Читать книгу Woman in Ambush - Rex Beach - Страница 10

Table of Contents

DAYLIGHT FOUND the two men still talking. Although Ronnie showed evidences of the ordeal he had undergone, he seemed calmer; his spasms of physical discomfort had diminished. What troubled him most was the fact that his mind was still confused and his memory was unreliable. Like an alcoholic whose delirium had just broken, he was unable with certainty to separate the real from the imaginary, and there were gaps in the sequence of events which he could not seem to fill in, and these further perturbed him.

“Quit thinking about it,” Jim advised. “You got yourself out of a bear trap but it gave you a bad scare; let it go at that. I should have realized what was going on but you seemed so sure of yourself that I figured you knew Rondo for what she is.”

“I did suspect. But for that matter, I thought I knew myself, too. I didn’t dream I’d lose my balance.”

Abruptly the Lark said, “It’s time we got out of here.”

“You mean leave New Orleans?” Jim nodded. “Why?”

“We’re in a swamp, Ronnie, and there’s no bottom under us. Let’s back out before we bog down.”

“Oh, no! We’re doing all right. I’m having the time of my life.”

“For a smart kid, you come close to being a half-wit.” Jim was impatient. “That woman is dangerous as rattlesnake spit. It took her a while to make up her mind to go for you; then you ran out on her and left her screaming. You hurt her pride and she’d rather have her throat cut. She could have yours cut, too, and she isn’t above doing it.”

Angrily Ronnie exploded, “To hell with her and her pride! I have a little myself. Wouldn’t it sound pretty to hear those fellows at the Palace say, ‘Ronnie Le Grand doesn’t come here any more. He quarreled with that woman and she ran him out of town.’ ”

“Would it sound any better if they said, ‘One of those bodies they found in the Delta last week was his. The fat one was Jim Larkin’s?’ ”

“Be sensible,” Ronnie pleaded. “She couldn’t hold anything against you. As for me, I’ve made a name for myself here, and I’m enjoying the life.”

Slowly Jim shook his head. “I’m sorry I took a shine to you. I was a fool to teach you to play cards.”

“Why?”

“You don’t belong, that’s all. Gambling is a good business for men who can’t make a living at anything else, or who are too shiftless to try. I’m one. But you’re not like me. Last night should show you where the business leads to.”

“That’s a little vague, Jim.”

“Ever think of getting married?”

“No!” With a forceful gesture, Ronnie dismissed the very idea.

“You will, sometime; then it’ll be too late—unless you pick some painted trollop out of a cathouse. I don’t think you’d do that but there won’t be any other choice for Ronnie Le Grand the gambler.”

“You told me once that you didn’t preach. You’re really pretty good at it. Perhaps I like cards because there are only four women in the deck. Well, I can get along without any others. Quit? No, I’m not going to run away from my luck. You warned me about that yourself. Don’t let’s think of going.”

Although Ronnie remained stubbornly determined to stay in New Orleans, he soon came to the conclusion that this agreeable adventure had ended and that his fun was over, for McPhee told him frankly that evening that his presence at the Palace, either as an employee or as a patron, was no longer welcome. The proprietor spoke with evident reluctance; nevertheless he was firm.

“If I were you, I’d move on.” The warning was accompanied by a significant stare.

“This isn’t the only gambling place in the city.”

“Certainly not. But none of us can live without Rondo; she takes her cut from all of us. She let you in; now she’s let you out.” McPhee continued to eye him bleakly. “Don’t be a sucker, kid. This is a yellow fever town; you can find healthier places and it’s like the doctors say, a man’s health is all that counts.”

When Ronnie repeated this conversation to the Lark, the latter made no comment. He merely opened a bureau drawer and began removing his limited possessions. That evening he and his companion boarded a train, and New Orleans knew them no more.

Although Ronnie had seen the Mississippi only on his way south, that brief glimpse of the life it supported had fascinated him. As for the Lark, it was his home. Since it was the River upon which they must depend for a livelihood, the two fled only far enough upstream to feel safe from the wrath of Madame Rondo.

That journey, brief as it was, indicated why boat travel was still popular among those not driven solely by haste. Railway roadbeds, at that time, were not what they are now; cars were crowded and dirty and either too hot or too cold. Changes were frequent and delays were common; railroad eating places were so poor that most people carried their own food.

How different this was from the commodious river boats where one enjoyed restful nights and every meal was a banquet, served by friendly and attentive darkies. There was room to move about and there was no dirt, no cinders, no discomfort. Fashionably dressed men and women walked the upper promenades or entertained themselves in the richly appointed salons and lounge rooms. There was music, merriment, and all that went to make travel a high adventure. Those proud packets, with their heaven kissing stacks and enormous, whirling paddle wheels were graceful and handsome creations. By night, incandescent with lights, they presented a spectacle even finer than by day.

