No Less Than the Journey (6 page)

Grimacing, he said, ‘It would take far more money than I have to be able to buy her time,’ Wes said, ‘I’ve seen the company she keeps.’

Lola’s head came up and she turned to stare at him, ‘You
think she’s a whore?’

‘Probably … but I don’t doubt that she’s a very high class one.’

‘Then it’s just as well I haven’t already introduced you,’ Lola said, with an indignation that Wes found surprising coming from a New Orleans bar-girl. ‘Anabelita is no angel, but she earns her money from gambling, not getting laid. If she lifts her skirt for a man it’ll most probably be because she’s reaching for the derringer she keeps strapped to her leg – and she’s a crack shot!’

Intrigued but sceptical, Wes asked, ‘Where did she learn to shoot – and to gamble?’

‘Her father was a professional gambler. When her mother died he took Anabelita with him for a while. Sometimes he’d come to the saloon in New Orleans and bring her with him … that’s where I first met her. One day, when they were down Texas way, it seems he accused a man he was playing poker with of cheating, but wasn’t quick enough drawing a gun to back up the accusation. His death hit Anabelita pretty hard, but instead of going into mourning for him she asked a riverboat company to let her work on the steamboats as a croupier. They agreed – and you’ve seen the results for yourself. She probably knows every gambling trick in the book but has a reputation for playing an honest game. That and her looks means that she makes more money for herself – and for the company – than any other gambler on the river.’

‘I’m glad you’ve told me about her,’ Wes said, ‘I’ll look at her in a different light from now on and, yes, I would like an introduction to her.’

CHAPTER 7

It had been a long and eventful day and Wes turned in early that night, with the result that it was not until the following evening he decided to follow up his conversation with Lola and visit the saloon for a while to watch Anabelita at work.

The gambling saloon was a popular place with the steamboat’s passengers. Croupiers employed by the steamboat company worked at five gambling tables and a roulette wheel, a number of other tables being provided for private card games.

There was also a well-stocked bar in a corner of the saloon and this too was well frequented. As a result the air inside the saloon was hazy with tobacco smoke.

The gaming tables were busy, the largest crowd being gathered about the table where Anabelita was dealing blackjack … but tonight Wes sensed an attitude of unease in the mood of this particular crowd.

Although he could not at first detect exactly why this was so, he realized that others were aware of it too. Lola was operating the roulette wheel some distance away and he thought he detected a hint of concern in the glances she occasionally threw in her friend’s direction.

Aaron was seated on his own behind Lola and he too seemed to be taking a particular interest in Anabelita’s table. Wes was about to cross the room to join the US marshal, when there was a sudden eruption of sound from those about Anabelita and an angry voice began protesting loudly about the last card that had been dealt to him.

‘Hell … just look at it! What kind of card is that. I haven’t had a good hand since I was dealt in. I’m losing a fortune here.’ The voice sounded to Wes like that of a young man who had drunk too much.

The impression was heightened when one of the others at the table said something quietly in the angry man’s ear, only to receive the retort, ‘I’ll back my cards with as much cash as I damn well want. All I’m asking is to get a fair deal, that’s all.’

Wes moved closer to the table until he was able to see the irate young player. He remembered seeing him joining the steamboat at Vicksburg with a well-dressed and overweight older man. They had arrived late. The steamboat should have already left, but the new arrivals were obviously important and were accompanied to the levee by the Vicksburg mayor, town officials and a group of senior army officers from the local garrison.

The aggrieved young man was probably hardly out of his teens and was as well dressed as the older man who had accompanied him on board the steamboat. The flushed, lightly perspiring appearance of his face might have been caused by the heat and stuffiness of the saloon but something about the young man’s eyes confirmed Wes’s belief that he had been drinking heavily.

‘I can only deal the cards as they come from the shoe.’ Anabelita spoke for the first time, referring to the holder from which she drew the cards dealt to the punters.

There was a murmur of support from the others about the table, but her reply did not appease the young man.

‘Then why is it just me who is losing so much money? You’ve damn near cleaned me out.’

Looking straight at the dissatisfied blackjack player, Anabelita replied, ‘It could be because you are being reckless with your money. Perhaps you’d do better to “stand” occasionally, instead of asking for another card. Had you done so you would have won at least five or six hands, instead of losing money. But if you are not happy with the way I deal you should move to another table.’

