“You owe me, Shattuck,” Gunnard growled. “I did your crooked work. I slowed Wollfolk’s niggers down for several days. Maybe you don’t owe me the whole five hundred dollars, but sure part of it.”
“Gunnard, I owe you nothing. Your reputation as a fighter is pure horseshit. You let a kid from Ohio whip you and you didn’t lay a knuckle on him.” Shattuck threw a contemptuous look at Gunnard’s face with its swollen lips, his nose broken and knocked off to one side by Wollfolk’s fists.
Shattuck stood by the wall of the Flatboat Saloon. It was located in a section of New Orleans with no formal name, but called the Swamp by the pirates, rogues, muggers, and cheap killers who lived, fought, and often died there. He looked along the main street of the Swamp; it was lined with crudely constructed buildings, single-story and made from the lumber of broken-up flatboats that had come down the river over many years.
A few people carrying candle lanterns moved through the evening dusk on the muddy street. There were no sidewalks, only the wet black dirt, now stirred to mud by rolling wheels and the feet of men and horses. A light reflected a weak glint of silver as one of the lantern people veered around a water puddle. A streetwalker was propositioning a man in the light coming from the open door of the gambling shack. Three richly dressed young Creoles with swords buckled to their waists entered the saloon. Nobody paid Shattuck and Gunnard as much as a glance.
“I want two hundred dollars and I’ll go on my way,” Gunnard said. “That amount of money don’t mean anything to a rich man like you.”
“You’ll get not one penny from me.” Shattuck’s temper rose and his voice was brittle. He should never had come to meet with the man. But there had been a threatening tone in the note delivered by the Negro boy at Shattuck’s office.
“Two hundred dollars, Shattuck, and I’ll not tell what happened to the white foreman who worked for the Wollfolk Company before I did.”
“What do you know, Gunnard?” Shattuck’s voice was flat. The son of a bitch actually had the gall to threaten him. Stupid man.
“I know he was murdered and slipped into the river,” Gunnard replied. He pressed his arm against the butt of the knife on his belt. The weapon felt reassuring, for Shattuck was a dangerous man. But without doubt, he would have a large sum of money on him. Gunnard needed money. The beating Wollfolk had given him had finished him in New Orleans. Two hundred dollars would take him to Saint Louis and get him started there.
“You know nothing,” Shattuck said. Gunnard was guessing, but his guess was on the mark. Kelty had killed the foreman and thrown his body into the deep, wet grave of the Mississippi. It made no difference what Gunnard told in the Swamp, for there was no law in that godforsaken place. But he must not be allowed to come uptown and tell his tales.
“We can’t talk out here,” Shattuck said. “Let’s get out of sight.” He walked down the side of the building toward the adjacent alley.
Gunnard hesitated, then followed behind Shattuck’s broad back. Shattuck was not to be trusted, but why not put a knife into his spine once he was in the dark alley? Then Gunnard could have all the money the man carried. Gunnard pulled his knife and moved quickly upon Shattuck.
The ex-prizefighter sensed the man closing on him. He stepped swiftly into the shadowy alley and whirled. He found a somewhat solid spot in the sloppy mud and set his feet. His fists balled into bony hammers. He felt the old familiar rush of hot blood of the fighting ring. Then Gunnard came around the corner and was outlined against the brighter light of the street.
Shattuck struck Gunnard a savage blow to the face. Instantly he hit the man twice more, left and right.
Gunnard’s forward momentum made the blow doubly damaging to him. He staggered, stunned. Only one thought remained: cut Shattuck with the knife. Gunnard swung a roundhouse swipe with the sharp blade.
The knife missed as Shattuck sprang clear. Then, before Gunnard could strike again, Shattuck plunged in, both fists swinging, cruelly smashing Gunnard’s face.
Gunnard fell against the wall of the building. He dropped his knife. “ ‘Nough,” he gasped.
“Like hell.” Shattuck’s voice was merciless. His brutal fists pounded Gunnard to the ground.
Gunnard lay on his back. He feebly raised an arm to ward off further blows.
Shattuck kicked the man onto his stomach. He jammed his boot down on the back of Gunnard’s head and stomped his face into the sloppy mud.
He held the fallen man’s face buried in the mud until the man ceased struggling.
“You weren’t worth two cents, let alone two hundred dollars,” Shattuck said to the corpse.
He left the alley by the far end. Gunnard’s death would not even be reported. He would eventually be picked up and thrown into the river with other broken and useless things found lying on the streets of the Swamp.
* * *
“Damnation, this place is dead as a Bronze John hospital,” said Leandre, staring around the barroom. It was nearly empty of patrons, and the bartender was leaning half-asleep on the bar.
“A man could die from lack of excitement,” agreed Maurice. “Let’s do something other than sit here and get drunk on rum.”
“The Swamp is always a rollicking place after dark,” Gustave said. “And it’s been dark for hours.”
