MAN OVERBOARD
SIGNET
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
— Ralph Compton
Chapter 1
Mississippi
1869
The Delta Jack was one of the most luxurious riverboats to float down the Mississippi. If one were to look at her plush carpets, sample the fine selection of liquor served in one of many bars, or taste the food prepared by its well-paid chefs, one might guess the riverboat to be exclusive to rich men or prominent gamblers. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Everyone was welcome aboard the Delta Jack. All a man needed to become a passenger was enough money to sit in at one of the gambling tables scattered throughout its three decks.
Such a man didn’t even need to be rich. He could stay aboard as long as he kept gambling. The Delta Jack made frequent stops, and as soon as a man’s bankroll ran out, he was promptly escorted onto dry land. If he didn’t want to separate himself from the Jack’s many hospitalities, he could always apply for a line of credit from the boat’s owner. Cam Greeley was always willing to consider such an application so the man in need of funds could remain on board for a while longer. It was generally a good arrangement, if only for one of the two parties involved.
Games played on the Delta Jack ran the gamut from gin rummy and simple rolls of the dice all the way up to roulette and backgammon. But most men didn’t board the Jack to play anything but poker. If all those other games were appetizers and dessert, poker was the steak and potatoes served in between. Some men dined for days on that steak. Others choked on it.
Abner Mason was one of the better-known faces on the Delta Jack. When he left his small but elegant cabin on the middle deck, he was greeted by friendly smiles by everyone from the young men hired to sweep the halls to the young women hired to convince certain players to stay on board for just a bit longer. At the moment, Mason’s rounded face reflected every hour of the last twenty he’d played five-card stud before he’d gotten three hours of sleep. His light brown eyes were slightly bloodshot and black stubble sprouted from his chin. Even so, he did his best to return the smiles he was shown with one of his own, which was always well received.
“A good mornin’ to you, Emma,” he said to the young lady who walked toward him.
She was a fresh-faced little filly with blond curls and eyes that told a man she could teach him a thing or two. Having already taught some of her lessons to Mason during his many stays on the Jack, she smirked and nodded. “Afternoon is more like it,” she said.
Mason wore a rumpled blue suit that had obviously doubled as pajamas. Since one hand was being used to keep his jacket hooked over his shoulder, he used the other hand to fish a watch from the pocket of his vest. The hallway was too narrow for both of them to pass each other while he stood facing her head-on, so Emma stopped as he flipped the watch open to check the time.
“Why, you’re absolutely right,” he said.
Remaining less than two inches away from him, she replied, “I may not know a lot of things, Abner, but I know how to tell the time.”
“You know plenty, sweet thing,” Mason said with just a hint of a Mississippi drawl.
“Up for another lesson?”
“Not just yet. I need to have breakfast.”
“You mean lunch,” she said.
“Not hardly. I’d never skip over breakfast. After all, even a man in my condition needs his coffee and bacon.”
“And a woman in my condition,” Emma said as she placed a hand on his chest to give him a little push, “needs to keep her schedule.”
Allowing himself to be moved to one side like a door in a rumpled suit, Mason said, “By all means.”
Emma traced her hand along his chest as she passed him. Once she’d taken a few more steps, she broke into a stride that caused her golden curls and a few other things to bounce in time to her gait.
Mason watched her strut all the way down the narrow hall. “A fine day indeed,” he muttered before checking his watch once more and snapping it shut. “Or afternoon.”
A good portion of the second deck was set aside for amenities to keep passengers comfortable. Apart from the small sleeping cabins, there was a dining room, a kitchen, and even a barber. It was to the latter that Mason went, and he wasn’t the only one. When he arrived, there was already a man in the barber’s chair. Mason helped himself to one of the newspapers that had been picked up when they’d last visited New Orleans and stepped outside again. There were chairs on either side of the door to the barber’s cabin, but no other customers waiting for a trim. Grateful that he wouldn’t have to make any polite conversations for a few minutes, Mason sat down, opened the newspaper, and pulled in a deep breath of warm air.
It was a balmy day with no shortage of insects buzzing around the chugging riverboat. Mason flipped through the ink-covered pages, skimming through the outdated stories without actually reading any of them. The words bounced off his swirling mind like flat rocks upon the water’s surface. Finally he folded the paper up and placed it on his lap.
“Hell of a day, ain’t it?” asked the freshly shorn man who emerged from the barber’s cabin.
Mason looked up at him and replied, “I suppose so. You planning on playing more faro today? Or will you be taking another crap game to the cleaner’s?”
“How’d you know all that? Did we meet during a game?”
“We sure did,” Mason said, even though he only remembered the man’s face after walking past the faro tables so many times the previous night. “You had a good run of luck.”
“There’s more to it than luck, my friend. Don’t let anyone tell you any different!”
Mason got to his feet and tucked the newspaper under one arm. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair and he picked that up to drape over the same arm. “Is that a fact?”
“Sure is.” Squinting, the man scratched his smooth chin and said, “I don’t seem to recall your name.”
“Abner Mason. We were both slightly inebriated at the table, so it’s no wonder we’re in rough shape. Don’t feel bad, though. I can’t remember your name either.”
The man smirked and nudged Mason’s shoulder as he stepped up to the railing to get a look at the green riverbank sliding idly by. “Virgil Slake’s the name. Next time I see you, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“And I’ll buy the next one!”
“Well, all right, then.” With that, Virgil extended a hand so Mason could shake it. Mason did so with exuberance and Virgil was on his way.
Mason knew plenty about faro players even though he rarely played the game any longer. Like most gamblers, he’d gotten his feet wet by bucking the tiger. The day he chose gambling as a profession instead of a pastime, he swore off faro and the terrible odds that came along with it. Faro players, who always made a habit of drifting toward dice games as well, would always hold a spot in Mason’s heart. They had to be wide-eyed, gullible, or full of themselves to keep playing a game that so clearly favored the house. Oftentimes, they were a smattering of all three, which meant they frequently lined the pockets of men in Mason’s line of work. What’s more, they were often drunk while at the table. Mason had been banking on that fact when he lied to Virgil’s face about standing beside him at the faro table the night before. Because Mason had been correct in his assumption, Virgil didn’t know enough to call his bluff and would most likely greet him like an old friend when they crossed paths again.
Smiling to himself, Mason turned on his heel and walked into the barber’s shop. “Looks like I’m next,” he announced.
The barber was sweeping his floor and didn’t look up. “You’re next,” he said. “Just as soon as I’m done cleaning and have some lunch. Come back in an hour or so.”
“Then maybe I should just go to the place down the street. I hear they’re more accommodating to their guests.”
“Down the street? What are you . . . ?” Finally looking up from his broom, the barber smiled broadly when he saw his customer’s face. “I should’ve known it was you, Abby! Most other men wouldn’t look like they just rolled out of bed at this time of day.”
“Most men who sleep on this boat as often as I do roll out of bed even later than this, Dell.”
“Yeah, but they look better than that.”
“Fair enough,” Mason said. “Can you help me freshen up or not?”
“For you, I’ll postpone my lunch.” He swept the pile of clipped hair toward the door and, when Mason stepped aside, through it. A few more strokes from the broom sent the clippings under the railing and over the side of the boat. Dell then turned around and marched back into his shop, where Mason was already making himself comfortable in the barber’s chair.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Slake?” Mason asked.
“You mean the fellow that just walked out of here?”
“That’s the one.”
Shrugging, Dell replied, “Not much, apart from the fact that he likes his hair cut shorter on the sides than on top. Why?”
“No reason.”
Dell draped a large white cloth over Mason’s chest and tied it around the back of his neck. “Something tells me I’m not the only one that’ll be fleecing that man.”
“Fleecing? Such an ugly term. You’re much better at your job than that!”
“I wasn’t referring to my job,” Dell said as he picked up a shaving brush, dipped it in lather, and painted it across Mason’s face. “I was talking about yours.”
“Oh. Well, then . . . you’d be correct.”
Picking up his razor, Dell said, “In that case . . . I may remember a thing or two about that fellow. Standard arrangement?”
“Five percent.”
“Make it seven.”
Everyone who worked on board the Delta Jack had at least one story attached to their name. Even the boy who dumped the chamber pots over the side was rumored to have taken part in some bit of nastiness involving a wayward soul. There were plenty of rumors swirling about in regard to Dell and his dealings with various men who’d sat in his chair. Having become acquainted with the stout man sporting a curved waxed mustache, Mason knew for certain that some of those rumors were true. Others, however, were simply too unsavory to fit a man of Dell’s character. Seeing the look in the barber’s eyes as he opened that razor, Mason thought he might have to reconsider some of his previous conclusions.
