CHAPTER 3
When the Hannibal Belle docked in New Orleans, Buckhorn was ready to have his riverboat experience over with. For starters, it felt mighty good to leave the cramped confines of the craft and set his feet on solid, dry land again. Secondly, he welcomed leaving behind the tension and lingering sense of suspicion that seemed to hover after the signs of violence were found on the observation deck and two passengers were discovered to have disappeared. And last but not least, it was just plain fine to at last be in New Orleans, the place he’d had a hankering to visit for such a very long time.
Except for the smell of the river, the crowded, noisy activity around the dock wasn’t that much different from the trading hubs of other large cities where he’d been. Some of the goods being handled—huge bundles of cotton, tobacco, and the like—weren’t common to the frontier he hailed from. They held his interest for a time, but not all that long. Mostly, he wanted to get to the historic and colorful heart of the city.
“Mr. Buckhorn? Joseph Buckhorn?” a voice at his elbow said.
When Buckhorn looked around, he at first didn’t see anybody. When he dropped his line of sight, he found a short, scrawny Negro youth of about fourteen standing beside him. The lad was dressed in a faded blue work shirt, tan pants with yellow suspenders, and lace-up work shoes that, if they fit properly, meant the rest of him had quite a ways to go before he grew into his feet. The hair on his head was cropped to mere bristles and perched atop the resulting dome was a somewhat battered bowler hat similar in style to Buckhorn’s own.
Buckhorn nodded. “That’s right. I’m Joe Buckhorn.”
The boy held out a thin white envelope sealed with a dab of melted wax.
“My name’s Lucien. Mr. Haydon sent me. He said for me to give you that envelope and then to take you and your things to the Hotel Laffite. He said the message inside would explain the rest.” Lucien pointed. “My carriage is right over there.”
His eyes following the line of the pointing finger, Buckhorn saw a nicely dressed-out carriage hitched to a sleek black horse. The latter was tied to a post with an iron ring in it. He cut his gaze back to Lucien. “You handle that rig through these busy streets all by yourself, do you?”
“Sure enough. Have been for quite a spell now.”
“That’s mighty impressive,” Buckhorn complimented him.
The corners of Lucien’s mouth lifted in a brief smile, demonstrating that he liked the praise but didn’t want to show it too much. “You got luggage and such? I can get it loaded up for you.”
Buckhorn tipped his head to indicate the single suitcase and worn old war bag he was carrying in his left hand, leaving his right free to access the Colt .45 riding openly on his hip. “Got everything right here.”
“You travel mighty light,” Lucien remarked.
“Well, these grips aren’t exactly light. But they’re all I got, nevertheless.”
“Let me take ’em for you,” Lucien said, holding out his hands.
“You sure? I wasn’t kidding when I said they’re kinda heavy.”
“I can handle ’em. It’s what Mr. Haydon sent me for.”
“Very well. If you insist.” Buckhorn set the two grips down and stood back so the boy had room to grab hold.
He got them up, tottering a bit, then turned and marched smartly to the carriage. Buckhorn followed along, grinning faintly at Lucien’s determination.
The war bag went up into the carriage’s storage bed without too much trouble. The suitcase was a bit more of a struggle and required the added lift of one knee before it got shoved in next to the war bag. Buckhorn held in check his urge to lend a hand because he understood Lucien wanted to prove he was up to the task.
When the grips were loaded, Lucien turned, puffing a little. “You sure that’s everything?”
Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, Buckhorn said, “I got a horse and his gear, too, as soon as they start bringing the animals out of the cargo hold.” He paused and then grinned. “But I don’t reckon you’ll have to lift him.”
Lucien matched his grin. “That’s good.”
They didn’t have to wait long before the livestock was being offloaded and herded out. Sarge, Buckhorn’s tall dappled gray stallion, was among the earlier animals to show. All saddled and bridled, he was led by a lanky fellow with straw-colored hair and a slight limp.
Buckhorn raised an arm and called out, “Scotty! Over here!”
Scotty didn’t have any trouble spotting the source of the shout and veered in their direction, guiding the stallion gently through the throng of people scurrying impatiently in all different directions. Buckhorn and Lucien went to meet them halfway.
