Rocky Raccoon Ch. 04

My first opinion was of a man defeated. He was frail to the point of skin and bones, with a large eyepatch prominent on his face. About the only time he got animated was when we were discussing Bradshaw.

"We've missed him once again. My men say he boarded a boat bound for Natchez and points North two days ago. I still cannot get over the fact that he had the nerve to return to New Orleans."

"Was he traveling with a companion?"

"If you mean his blond whore, she was along. This one must be more skilled than my wife. He dumped her in a whorehouse in Memphis after five months. As far as I know, she is still there."

Gaston seemed surprised. "Have you thought about bringing her back?"

"No reason to. There's plenty of whores here, already. Besides, she stood there and laughed as he broke my back and gouged out my eye with his thumb. I think she's getting what she deserves. Poetic justice and all that."

He sighed and went quiet for a minute before he slid some papers to me. "Here. This is all I've managed to compile on the man and his movements and any other details my men could glean. He seems to be a creature of habit and works a loop. He'll move on from Natchez, hit Memphis, travel to St. Louis and then go either East to Baltimore, New York, and some of the other major cities before dropping by his old haunts in Chicago, and then head for the West Coast. It's all in the papers. My only request is that if you do find him and have the opportunity you make his death as slow and lingering as possible. Also, there are other in the papers he's wronged, stolen from, led their wives astray, both, in many cases. It seems to give him pleasure. I'm sure those gentlemen will be more than willing to assist you in your quest. Several letters of introduction will be sent to you soon. I wish you the best of luck."

He seemed exhausted, so his attendant took him home. I looked at Gaston. "What will become of him?"

"He most likely will be dead in less than a year. He simply no longer wants to live. A shame, the man has a brilliant mind and was one of the best engineers I've ever met. We even discussed him joining me in my business."

"You should press that. It might give him a reason to carry on. He could manage your office and even though he couldn't get out and about much, he can still sit at a drafting table."

Gaston's eyes were shining. "An excellent suggestion my young friend. Perhaps I'll send him some drawings and ask if he'll consult, looking them over for flaws and suggestions to make them better. I'll ask it as personal favor to appeal to his sense of honor."

We ate the rest of the meal in silence, and he surprised me yet again by taking me along a road seldom used until we appeared in front of an aging mansion. I figured it was for his business and it was if his business was me. There were four older gentlemen there and they were sitting in the parlor at a card table. "It has occurred to me if you are going to pursue this fellow into his environment that you need to know much about that environment. These gentlemen were the best card players of the last generation. All retired now, they live on their investments and look for things to keep them amused. In this case, it is you."

He made the introductions and left me, saying he'd have my horse brought to me when I wished to leave. They eyed me with amusement until one man broke open a deck of cards. "Let's play."

We each started out with five hundred pennies and in forty-five minutes I was broke. They stopped and redistributed the coins and we started again. It only took half an hour until I was literally penniless again. They grinned. The oldest spoke.

"We cheated, Rocky. Every one of us. You may have suspected but you couldn't see how. That is what we will teach you. How to spot a cheater, and more importantly how to outcheat him. Are you willing to learn?"

Of course I was. I spent three to four hours a day with them for the rest of my visit and was often amazed and astounded at what they taught me. After about three weeks, one asked me how well I fought. I'd learned my skills from my father and the crews at the end of tracks and thought I was pretty good. It didn't take them long to disabuse me of that notion.

We traveled to a gym and I was surprised to see it was owned by one of the largest blackest men I'd ever seen. He had a thick Creole accent and was friendly.

"So. Mister Braxton says you want to learn how to fight."

I was still young enough to be offended. "I know how to fight."

"Really? Then you wouldn't mind sparring a few rounds with me, would you? I want you to make your best effort and not worry. I know how to defend myself."

I agreed, and soon we were in tights with leather headgear on. I'd never had occasion to use them, but after two rounds I was very grateful I had one.

Peirre was eight inches taller and had to outweigh me by eighty pounds. You could see his muscles, but he had a slight roll around his stomach so I decided to attack the body. I also knew that with the reach advantage he expected me to close, so I stayed outside, dancing in and out with jabs and hooks. I made contact, but not as often as I hoped. He landed several good blows but I had the feeling he was pulling his punches.

