Authors: Shirl Henke
She paused, looking at the garish doorway but speaking to Clint. “Are you certain you want to risk your share of the boat?
I don’t want to—”
He placed a fingertip on her lips and smiled sadly. “Yes, you do. You want to avenge Horace and so do I. Besides, we’re kinda
joined at the hip…financially speaking. The only way Red’ll go for a game is if he can get full ownership of the boat.”
They entered the front door of the saloon and smelled the stale acridity of tobacco chaw mixed with cheap whiskey. Spilled
beer had soaked into the wooden planks of the floor, swelling them so they buckled and creaked. Above the bar a garish painting
of a voluptuous nude stared down at them with heavy-lidded, knowing eyes. Delilah blinked and looked away. There was absolutely
nothing left to the imagination when the artist had finished his masterpiece.
Although the room was cavernous and filled with expensive fixtures, the overall effect was one of clashing colors and textures,
reds and purples, rough wood and garish velour upholstery. A man with hideously large liver spots disfiguring his face stood
behind a bar carved with gargoyles. He busily rubbed a soiled rag over a row of smeared glasses, ignoring the newcomers until
Clint spoke.
“Howdy, Leo. We’re here to see your boss. Go fetch him.”
Leo “the Leopard” Lewinski looked up, and his mottled face grew red with anger. “I ain’t yer errand boy, Daniels. Boss is
down thataways,” he said, gesturing carelessly to the long hallway at one side of the barroom.
“Into the lion’s den,” Delilah said softly.
“More like a rattler’s pit,” Clint replied, guiding her down the hall.
Daniels knocked on the door, and Riley’s nasal voice echoed from the other side, “Drag it in. Door’s open.”
The little man sat behind a desk that dwarfed him, feet up on the top, which was littered with legal documents, overflowing
ashtrays and dishes with various stages of green mold growing on them. He sipped a whiskey, even though it was midmorning,
and puffed on an Elegant Gent cigarette. When they stepped inside, Delilah nearly gagged at the stench.
Raising his glass as if for a toast, Riley recrossed his boots, shifting ankles, and leaned back until his spring chair squeaked.
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t stand up. Only do that for ladies,” he said with a nasty smirk, as if waiting to see what Daniels
would do.
“You wouldn’t recognize a lady if one were desperate enough to clean her boots on you, Riley,” Clint replied as Delilah put
a cautioning hand on his arm.
Her voice was cool and even, without a trace of the hatred she felt for the cowardly murderer. “We won’t waste our time by
taking a seat,” she said, looking contemptuously at the low, grimy crimson chairs placed like kneelers in front of the altar
of Baal. “We’re here to discuss a business proposition with you.”
“Z’at so?” He puffed more, letting the vile-smelling tobacco smoke fill the stale air.
It made a potent blend with his macassar-oiled hair and unwashed body. She could see the greasy gray edge staining his shirt
collar. “We’ll put up the
Nymph
as a stake for a poker game. It’s in prime condition now, worth well over forty thousand. Me against you.” She expected him
to haggle about bringing in another player, but he merely hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets and chuckled.
“Honey, I don’t have to play tiddledywinks to get my boat back. All I gotta do is wait. You owe my mercantile three thousand,
due next week. Oh, and that there loan from Consolidated Planters for ten thousand? Soon as you default, I’ll just buy the
note and have the
Nymph
free ’n clear. See, no risk…no nothin’…no deal.” He bit off the words between puffs from his nasty cigarette,
smirking at them with hard dark eyes.
Clint was not taken by surprise nearly as much as he knew Deelie must be. The king of the St. Louis levee had spies everywhere.
But she stood calmly, her outer facade unshaken as she nodded to him.
“You win this hand, Mr. Riley. But the game is far from over.” With that she turned and walked out.
Clint waited until they were outside on the street before he spoke. “I’m sorry, Deelie. I should’ve figured Riley would find
out about the bank loan in St. Charles.”
Delilah took a deep breath. “I will find another way to entice him into a game. Perhaps if I went to the owner at Consolidated—”
“No, that wouldn’t work. Word of our predicament’s reached him now. Riley will have seen to it. Consolidated would never give
an extension. Hell, we can’t even get one for the cargo since Riley ruined Krammer. But there may be another way I can light
a fire under the little big man.”
