Blackwater

by Abe Dancer

  11

  ‘Where in hell’s name are they?’ Blanco Bilis hissed.

  ‘Not so loud. Your voice carries,’ Harry Grice answered back through the moon-shadowed trees. ‘Didn’t they say anythin’ about where they were goin’, Homer?’

  ‘Not that I heard. Rogan said something about watchin’ goddamn frogs,’ Homer Lamb growled. ‘They wouldn’t have gone much further than Lis Etang, though. There’s nothin’ to see beyond the creek.’

  There was an uneasy edge to Lamb’s voice. He was known as a man who feared little, but tonight was different. He had openly aligned himself with men who were opponents of Whistler, its families and its land. Now he was in up to his neck, and party to a hired killing.

  ‘Yeah, let’s move,’ Bilis, said. ‘There’s critters here that only feed at night, an’ you can’t hear ’em comin’. Besides, I want to see what Rogan an’ that chickabiddy’s up to,’ he sniggered.

  There were four of them. Lamb, Harry Grice, Loop Ducet and a last minute Blackwater lout who would do anything for the price of a drink, Blanco Bilis. They moved on, their progress marked by the noise of the rise and fall of clicking beetles and croaking bullfrogs.

  Earlier in the day, Grice had been told to take Jack Rogan out of the game. Knowing how Homer Lamb felt towards Rogan, Grice let on about the assignment. Lamb was surprised at its imminence, but when he saw Jack leaving town for a trip out to the bayous, he saw a timely opportunity.

  Grice had a humiliating defeat to avenge and an assignment from Morton Pegg, so he hadn’t wasted any time. With his left arm in a sling fashioned from an old bridle, he’d quickly gathered three ready and available guns.

  A thin carpet of mist settled across the stagnant pools of water as they approached the old lumber workings of Lis Etang. Moonlight glinted on their assorted gun metal, but Grice assured himself there was no way they could be seen or heard, other than by small and timid night critters. He peered into the gloom around him. ‘Must be around here somewhere,’ he said louder than he meant.

  ‘What? What’s around here?’ Bilis asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s where they should be. Rogan an’ the girl,’ was the reply after the shortest moment’s hesitation. But Grice’s mind had wandered. He’d been speculating on which stagnant waterhole held Wenge Tedder’s body, if it had been eaten by mudbugs or hauled away by an alligator.

  A hundred feet distant, Jack Rogan knew nothing of the grim-faced men who were hunting him down. But he had seen what he thought was a startled fox. It was jumping the dark, catfish holes, running scared for safe hiding somewhere in the back swamps.

  Lauren had suggested they use the old wagon path as a short cut towards the sloping banks of the Village River. She was talking about how the boat loggers had cleared the land of its oak, cypress and tupelo, the business that had brought money into Blackwater.

  Under the silvery moonlight, Jack had stopped for a few minutes to take a look around the abandoned extraction sheds. He was considering the lie of the land; its proximity to the abandoned Whistler settlement and his sorrel.

  ‘Have you seen something?’ Lauren asked.

  ‘Can’t see much, but I think it was a coyote, a fox, maybe. Something must have got it startled back a ways. I’m a tad worried about what.’

  ‘Maybe the swamper girl sent out her Bigfoot buddy to keep an eye on you.’

  ‘Half of that could be right,’ Jack muttered slow and thoughtful. ‘What’s the syrupy smell?’

  ‘Decaying stuff. Pine resins and the like. This area’s saturated with it. It’s not what I had in mind, Jack.’

  ‘Nor me. But maybe it’s just as well. I think we’re being trailed.’

  ‘Why would anyone be trailing us?’

  ‘Not us. Me. And there is a reason.’

  Despite Lauren Kyle’s obvious attractions, to Jack she was a bit of a triviality. He’d quickly realized there was nothing for him, very little to hold his interest. Even so, he didn’t want to put her in any danger.

  He stared hard across and along the reed banks of the still waters, closed his eyes for a second or two, listening. The night insects had stopped their nearby clamour, and all Jack’s senses told him there was a nearby danger.

  Jack, what are you doing?’ she protested when Jack turned and drew her down from the buckboard.

  ‘For God’s sake, I’m not going to hurt you,’ Jack hissed, jostling her behind the bulk of a rusted piece of machinery. ‘There’s someone out there who might, though. Just stay down and don’t make a sound. You’ll be safe enough, and I’ll be right here.’

