"I don't wanna know," Vince said. "C'mon, let's go try the Hairpin Bend Tavern. I like the name," he added hopefully.
They stood in front of the Hairpin Bend Tavern, considering it. "It has a window," Vince said. "It's not even broken or anything."
The door burst open, and a man came staggering out, clutching a half-empty whiskey bottle. He stared at Vince and Clint, said, "Huh? Whadja say?", sunk to his knees, then toppled over like a chopped tree, face-forward, arms sprawled out.
Vince and Clint looked at each other. "Huh-uh," Clint said. They turned and walked two buildings down to a saloon cleverly named Island No. 60, the riverman's landmark for Helena. It had two windows, with neither of them broken, which was a hopeful sign, and as they hesitated at the doorway no one came out and fell down. They went in.
It was like a thousand other saloons in a hundred other river towns, with thick tobacco smoke and liquor reek on the heavy air. On the right was a bar, with men "bellied up," one foot propped on the brass rail below. On the left were tables, all with rough-looking men sitting at them, drinking and talking about the river. Only one table had a poker game going, and the four men seemed sober and subdued. Clint and Vince had stayed and had a couple of beers, but they were accustomed to other, friendlier watering places and soon they went back to the boat. On the next couple of trips they didn't return to Island Number 60.
But the day was cheery, and cool, not cold, and they had docked at about three o'clock, so Clint and Vince decided to give Island Number 60 another try. As they walked down the waterfront to the slums at the far southern end, Clint said, "I'm going to stop in the tobacconist's and get the papers."
"Why do you buy papers for her?" Vince asked. "She doesn't appreciate it, Clint."
"Yeah, she does. She always thanks me. Well, almost always."
Vince shook his head. "I don't get it. She puts on airs and she treats you like a servant. It's not right."
"I don't think it's really putting on airs. I think she's really had a tough time, and she's had no one to depend on or to help her, and so she just keeps herself to herself. And she treats me fine."
"She sure doesn't treat you like other women do. She's not all gaga over you. Bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Nah, she's crazy about me," Clint said loftily. "She just doesn't know it yet." He ducked into the dank tobacconist's and came back out holding the Helena Daily World. He glanced at the folded-up bottom half of the first page and murmured, "Hey, look at this."
Vince craned his neck to see a small headline below the fold: THE STEAMBOAT HELENA ROSE RETURNS HOME WITH A LADY PILOT! The article was written by a lady named Mrs. Honoria Putnam, and was fulsome and fruity. The first paragraph read:
Many of the esteemed citizens of Helena will remember the Helena Rose, the steamer owned by Mr. Ira Hardin, who was married to our favorite daughter, Rose Dulany. After Mrs. Hardin's bitterly tragic death we sorely missed both of our "Roses" terribly. Mr. Ira Hardin recently passed on to a Better Place, and joined his Beloved Rose, but his stout riverboatman's spirit still plies the Grand Old Mississippi in the Helena Rose, now owned, captained, and PILOTED by Mrs. Jeanne Bettencourt, the first FEMALE PILOT on the Mississippi River!
The article went on to fulminate about Captain Jeanne's DARING and HARDY PIONEER SPIRIT as she conquered the Mississippi River, apparently single-handedly. It went on to list the Rose's stops, and the fact that she was entrusted with the mail, and how dedicated Captain Jeanne was in plying the treacherous river, toiling to faithfully deliver the mail near and far.
"This is kinda making me nauseated," Vince joked. "It's like when you eat too much candy."
"Aw, man, Jeanne's gonna be steamed," Clint groaned. "I don't think I'm going to give her this paper."
"Why not?" Vince said cheerfully. "Captain Jeanne's famous now." He placed one hand over his heart and flung out the other arm as he recited sonorously, "As the valiant Captain Jeanne toils, under heavy burdens of care, in the driving snow, alone, without friend or boiler or engine, just she and the Helena Rose—"
"Vinnie," Clint said, grinning, "Shut up."
They went down to Island Number 60, which was quiet this early in the afternoon. Six men stood at the bar, tossing back shots of whiskey and spitting into a nearly full spittoon. A dozen men were scattered around the tables. Clint and Vinnie stood at the bar and the bartender, a big bruiser as they always seemed to be in these kinds of saloons, came up to them, polishing a glass. He had black hair parted down the middle and greased with macassar oil, and close-set eyes in a round, red-cheeked face. "G'day to you gentlemen. What'll you have?"
They ordered beers, and Clint spread the paper out on the bar. "You know, it was kinda sad about Ira Hardin. Ezra told me a lot about him. He was a rompin', stompin' pilot until he met this Rose Dulany here in Helena, and they got married. That's when he had the Helena Rose built. Seems like she really gentled him down, that's when he started running the Arkansas River. Ezra said he was a snorting bull—that's why they nicknamed him—but with Rose he was as gentle as a spring lamb. After she died a couple of years ago, he went back to his old river rat ways. Ezra said he was only thirty-five when he died. That's kinda sad, isn't it?"
The bartender set down two mugs brimming with beer, and they took appreciative sips. "Good beer," Clint said to the bartender.
"Thank you, sir. I heard you talking about the Helena Rose. Did you two know Bull Hardin?" he asked.
"Never knew the man, I'm sorry to say. He was a distant cousin of mine, and he left me half of the Rose." Clint pointed to the newspaper and went on, "But it seems like Mrs. Putnam missed my story."
"Mrs. Putnam," the bartender said disdainfully. "You orter be glad she don't have you in her sights, mister. So, you work the Rose? I heard she just came in."
"I'm the engineer, and Vince here is a deckhand," Clint said.
"And you two have a lady pilot," the bartender said thoughtfully. "Is that—"
Vince had noticed four men further down the bar who had been listening to the conversation, grinning and punching each other. They were working men, probably roustabouts or deckhands, dressed in coarse dirty clothes, unshaven, with dirty stringy hair topped by greasy floppy hats. Now one of them loudly interrupted the bartender. "Hey, you two boys! Did I hear right? We got two crewmen from the famous Helena Rose here?"
Warily, Clint answered, "That's right," then turned back to the bartender.
But the man, who was missing his two upper front teeth and all four lower front teeth, kept on calling down the bar in his nasal voice. "Whew-ee! Ain't you got a mutt's life! Got a female pilot! What's she do there, boy, flash her knickers when she wants more steam?" The four of them snorted loudly with laughter.
Clint stood upright, took four steps down the bar, pulled back his right fist, and planted a bone-crunching right cross on the man's jaw. He flew backwards a couple of feet, and crashed to the ground. The other three were still standing there dumbfounded, staring down at him, when Clint planted another right on another jaw, and he went down. By this time the other two had waked up, and they grabbed Clint's arms, and one of them bit Clint's ear. Vince reached them, and as quick as a snake, did a vicious head-butt to the biting man. A general scuffle ensued.
Clint was sitting on top of one of the men, banging away at his face, when from behind two men grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. A couple of feet away from him another deputy grabbed Vince, who had his nearly unconscious man against the wall, belting him in the belly.
The saloon grew very quiet. Standing behind the two deputies holding Clint was a tall man with a bronzed leather face and black eyes, wearing a big silver star pinned to his chest. In a voice like gravel he said, "My name is Hank Burnett, and I'm the sheriff. Now boys, I know you ain't from around here, so you ain't had time to learn the rules. We don't like this kind of thing here in Helena. This is a nice town, with good folks, and they elected me to keep the peace. And that's what I intend to do, and that's why ever one of you
fools is under arrest."
"CAPTAIN JEANNE IS GOING to kill us," Vince groaned.
"She probably won't actually kill us," Clint said. "Not literally kill us dead."
"She'll make us wish we were dead."
"Yeah, that sounds about right." Clint stood up and yelled at the cells at the far end. "Hey, you down there. Which one of you people bit my ear? I didn't know you had enough teeth between the four of you!"
Only low mutters sounded from the four cells; the deckhands from the One Eyed Jack, as it turned out they were, had definitely calmed down. All four of them were nursing cuts and scrapes, knots on their heads, black eyes, and busted lips. "Funny," Toothless said in a low voice, "I knew he was a big feller, but he 'peared like a sweet johnny. Calm and speaking low, like."
