The Bold Frontier (28 page)

“Well—maybe not knowing how good it is to share something with someone. Just living for yourself, grabbing for yourself—that might be one.”

He didn’t answer, but he knew she understood he’d accepted her words without rancor. He gave her hand a squeeze. Then he said: “But I’ve still got my stake. I’ve got the beating to square. Chapman’s going to buy it for that.”

A frown crossed her face. “Graham, that’s no good. The way you hate him so. The way you’re willing to kill him in cold blood.”

Anger caught him. “Well, that’s why I bought into this game. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“Well, I’m sorry for you. I wish—”

The door banged open suddenly. Tod Acton ran in, breathless. “Mr. Coldfield—one of the men from the
Queen
’s down in the bar. I just saw him. A big feller. Looks like the one you’re always talking about—”

Coldfield’s face hardened. “Dressed like one of the crew?” Tod Acton nodded. Coldfield breathed, “Bates.” He reached to the back of his chair and strapped on the Colt in its recently-bought holster while Tod added that there was a second crewman with Bates. From the boy’s description, Coldfield tagged the other man as Soapy Mullins, a river rat who’d never face up to anybody head on, even a woman.

Coldfield spun the cylinder, “Now’s the time to put the fear of God into Tom Chapman.” He moved toward the door, watching the strained, regretful face of Harriet Masters. Well, he thought as he padded down the thickly carpeted gas-lit hall, let her worry about my character if she wants. That’s a harmless pastime. I’m interested in seeing Tom Chapman dead.

Coldfield passed through the lobby, catching sight through a window of the
Queen
down on the wharf, lanterns glowing in the dusk. He paused at the bat-wings of the hotel bar, looking in. Redneck Bates and Soapy Mullins sat at a center table, slopping up foamy schooners of beer. Coldfield retreated, went out through the lobby, and down the street till he found a gun shop. The proprietor sold him another Colt and shells. Slipping the gun into his coat after he’d loaded it, he returned to the hotel and entered the bar. He wove his way among the tables until he stood before Bates and Mullins. Mullins looked up suddenly and blew his breath, spraying foam. Bates whipped up his head then.

“Hey!” Bates started to get up, his piggy eyes showing surprise and bewilderment. Coldfield felt a cough coming but fought it back. He had his holstered Colt free, aimed at Bates.

“What the hell you doing messing around here, tinhorn?” Bates bluffed loudly. He glanced around, searching for help. None of the other customers moved. Mullins was too frightened to do so; his almost nonexistent chin trembled.

“Looking for you gentlemen.” Coldfield smiled. “Bates, you can get up and come outside with me.”

Bates did not move. His fingers began drumming on the table top. He licked his lips.

“I said get up,” Coldfield said, harsher this time. Bates rose. Coldfield swung to Mullins. “You sit right there or I’ll blow you to kingdom come.”

“Sure, boss,” Mullins said, nodding vigorously. “I won’t move. Swear to God.”

Coldfield followed Bates out through the front door. A couple of men continued to stare, but most went back to their drinks. Coldfield prodded Bates off the sidewalk into the street.

“What the hell you trying to pull, tinhorn?” Bates snarled.

“Just want to even things up for that beating you gave me.” Coldfield took out the spare pistol. “I’m going to hand you this gun and you’re going to fight.” He raised the new Colt, held it out.

Bates moved suddenly, whipping his coat open. He growled something, lunging forward. Coldfield took a dodging step to one side, but not far enough. A knife winked in Bates’s meaty hand. Coldfield felt it slice through his coat, into his shoulder, impaling him against the porch post. He brought the gun up against Bates’s belly and fired. The explosion was muffled. Bates stepped backward, mouth dropping open, and slid into the street.

Coldfield breathed heavily, nearly overcome by the pain. He holstered his Colt, dropped the other, and reached up. With one savage twist he freed the knife.

Blood spread warmly under his shirt. Moving with care, he reentered the saloon. Mullins hadn’t moved. Men stared with somewhat greater interest now that Coldfield was wounded.

“Go back to the
Queen
,” Coldfield said to Mullins. “Tell Chapman that I’m coming for him, to finish him. Go, right now.”

“Sure, boss,” Mullins exclaimed, fearful. He dashed out the door. Coldfield went to the bar, ordered a shot, and downed it in two swallows. Then he turned and walked slowly outside. Bates lay where he’d fallen; down the street, Soapy Mullins was churning his legs as fast as he could, heading for the wharf.