Mason raised an eyebrow but was careful not to turn his head. “Seven percent? He just looked like another faro player who comes aboard the Jack for a night or two of the sweet life.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention. He mentioned a thing or two about some good money he brought along with him that was turned into something even better.”
“Surely you’ve worked on this boat long enough to know better than to believe the boastings of men who sit in this chair.”
“He flashed a fat wad of bills when he paid me,” Dell said while commencing his shave. “And he had no problem peeling off a mighty healthy gratuity for a simple haircut and shave.”
“Doesn’t exactly mean he’ll be so generous to another player. Even one as amicable as me.”
“No,” Dell admitted. He scraped a bit more from one cheek and then moved on to the other side. “But it does point to the idea that he may have even more money than that stashed away somewhere nearby. Maybe,” he said as he evened out Mason’s long sideburns, “even on his person or in his cabin.”
“Cabin?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Looking into the mirror on the wall in front of him, Mason watched the barber work. “Maybe he’s traveling with someone else who might have loaned him that money or could be watching over it for him?”
Dell shifted his attention to Mason’s neck. After making his first pass, he glanced up to meet his reflected gaze. “Didn’t bring anyone with him. As for the company he kept, that was limited to one of Greeley’s girls.”
“Which one?”
“Emma.”
Mason grinned.
When he saw that, Dell smirked as well before turning his focus back to his job.
“You sure it was Emma?” Mason asked.
“Oh yes. She was all he could talk about. Even mentioned the little heart-shaped mole on her—”
“That’s Emma all right. This is some good information, to be certain, Dell. Now that I’ve got it, though . . .”
“What makes it worth an extra couple of percentage points?”
“The question does seem like a good one.”
“First of all,” Dell replied as he set his razor down to pick up a pair of scissors, “there’s the implied trust between a man and his barber.” He began snipping Mason’s sideburns, getting close enough to severing an ear that a chill worked through Mason’s spine. “Have I ever steered you wrong, Abby?”
“Not yet, but you can do me a favor and stop calling me that.”
“Calling you Abby? It’s short for Abner.”
“I don’t care what it’s short for,” Mason said. “Actually nobody calls me Abner either.”
“Keep your mind on what’s important, friend,” Dell said. “I believe our Mr. Slake is sitting on enough money to make a couple extra percentage points more than worthwhile. And I haven’t told you all there is to tell.”
“What else is there?”
“His schedule, for starters. I’ve also got the names of a few friends of his that are sporting men.”
Keeping still as hair was clipped along the side of his head, Mason asked, “How might that be worth any extra pay?”
A man in a black suit walked past the door to the barber’s cabin. He had a slender redhead on one arm and barely took a passing interest in the little barbershop as he escorted her along the deck. Once those two were out of sight, Dell said, “I’m sure that kind of information can come in handy to someone who might want to know about any dealings Mr. Slake might be involved in that aren’t exactly . . . aboveboard. Perhaps . . . the same man who was talking him up not too long ago?”
Mason sighed. “You heard me talking to him outside?”
“Ears like a hawk, my friend,” Dell said as he tapped the side of his head.
“And a nose for business to go along with it.”
“You think any man can earn a decent living in a shop this size without making himself useful?” Dell asked.
Even when he was asleep, Mason rarely felt his thoughts slow to anything less than a roar inside his head. He’d imagined ways to wring some cash from Virgil Slake starting from the moment he’d seen Virgil’s enthusiasm at the faro table. There were few men who didn’t get measured up that way soon after crossing Mason’s path. Being on board the Delta Jack only made those wheels turn faster, which was why Mason loved being on that boat almost as much as he liked sleeping in his very own bed back home.
Getting on a stranger’s good side wasn’t much of a chore. Without that particular skill in his arsenal, Mason wouldn’t have lasted very long in the sporting life. Having an edge in that regard, be it some personal bit of information or the name of a trusted reference that couldn’t be easily checked, was as good as gold. If Slake truly did have a healthy stash of money somewhere on the Jack, Mason figured he could chalk up one mighty fine mark in the win column.
“Seven percent, huh?” Mason asked.
“Not a penny more,” the barber replied.
Chapter 2
Less than an hour later, Mason was again stepping out of his room on the upper deck. This time, however, stubble no longer covered his chin and his hair was neatly arranged. The suit into which he’d changed wasn’t only pressed, but was a darker shade of blue and his vest bore narrow horizontal stripes. A lively tune was on his lips as he walked down the hall and went to the outer walkway that skirted the entire middle deck. Once he could feel the damp air against his face, he slid one hand jauntily inside his jacket pocket and kept the other free to tip his hat to anyone he might meet on his way to the Missouri Miss Restaurant.
Since the Delta Jack had stopped briefly while Mason was changing his clothes, there was a good amount of activity on her first two decks. A few of those bustling about were workers putting away supplies that had been acquired, but most were men and women taking in the riverboat and trying to decide which comfort they would sample first. Mason could recall being one of those setting foot on the Jack for the first time, but just barely. Since he was more interested in his next meal than surveying potential targets, he maneuvered as quickly as possible through the milling crowd until he arrived at a long room toward the aft end of the boat.
The Missouri Miss wasn’t the fanciest restaurant on the Delta Jack, but it was preferred by most gamblers who called the riverboat their home away from home. There were no tables. There was just a single aisle between two counters that ran the length of the place and a door at either end. One counter was lower than the other and had several chairs where customers could sit to enjoy their meal while looking out the window toward the starboard side of the boat. The other counter was the same height as a saloon’s bar. Behind it was a pair of stoves and a chopping board where food was prepared. Any customers sitting there did so on stools, which was where Mason planted himself as soon as he walked in.
Less than half the seats were occupied at the moment, which meant he didn’t have to wait long before a tall woman with her hair tied back into a long braid acknowledged his arrival with a familiar smile. “You just wake up or just about to go to bed?” she asked.
“Just up,” Mason said.
She turned to the cook, who was a tall fellow wearing a greasy apron. Judging by the lack of meat on his bones, the man didn’t sample much of his own food. The woman with the braid said to him, “Bacon, grits, and burnt toast.”
Only then did the cook look up from the stovetop he was scraping clean to ask, “That Mason?”
“Sure is.”
The cook gave Mason a curt upward nod before wiping his hands on the front of his apron and stooping to retrieve a few strips of bacon from under the counter.
“Have any luck last night?” the woman asked.
Mason took off his hat and placed it on the counter to his left. “You weren’t with me, Bea. How could I get any unluckier than that?”
“You could’ve spent all day with her like I did,” the cook said.
Bea turned to look over her shoulder at the man standing by the stove. “Nobody asked you a thing!” Turning to Mason, she dropped her voice to something of a purr and said, “Go on.”
“I could go on all day long,” Mason replied. “But I doubt it’d get me anywhere with a beauty like you.”
“Never know until you try.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Right now all I can tell you is that I’m useless before I get my breakfast.”
She scowled at him before walking down to the other stove where a kettle was brewing. “Let’s start with coffee. After that, we can continue with all the sugary lies.”
“My pleasure,” Mason said.
After pouring him his coffee, Bea went around to top off the mugs of other customers before settling back into her regular spot a bit farther down the counter from where Mason was sitting.
When he looked down at his mug, Mason found that a single egg had been placed on the counter beside it. Picking it up, he looked over to Bea and was given a knowing smile along with a nod. Mason placed his other hand over his heart as his way of silently thanking her before cracking the egg against the rim of his mug and mixing the raw egg into his coffee.
Ever since the morning after he took his first sip of whiskey when he was fifteen, Mason had heard plenty of supposed cures for the headache following a night of overindulgence. Most of those cures involved consuming something that was so disgusting that it made a man consider forsaking liquor altogether. Some were nothing more than concoctions sold from the back of a crooked salesman’s wagon. All of them, however, had someone who swore by them, and the only one that Mason could swear to was the one he drank now.
Bea had introduced him to it on the same night he first introduced himself to her. Mason could carry his headaches well, but she’d had no trouble spotting the pain behind his eyes. Without any explanations needed, she’d given him some coffee and cracked an egg into it.
“Drink it,” was all she’d said.
When Mason drank it, he nearly spat it right back up again. “That is horrid!” he’d exclaimed. “It tastes like it’s at least a day old and . . . there’s egg in it!”