I said as much when we stopped the round.

"I was a professional fighter for years. I do not wish to hurt you."

"Don't worry about that. I can defend myself, and push comes to shove I can take a punch."

He grinned. "As you wish."

Three seconds into the third round I was flat on my back, out cold. He had just stood there with his hands down and I thought it a bit arrogant, so I threw a huge right. I had no idea where the fist came from until it landed on the side of my head. I was out before I fell.

I woke to cool cloths on my head and one of my sponsors, a retired doctor was looking me over. "You're going to have quite the headache for a few days. I suggest at least a week before you resume your training. Oh, and do be a bit more careful, all right?"

I agreed without reservation. Since I couldn't fight, I listened to my trainer.

"You're not bad. In an average scrap you would probably do pretty well, but from what I understand the man you're seeking is not average. I've fought a few of those types and they have one thing in common: an instinct to kill or maim. They will use every part of their body, head butts, teeth, feet, sharpened fingernails soaked in brine to toughen the nail and then file it to a point, any advantage they can find and they always tend to go for the soft and venerable parts first. The eyes, the throat, the ears, kidneys, kneecaps, groin, any spot that will disable and inflict maximum pain. There are no rules and if they get you down, they will destroy you. Do you understand?"

I remembered the brass knuckles and nodded. "Good. Come around tomorrow and we'll start your conditioning."

I thought I was in pretty good shape until Pierre started training me. I was reduced to a quivering wreck every day for two weeks before developing stamina enough not to just collapse after a workout. He started teaching me the dirty tricks, the holds, the throws, the unexpected strikes designed to incapacitate. He talked about his boxing and bare knuckles career. He was a very good boxer and had toured the country twice and worked out of England doing the European circuit for almost two years. I recognized his professional name when he told me, and I got the sense he hated it: The Black Bull of New Orleans. His first manager had cheated him horribly, but once he got free of him, he started to prosper and had people around him that made sure he made wise investments. After Europe, he fought less and less until retiring for good and opening his gym. Many fighters, both black and white, were on a waiting list to train with him.

When I found out how successful he was, my first question was would why he was wasting his time on me. He grinned. "Dr. Payton was one of my first backers after I got rid of my first agent. He often traveled with me as a corner man, specializing in cuts. Then he became one of my financial advisors. Mr. DuPree was instrumental in freeing me from my old contract and he. Too, took an interest in my financial wellbeing. I usually don't share this, but the gymnasium is basically a hobby to keep people from being too interested in my finances. I own one cotton warehouse outright and have stakes in two others, a rice plantation and two trading ships. They're all handled by factors and registered as private corporations, so their true ownership is next to impossible to find."

I added it up later and Pierre was one of the most well to do men in town. He took a page from his mentors and invested in businesses that were mostly owned by blacks. One was a large store in a small parish in the backwaters of a bayou, another was in a horse farm where championship racers were bred and trained. There were others, but he didn't elaborate and I didn't ask.

I asked him about his bare knuckles career and he grimaced. "It was profitable, but I hated it with a passion. There were no rules, and I could have had a career ending injury all too easily. Look at this."

He pulled his tight exercise shirt to the side and pointed. He had a nipple missing. "Bitten off in one of my first matches. I was winning fairly easily when he got me in a clinch. I was not expecting it and when he bit down with the tenacity of a pitbull, I felt some of the worst pain in my life. He jumped back and spit the nipple in the dirt. I was in shock and he took advantage, knocking me cold. He was all set to put the boots to me but my handlers surrounded me."

"What did you do about it?"

The grin he had on his lips was feral. "I healed. I trained. Then I challenged him to a rematch, offering a purse he couldn't pass up. He had to borrow and mortgage everything he owned to come up with his part. He didn't get the money from the bank and his investors were very interested in making sure he won.

I didn't eat or drink anything but what I'd brought with me and prepared for a week prior to the fight. I only drank water that my trainers got from different sources. They were approached several times and we set up a scam. One agreed to poison me and bet heavily on my opponent. Instead, he and my team bet on me. It was a staggering sum and if they hadn't known the fix was in they would have never covered it."

He was lost in a savored memory for just a moment.

"How did the fight go?"

"It was a slaughter. I stumbled around and pretended to be unfocused. His backers were ringing the perimeter of the corral we were fighting in. I knew if I got too close, they would be striking blows using brass knuckles and blackjacks. In this fight a round didn't end until someone was knocked down, and if he couldn't continue the fight was over. He tried to work me against the ropes but I always managed to stagger back to the center. Finally, he gave me the opportunity I was looking for. He tried to crowd me into a corner and just when he thought he had me I grabbed his arm and twirled him around. He went right into the crowd and his cronies were so wired up they hit him several times before they could stop themselves. They shoved him out of the corner and right into my arms. I broke his right arm and everyone heard the crunch when I shattered his left kneecap. I nailed him as he was falling, breaking his nose and knocking out some teeth. I put the boots to him twice before the crowd pulled me back. Needless to say, he couldn't toe the line for the next round."

"Whatever happened to him?"

Pierrre shrugged. "He disappeared. He owed the backers and the bookies big time and had promised them a steep return on their money. He couldn't pay them because he'd bet everything he owned and could borrow on himself. Me and my backers made more off that one fight than I did in my entire legitimate boxing career. A few bookies went out of business permanently when they couldn't pay the book, and their property was seized. A few of the criminals were set back years while they tried to regain their territories. I had a price on my head, but the fight was in St. Louis and I was gone the same night. Mr. Dupree knows a lot of people from all walks of life and he asked politely for the bounty to be rescinded. It was, but I was uneasy for a long time afterwards."

Just as we finished our cool down walk a woman approached us. She was dressed in the height of fashion for the day, twirling a lace umbrella to keep the sun from beating down on her flaming red hair. It caught me by surprise when she pulled Pierre down and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He reached for her but she danced back. "You know the rules, darling. No snuggling until you're clean and don't smell like old gym clothes piled up in the corner for a week. Is this him?"

Pierre nodded and her small hand surrounded mine. "It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. You do not know it but we have a common enemy. You must come to dinner soon. Pierre, arrange it."

He was grinning at the look on my face. "My wife can be a bit overwhelming at times. Still, if you would honor us Thursday next, it would make my life considerably easier. I'm sure you're wondering how a man like me ended up with a woman like her. Come to dinner and all will be explained."

I asked Gaston about it later and his wife giggled. "Monique is quite the whirlwind, is she not? I urge you to go. Their house is exquisite and their table is the envy of New Orleans."

So, I found myself in front of a small mansion in the country a week later with a bouquet of flowers Aunt Aggie assured me would be appropriate, two bottles of a very good vintage French red wine, and two bottles of bourbon, each distilled for a different flavor.

The door opened before I could knock and a very pretty girl in her early teens and stood grinning. She had the grace and frame of her mother but I could see some of Pierre in her face. "Mama! Papa! He is here!"

Pierre came to the door wearing a very nice suit. All I'd ever seen him in was gym outfits, and I had to admit he wore it well. He put his hand on his daughter's shoulder and grinned at me. "I see you've met our daughter. Celeste can be a bit intense at times. Too much of her mother in her, I fear. Please come in and I'll introduce the rest of my family."

Celeste held my arm and chattered a mile a minute as we passed through the house to the dining room. Her brother, Jacque, was 18, as tall as his father but not quite as muscular. I found out he was due to leave for France in a month to study, specializing in finance. Their younger son, DuPree ,was ten and full of questions about the West. It was a lively dinner conversation.

Marie accepted the gifts I had brought graciously, and Pierre eyed the bourbon with anticipation. At the last second, I presented the bouquet to Celeste. She turned about four shades of red before grinning and rushing off to place them in a vase. Monique grinned at me. "Her first flowers from a man. She'll remember this for rest of her life. Thank you for your unexpected kindness."

"I'm honored to be her first." It hit me and it was my turn to turn red as Pierre and Monique laughed.

