River of Blood Page 8

  ‘Surely I do, suh. Surely I do.’

  The smile was as elegant as the suit, the teeth as even as the fine hand-stitching of the hems. Herne would have liked to bury his fist in that well-tailored face. But he held himself back. He wanted to be sure. That way, it would be so much more enjoyable.

  ‘You ever meet a man called Barton Duquesne?’

  A spray of river water bounced off the rail and down on to the planking between them. The gambler still managed to smile.

  ‘Yes, suh, I surely do know of him.’

  Herne stood nearer, his boots firm on the newly-wet deck.

  ‘You know him well?’

  ‘Very well. Or, should I say, I knew him well. Knew him, suh, that is the thing.’

  Herne prodded at the man’s composure; he eased back the edge of his coat, showing the holstered weapon clearly.

  ‘Knew. You going to tell me he’s up and quit?’

  ‘Exactly that, suh. He up and quit this good life altogether.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ demanded Herne roughly.

  The gambler took a pace backwards; his left hand slipped down into the pocket of his suit jacket.

  ‘I know it, suh, because I had the unfortunate honor to be the cause of his death.’

  ‘You killed him,’ said Herne, surprised, disbelieving.

  ‘In a duel, suh. A little disagreement about the ladies.’

  He was returning Herne’s stare fully now. No longer was there any pretence at a smile. Herne wondered which little hand gun he had hidden away in that pocket.

  ‘Strange that no-one else seems to know about it,’ Herne said.

  ‘It isn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, suh, to advertise one’s violence.’ He looked pointedly down at Herne’s gun. ‘Violence is a thing I abhor, suh. Unless there is no alternative.’

  Herne looked at him, saying nothing.

  The gambler took another step backwards.

  ‘If you will excuse me, I think I shall go to my cabin. I believe I am ready to retire — for tonight.’

  He turned and walked away, leaving Herne slightly uncertain at his coolness.

  He walked back into the second deck saloon. Becky was still sitting where he had left her. Once again he was struck by her blossoming beauty.

  It was obvious that he was not alone in this. Men were casting glances at her continually. When they got up to leave the room, numerous pairs of male eyes followed her progress beneath the sparkling chandeliers.

  Herne said good night to her quietly outside her cabin and went to his own. Who would have thought that the scrawny Yates’ kid would turn out that way?

  He wondered how much of a woman she truly was under the finery she had bedecked herself in for their first evening on the steamboat.

  Then he thought about the way in which the men in the saloon had stared at her, the quality of naked desire in their faces. He thought about Bertrand Duvall, if that was his name, and the lust that had risen in his eyes.

  If he could not get the truth from the smooth, good-looking gambler, then perhaps Becky could . . .

  Six

  Becky sat alone in her small cabin. She was staring at her reflection in the mirror before her. For a few moments it was like looking at yourself and finding a stranger sitting in your place, staring out through your eyes but from a different face. How long, she thought, how long is it since I have been this person? How many months has this been me?

  She thought back to the time when her mother would tuck her up in bed, pushing the sheets hard under the mattress to keep her safe. Her father would blow out the candle, kiss her gently on the cheek. Both would have thought of her as a little girl still; but she had changed.

  Things she thought about after the light had gone out, were no longer the childish things her parents still imagined. Something else was stirring within her.

  And now Herne had been to her. Herne who was like her father now — father and mother, in a way — all the family she had. Yet not like her father. Not . . .

  Becky closed her eyes and inside her mind she saw him walk across the street, lean his body forward to reach something down from his saddle-bags, turn, his graying hair bobbing slightly as he did so, and walk back towards her.

  He was Herne. He was not like her father.

  He had come to her earlier. Had talked to her quietly.

  Talked about the man, Duvall. The way the gambler had been looking at her, the things he had said about her. And he had said, go to this man and be nice to him, be friendly. Find out if he really is Barton Duquesne.

  Becky had sat very still, not believing what was happening. She had always sensed strong disapproval from Herne whenever she had acted in any womanish way. He had been furious about finding her talking to Matt Bronson. Yet now he was asking her to behave like a full-grown woman in the company of this dangerous man.

  Yes, she thought, he is dangerous. She recalled his eyes when he had stared at her as she crossed the room and something inside made her shudder.

  He was not like Matt.

  Matt had been attractive, good-looking: not frightening.

  Why was Jed asking this of her? ·

  But she knew.

  Herne would do anything, use anyone in order to pursue his trail of vengeance. It was Louise that he did everything for; her memory that he moved to. In order to get the right man, Herne would stop at nothing.

  She surveyed her face once again. Then slowly a slight coloring of rouge flushed her cheeks.

  The man called Bertrand Duvall smiled at Becky as she stood opposite the gaming table at which he sat dealing hand alter hand of poker. He did not necessarily expect her to return the smile. But he was sufficiently egotistical not to be too surprised when she did.

  Becky walked slowly towards him and for a moment his concentration on the game wavered. Her young body moved easily inside her-dress, her breasts gleamed as she passed under the candelabra. She moved slowly round the table and came to rest behind the gambler’s chair.

