Читать книгу Parade of the Empty Boots - Charles Alden Seltzer - Страница 9

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Judge Lew Marston’s den was in the rear of the house, on the first floor, and when the door was closed, as it was after Stoddard and Weldon entered, the noise of the party was completely shut out.

Judge Marston was the patriarchal gentleman Stoddard had seen on the lawn. You knew he was a gentleman when you stood looking into the keen, calm eyes with their kindly, appraising gleam as he shook hands with you firmly, warmly. You felt he liked you, thought Stoddard, though for what reason you couldn’t guess. The judge was sixty perhaps, and you knew that his fine old head, with its wealth of gray hair, was occupied by a brain that was in the habit of thinking. He reminded you of Calhoun, or Jefferson or Jackson, as he invited you to be seated and took a chair opposite you, and you were instantly at ease. Stoddard observed the quiet deference of Weldon’s manner, and he did not take a chair until after the judge was seated.

“Mr Stoddard—Judge Lew Marston,” said Weldon. The judge acknowledged the introduction, adding: “It gives me pleasure to extend to you the hospitality of my house, Mr Stoddard. You are a brave man, sir.”

“I do my best, Judge.”

“Your best was admirable, sir. I watched you. A fine performance, sir. Not once did you show the white feather. You brought Marie Villers important news. Yet you intended riding away without telling her. After she embarrassed you by laughing at you before her guests, you declined to humble her publicly. That is true, isn’t it?”

“I did not blame the lady, Judge. She was frightened by my appearance. A desert scarecrow.”

“But she doesn’t frighten so easily, Mr Stoddard. She was startled. Thrilled, sir. She laughed to conceal it. That was why I sent Evan Weldon after you. Tomorrow, alone, she will treat you differently.”

“Tomorrow I shall be on my way back to where I came from,” said Stoddard.

“Tomorrow morning, after you have shaved and made yourself presentable, you will call upon Marie Villers,” said the judge.

“What makes you think so, sir?”

“I saw you watching Marie Villers. You love her. You were disappointed in her, but you did not lose hope. I think even Slade Forbush could not drive you away. That is true, isn’t it?”

Evan Weldon smiled at Stoddard. “You will not be the first who has lingered near her,” he said.

“She has treated them all alike until now,” said the judge.

Why are these men so interested in me? thought Stoddard. They’re gentlemen; they are trying to be polite and courteous. Yet they have some purpose which they have not yet divulged. They are not mind readers, and they can’t know what I think. Yet the judge is right. I did think of leaving here, but I knew I would stay. I intend seeing her again.

“Probably you think it strange that I am taking an interest in you,” said the judge, as if he read Stoddard’s thoughts. “But it isn’t strange. I am Marie Villers’ guardian and I am interested in every young man who looks at her. Men—especially a man like you, Mr Stoddard—do not play the role of uninvited guest without some good reason. Undoubtedly your reason is a good one.”

“You remind me of my plain duty,” said Stoddard. “As the lady’s guardian, you are entitled to my confidence.” He drew the package of papers from the inside pocket of his vest, placed it on a table at his elbow; stood up, unbuckled his cartridge belt, removed it and placed it on the table, together with the big Colt in its black leather holster. The money belt containing the three thousand dollars in gold double eagles followed, but not until the gun belt and gun were again around his waist did Stoddard empty the money belt of its contents, the judge and Evan Weldon watching him in silence as he stacked the gold pieces in gleaming columns. Then he told them the story of Pierre Villers’ murder, the subsequent killing of the murderer and the finding of the letters and papers. He did not mention the photograph. He’d keep that. He did not tell them of his quixotic impulses, but he frankly answered Judge Marston’s questions.

“Dollarbill McCarthy,” mused Judge Marston. His eyes gleamed. He sighed. “A fighter. A dead shot. The West has some picturesque characters. A cognomen ‘Dollarbill’ symbolizes an incident in Mr McCarthy’s life, I presume.”

“Dollarbill McCarthy is a hard-money man, sir. He once killed a man because the man offered him a paper dollar which Dollarbill refused to regard as money.”

“Men have been killed for less in Mississippi recently,” said the judge. He studied Stoddard’s face. “As peace officer in the Neutral Strip you had no sinecure. The Neutral Strip has produced more desperate outlaws than any other section of the country.”

