Simone shook her head. “Everyone in New Orleans knows that Balthazar and Long Sam work for me. But by being discreet about your visit to me last night, we’ve made it possible for you to represent my interests without anyone knowing about it.”
“You fixed it so’s I can spy for you, is what you mean.”
She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge his statement. “If you want to call it that. I’ll tell you how to find the warehouse, and you can locate a good spot to keep an eye on it. You won’t be able to tell what’s in the crates being carried out, but you can keep track of how many there are. We’ll start with that.”
It sounded like busywork to Preacher, and he suspected she was just testing him, seeing if he could follow orders. He didn’t care for that. Even worse, he didn’t see how this job would put him a bit closer to finding Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton.
If he refused to go along with what she wanted, though, he might lose the ground he had gained. So he nodded and said, “I reckon I can do that. Anything in particular I need to watch out for?”
“No, just count the crates as they’re being loaded, that’s all.”
Balthazar Crowe’s entry with a platter containing a thick, juicy-looking steak and a pile of fried potatoes allowed Preacher not to say anything else at the moment. Crowe also carried a cup and saucer with tendrils of steam curling upward from the cup. His massive hands cradled the fine china with surprising deftness. As he set the meal in front of the mountain man, he said, “I wasn’t sure how you preferred your steak, but I thought rare was quite likely. If you’d like, I can take it back down and have it cooked more.”
“It don’t look like it’s wigglin’ around on the plate, so I reckon it’ll be fine. I’m obliged to you.”
Crowe just grunted and stepped back from the table.
The food was good, the coffee just the way Preacher liked it. When he was finished, Simone handed him a sheet of foolscap on which someone had used pen and ink to inscribe a long list of goods.
“Can you read?” she asked him.
“Fair to middlin’.” The question didn’t offend him, since many of his fellow trappers—indeed, a significant percentage of the population at large—couldn’t make heads or tails out of letters scrawled on paper. However, many of the men who headed west to the mountains were actually well-educated and highly literate, including Preacher’s friend Audie.
“This is an inventory of the cargo going out today. As you can see”—Simone pointed to a figure at the bottom of the paper—“there should be fifty-eight crates taken from the warehouse, loaded on wagons, and taken to the docks to be loaded on the riverboat Powhatan.”
“Powhatan, eh?”
“Yes. I hope the boat’s captain was able to hire some men this morning, or else he’ll be shorthanded on the trip back up the Mississippi.”
“Is that so?” Preacher said.
“I have . . . sources, shall we say . . . in the local constabulary, and they inform me that Adolph Shugart and three of his friends who were also members of the Powhatan’s crew were killed last night not far from here. Their bodies were found at the blacksmith shop and livery stable where you had planned to spend the night.”
“Good thing I got outta there before all the trouble broke out, then,” Preacher said.
“Yes, very fortunate indeed,” Simone said with a wry smile that told Preacher she had figured out what had occurred at Dufresne’s place.
“What do you reckon happened to them?”
“The authorities thought at first it was likely they’d tried to break in and rob the place, perhaps steal the horses stabled there, and the owner, one Jean Paul Dufresne, stopped them. But Dufresne’s wife insists that he was at home with her and their child all night.” She spread her slender-fingered hands. “So it’s something of a mystery, one that it’s doubtful the constables will ever solve.”
“Well, I can’t say that I’d lose much sleep over whatever happened to that varmint Shugart, and anybody who’d throw in with him was likely the same no-good sort.”
“Undoubtedly,” Simone agreed. “Such things happen frequently in New Orleans. The authorities know it’s best just to move on and forget about them.”
Preacher was certain she knew he was responsible for the deaths of the four men who had attacked him—and she didn’t care, either. As she said, such violence was common in New Orleans.
After she told him where to find the warehouse, he left the cargo inventory with her, since he wasn’t expected to check it, and departed to perform the task for her. If he carried it out successfully, he would gain that much more of her trust, he told himself—but even so, the whole thing still went against the grain for him. He was built for straight-ahead action, not subterfuge.