Harriet didn’t ask what had happened. He told her Bates was dead while she dressed the wound. He saw the regret in her eyes. But he reminded himself that he was a fool if he worried about her feelings. He bid her a brusque good-night and left.

He sat all night by the window of his darkened room, watching the street. Men he recognized from the
Queen
prowled outside, and once he heard footsteps pause on the other side of his door. But the door was securely bolted with a chest of drawers shoved in front of it. Coldfield felt safe for the moment. Chapman wouldn’t dare make too much overt trouble; his position was precarious enough already. The black night hours passed slowly. Before dawn, the
Queen
made steam and pulled away from the dock, heading downriver.

The October sun lowered toward the river, an immense red-orange globe. The air coming in through the window had a sharp autumnal tang, and above the rooftops of the main street, Coldfield could see smoke rising; the townsfolk burning weeds and leaves.

Below, men rode by wearing heavy coats. But down at the wharf also visible to him, the
River Queen
’s lights were aglow as if it were still full summer. Before long, Chapman’s vessel would be steaming down into the lower Mississippi to spend the winter on the stretch of river above New Orleans.

Coldfield let the curtain fall. His mouth set in a grim line. His men would be gathered in the saloon by nine this evening. He’d spied several on the street already. Turning back to the table where a bottle stood beside his holstered Colt, he poured a drink. His hand shook slightly, and he coughed before he downed the shot.

He and Harriet had grown progressively farther apart these past days. At the beginning, they’d been complete strangers, drawn together by their common hatred. Slowly the bond had strengthened until Coldfield felt that something more than friendship or mutual interest existed. But ever since the night he shot Redneck Bates, the gap had widened again. Coldfield understood. Despite, or perhaps because of, her brother’s murder, Harriet couldn’t accept coldblooded killing. And though Coldfield intended to give Tom Chapman every chance, his goal was still the man’s death.

Well, he told himself, when she gets her two thousand back, she can ride her own trail. It hurt him, but that’s the way it had to be. A man couldn’t be humbled without retaliating. Quickly, Coldfield poured and downed another drink.

A soft knock sounded at the door. Coldfield tensed. “Who is it?” No answer.

Harriet would be eating supper about now; and he wasn’t due to meet his men until later. He slipped the Colt from its holster and stole toward the door. He set himself, then seized the knob and jerked the door open.

A fist rocketed out and caught his jaw. He spun around, seeing the crag-jawed face of one of the
Queen
’s roustabouts whirl out of sight. He staggered back, trying to aim the gun. But there were two of them, swarming over him, kicking and pounding him, grunting softly. His head snapped back, striking the door. A face swam toward him through the delirium of pain. Chapman’s face, wearing a cold grin. Coldfield struggled wildly, but it was no use. Another fist clubbed the back of his neck and he went down, a sharp pain twisting in his chest. That pain in turn was deadened by the darkness that suddenly enclosed him.

After a while, he heard a whistle hooting in the distance. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog and pain from it. Dampness brushed his face; the kind of dampness that smelled of the river. Coldfield opened his eyes. Except for the absence of Jim Masters’s sheeted corpse, the room was almost a duplicate of the earlier one. An oil lantern sputtered on a hook near the ceiling, moving slightly in air currents coming under the ill-fitted door. Coldfield was in one of the many shanties that lined the mud flats along the Blackwater.

Tom Chapman stepped in front of him, thumbs thrust into his vest pockets. He smiled at Coldfield, but there was little mirth in his eyes, only an amused scorn. “You shouldn’t have noised it around that you were going to get me, Graham. I’ve been on the lookout ever since I heard it.”

“How—how did you find me?” Coldfield asked, still shaky from the beating.

“One of your friends got too much redeye in him and started mouthing off at the saloon. One of my boys heard the stupid fool mention your hotel.” Chapman eased back the flap of his coat; drew his pistol.

A wave of despair washed over Coldfield. He’d come so close only to be betrayed by someone careless and excessively thirsty. Maybe he should have played the hand alone from the start, without Harriet Masters, without any of them. Now, though, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all.

