Louisiana Laydown

10

Fargo left the Blue Emporium in something of a daze, crossing the street and barely avoiding being run over by a carriage. He needed to think and short of leaving the city, the best place to do that would be back in his room at the Bayou, so that’s where he headed.

Once he was back in his room, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. He wasn’t tired, but his mind was reeling from the implications of H.D. dealing the cards for the game. On the one hand, it was possible that he’d been chosen because he was unbiased. On the other, it was possible that he’d fallen under the influence of one or more of the players of the game—or simply the influence of cold, hard cash—and was somehow involved in one or more of the schemes going on here.

Fargo squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then started massaging his temples. By his count, there were now six poker players, one dealer, and one brothel madam involved in the game. Of those, five were potential problems and at least four had some kind of vested interest in the outcome. He realized he had a headache . . . and that he much preferred the straight decision making of a good fight than all of these shady characters and their secret plans.

A deep feeling of unease settled itself in his gut. The potential for this to turn into a basement blood-bath was pretty high, and he wondered if his initial assessment about the streets being quiet was right. If any of the three men—Parker, Beares, or Anderson— wanted to make a move, during the poker game might be the best time.

This, coupled with the fact that H.D. hadn’t bothered to mention that he was going to be dealing the cards, led Fargo to reach the conclusion that no matter what he did, he was going to be a target for trouble. Someone would want him dead and out of the way before the game tonight.

No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than he heard the faint squeak of a floorboard in the hallway outside his door. It could have been a passerby, someone leaving his room, but the noise would have continued on, rather than ceasing.

Fargo slipped the Colt out of its holster, then placed it alongside, almost beneath, his right leg where it would be hard to spot. The door handle to his room rattled briefly and he mentally cursed himself for not bothering to lock the door when he’d come in. Closing his eyes to mere slits, he feigned sleep and waited, hoping the individual wouldn’t just shoot him down.

Through his restricted vision, Fargo saw the deep blue color of a pair of jeans and the tan canvas of a duster. Booted footsteps, quiet but noticeable, stopped at the foot of his bed.

Resisting the urge to move, he kept his breathing slow and steady. Until he heard the cold, metallic click of a pistol being cocked.

A deep voice began to say, “Get up, Trailsman,” but Fargo was already moving.

He launched himself forward, bringing the Colt to bear with his right hand, while sweeping the man’s gun out of the way with his left.

The man’s eyes went wide and he managed to say, “Oh, shit, he’s awake!” as Fargo jammed the barrel of the Colt against the man’s chest.

From the doorway, Fargo saw another man drawing down on him and he knew he didn’t have a choice. These men were here to take him away somewhere and kill him and he wasn’t about to let that happen.

Leaping off the bed, Fargo shoved the man in front of him toward the door, just as the other man’s gun went off. The bullet slammed into the first man, hammering into his back and driving him to his knees.

From the doorway, the second man said, “Oh, damn, Darby,” then tried to take aim at Fargo.

The Trailsman wasn’t going to give him the chance and he fired the Colt twice, the sound almost deafening in the small room. Darby fell over backward, dead, at almost the same time that his partner pitched into the hallway, crashing into the wall and sliding down. His eyes held the same look of surprise Fargo had seen on so many faces when meeting the reality of their own deaths. So many men who were willing to kill for money seemed to believe that they were immune to the fate they handed out to others. Death came as a cold surprise, but Fargo suspected they ended up in a much warmer place.

Stepping over Darby’s still form, he moved to the man in the hallway who was gasping out his last few breaths. “Heard . . . heard . . . you were good,” he wheezed.

“Who sent you?” Fargo snapped, kicking the man’s gun down the hallway. “Who wanted me dead so badly that they’d send you in broad daylight?”

The man coughed blood and grinned a red smile. “You . . . you’ve got to know,” he managed. “Just . . . about . . . everyone.”

“Who?” Fargo demanded. “Who sent you?”

“To . . . hell . . . with you,” the man said; then his breath hitched one last time and he died.

“Damn it!” Fargo snarled, resisting the urge to give the dead man’s body a kick. From the bottom of the stairs, he could hear shouting and the rush of steps. He wasn’t even going to have time to search the bodies before half of New Orleans was jammed into the hallway trying to see what had happened.

From experience, Fargo knew that the law would already be on its way—there was always someone who ran for the sheriff the minute they heard gunshots. He walked back into his room to wait, reloading the Colt and taking a position by the window.

Ignoring the questions from the people in the hallway who were alternating their queries with exclamations about the two dead men, Fargo kept his silence, watching the street below.

He wasn’t particularly surprised when, several minutes later, he spotted H.D. moving down the boardwalk at a fast clip, a crowd at his heels.

Standing framed in the doorway, H.D. whistled softly at the damage, then turned and said, “Show’s over, folks. Go on about your business.” People began to drift away and H.D. kept his mouth closed until he and Fargo were alone.

“Seems like you’ve already made friends here,” he quipped. “Want to tell me what happened?”

Fargo shrugged and related the story, not embellishing the details. “They must have figured to take me somewhere outside of town and kill me,” he said. “Lots of swamps around here to hide a body in.”

“You got that right,” H.D. said. “Every so often, the tide shifts a bit and the swamp spits up a couple—usually just a few bones that the gators haven’t chewed up.” He nudged the body on the floor. “This here is Darby Trent. A local thug, does muscle work for anyone who’ll pay him when he’s not down in Anderson’s Café drinking his wages.”

He stepped back into the hall and looked at the other man. “I don’t know this one,” he said.

“They’re all the same,” Fargo replied. “Men who will kill for a few dollars and the chance to be famous.”

“Not much of a way to make a living, if you ask me,” H.D. said, stepping back into the room.

“Nope,” Fargo replied. “Then again, moonlighting as a poker dealer isn’t, either.” He moved closer to his old friend. “You want to tell me what’s really going on, H.D.?”

“Ah, hell, Fargo,” H.D. said. “All three of them asked me to do it—Parker, Beares, and Anderson. Said they could trust that I would be fair about it and I could stand to make a little extra money, what with feeding a wife and a whore these days.”

“Funny,” Fargo said. “The man I knew in Kansas wouldn’t have spent time with any of these snakes for two bits and a cold beer.”

“The man you knew in Kansas was a lot more naive than I am,” H.D. said. “There’s no law against it and I’m trying to get enough of a nest egg to retire, Fargo. I’m getting too old for this life.” He pointed a finger and added, “I notice you’re working for them.”

“I wouldn’t be,” Fargo said, “if I’d known what I was really getting into. But I accepted the job from Parker and I don’t back out of a job once I’ve taken it on.”

“Even when you find out the truth—that your employer is no better than a rattler himself?” he asked.

“I gave my word,” he replied. “I’ll see it through, but I play fair and always have. What about you, H.D.? You still playing fair?”

His friend leaned against the dresser. “Fair as I can, Fargo,” he said, sighing. “I’ve got to live here, too. You’ll move on after this, just like you always do.”

Fargo nodded, then said, “So long as you understand the rules, H.D., you’ll do all right.”

“What rules?” he asked. “I’m just dealing the cards.”

“And if I catch you doing more than that,” Fargo replied, his voice soft and menacing, “then you might live to wish I hadn’t.”

H.D. stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ve always been a straight shooter, Fargo. I’ll deal the cards that way, too.”

“Good enough,” Fargo said. He looked at the bodies on the ground and added, “Do you want help moving these down to the undertaker?”

H.D. shook his head. “No, we’ve got street urchins for that. They’ll move ’em for two bits each and be glad for the work. The parish will pick up the cost of getting ’em buried if no one comes to claim them.”

“How’s Mary making out over at your place?” Fargo asked. “She doing okay?”

“Oh, she’s fine as frog’s hair,” H.D. said. “My wife has a new friend.” He sighed heavily. “You were right, Fargo. No sane man would have two grown women in his house. They start plotting against you the minute they think you’re out of earshot.”

Fargo laughed and a sense of relief washed over him. He didn’t think H.D. was on the wrong side of things here, which would mean one less man to worry about. “What makes you think,” he asked with a grin, “that they wait even that long?”

Once he was back on the street, Fargo got the feeling that he was being watched again. He tried and almost succeeded in convincing himself that this was stupid. The problem wasn’t people behind windows noting his every move—the problem was that this was a city where virtually nobody was trustworthy. Usually when he went into a town he found the good folks right away. Not here. New Orleans was a place where there was no such thing as “the common good.” Every group you could name had a “common good,” meaning that there wasn’t much civic cooperation. It was a wonder that New Orleans had bloomed the way it had. Despite his misgivings about the place, Fargo had to admit that it was a magnificent spectacle of a city and that things only promised to get even bigger and bolder here.

Not that he’d stick around to watch.

In the afternoon before the game was scheduled to start, Fargo grabbed a quick bite at the diner next door and watched the street from the window. The blackened catfish filets he was eating were delicious and the slaw and the cornbread were homemade, but his mind wasn’t on his food but on the slow-moving groups of men circling the streets around the Blue Emporium and eyeing each other like soldiers getting ready to go to war.

It took almost a half hour, but eventually Fargo spotted the two men situated on the roof of the brothel and noted that other men had taken up positions in the alleys nearby. If things went badly tonight, a lot of people were going to die. There were too many guns and too many enemies gathered in one place.

He finished his meal and paid the bill, then stepped into the street. Beneath the brim of his hat, he saw that several sets of eyes followed his movements, but no one bothered him as he strolled around several blocks in either direction, counting the number of men that Parker, Beares, and Anderson had sent to keep watch on the brothel.

By the time he’d completed his circuit, Fargo knew that trouble was brewing and it was only a matter of time until it exploded. He remembered how, out on the plains of Nebraska, a summer storm would roll across the prairie in a black and purple line, the clouds churning and bolts of lightning zapping back and forth as it built up strength. When it hit, it did so with a ferociousness unrivaled in nature, and wise men hid in their root cellars until it was over and they could come out and inspect the damage.

No one in this area had that option.

He went back to his room to change into the new clothing he’d purchased earlier in the afternoon. The loose makings of a plan were now firmly set in his mind and some of it meant looking a particular part. Though Fargo didn’t consider himself an actor by any means, he knew that in some situations how a man looked was almost as important as what he might do.

In his room, now cleaned but still smelling faintly of gunpowder, he dressed in black denim jeans and a matching black shirt with bone buttons. He slipped on a new pair of boots, also black, that weren’t fit for riding a horse for any distance, but had high enough sides that they could easily hide his boot knives. A paisley-patterned vest in a blue so dark it might as well have been black, completed the clothing portion of his outfit, and he topped it off with a new hat he had no intention of keeping when he left the city.

There were towns on the frontier where this kind of hat would get a man called all kinds of names and lead to fights, but here, it would likely fit right in. It was solid black, too, and made of rich felt. It had a gambler’s crown and a wide brim that would serve to hide his eyes. The hatband was woven leather braids interspersed with what the merchant claimed were genuine alligator teeth. They certainly looked real enough, anyway.

Finally, Fargo strapped on a new gun belt—another item he planned on getting rid of as soon as he could. This one was a double-holster rig with midthigh tie-downs, and he placed his well-worn Colt in the righthand side and a new one in the left—the same model, but in much better shape than his trusted companion. His own gun had seen many years of hard use, but he wouldn’t trade it for much of anything.

It had saved his life too many times and Fargo saw no reason to switch, despite the constant advertisements of better weapons he saw whenever he passed through a town of any size.