Anabelita spoke perfect English but with a Mexican accent that Wes found charming.

Not so the irate young gambler. ‘I’m damned if I’m going to walk away and leave you to gloat over the fact that you’ve fleeced me and got away with it. I’ll stay right here – but I’d better start winning … you hear me?’

Smiling in what she hoped might be a disarming way, Anabelita said, ‘Don’t tell me, mister. You’d better speak to the cards.’

There was a ripple of laughter from the other players at the table but it was hastily stifled when the disgruntled player looked about him angrily.

Turning back to Anabelita he pushed a pile of gambling chips across the table in front of him and said, ‘Right, there’s my stake – now let’s see you deal some cards that I can do something with.’

Shrugging with a nonchalance she did not feel, Anabelita dealt two cards from the shoe to each of the men at her table. Then she began to go around the table again, dealing the extra number of cards asked for by each man in turn.

Two of the players dropped out, surrendering their coloured counters to the dealer. Two others decided to ‘stand’, satisfied that the cards they held stood a chance of beating the dealer.

Then it was the turn of the disgruntled young man. With
three cards in his hand, he said, ‘All right, hit me again – but make it a good one.’

Anabelita drew a card from the shoe and placed it face down on the table in front of him.

Picking it up and adding it to the three he already held, the young man’s expression changed to one of fury once more and he cried, ‘Goodammit … you’ve done it
again!’

Throwing his four cards face up on to the table, he said angrily, ‘Look at that! If you’d dealt me a four or under I’d have won … but no you gave me a six.’

‘You could have stood with the seventeen you held with three cards,’ Anabelita said, ‘I’ve paid out on seventeen more than once tonight.’

As she was speaking she reached out to scoop his stake towards her. Clumsily, he beat her to it, some of the chips falling off the table and landing at his feet.

‘Leave it! You’ve taken enough cash from me tonight. We’ll play that hand again – but this time there will be no cheating … you hear me?’

Anabelita glanced around the room hoping to catch the attention of the man employed by the steamboat company to deal with such situations as this when they arose, but he was nowhere to be seen. She would need to handle it on her own.

The other men at the table were appalled by the young man’s behaviour but Anabelita was aware none of them were likely to come to her aid. Beginning to rake in the remaining cards but leaving the stakes untouched, she said, ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this table is closed. I am sure you’ll find places at the other tables – and good luck to you all.’

She reached out for the young man’s cards but as she did so he grabbed her wrist.

‘Oh no you don’t. You’ll play on until I’ve got at least some of my money back.’

His grip was causing her arm to be stretched out at a painful angle but, trying to remain calm, she said, ‘Do you mind letting go of me…? You’re hurting my arm …’

‘Not until you say you’ll carry on dealing – even if it’s only you and me playing.’ As he said this, a number of the other players hastily deserted the table.

When the dissatisfied man caught hold of Anabelita’s wrist, Wes had started towards the table. Now, pushing his way through the watching gamblers, he arrived in time to hear the man’s reply to her pained request.

Reaching out, he took a tight grip on the young man’s own wrist, at the same time twisting it in order to relieve the pain being suffered by the dark-haired croupier.

‘You heard what the lady said, you’re hurting her arm. Let go.’

Recovering from his surprise but still maintaining a grip on Anabelita, the young man said, ‘Keep out of it, this is none of your business.’

‘I’m making it my business,’ Wes retorted, increasing pressure on the other man’s arm so much that the man’s body twisted towards him.

The young man held on to Anabelita for as long as possible before suddenly releasing her. However, instead of immediately trying to pull himself free of Wes’s grip, he fumbled awkwardly beneath his jacket with his left hand.

‘Look out! He’s got a gun.’ The cry from Anabelita caused a stampede away from the table by the spectators attracted to the table by the altercation.

Years spent below ground in Cornish mines, wielding pickaxe, shovel and sledgehammer had developed exceptional muscle power in Wes’s arms and he used every ounce of it now to twist the young man’s arm sharply up behind his back, causing him to double over, his face coming into violent
contact with the baize covered table top.