The warehouse was a huge brick structure that had a moldering, ancient look about it, like every other building in New Orleans more than six months old. Preacher found an alcove in an alley diagonally across the street from it where he could keep an eye on the big double doors. The thick shadows where he stood ought to be enough to keep anybody from noticing him, he thought.
He watched the place for maybe half an hour before several wagons pulled by teams of four mules apiece rolled up. A fat man with his shirtsleeves rolled up over muscular forearms came out of the warehouse and greeted the drivers. Then he turned and waved a hand at someone in the warehouse.
A moment later, black men in tattered shirts and trousers began carrying crates out of the warehouse and placing them in the wagon beds. A couple of lean white men with pistols stuck behind their belts emerged from the warehouse as well and watched, eagle-eyed, as the cargo was brought out and loaded. Preacher figured the black fellas were slaves, the two gun-toters were their overseers, and the fat man was the warehouse manager Simone suspected of cheating her.
The workers moved slowly enough that Preacher had no trouble keeping count of how many crates they loaded. When they were finished, they had placed fifty-eight crates in the wagons, just as Simone had said they were supposed to. When the vehicles had rolled away over the cobblestone streets, Preacher left the alley and headed for the docks himself, just to make sure the cargo made it onto the Powhatan safely. Simone hadn’t asked him to do that, but he supposed he might as well.
A different group of workers, some white, some black, took over when the wagons reached the docks. Preacher watched them carry the crates on board the riverboat and stack them on the deck. He counted them again and got the same total, fifty-eight. Grumbling to himself because it seemed to him like he had just wasted the morning, he walked back to the French Quarter and into the Catamount’s Den. The stool where Long Sam usually sat was empty.
At that time of day, the tavern was open for business but not doing much, which explained why it wasn’t necessary for Long Sam and his shotgun to guard the door. A couple of men leaned on the bar. Only one table was occupied, that by Balthazar Crowe and Long Sam.
“Any trouble?” Crowe asked as Preacher walked up to the table.
“Not a bit. And the count—”
Crowe held up a hand to stop him. “You do not report to me. You report to M’sieu LeCarde.”
Preacher took note of how Crowe referred to Simone. He had a hunch the fiction of “Simon LeCarde” being male was always used except in that second floor sitting room. That was a good idea, if Simone wanted to keep her true identity a secret.
Crowe went on. “Long Sam, will you inform M’sieu LeCarde that Preacher has returned?”
“Sure.” The dwarf got up and headed for the stairs at the back of the room.
Preacher thought Crowe might ask him to sit down with him, but that invitation wasn’t forthcoming. Crowe had a cup of coffee in front of him and sipped from it as Preacher stood there waiting for Long Sam to return.
“I went on down to the docks,” Preacher said. “Watched ’em load the cargo.”
“None of my business,” Crowe replied distractedly.
Preacher narrowed his eyes. �
�You don’t like me bein’ here, do you?”
“It’s none of my business,” Crowe said again, but Preacher thought he didn’t sound the least bit sincere.
He was glad when Long Sam clattered back down the staircase a few moments later, ending the awkward conversation.
“Come on,” Long Sam said as he motioned for Preacher to follow him up the stairs.
Balthazar Crowe swallowed the rest of the coffee in his cup and stood up to go along behind Preacher. Clearly, Crowe didn’t want Preacher to be alone up there with Simone. It was probably a good thing Crowe and Long Sam were as protective of their mistress as they were, but at the same time, Preacher thought it pretty likely that Simone could take care of herself. She had mentioned that her pirate father had taught her how to use a pistol and a saber, and she’d claimed to be pretty good with them. Preacher had a hunch she was telling the truth about that. Maybe he would have a chance to find out someday, he thought as he started up the narrow staircase after Long Sam.