“Of course there’s egg in it. You watched me put it in there. And it’s not a day old. It’s three days old. Just drink the rest down and stop your whining.”
For some reason, Mason had done what he was told. By the time the mug was empty, he thought for certain he would vomit all over the counter. A minute or two after that, he was right as rain. From that point on, he swore by the unusual cure for his headaches.
Mason was still stirring his coffee when another man walked into the restaurant and took the stool beside him. When Mason lifted the spoon from his mug, a viscous string of egg connected it to the thick tarlike brew.
“Whatever that is,” said the man beside Mason as he pointed to the egg concoction, “don’t try to serve it to me.”
“What would you like?” the cook asked.
“Steak. Rare.”
“You want steak?” the cook replied. “Go to the steakhouse on the first deck.”
“What can you give me?”
“How about some beef stew?”
“Fine,” the man grunted. “Just make it quick.”
Mason took a long sip of his brew, swallowed it down, and then forced himself to have some more. “You want some advice?” he asked while letting that last gulp slide down his throat.
The man next to Mason looked over to him and said, “Yeah. I’ll take some advice.”
“Have a more cordial tone when you’re speaking to the man who’s fixing your food.”
“Thanks. I’d like something else while you’re at it.”
Mason took another drink and set the cup down. He’d recognized the man next to him as a player from one of the many card games the previous night. Propping an elbow on the counter, Mason shifted on his stool to face him.
“I’d like the money you owe,” the man said.
Squinting as he concentrated a little harder, Mason was still unable to come up with anything more than what he had done the first time. “Money? If I recall, both of us walked away from that table on the square.”
“You were drinking like a fish.”
Holding up his mug, Mason said, “I’ll admit to that much and am paying for it in spades.” When the other man didn’t crack so much as a portion of a smile, Mason said, “I’ll also admit to forgetting your name.”
“Winslow. Dave Winslow.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dave. Meet you again, that is.” Once more, Mason cracked a joke and laughed at it. Once again, Winslow stared back at him as if he were watching a patch of weeds sprout in his garden.
The cook broke some of the tension by stepping up to the counter directly across from Winslow and setting down a bowl of stew. He then dropped a spoon into it before grunting, “Anything else?”
“Not from you,” Winslow replied without taking his eyes off Mason.
The cook wasn’t about to be intimidated by the gruff tone in Winslow’s voice or the fire in his eyes. He simply grunted under his breath and got back to the pot that was steaming on the stovetop.
Now that Winslow’s food had been delivered, Mason thought he’d be granted at least a moment or two before having to resume the awkward conversation. Apparently that was setting his sights just a little too high.
“You owe some money,” Winslow said. “A healthy amount of it too. I reckon a man like you would remember as much, no matter how many whiskeys he tossed back.”
After downing the last of his thick, yet effective headache remedy, Mason put the mug down and said, “You’re absolutely right. I would remember something like that. If I have debts to pay, I pay them. Just ask anyone who knows me. As for you, however, I know for certain that I don’t owe you a thing.”
“You got me there, mister. You don’t owe me.”
Mason was taken aback by that, but more than a little relieved. “Oh. Well, then, I suppose that’s cleared up.”
“Not yet, it ain’t.”
“Of course not,” Mason sighed as he stared down at the dark muck coating the bottom of his mug. “Nothing’s ever that easy.”
“The money you owe is to a friend of mine,” Winslow said.
“Then tell him to find me and I’ll be sure to straighten this out.”
Winslow used his spoon to poke at his stew. After lifting a dripping portion to his mouth, he dribbled some onto his beard and then used the back of his hand to wipe it away. “You’ll deal with me.”
Mason shook his head and looked around. One of the things he normally liked about being on the Delta Jack was that most of the people on there with him were other gamblers who all lived by the same code. Unfortunately part of that code was that a man was left to tend to his own business whether it wound up good or bad. If things with Winslow took a turn for the worse, Mason would be on his own.
“At least tell me the name of this supposed friend of yours.”
Lifting the spoon to his mouth, Winslow said, “Ed Gifford,” and then took a bite of his stew.
“Ed Gifford?” Mason scoffed. “I never heard of . . . oh, wait. Does he go by Giff for short?”
“He does.”
Mason held back a wince as he recalled that he not only owed that man some money, but had won it from him under somewhat dubious circumstances. Keeping a straight face, he said, “This matter is between me and Giff, then. I’ll have a word with him later tonight and settle up with him myself.”
“That ain’t gonna happen. He was put off the boat at the last port.”
“Sorry to be callous, but that’s really not my concern.”
Winslow stood up and peeled back his jacket to reveal the gun strapped around his waist. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Chapter 3
Mason stepped out of the Missouri Miss Restaurant and into the same balmy air he’d been enjoying not too long ago. This time, however, he was much too distracted by the man following behind him to enjoy the scenery.
“You don’t want to do this, friend,” Mason said. “Trust me.”
Winslow walked behind him with stew in his beard and a Colt in his hand. “I ain’t your friend and I sure as hell don’t trust you.”
“How long have you known Giff?”
“Long enough for him to ask me to collect this debt for him.”
When Mason turned around, he was jabbed in the belly by the barrel of Winslow’s Colt. For added measure, he was prodded hard enough to keep him moving toward the back end of the boat. “You don’t strike me as the sort of fellow who’d shoot an unarmed man.”
Winslow smirked. “You tellin’ me you’re unarmed?”
“I was merely having a drink to soothe my aching head. Why would I be—”
Mason was interrupted when Winslow reached out to pull open the jacket to Mason’s silk suit. The holster strapped under Mason’s left arm was clearly visible, as was the .44 Remington kept there.
“Not armed, huh?” Winslow grunted.
“I didn’t actually specify that I was the unarmed man in question. I just said I was there to soothe my aching head.”
“Yeah,” Winslow growled as he reached out to claim Mason’s weapon and drop it into the holster at his side. “And it’ll stop aching real quick once I break it open. Keep walking.”
As he turned and walked toward the aft end of the boat, Mason looked for anyone who might step in on his behalf. The deck was mostly deserted since the stages on the lower level were now featuring some of the prettiest dancing girls in the South. Any of the men Mason spotted were racing to claim their seat at one of the many card games being played throughout the riverboat. He knew he’d have better luck asking for a dog to kindly let go of a piece of raw meat, but he tried to appeal to one passing fellow’s sense of compassion by moving aside so he could show him the gun in Winslow’s hand. The man, another gambler whose name Mason couldn’t remember, merely shrugged and ducked through a door that took him into a blackjack parlor.
“Do you recall how much I’m supposed to owe Giff?”
“Four hundred dollars,” Winslow replied.
“And what if I pay the money directly to you?” Mason asked. “We can part ways as friends and Giff won’t be any the wiser. Surely he’s no stranger to being disappointed when one of his plans doesn’t bear any fruit.”
“Ain’t that simple.”
“It can be,” Mason assured him.
“Not if I ever want to get any more work like this.”
And then Mason understood what was going on. This wasn’t the performance of a friend or even a hired gun. It was an audition.
By this time, Mason was standing at a portion of the walkway that was as far back as one could go without dropping over the side. The serenity of being on the river was washed away by the churning rumble of the giant paddle wheel turning directly in front of him. After adjusting his jacket so it once again closed over his empty holster, Mason angled his hat to keep as much of the spray from the wheel out of his face as possible. “You want to be an overman?” he asked.
“Pay’s good,” Winslow replied. “Better than gambling anyway.”
“But the work itself is pretty nasty. You sure you’re cut out for it?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
Overman was the name given to a small group of gunmen who kept the peace on board the Delta Jack. By necessity, every gambling boat had its own enforcers to put teeth into whatever house rules were in play. Without them, men running the games might as well hand their money out to any thieves who were bold enough to stick out their hands. An enforcer’s job was to cut those hands off at the wrist. The enforcers working on the Delta Jack had earned a reputation so fearsome that losing a hand or two had become infinitely more desirable than crossing them.
“So, who is Giff to warrant such special attention?” Mason asked. “Part owner of this boat?”
“Not hardly,” Winslow scoffed.
“An investor, perhaps?”
“Just give me the money.”
Having crossed his arms, Mason placed a finger on his chin and made a face as though he was contemplating one of the world’s great mysteries. “He must be someone important to catch the attention of a man like yourself.”
“I’m here to collect a debt. You either got it or you don’t.”
“How do I know you’re not just here to get the money for yourself?”
Winslow reacted to that question in much the same way that a large machine reacted to a wrench being tossed into its gears. “I already told you I was here for money. Are you deaf?”
