Hannibal Rising

throat bobbed and he coughed and said, “I didn’t know who you were when I said all those things.”

Fargo waited, his hand close to his Colt.

“I saw you look at my sleeve. I suppose you’ve guessed I have a derringer up it.”

Fargo waited.

“If I try to use it you’re liable to kill me.”

“You’ll be dead before it clears your sleeve,” Fargo broke his silence.

Baxter started to raise his other arm to his face as if to mop it with his sleeve but thought better of it. “Listen. How about if I say I’m sorry and we get on with the game? No hard feelings?”

“Say it.” Fargo had no real hankering to resort to gunplay. But he would be damned if he would take any more insults.

“What? Oh. All right. I apologize. Will that do?”

Fargo slowly sank into his chair. They all heard the breath Baxter let out. The other players slid their chairs to the table and Sweetpea pressed against Fargo’s leg and wriggled to show she would like to reclaim his lap. He let her but he shifted slightly so he had quick access to his Colt.

Baxter cleared his throat again. “I never met anyone famous before. Not unless you count a senator.”

Fargo refilled his glass and took another swallow. The whiskey tasted flat, and he frowned.

“Mind if I ask what you’re doing in this neck of the woods? Folks say you’re partial to the prairie country and the mountains.”

Fargo’s frown deepened. The gambler had gone from being one kind of nuisance to being another. “I am partial to not being pestered.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Baxter fell into a sulk. The other players were uneasy and it showed. For Fargo, the joy had gone out of the whiskey and now the game, and he was mad at himself for spoiling things. The next hand, he bet half his winnings on three kings and was beaten by a full house. He could take a hint. He announced he was calling it quits for the night.

Sweetpea stayed glued to his side as he cashed in his chips and watched him put the money in his poke and tuck the poke under his shirt. Beaming, she hooked her arm in his. “Does this mean we can go for a stroll? I would dearly love some fresh air.”

So would Fargo. The cigar and pipe smoke was thick enough to cut with a butter knife.

The hurricane deck was almost empty at that time of night. Over in a corner a couple were cheek to cheek. Another man and woman at the port rail were gazing at the myriad of stars that sparkled in the firmament.

Fargo strolled past them to the jackstaff. Thick coils of smoke belched from the smokestack aft of the deck and were borne away on the breeze. The throb of the steam engine never let up. He gazed down at the murky water and listened to the hiss of the bow as it cleaved the surface.

“I lost a good friend last week on the Celeste Holmes,” Sweetpea sadly remarked.

Fargo had heard about the disaster. A boiler blew and over sixty people were scalded to death. The Celeste limped on, only to run into a snag that ripped her open from bow to stern. According to the few survivors, the boat broke apart down the middle and a second explosion blew most of what was left, and nearly everyone still alive, to bits and pieces.

“They say that pretty near ten boats have gone down in the past couple of years.”

Fargo grunted.

Sweetpea bit her lip and twirled a curl with her finger. “I have nightmares about it happening to me.”

“If it scares you, why work on one?”

She shrugged. “Jobs are hard to come by. This one is easy and it pays well and I don’t have to sleep with a man unless I want to.”

Pulling her to him, Fargo cupped her fanny and grinned. “If you want to sleep with me I won’t fight you off.”

Giggling, Sweetpea pecked him on the chin. “I like you, handsome. You’re fun to be with and you treat a girl decent.”

“Only until I get her in bed.” Fargo nuzzled her neck and was rewarded with a coo of delight.

“Why can’t all men be as playful as you? Most only want to get the poke over with and be shed of the woman. Why is that?”

Fargo nipped an earlobe and was running the tip of his tongue from her ear to her mouth when the pat-pat-pat of rushing feet on the hardwood deck registered.

He reacted in instinct, and whirled.

There were two of them, a man and a woman. Steel glittered, and the man came at him with a knife.

Pushing Sweetpea out of harm’s way, Fargo dodged a cut that would have gutted him like a fish. He couldn’t see their faces all that well but he was sure he had never run into either of them before, which made their attempt to kill him all the more bewildering. Shaking off his surprise, he swooped his hand to his Colt but before he could clear leather the woman sprang with lightning speed and gripped his arm.

“I have him! Do it!”

The man’s teeth flashed white and he thrust his blade up and in.

Fargo’s boot was already rising. He caught the would-be assassin between the legs and the knife stopped inches from his chest as the man gasped and staggered back, his thighs pinched together from the pain.

Suddenly the woman holding him let go and a knife glinted in her hand.

“I will kill you myself.”

She had a slight accent that, at the moment, Fargo couldn’t afford to give much thought. He barely avoided a stab at his throat. Pivoting, he went for his Colt again, only to have the woman do the most incredible thing: she leaped high into the air and kicked him with her right foot, catching him across the jaw. Pain exploded as she skipped back out of reach.

Fargo collided with someone behind him. A squawk from Sweetpea told him who. Their legs became entangled and down they went. Dreading the sharp slice of steel into his ribs, Fargo shoved clear and rose to his knees. This time he got the Colt out—but there was no one to shoot.

The pair were fleeing across the hurricane deck, the woman helping the man, his arm over her shoulder. Another couple, the two who were admiring the stars, had come running over and were agape with astonishment.

Fargo gave chase. He lost sight of his quarry in the inky shadow of the overhang. He had his choice of right or left and went to the right, to the head of a passageway that ran nearly the entire length of the steamboat. Enough light filtered from the cabins and from the few lamps to reveal there wasn’t anyone within fifty feet. Quickly, he turned and flew to the head of the other passageway but the only person close enough was an elderly matron hobbling on a cane.

Fargo had lost them. He ran toward the matron, who drew back as if afraid he was going to attack her. “Did you see two people run past? A man and a woman?”

“The only person I’ve seen in a hurry is you.”

Fargo sprinted on but there was no sign of them. He couldn’t understand it. They hadn’t had time to get very far. He wondered if they had ducked into one of the forward cabins and retraced his steps, the matron shying away from him as if he were loco.

Around the corner came Sweetpea and the stargazers. Squealing with relief, Sweetpea threw herself at him and hugged him close.

“Skye! Thank goodness you’re all right! Who were they? Why were they trying to kill you?”

“I wish to hell I knew.”

The other couple, middle-aged and portly, were holding hands. “We couldn’t believe our eyes, Maude and me,” the man said.

The woman nodded. “Harold and I saw them run at you and that young man draw his knife.”

“You got a good look at them?”

“Only a glimpse. They were over in the corner. We thought they were lovers.”

Fargo remembered the couple standing cheek to cheek in the shadows. “Why did you say the man was young?” He hadn’t been able to tell much, as dark as it was.