She looked at the cunning grin shaping his lips. It did not reach his cold gray eyes. “What are you going to do?” She was
dragging him into her personal vendetta. He still owned a viable business and had built a successful life here in the city.
She had no right to ask him to risk it.
“Just let me handle it. Riley’s greedy as a hog hip-deep in swill. If we’re goin’ to lose the
Nymph
anyway, let’s see if we can convince Red we’re selling it before the note comes due.”
“But that won’t do any good. What we owe is still more than what we can get for the boat under these conditions,” she protested.
He assisted her into the carriage and took his seat beside her as he murmured, “Just trust me, Deelie, all right?”
She studied him for a moment. “Clint, I don’t want to wreck your life—”
“Darlin’, the minute I laid eyes on you, I knew you were bound to do just that.”
Clint entered the telegraph office and wrote out his message in bold, slashing strokes, then handed it to the telegrapher.
It read:
To Strickland Freighting:
Hear you are buying stern-wheelers for Fort Benton trade. Will
sell
River Nymph
for thirty thousand cash. Boat appraised
by Consolidated Planters at forty-two. Response required within
forty-eight hours.
Clinton Daniels, Delilah Raymond, owners.
He paid the operator, then walked out without waiting for the clerk to send it. Clint knew Buddy Sanfield sold information
to Riley. No message went through the Western Union office without first being given to Big Red. He slipped quickly into the
alley behind the office and waited a moment. Sure enough, Sanfield, without his green eyeshade, scurried from his office and
headed toward Riley’s saloon.
Grinning grimly, Daniels mounted Samson and rode back to the Blasted Bud to await developments. Old man Strick-land was a
shrewd businessman who would probably consider the remarkably generous offer, but he would also first check to see that the
stern-wheeler was indeed worth the investment.
Clint was certain Riley would not let the boat slip from hisgrasp again. He’d offer Delilah her poker game before any reply
could come from the Strickland office in Bismarck. Clint had no sooner ridden his black into the stable behind the Bud then
Eva came rushing toward him, her usually artful morning dishabille not in place. Her hair was uncombed and she was wearing
scuffed old carpet slippers. “Eva, what’s happened?” he asked, fearing Riley had done something to Deelie.
“You ain’t gonna believe this, Clint, honey,” she said, breathlessly.
He barely did when she explained, but a sharkish grin spread across his face as he followed her inside, where Banjo Banks
was writing out directions to his cousin Clem’s place in the old settlement around Spanish Lake, north of the city.
By late that afternoon, word had spread across the levee and throughout the sporting district of St. Louis. Clint Daniels
had sold his 60 percent of the Blasted Bud to Eva St. Clair and Justus Brummell for eleven thousand dollars. Both of them
had been so frugal with their money that they could pay him in cash. Daniels was out of the saloon and fancy house business!
What would he do now? Rumors were quickly substantiated that he’d ridden that big black horse of his out of the city. No one
knew where he was bound. Some said his skill with cards would lead him to use the cash as a stake. He would end up gambling
on the big side-wheelers running up and down the Mississippi. A few others speculated that he would head back to Dakota Territory
to live with the Sioux, since stories about his violent past had followed him downriver.
When Luellen Colter brought a dinner tray to Delilah’s room that evening, she placed it on the table, then stood, wringing
her work-reddened hands until her friend asked, “What is it, Luellen? I know everyone’s upset about the pay we owe them, but—”
“No! No, Delilah, that ain’t it. Oh, tarnation, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but better me than you hear it someplace
else. Mr. D, he’s up ’n sold his share of the Bud ’n left town. Nobody knows where he’s gone.”
Delilah sat back in her chair, utterly stunned by the information. “But…but, why would he…?” She had seen his
set face when he’d asked her to trust him and told her that he had a plan to lure Riley into that poker game. Was this a part
of his ploy? She had no idea. She could see the sympathy in Luellen’s face and knew the older woman thought she was a jilted
lover.
“Mr. Daniels and I were business partners…and friends, nothing more.” Even as she spoke the words, Delilah knew they
rang false.
“Maybe he’ll be back,” Luellen said, but her words sounded equally uncertain.
