Hunter's Prize (4 page)

She touched his trembling hand. “It’s all right. These fellows are friends of mine.”

He tucked his chin and gave a firm shake of his head.

Pearl finished her appointed task then snatched the heavy tray from the counter and hoisted it over one shoulder. Dodging tables and grasping, leering men, she wove toward them.

Straightening, Rosie took the tray from her and slid it under the old man’s nose. Lifting a bowl, she handed it to him with a smile. “There we go. Nice and hot.”

Brightening, he lifted his head and beamed. “Much obliged, ma’am.”

Pearl stood watching Pearson, her hands twisting her white apron to knots. “I made a fresh pot of coffee for you.” She pointed at the steaming cup on the tray. “I hope it’s strong enough.”

Pearson laced his fingers behind his head and shot her a playful wink. “If you made it, I’m sure it’s fine.”

Blushing, she flitted away.

Rosie’s careful gaze trailed her daughter to the bar. “Sorry, Pearson,” she muttered over her shoulder. “She’s so blinded by how she feels, she can’t see you don’t feel the same.”

Pearson gripped her shoulder. “It’s all right, Rosie. I don’t mind.”

She sighed. “I need a good man to marry her and take her out of here. She’s better suited to raising babies than drawing ale.”

Rosie watched Pearl until she disappeared inside the kitchen. Propping her arms on the table, she jutted her chin at the old man. “Now then … about that shipwreck.” Her finger shot forward, pointing at him. “I remember now. You called her the
Mittie.”
She slapped the wobbly table. “The
Mittie Stephens
.”

He flinched and drew up his shoulders. “Have a heart, Miss Rosie. I don’t know much about that old legend. Just an ear-load of wayfarer’s drivel.”

Rosie patted his trembling hand. “Go on, now. Tell my friends what you told me.”

Releasing a weary sigh, he picked up his spoon and nodded. “If you say so, ma’am.”

Details emerged with each careful bite of the hearty dish. As his stew cooled and the bowl emptied, he warmed to the story with the bright-eyed eagerness born of a worthy tale. Darkness settled over the room as he spoke, broken only by distant flashes of lightning outside and the dim, flickering candles burning in blackened jars.

Thunder boomed overhead, rattling the windowpanes. A brilliantflash exposed startled faces, followed by a violent, piercing crash as lightning struck something close by. A few of Rosie’s patrons hustled for the door to seek another port in the storm.

A handful of regulars, with no better place to be, found their way to the table, curiosity getting the best of them as the old fellow’s hushed voice carried across the room.

He spoke of a “lost world” in the northeastern reaches of Texas and the dreadful fate of a doomed side-wheeler steamboat. “February, it was, in 1869. The
Mittie Stephens
left Shreveport with her guards flat in the water.”

“What’s that mean?” Rosie whispered hoarsely.

“A full load,” Theo explained, his spoon clanking. Oblivious to the patrons hanging on the old sailor’s words, he chased dregs of brown gravy around his bowl.

The old man nodded. “Under command of Captain H. Kellogg, the ship pulled away from the Commerce Street wharf with her cargo, forty-three passengers, and sixty-six crewmen. Stacked on board were two hundred seventy-some bales of hay, a dozen kegs of gunpowder, and enough gold to make payroll for the Reconstruction troops in Jefferson. Now mind you”—one bushy brow peaked as he stared around the circle of rapt faces—”this shipment of hay, stacked four tiers deep on the guards, weren’t just any old bales.”

Pearson swallowed a sip of his coffee, the liquid hot and bitter all the way down. “What was so different?”

“Government issue, that’s what. The stuff was parched as powder on account of being kiln dried.”

“I’ve heard of this,” Theo said. “They dry the hay to fight off mold.”

The old boy nodded. “The water was high that night, so it was clear sailing through the channel on Caddo Lake. At the midnight hour, just below Swanson’s Landing, a steersman alerted the pilot that he’d caught a whiff of smoke. Sure enough, they hadn’t properly snuffed the torch baskets on the bow before setting sail. The wind lifted sparks from the basket, carrying them across to the dry bales. They went up as if doused with coal oil. The crew kept their wits about them and tossed the gunpowder overboard, but it was too late.”

He leaned across the table, his haggard face ghoulish above the flickering candle. “Better than sixty folks lost their lives that fateful night. Some because they couldn’t swim but most because they plainlost their bearings.” He shook his head. “Blinded by the flames, the poor souls swam away from the bank. Turns out the
Mittie
was less than twenty feet from shore. She ran aground with her cargo of gold and sank into Caddo’s murky depths.” He shuddered then grew silent, his haunted eyes staring into the blazing hearth.