He hadn’t entered Simone’s living quarters from that direction. They wound up in the same hall he had been in the night before, with the door that led to the alley stairs at its far end. The door to Simone’s sitting room stood open. Long Sam reached it first but stood aside to let Preacher precede him into the room.
Preacher didn’t argue. He stepped into the sitting room, expecting to see Simone on one of the divans or maybe in an armchair over by the fireplace.
Instead she stood beside the table, with her hair still down but pulled back from her face and fastened with a clip behind her head. She wore a dark blue gown with white lace at the sleeves and throat.
She wasn’t alone, either. Two other people stood to the side, and Preacher stopped short at the sight of them, recognizing them instantly. He had come to New Orleans to find Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton, but he hadn’t expected to run into them in Simone LeCarde’s sitting room above the Catamount’s Den.
Still, somehow, he wasn’t surprised.
Just as the feeling of a pistol’s barrel being pressed into his back didn’t surprise him, either, or the rumbling growl of Balthazar Crowe.
“Go on in, mountain man. Mademoiselle has a few things to say to you.”
CHAPTER 23
Knowing that Crowe would be happy for an excuse to pull the trigger on that pistol, Preacher didn’t try anything. Long Sam hadn’t had the shotgun with him when they came up the stairs, but Preacher was willing to bet the dwarf was armed, too.
“Yes, please come in, Preacher,” Simone said. Her voice was tight, and anger blazed like green fire in her eyes.
Preacher sauntered on into the sitting room. The door closed behind him. He stopped and hooked his thumbs in his belt, near the butts of his pistols. He didn’t reach for the weapons, though. He was confident he could get the pistols out and put a ball in Edmund Cornelius before Crowe or Long Sam could stop him, but while that would avenge the attack on Charlie Todd, it wouldn’t accomplish anything else except to get him killed.
Best to wait and find out what Simone had in mind, he told himself.
“Looks like you ain’t keepin’ who you really are such a big secret anymore,” he drawled. “These varmints make three people you’ve let in on it just recentlike. That doubles the number, don’t it?”
Taunting her like that probably wasn’t a good idea, either, but he was angry, as well. Had she been playing him for a fool all along?
“You’re right,” she said, “and that’s one very good reason I’m upset with you, Preacher. You’ve forced me into doing something I don’t normally do. When I found out you’d been lying to me, I wanted to find out the truth, and talking directly to Mr. Cornelius and Miss Tarleton seemed to be the most efficient way of doing that.”
“You can see for yourself that he’s not denying it, Mademoiselle LeCarde,” Lucy said with a strident note in her voice. “He followed us to New Orleans to kill us! He’s no better than those red savages he associates with in the mountains!”
“Be quiet,” Simone snapped. “I told you I’d get to the bottom of this, and I will.” She turned her attention back to Preacher. “These two claim you tried to rob and murder them in St. Louis, and that you followed them down here to finish the job. Is there any truth to that?”
Preacher threw back his head and laughed, despite the seriousness of the situation. It was an honest reaction. The brazenness of the two crooks amused him.
“More like the other way around,” he said. “They’re the thieves. The gal played up to a young friend of mine and found out he had the money from sellin’ a season’s worth o’ pelts hidden in his hotel room. The gambler went there to steal it, but my friend came in and caught him and got a knife in the belly for his trouble.”
“That’s a lie—” Cornelius began, but Simone held up a hand to stop him.
“Let Preacher finish,” she said.
“That’s most of the story,” the mountain man said. “That young pard of mine didn’t die. That surprises you, don’t it, Cornelius? You figured he’d bleed to death, lyin’ there on the floor of that hotel room, but he was too stubborn to give up. He hung on until I found him, and he told me you’d said you were comin’ down here to New Orleans. I didn’t make it to the docks in time to stop you from leavin’, but I promised Charlie I’d find you and settle the score for him.”
“By murdering us,” Lucy said with a quaver in her voice.