  Lauren was going to say more but changed her mind when she saw Jack was suddenly holding his Colt. Her jaw tightened and she lowered her shoulders, shrinking into the protection of the iron stump grinder.

  ‘If any harm comes to me this night, I’ll be holding you responsible,’ she seethed.

  Jack offered a rapid grin to the absurdity. ‘You were after this jaunt more than me,’ he replied quietly, adding, ‘our tryst ends here, I take it,’ slightly louder, as he veered away. Crouching low in the gleaming grass, he wondered if the sway of the moss on the tupelos was from a night breeze, or if someone was getting close, almost upon them.

  He kneeled beside the trestle of a dirt and ivy-filled sluice, waited for whoever it was to emerge through the darkness. He was calm enough. His years of high-stake gambling in treacherous company afforded him that. But a minute later, he cursed silently at the pallid face of Loop Ducet, staring out from the waterside bull thistles.

  Ducet wasn’t who Jack was expecting. He figured on Harry Grice, the man he’d shot and shamed in the High Chair Saloon. It wasn’t the sort of argument a hired gun forgot too readily. Ducet was casting a look this way and that, back towards the horse and buggy. Then he turned away and Jack realized there was someone with him.

  Lauren moved and Jack gave more silent curses. He’d hoped she’d have the sense to stay put, and cursed again. Melba Savoy would know how to handle the situation. The spooky bayou was her territory, her playground. She might not have the culture, but right now she’d make a fine partner, Jack was thinking.

  He peered around the rotting wood supports at what he thought was movement. He could see Ducet, who was still crouching, but to one side there was now another shadowy silhouette, then two together emerging silently behind them.

  They were moving closer now and Jack involuntarily sniffed the air. The liveryman in Blackwater had told him that genuine swamp people were odorous from a double stone’s throw away. That counts for Ducet, Jack decided. So, who the hell are the other three?

  ‘Where is the sumbitch? How’d you know he’s here?’

  ‘He’s here … probably watchin’ us right now.’

  ‘This place looks like one o’ them Bible towns – a place o’ pestilence.’

  ‘Yeah. I heard there’s wild bears sleepin’ in the old cabins.’

  ‘Shut it for Chris’sakes, you two. If I can hear you, he can,’ said a stifled voice.

  Silently, Jack eased back the hammer of his Colt. The four men were new positioning themselves behind the collapsed timbers of a logged cabin. The ruin was matted with buckthorn, and Jack was only aware of movement, no real shapes or faces.

  After a short while, Jack heard what sounded like arguments in hushed undertones. He heard his name. Someone coughed nervously, and he wondered what it was they wanted with him, if they were out for a kill.

  A strained voice that Jack nearly recognized shouted out. ‘Rogan, I know you’re there. Show yourself, feller. We’ve been sent to talk to you.’

  Yeah? By who? Jack wondered. ‘Then get on with it,’ he shouted back. ‘I can hear you.’

  The whispering continued and then, without warning, one of them grunted and rushed headlong. He was a gaunt young man with long white hair, who now was very plainly geared up for a killing. He was hefting a sawed-off shotgun, yelling like a Rebel at Cemetery Ridge. And Jack had seen him before.

  ‘I seem to
remember tellin’ you I was through with second chances,’ he seethed angrily and triggered his Colt at the figure running towards him.

  There was brief flash of gunfire, then through the mix of cordite and ground mist rose a gasping cry. The assailant was going down, ploughing into the dark grass as though its body had lost all support.

  Jack could see a dark, glistening spread of blood high on the man’s chest where his bullet had struck. ‘Goddamn albino didn’t even get off a shot,’ he rasped. ‘At least you won’t be taking a switch to any more poor dogs.’

  At the outbreak of shooting, Lauren Kyle’s horse went careering off into the darkness with the buck-board bouncing wildly behind it.

  ‘The rig’s gone, Lauren. Just stay where you are. Whoever it is can’t get to you,’ he called out, hoping he was right.

  Immediately, a wild volley broke across the bayou land, bullets hammering into the base of the trestle Jack was hiding behind. Chunks of decayed wood showered around him as he hunkered down. Goddamnit, who the hell are they? he cursed. There was one question answered, though: they did want him dead. He cursed again. ‘Is this the sort of talk you had in mind? Got worried I’d answer back?’ he yelled mockingly.