"Yeah, 'til he turned inter a big mad b'ar," the beat-up man in the next cell said. "Don't nobody tell him I'm the one what bit his ear."
"Niver seen nothin' like it," Toothless said in wonder. "One minnit I'm a-talking, and next minnit I'm flat on my back and I'm watchin' little spangly stars goin' round and round."
Clint dabbed at his ear, which was still bleeding slightly. It was the only injury he had; even his knuckles, by now hardened like anvils, weren't scraped or swollen. Vince had a big red bump on his head from his head-butt, and that was the only injury he had.
At six o'clock a grinning deputy brought them coffee and pork and beans. Clint asked, "Can you tell us what we're in here for, and how long we have to stay?"
"You fellers were disturbin' the peace," he said, hooking his fingers in his belt, which was stretched thin over a large paunch. "Penalty for that is five days in jail."
"Five days! That's kind of severe, isn't it?" Vince said.
"Yup. Sheriff Burnett, he don't hold much with fights. See, you fellers get into a brawl down on the docks, and it disturbs the peace of the good citizens of Helena, and then the Anti-Gambling Society and the Temperance Society disturbs the peace of the sheriff."
"But we weren't gambling! And we only had one beer that we didn't even finish!" Clint protested.
"Well, them is some circumstances, all right. But it don't matter, disturbing the peace carries a five-day jail sentence. I got you some good news, though," he told them with another huge grin. He was enjoying himself enormously. "Your bail is set for five dollars each, and there's been a nice lady here that's paid it. Howsomever, you still have to stay overnight. You'll get out in the morning." He left, going back into the office.
"She was nice?" Vince said blankly.
"Yeah," Clint said thoughtfully. "How'd that happen?"
Clint hardly slept all night, because the mattress on his cot was hard and lumpy, and it smelled atrocious. Finally dawn came and the same grinning deputy came in and unlocked their cells. "Miz Bettencourt done vouched for you and filled out all the papers, so the rest of your sentence is suspended. Might better spruce up a little there, she's a-waiting for you."
There wasn't any "sprucing-up" to be done in the bare cells, so Clint and Vinnie followed the deputy into the sheriff's office. Sheriff Burnett was standing next to Jeanne, his arms crossed, and she looked at them expressionlessly as they came in. The only warning sign was the dark flickers in her eyes.
Sheriff Burnett looked amused, though his voice was heavy. "Now you boys know the rules, right?"
"Yes, sir," Clint and Vince mumbled.
The deputy handed Vince his gun, a Colt six-shooter that he kept stuck in the back of his trousers. Painstakingly, the deputy counted out the six bullets. Sheriff Burnett said, "I 'spect you understand the rule about guns, don't you, sonny?"
"Yes, sir. The rule is: no guns," Vince said obediently.
"That's right," Burnett said with satisfaction and turned to bow slightly to Jeanne. "Miz Langer, I'm right glad that you're back on the river. Your daddy would bust a button, he'd be so proud of you. Now you need anything, anything a-tall, you just let me know, all right?"
"Thank you, Sheriff Burnett. You've always been a good friend to me and my family, and though I'm sorry about the circumstances, I'm glad we met again. I appreciate your help so much," she said, and without a word to Vince and Clint walked out the door.
She walked down to the docks, with them trailing her. She stopped, and they moved up sheepishly to let her get it all out. She said evenly, "I knew what I was doing when I had Marvel, and I knew what I was doing when I adopted Roberty. What I didn't know was that I'd have two other children on the boat."
"But I can explain, Jeanne—" Clint began.
Jeanne stuck one imperious finger in the air. "Not one word." She turned and stalked off.
Clint and Vince followed some distance behind her. "You were right," Clint finally said. "I wish she woulda just gone ahead and killed us."
CHAPTER TEN
The Helena Rose steamed on to Napoleon Trading Post, where they stayed the night, and then a long haul to Pine Bluff, then Little Rock. Jeanne talked to Clint each morning and when they docked for the night. She said nothing about bailing them out of jail, not even when Clint had repaid her the ten dollars for his and Vince's bail. "Thank you," she merely said.
"No, thank you, Captain Jeanne," he said lightly. "I owe you."