“Please excuse me. I don’t feel like eating just now, Luellen,” she said, rising and stepping inside her small bedroom, closing
the door behind her. She could hear the cook’s understanding voice saying she’d be back to check on her later that evening,
but Delilah did not reply. What was there to say? She was utterly alone, hopelessly in debt…and the man she loved might
have simply cut his losses and ridden off.
Delilah
awakened red-eyed in the middle of the sleepless night after two glasses of brandy—she was quickly depleting Uncle Horace’s
supply—to hear soft knocking on her door and a familiar voice urgently calling her name.
“Deelie, let me in!”
Dazed, not quite daring to believe it wasn’t some cruel dream, she yanked on her robe and stumbled to light the lantern before
opening the cabin door. Clint was not at the outside door but the one to her bedroom. He must have entered the sitting room
through the door adjoining her uncle’s cabin. “Where have you been?” she asked, trying to read his expression in the dim light.
“Deelie, you aren’t goin’ to believe me when I tell you. Just sit down…”
When he finished explaining what he had learned, they finalized their plans for the destruction of Red Riley’s empire…or, at least, what they hoped would lead to that end. Delilah knew that if their plan failed, Clint would challenge Riley
with a gun and perhaps the cowardly king of the levee would have his men shoot his enemy. Or, if he succeeded in killing Riley,
Clint would hang for it.
She had to make certain it never came to violence. And there was only one way to do that:Delilah Mathers Raymond had to be
the best damn poker player on the Mississippi. She could do it. She had to, not only for Clint, but for Uncle Horace, too.
“I’m going to wake up our notary friend ’n have him make arrangements for the game tomorrow night. Will yoube all right?”
he asked, taking her chin in his hand and tipping her face up to his.
“I’ve never felt more in control, Clint. Never.”
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. “Good.” With that he slipped out the door and vanished into the darkness.
During their long and earnest conversation, he’d never said a word about what would happen if their plan worked. He’d sold
the Bud. Would he head back upriver? Would he leave her? Delilah still did not know. Clint Daniels was every inch as good
a poker player as she was.
But once this was over, she intended to call his bluff…
Excitement crackled in the open air on the main deck of
The
River Nymph.
With the space cleared of cargo, there was enough room for a large crowd to assemble around the single green baize table set
up between the now idle boilers and the engine room. The fecund odors of river mud and rotting wood mixed with human sweat
and perfume worn by various sporting women who had come to see the big game.
The levee had been buzzing all day since word had gotten out that Big Red Riley and the female gambler who’d won the
Nymph
from Clint Daniels were going to have a high-stakes game in which Riley might reclaim the boat. That afternoon Brad Sutton
arrived on a fast packet from Quincy, Illinois. He was reputed to be one of the best players between St. Paul and New Orleans.
Riley had hired him to play against Mrs. Raymond.
She had beaten Daniels. Could she also beat Sutton? Side bets were placed all afternoon and evening as the level of expectancy
rose to fever pitch up and down the riverfront, spilling into the city. From high society to levee low life, rich and poor,
prominent and notorious, everyone wanted a piece of the action. Many wanted to see the nasty little Riley receive his comeuppance,
but lots of the smart money was on Big Red. He had not made a fortune by repeating mistakes.
Bill Holland, the banker and notary, stood like a stooped sentinel at the side of the table, his balding head shiny withsweat
in the sultry evening air. In deference to the heat of summer in St. Louis, the game was not scheduled to begin until an hour
after sunset, when the breeze from the river would lower the temperature. However, the standing-room-only crowd, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder,
gave off enough body heat to make the table as hot as a boiler on an upriver run.
Clint Daniels stood beside Holland, wearing a ruffled white shirt and a tan linen suit with tiger’s eye studs and cufflinks.
His only other accessory was the Army Colt strapped low on his hip. As he watched his business associate approach the table,
he looked calm, debonair…and very dangerous.
Delilah, dressed in a low-cut gown of moss-green silk, made her way through the crowd. She looked as cool as an April garden.
Her hair was piled in a tumble of curls atop her head, held in place by ivory combs. Square-cut emerald studs in her ears
and a matching bracelet on her right wrist were the only jewelry she wore. The slim gold wedding band was missing from her
finger, but the crowd was too caught up in the excitement to notice.
Clint was not.
He eyed her bare hand and wondered why she had taken it off—for the first time since he’d met her aboard their boat.
No, make that my boat—before she won it away from me.