Jacque questioned me about business opportunities in the West so I told him about my ranch and farms, my contracts with the military and the railroad and with the addition of my herd, I now included beef. He was impressed.

DuPree, and to a lesser extent Cleste, peppered me with questions. I described the harshness of a Dakota winter, hard for them to understand living in such a temperate climate. I described the plains of the Indian Territories, the sprawling ranches in Texas and Mexico. When I told them about the barren wastes of the deserts we'd crossed building the railroad, they seemed stunned. They wanted to know if I had ever met any Indians. I smiled and gave them an abridged version of my first summer with the People. DuPree wanted to know if I'd ever killed any Indians or outlaws. I skirted the question by telling him there were bad people in all races known to men and I did my best to avoid them. Monique approved of my answer and Pierre just smiled. I think Gaston had done a little checking up on me so he had to know a little.

Celeste asked if most men in the West wore their hair so long. My hair was probably my one vanity. I'd always worn it long and had let it grow even longer in my time with the tribe. It hung just past my shoulders. While most men sported some type of facial hair, I had just a small moustache that was so blond it was almost unnoticeable.

I told them hairstyles varied wildly, depending on the wants of the man. Hitchcock wore his hair long, as did Billy Dixon, two men famous in the West. I'd heard there was an officer stationed near my ranch who had long blond hair, but I had never met him. All reports said he was a vain and ambitious man, a perfect combination for getting men killed.

After the meal the children were excused. I formally shook the hand of Dupree and Jacque. I took Celeste's hand and bent over meaning to kiss it when her other hand snaked out and she grabbed my hair. When I was close enough, she put a very nice kiss on my cheek, then gasped and fled the room. Marie was smiling. "Seems you have an admirer."

"Alas, fortune has dealt me a low blow by having me be born in the wrong generation. Pierre, I suspect there will be some sleepless nights when she matures."

We retired to the living room and got settled with coffee and pastries. I was seriously addicted to the coffee of the region. I always thought cow camp coffee was good until I tasted the beans there. Most was blended with the roasted roots of the chicory plant, giving it a sharpened taste. It made me want to go back and throw rocks at every coffeepot in the West. Aunt Aggie assured me a proper supply would be sent to my ranch regularly. It made me kiss her cheek and she giggled.

Coffee cups empty and pastries consumed Monique sat back on the couch and gave me a hooded expression. "Tell me, Mr. McGill, what do you know of Dan Bradshaw?"

I thought it an odd question, but answered honestly. By the time I was done she had a grin for just a minute before her face changed. She took a picture off the mantle and showed it to me. "My sister Celeste, and yes our daughter was named for her. Celeste was just eighteen and a bit rebellious. Sound familiar? Bradshaw met her on the streets and filled her head with nonsense before taking her and disappearing. If she hadn't left a goodbye letter, we might not have been able to rescue her."

She stopped and looked incredibly sad. "We went to the police, but they said there was nothing they could do. My family is one eighth Negro, Mr. McGill, and that puts us into the same class with even the blackest of our brethren. There would be plenty of whites willing to slip into our back door after dark, but none would walk down the street with us in broad daylight. I was seeing Pierre at the time and I turned Bradshaw down. I fear that's when he targeted Celeste."

Pierre took up the narrative. "There is a shadow class in New Orleans, merchants and businessmen who are of mixed race. Many are as wealthy as our white counterparts, but we cannot show it because they would immediately start scheming to take it from us. We have our own 'unofficial' organizations to take care of problems like this so, I gathered eight of the toughest from the groups and took off in pursuit. Shall I go on my love?"

Monique was openly weeping now. "Yes. Tell him everything."

The man sighed, not wanting to put his wife through the pain over again. I stood. "I feel the need for some air. Pierre, will you join me on the veranda?"

Monique shot me a grateful look as we stood. Once on the porch, Pierre began the sad tale. "He kidnapped her, Rocky. Once they started traveling, she tried to return. Hr raped her for her effort. We tracked them all the way through Texas to Brownsville and found one of his henchmen. Just before we hanged him, he told us she was in a whorehouse on the other side of the border and Bradshaw had been selling her favors in every town or village they stopped in.