Leandre straightened quickly. “Now, why didn’t I think of that? Gustave, you’re always ahead of Maurice and me. Down there in the Swamp, we may even run into some of the Live Oak Boys and have a little practice with our swords.”
“Now, Leandre, don’t start a fight in the Swamp,” said Maurice. “There are too many tough men for us to handle.”
“You’ve got your pistol, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“So do I, and also Gustave has his. We’ll shoot our way out if we find more trouble than we can handle. Come on along.” Leandre was chuckling happily as he left the barroom and struck off down the street.
“I wish we could see a hackney to hire,” Maurice said as he fell in beside his comrades.
“We can walk to the Swamp in less than half an hour,” Leandre said. He lengthened his stride and began to tell his friends a new joke he had heard.
They reached the bayou, full of the fetid stench of human waste, and crossed over on a rickety wooden bridge into the Swamp. They passed two blocks of poorly built and ill-kept buildings, and then they drew close to a saloon. The rumbling, growling voices of many men drifted through the open door and into the street.
Leandre peered at the faded sign hanging over the door. “How does the Flatboat Saloon strike you fellows?” he asked.
“From the sounds, it must be a lively place,” said Maurice.
“Sounds more like a cave full of bears,” Gustave said.
“Be damned if it doesn’t,” Leandre said. “Let’s go inside and see what the bears look like.” He led into the saloon.
The structure was quite deep, with a long wooden bar on the left. A score of crude tables with empty wine casks as seats sat in a row on the right. Three card tables and a craps table were crowded with players. A young’ whore was working the crowd, moving from table to table and propositioning the men. The odor of stale beer, rum, and whiskey and the sour smell of nearly a hundred unwashed human bodies filled the air with a scent that seemed to have weight.
Several of the rough-looking men halted their conversation to stare at the expensively dressed young Creoles making their way toward an empty table near the wall. A big, burly fellow pointed at the swords on the sides of the three and said something to the men near him. They all laughed.
Leandre noticed the gesture at him and his friends, and the laugh. He halted and started to turn.
“Not now, Leandre,” Gustave said. “I haven’t had my rum yet.”
“Right as usual,” Leandre said. He turned from the men and continued on to the table.
The bartender left his station behind the bar and crossed the room to the new arrivals. “What’ll it be, gents?”
“Some of your very best rum,” Leandre told the bar-keep. “This much.” He measured off a goodly height with his fingers. “And bring my friends the same.” Leandre caught himself. “No. Bring the bottle unopened, and clean glasses.” It was not unknown for Mickey Finns, drinks heavily laced with opium, being served to men from uptown. They woke up naked in alleys. Sometimes they did not wake up at all.
The bartender nodded and moved away. Leandre looked back at the men who had laughed at him. They had resumed their conversation and were paying him no attention.
The young Creoles drank their first rum and talked. Gustave poured another round and picked up his glass. He looked at the gathering of muggers, pirates without ships, and men with a dozen other unlawful, mean occupations.
The young whore saw Gustave looking about and started across the room in his direction. As she passed the table where the burly man sat, he reached out and caught her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. She wiggled free and, making a few quick steps to elude his reaching arms, ended up near the Creoles’ table.
A little teasing smile came to her painted face as she leaned close to Gustave. “I’ll let you tumble me for a quarter,” she said.
Gustave studied the girl through the thick rouge she wore. She appeared to be thirteen or so. She could have been pretty, but her whiskey breath, dirty teeth, and soiled dress robbed her of that possibility.
“No, thanks,” Gustave said.
“You don’t like me.” Her lips curved down in a pout.
“But I do. Where are you from?”
“From Kentucky. I came down the river on a flatboat.”
Gustave thought she spoke as if proud of making such a long journey. She had most likely started that trip as a fresh hill girl. Now, like the battered and short-lived flat boats whose timbers and planks ended up in the shacks in the Swamp, the girl had also ended up in this hellhole section of New Orleans.
“I don’t like that look on your face,” said the young whore. “What are you thinking?”
“Oh, nothing,” Gustave said. He had allowed his thoughts to show. He straightened his face. “I have never been upriver and was wondering what the trip would be like. How was it for you?”
“Part of the trip was fun. But the men were even dirtier and uglier than those here.”
The girl looked into Gustave’s young and handsome face and smiled wistfully. “Come and give me a tumble. If you don’t, I’ll have to let that dirty fellow there do it to me.”
Gustave glanced at the man, who was stonily watching across the room at him. Then he looked back at the girl. “I don’t want any loving tonight, but”, he reached into his pocket and brought out a handful of silver coins. “here is some money so that you don’t have to bother with that man.”
The child whore giggled and snatched the money from Gustave’s hand. She brushed his cheek with her lips and danced away.
The burly man grabbed at the whore as she passed. But jingling the coins in her closed hand, she dodged out of his reach. She scampered out the door like a small girl.
Leandre chuckled. “Gustave, my good friend, one moment you talk me out of the foolishness of starting a , fight, then the next minute you give your money away.
That little whore will be back here tomorrow night, and she’ll be tumbling the men, as she calls it.”
“You’re probably right,” Gustave said. “However, I wanted to do it, and it was only a little money.”
“Trouble’s coming,” Maurice said, looking past his two comrades.
The man who had missed catching the girl was coming toward the Creoles. “Why did you give her money?” he asked in a belligerent voice. “Now I’ll miss out on a little frolic with her.”
“I didn’t mean to take away your pleasure,” said Gustave. “The poor girl needed a little rest. So I gave her some coins.” He smiled good-naturedly.
“You rich young bastards think you can do whatever you want. Maybe uptown you can. But not down here in the Swamp.”
“You call us bastards,” exclaimed Leandre, his face tightening. He started to rise to his feet.
Gustave caught Leandre by the arm. “This is my game,” he said.
“Are you sure? I’d like to run my blade through this ass.”
“I’m sure.”
The man stepped forward. His hand rose to touch the knife on his belt. “Did you call me an ass?”
Gustave climbed swiftly erect. His sword gave out a sibilant whisper as he pulled it from its scabbard. The sharp point darted out to touch the man’s chest. The man halted abruptly to keep from being impaled on the weapon.
“Easy does it,” Gustave said. “That knife isn’t a match for my sword.”
Lucien Custus turned his big red head and watched the developing argument between his man Spradley and the Creoles. Spradley was a rough, dangerous man. However, Custus did not think it would be an easy matter to beat the Creoles, even the youngest one. That fellow’s face had lost its good-natured smile. His arm was cocked to run the thin sword through Spradley.
Custus had seen duels fought with rapiers. Deadly affairs with much blood flowing. The dueling academies for the rich produced tough, skilled fighters.
“Spradley, let it go,” Custus called. “The Creole gamecock can cut out your guts before you can sneeze.”
Spradley looked down at the sharp double-edged blade. He tensed, ready to try to knock the weapon aside.
Gustave saw the man’s intention. He pushed the rapier forward to pierce the thin fabric of the man’s shirt and pricking his skin with the cold point. The insult had rankled him the same as it had Leandre. If the man wanted to fight, then let it begin now.
Leandre cast a short look at Gustave. He recognized the temper building behind the young man’s wide-eyed look. And a spot of red was growing on Spradley’s shirt where the sword point pressed even harder.
Spradley glared at Gustave. “Put that sword away and I’ll teach you a lesson.”
“With pistols?” suggested Gustave.
“With pistols,” Spradley said.
“The length of the saloon should be short enough range for even you to hit a man. Does that suit you?”
“Yeh,” Spradley grunted. His eyes ground into the remaining Creoles. “You two will be next.”
Leandre and Maurice both laughed. “You joke when you are near death,” said Leandre.
“Spradley, I don’t think you should be so quick to fight this young gamecock,” Custus said. “Let the matter drop.”
“Stay out of this, Custus,” snapped Spradley. “He’s not tough enough to beat me.”
“It’s your funeral,” Custus said. “But the least I can do for you is to loan you a good pistol.” He pulled his weapon and handed it to Spradley. “It’s in good working order and has fresh loads.”
Custus turned and called out toward the rear of the room. “Clear a line of fire.”
Men hastily jumped to their feet and shoved aside the tables and casks. They moved to stand tightly around the wall or bar.
Leandre spoke to Gustave in a low voice. “Take the position near the door. Maurice and I will help you shoot the hell out of anybody who tries to stop us from leaving after this is over.”
Gustave nodded and slid the rapier back into its scabbard. He drew his pistol as he walked to stand near the entrance.
Leandre spoke to Custus. “Why don’t you be the judge and give the signal to fire”?”
“Is that all right with you?” Custus asked Spradley.
“Sure, Custus. I’ll show you how this dueling is done.” He examined Custus’ pistol as he walked to the rear of the saloon.
“Guns at your side,” directed Custus. “Stand ready to fire.”
Gustave smiled at his comrades and then faced around to lock his eyes on his opponent. This was his first duel with a pistol. Even so, his heart was beating quite nicely, slow and easy.
“Fire,” Custus cried.
Gustave’s hand flashed up, his pistol thundered.
In the opposite end of the room, Spradley staggered. He dropped his pistol and clutched at his chest. His mouth fell open, howling soundlessly. He crumpled to the floor.
The man nearest Spradley went to kneel by the body. He glanced up at Custus. “Dead. Hit plumb center.”
Several of the men looked at Custus, as if awaiting some signal from him.
Custus stretched a tight smile across his mouth. “I warned the dumb son of a bitch.” He faced the young Creoles. “Spradley was wrong. You’re tough bastards, all right. That’s the kind of men that are welcome in the Swamp.”
“In that case, I’m buying,” Gustave said. He extracted a leather pouch from a pocket and tossed it upon the bar. It landed with a ring of coins.
“That’s enough gold to buy drinks for everybody. And then some more rounds.”