“What a great-looking horse,” Lucien said as he reached up to rub Sarge’s velvety snout.
“He’s got the looks and everything else going for him,” Scotty said. “He’s one of the best animals I ever looked after. It was a pure pleasure to have him on our boat and for you to put him under my charge, Mr. Buckhorn.”
“You looked after him real good, Scotty. I appreciate that. I see you got him all saddled for me and everything.”
“I figured I’d save you the trouble.”
“That was mighty thoughtful. Turns out I’ve got other transportation waiting for me”—Buckhorn jabbed a thumb at Lucien—“so I won’t be making use of that saddle right away . . . but it was still thoughtful of you.”
Scotty made a dismissive gesture. “Aw, think nothing of it. It gave me the chance to spend some extra time with Sarge. That was worth it all on its own.”
Above the din of the various activity spread across the dock, a harsh voice suddenly shouted at the three admirers gathered around Sarge. “Hey, you lollygaggers! Get the hell out of the way. That’s nothing but a damn horse. Ain’t you never seen one before?”
Buckhorn turned his head and looked at the individual doing the hollering, a sizable specimen, heavy-gutted and powerful looking with massive shoulders and thick arms. He was clad in a dirty homespun shirt and bib overalls. A slouch hat sat on a pumpkin-sized head complete with mean, piggy eyes and scruffy whiskers. He was leading a handsome team of sleek, reddish mules. On the opposite side of the team was a second man cut from almost identical cloth, except at about three-quarter scale to the one doing the bellowing.
Buckhorn squinted at the loud man. “You talking to me?”
“You’re the jackass standing there smack in my path, ain’t you? You and the cripple and the colored, taking up dock space better suited to just about anybody or anything else. Now move it. Make way for your betters—meaning me and my mules!”
“You’re just gonna have to wait, mister,” Buckhorn said through clenched teeth. “You can stand there until me and my friends have finished our talk. Or you can find room to go around.”
The man’s pallor, such as could be discerned through the dirt and whiskers that smudged his face, was the sickly pale color of sour milk. Suddenly it flushed flaming red with anger. “Like hell I will! The sun’ll never rise on the day Oscar Turlick goes even one inch out of his way for the likes of you three and that vermin-ridden horse. Now you clear to one side—and be quick about it—or I’ll do the clearing of you pieces of dock garbage!”
So saying, Turlick raised high one meaty arm and took a step forward. Clutched in his fist, with a loop curling back around the wrist, was a braided leather quirt about two feet in length. “I’ll start with that sorry piece of horseflesh that looks like he’s been sadly lackin’ the taste of leather up to this point, anyway!”
Turlick’s forward motion stopped abruptly when, quicker than the blink of an eye, the Colt from the holster on Buckhorn’s hip flashed into his hand and was extended at arm’s length, muzzle centered on the point above the bridge of the beefy man’s nose where his shaggy eyebrows came together.
“You lower that quirt one inch closer to my horse,” Buckhorn said, his voice like two stones rubbing together, “I’ll be looking at daylight through the holes I ventilate your head with.”
Air whistled out of Turlick’s flared nostrils as his piggy eyes glared directly into the Colt’s muzzle. “You didn’t have that gun, you wouldn’t be so brave, would you, you dog-eatin’ heathen redskin?”
“The point is, I do have the gun,” Buckhorn told him. “And, even though I’ve only been in this neck of the woods for a short time, I’m already out of patience when it comes to dealing with wharf rats and bayou scum like you. Now, are you gonna try your luck with that quirt against my Colt? Or are you gonna find a path to slink around me and my friends and get the hell out of my sight?”
“Come on, Oscar,” the smaller mule herder urged. “There’s plenty of room to get around. Let’s just go. Can’t we? Please?”
Grudgingly, Turlick lowered his arm and began tugging his team wide around those he’d claimed to be in his way, but his glare stayed fixed on Buckhorn every step of the way. “Another day, dog-eater. We ever meet again, I’ll be ready for you. I’ll pluck out a section of your gut, just a short little string at first, and use it like a lead rope to take you back into the swamps.” He gave Buckhorn a gap-toothed grin. “We’ll have us a time.”