Chapman made a half turn, called an order. The door opened. The two rough-looking roustabouts came inside. One settled his greasy cap on his head and ground out a cigar beneath his heel. The other rubbed his hands together. Chapman said, “You’re going to get another beating, Graham. Only this time, it’s going to kill you. I have to protect my business.” Again that thin smile. Coldfield again saw the man’s ruthless brutality, his unswerving devotion to his own prosperity.

Coldfield thought of the beating he’d gotten from Bates, at Chapman’s orders, and it made the anger boil up again. Without warning he leaped at Chapman, lips skinned back over his teeth, almost snarling. His hands reached for Chapman’s throat. One of the others jumped forward, lifting a short wooden dub. The club smacked Coldfield’s head with a pulpy sound. Coldfield spun away, lights sparkling behind his eyes. The second man got behind him, pinioned his arms, while the other drew back his hand, then whipped the club down again. Coldfield’s head rocked on his shoulders. The blows came one after another, in regular rhythm. Somewhere Chapman laughed. He seemed to laugh louder with each blow. Time ceased to have meaning for Coldfield. In his delirium, he still knew that time had stopped for him. Stopped forever.

The beating proceeded slowly, methodically. Finally Coldfield could barely feel the separate blows. The excess of it paradoxically lifted some of his pain. His eyes cleared a bit. Chapman was seated on a barrel, smoking. His gun lay on the table beside him. Anger caught hold of Coldfield again. Perhaps, he thought to himself, perhaps with that I can fight them. He knew that he had to make the effort soon or he’d never do it.

He moved his arms. “Hey!” The man jerked him from behind. But his grip wasn’t as tight as before. Coldfield leaned back slightly, feeling something stuck in the man’s belt. Had the man been carrying a knife there, or a pistol? He couldn’t remember. But it felt like a weapon. And the man’s grip had relaxed. Coldfield rolled with the blows of the club, biding his time; gathering his hate and the last reserves of strength it generated.

Coldfield saw the club go up once more. This time, as it came lashing down, he wrenched free of his captor. The club slashed past his head and because he dodged, it missed his shoulder. Instead of turning for his captor’s weapon, he kept going forward. His hand beat Chapman’s to the table by a fraction of a second. He snatched the pistol and flattened himself against the shanty wall.

The man who’d held him was cursing and tugging the pistol from his belt. Coldfield fired a single shot that sent the man staggering on rubbery legs. Then he fell.

The second man, blunt jaw thrust forward, small eyes glinting, threw a knife. Coldfield dodged, feeling the blade near his temple before it buried itself in the plank wall, quivering. Coldfield’s hastily snapped shot hit the man’s groin. The man let out a yell and went down.

Coldfield raced for the door and clattered down the steps in pursuit of Chapman. The owner of the
Queen,
unarmed now that Coldfield had his pistol, had bolted for the door the instant the first man took a bullet.

Just outside the shanty, Coldfield hesitated. The fog turned the flats into a dim wasteland of deceptive shapes. He thought he saw a running figure; fired at it. A window broke in a hail of broken glass. A man in long underwear flung the shanty door open, cursing.

Coldfield listened for footsteps. He heard none. He thrust the gun into his coat and started walking. He had to stop once for several minutes while a wave of dizziness struck him. Then he moved again, working his way up the flats toward the lights of St. Elmo.

Harriet Masters gasped when she answered his knock at her hotel room door. He stood leaning weakly against the door frame. He didn’t smile at her; he couldn’t. She searched his face, then rushed forward, her skirts belling around her. One hand went up to touch his cheek, cool and tender. “Graham …” She said it softly, her eyes misting just a little.

He closed the door while she poured him a drink. Briefly he explained what had happened. Her face took on a look of numbed horror. When he finished, he paused a moment, then said, “Now do you see why I’m going after Chapman? This time he was going to kill me. The
Queen
means everything to him. There isn’t a thing he won’t do to protect her.”

She nodded. “Yes, I see now. I—I’m sorry.”

He stood up and abruptly the dizziness hit him again. His hands groped to a chair for support. When he recovered, his face had an unhealthy mottled look. But his eyes were like pieces of stone. “I’m all right,” he said. “What time is it?”

She glanced at the big clock on the fireplace mantel. “Quarter to nine.”

Coldfield took out Chapman’s gun and examined it. He replaced the spent shells and put it away again. “Time to get the men in the bar.” And, he added silently, time for Tom Chapman to cash in.