“No. I mean, how am I supposed to believe that you’re here for Giff’s money? For all I know, you overheard him talking about the debt I owe to him and came along to pass yourself off as a collector. Saying you’re a prospective overman could just be a way to lend some credence to your story.”
As the wrench still worked its way through the machinery in his head, Winslow grimaced and grabbed hold of Mason’s throat. “I don’t give a damn what you decide about me. You’ll hand over that money right now!”
“Or what?” Mason asked.
“You’re trying my patience, mister.”
Despite the fact that he was dangling from an ever-tightening fist, Mason somehow managed to smirk as he said, “If you intend to police men like myself and others on this boat, you’re going to have to be well versed in making threats. If I was to grade your performance right now, I’m afraid I’d have to—”
Pinching Mason’s windpipe shut, Winslow snarled, “You’re about to be in more pain than you ever thought possible. That threatening enough for ya?”
“Actually,” Mason croaked, “that’s not bad.” After saying that, he grabbed hold of Winslow’s wrist with one hand while kicking the other man’s knee using the heel of his boot. When Winslow grunted in pain, Mason used his free hand to relieve him of his Colt. Rather than fire a shot with the pistol, Mason thumped it against Winslow’s ribs to loosen his grip.
Once he was able to pull free, Mason filled his lungs with a deep breath. “One should never harm another unless the situation calls for it,” he said while rubbing the tender skin on his neck. “Bad luck.”
“I’ll give you bad luck!” Winslow grunted as he charged forward like an enraged bull.
All Mason had to do was take a large step to one side to clear a path. As Winslow rushed past him, Mason dropped the pistol’s grip down like a hammer between Winslow’s shoulder blades. It was a quick, glancing blow that did more damage to Winslow’s pride than anything else. It also made his next few steps so wobbly that Winslow nearly tripped over the side and into the cold water below. Mason kept that from happening by quickly reaching out to grab the larger man’s belt.
“You might want to reconsider your employment options,” Mason said. “Seems you’re not exactly cut out for this sort of thing.”
Winslow placed both hands on the railing and pushed straight back. Since Mason still had a solid grip on his belt, Winslow found himself pulled off balance once more when he was swung toward the closest wall. He bounced off, staggered for a step or two, and then wheeled around to face Mason. Gritting his teeth through the pain that accompanied his next breath, Winslow said, “I’m gonna kill you!”
With a snap of his wrist, Mason sent the Colt he’d taken sailing through the air. A second later, the pistol hit the water with a heavy plunk. “You can try,” he said, “but it won’t be so easy.”
Winslow’s first instinct was to reach for his holster where he’d put Mason’s Remington for safekeeping. Mason lunged for that holster as well and got to it just as the Remington cleared leather. Both men struggled to gain control of the weapon, swinging the pistol toward a nearby window looking into a roomful of card tables before it was forced in another direction to point toward the river. Winslow grunted with the effort of pushing the gun back toward Mason, who quickly snapped his head aside so the gun was no longer pointed at his face. Instead it was pointed at the face of a portly gambler on the other side of the nearby window, who gawked at the gun barrel and promptly dropped to the floor and out of sight.
Mason could hear some small amount of commotion behind the wall that Winslow had run into a few moments ago, but he knew better than to think any help was on its way. At least, none that would arrive quickly enough to do him any good. Shifting his grip on the other man’s wrist, Mason dug his thumb into a tender spot as deep as it could go.
“Owww!” Winslow hollered. In less than a second, he couldn’t help opening his hand and letting go of the Remington.
As soon as the pistol hit the deck, Mason kicked it away. Although he eased up on his grip somewhat, it was only so he could twist Winslow’s arm around and bend it against the swing of the elbow.
When Winslow opened his mouth to let out another anguished groan, no sound emerged. His eyes were wide and his lips curled into an ugly sneer until he finally managed to suck in enough breath to clear some of the fog from his head. Winslow clenched both hands into fists. While he might not have been able to do much with the arm being held by Mason, he had plenty of options where the other was concerned. First, he delivered a chopping uppercut to Mason’s stomach. Then he cocked back that arm to swing a hooking punch to Mason’s jaw.
That second punch snapped Mason’s head to one side, but hurt him less than the first, which had forced a good portion of the breath from his lungs. He tried his best to hang on to Winslow’s right wrist. That proved to be impossible, however, when Winslow grabbed onto his own hand and pulled it back like a lever. He quickly pried himself loose and took a few staggering steps backward.
Since his holster was empty, Winslow reached for the other hip, where a hunting knife hung from a scabbard. By the time he’d taken hold of the thick bone handle, another smaller blade was already whistling through the air. Mason’s arm had snapped forward like a whip and the little blade flew from his hand as though it had been shot from his fingertips.
Winslow might not have been able to see the blade as anything but a glinting flicker, but he could feel it as it sliced through the meat in his forearm. Out of reflex, he jerked that hand to the side, which also caused him to toss the hunting knife he’d just pulled. The larger blade clattered noisily against the deck while the smaller one stuck into the railing a couple of paces behind Winslow. In response to the surprised expression on Winslow’s face, Mason smirked and shrugged one shoulder.
“I’ve got enough blades on me to do this all night long if that’s your game,” Mason lied.
Apparently his bluff was good enough to keep Winslow from trying to make a grab for the knife he’d inadvertently tossed. Instead he dropped to one knee and pulled up the cuff of his pants to reveal a holster concealed in that boot.
Mason lifted his shirt from where it was tucked into the front of his trousers so he could get to the pistol that was stashed there. The handle and cylinder were that of a.44 Remington very similar to the one that had already been taken from him. When he drew the gun from where it had been stashed, the second Remington proved to be very different from its brother. It had been sawed off just over an inch from the trigger guard, which allowed Mason to move freely while it had been concealed. That freedom of movement, however, came at a price.
Mason pulled his trigger, aiming several inches to the left of the man in front of him. Rather than send a shot wide where it would either take a chunk out of the railing or possibly get lodged into the paddle wheel, the bullet tore into Winslow’s shin just below his knee.
At first, when Winslow dropped his gun, he couldn’t make a sound. All the color drained from his face and he gulped for his next breath. As soon as he grabbed his bloody shin, he found his voice and let it fly with a warbling cry. His head craned all the way back and then drooped forward. Crumpling like a wilted flower, Winslow flopped over onto his side. After that, he was in no condition to do much of anything as Mason stepped forward to search him for any other weapons.
“Y-you killed me,” Winslow groaned.
Having found nothing of note on Winslow’s person, Mason kept the sawed-off Remington in an easy grip while hunkering down to the other man’s level. “I did no such thing,” he said. “It just feels that way. Perhaps you’ll reconsider what I mentioned before about you choosing another line of work.”
“I—I need a doctor.”
“You sure do,” Mason said while walking over to the railing where his knife had been stuck. The narrow blade was a bit longer than two inches, and its double-ring handle was only slightly shorter. Once the knife was in his hand again, Mason slipped a finger through one of the rings between the handle and blade and set the dagger to spinning. It was a finely balanced weapon that was as familiar to him as part of his own body. With an occasional wiggle of the finger around which the blade spun, he kept it twirling in a glinting display of sunlight reflecting off sharpened steel.
“I’d recommend waiting until we get to the next port,” Mason said. The dagger fit into a scabbard hidden at the small of his back. Once it was in its place again, Mason didn’t even feel it there. “I’m sure the captain wouldn’t mind making a stop at the next town whether it’s on the agenda or not.” Dropping his voice a bit, Mason added, “I’d avoid the boat’s doctor if I were you. He drinks most of the laudanum in his stores and doesn’t have very steady hands.”
Winslow nodded meekly. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Just . . . get me . . . offa this boat.”
Tucking the Remington back into place beneath his belt against his belly, Mason asked, “Are those the extent of your manners?”
“Get me offa this boat . . . please?”
MAN OVERBOARD
SIGNET
THE IMMORTAL COWBOY
This is respectfully dedicated to the “American Cowboy.” His was the saga sparked by the turmoil that followed the Civil War, and the passing of more than a century has by no means diminished the flame.
True, the old days and the old ways are but treasured memories, and the old trails have grown dim with the ravages of time, but the spirit of the cowboy lives on.
In my travels—to Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Nebraska, Colorado, Wyoming, New Mexico, and Arizona—I always find something that reminds me of the Old West. While I am walking these plains and mountains for the first time, there is this feeling that a part of me is eternal, that I have known these old trails before. I believe it is the undying spirit of the frontier calling me, through the mind’s eye, to step back into time. What is the appeal of the Old West of the American frontier?
