Natchez Page 12

  “Following my share,” the banker answered. He glanced at Toures who was coming apart at the seams, then at Dewey who was furious.

  “You’d of got it, Potter.”

  “I decided you might think of another way to exchange that silver than through my bank,” Potter shrugged. “There are two men in that house,” he went on. “Now we outnumber them.”

  Toures glared at the bald Yankee banker, grinding his teeth together. There was no time to discuss it now. “Let’s get it first and spend it later,” Ty Dewey grumbled.

  Dewey and Toures inched toward the rear of the silent, dilapidated mansion while Potter slid down a red earth bank just to the side of the front windows. Nothing stirred. The horses hitched to the wagon stood resting, three-legged, ears twitching as the flies bit at them. The windows of the house were gray with grime. There was no sound at all.

  Potter had almost convinced himself that this would be easy. He had crawled behind a collapsed pile of lumber which was once a summer house. There, with the ears of his scattergun drawn back, he had only to wait for the fat man and his sidekick. When they came out to that wagon, they would be dead. Potter sucked at a dry blade of oat grass as he pondered the amount of pleasure a third of that wagonload of Confederate silver could buy in New York.

  Ty Dewey darted forward silently, handgun drawn, spurs flashing in the sunlight. Toures lagged behind. The general felt suddenly old, tired beyond endurance. A man pays for his sins, he decided.

  Dewey was at the wall of the house, the sun catching the silver buttons of his dark blue shirt. He held his pistol beside his head, barrel up, hammer drawn back. There was a broken trellis there, where long dead rose branches stuck out at odd angles. The sun was hot against the wall.

  Toures looked at Dewey, catching the signal, and doubtfully the general started forward. Then he saw her on the balcony above and he dropped his gun, his hands going to his mouth.

  “Melinda!”

  Dewey went rigid with rage and astonishment. He swiveled his head around, but could see nothing but a bit of thin white fabric.

  “Melinda! My daughter’s up there!” Toures stumbled forward, pointing at the balcony where Melinda smiled back. “My daughter, I said! The hell with your silver! That’s my baby girl.”

  Dazed, Toures wandered across the dead grass of the yard. For a moment he stood there, pointing upward. Then the girl fell, toppling over the railing, thudding against the earth below.

  Toures rushed forward, turning her over.

  “My God!”

  Ty Dewey knew he had to move now. Toures had gone nuts, his daughter lay dead. Ty Dewey climbed into a first story window. The silver was uppermost in his mind; yet when Toures had turned his daughter over, Dewey could not help seeing it.

  The girl had the face of a seventy-year-old woman.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Sam Potter watched unbelievingly as General Toures stumbled forward, shouting. Then his eye caught some other movement. Below the old bridge there was a small boat tied up, not fifty yards behind the Planter House. A man carrying a heavy box stepped gingerly into the boat. The silver—they were taking it by boat!

  Potter leaped to his feet, his short legs carrying him rapidly across the open space. He brushed under a willow, leaped over a log and came to the bank of the river.

  “You!” he shouted. “Just stay still. I’ll kill you.”

  The dark man with the incredibly scarred face did as Potter asked him, yet there was a smile on his face as he waited in the boat, and that troubled Potter.

  He thought he heard a low growl. An animal sound.

  Keeping the shotgun on Wango, he turned his head just slightly. But it was too late. The ferocious black panther leaped at his throat. Potter threw up a hand and the shotgun discharged harmlessly as the panther mauled the banker, shaking him by the neck until it snapped. Then, snarling, moving silkily back into the shadows, the black cat vanished.

  The sun danced high in the azure sky, lighting the willows along the oxbow silver, painting tiny dots of changing color on the waters.

  Low, filmy clouds floated through the eastern skies.

  The big man on the black horse sat the low, sandy knoll. The shadow from his hat covered his eyes, but his mouth was set with purpose, his jaw determined. The familiar weight of the two silver-mounted Colt revolvers rested on his hips.

  Khamsin shook his massive neck, his silver mane swirling. There was an impatience in the big black’s heart. He did not like this country, he longed again for his broad Western plains with the dry air, the wind gnarled trees, the rust-colored, barren mountains.

