Rivers West (2 page)

“True, lad. True.” He glanced at me. “And you? You have a name?”

Suddenly, I was wary. Who was this man from out of the night, coming upon me standing over a dead man. Why this sudden interest in my name? For his tone seemed to have sharpened just a little at the question. Moreover, there was about him something vaguely familiar.

“Who does not have a name? I find them of small meaning.”

Five feet ten inches, I was, and shorter than him. He looked to be a powerful man, but I yielded him nothing on that score. For I was big boned and muscled. In part it was inheritance, for mine had been a strong family; and in part it was my trade and the handling of heavy timbers. I believed myself the equal of any man when it came to sheer strength.

Who was he? And where was he going? I longed to ask, but had scarcely the right, having refused to tell my name. The vague familiarity about him worried me. I was far from home, yet this man had a feel of the sea about him and something of our own accent in his speech. Had he followed me? Was that absurd story of treasure to haunt me forever?

By fishing boat I had come from the Gaspé up the river to Quebec, had crossed the river and entered the forest.

We slopped along in the darkness, wary of our footsteps, only occasionally glimpsing a star overhead through the lacework of branches. Despite the pegleg, he swung along as easily as me, and I fancy myself a man who can walk.

Suddenly, through the dark columns of the huge old trees, we saw a light. With the chance of good food and drink before us, we lengthened our strides and in a few minutes faced a clearing under giant trees and a ramshackle bridge over an arm of the swamp.

At the door the latchstring was out. We lifted it and stepped inside.

A fine fire blazed upon the hearth of a huge fireplace at the opposite end of the room. There were some benches, a long table, and a half-dozen men standing about. At the fire, a middle-aged woman stirred something in a pot that set my stomach to high expectation.

A mostly baldheaded man with a fringe of sandy hair, whom I took to be the owner, looked around at us. He wore a long buckskin waistcoat and heavy boots.

“Welcome, lads! Welcome! Come up to the table! It's a raw night for the out of doors. Have a nip of something. I've rum…even a bit of ale that I've brewed myself. Tasty, mighty tasty.”

He turned to the woman at the fire. “Bett, get some food on the table. These will be hungry men.”

There was a tall man with his back to the wall, a handsome man indeed, with a pipe in one hand and a glass in the other. He looked at me with a quick, appraising glance, then his eyes rested thoughtfully on me. My coat was open, and he could see the pistol there.

I set my tools in the corner, and after a moment of hesitation, my rifle beside them.

Chapter 2

M
Y NAME IS Watson,” the baldheaded man said. “We do a bit of farming here, and some'at o' fishing, and a man with a rifle can find game. We set a good table, if I do say so m'self.”

He glanced from Jambe to me. “A tot of rum? Warms a body who's been out in the cold night.”

“Aye,” I agreed, “it has been a long way of forest and swamp.”

“Here it is! And good Jamaica, too! I've a taste for the dark rum. Nothing fancy, just good rum.”

The rum did take the chill from my bones, but it was food I wanted, and besides, I'd no taste for drinking with strangers about, and there was an air in this place I did not like. Watson was all right, no doubt, but I'm by nature a cautious man, and the look of the others was not to my taste.

There was a dark, sallow man with snaky black eyes. He stared at me. “Goin' far?” he asked.

“As far as a job,” I said. “Word has come to me that they are building ships down Boston way.”

Yet I was lying, for my interest lay westward rather than south. To the frontier town of Pittsburgh. Two or three years before, they'd built the steamer
New Orleans
, said to be the first on western waters, but I had a feeling it was to be the first of many. With the fur trade to the West growing, there would be a demand for fast, reliable transportation, and as the
New Orleans
had proved itself, they would build others. I had an idea of building my own boat to trade on the western waters.

The tall man with the pipe moved around the table and sat on the bench opposite me. His smile was pleasant, but the expression in his eyes was cool, calculating, and somehow taunting. I had a feeling that here was a man who looked with amused contempt on all about him.