  At the end of the deal, he turned and smiled up at her. She caught the strong smell of perfume as he moved his head and it was all that she could do to remain where she was. Yet remain she did; smile she did.

  And when he returned to his deck of cards, she eased her hand on to the back of his chair so that the fingers lay close to his velvet jacket.

  As he dealt, she allowed the slightest of pressures to fall on his shoulders. The man smiled to himself: well, well, who would have thought it?

  Yet, he considered, an experienced man is probably the very thing she needs. After all, these young girls need to be taken in hand by someone who knows what he’s doing.

  The smile became broader. Becky’s hand was resting on his shoulder now. It was all that she could do to bear the glances that shot up from the other men at the table.

  The one thing she hoped was that Herne would not come into the room and see what was happening. I will do it, she had said, but please, please let me do it in my way. You mustn't watch me.

  Becky swallowed hard and returned the stare of the man opposite wearing a patch over one eye and obviously losing heavily.

  He did not smile back but scowled instead and threw down his cards on the table so that they scattered into the pot of money at the center.

  ‘Really, suh,’ said the dealer, ‘I must remind you that you are playing with gentlemen. That is no way to behave simply because the cards are running against you.’

  The man shook his head angrily. ‘It’s all right for you to sit there saying that. You’re winning. In fact, you always seem to win. And that’s something I don‘t like. It ain’t natural for anyone to win as often as you do.’

  He glared across the table with his one good eye.

  ‘What are you suggesting, suh?’

  ‘You know goddam well, what I'm suggesting. I'm reckoning that nobody can have as much luck as you - not without a little extra help.’

  Becky was well aware of the body upon which her hand rested
tensing, the shoulder muscle tightening.

  ‘Would you care to withdraw the implications of that remark, suh?’

  The man leaned well back in his chair, his right hand now on the edge of the card table, nearer to the gun at his belt.

  ‘No, I wouldn’t. And don’t you try fancy-talkin’ me out of this, see. You gotta be cheatin’ somehow and I reckon that fancy woman of yours has got something to do with it.’

  He looked quickly at Becky, then down again.

  ‘She isn’t standin’ there to make the picture look good. She’s giving you some kind of signals.’

  By now not only the men around the table, but the whole room was still. Silent. Everyone watched the two men who sat facing one another. They knew that it wouldn‘t stop at an exchange of words: one or both men would go for a gun: one or both men would stop a bullet.

  Becky could no longer feel anything in the hand that was still resting on the gambler’s shoulder. She knew that she should withdraw it, move away, but she was frozen to the spot.

  Jed, she thought. Where’s Jed?

  ‘I’m waiting, suh, for you to retract that scandalous accusation against a gentleman. Or there will be no alternative left open to me but to . . .

  ‘But to what?’

  Becky saw the man’s hand disappear from the edge of the table, reaching down for his gun. She felt the man in front of her moving quickly. Then there was the sound of a shot. Sharp. Crisp.

  Smoke rising up to her nostrils.

  The man opposite rocked back in his chair. A look of amazement in his one eye. Then he toppled backwards, the legs of the chair finally collapsing under him. Becky saw the dealer blowing across the top of a small gun that was in his right hand. Its barrel was silver and decorated with filigree. As he slipped it back into the pocket of his velvet jacket, she noticed that the handle was made of mother-of-pearl.

  And still no-one else in the room had moved.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, I hope you will all agree that the scoundrel gave me no alternative. You must have seen that he went for his gun first?’

  There were a few grumbles of agreement from around the room.

  ‘I could not allow my honor as a gentleman and a professional gambler to be besmirched in that way. Neither my own, nor that of the lady behind me.’

  He turned round to Becky and there was a deck of cards in his hand, where previously there had been a gun. He stood up, smiled at her, and cut the cards. He offered the facing card to her: the Ace of Hearts.

  Becky stared down at the card, then at the arrogant smile on the man’s face. Once again the pungent smell of perfume wafted up to her, assailing her nostrils with its; sweetness.

  She reached down and took the card: took it between her slim, girlish fingers and slowly tucked it down into her bosom.

  The cabin was larger and more ornately furnished than either of those used by Herne or Becky. The scent of the same perfume filled the air, almost making Becky swoon. The atmosphere was so thick that it was like being underwater.

  She sat on a small chaise-longue, her back firmly against the single raised end. She watched him take off his velvet coat, looked at the lace ruffles at his cuffs and down the front of his shirt. His hands. Staring at his hands. Smooth. White. Manicured. Fluttering for a few seconds by his sides, like a deck of cards in the midst of some eccentric shuffle.

  Becky was still watching them as he came and sat alongside her. Felt one of them as he lowered it on to one of her own. Covering it. Cold. It was as cold as …as cold as snow.

  She pulled away from him, moved to the end of the seat, her back turned towards him.

  Then both hands took her by the shoulders, pressed hard; pulled her round. She was conscious of his head descending upon her face.

  And then he was kissing her.

  In no way that she knew: no way that she had been kissed before.

  His lips opened so that she could feel the soft moist flesh underneath them moving over her mouth; then his tongue began to push and probe at her teeth, trying to force a way between her lips. Succeeding. She gave a choked gasp and his tongue was inside her rolling and sliding, forcing itself.

