Paxton and the Lone Star (13 page)

“I'm not a bird fancier, sir. It is a man named Holton Bagget I seek.”

“Holton Bagget, eh? Well, seek and you shall find,” the old man said with a cackle. “Go and you shall come, buy and you shall sell, drink and you shall by God drink some more.”

Elizabeth waited, but anything else the trapper might have wanted to say came out as a combination of wheezes and grunts as he fell back to sleep. She felt to make sure her hair wasn't hanging out from under her hat, tucked in her shirt, and adjusted the bulge at her side. Natchez Under the Hill looked even more dismal by day than she remembered, but only, she told herself, because she hadn't been able to see much the night before. The tension built in her as she picked her way across the mud bath they called a street and paused outside the two-story dance hall and saloon.
THE CROSSING, LUKE PONDER HON. PROP.,
said the sign swinging over her head. Elizabeth looked past it and wondered if God was watching her from somewhere beyond the slate gray roof of clouds.
You certainly didn't disapprove of Father's murder or else You would have stopped it. Unless You weren't watching at all. Unless You just don't care. Unless Carl Michaelson simply wasn't important enough with all the rest of the world to worry about.
And if her father wasn't, then neither was Holton Bagget, Elizabeth thought defiantly, and plunged through the door.

The wide, surprisingly spacious room strewn with tables and the forms of sleeping men smelled of tobacco, raw whiskey, sticky sweet rum, stale beer, and sweat. The lofty roof was supported by round white columns of wood. Chandeliers of tarnished brass swayed to and fro in a breeze that, given a year, might have sucked away the stagnant aroma of the human condition. A man behind the bar appeared to be the only person awake. He was busily polishing a gold-framed mirror that hung side by side with a painting of a voluptuous naked woman who was copulating quite happily with a creature part man and part goat. Blushing despite herself, Elizabeth walked to the long heavy bar lined with rows of shot glasses and mugs. “Excuse me,” she said, pointedly clearing her throat and trying to sound masculine.

Luke Ponder leaned over so he could see her in the mirror and continued polishing. “Your pa know you're here, sonny? If it's a breaking-in you want, all the girls are spoken for. Reckon the Widow Tater will take you on if you've a bottle handy. Just try the Lamplight Saloon. Ask—”

“You don't understand,” Elizabeth said, somewhat taken aback.

“Yeah. I don't blame you, come to think of it. The thought of Widow Tater sets me ascratchin' too. I'll tell you what. Wait upstairs in the hall, and when one of the doors opens and a man comes out, you go right in before the gal gets settled down. Just say I told you to tell her to go on and break you in.”

“But I'm not—”

“Just put your dollar in the bottle at the end of the bar and go on up. Ain't nothin' to be scared of.”

Elizabeth's face was beet red. “I'm not looking for a … breaking-in, sir,” she said heatedly. “I seek a man by the name of Holton Bagget, and was told to ask here.”

“Up to you,” Luke said with a shrug. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Out there.”

Elizabeth turned to see a balcony where a man sat with his legs propped on the railing. She nodded to Luke Ponder's back and, a hollow feeling forming in the pit of her stomach, walked across the room toward the open double doors. Her hand closed around the pistol she had taken from the wagon after the funeral. She checked the frizzen to make sure enough powder remained in the pan to fire the weapon. She cocked the flint. To her left, a man snored and growled in his sleep, and in the process almost lost his life, for Elizabeth was nervous enough to wheel and level the gun at him before recovering her senses and going on to the door.

The man in the chair wore his hat low over his forehead as he gazed out over the river. Sandy-colored curls stuck out from under his hat at the rear of his head. His face in profile was seriously handsome, its lines as clear-cut and chiseled as a statue's. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she studied him.
So this is what my father's murderer looks like! How strange! I had assumed he would look evil, but he is—

A snore behind her took her by surprise. Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder to spy a second man asleep among the packs that lined the outside wall. Confused, unsure of which was her quarry, she dropped the pistol to her side.

“Can I help you, lad?” the man in the chair asked. He had caught her motion out of the corner of his eye.

“Are you Holton Bagget?”

“No. Should I be?”

“Only in Hell,” Elizabeth said, wheeling, raising the pistol, and aiming at the sleeping man.

True's reaction was instantaneous. He lunged from the chair and knocked her arm upright just as the gun spat flame and fired. The .55 caliber lead ball flew through the open doors and into the dance hall, where it struck the spiny brass arm of a chandelier and ricocheted across the room to carve a smidgeon of flesh off the top of Luke Ponder's left ear before burrowing into his mirror image. A spider web of cracks streaked to the gilded border of the frame.

“Sheeiiiitttt!” Luke howled, dropping behind the bar.

On the balcony, Holton awoke with a start to see two men struggling over him. Rolling instinctively out of the way, he sprang to his feet just as one of the men lost his hat and golden hair spilled past his shoulders. “Goddamn!” he cursed. “It's a girl!”

True let go of her as if burned, and stepped back in surprise.

Her eyes ablaze with fury, Elizabeth's wrath turned on True. “He killed my father, and you … you … stopped me, you … you …”

“What do you mean, killed your … Oh,” Holton said, remembering the night before and deciding the woman had to be one of the settlers camped upriver. “Now look here, miss,” he said, trying to explain. “If that was your daddy, he come at me first.”

“Murderer!” Elizabeth hissed.

“Murderer?” Holton squawked, outraged. Hell, the father coming at him face-to-face was one thing, but the daughter trying to shoot him in his sleep was quite another. “The little bitch tried to murder me!” he said to True. “She goddamn tried to murder me!”

“If justice is murder, so be it,” Elizabeth spat. Tears streaking her cheeks, she glared at Holton Bagget and then, as if he shared the guilt, at True. “I hope you both burn in Hell!” she added, spinning on her heel and stalking out past the bleary-eyed onlookers.

“Oh, my ear. My ear. Shit!” a voice wailed from behind the bar.

“Stop her, Crease,” Holton shouted, grabbing a rifle and starting after her. “Somebody stop her!”

The striking beauty of the girl and her obvious hatred of Holton Bagget, whoever he was and whatever he'd done, prompted True to interfere. “There's no need,” he said, stepping in front of Holton and catching the rifle by the stock.

“Get the hell out of my way, farmer,” Holton snarled.

“I said, there's no need,” True repeated softly.

“And I said back off, you scrawny …” Holton dropped his right elbow and, aiming for True's groin, slashed upward with the rifle butt.

It was a routine True had practiced with his father and both his brothers. Hands locked firmly on the rifle, he leaned back and, with three quick steps sideways and backwards, swung his attacker in a circle, then let go the rifle. Unable to stop himself, Holton tripped over True's outstretched foot, crashed through the balcony railing, and plummeted fifteen feet straight down into the Mississippi.

“My ear! Oh, Jesus, it's plumb shot by God off!” Luke Ponder wailed. His wife was right. The hell with the afternoons!

Crease Anthony, Savory Dill, and Big Nose Castor formed a ragged line and started walking toward the doorway to the balcony. “I think you maybe made a mistake there,” Crease grunted a wide, toothless grin slowly spreading over his face. “Holton was a partner of mine.”

True unsheathed his Arkansas Toothpick, took a step to his left, and stood ready. The three men paused. Savory reached up to scratch his head. When his hand came back down, it held the knife he kept sheathed at the back of his neck. Big Nose chuckled and pulled his own Arkansas Toothpick out of his boot. “It's you against the three of us,” he grunted, clearly enjoying the prospect of carving up True. Then suddenly, he ducked out of the way as another shot rang out and a brass chandelier crashed to the floor in front of him.

A form landed feet first on the bar, dropped down beside Luke Ponder, and, after reaching below the bar, straightened with a blunderbuss in his hands. The gun was more than a century old but, as Crease, Savory, and Big Nose knew from experience, it was still in excellent working condition. The three men froze, and in the silence, their quickly dropped knives thudded to the floor.

“Very good, gentlemen,” Andrew said, flashing a wicked grin at the men he held at gunpoint.

Joseph hurried down the stairway, and stopped at the bottom to button his trousers and buckle his belt. His shirt was open and fresh bite marks showed on his collarbone. It had been his accuracy that had brought down the chandelier. “Sorry, boys,” he said, careful to stay outside the blunderbuss's spread. “Two steps backward away from those knives, if you will.”

True had busied himself gathering their gear, and now waited for Joseph to button his shirt before handing him his rifle. “It's loaded,” he said. “The balcony's clear, so our backs are safe.”

“Damn it, True!” Joseph exploded. The two brothers slowly circled Crease, Savory, and Big Nose, working their way around toward the front door. “Why the hell are you so determined to ruin my love life?”

True kept an eye on the front half of the room while Joseph watched the back half. “Just circumstance, Joseph. Who knows? Maybe the angels are watching out for you.”

“I wish to Hell they'd look the other way if they are,” the eldest Paxton growled. “Andrew, we have your warbag! Let's go.”

Luke Ponder stood up and noticed the fractured mirror for the first time. “Oh, Lord! My mirror! My chandelier. My ear!”

“We'll be leaving now, Mr. Ponder,” Andrew said politely, edging down the bar but keeping the blunderbuss ready.

“Leave? Get the bloody hell out!” Ponder roared, his hand clamped tightly over the ruined tip of his ear.

True headed for the door to check the street and, to his surprise, saw Hogjaw standing in the shadows just inside the entrance. “A lot of help you were,” he fumed, storming past.

Andrew followed True and Hogjaw out the door. Joseph was the last to leave. They hurried around the corner, gathered their horses, mounted, and galloped away through a gap created by two teetertotter buildings. Once clear of Natchez Under the Hill, Hogjaw slowed and motioned for the brothers to rein in. “You mind tellin' me just what the hell's goin' on?” he asked. “I thought the idea was to have us a time.”

“We did,” True said. “Just wore out our welcome, is all.”

“We, hell,” Joseph said, pointing at True. “He, you mean.”

“And we just sort of joined in to make it unanimous,” Andrew added with a laugh, secretly relieved to be out of the clutches of the athletic mulattress.

“Most of us, that is,” Joseph said, sliding his ill humor from True to Hogjaw. “You weren't any help at all.”

The mountain man shrugged. “I wanted to see if it still held, is all.”

“If what still held?” Joseph asked, suspicious of being baited.

“Trouble with one Paxton is trouble with 'em all.” His jowl flaps jiggled as he nodded in approval. “Hell, Joseph, you didn't need me. The three of you are no different from your daddy and his brothers. Full of bear spit and brimfire even with your pants down.”

Joseph colored, snapped off a curse in Hogjaw's general direction, and urged his horse on ahead.

“What was all that about, True?” Andrew asked. “I mean, since you ruined our fun, I think we have a right to know.”

“The lad has a point, bucko,” Hogjaw said. “For a quiet, peaceable sort, you sure do have a way of riling folks. I swear, but you'd prompt a sparrow to grow porcupine quills.”

“It wasn't my fault,” True said. “It was the girl's.”

Andrew blinked uncomprehendingly. “What girl?”

“I think she was going to shoot me, but then decided to shoot that fellow Bagget instead.”

“Holton Bagget?” Hogjaw asked, recognizing the name.

“Who in thunder is Holton Bagget?” Andrew asked, exasperated.

“The man I threw in the river,” True explained blandly, unable to take his mind off the girl. Her golden hair and ivory skin, her soft lips and bold, blue eyes flashing fire and ice, were still as vivid as if she were standing next to him.

Hogjaw scratched the leather patch that held his scalp together. His eyebrows bobbed up and down. “I had me a drink with an old friend by the name of Thaddeus Jones this mornin',” he said, peering at True. “I think I'm beginning to understand.”

“And I think I'll ride with Joseph,” Andrew replied, throwing up his arms in disgust. “Some year when you two decide to make sense, let me know.”

True waited for Hogjaw to enlighten him further, but the mountain man waved him aside. “I'll let Jones explain it,” he said, nudging his horse's flanks and following Andrew.

“Who's Thaddeus Jones?” True asked, catching up.

“You'll see. He's waiting for us in camp. Wanted to talk to us, and what he has to say I figure you and your brothers ought to hear together.” He fixed True in a wily stare. “Tossed Bagget in the Muddy, huh?” The disfigured face crinkled with humor, then flopped around like wet wash on a line when Hogjaw leaned back and roared with laughter.

True looked away. Despite his affection for the mountain man, Leakey was, sometimes, just too gruesome to watch.