Louisiana Laydown

Billy Briggs.”

Waterstone’s eyes lit up. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day!” he said. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Fargo,” he said. “Skye Fargo.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the crumpled flyer, tossing it onto Waterstone’s desk, then nudged Billy. “Speak up, boy.”

“He’s right,” Billy said. “I’m the one you’re looking for.”

Waterstone leaned back in his chair, took a long sip from his glass, and bawled, “Jacob! Get in here!”

Fargo listened as the old man from behind the ticket counter woke up from his heat-induced nap and scrambled across the station into the office. “Yes, sir, Mr. Waterstone?”

“Run down to the sheriff’s office and bring him. Mr. Fargo here has just brought in a wanted fugitive.”

The clerk nodded and headed off at a quick pace, moving his old legs faster than Fargo had imagined possible. He either wanted away from Waterstone, Billy Briggs, the heat, or the boredom, but in any case, he moved fast for an old codger.

“This is just excellent news, