River

Mason

I’ve lost track of time, I think. When I left Natchez the last time, I had told Stu that I’d come back in a few days to find out if he wanted to join me on the Trace. But then I teamed up with Little Wiley Harpe, and everything since then has been chaos.

I used to know Little and his brother Big Micajah Harpe, before Big was caught and killed by the militia. Little and I barely escaped from the fracas that took down Big. I hadn’t known where Little got to, but I made my escape by hopping on a flatboat headed down the Mississippi, joining the crew, pretending to be just another Kaintuck.

It’s been a year or so since all that happened. I can’t say I was terribly surprised to run across Little on the Trace, working the road the same as I was. Although, not exactly the same. I was mostly limiting myself to straightforward robbery, but Little’s tastes were more extreme than that. Once we teamed up again, I saw that his preferences for pain were more important to him than just the money he could steal.

And, honestly, I’d had a little taste of the same, down at the whorehouse in Natchez, spending months turning Gregor’s whore black and blue, watching her wince and try not to cry. I can understand the appeal.

So, I’ve been enjoying myself with Little, and our small gang. I’ve had the chance to get some satisfaction from a couple of the girls that we took from the road, after killing the men they were with. I don’t much care for Little’s method of disposing of the bodies. When I objected that it was too obvious to just strip them naked and toss them off a cliff, usually while they were still alive and aware, he told me fine, and showed me another method. He pulled one of them over to a little river running west towards the Mississippi, opened up his chest cavity, emptied it out, then filled it back up with rocks. It sank very readily, weighed down like that.

That part I don’t really like, but the terror and pain in the eyes of the couple of girls I have had makes it all worth it.

I’ve started to feel uneasy, though. Little is bitter, still angry about Big’s death, and it makes him too incautious to be circumspect in his movements. A couple of times he even thought it was a hilarious joke to write “Done by Mason of the Woods” next to the bodies, using their blood. It wasn’t as funny as he seemed to think. I believe he’s going to get himself caught. And I don’t want to be caught with him.

So, I’ve told him that I’m heading back down to Natchez by myself for a while. Stu has certainly had plenty of time to think, and if he has decided to join me, I think I’ll branch off with him and leave Little behind. His carelessness is not something I am willing to tolerate for long.

When I get into Natchez I start in the King’s Tavern, right at the end of the Trace, where Little likes to go rather than Under-the-hill. But I don’t see anybody I know there, so I carry on down the hill.

It’s late by the time I arrive, the work on the docks long finished for the day, the taverns and brothels lit with lanterns and full of noise and activity. I suppose it must be coming up on midnight. As I pass by the construction at the south end of the dock, I see that logs are sticking up out of the water near the big strange frame, apparently where more docks will be built.

I pass by Madam Beverly’s, on the way to the Kentucky Tavern. I plan to come back a little later. In the Kentucky, I peer through the noisy crowd, and find just who I am looking for. Stu is playing cards at a table with a couple of other fellows. As I approach, I realize with a shock who the other men are. They’re those green boys, the ones who chickened out when Gregor threatened that he was going to tattle on them to their boss. They must be still engaged in the dreadful business of working the flatboats down the river then walking back up the Trace. I’ve certainly gotten my share of wallets off the likes of them.

I wonder if they can be of any use to me. Maybe they’d like to try again. I consider whether I would even allow them to join me, after they failed so badly the first time.

I get a drink from the bar, then step over to their table, taking a seat before saying anything. One of the fellows, David I seem to recall his name was, pauses as he is dealing a hand, and looks at me as I sit on the chair next to him. His hands fumble the cards, ruining the deal. The other men see that, then look more closely at me to see what might have caused David to mis-deal.

Stu recognizes me at once. “Hello, Mason,” he greets me, laconic as ever. I nod to him, then look at the other two. Yes, they clearly remember me. They both look downright alarmed. What sissies. Sure, I probably made some death threats against them when they abandoned me on the Trace, but what’s that among friends?

I scoff at their wide eyes. “Hey fellows,” I tell them. I look at the cards held loosely in David’s hands, and scattered across the table. “Once you’ve sorted that out,” I tell him, nodding at the mess, “deal me in.” I add a coin to the pot. I’ve already taken my razor-sharp knife out of my boot under the table, and am holding it ready next to his leg. This is my favorite knife, far better than the one that was stolen from me on the Trace, long and slender and lethal. When he hesitates, I lift it just enough so he can feel it, to give him a little extra incentive.

His friend Ben, the one who I remember hardly ever spoke a word, stands up from the chair on my other side. “I’m done,” he says, and starts pushing back his chair.

“Sit down,” I growl at him.

He looks at me with disdain, as though he has no intention of complying, but then his friend says, “Ben,” in a slightly strangled voice. I lean slightly to the side, just enough for Ben to be able to look down and see the point of my blade pressing into David’s groin. It would take only the slightest flick to sever the artery there.

I raise my eyebrows at Ben. His jaw clenches, and he sits down.

“Deal,” I tell David. “Keep your hands on the table, both of you.”

Stu knows what I’ve done, but he makes no comment. He only sweeps his hand across the table to collect the spare cards, quickly stacks them, and hands them to David.

David starts to deal, and when I am not satisfied with how quickly he is going, I press in with the knife, just enough to make him wince, probably draw a little blood, to remind him who is in charge here.

Once we have our cards, I pick mine up one-handed, keeping the knife firmly in place with my other hand. Casually, I say, “How have you fellows been doing? Still working flatboats?”

I expect them to tell me yes, because obviously that is what they are doing here. I figure that they might just want to join me again on the Trace, now that a few months of their dreary lives of labor have reminded them how constraining it is. But I am surprised.

David responds, of course, since he’s always the one who talks, but his hands are shaking on the cards. “Um, no,” he says, “not for a while. We’re part of the dock construction crew.”

“Is that so?” I say. “Tired of boats?”

“It’s a good job,” he explains, probably wanting to keep talking so I don’t poke him again. “Pay is decent, comes with a boarding house bed. We might go back to flatboats when it’s done, but for now we’re just helping build the dock for the steamboats.”

“What are steamboats?” I ask, curious despite myself. I’ve wondered why the dock is being expanded. It already seems adequate for the flatboats and keelboats that come by. I haven’t seen this other thing he mentioned.

“I guess they are bigger and faster than the other boats that come here. Somehow they are powered by steam. Gregor says they’ll be able to go north too.”

My hand convulses at the unexpected mention of the hated name, and I poke him again, more or less accidentally. He gasps this time. I see Ben out of the corner of my eye shaking his head at David. But it’s too late.

Very quietly, I say, “You’ve been talking to Gregor?

David is pale, whether from pain or from alarm I cannot tell. He nods. I glance down and see a spot of blood spreading out from the point of my knife, staining his trousers.

Ben says, hoarsely, “Let up, Mason. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

That’s more like it. I’ve even gotten Silent Ben talking.