Читать книгу The Iron Mistress - Paul Iselin Wellman - Страница 19

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Bowie found a very respectful Henri Pinchon awaiting him. The gentleman desired another pallet in his room? But certainly. Quarters for the slave? On learning that what apparently was a raw field hand in reality was a skilled house servant, Henri had a proposal. He could employ Sam in the dining room, thus defraying the extra cost of Audubon’s lodgings. Bowie accepted.

But when they went up to their third-flight room, Nez Coupé was still snorting. “These peoples—nom du chien—too much talk, bah! Lots of time Cajun fight—sometime with gun—sometime with feet—la savate—sometime with knife. Like this——” He indicated his scarred visage. “Auguste Cabet—he give me that one. Good frien’, Auguste.”

“Good friend when he did that to thee?” asked Audubon.

“Oh, Auguste like me plenty.” Nez Coupé laughed merrily, as if a disfigured nose was a small matter. “We drunk that time we fight. Me, I fix Auguste so he have stiff arm always. Good fight, that one. An’ no talk—like here.” Nez Coupé went through a ridiculous little mincing routine of bows and posturings, meantime repeating such words as he could remember of the formal utterances he had heard. “Monsieur. We arrange term. We have priv’lege. He reques’ we inform you. Permit us. Magna-magnam—what is this word? Bah!” His scarred face was contemptuous. “Big word get nowheres. Auguste an’ me—we get plenty drunk. We fight. No big word. When we get well, we go hunt together like before. We make lots of fun, us.”

Bowie sat moodily silent.

“What ails thee, James?” asked Audubon.

“Nothing.”

“Assuredly something does.”

“I’ve been a fool.”

“In what manner?”

“In every way a man could, I reckon.” Bowie gave a short laugh.

“How so? The outcome of the quarrel was most happy——”

“I’m not even thinking about that. This afternoon’s what’s eating me. It just come over me what a trap Janos Parisot led me into. Played on my sympathies—the old reptile—until I ruined any chance I had for a good deal—obligated myself for everything I own and more—went into debt for fifteen hundred dollars—and all to buy a nigger I’ve got no more use for than a second set of teeth!”

“Why did thee do it, James?”

Bowie thought back. He had not acted entirely without plan. A sudden secret scheme had suggested itself, endowing him with that surprising calmness in talking to Parisot. But already he was realizing how hare-brained that scheme was. Too ridiculous even to mention.

“I couldn’t stand seeing Carter’s Sam cut to pieces any longer by that damned overseer!” he said.

Audubon smiled, “Thee be a kindly man, James.”

“Hell! I’d have done the same for a horse or dog!”

“And would be kindly still.”

For a moment Bowie stared at Audubon. An odd harsh look came into his eyes. “You don’t understand me, I reckon. I took one nigger away from Parisot. But I undertook to give him two back. What about the other two?”

The artist’s smile faded.