Fevre Dream Page 0,29

man found dead in his cabin on the river north of New Madrid. The mate of a steamer that had put in for wood found him, when no one answered their calls. Some thought that Indians did it, some others said wolves, since the body had been all ripped up, and half eaten. That was just about all it said.

"Something wrong, Cap'n Marsh?" Jeffers asked. "You got a queer look on your face."

Marsh folded up Jeffers' Democrat and stuck it under his arm with York's. "No, nothin', damn paper just spelled a couple things wrong."

Jeffers smiled. "Are you certain? I know spelling isn't your strong suit, Cap'n."

"Don't you go joshing me about that again, or I'll chuck you over the side, Mister Jeffers," Marsh replied. "I'm going to be takin' your paper, if you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Jeffers said, "I'd finished."

Back at the bar Marsh reread the story about the woodyard man. Why should Joshua York be cutting out some item about some fool trash killed by wolves? Marsh couldn't figure an answer, but it bothered him. He looked up and noticed Simon's eyes on him in the big mirror over the bar. Marsh quickly folded up the Democrat again and stuffed it into a pocket. "Let me have a little glass of whiskey," he said.

Marsh drank the whiskey straight down, and made a long "Aaaaaaah" as the burning spread down through his chest. It cleared his head a mite. There were ways he could find out more about this, but then again it wasn't rightly his business what kind of newspaper stories Joshua York liked to read. Besides, he had given his word not to go prying into York's business, and Abner Marsh fancied himself a man of his word. Resolute, Marsh set down his glass and moved away from the bar. He clomped down the grand, curving stair to the main deck, and tossed both newspapers into one of the dark furnaces. The deckhands looked at him strangely, but Marsh felt better immediately. A man shouldn't go around entertaining suspicions about his partner, especially one as generous and well-mannered as Joshua York. "What are you lookin' at?" he barked at the deckhands. "Ain't you got no work to do? I'll find Hairy Mike and see he gets you some!" Immediately the men were busy. Abner Marsh went back up to the main cabin and had himself another drink.

The next morning Marsh went over to Pine Street, to his company's main office, and tended to business for several hours. He lunched at the Planters' House, surrounded by old friends and old rivals, feeling grand. Marsh bragged up a storm about his steamer, and had to endure Farrell and O'Brien flapping their jaws about their boats, but that was all right, he just smiled and said, "Well, boys, maybe we'll meet on the river. Wouldn't that be grand?" Not a soul mentioned his previous misfortune, and three different men came up to his table and asked Marsh if he needed a pilot for the lower Mississippi. It was a fine couple of hours.

Strolling back to the river, Marsh chanced to pass a tailor's shop. He hesitated, tugging at his beard thoughtfully while he mulled over an idea that had struck him real sudden. Then he went inside, grinning, and ordered up a new captain's coat for himself. A white one, with a double row of silver buttons, just like Joshua's. Marsh left two dollars on account, and arranged to pick up the coat when the Fevre Dream returned to St. Louis. He left feeling very satisfied with himself.

The riverfront was chaotic. A consignment of dry goods had arrived late, and the roustabouts were sweating to get it loaded up in time. Whitey had the steam up; tall white plumes were rising from the 'scape-pipes, and dark smoke rolled out of the chimney's flowered tops. The steamer to the left of the Fevre Dream was backing out, with great gouts of smoke and much whistle-blowing and shouting. And the big side-wheeler to the right was unloading freight onto its wharfboat, an old decrepit shell of a steamer tied permanently to the landing. All up and down the riverfront there were steamboats, as far as the eye could see in either direction, more boats than Marsh could count. Nine boats up was the luxurious, three-decked John Simonds, taking on passengers. Down from her was the side-wheeler Northern Light, with a picture of the Aurora painted gaudy on her paddle boxes; she was