None of the other players argued with that judgment. They were happy to gather the money—the part that Drake hadn’t bled on, anyway—and depart for the bar and the promised free drink.
However, Colonel Osborne said, “That hardly seems fair to me, Mr. Crowe. Drake was the one who caused the trouble, after all. He made that reprehensible accusation, and then he reached for a gun.”
Crowe leveled a hard stare at Cornelius. “He accused you of cheating. Were you?”
Cornelius slipped a cigar from his vest pocket. He didn’t have any way of lighting it at the moment, but he didn’t let that stop him from taking his time putting the cigar into his mouth. He didn’t like being interrogated by a black man, but Balthazar Crowe seemed to be a figure of some importance despite his skin color.
Finally Cornelius decided how he wanted to play this affair. “Yes,” he said around the cigar.
Crowe arched an eyebrow. “You admit you were cheating?”
“Yes . . . but only because Drake was cheating, too. He made sure that he won all the big pots himself while letting the others have enough dribs and drabs to keep them satisfied. He just wasn’t good enough at it to fool me.” Cornelius shrugged. “So I figured turnabout was fair play. I started nudging the big pots toward Colonel Osborne.”
The old man stared at him and asked, “You mean I wasn’t winning on my own, sir?”
“Not all the time, Colonel. Although you played skillfully enough that Drake was afraid of you and had to resort to trickery to beat you. I just counteracted that trickery.”
Drake wasn’t alive to contradict the flattery, which stretched the truth to a considerable degree.
Osborne swallowed it completely, nodding slowly and murmuring, “I see, I see.” He drew in a deep breath. “It seems I owe you a great debt, Mr. Cornelius.”
Cornelius made a dismissive gesture. “I’m just happy I was on hand to assist.”
Lucy said, “That’s the kind of man Edmund is, Colonel. You can see why we’re such good friends.”
“Friends?” Osborne raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that the two of you are considerably more than friends.”
“Oh, no,” Lucy said. “Isn’t that right, Edmund?”
“She’s like the dear sister I never had,” Cornelius said without a second’s hesitation.
Balthazar Crowe looked like he wanted to scoff at that, but all he said was, “I have to ask the two of you to come back to the office with me.”
Instantly, Cornelius was wary. “Why?” He glanced at the body of Saul Drake. The dead man still lay on the table with Cornelius’s dagger underneath him. Cornelius wasn’t unarmed—he had a razor in his pocket that he could open with a flick of his wrist. Expert in its use as a weapon, he would have felt better about things if he’d had the dagger. Not for the first time in his life, he thought it was too bad he’d never cared for firearms.
“There are things I need to discuss with you,” Crowe said. “I mean you no harm.”
“You can take Mr. Crowe’s word for that,” Colonel Osborne said. “He’s a very honest man, even though that’s an unusual quality to come across in the, ah, likes of him.”
The colonel probably owned slaves, which meant he had to be very impressed with Crowe to have said such a thing.
Osborne went on. “I’ll accompany you to the office, if that will make you feel better about things.”
Lucy said, “Having you around will certainly make me feel better, Colonel.”
Osborne seemed to have sobered up some but still preened at Lucy’s words. He looked at the giant black man and said, “Is that all right with you, Mr. Crowe?”
Crowe’s expression indicated that he didn’t like the colonel’s suggestion but felt that he couldn’t refuse. “Of course, Colonel.” He nodded toward Drake’s corpse and said to the dwarf, “Have the men take care of that, Long Sam,” then held out a hand and ushered them all toward a curtain of beads in the back of the room.
Cornelius still wished he had his dagger, but he touched the closed razor in his pocket to assure himself it was still there. He would recover the dagger later—assuming the meeting with Crowe went satisfactorily.
Behind the curtain was a short hallway lit by a single candle in a holder sitting on a shelf. Crowe picked up the candle, opened a door at the corridor’s far end, and stepped back to allow the others to enter before him.