“With the exception of Mississippi, sir,” said Weldon.

“Yes,” sighed Judge Marston. “The war did that to us. There exists a state of affairs which we all deplore but which, so far, we have been unable to clarify. The war ruined the South, sir. It has left us staggering in chaos. Our problem is one of reconstruction, of striving to regain a perspective in which law and order will assume their proper proportion. To some degree you have the same problem in the West—in the Neutral Strip. How do you handle it?”

Stoddard tapped his holster, and the judge smiled.

“That’s the way our fire-eaters plan to work it out,” said the judge. “I may secretly agree with them, and I do, but I represent the law here and I may not allow my prejudices to interfere with justice. You are not interested, of course, because you are a stranger here, but if you stay here only a few days you should be warned. During the war a colony of riffraff from Kingston and other West India ports settled near the delta swamplands of New Orleans. They were a nondescript lot, mostly French and English. They had been pirates, blockade-runners, thieves of high-handed caliber. Murder was their trade, and for some months they ruled the New Orleans water front. A troop of Confederate soldiers ran them out of New Orleans in the spring of 1865. By stages the colony moved up-river to a spot near Greenville, some distance south of here. They lived by thieving from plantation owners and by piracy on the river. They are now ravaging this section and have become so bold and rapacious that they are threatening the very foundations of our social life. No man’s life is safe. His property vanishes overnight.”

Stoddard thought of Allie Tuttle, of how Forbush and his men had taken possession of the Tuttle property after dispossessing the owners. The judge had not overstated the situation. Only Allie Tuttle’s courage had saved her from becoming a victim of Forbush’s brutality.

“I have two reasons for burdening you with our troubles,” continued the judge. “The first is that you are an officer of whatever law there is in the Neutral Strip, and as such you may be able to advise us. The second reason is that you are interested in Marie Villers, whose fortune and perhaps future life are involved. I know you are interested in her, because you personally brought her uncle’s belongings. You could have forwarded them.”

The judge had been examining the package of papers brought by Stoddard. He had them spread out upon the tabletop and now he looked at Stoddard, faintly smiling.

“Marie told me she had sent her Uncle Pierre a photograph of herself with her last letter to him. The photograph isn’t here. Do you know what became of it?”

The sly old devil, thought Stoddard. He still remembered his own youth, and he was able to distinguish between warp and woof in the fabric of life and human nature. And he knows I won’t lie about it, thought Stoddard. He was caught. The judge had leaned back in his chair and was studying Stoddard’s face. Even Weldon could not hide his broad grin with the hand he had placed over his lips. His eyes gleamed with delight and approbation.

“It is a common contagion, I assure you, Mr Stoddard,” he said. “I carried her picture myself, close to my heart, until—until I was certain there was no hope for me.”

“It’s the first time I’ve been that kind of a fool,” confessed Stoddard. He looked at the judge. “Am I to understand that there was a time in your life when you treasured a photograph, Judge Marston?”

“We all carry them, sir,” laughed the judge. “In our pockets or in our memories. Take the romance out of a man and he becomes a clod. I congratulate you, sir.”

When Marie Villers had rebuked Stoddard, he had thought it was all over. It was not all over. With her it was all over perhaps. But not with him. He would stay near her until he won her or until there would be no further use of his hoping. Judge Marston continued:

“You have read Marie’s letter to her Uncle Pierre. It was your duty to do so, of course. And you know she mentioned Vauchain and Craftkin, and Asa Calder—the man who killed her father. These men have a great many followers. They are powerful, cunning and unscrupulous. They pack the juries and obstruct justice. Yet they are not nearly so dangerous as Slade Forbush. It is Forbush you will have to be careful of, if you stay around here. Forbush is a swaggering soldier of fortune. He maintains the outward appearance of a gentleman. He dresses the part. He is a gambler and a libertine. If the husband of a woman he wants objects to his attentions to the wife he challenges him to a duel and kills him. If there is no husband, so much the worse for the girl.” Judge Marston hesitated. His cheeks paled; his eyes grew bleak. “Now he has turned his attention to Marie. She despises him, yet he persists. He is here tonight, Mr Stoddard, and when Marie rebuked you his laughter was loudest.”