“Colonel Rodney Macklem,” he said, introducing himself. “Will you have a drink?”

“Obliged, but I have a drink.”

“You didn't mention your name.”

“John Daniel,” I said it easily, but there was a flicker of irritation in his eyes, of impatience, too. Here was a man who did not wish to be thwarted or turned aside, yet his lips smiled in a friendly fashion. I had just a thought, however, that he had expected another name…what name?

Jambe-de-Bois was watching me, too—somewhat puzzled, no doubt, and curious.

Bett Watson came around the table with one huge bowl of stew and two smaller ones, and with spoons and a ladle. “Start on that,” she said cheerfully.

She was a blowsy, red-cheeked woman with black eyes. Untidy, but clean, and, I thought, a good woman with a cheerful air. “Theres more coming,” she added.

Macklem lighted his pipe again. He avoided the eyes of Jambe-de-Bois, and Jambe did likewise. Did they know each other? Did they recall something each would prefer forgotten?

The talk in the room was rambling, mostly of trail conditions and weather, for it was these by which we lived. Macklem was casual, talking little. Of the body we had found I decided to say nothing, yet I listened for some word of travelers. One of these men might have seen his killer, one might even be his killer…although I doubted that.

The murdered man had been, I knew, a British army officer, and for some reason he had been pursuing the man who stabbed him.

Why?

Why the killing? This was no simple robbery, although every trail was beset with thieves and every inn a possible lurking place for them. It was no unusual thing to find a traveler murdered, or to have one simply disappear.

The cabin was more than just one room, but from the outside it had not appeared to be large. No doubt we would sleep on the floor in this room. Watson was even now stoking the fire, adding a couple of heavy logs that would hold the fire through the night.

The stew tasted good. When it was finished, Bett Watson brought us a big chunk of plum pudding and a pot of coffee.

Aside from Macklem, those in the room were a rough-looking crew, yet I suspect I looked equally rough myself.

He said, “You are French?”

“In part.”

“You have a familiar look, John Daniel. I think I have seen you before, or someone very much like you.”

I shrugged. “Perhaps. Who knows? I have been here and there.”

He was not satisfied, and continued to talk, but his comments were leading, his questions insidious. Obviously, he wished very much to know who I was, and he was not satisfied that I was a shipwright. Yet, he was pleasant enough, and an agreeable talker.

The air in the room was close and warm, too warm. I felt sleepy, tired from the hike. Not that I had walked far, for twenty miles was nothing exceptional, but the walking had been rough, the footing uncertain. Yet I did not want to sleep. Not until they all did.

Suddenly I thought of the waterproof envelope inside my shirt, and the water-soaked papers. There'd been no chance to look at them. The dead man must have somebody who would know about relatives, and if he was still in the army, his superiors would want to know of his death.

Watson and one of the others moved the table aside, and we spread our beds on the floor. All of us carried blankets—a man couldn't travel without them. And even in the larger taverns, a man was often expected to have his own bedding.

Long after the candles were blown out and only the firelight played on the ceiling, I lay awake, considering.

That man had been murdered for a reason. He was following the man who had fatally stabbed him when he had fallen or been thrown into the swamp. Therefore, the murderer could assume no body would be found, and that he was free from worry.

Two other considerations remained. Either the murderer had searched the body, or he had not. If he had searched it, he had not wanted either the gold or the papers or the pistol. If he had not been able to search the body, he might still want those papers, if they were of value to him.

In any event, it behooved me to be very careful; to let no one know I'd seen the dead man or talked to him or examined the body.

Jambe knew, but had shown no urge to discuss it. Was he the murderer? Might he not have concealed himself when he heard me coming?

Under my blankets I drew out my knife. My work often called for a knife, and most men carried them as a tool if not as a weapon. Mine was razor-sharp, with a point like a needle. With the knife in my hand, I went to sleep.

The last thing I recalled was firelight flickering on the ceiling; then, shocked awake, I saw a dim red glow with a black figure looming above me and my blanket drawn back. A hand reached for the inside of my shirt. My knife thrust sharply upward.