In places, the river channel was crooked and treacherous, and there the levees were lighted by beacons set on posts, like city street lamps. Although these lights were carefully ranged for the guidance of pilots, the towboats with their unwieldy rafts of barges usually nosed into the bank at dark and made their hawsers fast to sycamores and cottonwoods until dawn. The blazing packets, however, tore on through the night at top speed.

Jim and Ronnie made their headquarters first in one river port, then in another. Most of their time was spent in travel. Usually they accompanied each other but sometimes they went in opposite directions and did not meet for a week or more. They seldom journeyed above St. Louis; by mutual agreement, they never went below Baton Rouge.

Professional gamblers worked these boats, as they had done for years, and while they did not look on Larkin as an interloper, they were somewhat less than cordial to his youthful companion whose reputation had preceded him. They were skeptical of the latter’s skill and curious to test it. Having done so, they envied his luck.

Some travelers, of course, thought he was a sad example, and they looked on him with distrust, but he was no less pleasant to those who disapproved of his calling than he was to those who admired him for it. He was never forward; in fact, he was almost retiring and, in spite of his fine clothes and personable manners, he made no effort to meet strangers.

That was especially so with regard to women, either young or old, plain or attractive. He seemed to avoid them, but when they sought an introduction, which was not infrequently, they pronounced him charming, fascinating, and modest.

When encouraged to do so, he could recite most of the dramatic events which had occurred along the river and he could describe them in a way that made them live. He was familiar with every major campaign of the Civil War, every land battle and naval engagement which had taken place in this part of Dixie. Although he was a Yankee, his admiration for the resourcefulness and gallantry of the Confederate forces made friends of his Southern listeners. To Memphis-bound passengers, for instance, he would describe the Battle of the Rams vividly. It was, he assured them, the strangest, the most spectacular naval engagement in the history of warfare, up to then—a battle to the death between especially built ships; armed with enormous hawklike beaks, the purpose of which was to pierce the very entrails of their enemies and tear them out. He could indicate the precise place where those monsters, emerging from the mists of dawn, had rushed together, at full speed, head on.

Unlike other warcraft, it was not the function of these queer battleships to bombard, to maneuver, and to retreat, if necessary. They were suicide ships, unarmed except for their murderous prows; their crews consisted of desperate fellows unafraid to die; the sole purpose for which they had been built was to attack, under full power, and destroy or be destroyed. That had been a fierce and furious encounter and its outcome, hinging lately upon chance, had decisively affected the later course of the war.

Many thought it odd indeed that a young man possessed of such an intellectual background should have become a professional gambler. He was unlike the usual betting man, both in appearance and in deportment. He never joined a card game unless or until he was invited. When such an invitation came, it was never refused, and once the game, whatever it might be, was under way, he made it plain that he played to win. He never seemed bored, listless, or inattentive; he was watchful, alert, and wholly absorbed in what he was doing. He wooed his luck with fervent ardor. His uncanny “feeling” for cards enabled him to press his winnings to the limit and to minimize his losses. These latter were seldom large, for when the cards did not run his way, he played them tightly and with caution.

Life went on smoothly but Ronnie and Jim often spoke regretfully of New Orleans; they felt like exiles. Jim’s uneasiness persisted, though he seldom referred to Madame Rondo. He was well aware that she still remained more than a disagreeable memory to his young friend. He knew, also, that her sensitive fingers were in touch with the pulse of the Mississippi sporting world and that her long arm reached, or could reach, to the head of navigation. He wondered often whether she would be content to let things run as they were running. To him, it seemed unlikely.

Then the Lark went north for a week or two. Ronnie had boarded a southbound steamer. They planned to meet again in St. Louis, but on Ronnie’s way back from Baton Rouge disaster overtook him. Early one evening, shortly after the packet had pulled out of Natchez, a stranger by the name of Gutierrez introduced himself. He was civil and well dressed.

“I’m organizing a sociable little game,” he said. “I have three other gentlemen interested. Would you care to make the fifth?”

Gladly Ronnie responded, “My name is Le Grand.”

Mr. Gutierrez smiled faintly. “We know who you are, but we can afford to lose a little something, and would like to have the pleasure of playing with the famous Ronnie Le Grand.”

“That’s very flattering.”

“You’re considered the best cardplayer on the River and the luckiest, too. Being superstitious, I’d like to feel your hump.”