“And?” Rosie prompted.

Without warning, his chin sank to his chest and his bottom lip sagged.

Rosie clutched his bony shoulder and shook him awake. “Is that it? Nothing else about the gold?”

Jerking upright, he fixed her with bloodshot eyes. “I’ve blabbered all I know, though I’m sure there’s more to tell.” He yawned and wiped his slack mouth on his sleeve. “I’m bone-weary, Miss Rosie. Can’t go no more. Ain’t found a place to sleep since I left my ship.” Folding his arms for pillows, he slumped to the table, resting his grizzled head.

Compassion softened her features. “Poor, wretched thing, you have now.” Signaling Cookie, she gave him instructions to help the fellow to the storeroom.

Towering over him, Cookie sighed. “He’s playing you for a mark, Rosie. You should charge him rent. He spends more time on free cots than he does at sea.”

Rosie tilted her face up to him. “I’m surprised at you, Cookie. Where’s your Christian charity?”

“Christian charity?” He snorted. “He should be keelhauled.”

She frowned. “I won’t turn away a man in need.”

“Suit yourself, but don’t expect him to appreciate it none. And while you’re at it, forget any notion of collecting his tab. You won’t see a nickel.” He circled the fellow’s chest with both arms and hauled him to his feet. “Toe the mark, you old beggar. No night watches for you.”

They took a few shuffling steps before the man’s drooping head lolled to the side. “There’s a fellow on Caddo Lake,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong for a bone-weary man. “An old fishing guide they call Catfish John. Ask for him around Marshall, Texas.”

“Yes?” Theo said. “What about him?”

“Find him. He can tell you anything you want to know about the
Mittie.”
He and Cookie disappeared beneath the low archway.

Rosie turned twinkling eyes on Pearson. “Well then?”

He shrugged. “Well, what?”

“It’s a good lead. Why aren’t you running out the door to book passage on a northbound train?”

Pearson stifled a grin and winked at the spellbound circle of men. “Sorry, honey, but he’s not the first drunken sailor with a far-fetched yarn.” He hooked his thumb toward the mainland. “There’s a tale like his in every port of call.”

Dazed, she shook her head. “No, sir. Not like this one. I sense he’s telling the truth.”

Pearson laughed softly. “Oh, he is … the truth as he believes it to be.”

Rosie slapped the varnished table so hard, coffee sloshed over the rim of his cup. “How can you treat this so lightly? When first he told it to me, I wanted to round up some men and go search for the
Mittie
myself.”

Pearson calmly wiped up the spill with his napkin and took a slow swig of the tepid brew. “I understand your passion, little Rosie. I used to get worked up about these old legends myself. After a while you get a feel for what’s real”—he nodded toward the raspy snores coming from the back room—”and what isn’t.” He shot the uninvited spectators an amused glance. “Right, boys?”

Several grinned and nodded. A couple patted Rosie affectionately on the shoulder. Others shared winks and knowing glances with Pearson before drifting to the bar, their murmuring voices sprinkled with good-natured laughter.

She stared after them with blazing eyes.

Pearson slid his chair around to make room to stretch out his legs. With a wide yawn, he fisted his hands and kneaded his temples. “Are you ready to take me back to your place, Theo? I’m so tired I won’t mind your lumpy couch.” He grinned and winked at Rosie. “Or the musty quilt he pulled out of mothballs just for me.”

Stirring from her pout, she blinked at Pearson. “Still can’t bear the thought of staying in your house, honey?”

Not willing to talk about his parents’ big house on Broadway Street, he shook his head.

“Well, that’s all right.” She patted his hand. “There’s no need to suffer Theo’s distorted idea of hospitality. We have the spare room upstairs.” She pointed with her chin. “It’s not much, but it’s clean … and free of lumps and moths.”

Pearson’s stomach tightened the way it did only while on theisland. The prospect of sitting upstairs alone with his thoughts seemed far less appealing than a tattered blanket. He squeezed Rosie’s hand. “I appreciate the offer, sweetheart. I really do.” He ducked his head at Theo. “But I’ll stay with my old friend there, so his feelings won’t be hurt. I hate to see a grown man cry.”