It has been epitomized by some as the dark and bloody period in American history. Its heroes—Crockett, Bowie, Hickok, Earp—have been reviled and criticized. Yet the Old West lives on, larger than life.
It has become a symbol of freedom, when there was always another mountain to climb and another river to cross; when a dispute between two men was settled not with expensive lawyers, but with fists, knives, or guns. Barbaric? Maybe. But some things never change. When the cowboy rode into the pages of American history, he left behind a legacy that lives within the hearts of us all.
— Ralph Compton
Chapter 1
Mississippi
1869
The Delta Jack was one of the most luxurious riverboats to float down the Mississippi. If one were to look at her plush carpets, sample the fine selection of liquor served in one of many bars, or taste the food prepared by its well-paid chefs, one might guess the riverboat to be exclusive to rich men or prominent gamblers. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Everyone was welcome aboard the Delta Jack. All a man needed to become a passenger was enough money to sit in at one of the gambling tables scattered throughout its three decks.
Such a man didn’t even need to be rich. He could stay aboard as long as he kept gambling. The Delta Jack made frequent stops, and as soon as a man’s bankroll ran out, he was promptly escorted onto dry land. If he didn’t want to separate himself from the Jack’s many hospitalities, he could always apply for a line of credit from the boat’s owner. Cam Greeley was always willing to consider such an application so the man in need of funds could remain on board for a while longer. It was generally a good arrangement, if only for one of the two parties involved.
Games played on the Delta Jack ran the gamut from gin rummy and simple rolls of the dice all the way up to roulette and backgammon. But most men didn’t board the Jack to play anything but poker. If all those other games were appetizers and dessert, poker was the steak and potatoes served in between. Some men dined for days on that steak. Others choked on it.
Abner Mason was one of the better-known faces on the Delta Jack. When he left his small but elegant cabin on the middle deck, he was greeted by friendly smiles by everyone from the young men hired to sweep the halls to the young women hired to convince certain players to stay on board for just a bit longer. At the moment, Mason’s rounded face reflected every hour of the last twenty he’d played five-card stud before he’d gotten three hours of sleep. His light brown eyes were slightly bloodshot and black stubble sprouted from his chin. Even so, he did his best to return the smiles he was shown with one of his own, which was always well received.
“A good mornin’ to you, Emma,” he said to the young lady who walked toward him.
She was a fresh-faced little filly with blond curls and eyes that told a man she could teach him a thing or two. Having already taught some of her lessons to Mason during his many stays on the Jack, she smirked and nodded. “Afternoon is more like it,” she said.
Mason wore a rumpled blue suit that had obviously doubled as pajamas. Since one hand was being used to keep his jacket hooked over his shoulder, he used the other hand to fish a watch from the pocket of his vest. The hallway was too narrow for both of them to pass each other while he stood facing her head-on, so Emma stopped as he flipped the watch open to check the time.
“Why, you’re absolutely right,” he said.
Remaining less than two inches away from him, she replied, “I may not know a lot of things, Abner, but I know how to tell the time.”
“You know plenty, sweet thing,” Mason said with just a hint of a Mississippi drawl.
“Up for another lesson?”
“Not just yet. I need to have breakfast.”
“You mean lunch,” she said.
“Not hardly. I’d never skip over breakfast. After all, even a man in my condition needs his coffee and bacon.”
“And a woman in my condition,” Emma said as she placed a hand on his chest to give him a little push, “needs to keep her schedule.”
Allowing himself to be moved to one side like a door in a rumpled suit, Mason said, “By all means.”
Emma traced her hand along his chest as she passed him. Once she’d taken a few more steps, she broke into a stride that caused her golden curls and a few other things to bounce in time to her gait.
Mason watched her strut all the way down the narrow hall. “A fine day indeed,” he muttered before checking his watch once more and snapping it shut. “Or afternoon.”
A good portion of the second deck was set aside for amenities to keep passengers comfortable. Apart from the small sleeping cabins, there was a dining room, a kitchen, and even a barber. It was to the latter that Mason went, and he wasn’t the only one. When he arrived, there was already a man in the barber’s chair. Mason helped himself to one of the newspapers that had been picked up when they’d last visited New Orleans and stepped outside again. There were chairs on either side of the door to the barber’s cabin, but no other customers waiting for a trim. Grateful that he wouldn’t have to make any polite conversations for a few minutes, Mason sat down, opened the newspaper, and pulled in a deep breath of warm air.
It was a balmy day with no shortage of insects buzzing around the chugging riverboat. Mason flipped through the ink-covered pages, skimming through the outdated stories without actually reading any of them. The words bounced off his swirling mind like flat rocks upon the water’s surface. Finally he folded the paper up and placed it on his lap.
“Hell of a day, ain’t it?” asked the freshly shorn man who emerged from the barber’s cabin.
Mason looked up at him and replied, “I suppose so. You planning on playing more faro today? Or will you be taking another crap game to the cleaner’s?”
“How’d you know all that? Did we meet during a game?”
“We sure did,” Mason said, even though he only remembered the man’s face after walking past the faro tables so many times the previous night. “You had a good run of luck.”
“There’s more to it than luck, my friend. Don’t let anyone tell you any different!”
Mason got to his feet and tucked the newspaper under one arm. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair and he picked that up to drape over the same arm. “Is that a fact?”
“Sure is.” Squinting, the man scratched his smooth chin and said, “I don’t seem to recall your name.”
“Abner Mason. We were both slightly inebriated at the table, so it’s no wonder we’re in rough shape. Don’t feel bad, though. I can’t remember your name either.”
The man smirked and nudged Mason’s shoulder as he stepped up to the railing to get a look at the green riverbank sliding idly by. “Virgil Slake’s the name. Next time I see you, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“And I’ll buy the next one!”
“Well, all right, then.” With that, Virgil extended a hand so Mason could shake it. Mason did so with exuberance and Virgil was on his way.
Mason knew plenty about faro players even though he rarely played the game any longer. Like most gamblers, he’d gotten his feet wet by bucking the tiger. The day he chose gambling as a profession instead of a pastime, he swore off faro and the terrible odds that came along with it. Faro players, who always made a habit of drifting toward dice games as well, would always hold a spot in Mason’s heart. They had to be wide-eyed, gullible, or full of themselves to keep playing a game that so clearly favored the house. Oftentimes, they were a smattering of all three, which meant they frequently lined the pockets of men in Mason’s line of work. What’s more, they were often drunk while at the table. Mason had been banking on that fact when he lied to Virgil’s face about standing beside him at the faro table the night before. Because Mason had been correct in his assumption, Virgil didn’t know enough to call his bluff and would most likely greet him like an old friend when they crossed paths again.
Smiling to himself, Mason turned on his heel and walked into the barber’s shop. “Looks like I’m next,” he announced.
The barber was sweeping his floor and didn’t look up. “You’re next,” he said. “Just as soon as I’m done cleaning and have some lunch. Come back in an hour or so.”
“Then maybe I should just go to the place down the street. I hear they’re more accommodating to their guests.”
“Down the street? What are you . . . ?” Finally looking up from his broom, the barber smiled broadly when he saw his customer’s face. “I should’ve known it was you, Abby! Most other men wouldn’t look like they just rolled out of bed at this time of day.”
“Most men who sleep on this boat as often as I do roll out of bed even later than this, Dell.”
“Yeah, but they look better than that.”
“Fair enough,” Mason said. “Can you help me freshen up or not?”
“For you, I’ll postpone my lunch.” He swept the pile of clipped hair toward the door and, when Mason stepped aside, through it. A few more strokes from the broom sent the clippings under the railing and over the side of the boat. Dell then turned around and marched back into his shop, where Mason was already making himself comfortable in the barber’s chair.
“What can you tell me about Mr. Slake?” Mason asked.
“You mean the fellow that just walked out of here?”
“That’s the one.”
Shrugging, Dell replied, “Not much, apart from the fact that he likes his hair cut shorter on the sides than on top. Why?”
“No reason.”
Dell draped a large white cloth over Mason’s chest and tied it around the back of his neck. “Something tells me I’m not the only one that’ll be fleecing that man.”
“Fleecing? Such an ugly term. You’re much better at your job than that!”
“I wasn’t referring to my job,” Dell said as he picked up a shaving brush, dipped it in lather, and painted it across Mason’s face. “I was talking about yours.”
“Oh. Well, then . . . you’d be correct.”
