goin' to find Mister Sour Billy Tipton for us, and tell us where he is, and then you're to make sure he don't go wanderin'. If he hears a ruckus or heads for Julian's cabin, I want you to take that sword cane of yours and stick it clean through his sour little belly, you hear?"
"Understood," the clerk said grimly. He adjusted his spectacles.
Abner Marsh paused a moment and looked hard at his two allies: the slim dandy of a clerk in his gold specs and button gaiters, his mouth tight, his hair as neatly slicked back as ever, and beside him the huge mate with his rough clothing and his rough face and his rough ways, his green eyes hard and spoiling for a fight. They were a strange pair but a most formidable one, Abner Marsh thought. He snorted, satisfied. "Well, what are we waitin' for?" he asked. "Mister Jeffers, you go find where Sour Billy is at."
The clerk rose and brushed himself off. "Certainly," he said.
He was back in under five minutes. "He's in the main cabin, sitting to breakfast. The whistle must have wakened him. He's eating eggs and boiled beefcakes and drinking plenty of coffee, and he's sitting where he can see the door to Julian's cabin."
"Good," Marsh said. "Mister Jeffers, why don't you go breakfast yourself?"
Jeffers smiled. "I do believe I have a sudden appetite."
"The keys first, though."
Jeffers nodded and bent to his safe. Keys in hand, Marsh gave the clerk a good ten minutes to find his way back to the grand saloon before he stood and took a deep breath. His heart was thumping. "C'mon," he said to Hairy Mike Dunne, opening the door to the world outside.
The day was bright and hot, which Marsh took for a good omen. The Fevre Dream was surging up the river easy as you please, her wake a churning double line of white-flecked foam. She must be doing eighteen miles an hour, Marsh thought, riding smooth as a Creole's manners. He found himself wondering what her time to Natchez would be, and all of a sudden he wanted to be up in her pilot house more than anything, looking out on the river he loved so well. Abner Marsh swallowed and blinked back tears, feeling sick and unmanly.
"Cap'n?" Hairy Mike said uncertainly.
Abner Marsh cussed. "It's nothin'," he said. "It's just... goddamn it all... c'mon." He stomped off, the key to Damon Julian's cabin clenched tightly in a huge red hand. His knuckles were turning white.
Outside the cabin, Marsh paused to look around. The promenade was mostly empty, A lady was standing by the railing a good ways aft of them, and about a dozen doors forward there was a fellow in a white shirt and a slouchy hat sitting with his chair tilted back against a stateroom door, but neither of them seemed much interested in Marsh and Hairy Mike. Marsh slid the key carefully into the hole. "You 'member what I told you," he whispered to the mate. "Quick and quiet. One hit."
Hairy Mike nodded, and Marsh turned the key. The door clicked open, and Marsh pushed.
It was close and dark inside, everything curtained and shuttered the way the night folks liked their rooms, but they saw a pale form sprawled beneath the sheet by the light that spilled in from the door. They slid through, moving as quietly as two big, noisy men could move, and then Marsh was closing the door behind them and Hairy Mike Dunne was moving forward, raising his three-foot-long black iron billet high over his head, and dimly Marsh saw the thing in the bed stir, rolling over toward the noise, toward the light, and Hairy Mike was there in two long quick strides, all so fast, and the iron fell in a terrible arc at the end of his huge arm, fell and fell toward that dim pale head and it seemed to take forever.
Then the cabin door shut completely, the last thread of light snapped, and in the blind pitch darkness Abner Marsh heard a sound like a piece of meat being slapped down on a butcher's counter, and under that was another sound, like an eggshell breaking, and Marsh held his breath.
The cabin was very still, and Marsh could not see a thing. From the darkness came a low, throaty chuckle. A cold sweat covered Marsh's body, "Mike," he whispered. He fumbled for a match.
"Yessuh, Cap'n," came the mate's voice. "One hit, thass all." He