Stepping gingerly over his booted feet, Pearl stopped in front of him, her crossed arms hugging her chest. “Are you sure, Pearson? It’s a nice little room, and the windows face the ocean. You’d wake up to a beautiful sunrise.” Blushing, she reached to fiddle with her apron again. “I washed and ironed the curtains myself.” She cleared her throat. “They’re yellow.”

An uncomfortable silence settled like dew.

Pearl’s bright flush deepened, and she lowered her lashes.

“It’s no use, honey,” Rosie said, coming to her rescue. “You know how stubborn men are, and I’d say his mind is made.” Grunting from the effort, she pushed up and stood behind Pearson, gathering long strands of hair off his shoulders. “Do you have any plans to cut this moldy mess?” She tugged hard on a lock. “I’ve seen sheep with less matted wool.”

Laughing, he straightened in his chair. “Speaking of hurting a man’s feelings …”

She pulled his head back and stared upside down at his face. “There are topics I dare to raise out of love”—she scowled at the two scoundrels who were teasing him before—”and those I won’t tolerate from anyone else.” She grinned. “But you have to admit it’s a peculiar mess.”

Theo snickered. “His hair has always twisted into knots, and people have always taunted him. That’s how he learned to fight like a badger.”

Rosie held out a snakelike strand and tried to pull it straight. “You couldn’t drag a rake through this. How do you comb it?”

Pearson preened. “Go on and scoff, but in your hands you hold the fruit of careful and deliberate neglect.”

They shared a hearty laugh, except for Pearl. Casting a shy glance at Pearson, she frowned. “I think your hair is nice. It suits you.”

Holding her gaze, he gave her a warm smile. “Thank you, Pearl.”

Grinning like an unbalanced dolt, Theo stood and pulled Pearson from his chair. “Let’s get you home so you can wash up. Lumpy or not, you can’t sleep on my sofa without a soak in the tub. You stink.”

Pearson sniffed his shirtsleeve. “It’s not so bad. I smell better than your quilt.”

Theo tugged him toward the door. “Not unless it reeks of sunbaked codfish.” He grimaced. “Or the stench of a rotted octopus.”

Rosie’s high-pitched cackle followed them out the door.

The storm had passed, leaving a light drizzle behind and trailing dark, wispy clouds across the moon. The dim glow of the streetlamp lit their path to the wagon and the poor, wilted horse standing in a puddle of rainwater.

Stopping short of the rig, Theo slapped his forehead and groaned. “Stupido! I forgot about him.”

“So did I,” Pearson said. “Maybe he’ll forgive us if we get him to the barn and rub him down. If not, a few oats might do the trick. A little love and care goes a long way.”

Tittering like a child again, Theo nudged him. “I think Pearl would like to give you a bit of loving care. With very little encouragement, she’d have you broken and stabled before you could whinny.”

Pearson balled his fist and delivered a sound blow to Theo’s arm. “That’s why I won’t be encouraging her. I’m not ready to be gentled.” He shuffled sideways to dodge the return punch. “Besides, when I’m ready to be strapped to the feed bag, I’m not looking for Pearl’s brand of oats.”

“Particular, aren’t you? Exactly what are you looking for?”

Grabbing the wagon post, Pearson tensed to pull up on the seat. “I suppose I’ll know when I see her.”

Theo caught his arm before he could board. “How long will it take you to pack for East Texas?”

Pearson stifled a grin. “I never unpack my bags in Galveston. You know that.”

“So when are you leaving?”

“When are
we
leaving is the question.” He gripped Theo’s shoulder. “I want you to go with me.”

Theo’s beaming face glowed in the streetlight. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask. Let’s go!”

Pearson chuckled. “Not so fast, boy. The
Mittie’s
been at the bottom of Caddo Lake for thirty-six years. She’ll be there in a few more months.”

“Why waste time?”

“It’s the dead of winter, Theo. Too cold to dive. Besides, we need supplies. Special gear. Let me get back to Houston and pull a plan together. I’ll wire you when I’m ready to leave.”

“How long?”

Scratching his sandy scalp, Pearson ticked off the facts in his head. “Well … it’s mid-December, isn’t it?”

Theo chuckled. “You don’t know?”

“It’s hard to keep track of the date when you’re riding the Gulf in a dinghy.”

Theo patted his shoulder. “Point made. It’s December 15th, to be exact. Nearly Christmastime.”

Pearson nodded. “Then I say we slow down and enjoy the holidays. Let the weather warm up a tad. Come spring, plan to celebrate my birthday in East Texas.”

“End of April?” Theo’s voice cracked with excitement. “Sounds right to me.”