“I never killed nobody who didn’t have it comin’,” Preacher said curtly. “And even then, I always gave ’em a fair break. Charlie was alive when I left St. Louis, and I hope he still is. Give me back that money you stole from him—”
“And you’ll call it square?” Cornelius suggested.
Preacher’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the gambler. “He was alive, but that wasn’t no fault of yours. You did your best to kill him. We’ll still have to settle that between us, you and me.” He shrugged. “I reckon the gal’s just as much at fault, but I don’t make war on women. Mostly.”
Cornelius turned to Simone and said, “He’s lying, Mademoiselle LeCarde. There’s not a bit of truth in that insane story he just told you.”
Simone regarded him coolly. “On the contrary, my instincts tell me that Preacher is telling the truth. We all know perfectly well that the two of you had your eyes on Colonel Osborne and intended to swindle him, if not worse, before we came to an agreement that you’d leave him alone. I imagine you targeted Preacher’s young friend in St. Louis in much the same fashion.”
Cornelius and Lucy looked uncomfortable but didn’t dispute the charge.
Simone turned back to Preacher and went on. “All I can assume is that somehow you discovered a connection between this place and these two and came here last night looking for them. It was pure happenstance that brawl erupted and you caught my attention. Is that true?”
“I sure didn’t plan it that way,” Preacher answered honestly. “And I was plenty surprised at the way things turned out.”
“But you tried to turn the situation to your advantage anyway,” Simone said with an accusatory note in her voice. “You intended to use me.”
“I intended to keep the promise I made to my friend Charlie.” Preacher glanced at Cornelius and Lucy. “I still do.”
He looked at Simone again, and for a long moment the two of them stood there, their gazes locked, before her lips formed a taut line.
She said, “That’s the problem. I feel no great sympathy for Mr. Cornelius and Miss Tarleton, but I made a bargain with them and they haven’t broken it, so I can’t, either. My word has to remain good, or I soon won’t be able to continue in business in New Orleans. Everyone knows that Simon LeCarde honors his arrangements.”
“They just don’t know who Simon LeCarde really is,” Preacher said.
“That doesn’t matter!” She was breathing harder, as that blazing anger warred in her eyes with some other emotion—regret, perhaps. She turned and pointed a finger at Cornelius and Lucy. Simone’s e
xpression was so fierce that Lucy shrank against the gambler in apprehension. “If either of you ever so much as breathe a whisper of what you’ve found out—”
“You don’t have to worry, mademoiselle,” Cornelius said quickly as he held up a placating hand. “You have our solemn word that your secret is safe with us. We want to continue under your protection. That’s why we came to Mr. Crowe after I spotted Preacher leaving here last night. I knew he might have filled your head with lies about us.”
Coldly, Simone said, “I told you, I don’t care about who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. The only important thing is that I have to honor the bargain we made. Preacher will not hurt you.”
“How can you be sure of that?” Lucy asked. “He could lie to you, promise to forget about coming after us—”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Preacher broke in. “Lyin’ don’t come natural-like to me . . . the way it does to some people.”
Lucy flushed at those scathing words.
“I’m afraid his word wouldn’t be sufficient, in any case,” Simone went on. “But I give you my word that I’ll handle this matter.” She sighed. “The two of you can go on about your own business now, however sordid it may be. You’re still welcome at the Catamount’s Den, but I say again . . . your lives depend entirely upon your discretion.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle LeCarde,” Cornelius said. “I knew we’d done the right thing by aligning ourselves with you.”
“Perhaps you can return the favor someday.”
“Anything you ask, mademoiselle,” Cornelius assured her eagerly.
The oily varmint made Preacher’s gorge rise. He would have liked to lunge across the room and split the gambler’s skull with his tomahawk. That would have been mighty satisfying.
He figured Balthazar Crowe would shoot him down if he did it, though.
Simone waved a hand in a dismissive gesture and said, “Long Sam, get them out of here.”
“A pleasure, mam’selle,” the dwarf said, distaste evident in his tone.
Preacher's Frenzy Page 14