Ralph Compton Straight to the Noose Read online

  “The question does seem like a good one.”

  “First of all,” Dell replied as he set his razor down to pick up a pair of scissors, “there’s the implied trust between a man and his barber.” He began snipping Mason’s sideburns, getting close enough to severing an ear that a chill worked through Mason’s spine. “Have I ever steered you wrong, Abby?”

  “Not yet, but you can do me a favor and stop calling me that.”

  “Calling you Abby? It’s short for Abner.”

  “I don’t care what it’s short for,” Mason said. “Actually nobody calls me Abner either.”

  “Keep your mind on what’s important, friend,” Dell said. “I believe our Mr. Slake is sitting on enough money to make a couple extra percentage points more than worthwhile. And I haven’t told you all there is to tell.”

  “What else is there?”

  “His schedule, for starters. I’ve also got the names of a few friends of his that are sporting men.”

  Keeping still as hair was clipped along the side of his head, Mason asked, “How might that be worth any extra pay?”

  A man in a black suit walked past the door to the barber’s cabin. He had a slender redhead on one arm and barely took a passing interest in the little barbershop as he escorted her along the deck. Once those two were out of sight, Dell said, “I’m sure that kind of information can come in handy to someone who might want to know about any dealings Mr. Slake might be involved in that aren’t exactly . . . aboveboard. Perhaps . . . the same man who was talking him up not too long ago?”

  Mason sighed. “You heard me talking to him outside?”

  “Ears like a hawk, my friend,” Dell said as he tapped the side of his head.

  “And a nose for business to go along with it.”

  “You think any man can earn a decent living in a shop this size without making himself useful?” Dell asked.

  Even when he was asleep, Mason rarely felt his thoughts slow to anything less than a roar inside his head. He’d imagined ways to wring some cash from Virgil Slake starting from the moment he’d seen Virgil’s enthusiasm at the faro table. There were few men who didn’t get measured up that way soon after crossing Mason’s path. Being on board the Delta Jack only made those wheels turn faster, which was why Mason loved being on that boat almost as much as he liked sleeping in his very own bed back home.

  Getting on a stranger’s good side wasn’t much of a chore. Without that particular skill in his arsenal, Mason wouldn’t have lasted very long in the sporting life. Having an edge in that regard, be it some personal bit of information or the name of a trusted reference that couldn’t be easily checked, was as good as gold. If Slake truly did have a healthy stash of money somewhere on the Jack, Mason figured he could chalk up one mighty fine mark in the win column.

  “Seven percent, huh?” Mason asked.

  “Not a penny more,” the barber replied.

  Chapter 2

  Less than an hour later, Mason was again stepping out of his room on the upper deck. This time, however, stubble no longer covered his chin and his hair was neatly arranged. The suit into which he’d changed wasn’t only pressed, but was a darker shade of blue and his vest bore narrow horizontal stripes. A lively tune was on his lips as he walked down the hall and went to the outer walkway that skirted the entire middle deck. Once he could feel the damp air against his face, he slid one hand jauntily inside his jacket pocket and kept the other free to tip his hat to anyone he might meet on his way to the Missouri Miss Restaurant.

  Since the Delta Jack had stopped briefly while Mason was changing his clothes, there was a good amount of activity on her first two decks. A few of those bustling about were workers putting away supplies that had been acquired, but most were men and women taking in the riverboat and trying to decide which comfort they would sample first. Mason could recall being one of those setting foot on the Jack for the first time, but just barely. Since he was more interested in his next meal than surveying potential targets, he maneuvered as quickly as possible through the milling crowd until he arrived at a long room toward the aft end of the boat.

  The Missouri Miss wasn’t the fanciest restaurant on the Delta Jack, but it was preferred by most gamblers who called the riverboat their home away from home. There were no tables. There was just a single aisle between two counters that ran the length of the place and a door at either end. One counter was lower than the other and had several chairs where customers could sit to enjoy their meal while looking out the window toward the starboard side of the boat. The other counter was the same height as a saloon’s bar. Behind it was a pair of stoves and a chopping board where food was prepared. Any customers sitting there did so on stools, which was where Mason planted himself as soon as he walked in.

  Less than half the seats were occupied at the moment, which meant he didn’t have to wait long before a tall woman with her hair tied back into a long braid acknowledged his arrival with a familiar smile. “You just wake up or just about to go to bed?” she asked.

  “Just up,” Mason said.

  She turned to the cook, who was a tall fellow wearing a greasy apron. Judging by the lack of meat on his bones, the man didn’t sample much of his own food. The woman with the braid said to him, “Bacon, grits, and burnt toast.”

  Only then did the cook look up from the stovetop he was scraping clean to ask, “That Mason?”

  “Sure is.”

  The cook gave Mason a curt upward nod before wiping his hands on the front of his apron and stooping to retrieve a few strips of bacon from under the counter.

  “Have any luck last night?” the woman asked.

  Mason took off his hat and placed it on the counter to his left. “You weren’t with me, Bea. How could I get any unluckier than that?”

  “You could’ve spent all day with her like I did,” the cook said.

  Bea turned to look over her shoulder at the man standing by the stove. “Nobody asked you a thing!” Turning to Mason, she dropped her voice to something of a purr and said, “Go on.”

  “I could go on all day long,” Mason replied. “But I doubt it’d get me anywhere with a beauty like you.”

  “Never know until you try.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Right now all I can tell you is that I’m useless before I get my breakfast.”

  She scowled at him before walking down to the other stove where a kettle was brewing. “Let’s start with coffee. After that, we can continue with all the sugary lies.”

  “My pleasure,” Mason said.

  After pouring him his coffee, Bea went around to top off the mugs of other customers before settling back into her regular spot a bit farther down the counter from where Mason was sitting.

  When he looked down at his mug, Mason found that a single egg had been placed on the counter beside it. Picking it up, he looked over to Bea and was given a knowing smile along with a nod. Mason placed his other hand over his heart as his way of silently thanking her before cracking the egg against the rim of his mug and mixing the raw egg into his coffee.

  Ever since the morning after he took his first sip of whiskey when he was fifteen, Mason had heard plenty of supposed cures for the headache following a night of overindulgence. Most of those cures involved consuming something that was so disgusting that it made a man consider forsaking liquor altogether. Some were nothing more than concoctions sold from the back of a crooked salesman’s wagon. All of them, however, had someone who swore by them, and the only one that Mason could swear to was the one he drank now.

  Bea had introduced him to it on the same night he first introduced himself to her. Mason could carry his headaches well, but she’d had no trouble spotting the pain behind his eyes. Without any explanations needed, she’d given him some coffee and cracked an egg into it.

  “Drink it,” was all she’d said.

  When Mason drank it, he nea
rly spat it right back up again. “That is horrid!” he’d exclaimed. “It tastes like it’s at least a day old and . . . there’s egg in it!”

  “Of course there’s egg in it. You watched me put it in there. And it’s not a day old. It’s three days old. Just drink the rest down and stop your whining.”

  For some reason, Mason had done what he was told. By the time the mug was empty, he thought for certain he would vomit all over the counter. A minute or two after that, he was right as rain. From that point on, he swore by the unusual cure for his headaches.

  Mason was still stirring his coffee when another man walked into the restaurant and took the stool beside him. When Mason lifted the spoon from his mug, a viscous string of egg connected it to the thick tarlike brew.

  “Whatever that is,” said the man beside Mason as he pointed to the egg concoction, “don’t try to serve it to me.”

  “What would you like?” the cook asked.

  “Steak. Rare.”

  “You want steak?” the cook replied. “Go to the steakhouse on the first deck.”

  “What can you give me?”

  “How about some beef stew?”

  “Fine,” the man grunted. “Just make it quick.”

  Mason took a long sip of his brew, swallowed it down, and then forced himself to have some more. “You want some advice?” he asked while letting that last gulp slide down his throat.

  The man next to Mason looked over to him and said, “Yeah. I’ll take some advice.”

  “Have a more cordial tone when you’re speaking to the man who’s fixing your food.”

  “Thanks. I’d like something else while you’re at it.”

  Mason took another drink and set the cup down. He’d recognized the man next to him as a player from one of the many card games the previous night. Propping an elbow on the counter, Mason shifted on his stool to face him.

  “I’d like the money you owe,” the man said.

  Squinting as he concentrated a little harder, Mason was still unable to come up with anything more than what he had done the first time. “Money? If I recall, both of us walked away from that table on the square.”

  “You were drinking like a fish.”

  Holding up his mug, Mason said, “I’ll admit to that much and am paying for it in spades.” When the other man didn’t crack so much as a portion of a smile, Mason said, “I’ll also admit to forgetting your name.”

  “Winslow. Dave Winslow.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Dave. Meet you again, that is.” Once more, Mason cracked a joke and laughed at it. Once again, Winslow stared back at him as if he were watching a patch of weeds sprout in his garden.

  The cook broke some of the tension by stepping up to the counter directly across from Winslow and setting down a bowl of stew. He then dropped a spoon into it before grunting, “Anything else?”

  “Not from you,” Winslow replied without taking his eyes off Mason.

  The cook wasn’t about to be intimidated by the gruff tone in Winslow’s voice or the fire in his eyes. He simply grunted under his breath and got back to the pot that was steaming on the stovetop.

  Now that Winslow’s food had been delivered, Mason thought he’d be granted at least a moment or two before having to resume the awkward conversation. Apparently that was setting his sights just a little too high.

  “You owe some money,” Winslow said. “A healthy amount of it too. I reckon a man like you would remember as much, no matter how many whiskeys he tossed back.”

  After downing the last of his thick, yet effective headache remedy, Mason put the mug down and said, “You’re absolutely right. I would remember something like that. If I have debts to pay, I pay them. Just ask anyone who knows me. As for you, however, I know for certain that I don’t owe you a thing.”

  “You got me there, mister. You don’t owe me.”

  Mason was taken aback by that, but more than a little relieved. “Oh. Well, then, I suppose that’s cleared up.”

