The Dawn of Fury (22 page)

“By God,” Nathan said, “They're there! In New Orleans!”

“Who's in New Orleans?” Eulie asked.

“Tobe Snider and Virg Dillard,” said Nathan. “But for the one I found in Missouri, I'd lost track of the murdering varmints I'm lookin' for. Now I know there's two of them in New Orleans. Here, read this.”

Eulie took the newspaper and found the brief story that had excited Nathan. Snider and Dillard were identified as a pair of killers who had been linked to French Stumberg, the man behind a New Orleans gambling empire. The killers, as the newspaper referred to them, had been freed by the courts through the influence of Stumberg. There was no more, but that was enough.

“We ride out at first light tomorrow,” Nathan said.

“Like hell we do,” Eulie replied. “Lieutenant Pilkington said you should have a month to recover from your wounds. You've had just half that.”

“It's my damn carcass,” said Nathan, “and I reckon I know when it's able to ride. I've been all the way across Texas without accomplishing anything except bein' hogtied by you and gettin' myself shot. Now I know where two of those murdering sidewinders are, and by God, I'm going after them.”

But Lieutenant Pilkington warned him about opening his wounds by riding before they had properly healed, and Nathan grudgingly agreed to wait another week.

On October first, Nathan and Eulie rode out of Corpus Christi. Cotton Blossom ranged ahead, and with Nathan leading the packhorse, they rode northeastward, following the shoreline.

“Do you aim to stop along the way?” Eulie asked. “There's Houston.”

“I don't aim to stop anywhere in Texas,” said Nathan. “Like Bean told us, it's time to ride on, and now I have a damn good reason.”

Nathan and Eulie passed to the north of Houston, spending their nights on the plains of east Texas beside spring or creek. There was an excitement in Nathan that he found hard to contain, but he was often sobered by something in Eulie's eyes—a despondency—that got to him. She would be with him but a few more months, and when she was gone, that haunting look in her eyes would follow Nathan Stone down every lonely trail he would ride ...

Nathan and Eulie crossed the Mississippi twenty-five miles south of Natchez.

“When we reach New Orleans,” Eulie said, “we should find us a boardinghouse, with a stable for the horses.”

“I aim to,” said Nathan. “Since these two skunks I'm after seem to be under the wing of a big-time gambler, it may take me a while just reaching the varmints.”

Nathan and Eulie had followed the Mississippi, and their first sight of New Orleans was the western outskirts, which soon would become known as the Garden District. There were no shops, saloons, or hotels, for much of it was residential, with stately two-story dwellings shaded by live oak and magnolia trees. The first identifiable street they reached was St. Charles. They rode for what seemed half a mile before reaching a cross street, which a faded sign said was seventh.

“Damn,” Nathan grumbled, “we should have stayed with the river. This is too highfalutin' for boardinghouses and hotels.”

“I think we should shy away from the river,” said Eulie. “I don't know how it is here, but I talked to a drummer once who had come from St. Louis. He said every drunk, thief, and killer in town always hangs out near the river.”

“My kind of people,” Nathan said. “We'll ride on for another mile or two, and if we don't soon see a boardin'-house or hotel, we'll ride south, back toward the river.”

St. Charles looked like a boulevard into what seemed more and more of a residential area. Virtually all the homes were two story, many of them taking refuge behind what appeared to be stately marble columns, the whole surrounded by well-kept grounds and spreading oaks. Graceful palms hung their heads over the wide street, offering shade from the October sun. A buckboard, drawn by an aging gray horse, approached and passed them. A fashionably dressed woman held the reins in her left hand, an open parasol in her right, and seemed not to notice the pair of dusty riders and their packhorse. Cotton Blossom took offense, trotting after the buckboard, barking.

“Cotton Blossom,” Nathan said, “stop that. Come here.”

The hound obeyed, not in the least repentant, and gave Nathan a curious look. Eulie laughed.

“I reckon he's never seen anything the equal of that,” she said.

“My God,” said Nathan, “neither have I. I can't imagine anybody gettin' all frocked up like that. This ain't Sunday, is it?”

“No,” Eulie replied. “It's Thursday, I think. Tarnation, if they dress like that in the middle of the week, what
do
they wear on Sunday?”

“I don't know,” said Nathan. “If we dig in here for a while and get all civilized, I reckon that's what you'll be wearing. Just promise me you won't tote a parasol when it ain't even rainin'. That looks foolish as hell.”

“If I thought you was serious,” she said, “I'd shoot you. That's just about the way my daddy thought a woman should get herself up, if she ever had any hope of snaring a man. Me, I always reckoned that if a man had to fight his way past four petticoats and pantaloons, he'd just say the hell with it.”

Nathan laughed. “You don't want to be a lady, then.” “I tried not to be for thirty years, but I reckon I would rather be a woman. In private, anyhow.”

“The next decent-looking cross street we come to,” Nathan said, “I think it's time we cut back toward the river. If we don't find the kind of place we're lookin' for, there should be somebody we can ask. In this fancy neck of the woods, we're likely to be shot, just on general principles.”