A gleaming hardwood table dominated the room, which had a heavily curtained window on one side. Ornately carved and decorated armchairs flanked the table. Crowe placed the candleholder in the center and nodded toward the chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
The three of them sat down. A definite note of excitement was in Colonel Osborne’s voice as he asked, “Are we about to meet M’sieu Simon LeCarde himself?”
“No, M’sieu LeCarde sees visitors only very rarely.”
“Oh.” Osborne sounded disappointed. “What do you want with us, then?”
“Actually, I only wanted to speak with Mr. Cornelius, since he was the one who violated the rule.”
“Rule?” Cornelius repeated sharply. “What rule?”
“The one made by M’sieu LeCarde.”
Cornelius snorted. A sense of danger lurked in the room, but he was angry, too, and didn’t try to hide it. “Is it a rule in this town that a man cannot defend himself?”
Crowe leaned forward and placed his hands on the table, the fingers curled under so his weight rested on his knuckles. “Saul Drake was officially under M’sieu LeCarde’s protection. That means he was not to be harmed.”
“So I was supposed to sit there and let him shoot me?” Cornelius got to his feet. “This is mad, and I see no reason to continue. Come on, Lucy, we’re leaving.”
Crowe straightened and held up a hand. Tension filled the air in the room. Cornelius didn’t know if he could fight his way out past this behemoth, but he would give it his best attempt. He would inflict some damage, anyway. Crowe wouldn’t come out of the clash unscathed. Cornelius slid a hand in his pocket and closed it around the razor.
“Wait, please,” Crowe said. “There’s no need for trouble. You misunderstand me, Mr. Cornelius.”
“Maybe you’d better speak plain, then.”
“Very well. Saul Drake was arrogant and careless. While he was here in this place, he was supposed to play a clean game. You caught him cheating because you, too, are a professional. But in time, someone else would have tumbled to what he was doing. Perhaps even someone more highly valued to M’sieu LeCarde than Drake himself, and he would have been dealt with then.”
The way Balthazar Crowe said dealt with would send chills down the back of most people. Cornelius felt a tiny shiver himself.
“So, even though what you did was a transgression against M’sieu LeCarde, you simply made the day of Saul Drake’s reckoning arrive sooner than it would have otherwise. That makes the situation somewhat different from what it might have been . . . and leads me to make a proposition.”
Lucy looked surprised, but Cornelius managed to keep a similar expression off his face. Bargaining with a man like Crowe was abhorrent, but the gambler said, “I’m listening.”
“To speak plainly, Simon LeCarde controls most of the criminal activity in New Orleans. Those who wish to engage in such activities, such as Saul Drake, do so only with M’sieu LeCarde’s permission and under his protection, as I said. This arrangement proves beneficial to everyone involved.”
“And I assume LeCarde gets his cut as well.”
“All of life can be reduced to a business transaction of some sort. Nothing happens in this world without it being a benefit . . . or a loss . . . for someone. If M’sieu LeCarde makes profit possible, then a share of it should be his. This is only fair.”
“But what does it have to do with me?” Cornelius asked.
Crowe grunted. “You and Miss Tarleton have come here to New Orleans with the intention of fleecing someone.” He held up a hand again as Cornelius opened his mouth.
“Don’t waste your breath protesting, Mr. Cornelius. You know I speak the truth.”
Colonel Osborne stared at Lucy, “Is that right, my dear? Have you come to rob me?”
“Why, Colonel, I never—”
“Perhaps not you, particularly, Colonel,” Crowe broke in. “They’re new in town. They probably had no real target in mind. They were just looking around for one when they saw you at the St. Charles.”
Tight-jawed, Cornelius asked, “What in blazes is it you want, Crowe?”
“I’m offering you the chance to take Saul Drake’s place in the greater scheme of things,” Crowe said. “Feel free to cheat men at cards or bilk them in whatever scheme you might concoct. But you don’t do it here”—he tapped a finger on the table—“in the Catamount’s Den, and you don’t go after certain individuals, including Colonel Osborne. I’ll provide you with the names of those who are to be left alone. Other than that”—Crowe spread his hands—“New Orleans is your oyster, Mr. Cornelius. Do with it what you will, and you will be protected . . . as long as you deliver twenty percent of your earnings here, to me, every week.”
“That’s outrageous!”
Crowe shrugged. “It seems only fair to M’sieu LeCarde. Your only other choice is to operate on your own, and I assure you, that is a dangerous choice. For example, agree with my proposal, and the law will never trouble you over Saul Drake’s death. Be so foolish as to refuse, and there will be witnesses to swear that you killed Drake with no provocation in an act of wanton murder.”
“But that’s not true!” Lucy said.
“Truth is what enough people say it is.”
She turned her head to look at Cornelius. “Edmund, can he really do what he says?”
“I don’t doubt it,” Cornelius replied. To Crowe, he went on. “You have the authority to make this deal?”
“I do.”
Osborne said, “I’d believe him, my boy. Balthazar Crowe is M’sieu LeCarde’s right-hand man. Everybody knows that.”
“Right-hand boy, you mean,” Cornelius said.
Crowe breathed a little harder, but that was the only sign of anger he displayed. He simply stood there with his level gaze fixed on Cornelius as he said, “What is your decision?”
Cornelius hesitated only a moment longer before he said, “Tell your M’sieu LeCarde that we agree to the arrangement and will abide by his rules.”
The colonel blew out an obviously relieved breath.
“I believe it will be a lucrative arrangement for all concerned,” Crowe said.
“I hope so.”
It wasn’t just the money, though, Cornelius reflected. He didn’t think it was possible that mountain man would ever be able to track them from St. Louis, but if somehow that happened, Preacher would find a lot more trouble waiting for him in New Orleans than he bargained for.
CHAPTER 15
The Powhatan docked in New Orleans in the late afternoon. Preacher hadn’t been there for quite a few years.
His very first visit to the Crescent City had been in 1814, when, after making his first trip down the Mississippi River, he’d wound up joining the army under General Andrew Jackson, an unofficial enlistment in the force of volunteers and regular army that had been formed to oppose the British troops advancing on the city.
Early in January of 1815, they had all come together in a bloody clash several miles southeast, and for the first time, Preacher experienced full-scale battle involving thousands of men, all desperate to survive and win the day for their side.
The American forces had emerged victorious, suffering only a small fraction of the losses inflicted on the British. Later, they had found out that a treaty had already been signed to end the war, so the battle never should have taken place. Nobody in New Orleans knew that at the time, however—and nobody really cared, either. It had been quite a fight.
New Orleans had been a big city even then, and it had grown larger since the last time Preacher set foot there. The air along the riverfront held the familiar odors of rotting fish and vegetation and mud. Smoke from hundreds of chimneys thickened the atmosphere as well, along with the smell of human flesh and waste.
As Preacher paused at the foot of the gangplank, someone bumped heavily into him from behind. He looked around and saw the deckhand from the Powhatan who had given him trouble the day he boarded the riverboat in St. Louis.
“Better keep moving,” the man said. “I know a half-savage like you is probably amazed by all the buildings, but civilized folks have things to do and you’re in the way.”
“I don’t know what you’ve got against me, mister, but I’m gettin’ a mite tired of listenin’ to you yap.”
The man’s face turned red and his shoulders bunched as he balled his hands into fists. “The cap’n don’t like members of the crew fightin’ with passengers, but you ain’t a passenger on the Powhatan anymore.” With that rasped comment, he swung a punch at Preacher’s head.
The mountain man swayed aside from it and jabbed the barrel of the rifle in his left hand into the deckhand’s stomach. When the man gasped in pain and surprise and leaned forward, Preacher whipped his right fist around and crashed it into the deckhand’s jaw. His head slewed to the side, his eyes rolled up in their sockets, and his knees buckled.
Preacher stepped back to let him collapse on the dock. He would have turned to walk away, but the sound of clapping surprised him and made him look up. The young crewman he had also talked to during the trip stood on the Powhatan’s deck with several other members of the crew, and they all were applauding.