  Oh, God, Becky thought, what . . .? What …?

  One of his hands was feeling her breasts through her dress, the tips of his fingers were grazing the bare skin at the tops.

  The kiss went on and as it did so Becky began to respond, in spite of herself. The man forced her back, leaning across her body. The weight of him bore down upon her. He moved his mouth away from hers, down to her exposed neck.

  ‘No!’ she shouted out.

  But then she was pulling him down on to her, reaching her own lips for his, conscious of the delicious pain that sang in her breasts as his hands moved over them with increased power.

  The kiss broke apart once again and his hair brushed her face; she felt the thickness of it, the slick greasiness; knew the falseness of his smell. Remembered what she was there for.

  Becky pushed herself free of him and stood up. She looked down at him. Held out her hands towards him.

  ‘Barton,’ she whispered softly.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied and took her hands in his, standing up as he did so.

  Becky swayed as though she were about to faint. It was him.

  The man who had raped Louise; who had killed her own mother. It was him: Barton Duquesne.

  ‘What’s the matter? Is it too warm for you in here?’ He stood with his arms about her, concerned. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

  Still Becky fought to control her reactions.

  Then she opened her eyes and stared into his.

  ‘You are him. You answered to his name.

  The gambler looked perplexed.

  ‘Whose name?’ he queried. ‘What are you talking about, little lady?’

  The name came off her lips like frozen snow.

  He stared at her, then began to laugh. Becky gazed at him in astonishment as his laughter grew louder and louder.

  ‘So that’s the way it is! And I was thinking how fortunate I was to have such a lovely young thing as you making a play for me. But all the time I was the one who was being played with. Your friend set it all up to catch me.’ The laughter froze on the air. ‘Well, we’ll just have to see who’s caught.’

  Becky closed her eyes and prayed for some kind of deliverance. It didn’t come. He reached for her arm and held it fast. Then with his other hand he ripped at the front of her dress; again he tore at the undergarment. A playing card made its way lazily to the floor.

  Becky looked down at her exposed breasts, then pulled her arm away from him. She covered herself with her hands and he moved quickly towards her. She backed away as far as the wall and saw the smile of triumph light up his face.

  ‘Yes, little lady,’ he smirked, ‘we’ll see who wins this game, shall we?’

  He jumped towards her, pulling her arms down to her if sides and forcing his leg between hers, pushing the top of the thigh hard against the apex of the gap so that she winced with pain.

  He moved his head to kiss her and she pulled her face away.·

  Duquesne brought back one of his well-manicured hands and slapped her once . . . very hard.

  A thin trickle of blood appeared at the corner of Becky’s mouth and tears came to her eyes.

  She suddenly felt very young and very frightened.

  He bent forward again and kissed her, tasting the blood as he did so. She felt a hand on her bare breast; another began to stroke the outside of her leg; he pressed himself between her thighs even more forcefully.

  ‘Nooooo!’

  Becky screamed and flailed at his face with her free hand; at the same time she brought up her right knee firmly into Duquesne’s crutch. If it was her most vulnerable point, then it would be his as well.

  The gambler gasped and staggered backwards, eyes watering, hands pressed between his legs.

  Becky pushed past him and turned the key in the lock. She was halfway out of the room before Du
quesne grabbed hold of her. It was enough. She didn’t even need to shout out for help.

  Help was there.

  Herne was standing some fifteen yards down the corridor, waiting.

  ‘It’s him!’ Becky called, just before the silk-shirted arm grasped at her throat.

  Herne ran at the door of Duquesne’s cabin, wrenching it fully open. The gambler stood with one arm tightly around Becky’s neck, the other extended from the elbow. And in the hand of that arm was his pearl-handled Colt .41.

  ‘I think you had better consider what you are about to do, suh. Otherwise this young lady here might be at risk of a serious injury … and I’m certain that neither of us would want that.’

  Herne looked at the small gun, tucked as it now was into the material at Becky’s waist. He saw her uncovered breasts, nipples rigid with fright and excitement. The mixture of terror and relief in her face. Herne’s one thought was that the man before him was responsible for the death of the girl’s mother and his own wife.

  And now he had brought Becky into this position of risk. He was not prepared to risk her further.

  ‘Let the girl go,’ Herne said, ‘and fight like a man.’

  Barton Duquesne looked at the gunfighter with something close to disgust.

  ‘If you will permit me, suh, such a remark is unforgivable hypocrisy. For what have you been doing yourself, if it is not getting this young lady to do your dirty work for you? It is you, suh, who have been fighting behind this girl’s petticoats. You who have got her into her present predicament.’

  The words stung. Herne knew they were true, of course; what made it worse was hearing them uttered aloud in this murderer’s lazy Southern drawl.

  Duquesne began to edge Becky out of the doorway and along the corridor, moving in the direction of the deck.

  ‘You will not follow me too closely, nor make a play for your gun, suh. Or this lady will surely stop one of our bullets … which would be a terrible shame.’

  Herne saw a shadow moving behind the gambler’s back; someone was standing at the tar side of the door and about to enter. Given the right moment, the distraction could be what he needed.