  Through the resulting noise and menacing whine of bullets, Jack sensed his assailants were spreading to his left and right. They were attempting to outflank him, and he had to move.

  He dropped his shoulder and quickly rolled away from shelter. He travelled six or seven feet and rose to one knee. Through the thin hang of mist and gun-smoke, he made out two figures looking almost directly at him, one of much bigger build than the other.

  Without cover now, Jack brought up his Colt. There was no time for trading abuse, considering a way out. He had to bring them down. Fully extending his right arm, he pointed the barrel and fired belly high at the leading gunman.

  The man stopped in his tracks and Jack fired again. The man stumbled forward a short pace, firing his Colt into the ground before his legs gave way. He coughed, fell flat on his face and gagged silent and final.

  Jack only recognized Loop Ducet when he saw the bandolier of rope around the man’s shoulder. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he muttered.

  He threw himself down as more bullets sliced and whipped through the longer grass. Then he took a breath and sat up, both hands clasped tight around the Colt. But he didn’t fire. The larger man had turned towards the ghostly cypresses curtaining the waterside.

  In the silence that followed, Jack picked up on other sounds drifting in from beyond where Laura was hiding. They’re coming from town, he thought. Who the hell’s side are they going to be on?

  ‘Get back, I’ll give you cover,’ someone shouted from the trees.

  ‘I’ve just tried, goddamnit. You go out there,’ came the reply.

  ‘We’ll soon have half o’ Blackwater down on us. Blast him out.’

  Jack cursed because he didn’t quite recognize the voice of Harry Grice. Calculating the odds, he waited for a lull in the shooting then he leapt to his feet and ran. Avoiding the immediate hammer of guns, he headed towards the dark hulk of a dredger bucket. He stretched out his left hand, swung to one side and got thumped hard in the middle of his back. It felt like he’d been hit by a door as he plunged gasping into the sheltering curve of the huge container. He cursed aloud, doubled up as bullets crashed into the iron above him.

  He rolled onto his side, lay his Colt down and reached his hand behind him. He probed cautiously with his fingers but felt no blood. The passing bullet had hurt, but effected little more than tearing his jacket and punching air from his lungs.

  ‘Help’s on the way, Lauren. I can here ’em,’ he shouted. ‘Keep your head down.’

  Jack hoped his words would carry, maybe send the guns packing. Give the dog another goddam day, he thought.

  And there was silence from then on. Jack got to his feet and levelled his Colt. He listened, but there were no sounds other than those he’d heard earlier from the direction of town.

  ‘Lauren, I’m covering you until the cavalry arrive. It sounds like they’re headed your way. Just hang on,’ he continued.

  When the first eager towner rode into Lis Etang, it was all over. Blanco Bilis and Loop Ducet were dead and two more were gone.

  Lauren Kyle was silent with suppressed terror as she was led to safety by a couple of townsfolk.

  ‘I’ll wager that’s the end of our courtship,’ Jack muttered, replacing the cylinder in his Colt. His calm exterior hid frustration and anger, and he was feeling like hell.

  12

  Sheriff Milo Buckmaster stood in the doorway of McAllister’s carpenter and coffin maker shop. He was staring disappointedly at the canvas-covered figures.

  He was a straightforward town lawman who usually did what was expected of him, usually by decree of those who pulled the Blackwater strings. Occasionally, there was an outbreak of violence, and every now and again there might be some gunplay, like when Jack Rogan and Harry Grice had their difference of opinion in the High Chair Saloon.

  ‘Did you know these men?’ he asked.

  ‘Knowin’s a bit strong,’ McAllister answered.

  ‘Neither of ’em’s a great loss,’ Buckmaster rumbled.

  The carpenter looked up from his workbench for a moment. ‘It can only be to your advantage, Buck. Believe me,’ he said, then continued sawing planked wood.

  ‘I guess so,’ Buckmaster continued. With that, he lifted the covers, took a second, confirming look at the bodies. ‘Make boxes. Coffins are too good,’ he offered drily, and grimaced.

  Out on the boardwalk he met the mayor and Morton Pegg. Both men were dour-faced and tense-looking. They started right in, demanding to know what steps he proposed taking against Jack Rogan.