The revolver he was trying to draw had almost cleared his waistband but he did not have a firm grip on it and as it fell to the floor Wes kicked it beneath the table before releasing his hold on the young man who was now shouting loudly that Wes was breaking his arm.

Wes hoped the pain would be sufficient to dissuade his opponent from continuing his violence and that he would leave the saloon. Instead, he came at Wes, arms flailing like a schoolboy involved in his first fight.

Wes, on the other hand, had been drawn into more than one brawl when drunken miners from rival mines were paid out their monthly wages in the same local hostelry.

Easily avoiding the other man’s wildly inaccurate blows, it took only two well-aimed punches to send him crashing to the saloon floor. Here, he lay on his back with only a twitching face muscle to show he was still living.

The noise that erupted from the crowd in the saloon was a combination of relief, approval and admiration. It died away when the overweight man whom Wes had seen board the steamboat at Vicksburg with the now unconscious young man, stormed into the saloon.

He had apparently been made aware of what was happening and, looking about him angrily, demanded, ‘Who did this? Who attacked my son?’

By this time the young man was showing signs of regaining consciousness and Wes replied, ‘If you mean, who dealt with him when he was about to shoot me, then I’m the one you are looking for, but …’

‘I want this man arrested …
immediately
!’ Raising his voice, the young man’s father cut across Wes’s explanation.

When no one moved to carry out his order, the large man said angrily, ‘I demand that my son’s attacker be locked away
and handed over to the authorities when we reach Memphis.’

At this point, Aaron pushed his way to the front of the unresponsive onlookers standing about the father and his son, who was now trying to sit up.

Speaking to the older of the two men, Aaron said, ‘You should be thanking this young man, not trying to have him arrested. He just saved your boy’s life.’

Startled, the recovering man’s father said, ‘What do you mean, “saved his life”? I am Senator Connolly, of Louisiana, and this man has just admitted attacking my son. I demand that he be locked up – immediately!’

‘I know who you are, Senator, but Wesley here hit your son when he tried to pull a gun on him. That’s how he saved your son’s life. If that gun had cleared his belt I’d have shot him dead.’

Aaron spoke in such a matter-of-fact manner that it was a few moments before the impact of his words registered with the Senator. When they did, he could scarcely control his rage.

‘You … you would have done what? How dare you…? Who are you?’

‘I’m a Federal Marshal, Senator, on my way West.’

Senator Connolly was nonplussed for only a moment. The man standing in front of him did not look like a Federal Marshal and he said, ‘If you really are a marshal then I demand that you arrest this man and charge him with assaulting my son.’

‘I’ll be happy to do that, Senator,’ Aaron said, cheerfully, ‘but if I do I will also have to arrest your son for assaulting a woman – and for attempting to draw a gun with intent to murder an unarmed man.’

Taken aback, Connolly said, ‘Attempting to murder…? Why, my son is hardly more than a boy. You would be laughed out of court.’

‘A bullet doesn’t ask the age of the man – or boy – who pulls the trigger of the gun it’s fired from. It just goes ahead and kills someone. There’s me, the woman your son assaulted, and a couple of dozen witnesses here who will testify against him. But you just go ahead with your complaint, Senator, and I’ll carry out my duty.

Connolly glared at Aaron for a long time before saying, ‘Damn you, Marshal, I’ll report your insolent manner to the Attorney-General and have your badge for this. What did you same your name is?’

‘I didn’t, but it’s Marshal Aaron Berryman – and I don’t think you will find the Attorney General accommodating. I’ve been appointed direct by President Ulysses S. Grant to come West and let it be known that United States law doesn’t stop at the Mississippi. Any complaint from you will only remind him that the river gang we took on yesterday had been operating in the vicinity of your State without hindrance, or any action from you, for longer than a year. He might feel it time for changes to be made in order to deal with lawlessness in States along the river.’

The mention of Aaron’s name had filled Senator Connolly with dismay. He was aware that Aaron had served with the United States President during the late Civil War and that the two men were close friends.

He was also aware of Aaron’s formidable reputation as a Peace Officer. He realized he had chosen to lock horns with a man who probably had far more political power than he himself possessed.

‘I’ll take my son off to his cabin and see what he has to say for himself in the morning. I am not saying I am entirely satisfied with what has happened here tonight, but I would not question your integrity, Marshal Berryman. I’ll bid you good night.’