They rode south on Eutarpe, and nine blocks later, found themselves within sight of the Mississippi. As Nathan had expected, there were warehouses, eateries, saloons, and bawdy houses strung out along the river as far as he could see. Far ahead, where the Mississippi fed into the Gulf, the masts of sailing ships were visible.

“I doubt we'll find decent quarters by asking directions at a saloon or whorehouse,” said Nathan. “Let's try one of these warehouses. Where there's wagons backed up, there'll be bullwhackers.”

Finding a wagon that had just been loaded, they approached the grizzled old man who was preparing to mount the box.

“Pardner,” Nathan said, “we're lookin' to be here a spell. With three horses and a dog, we're needin' a decent boardinghouse instead of a hotel. Can you point us in the right direction?”

“You're lookin' fer the McQueen place, out on Bayou Road,” the teamster said. “Barnaby stables hosses fer town folks. He raises hosses, trains ‘em, an' races 'em. Bess, his wife, keeps a boardin' house mostly fer hoss folks that's here fer the races. Ride east fer maybe a mile, takin' a left on Iberville. Take a right after six blocks, follerin' Rampart two mile. Look fer a sign that'll say Bayou Road. There's a sign pointin' to McQueen's, and you kin see the hoss barn from the road.”

“We're obliged,” Nathan said.

Nathan and Eulie rode on, receiving curious looks from people they met along the way. Eventually they crossed a wide boulevard, and there were two faded signs nailed to a post at the corner. Eulie rode closer to read them.

“This is Orleans,” she said. “The other must be French.
Vieux Carré
.”
⁷

They were less than a mile west of Bayou Road, and once they were on it, the town quickly fell away. They passed beneath mighty oaks from which the leaves had fallen, leaving only wraiths of Spanish moss trailing from barren limbs. Dry leaves crunched under the hooves of the horses. Nathan's horse shied as a cottontail sprang up, running for its life with Cotton Blossom in hot pursuit.

“It's so peaceful,” said Eulie. “I like it.”

“It reminds me of the old South, before the war,” Nathan said.

“I can't see that the war even touched it,” said Eulie. “Did it?”

“Louisiana seceded in 1861,” Nathan said. “Farragut moved Federals into Vicksburg, Natchez, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans in 1862. The Rebs never got this far, from what I've heard. We didn't get deep enough into town. I'd bet my saddle there's soldiers here somewhere.”

Despite the seclusion of the McQueen place, it wasn't that far from town, and they soon were able to see the outbuildings to their right. The road led them down a tree-lined lane and a message burned into a slab of oak welcomed them to McQueen's. Three hounds loped to meet them, baying as they came, and Cotton Blossom rose to the challenge.

“They'll eat him alive,” said Eulie.

Just when it seemed the prophecy was about to be fulfilled, the trio was halted in their tracks by a booming voice.

“Come here, you dogs.”

The hounds turned and loped away. Cotton Blossom, aware that he'd had nothing to do with their retreat, wisely gave up pursuit. Nathan and Eulie reined up, waiting, as the man who had called off the dogs approached. The enormous structure from which he had emerged looked to be three hundred yards in length, with adjoining corrals at either end. To the south of it, there were other outbuildings that looked like conventional barns. There was no house in sight. Nathan and Eulie turned their attention to the big man who was about to greet them.

“I'm Barnabas McQueen,” he said. He was maybe six and a half feet tall, somewhere past fifty, and weighed a good two hundred, none of it fat. He had gray hair, friendly blue eyes, and he dressed like a Westerner. His riding boots were jet black and newly polished, while his brown Levi's and red-checked flannel shirt were clean. His gray Stetson looked new.

“I'm Nathan Stone and my partner's Eli Prater. We aim to be in these parts for a while. As you can see, we have three horses and a dog. When we asked a teamster about a decent place to board for a spell, he sent us to you.”

“You need to talk to Bess,” said McQueen. “We don't actually have a boardinghouse. They're just cabins with bunks. Sleeping quarters where you can stash your saddles and belongings. There's a cookhouse, with a full-time cook. We feed three times a day. But you're a mite early. The next race is set for December twenty-ninth, the first Saturday after Christmas.”

“You cater mostly to folks here for the horse races, then,” Nathan said.

“Usually,” said McQueen, “but we don't turn away teamsters, drummers, or anybody else that don't hanker to stay in town. Sleepin' quarters and meals is a dollar a day, or twenty dollars a month. Same for each of the horses.”

“My God,” Nathan exclaimed, “that's high for stablin' a horse.”

McQueen laughed. “That includes grain, my friend. You must remember there's been a war going on. We haven't had a decent crop of
anything
since 1860. The grain comes from St. Louis by steamboat. Why don't you ride around and compare? I'm sure you can beat our prices, but I must warn you, during the week or so before the race, the others all double their prices. We don't.”