The young planter Jones, brandishing a short-barreled pistol, swayed fifteen feet away from the gambler Devol. “I’ll ask you one more time,” Jones was shouting as I pushed through the doors at the other end of the salon. “Give me my money back, or I’ll shoot you between the eyes.”
Devol was backed against the wall behind the bar stand, where a bloom of splinters above his right shoulder showed the resting place of Jones’s first shot. The gambler’s hands were raised in the air, yet his face showed only the faintest hint of concern.
“You lost the money fair and square,” he said calmly.
“You lie!” screamed the planter. He had shed his frockcoat, and his white shirt was disordered. His hair stood on end as if he had run his hands through it a hundred times. “You cheated me, and you know it.”
There were, I now realized, several other men still in the salon, mostly ducking behind chairs along the edges of the room. The Artist was crouched behind his overturned easel. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of brilliant red. The Actress was lying on her side, her features clenched with fear; the unshaven rogue was cowering on the floor behind her.
“I cheated you?” asked Devol. His tone was incredulous but his eyes were darting around the room, gauging his next move. “I cheated you because I let you proceed with a throw you thought was crooked in your favor? That’s not cheating, son. That’s the monte.”
Jones took a new wad from his pocket and, after several false starts, ripped its top off with his teeth. He started to pour it down the barrel of his pistol, but his hands were trembling so badly that much of the powder missed its target and drifted impotently toward the floor.
“Jones!” I called out, advancing to the center of the room.
The young planter swung around, nearly toppling over before steadying himself. “You’re the other one I’m looking for,” he said, gesturing angrily with his pistol.
“Put down the piece, Jones.”
“I’ve been cheated,” he insisted. He waved the pistol around wildly, and the men cowering on the edges of the salon shrank back farther. I heard the Actress suck in her breath. “As I sat in my cabin, drinking my last bottle of whiskey, I realized it was all a swindle.”
“I urged you not to play. Anyone who does business with a bandit like him”—I gestured toward Devol—“does so at his own peril.”
Jones was undeterred. He felt around in his pocket for a ball to ram down his barrel. At the same time, I heard the door to the salon open with a heave behind me, and several pairs of footsteps crossed the threshold.
“Put down that gun at once,” bellowed Captain Pound.
“This man’s a gambler, Captain,” cried Jones. “A goddamned no-good gambler.”
“Impossible,” said Pound. “There’s no gamblers allowed on my ship.”
“Every man here knows what happened,” Jones insisted, swaying as his hand holding the loaded gun flailed about. Devol’s best hope, I thought, was that Jones was too intoxicated to aim straight. “I’ve little doubt you do as well.”
“It’s a serious charge, young man,” Pound said gravely, “but I always take the words of my cabin passengers seriously. If you insist, I shall convene a maritime court—right here, right now—to get to the bottom of it.”
“There’s no need, Captain,” called out Devol. “Part of what he says is true, but only part. I did have a deck out earlier. But the game was level, and this man’s nothing but a sore loser.”
“You admit you’re a gambler?” The captain squinted in disbelief.
“An honest one,” Devol insisted. His head was bowed.
“In that case, you would do perfectly right to shoot him,” the captain said, turning back to Jones. “But that little pop gun of yours isn’t strong enough to kill a horsefly. Look how badly your first shot missed. My man will bring you mine instead. I keep only the best of arms.”
Pound pulled a heavy, long-barreled black gun from the pocket of his coat and started to hand it to Hector. I saw that the gambler’s slave had entered the room behind the two men; her face was etched with worry.
“Stop!” shouted Jones, looking warily between the captain and Hector, his gun at the ready. “Place it on that table over there and back away.”
“It’s loaded and primed,” said the captain, complying. “All ready to be fired.”
Keeping his gun trained on us, the young planter walked over and picked up the captain’s heavy piece. He squinted down the barrel, then held the gun next to his ear and shook it, listening for confirmation the ball was already rammed down. Nodding with satisfaction, he turned back to Devol. The gambler had been watching with a look of fierce concentration. To the last, he was calculating the odds.
Jones extended his right arm, his new weapon pointing directly at Devol’s heart.
“Any last words?”
Devol allowed himself a small smile. “No doubt I will have some. But you’ll never hear them.”
“May you rot in Hell!” screamed Jones. He pulled the trigger.
Devol’s smile remained undisturbed.
Jones stared at the useless gun in horror, and he pulled the trigger again and then again. He started to reach for his own gun, but before he could, Hector—shouting out, “Santiago!” as a great war cry—had taken a running leap and tackled the planter. Both guns flew out of his grasp and skittered away. The two men grappled with each other, but it was no contest, and the Spanish giant had soon subdued Jones.
“I demand my money,” shouted Jones as he struggled helplessly from beneath Hector. “Otherwise, you’ll pay for this. All of you will. I know you’re all in it together.”
“Take him to his cabin, Hector, and tie him down,” Pound said calmly. “The man’s lost his sense along with his sobriety. For his own sake, I hope he regains them both by the time we dock at Alton in the morning.”
Hector rose to his feet, Jones wrapped in his arms like a small child being carried off to bed. Meanwhile, Devol took a few steps forward to grasp Pound’s arm. The two men exchanged weary grins. There wasn’t much either of them hadn’t seen in lives lived up and down the river, I guessed.
Jones had stopped struggling now, but he continued to cry out at the top of his voice as Hector lumbered with him from the room. “I know the truth!” the planter insisted. “You’ll pay for what you’ve done!”