He took a long look in the mirror and saw that he had achieved the effect he was going for. Parker had hired him to keep a poker game fair and Beares had hired him to protect Hattie during the game, but what both men were going to see when they looked at him tonight was a gentleman gambler and gunfighter, more than ready for trouble.

The person in the mirror bore no small resemblance to a man he’d met only once, in a small gambling saloon in Georgia. The man’s name had been John Holliday, a dentist by trade, but when he sat at the card table, even someone of Fargo’s background realized that they were sitting with a very, very dangerous man.

Fargo didn’t know where John Holliday was now, probably still practicing dentistry somewhere, but he did remember something he’d said while they played cards late one night. “There are only three truths at a card table, Mr. Fargo. The money truth, the card truth, and the people truth. Money, sir, is nothing more than some scribbles of ink on paper. So are cards, for that matter. I play people, Mr. Fargo, which is why I am so very good at this game.”

Fargo fully intended to take John Holliday’s words to heart.

Tonight, he would play the people.

And hold on to the hope that he’d get out alive.

Sunset came and went, and Fargo left his room to grab some dinner, then went out to walk the streets one more time. As though the citizens were animals and could sense impending danger, Basin Street had grown extraordinarily quiet. The saloons and gaming parlors and brothels had very few patrons and most of the people he saw were the same men who had been in the street earlier in the day.

After circling the block, Fargo crossed the street and went up the stone steps into the Blue Emporium. The game was scheduled to start in an hour. Hattie Hamilton was sitting in one of the parlor rooms by herself, while in the other, several of the girls laughed and giggled with men from out of town.

Hattie saw him come in and raised a hand in greeting. Fargo had reached one conclusion about all of the events that had led up to this point: the center of them was Hattie Hamilton.

“Why, Mr. Fargo,” she said, rising to meet him. “I had no idea that beneath the plain clothes of a frontiersman, such a fine gentleman existed.”

Summoning his coldest voice, Fargo said, “In my experience, Miss Hamilton, being a gentleman has damn little to do with your clothing.”

Taken a bit aback, she retreated a step, caught herself, then turned to the bar. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Bourbon,” Fargo said. He moved over to the bar, and watched as she poured him a stiff shot from one of the decanters. He took it and tasted a sip. It was warm and smooth and very fine, not unlike a good woman. “This is excellent.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you require anything else before the game begins?”

“One of those cigars, if you wouldn’t mind,” Fargo said, gesturing to the humidor behind the bar. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“I imagine so,” she said. “Do you expect trouble?”

“I always expect trouble, Miss Hamilton,” he replied. “It’s one of the reasons I’m still alive after all these years.”

“One of them?” she asked, handing him a house-rolled Cuban that smelled almost as good as it would smoke. “What are the others?”

Fargo slipped the cigar into his vest pocket, saving it for later. Then he took another sip of the bourbon, savoring its burn. “There are lots of them,” he said, “but beyond expecting trouble, there’s one thing that’s made the difference.”

“Oh?” she asked.

Remembering the cold grin of John Holliday, Fargo did his best to mimic it and he was pleased at the reaction on her face. “I don’t mind killing people,” he said, his voice quiet. “In fact, if it means staying alive, I’ll kill anyone or anything that crosses my path.”

“I . . . I see,” she said, trying to recover. “It’s good, then, that you will be protecting me tonight, should trouble happen.”

Fargo cocked his head in the direction of the doors. “With as many gunmen as I saw outside, I’d be very surprised if a whole bunch of folks didn’t end up dead tonight,” he said. “Let’s hope the right ones make it to the undertakers.”

“I’ll escort you downstairs,” she said, moving from behind the bar and heading for the entryway. “Who would be the right ones?” she asked, leading the way down the steps.

Fargo laughed softly. “There are a lot of players in this game, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “For your sake, the right ones better be the ones you’ve been sleeping with. If they aren’t, you’re going to be out of business—the dead way—before sunrise.”

He was surprised when she laughed, too. “Why, Mr. Fargo, what in the world makes you think I’m not sleeping with all of them?”