The young crewman called, “Some of us have been wanting to do that for a long time, mister, but Shugart would have killed us. Maybe that knocked some of the meanness out of him.”
“Maybe,” Preacher said, “but I wouldn’t count on it.” He lifted a hand in farewell and moved off along the dock, heading for the row of buildings on the other side of the riverfront street. Asking a few questions of folks he ran into helped him find the office of the fellow who ran the docks.
A clerk sat at a desk in the outer office, and Preacher asked him, “How do I find out whether a particular riverboat got here all right?”
“I can help you with that,” the young man said. “What’s the name of the vessel?”
“The Majestic.”
The clerk opened a large book and ran a finger down a column of names with dates and other notations beside them. After a moment, he said, “Yes, here she is. She docked yesterday afternoon and will depart again for St. Louis and Louisville tomorrow morning.”
“You happen to have a list of all the folks who got off of her?”
“The disembarking passengers, you mean?” The clerk frowned and shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We don’t keep records of such things, only the vessels themselves and the cargo they carry.”
Preacher nodded. He’d expected that answer. Lucy Tarleton and Edmund Cornelius could have gotten off the riverboat at any of the stops along the way between St. Louis and New Orleans. Preacher had no way of knowing that they hadn’t.
But according to what Charlie Todd told him, Cornelius had claimed that he and Lucy were headed for New Orleans, so Preacher had no choice but to assume they had traveled all the way on the Majestic.
They’d had almost twenty-four hours to lose themselves in the sprawling city. Most people would have assumed that finding them was impossible.
But that just took a heap of mule-headed stubbornness, and Preacher had plenty of that.
“I’m obliged to you,” he told the clerk, then thought for a second.
Lucy and Cornelius had the money they had taken from Charlie, which meant they were flush with cash. Since Cornelius was a gambler, and probably a crooked one, at that, he could have won even more during the trip downriver. Likely, they would be staying in a nice place.
Preacher turned back to the clerk. “What’s the best hotel in New Orleans?”
“The St. Charles,” the clerk answered. He hesitated a second, then
went on. “But they, ah, probably won’t be disposed to have a guest such as yourself, sir. I mean no offense, but . . .”
“Fellas in buckskins don’t check in there very often, is that what you mean?” Preacher grinned. “I don’t intend to pitch my tent there, son. I just got a few questions I need answers to.”
“Oh. Well, I hope you get them.”
“Where do I find that St. Charles Hotel?”
The clerk gave him directions. Preacher thanked the young man and left, joining the throngs on the streets of New Orleans again. Looking around, he saw more people than he’d seen in a month of Sundays, and he didn’t like the feeling of being surrounded. He recalled a trip he had made to Philadelphia several years earlier. That had been even worse, but New Orleans was the most crowded place he had visited since then.
With his frontiersman’s instinct for direction, he had no trouble finding the hotel. He stopped in front of the massive building and looked up at it. Not in awe—Preacher had seen too many spectacular things in his life to be in awe of much of anything—but it was an impressive structure, no denying that. After a moment, he climbed the stairs, went across the columned portico, and strode into the hotel lobby.
A quick look around didn’t reveal anybody else dressed in buckskins and carrying a flintlock rifle. The men all wore suits and top hats and the women were in elegant traveling outfits. but Preacher didn’t let that stop him or even slow him down as he headed across the marble floor toward the desk.
A clerk in a fancy waistcoat, frilly shirt, and striped trousers saw him coming and backed off a step, eyes widening for a second before he glanced around hurriedly as if looking for help.
“Take it easy, son,” Preacher told him as he came up to the desk. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble. But I am lookin’ for a couple of folks I know. A man and a woman, name of Mr. Edmund Cornelius and Miss Lucy Tarleton. Could you tell me if they’re maybe stayin’ here?”
“No, sir, I-I can’t. We d-don’t give out information like that.”
“They’re friends of mine—” Preacher began, although that statement was about as far from the truth as anybody could get.
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