He felt the warmth of a smile begin deep inside him before it spread visibly to his mouth. Realizing what he was feeling,
he assured himself it only signified that she was going to win again tonight.
The crowd parted as if she were Moses leading the Israelites through the Red Sea. She offered her hand to Clint for a proper
salute, then did the same for Holland. In spite of the formality of the gesture between Daniels and the widow, Eva St. Clair
watched the display from the sidelines with a pained expression on her beautiful face. That was when she, too, noticed the
wedding band was missing.
Coming up the gangplank, Red Riley and Brad Sutton had their path cleared by several riverfront gunmen in Riley’s employ.
Silver-haired and patrician, Sutton was well-built andsignificantly taller than the scrawny Riley, a fact that was noticed
and commented upon by many—but not within the king of the levee’s hearing. If Riley was willing to hire a man taller than
himself, the fellow must certainly be an excellent player.
There were no polite formalities among the opponents, other than Sutton’s nod to the lady when Holland cleared his throat
and started to speak. An expectant hush quickly fell over the rowdy onlookers as he said, “This will be five-card stud, St.
Louis style. First and last card down. I will deal.” He glanced between Delilah and Sutton. Both nodded. He con-tinued,“ Only
funds already on premises can be put into play.”
“We don’t want you runnin’ back to your office safe, Red,” Clint said to Riley. Daniels’s hand rested lightly on the handle
of his Colt.
Red smiled expansively. “Since I already advanced the little
lady—
” he leered insultingly at Delilah—“ten thousand against this here boat, I reckon there ain’t no reason to be worried. You
got the deed?” he asked Holland.
The notary pulled a sheaf of documents from his jacket and handed them to Riley for perusal. “I trust this is in order. If
your player wins, you shall have the title to
The River
Nymph
signed over and notarized, free and clear. However, if you lose—”
“We ain’t gonna lose, are we, Sutton?” Riley asked with a nasty sneer. He handed the gambler a hefty stack of bank notes.
Sutton’s expression was serene, unaffected by his employer’s crude remarks. “I surely do expect to win, ma’am,” he said to
Delilah.
“Just to sweeten the pot,” Clint interjected, “I’m placing an additional vote of confidence in my associate. Eleven thousand
dollars’ worth.” He plucked a large wad of bills from the wallet in his jacket and laid them in front of Delilah. A chorus
of oohs and ahhs echoed around the crowded deck, and one fellow standing on the periphery called out to those standing on
the levee, “Daniels just gave her all his money from selling the Bud!”
At the table, Delilah said, “Why, Mr. Daniels, how you do flatter a
lady.
” Like Riley, she emphasized the word, giving Clint a dazzling smile. Then she nodded coolly at Riley as if he were a particularly
insignificant species of dwarf cockroach. “The time for talk is over. It’s time to play poker.”
Riley smirked and counted out another stack of bills, slapping them down on the table in front of Sutton. “Like the
lady
says, let’s get to playin’.”
And play they did, for several hours without a break. Sutton lived up to his reputation. The balance of cash on the table
shifted from him to Delilah and back. The ten thousand Riley had advanced to her for a table stake and Clint’s eleven thousand
from the Bud were all in play, lost and won again repeatedly until Holland called for a break. Delilah retired to her cabin
while Sutton and Riley smoked on the aft section of the boat. Clint remained with Holland at the table under the gimlet eyes
of Riley’s minions, both armed to the teeth.
When the game resumed a quarter hour later, it appeared that the tide of victory began to move in Sutton’s direction. Twice
Riley threw in another few thousand, allowing Sutton to meet Delilah’s bets and raises. With this help, the money in front
of the lady gambler began to dwindle. But Delilah appeared as cool and collected as ever. The heavy night air wrapping around
the assembly like a coil of wet rope appeared not to disturb her one whit.
With little more than twenty-five hundred dollars in front of her, she looked at her first up card, a jack of diamonds, and
gave no indication of whether it boded well or ill. Sutton did the same when he was dealt an ace of diamonds.
“I bet five hundred,” he said.
“Call,” she replied, shoving the money to the center of the table.
The second card up was a nine of diamonds for her and a three of hearts for Sutton. His ace still being high, he again bet
five hundred. She again called.
The third and last card up was a king of diamonds for herand an ace of spades for Sutton. He increased his bet to a thousand.