Ronnie laughed and followed his interlocutor. On their way aft, Mr. Gutierrez made it known that he traveled for a New Orleans hardware house; the other players were strangers to him but one of them he understood was a wealthy planter. The cardroom, one of several, opened upon the promenade deck. It was furnished with a round, cloth-covered table, comfortable chairs and several spittoons. In one corner stood a small bar counter, equipped with trays and glasses for the use of stewards, or for the convenience of such exacting patrons as chose to prepare their own liquid refreshments.

The waiting men greeted Ronnie civilly but with reserve; they eyed him curiously. They made known their names and one of them explained that, with an idle evening on their hands, they could not employ it to better advantage than by investigating the high cost of two pairs.

Shortly after the five had seated themselves, the door opened to admit still another passenger, a big man who addressed Gutierrez, saying, “Hello, T. G.! I seen who you had in tow.” He tilted his head in Ronnie’s direction, “So I had to come in and watch the fun.”

Gutierrez made the newcomer known as Dave Crouch and asked, “Don’t you want to sit in? It won’t cost you much.”

Mr. Crouch shifted his sizable cud of tobacco and shook his head.

“I can’t afford the expense, T. G., but I’d dearly love to watch you all pitch them paper horseshoes.”

“Okay!” T. G. assented. “Only put the hook on that door, or the place will be crowded with standees. Everybody’s curious about you, Mr, Le Grand.”

It turned out to be an odd game. For one thing, Ronnie quickly realized that he was not in the company of amateurs, and that the names and occupations of his opponents must be fictitious. Such deceit was not unusual, for gamblers, like wartime privateers, often sailed under false colors. What did mystify him, however, was their apparent indifference and lack of teamwork. If they were bent on whipsawing him, they didn’t show it. Actually he won several hands almost too easily and none of the others manipulated the cards in a way to which he could take exception. They had little to say and it was Gutierrez who kept the conversation going.

The evening passed slowly, uneventfully. The burly Mr. Crouch continued to look on, but he made few comments. Ronnie noted, however, that in spite of the fact that the room was supplied with cuspidors, Crouch occasionally rose from his chair, unhooked the door, then leaned out and spat upon the deck. Obviously it was not a maneuver prompted by good manners; Ronnie wondered if the fellow awaited the arrival of somebody. If so, who could it be? He decided finally that he didn’t care to remain and see; accordingly he stifled a yawn or two, then announced casually that he was tired and would beg to be excused. As he spoke, he pocketed his winnings and arose. His action, although deliberate, was evidently unexpected; the players looked at him queerly. As he turned to leave the table, Crouch stood up and moved in front of the door. The latter spoke to Gutierrez.

“It’s all clear. No use waiting any—”

Crouch did not finish his sentence for Ronnie hit him in the face, driving him completely off balance. Simultaneously, the cardplayers leaped to their feet; the cotton planter, who had been seated next to Ronnie, seized him from behind.; He did not undertake to drag the boy away from his victim, he merely pinned his arms behind him, then cried sharply, “Be quick, T. G. Let him have it.”

Ronnie sensed what was about to happen, and writhed and twisted furiously, but he could not free himself. This sudden, frantic effort upon his part, he reasoned later, probably spared him a fractured skull. He remembered later that as he and the planter wrestled he dimly saw Gutierrez poised upraised arm; in his hand was a leather-covered blackjack, the sort of “billy” used by police officers—a silent but murderous weapon.

It was the last thing Ronnie Le Grand remembered; he did not even feel the shock of the blow which descended. The planter released his hold, Ronnie’s inert body slumped to the floor and the five men listened for sounds from the adjoining cardrooms. None of them spoke. Gutierrez rifled the victim’s pockets, tossed the contents upon the table, then motioned to Crouch. The latter unhooked the door and stepped out but immediately re-entered, closed the door behind him, and vigorously shook his head. “Not yet,” he murmured, then felt his bleeding lips and cursed, inaudibly. Again the five men waited, listening.

“Better sap him again,” one of them advised, but Gutierrez said, “What’s the use?”

By-and-by the lookout left the cabin for a second time, returning to announce, “It’s all right, but we better make haste.”

Five pairs of hands seized Ronnie’s body, bore it swiftly across the deserted promenade deck to the rail and cast it overboard. Gutierrez likewise threw his blackjack into the night.

The group re-entered the cardroom and seated themselves at the table. Gutierrez shuffled and dealt a hand. He spoke finally: “He simply pulled out early and went to bed. Understand? We reckoned a gentleman’s game like ours was too tame for Ronnie Le Grand. One nice thing about a jack, it don’t leave evidence to wash up.”