Lying on my side with the knife in my right hand, I had to roll to my back to thrust. The thief, whoever he was, jerked away and vanished.

Vanished!

I sat up quickly, then came to my feet, knife in hand.

All was dark and still. Nothing moved. There was a faint glow from the fire, a reddish glow that flickered on some of the faces, threw others into deeper shadow.

Stepping across the sleeping men, I sheathed my blade and, taking the poker, stirred the fire, then added some smaller sticks. The fire blazed up, and the room grew lighter.

Six men lay on the floor; all seemed to be sleeping. I looked around the room. Nothing seemed amiss.

One of the six men was faking. At least one, and possibly more. One of those men would have robbed, perhaps murdered me.

Which one?

For a moment I looked at them, then I went back to my bed and lay down.

It was unlikely there'd be another attempt, but a man never knew. It might have been a simple attempt at robbery. I lay awake, staring up at the roof and listening. Light was breaking before I dozed off again—but only for a few minutes, and then they were all getting up.

After pulling on my boots, I stood up and started to shove the pistol behind my belt.

Macklem extended a hand. “That's an interesting weapon. May I see it?”

I tucked the pistol behind my belt and let my coat fall into place, concealing it. “You like to make jokes,” I said, coolly, “I lend weapons to no man.” And then I added, “It is just a pistol, like any other.”

Over the table Watson told us the swamp lasted for only a few more miles, and the road would lead through forest.

Inside my shirt I could feel the oilskin packet, and my curiosity was a burning thing. Yet I must be alone when the packet was opened. The other papers had dried from the heat of my body, and they, too, might be revealing.

Jambe-de-Bois came to sit beside me at the table. “It would be a good thing,” he suggested, “if we traveled together.”

“Yes?”

“It would be safer, I think.”

“For you or for me?”

“For both. I do not like the look of some of these,” his gesture took in the others in the room, and he kept his voice low, “But I believe you already agree.”

Why would he think me suspicious? Had he been awake during the night? Or was he, himself, the man who had loomed over me and then vanished so swiftly?

Yet, why not let him come along? If he was the man, he could be watched better when close at hand, and if he was not, then his presence might be an added protection.

“If you are going my way,” I said, “why not?”

Not until the others had gone did we gather our possessions to leave. When my pack was firmly settled and I had taken up my tools and rifle, I turned to Watson.

“Back up the trail four or five miles, there is a dead man. He was a British officer, and someone will be looking for him.

“Take this,” I handed him a coin from the dead man's small store, “and see that the body is properly buried on dry land. His name was Captain Robert Foulsham, and it was yesterday he died. Put his name and date of death upon the marker.”

Bett was staring at me, her eyes level and hard. Watson took the coin, then said, “How did he die?”

“He was murdered,” I replied. “Stabbed. And he either fell or was thrown into the swamp. He lived long enough to get out and to tell me these things.”

“Murdered? But who—?”

“I think one of those who slept the night. That's why I said nothing. Had I told you before there might well have been another killing.”

“His possessions?”

“He had little. I shall write to his family and his superiors, and they will come to be sure he is buried well.” I paused. “See to it.”

We stepped off at a good pace, for I no longer worried about the peg-legged man keeping up; he was as good a walker as me. During my talk with Watson, he had said nothing.

Alone upon the trail he said, “You take risks, my friend. There are some things better left alone.”

“Perhaps. But I am not one to let things lie. I shall inform those who should be informed, and then I shall go about my business.”

“It may not be so easy. Once a thing like this begins, who knows when it will end? Or where?”

How dark was the swamp! How dank and dark! We walked under the perpetual gloom of interlaced boughs that shut out all but scattered bits of daylight. The earth beneath was black, a mass of rotting vegetation. Old leaves lay upon stagnant pools, old logs thrust ugly heads tangled with a Medusa's weaving of twisted roots, old trees lay in mud around which the black water gathered.