  “Not yet, it ain’t.”

  “Of course not,” Mason sighed as he stared down at the dark muck coating the bottom of his mug. “Nothing’s ever that easy.”

  “The money you owe is to a friend of mine,” Winslow said.

  “Then tell him to find me and I’ll be sure to straighten this out.”

  Winslow used his spoon to poke at his stew. After lifting a dripping portion to his mouth, he dribbled some onto his beard and then used the back of his hand to wipe it away. “You’ll deal with me.”

  Mason shook his head and looked around. One of the things he normally liked about being on the Delta Jack was that most of the people on there with him were other gamblers who all lived by the same code. Unfortunately part of that code was that a man was left to tend to his own business whether it wound up good or bad. If things with Winslow took a turn for the worse, Mason would be on his own.

  “At least tell me the name of this supposed friend of yours.”

  Lifting the spoon to his mouth, Winslow said, “Ed Gifford,” and then took a bite of his stew.

  “Ed Gifford?” Mason scoffed. “I never heard of . . . oh, wait. Does he go by Giff for short?”

  “He does.”

  Mason held back a wince as he recalled that he not only owed that man some money, but had won it from him under somewhat dubious circumstances. Keeping a straight face, he said, “This matter is between me and Giff, then. I’ll have a word with him later tonight and settle up with him myself.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen. He was put off the boat at the last port.”

  “Sorry to be callous, but that’s really not my concern.”

  Winslow stood up and peeled back his jacket to reveal the gun strapped around his waist. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  Chapter 3

  Mason stepped out of the Missouri Miss Restaurant and into the same balmy air he’d been enjoying not too long ago. This time, however, he was much too distracted by the man following behind him to enjoy the scenery.

  “You don’t want to do this, friend,” Mason said. “Trust me.”

  Winslow walked behind him with stew in his beard and a Colt in his hand. “I ain’t your friend and I sure as hell don’t trust you.”

  “How long have you known Giff?”

  “Long enough for him to ask me to collect this debt for him.”

  When Mason turned around, he was jabbed in the belly by the barrel of Winslow’s Colt. For added measure, he was prodded hard enough to keep him moving toward the back end of the boat. “You don’t strike me as the sort of fellow who’d shoot an unarmed man.”

  Winslow smirked. “You tellin’ me you’re unarmed?”

  “I was merely having a drink to soothe my aching head. Why would I be—”

  Mason was interrupted when Winslow reached out to pull open the jacket to Mason’s silk suit. The holster strapped under Mason’s left arm was clearly visible, as was the .44 Remington kept there.

  “Not armed, huh?” Winslow grunted.

  “I didn’t actually specify that I was the unarmed man in question. I just said I was there to soothe my aching head.”

  “Yeah,” Winslow growled as he reached out to claim Mason’s weapon and drop it into the holster at his side. “And it’ll stop aching real quick once I break it open. Keep walking.”

  As he turned and walked toward the aft end of the boat, Mason looked for anyone who might step in on his behalf. The deck was mostly deserted since the stages on the lower level were now featuring some of the prettiest dancing girls in the South. Any of the men Mason spotted were racing to claim their seat at one of the many card games being played throughout the riverboat. He knew he’d have better luck asking for a dog to kindly let go of a piece of raw meat, but he tried to appeal to one passing fellow’s sense of compassion by moving aside so he could show him the gun in W
inslow’s hand. The man, another gambler whose name Mason couldn’t remember, merely shrugged and ducked through a door that took him into a blackjack parlor.

  “Do you recall how much I’m supposed to owe Giff?”

  “Four hundred dollars,” Winslow replied.

  “And what if I pay the money directly to you?” Mason asked. “We can part ways as friends and Giff won’t be any the wiser. Surely he’s no stranger to being disappointed when one of his plans doesn’t bear any fruit.”

  “Ain’t that simple.”

  “It can be,” Mason assured him.

  “Not if I ever want to get any more work like this.”

  And then Mason understood what was going on. This wasn’t the performance of a friend or even a hired gun. It was an audition.

  By this time, Mason was standing at a portion of the walkway that was as far back as one could go without dropping over the side. The serenity of being on the river was washed away by the churning rumble of the giant paddle wheel turning directly in front of him. After adjusting his jacket so it once again closed over his empty holster, Mason angled his hat to keep as much of the spray from the wheel out of his face as possible. “You want to be an overman?” he asked.

  “Pay’s good,” Winslow replied. “Better than gambling anyway.”

  “But the work itself is pretty nasty. You sure you’re cut out for it?”

  “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

  Overman was the name given to a small group of gunmen who kept the peace on board the Delta Jack. By necessity, every gambling boat had its own enforcers to put teeth into whatever house rules were in play. Without them, men running the games might as well hand their money out to any thieves who were bold enough to stick out their hands. An enforcer’s job was to cut those hands off at the wrist. The enforcers working on the Delta Jack had earned a reputation so fearsome that losing a hand or two had become infinitely more desirable than crossing them.

  “So, who is Giff to warrant such special attention?” Mason asked. “Part owner of this boat?”