  “Patience,” Kid Soledad said, stroking the black’s neck once more.

  Soledad sensed rather than saw that something was up at the Planter House. There was a tension in the air. Khamsin did not like it either and he stamped nervously. There had been a shot, an hour or so ago, farther up the river. Yet it could have been a hunter. Slowly he worked the black down the slope, eyes riveted to the house. Suddenly a shotgun blast exploded and Soledad started the horse running. Smoke curled up near the river.

  He broke from the brush and took in the strange scene with one glance. A man dead near the river, Toures crouched over his daughter, and a black panther at a dead run bolting toward the house and up, through a window.

  Soledad hit the ground with Khamsin still on the run, and he raced toward the front door, throwing his shoulder to it as he broke it down.

  He burst in, eyes searching the dark interior. He saw nothing, but heard a scuffling sound upstairs. In an instant he was to the staircase, taking the steps three at a time.

  Soledad cleared the top step and stood in the silent hall.

  It was silent only a moment. A roar filled the narrow corridor and Soledad spun, going reflexively to one knee. As he did the slashing fangs of the black panther narrowly missed his face. Soledad rolled as the cat hit him and the panther slammed against the wall, hissing with anger.

  The black cat turned instantly, scrambling to its feet, ready to strike down the human intruder. But the human was gone. In his place was another big cat.

  A tawny mountain lion, lip curled back revealing ivory fangs, crouched, hissing back as the panther circled then struck.

  In a blur of color, tawny and black, fangs and claws striking out, the big cats tumbled down the stairwell.

  Blackschuster lay on his back, inviting Spectros to strike, but the cougar circled warily, knowing that a slashing kick of those hind legs could gut him. He snarled, feinted left and dove on top of the black panther, taking him at the base of the skull with powerful jaws.

  The panther roared with pained anger and spun free, blood trickling across his sleek black coat at the neck. He tried for the stairs but the mountain lion took him down by the haunches, gripping the panther tightly with its deadly claws.

  Again the panther shook free and again the cougar lunged, but when they locked in combat it was no longer a panther he faced, but a hooded cobra. Spectros growled.

  The cougar hopped aside, snarling angrily. The cobra struck once, again, yet Spectros was able each time to elude it.

  Weaving, the cobra watched the big cat, but the cat was suddenly gone. It was a mongoose now, as Spectros assumed his new form. The little, quicksilver mongoose lunged, trying for the cobra’s neck, meaning to shake it to insensibility. Yet the snake slithered under the door off the hallway and Spectros hesitated, not following too quickly.

  Then the door burst from the hinges as the mongoose watched, dark button-eyes bright. Masakado! The giant, helmeted Samurai stood there, glaring furiously. His great curved sword needed two arms to heft it, and heft it Masakado did, slashing out viciously with the great weapon, his war cries filling the room.

  Spectros twisted aside, circling the room still in his mongoose form. He was tired, the chase had been furious. He needed just a moment. Just a moment as the Samurai strode the room in his bronze armor, great sword sweeping aside furniture, neatly severing the leg of a
n oaken table.

  The Samurai stalked him slowly, and Blackschuster’s eyes had never seemed colder. The mongoose dipped behind a chair as the sword of the Japanese warrior splintered it. Then Spectros darted between the Samurai’s legs and when the giant warrior turned he met something he could not face.

  “Enough!” Kid Soledad panted. He had two Colt revolvers in his hands, his legs braced wide apart, the guns at hip level. The Samuari stepped back, his eyes on the pistols. Then he grinned, a savage desperate grin and fluttered away, the massive sword clattering to the floor.

  Blackschuster had become the crow and he dipped through the open door, his cawing filling the room. Spectros walked toward the door, feeling a weakness in his legs which should not have come upon him so soon.

  He plunged through the door to find Ty Dewey standing there, in front of the silver laden war wagon.

  “Hold it there, Soledad!” Dewey barked.

  “Do I know you?”

  “I seen you before,” the dark-eyed man said. His silver sleeve garters held the loose fabric of his white silk shirt away from his wrists. “I’m Ty Dewey.”

  “Just move out of the way,” Soledad said. “I got me a man to catch.”

  “What was all that scuffling in there?”

