Vendetta Trail (11 page)

THE LIGHTS OF CARUTHERSVILLE, MISSOURI, SLIPPED
behind the riverboat as it beat its way upriver on the way to St. Louis.

In the Grand Salon, Mason Hawke was playing Chopin’s Piano Concerto Number 2 in F Minor to an audience that was more attentive—and much quieter—than his usual saloon audience. It had been eight days since Hawke signed on to the
Delta Mist
in New Orleans, and he had been providing music for the passengers nightly ever since.

When he finished the piece, he was rewarded with a generous applause, to which he stood and made acknowledgment with a small graceful bow.

With his last set completed, Hawke slid the bench under the piano and decided to take a break.

“Beautiful music, sir,” someone called to him.

“Thanks,” Hawke replied.

“That was lovely, Mr. Hawke, truly lovely,” an elderly woman said.

“I appreciate your compliment, ma’am,” Hawke said. He picked his way through the crowd, then pushed through the
double doors and went out on deck to the refreshing coolness of the night air.

Hawke walked back to the stern of the boat and stood there for just a moment. As the boat progressed upriver, it left a wake of frothy foam behind the rapidly rolling giant wheel. The wake gleamed white under the moon that hung full and silver in the night sky.

As Hawke looked at the wake, he had a sudden and irrational thought. What if, like this boat, his life left a wake? And what if he could find a way to follow that wake fast enough—and far enough—to go back in time, to visit earlier portions of his life?

Would he really want to do that? There were times in his life that he really would like to visit; growing up on a plantation in Georgia, wrestling, fishing, and hunting with his brother. He would like to revisit his concert tour in Europe, just before the war began.

There was nothing about the war that he would revisit, but so much a part of him was that war, that it was always, just on the other side of memory. There was never rhyme nor reason to those memories, nor were any specific memories ever summoned. They just arrived, like the one that was pushing its way into his thoughts now.

The Yankees had come in by train the night before, a new regiment recently raised in Massachusetts. Not one of the soldiers, who were still wearing shiny new blue uniforms, had ever heard a shot fired in anger. They made camp, pitching their tents in neat, squared-off rows, as if they were back in Massachusetts, rather than in Northern Georgia. Laughing and talking loudly, they built fires, cooked their supper, then played guitars and banjos before going to bed that night.

After their father was killed, Mason Hawke’s brother, Major Gordon Hawke, took command of “Hawke’s Regiment.”
In that capacity, Gordon called his men to a halt about three miles away from the Yankee camp. It was his belief that the best time to strike would be at dawn, so he had his men make a cold camp and sleep on the ground without even pitching a tent. The men didn’t complain about eating hardtack and drinking water, but those who smoked were a little put out about not being able to light up.

“Captain,” one of the men said to Mason Hawke. “Why don’t you talk to your brother and see if he’ll let us smoke?”

“Think about it, Tommy,” Hawke said. “What would we accomplish by not having fires to cook food or make coffee if you’re going to give away our position by smoking?”

“Oh yeah,” Tommy said. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

If the men didn’t like it, they at least understood the validity of it, so no one violated orders that night.

At dawn, Gordon divided his men into two groups. He gave Mason command of half the regiment and sent him around with instructions to attack the Yankee camp from the north. Gordon kept one group back to enter from the east.

It took half an hour for Mason to get his men into position, but he got there just as the sun was peeking up over the eastern horizon. Then, as had been arranged, he fired two shots into the air. His shots were answered by three shots, which was the prearranged signal to begin the attack.

“Let’s go!” Hawke shouted and, drawing their pistols, he and his men rode at a gallop into the Yankee camp, firing into the air and through the canvas of the tents.

Several of the Yankee soldiers, many of them still wearing the long-handles they had slept in, ran out into the camp street to see what was going on. Then, shocked to see that they were actually under attack, they turned and ran back into the tents. A few of the soldiers came out with weapons in their hands, though for the most part the weapons weren’t yet charged.

For nearly all of them, that proved to be a fatal mistake. They were cut down where they stood.

The two groups of riders met in the middle of the Yankee camp, laughing, shouting, and still firing into the air.

“All right, Yankees!” Gordon Hawke shouted out loud. “Turn out! Turn out of your tents so we can see you!”

When no one showed up, Gordon nodded at his sergeant, and his sergeant lit a torch, then tossed it into a stack of small wooden kegs.

“No! That’s gunpowder!” one of the Yankees shouted and everyone scattered. The powder went up with a great roar, and when the smoke settled, there were nearly a dozen bodies lying around, including the body of Mason’s brother, Major Gordon Hawke.

IN AN EFFORT TO BLOT THAT UNPLEASANT MEMORY
from his mind, Hawke removed a cheroot, lit it, then stepped over to the railing and looked out toward the Missouri side. The riverbank was solidly covered with trees—Cyprus, oak, elm—a dark growth that bespoke of the swampy forest behind.

“I was wondering if I would ever get the opportunity to talk to you alone,” a woman’s soft, well-modulated, and familiar voice said from the shadows behind Hawke.

Hawke toward the sound.