Picking up his razor, Dell said, “In that case . . . I may remember a thing or two about that fellow. Standard arrangement?”
“Five percent.”
“Make it seven.”
Everyone who worked on board the Delta Jack had at least one story attached to their name. Even the boy who dumped the chamber pots over the side was rumored to have taken part in some bit of nastiness involving a wayward soul. There were plenty of rumors swirling about in regard to Dell and his dealings with various men who’d sat in his chair. Having become acquainted with the stout man sporting a curved waxed mustache, Mason knew for certain that some of those rumors were true. Others, however, were simply too unsavory to fit a man of Dell’s character. Seeing the look in the barber’s eyes as he opened that razor, Mason thought he might have to reconsider some of his previous conclusions.
Mason raised an eyebrow but was careful not to turn his head. “Seven percent? He just looked like another faro player who comes aboard the Jack for a night or two of the sweet life.”
“Then you haven’t been paying attention. He mentioned a thing or two about some good money he brought along with him that was turned into something even better.”
“Surely you’ve worked on this boat long enough to know better than to believe the boastings of men who sit in this chair.”
“He flashed a fat wad of bills when he paid me,” Dell said while commencing his shave. “And he had no problem peeling off a mighty healthy gratuity for a simple haircut and shave.”
“Doesn’t exactly mean he’ll be so generous to another player. Even one as amicable as me.”
“No,” Dell admitted. He scraped a bit more from one cheek and then moved on to the other side. “But it does point to the idea that he may have even more money than that stashed away somewhere nearby. Maybe,” he said as he evened out Mason’s long sideburns, “even on his person or in his cabin.”
“Cabin?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Looking into the mirror on the wall in front of him, Mason watched the barber work. “Maybe he’s traveling with someone else who might have loaned him that money or could be watching over it for him?”
Dell shifted his attention to Mason’s neck. After making his first pass, he glanced up to meet his reflected gaze. “Didn’t bring anyone with him. As for the company he kept, that was limited to one of Greeley’s girls.”
“Which one?”
“Emma.”
Mason grinned.
When he saw that, Dell smirked as well before turning his focus back to his job.
“You sure it was Emma?” Mason asked.
“Oh yes. She was all he could talk about. Even mentioned the little heart-shaped mole on her—”
“That’s Emma all right. This is some good information, to be certain, Dell. Now that I’ve got it, though . . .”
“What makes it worth an extra couple of percentage points?”
“The question does seem like a good one.”
“First of all,” Dell replied as he set his razor down to pick up a pair of scissors, “there’s the implied trust between a man and his barber.” He began snipping Mason’s sideburns, getting close enough to severing an ear that a chill worked through Mason’s spine. “Have I ever steered you wrong, Abby?”
“Not yet, but you can do me a favor and stop calling me that.”
“Calling you Abby? It’s short for Abner.”
“I don’t care what it’s short for,” Mason said. “Actually nobody calls me Abner either.”
“Keep your mind on what’s important, friend,” Dell said. “I believe our Mr. Slake is sitting on enough money to make a couple extra percentage points more than worthwhile. And I haven’t told you all there is to tell.”
“What else is there?”
“His schedule, for starters. I’ve also got the names of a few friends of his that are sporting men.”
Keeping still as hair was clipped along the side of his head, Mason asked, “How might that be worth any extra pay?”
A man in a black suit walked past the door to the barber’s cabin. He had a slender redhead on one arm and barely took a passing interest in the little barbershop as he escorted her along the deck. Once those two were out of sight, Dell said, “I’m sure that kind of information can come in handy to someone who might want to know about any dealings Mr. Slake might be involved in that aren’t exactly . . . aboveboard. Perhaps . . . the same man who was talking him up not too long ago?”
Mason sighed. “You heard me talking to him outside?”
“Ears like a hawk, my friend,” Dell said as he tapped the side of his head.
“And a nose for business to go along with it.”
“You think any man can earn a decent living in a shop this size without making himself useful?” Dell asked.
Even when he was asleep, Mason rarely felt his thoughts slow to anything less than a roar inside his head. He’d imagined ways to wring some cash from Virgil Slake starting from the moment he’d seen Virgil’s enthusiasm at the faro table. There were few men who didn’t get measured up that way soon after crossing Mason’s path. Being on board the Delta Jack only made those wheels turn faster, which was why Mason loved being on that boat almost as much as he liked sleeping in his very own bed back home.
Getting on a stranger’s good side wasn’t much of a chore. Without that particular skill in his arsenal, Mason wouldn’t have lasted very long in the sporting life. Having an edge in that regard, be it some personal bit of information or the name of a trusted reference that couldn’t be easily checked, was as good as gold. If Slake truly did have a healthy stash of money somewhere on the Jack, Mason figured he could chalk up one mighty fine mark in the win column.
“Seven percent, huh?” Mason asked.
“Not a penny more,” the barber replied.
Chapter 2
Less than an hour later, Mason was again stepping out of his room on the upper deck. This time, however, stubble no longer covered his chin and his hair was neatly arranged. The suit into which he’d changed wasn’t only pressed, but was a darker shade of blue and his vest bore narrow horizontal stripes. A lively tune was on his lips as he walked down the hall and went to the outer walkway that skirted the entire middle deck. Once he could feel the damp air against his face, he slid one hand jauntily inside his jacket pocket and kept the other free to tip his hat to anyone he might meet on his way to the Missouri Miss Restaurant.
Since the Delta Jack had stopped briefly while Mason was changing his clothes, there was a good amount of activity on her first two decks. A few of those bustling about were workers putting away supplies that had been acquired, but most were men and women taking in the riverboat and trying to decide which comfort they would sample first. Mason could recall being one of those setting foot on the Jack for the first time, but just barely. Since he was more interested in his next meal than surveying potential targets, he maneuvered as quickly as possible through the milling crowd until he arrived at a long room toward the aft end of the boat.
The Missouri Miss wasn’t the fanciest restaurant on the Delta Jack, but it was preferred by most gamblers who called the riverboat their home away from home. There were no tables. There was just a single aisle between two counters that ran the length of the place and a door at either end. One counter was lower than the other and had several chairs where customers could sit to enjoy their meal while looking out the window toward the starboard side of the boat. The other counter was the same height as a saloon’s bar. Behind it was a pair of stoves and a chopping board where food was prepared. Any customers sitting there did so on stools, which was where Mason planted himself as soon as he walked in.
Less than half the seats were occupied at the moment, which meant he didn’t have to wait long before a tall woman with her hair tied back into a long braid acknowledged his arrival with a familiar smile. “You just wake up or just about to go to bed?” she asked.
“Just up,” Mason said.
She turned to the cook, who was a tall fellow wearing a greasy apron. Judging by the lack of meat on his bones, the man didn’t sample much of his own food. The woman with the braid said to him, “Bacon, grits, and burnt toast.”
Only then did the cook look up from the stovetop he was scraping clean to ask, “That Mason?”
“Sure is.”
The cook gave Mason a curt upward nod before wiping his hands on the front of his apron and stooping to retrieve a few strips of bacon from under the counter.
“Have any luck last night?” the woman asked.
Mason took off his hat and placed it on the counter to his left. “You weren’t with me, Bea. How could I get any unluckier than that?”
“You could’ve spent all day with her like I did,” the cook said.
Bea turned to look over her shoulder at the man standing by the stove. “Nobody asked you a thing!” Turning to Mason, she dropped her voice to something of a purr and said, “Go on.”
“I could go on all day long,” Mason replied. “But I doubt it’d get me anywhere with a beauty like you.”
“Never know until you try.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Right now all I can tell you is that I’m useless before I get my breakfast.”
She scowled at him before walking down to the other stove where a kettle was brewing. “Let’s start with coffee. After that, we can continue with all the sugary lies.”
“My pleasure,” Mason said.
After pouring him his coffee, Bea went around to top off the mugs of other customers before settling back into her regular spot a bit farther down the counter from where Mason was sitting.
When he looked down at his mug, Mason found that a single egg had been placed on the counter beside it. Picking it up, he looked over to Bea and was given a knowing smile along with a nod. Mason placed his other hand over his heart as his way of silently thanking her before cracking the egg against the rim of his mug and mixing the raw egg into his coffee.
Ever since the morning after he took his first sip of whiskey when he was fifteen, Mason had heard plenty of supposed cures for the headache following a night of overindulgence. Most of those cures involved consuming something that was so disgusting that it made a man consider forsaking liquor altogether. Some were nothing more than concoctions sold from the back of a crooked salesman’s wagon. All of them, however, had someone who swore by them, and the only one that Mason could swear to was the one he drank now.