  “Nothing much.” Soledad watched, searching the sky for the black crow. It occurred to him that Blackschuster had staged the fight intentionally, to give Wango time to get downriver with the boat holding Kirstina.

  “Move!” Soledad said irritably. It was seldom the tall man lost his temper, but he did now. He was only moments behind Kirstina and this hoodlum wanted to tangle Soledad up.

  “I can’t move,” Ty Dewey said, watching the tall man. Soledad had his hat in his right hand, his shirt was open revealing a strangely incribed gold medallion. “I want this silver, Soledad.”

  “Then take it! Just get aside.”

  “No,” Dewey said confidently. “How can I? You’d know who has it. You’d come after me. With help.”

  “I don’t care about that silver, Dewey,” Kid Soledad said. For a moment Dewey caught those gray eyes of Kid Soledad and he felt a shiver crawl up his spine, a twinge of uncertainty. Yet he had his hand just above his holster. The Kid had his hat in his gunhand.

  “Everybody wants money,” Dewey said.

  “No. Take it and get out of here.”

  “Sure.” Dewey said, but already he had made his plan. He had heard of Soledad. It would be no fair fight—Ty Dewey nodded, half-turned for the wagon and drew, dropping to a knee.

  It was a good draw, Dewey knew, and the Kid’s hat was still in his hand as Ty spun, drawing back the hammer. Dewey smirked triumphantly.

  Yet something was wrong. He glanced down at his shirt in confusion. A wash of red stained his white shirt. And Soledad had his gun out somehow. How? Smoke curled from the Kid’s gun barrel.

  The trees swayed under an oddly spinning sky. Dewey’s knees buckled and he went down, in the dust. Curiously he looked at the revolver in his hand. It weighed a hundred pounds—he could not lift it. And it had never been fired!

  Dewey glanced at the Kid, showed him the gun in amazement, then pitched forward on his face, lying still beneath the hot Mississippi sun.

  Soledad spotted a black dot spiraling high into the sky. Blackschuster. He holstered his gun and peered into the white ball of the sun as the crow circled higher.

  “Kid!”

  He spun around, gray eyes cool. Then he smiled. Montak and Joseph stumbled into the clearing, Ray Featherskill between them.

  “You’re all right,” he said, slapping the giant and Ray on the shoulder, taking Big Joseph’s hand.

  “All right!” Ray laughed. “We’re more than all right.” Ray caught sight of the black crow which was now only a tiny dot winging frantically westward, toward the Mississippi River. “Is that the man?”

  “It is. I’ve got to go.” Soledad said, urgently.

  “Let him go,” Ray laughed. “Let him go, Kid. Because I’ve got her. I’ve got Kirstina!”

  Soledad did not move. He did not speak for long moments. His gray eyes were expressionless, his lips drawn in a straight line. Over?

  Could it be over? Ray was grinning broadly, holding a hand to his bloody side. To pursue a dream is sometimes easier than finally capturing it. Kirstina.

  He followed Ray and Montak upriver, his head spinning with thoughts, images. What would this young woman think of her fiance now? Years had passed, ages since that day in an Eastern port. Would she remain young herself? Such a tragedy—if that beautiful young woman were to emerge from her crystal cocoon only to age abruptly, an entire unlived life passing her by in moments.

  They splashed across the inlet, through the deep rushes, Ray leading the way, until they came to the place where Ray had concealed the casket.

  “She is there.” Kid Soledad said, and it was difficult to interpret his words. Sadness seemed to touch him. Awe, joy—all mingled.

  Montak stepped nearer. She slept there. Dark-haired, fair of face, delicate hands, lovely figure, dressed in that white gown. He saw the emerald ring, and his eyes flashed to the duplicate worn by Kid Soledad.

  “If you want us to…” Featherskill began.

  “No. Stay. We have followed her together. You must share in this.” His eyes met Ray’s. “Whatever happens now.”

  Hesitantly the Kid’s hands went to the casket, finding two silver pins which held the lid tight. He released them, still hardly able to look at his Kirstina. His hand trembled. She smiled delicately.

  “Now… now we find each other again.”

