded and bewildered, Brutus stood there for a moment, then looked at Bascomb for instructions.

  “I don’t want a fight,” Garn said.

  Bascomb made a sound that was like a laugh and a groan. “I bet you don’t. But you’re the one who’s provoked this. Brutus, get him out of here.”

  The black giant strode forward again, toward Garn. His tremendous arms reached out.

  Garn stepped to one side, drew back his fist, and smashed Brutus right in the nose.

  Emmalee heard herself scream, which was quite a feat since everybody else was screaming too. Brutus, unused to pain, not to mention defiance, let out a roar that filled the casino. With his eyes on the slowly retreating Garn, he reached down and lifted the roulette table from the floor…

  “Brutus! No!” yelled Bascomb, thinking of his elegant casino.

  …and lifted the massive rectangle of mahogany and felt above his head, scattering wheel and chips, coins and greenback and gold. Garn was backed against the wall of windows on the port side of the ship.