  ‘Didn’t have too much trouble before he arrived, Buck,’ Hockton Marney said. ‘Nothing that we couldn’t take care of between us. It’s all got out of order.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Pegg agreed. ‘Slap-hand fighting in the street on a Friday night’s one thing. Murder’s another.’

  Buckmaster sniffed assertively. ‘For whatever reason, it was four men goin’ out to the old stump workin’s who wanted to commit murder,’ he stated. ‘Now, two o’ them’s been killed and two’s escaped. That’s what Jack Rogan an’ Lauren Kyle says happened, an’ there’s much circumstantial evidence to support it. I got no plans to do anythin’ more.’

  ‘None of us took that Rogan for a hired gun, Sheriff,’ Pegg asserted.

  ‘I don’t reckon he is. But I know he’s a fast thinker. A quality them two losers could’ve done with,’ Buckmaster retorted.

  McAllister was now nailing planks, but he hadn’t missed a word of what was going on outside his workshop.

  The sheriff was right and held the cards, for once was surprisingly determined. Pegg and Marney hurled angry insinuations, but were forced to give up and stomped off angrily towards the High Chair Saloon.

  As though he’d been waiting for Marney and Pegg to leave, Gaston Savoy was next to enter McAllister’s workshop. The previous night he’d been concerned when Melba told him Jack Rogan had ridden from town. But later, not wanting to get involved or show his hand, he’d stayed behind. He’d waited anxiously, was one of the first to see the corpses when they were brought in after the ruckus. Now, after some troubled overnight thinking, he was responding to the sheriff’s request for a meeting.

  ‘Come up yet with a reason why Loop Ducet would want to go after Jack Rogan?’ Buckmaster asked.

  ‘Nothin’ more’n what I said last night,’ Savoy replied with some degree of truth. ‘Loop was a mean wretch. He was never goin’ to end up on a sick bed.’

  ‘He was a friend of Homer Lamb’s,’ Buckmaster stated.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Savoy bridled.

  ‘I’m lookin’ for two fellers who got away, Mr Savoy. Rogan says one of ’em was wide, maybe big-bearded.’

  ‘That could fit more’n a dozen men from in an’ around Blackwater.’
>
  ‘Yeah, but they wouldn’t be friends of Ducet’s, would they? I don’t suppose he got his name, or carried that goddamn catch rope for nothin’.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ Homer was involved in that trouble, Sheriff?’

  Buckmaster shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. I’m just followin’ up on what I’ve been told. I’ve talked to the man himself, but he claims to know nothin’.’ The sheriff paused to study Savoy a moment. ‘He can’t prove he wasn’t out there, last night, an’ I can’t prove he was,’ he added.

  ‘So you’ve got nothin’.’

  ‘Yeah, deadlock. Even though every man an’ his dog knows that Lamb’s goin’ to call it with Jack Rogan.’

  ‘I know what’s comin’ down here, Sheriff,’ Savoy rasped. ‘I’ve been runnin’ up against this sort o’ prejudice for a good ten years. An’ none more so than this mornin’ here in town. Just because one o’ my flock happened to be shootin’ his mouth an’ gun off, don’t mean a damn thing. Maybe Loop’s explosive nature got the better of him. Maybe it was a personal thing. Maybe he’s suddenly fallen in with even badder local company.’

  ‘That’s a lot o’ maybes, Mr Savoy. Morton Pegg an’ the mayor’s been tryin’ to railroad me into bringin’ charges against Rogan.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I told ’em, no deal.’

  ‘Huh. What wouldn’t Morton Pegg give to see us all brought down, eh, Sheriff? A chance to move on new land for his sawmills – to open up his wretched business once again. The mayor’s got other reasons for wantin’ to see the back o’ me.’

  ‘Well, the facts say all Rogan’s done is defend himself and Miss Lauren. Do you know how they’re set this mornin’?’

  ‘There’s no sign o’ the lady. Rogan’s got a backache an’ one or two things on his mind. I’m thinkin’ of ridin’ out to Whistler with him till he cools off. It’s a lot safer out on the bayou.’

  ‘Yeah? Tell that to the night crackers of Lis Etang. I heard you’re holdin’ Rogan against his will … that you’ve got somethin’ belongs to him.’