She just shrugged.
They were on their return trip, back in Pine Bluff for the night. Jeanne was sitting at her desk, doing her logs. Marvel sat in one of the armchairs, playing quietly with her dolls. "Mama, are you mad at Mr. Clint and Mr. Vince?" she asked.
Jeanne put down her pen and turned to her. "No, I'm not mad at them. They didn't say anything to you, did they?"
"About you being mad? 'Cause they got thrown in jail? No. They just talk to me like they always do. But Roberty told me."
"Roberty told you what?"
"Roberty heard Mr. Vince telling Mr. Ezra about how these mean men in the saloon were talking bad about you, and Mr. Clint got mad and hit them. Roberty said it always makes Mr. Clint real mad when somebody says something about your petticoats, like when those men came to the Rose and yelled and Mr. Clint and Mr. Vince went out and yelled back at them. But Roberty said that those saloon men must have really said something not-nice for Mr. Clint to hit them, 'cause usually all he does is holler back at them. If Mr. Clint would have just told those saloon men to shut up, maybe he and Mr. Vince wouldn't have gotten thrown in jail."
Jeanne sat there, stunned. She suddenly recalled Marvel telling her about the "men yelling" that day before their first trip. She had been so absorbed in her own piloting problems that she had completely forgotten about it. In fact, she had been in a thick, muffled cocoon since she had started piloting the Rose. She rarely went anywhere by herself; she never went into town at their ports, and when she was in Memphis she was with George Masters. She had seen the article in the Helena Daily World, but she had dismissed it as silly and of no consequence. Now she realized that the river gossip about her must be widespread and crude.
Jeanne jumped up and started pacing, frowning at the floor, thinking hard and fast. So Clint and Vince had been defending her honor. Angrily she thought, I can take care of myself, I don't need their help! And it's stupid, anyway! What are they going to do, go into every saloon and whorehouse on the river and pick a fight with anyone who says something ugly about me?
"Mama?" Marvel asked softly. "Did I upset you?"
Swiftly Jeanne went to kneel by her and give her a hug. "No, no, little one. I'm just thinking, that's all. But I need you to do me a favor, all right? Please go down and ask Ezra to come up here for a few minutes. I need to talk to him, so you stay down with Roberty until Ezra comes back, okay?"
"Sure, Mama," she said, hopping up and skipping out the door.
Jeanne paced until she heard the knock, and called, "Come in, Ezra."
He came in and stood in front of the door, his hands behind his back as if he were about to recite. Jeanne looked at him as if she was seeing him for the first time, and perhaps she was. He was short, with brawny shoulders and arms. His bald
pate shone, and the brown fringe beneath was neatly combed down. His face was weathered and ageless. He wasn't at all uneasy, Jeanne saw; he was regarding her with something like compassion warming his dark eyes. She was about to ask him to sit, but then she realized that he wouldn't feel comfortable with that. She sat down in one of her desk chairs, folded her hands in her lap, and said, "Ezra, please tell me what happened in Helena, with Clint and Vince."
Unemotionally he related the events to her in his earthy voice, including colorful metaphors and descriptions but leaving out exactly what the deckhand from the Red Queen had said. "Clint and Vinnie took their exceptions to them boys, and there was a ruckus, and they all ended up in jail."
"I see," Jeanne said evenly. "And Marvel has told me something about some men on the docks in Memphis, yelling men, she called them. Was that a similar event?"
"Yes ma'am, Cap'n. And it ain't jist been in Memphis, neither. We've had to take some exceptions to some roustabouts here and there on this ol' river since you been driving the Rose, ma'am."
"You too?"
"Yes, ma'am. I might jist be an old river rat, but I niver have took to men insultin' ladies. It ain't right, and as long as I'm walkin' and talkin' and breathin' I ain't gonna put up with it."
"That's a fine sentiment, Ezra, and I appreciate you defending my honor," Jeanne said, "but I don't see you getting into fights with idiots in some seedy bar. I hardly think that helps my reputation."
He cocked his head and asked her curiously, "So you're all het up with Clint and Vinnie 'cause you think they ain't helping your reputation?"
The River Rose Page 15