Bea had introduced him to it on the same night he first introduced himself to her. Mason could carry his headaches well, but she’d had no trouble spotting the pain behind his eyes. Without any explanations needed, she’d given him some coffee and cracked an egg into it.
“Drink it,” was all she’d said.
When Mason drank it, he nearly spat it right back up again. “That is horrid!” he’d exclaimed. “It tastes like it’s at least a day old and . . . there’s egg in it!”
“Of course there’s egg in it. You watched me put it in there. And it’s not a day old. It’s three days old. Just drink the rest down and stop your whining.”
For some reason, Mason had done what he was told. By the time the mug was empty, he thought for certain he would vomit all over the counter. A minute or two after that, he was right as rain. From that point on, he swore by the unusual cure for his headaches.
Mason was still stirring his coffee when another man walked into the restaurant and took the stool beside him. When Mason lifted the spoon from his mug, a viscous string of egg connected it to the thick tarlike brew.
“Whatever that is,” said the man beside Mason as he pointed to the egg concoction, “don’t try to serve it to me.”
“What would you like?” the cook asked.
“Steak. Rare.”
“You want steak?” the cook replied. “Go to the steakhouse on the first deck.”
“What can you give me?”
“How about some beef stew?”
“Fine,” the man grunted. “Just make it quick.”
Mason took a long sip of his brew, swallowed it down, and then forced himself to have some more. “You want some advice?” he asked while letting that last gulp slide down his throat.
The man next to Mason looked over to him and said, “Yeah. I’ll take some advice.”
“Have a more cordial tone when you’re speaking to the man who’s fixing your food.”
“Thanks. I’d like something else while you’re at it.”
Mason took another drink and set the cup down. He’d recognized the man next to him as a player from one of the many card games the previous night. Propping an elbow on the counter, Mason shifted on his stool to face him.
“I’d like the money you owe,” the man said.
Squinting as he concentrated a little harder, Mason was still unable to come up with anything more than what he had done the first time. “Money? If I recall, both of us walked away from that table on the square.”
“You were drinking like a fish.”
Holding up his mug, Mason said, “I’ll admit to that much and am paying for it in spades.” When the other man didn’t crack so much as a portion of a smile, Mason said, “I’ll also admit to forgetting your name.”
“Winslow. Dave Winslow.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dave. Meet you again, that is.” Once more, Mason cracked a joke and laughed at it. Once again, Winslow stared back at him as if he were watching a patch of weeds sprout in his garden.
The cook broke some of the tension by stepping up to the counter directly across from Winslow and setting down a bowl of stew. He then dropped a spoon into it before grunting, “Anything else?”
“Not from you,” Winslow replied without taking his eyes off Mason.
The cook wasn’t about to be intimidated by the gruff tone in Winslow’s voice or the fire in his eyes. He simply grunted under his breath and got back to the pot that was steaming on the stovetop.
Now that Winslow’s food had been delivered, Mason thought he’d be granted at least a moment or two before having to resume the awkward conversation. Apparently that was setting his sights just a little too high.
“You owe some money,” Winslow said. “A healthy amount of it too. I reckon a man like you would remember as much, no matter how many whiskeys he tossed back.”
After downing the last of his thick, yet effective headache remedy, Mason put the mug down and said, “You’re absolutely right. I would remember something like that. If I have debts to pay, I pay them. Just ask anyone who knows me. As for you, however, I know for certain that I don’t owe you a thing.”
“You got me there, mister. You don’t owe me.”
Mason was taken aback by that, but more than a little relieved. “Oh. Well, then, I suppose that’s cleared up.”
“Not yet, it ain’t.”
“Of course not,” Mason sighed as he stared down at the dark muck coating the bottom of his mug. “Nothing’s ever that easy.”
“The money you owe is to a friend of mine,” Winslow said.
“Then tell him to find me and I’ll be sure to straighten this out.”
Winslow used his spoon to poke at his stew. After lifting a dripping portion to his mouth, he dribbled some onto his beard and then used the back of his hand to wipe it away. “You’ll deal with me.”
Mason shook his head and looked around. One of the things he normally liked about being on the Delta Jack was that most of the people on there with him were other gamblers who all lived by the same code. Unfortunately part of that code was that a man was left to tend to his own business whether it wound up good or bad. If things with Winslow took a turn for the worse, Mason would be on his own.
“At least tell me the name of this supposed friend of yours.”
Lifting the spoon to his mouth, Winslow said, “Ed Gifford,” and then took a bite of his stew.
“Ed Gifford?” Mason scoffed. “I never heard of . . . oh, wait. Does he go by Giff for short?”
“He does.”
Mason held back a wince as he recalled that he not only owed that man some money, but had won it from him under somewhat dubious circumstances. Keeping a straight face, he said, “This matter is between me and Giff, then. I’ll have a word with him later tonight and settle up with him myself.”
“That ain’t gonna happen. He was put off the boat at the last port.”
“Sorry to be callous, but that’s really not my concern.”
Winslow stood up and peeled back his jacket to reveal the gun strapped around his waist. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
Chapter 3
Mason stepped out of the Missouri Miss Restaurant and into the same balmy air he’d been enjoying not too long ago. This time, however, he was much too distracted by the man following behind him to enjoy the scenery.
“You don’t want to do this, friend,” Mason said. “Trust me.”
Winslow walked behind him with stew in his beard and a Colt in his hand. “I ain’t your friend and I sure as hell don’t trust you.”
“How long have you known Giff?”
“Long enough for him to ask me to collect this debt for him.”
When Mason turned around, he was jabbed in the belly by the barrel of Winslow’s Colt. For added measure, he was prodded hard enough to keep him moving toward the back end of the boat. “You don’t strike me as the sort of fellow who’d shoot an unarmed man.”
Winslow smirked. “You tellin’ me you’re unarmed?”
“I was merely having a drink to soothe my aching head. Why would I be—”
Mason was interrupted when Winslow reached out to pull open the jacket to Mason’s silk suit. The holster strapped under Mason’s left arm was clearly visible, as was the .44 Remington kept there.
“Not armed, huh?” Winslow grunted.
“I didn’t actually specify that I was the unarmed man in question. I just said I was there to soothe my aching head.”
“Yeah,” Winslow growled as he reached out to claim Mason’s weapon and drop it into the holster at his side. “And it’ll stop aching real quick once I break it open. Keep walking.”
As he turned and walked toward the aft end of the boat, Mason looked for anyone who might step in on his behalf. The deck was mostly deserted since the stages on the lower level were now featuring some of the prettiest dancing girls in the South. Any of the men Mason spotted were racing to claim their seat at one of the many card games being played throughout the riverboat. He knew he’d have better luck asking for a dog to kindly let go of a piece of raw meat, but he tried to appeal to one passing fellow’s sense of compassion by moving aside so he could show him the gun in Winslow’s hand. The man, another gambler whose name Mason couldn’t remember, merely shrugged and ducked through a door that took him into a blackjack parlor.
“Do you recall how much I’m supposed to owe Giff?”
“Four hundred dollars,” Winslow replied.
“And what if I pay the money directly to you?” Mason asked. “We can part ways as friends and Giff won’t be any the wiser. Surely he’s no stranger to being disappointed when one of his plans doesn’t bear any fruit.”
“Ain’t that simple.”
“It can be,” Mason assured him.
“Not if I ever want to get any more work like this.”
And then Mason understood what was going on. This wasn’t the performance of a friend or even a hired gun. It was an audition.
By this time, Mason was standing at a portion of the walkway that was as far back as one could go without dropping over the side. The serenity of being on the river was washed away by the churning rumble of the giant paddle wheel turning directly in front of him. After adjusting his jacket so it once again closed over his empty holster, Mason angled his hat to keep as much of the spray from the wheel out of his face as possible. “You want to be an overman?” he asked.
“Pay’s good,” Winslow replied. “Better than gambling anyway.”
“But the work itself is pretty nasty. You sure you’re cut out for it?”
“That’s what I’m here to find out.”
Overman was the name given to a small group of gunmen who kept the peace on board the Delta Jack. By necessity, every gambling boat had its own enforcers to put teeth into whatever house rules were in play. Without them, men running the games might as well hand their money out to any thieves who were bold enough to stick out their hands. An enforcer’s job was to cut those hands off at the wrist. The enforcers working on the Delta Jack had earned a reputation so fearsome that losing a hand or two had become infinitely more desirable than crossing them.