The crowd began murmuring now as it appeared the Illinois gambler was ready to pounce for the kill.
Unperturbed, Delilah again met his bet. But now she had only five hundred dollars left in front of her.
Holland dealt the last card down to both players with considerable deliberation. No one on the boat made a sound until Brad
Sutton said, “I believe I will bet my pair of aces for all they are worth. Five thousand dollars.”
A collective gasp rose, some people in indignation, others with satisfaction. Without enough money to call his bet, Delilah
would automatically forfeit the game…and the boat. No one saw the tall man hidden in the shadows at the top of the stairs
as he slowly began to descend. Clint looked into Delilah’s expressionless eyes. He nodded as if confirming something for himself.
“Mrs. Raymond calls and raises.”
“Ten thousand,” she said coldly, staring at Riley, whose head jerked back in amazement.
“You can’t call with what you ain’t got, gal,” Riley sneered. “Remember rules ’o the game—only what’s brung to the table can
be bet. ’N you got squat.”
“No, only what’s already on the premises, according to the rules you agreed to,” Clint said. “Uncle Horace, time to bring
in the reserves.” The crowd parted to admit two men who had just descended the stairs from the hurricane deck.
“It’s Banjo Banks ’n thet bodyguard feller ’o the widda’s,” one man said.
“Damme, I heerd he wuz kilt by river pirates,” another added.
“Er, Riley’s men,” a third witness whispered.
“Don’t look half bad fer a dead man,” the first said, with a nervous laugh.
“Don’t look thet good neither,” replied a new voice, this one female, as everyone noted the cuts and yellowing bruises on
Horace Mathers’s face and the splint on his left arm.
Horace limped slightly as he approached his niece. For thefirst time that night Delilah Raymond allowed her face to reveal
emotion. She gave her uncle a warm smile. “Once again, you’ve come to my rescue!”
She squeezed his uninjured hand as he tossed a well-worn leather satchel on the table. “There is more than sufficient to meet
Mr. Sutton’s bet and my niece’s raise,” Horace said, while the crowd once more hushed, everyone expectantly waiting to see
what would happen next.
“You can’t let him git away with this!” Riley sputtered to Holland. “He warn’t part ’o the game.”
“But, as Mr. Daniels already said, you agreed to the rules. This money has been on the premises. Nothing was said about who
brings it into play,” Holland replied primly.
Riley glared at Sutton. “I near shot my wad bankrollin’ you. You sure you got a winner?”
Sutton nodded gravely. “Yes, I believe I do.”
Riley dug into the pockets of his garishly tailored suit and pulled out a final bundle of cash. “Go fer it.”
“I raise another ten thousand,” Sutton said calmly.
“Call and raise ten thousand more,” Delilah said as she counted out thousand-dollar bills from the huge bundle of cash inside
Horace’s satchel.
Sutton looked at Riley, who almost choked. He let out a foul string of oaths and pounded on the table. “I ain’t got me no
more cash money ‘on the premises,’ ” he said through gritted yellow teeth.
“Rather shortsighted of you,” Horace said dryly as his eyes fixed on the king of the levee. The gaze sent a shudder through
the crowd. It was as if someone had just walked over Big Red Riley’s grave.
“I may have a solution to your problem, Riley,” Daniels said quietly. “We might be willin’ to waive the rules for this final
raise. You foreclosed on Mr. Krammer’s mercantile.” He turned to Delilah. “Would you be willin’ to take a notarized deed as
call for your raise?”
“Yes, I would,” she replied, still icy calm. Once again, there was no hint of emotion in her cat-green eyes.
Sputtering oaths, Riley sent one of his gunmen to fetch the deed from his office. “Now, with all these here witnesses, can
we git on with the game? I’ll make good on the deed…if’n I have to,” he said, glaring at Sutton. Then he crossed his
arms over his banty chest and stuck out his chin defiantly, after pausing to spit a glob of snuff on the deck near Delilah’s
silk skirt.
Many in the crowd murmured about his lack of social graces, although no one phrased it in those words. Neither Delilah nor
Clint reacted in any way. Horace, having already made his chilling visual inspection of Riley, stood stone still.
“Sign over the mercantile with all its stock and both our players can turn up their cards,” Clint said after allowing Riley
to stew for a moment. “We’ll collect the deed later.”