  He found purchase for his fingers and lifted the lid, gently as if it were a fragile thing. There was a sudden rush of gas as the vacuum broke, and Kirstina’s eyes flickered, opened, meeting Soledad’s eyes.

  “Kirstina—you…” he touched her hand, and then felt his heart collapse. The air had touched Kirstina, and before their eyes she began to age. Rapidly, incredibly age, her dress going yellow, brown, her skin wrinkling, her face becoming a skull. She gasped once and moved no more, but still she aged, flesh falling from her bones, her bones turning to dust.

  Featherskill clenched his teeth, his heart pounding. Montak covered his eyes painfully. Soledad could only watch. Watch until she was gone, the dream vanished, all of time in a burst of savage seizure reclaimed what rightfully belonged to time. The dream lay sadly in the crystal casket, a handful of dust, a handful of promise, a broken prayer.

  “Kid…” Ray wanted to say something, but what was there to say? They stood around the casket as if at a funeral, and in fact it was a funeral. Kirstina had died, a young woman cut off in her prime.

  Montak stood beside the Kid, huge arm draped over his shoulder. Joseph, whose face was a sketch of utter awe, still stood aside, shaking his head as if it were a dream.

  “All of it… for nothing,” Ray said, bitterly. In anguish he slammed his hand against the casket. “All of it!”

  “No.”

  The Kid said it, and he spoke calmly. Had he such self-control? Ray glanced curiously at the tall man.

  “It’s not over. It’s not over!” He placed a hand into the casket, sifting through the dust. “Don’t you see?”

  “See what, Kid?”

  “Montak! Don’t you see?”

  Montak could only shrug. Whatever Kid Soledad saw, it was invisible to the others.

  “Ray!” Kid Soledad turned again to Featherskill, joyously taking him by the shoulders, smiling with relief.

  “I don’t see a thing, Kid,” Ray said, bewildered.

  “That’s just it. Look at the dust. Look at the remains.” The Kid was still smiling.

  “Where’s the ring?” he asked.

  “The what?”

  “The ring, Ray? Time decomposes flesh, bone, cloth. But where in bloody blazes is that circle of gold, that emerald?”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “This is not Kirstina, never was. No more than the Melinda Toures you knew was the
real one. Emeralds aren’t devoured by time, nor gold, nor the diamonds. Yet they have vanished! Blackschuster fabricated the ring as he fabricated this image of Kirstina.”

  “I…” Ray fell silent. It was he who had been tricked. The duplicate Kirstina had been left for them to find. And Ray had convinced Kid Soledad to break off the search for Blackschuster. “Kid… I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry? So am I, Ray. But we know one thing. If nothing else, she still lives.”

  “She lives,” Ray said numbly. Yet a certain thought could not be banished from his mind. When, if they found the real Kirstina—would her fate be the same? Would she also fall away to dust, leaving nothing but an emerald ring, a memory?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  They did not know who lay in the crystal casket, if it had ever possessed life, a soul, a wish to exist. They sunk the ashes into the swamp depths, watching as the coffin bobbed and vanished, leaving tiny bubbles. For a moment longer they watched, until the murky green waters were placid again. Then the Kid turned.

  “I’m going after him. They have a boat, that means they must stick to the waterways for the time being.”

  Montak stepped forward, touching his own chest. The Kid slapped his shoulder and grinned. “I’m afraid I’d have a hard time carrying you.”

  “What do you want us to do, Kid?” Featherskill asked.

  “I want you to see a doctor, Ray. Go to the Greene’s. Montak—go into Natchez and wire New Orleans. Tell Dan Hollister we’ve got two problems. First, Blackschuster may be coming downriver. Second, have him alert the New Orleans authorities that a shipment of Telingas is somewhere on the Mississippi, probably due to meet a foreign ship out of New Orleans, possibly bound for South America.”

  “And you, Kid?” Featherskill asked.

  “Me. I’m finding the man this time. I’m bringing her home this time.”

  Soledad nodded and winked. Then he felt his feet grow amazingly light, his entire body grow airy and he longed suddenly for the skies, the far horizons. He took wing.

  Big Joseph could only stand, pointing as the kestrel flew from the clearing. The falcon circled low once, then winged toward the Mississippi.