“So, who is Giff to warrant such special attention?” Mason asked. “Part owner of this boat?”
“Not hardly,” Winslow scoffed.
“An investor, perhaps?”
“Just give me the money.”
Having crossed his arms, Mason placed a finger on his chin and made a face as though he was contemplating one of the world’s great mysteries. “He must be someone important to catch the attention of a man like yourself.”
“I’m here to collect a debt. You either got it or you don’t.”
“How do I know you’re not just here to get the money for yourself?”
Winslow reacted to that question in much the same way that a large machine reacted to a wrench being tossed into its gears. “I already told you I was here for money. Are you deaf?”
“No. I mean, how am I supposed to believe that you’re here for Giff’s money? For all I know, you overheard him talking about the debt I owe to him and came along to pass yourself off as a collector. Saying you’re a prospective overman could just be a way to lend some credence to your story.”
As the wrench still worked its way through the machinery in his head, Winslow grimaced and grabbed hold of Mason’s throat. “I don’t give a damn what you decide about me. You’ll hand over that money right now!”
“Or what?” Mason asked.
“You’re trying my patience, mister.”
Despite the fact that he was dangling from an ever-tightening fist, Mason somehow managed to smirk as he said, “If you intend to police men like myself and others on this boat, you’re going to have to be well versed in making threats. If I was to grade your performance right now, I’m afraid I’d have to—”
Pinching Mason’s windpipe shut, Winslow snarled, “You’re about to be in more pain than you ever thought possible. That threatening enough for ya?”
“Actually,” Mason croaked, “that’s not bad.” After saying that, he grabbed hold of Winslow’s wrist with one hand while kicking the other man’s knee using the heel of his boot. When Winslow grunted in pain, Mason used his free hand to relieve him of his Colt. Rather than fire a shot with the pistol, Mason thumped it against Winslow’s ribs to loosen his grip.
Once he was able to pull free, Mason filled his lungs with a deep breath. “One should never harm another unless the situation calls for it,” he said while rubbing the tender skin on his neck. “Bad luck.”
“I’ll give you bad luck!” Winslow grunted as he charged forward like an enraged bull.
All Mason had to do was take a large step to one side to clear a path. As Winslow rushed past him, Mason dropped the pistol’s grip down like a hammer between Winslow’s shoulder blades. It was a quick, glancing blow that did more damage to Winslow’s pride than anything else. It also made his next few steps so wobbly that Winslow nearly tripped over the side and into the cold water below. Mason kept that from happening by quickly reaching out to grab the larger man’s belt.
“You might want to reconsider your employment options,” Mason said. “Seems you’re not exactly cut out for this sort of thing.”
Winslow placed both hands on the railing and pushed straight back. Since Mason still had a solid grip on his belt, Winslow found himself pulled off balance once more when he was swung toward the closest wall. He bounced off, staggered for a step or two, and then wheeled around to face Mason. Gritting his teeth through the pain that accompanied his next breath, Winslow said, “I’m gonna kill you!”
With a snap of his wrist, Mason sent the Colt he’d taken sailing through the air. A second later, the pistol hit the water with a heavy plunk. “You can try,” he said, “but it won’t be so easy.”
Winslow’s first instinct was to reach for his holster where he’d put Mason’s Remington for safekeeping. Mason lunged for that holster as well and got to it just as the Remington cleared leather. Both men struggled to gain control of the weapon, swinging the pistol toward a nearby window looking into a roomful of card tables before it was forced in another direction to point toward the river. Winslow grunted with the effort of pushing the gun back toward Mason, who quickly snapped his head aside so the gun was no longer pointed at his face. Instead it was pointed at the face of a portly gambler on the other side of the nearby window, who gawked at the gun barrel and promptly dropped to the floor and out of sight.
Mason could hear some small amount of commotion behind the wall that Winslow had run into a few moments ago, but he knew better than to think any help was on its way. At least, none that would arrive quickly enough to do him any good. Shifting his grip on the other man’s wrist, Mason dug his thumb into a tender spot as deep as it could go.
“Owww!” Winslow hollered. In less than a second, he couldn’t help opening his hand and letting go of the Remington.
As soon as the pistol hit the deck, Mason kicked it away. Although he eased up on his grip somewhat, it was only so he could twist Winslow’s arm around and bend it against the swing of the elbow.
When Winslow opened his mouth to let out another anguished groan, no sound emerged. His eyes were wide and his lips curled into an ugly sneer until he finally managed to suck in enough breath to clear some of the fog from his head. Winslow clenched both hands into fists. While he might not have been able to do much with the arm being held by Mason, he had plenty of options where the other was concerned. First, he delivered a chopping uppercut to Mason’s stomach. Then he cocked back that arm to swing a hooking punch to Mason’s jaw.
That second punch snapped Mason’s head to one side, but hurt him less than the first, which had forced a good portion of the breath from his lungs. He tried his best to hang on to Winslow’s right wrist. That proved to be impossible, however, when Winslow grabbed onto his own hand and pulled it back like a lever. He quickly pried himself loose and took a few staggering steps backward.
Since his holster was empty, Winslow reached for the other hip, where a hunting knife hung from a scabbard. By the time he’d taken hold of the thick bone handle, another smaller blade was already whistling through the air. Mason’s arm had snapped forward like a whip and the little blade flew from his hand as though it had been shot from his fingertips.
Winslow might not have been able to see the blade as anything but a glinting flicker, but he could feel it as it sliced through the meat in his forearm. Out of reflex, he jerked that hand to the side, which also caused him to toss the hunting knife he’d just pulled. The larger blade clattered noisily against the deck while the smaller one stuck into the railing a couple of paces behind Winslow. In response to the surprised expression on Winslow’s face, Mason smirked and shrugged one shoulder.
“I’ve got enough blades on me to do this all night long if that’s your game,” Mason lied.
Apparently his bluff was good enough to keep Winslow from trying to make a grab for the knife he’d inadvertently tossed. Instead he dropped to one knee and pulled up the cuff of his pants to reveal a holster concealed in that boot.
Mason lifted his shirt from where it was tucked into the front of his trousers so he could get to the pistol that was stashed there. The handle and cylinder were that of a.44 Remington very similar to the one that had already been taken from him. When he drew the gun from where it had been stashed, the second Remington proved to be very different from its brother. It had been sawed off just over an inch from the trigger guard, which allowed Mason to move freely while it had been concealed. That freedom of movement, however, came at a price.
Mason pulled his trigger, aiming several inches to the left of the man in front of him. Rather than send a shot wide where it would either take a chunk out of the railing or possibly get lodged into the paddle wheel, the bullet tore into Winslow’s shin just below his knee.
At first, when Winslow dropped his gun, he couldn’t make a sound. All the color drained from his face and he gulped for his next breath. As soon as he grabbed his bloody shin, he found his voice and let it fly with a warbling cry. His head craned all the way back and then drooped forward. Crumpling like a wilted flower, Winslow flopped over onto his side. After that, he was in no condition to do much of anything as Mason stepped forward to search him for any other weapons.
“Y-you killed me,” Winslow groaned.
Having found nothing of note on Winslow’s person, Mason kept the sawed-off Remington in an easy grip while hunkering down to the other man’s level. “I did no such thing,” he said. “It just feels that way. Perhaps you’ll reconsider what I mentioned before about you choosing another line of work.”
“I—I need a doctor.”
“You sure do,” Mason said while walking over to the railing where his knife had been stuck. The narrow blade was a bit longer than two inches, and its double-ring handle was only slightly shorter. Once the knife was in his hand again, Mason slipped a finger through one of the rings between the handle and blade and set the dagger to spinning. It was a finely balanced weapon that was as familiar to him as part of his own body. With an occasional wiggle of the finger around which the blade spun, he kept it twirling in a glinting display of sunlight reflecting off sharpened steel.
“I’d recommend waiting until we get to the next port,” Mason said. The dagger fit into a scabbard hidden at the small of his back. Once it was in its place again, Mason didn’t even feel it there. “I’m sure the captain wouldn’t mind making a stop at the next town whether it’s on the agenda or not.” Dropping his voice a bit, Mason added, “I’d avoid the boat’s doctor if I were you. He drinks most of the laudanum in his stores and doesn’t have very steady hands.”
Winslow nodded meekly. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Just . . . get me . . . offa this boat.”
Tucking the Remington back into place beneath his belt against his belly, Mason asked, “Are those the extent of your manners?”
“Get me offa this boat . . . please?”