A woman stepped out of the shadows. As she came closer, Hawke could see her features, not only by moon glow, but by the gleam of a running lantern that hung from one of the pillars that supported the upper deck. She was wearing a white silk dress, cut daringly low. The dress shimmered in the moonlight.

“Rachel!” Hawke said, shocked at seeing her on the boat.

“Hello, Mason.”

“What are you doing here? How did you get here? I thought you were back in New Orleans.”

“Are you displeased?”

“What? No no, of course not. I just didn’t expect to find you here.”

Rachel smiled at Hawke. “You didn’t expect to see me in a place like the Evening Star either, did you?” she asked. “That’s why you didn’t recognize me.”

“Recognize you?”

Rachel sighed. “You really don’t remember me, do you, Mason? I kept telling myself that maybe you did recognize me, but just didn’t want to mention it.”

“Rachel, I don’t know what you are talking about. Are you saying that we met before the Evening Star?”

“Yes.”

“I find that hard to believe. I rarely forget a beautiful woman.”

“Why, Mason Hawke. What a lovely compliment,” Rachel said. She laughed, her laughter sounding like the gentle playing of wind chimes.

“Well, I can’t really hold it against you,” she continued. “So much has happened since then. But I remember vividly the last time we met. My father held a party for your father’s regiment. You were so handsome in your gray and gold uniform. I was very much in love with you then…though, of course, I was too shy to let you know.”

“Your father held a party for the regiment? Are you talking about Charles Brubaker?”

“Yes.”

Hawke got a confused look on his face. “I don’t remember…”

“I don’t really expect you to remember me,” she said. “I was only twelve years old then. And although I am Rachel Brubaker, most people knew me then as Angel.” She laughed. “That was my father’s nickname for me, and I assure you, it had nothing to do with my behavior.”

“Angel? Yes, I do remember you now.” Hawke chuckled. “Wait a minute, aren’t you the little girl who let the mouse go on the dance floor that night? It caused a panic among all the girls, as I recall…they ran around screaming, somebody knocked over the punch bowl, another crashed through the window.”

“I’m the guilty party,” Rachel admitted with a laugh. “I was upset because my father said I was too young to attend the dance. I wanted some reaction, but I got more than I bargained for.”

Hawke laughed with her.

“I knew, from the moment you sat down to play the piano at the Evening Star, that you were the same person I remembered. You haven’t lost any of your skill or talent, I see.”

Hawke lifted his hand. “Oh, I’m going to have to differ with you there. I’ve lost a lot of my skill, I’m afraid. It’s impossible to maintain skill if you are never challenged, and none of the many jobs I’ve held over the last several years have been particularly challenging.”

“But you are still playing the piano, and from what I’ve heard for the last couple of months, you are playing it beautifully. I never asked you while you were there…in fact, it would have been inappropriate. But how did you wind up playing at a whorehouse in New Orleans?”

“Before I came to New Orleans, I was playing at a saloon in Nebraska for a woman named Callie.”

“Callie? Big Callie?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, did you know her?”

“I know who she was. She was Clarisse’s sister. Clarisse used to talk about her. But she was killed, I believe. Wait a minute, were you there when she was killed?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know that. Clarisse never talked about it that much. I think it was too hard for her to talk about. So you knew Big Callie. Was she anything like Clarisse?”

“They were both good women to work for,” Hawke said. “That’s why, when Big Callie was killed, I decided to come to New Orleans, as my own type of memorial to her.”

“Where else have you been?”

“I’ve been everywhere in general, nowhere in particular,” Hawke said. “I’ve been in Wyoming, Texas, Arizona, Colorado, Kansas, Nebraska…”

“Kansas?” she asked.

Hawke nodded. “Yes, I’ve played in Kansas.”

“Do you know Bellefont?”

“I know Bellefont. I’ve never played there, but I have passed through. It’s a rough town.”

“That’s where I’m going,” Rachel said.

Hawke laughed. “I’ve got news for you, Rachel. You won’t get there by riverboat.”

Rachel laughed as well.

“I know. I took a train to Caruthersville, Missouri, then transferred to the boat.”

“Why didn’t you take the train directly to Bellefont? It would have been a lot faster.”

“The reason I came aboard at Caruthersville was because I knew you were on the boat.”

“Hmm. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“How would you like to play the piano for me in Bellefont?”

“Well, I don’t know. Will you have a place for me to play?”

“Yes. I’m going to Bellefont to buy a gambling house called the Queen of Hearts,” Rachel said. “And it’s not just any gambling house. I’m told it is the nicest one in town. When I start the business, I would like for you to play the piano for me.”

“I appreciate the offer, Rachel, but I’ve got a job. I’m playing piano on this riverboat.”

“Yes, but you aren’t going to stay with this boat. You know you aren’t.”

“I don’t stay anywhere very long.”

“I gathered that. But I would be grateful for whatever time you did stay. You see, it’s my theory that music, particularly beautiful music, has a calming effect and helps in keeping an orderly house.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke said.

“You don’t know that music has a calming effect?”

“Oh, I agree with that. I just don’t know if I want to work for you.”

Rachel looked hurt. “Why not? I know you have worked for women. You worked for Big Callie and you worked for Clarisse.”

“That’s different.”

“What is different? I thought we had already established the fact that I’m not the twelve-year-old anymore.”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it, then?”

Hawke turned away from her and leaned on the boat railing, looking out across the dark shimmering water toward the shore. A large crane stood on one leg in the shallow water near the shore, its white feathers nearly luminous in the full moon.

“You say you want me there so that my music will have a calming effect,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Somehow…despite my music, I don’t seem to have a very calming effect on people. In fact, it’s quite the opposite.”

“Maybe that’s another reason I want you to work for me,” Rachel said.

“What do you mean? You want me to work because I
don’t
have a calming effect on people?”

“No. I want you to work for me because whatever happens, I know you will be able to handle it. One of the things I remember about you from my youth—you might even say that
it is one of the things that I most admired about you—was that you didn’t let anyone push you around. Some of the boys seemed to think that you were a sissy for taking piano lessons, but if they said it to you, they only said it once.”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh, word got around. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I want to hire you now. As you said, Bellefont is a rough town.”

Hawke flipped his cheroot into the river and followed the arc of the tiny red glow until the water snuffed it out. He turned back toward Rachel. “How in the world did you wind up…” he let the sentence hang.

“A whore?” she asked.

Hawke sighed. “Yeah,” he said. He held up his hand. “And believe me, I’m not passing judgment on you. Lord knows, I’m the last one qualified to pass judgment on anyone.”

“It’s a long story,” Rachel said. “I guess it comes as quite a shock to you that a genteel, plantation-raised Georgia girl would wind up in a whorehouse in New Orleans. And now that same genteel girl is going to a town like Bellefont to buy a gambling house.”

Hawke chuckled. “Well no, what
is
a shock to me is that the girl who let a mouse loose on the dance floor became a genteel, plantation-raised Georgia girl.”

“Mason, that’s awful!” Rachel said, laughing and hitting him on the shoulder. “You have a cruel streak in you,” she teased.

“I’m cruel? I’m not the one who turned the mouse loose.”

“You haven’t answered my question yet. Will you come work for me? I can pay you well.”

“How well is ‘well’?”

“I can pay you one of two ways,” she said. “I can either pay you a straight salary, an amount that we can agree upon mutually, or I can give you a cut of the take. It’s your choice.”

Hawke stared at Rachel for a long moment, studying the
expression on her face. Unable to meet his intense gaze, Rachel broke off eye contact.

“There’s something you aren’t telling me, isn’t there?”

“Lord, Mason, what could I possibly be holding back from you?” Rachel asked. “You saw me as a whore, I’m buying a gambling house. What could I possibly be holding back from you?”

“I don’t know,” Mason said. “But I think you had better tell me now.”

Rachel sighed. “What I really want is for you to protect me.”

“Protect you from what?”

“Do you know who the Mafia is?”

Hawke recalled his run-in with the three shooters in the dark on Dauphine Street.

“Are you talking about that bunch of Italians back in New Orleans? What were some of the names? Tangeleno was one, I think. And De Luci.”

“De Luca,” Rachel corrected. “Yes, that’s who I’m talking about. Well, not De Luca. He’s dead. That’s why I’m running.”

“You’re running because De Luca is dead? You didn’t kill him, did you?”

“No. But I saw him killed, and the people who killed him know that I saw it. That’s why I’m running.”

“They are an evil bunch, all right, but you’re not in New Orleans anymore, so I don’t see how they can hurt you now.”

“Believe me, they aren’t just in New Orleans,” Rachel said. “They have people everywhere. Tangeleno telegraphed ahead to Memphis and a couple of them came on to the train in Memphis to get me.”

“I take it that Tangeleno was the killer.”

“Tangeleno, Vizzini, and several others.”

“How did you happen to see this?”

“I was at De Luca’s party when Tangeleno’s men came into the backyard with guns. They started killing and they
didn’t stop until everyone was dead. Or, at least, they
thought
everyone was dead. I wound up under a table and some bodies, so they didn’t realize that I wasn’t dead.” Rachel paused for a moment and Hawke saw tears glistening in her eyes. “They killed Fancy, Mason.”

“For a little Georgia girl who once let a mouse loose on a dance floor, you have gotten yourself into a pickle, haven’t you, Rachel Brubaker?”

Rachel nodded as she wiped away her tears. “I fear that I have,” she said. “So now you can see why I would like to have you around.”

“All right,” Hawke agreed.

“You mean, you will come?”

“Sure, why not? One place is as good as another.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you!” Rachel said as, spontaneously, she leaned forward to kiss him.

Hawke was surprised by her unexpected action, and before he could respond she had already pulled back. “Bellefont, here we come!” she said with a happy smile. “I’ll get us train tickets as soon as we get to St. Louis.”

Hawke went back into the salon. Most of the passengers were engaged in private conversations so that there was a constant babble hanging over the room, but it stilled when Hawke returned to the piano and there was a smattering of applause as he sat down.

Hawke paused for just a moment, then began to play Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto Number 1.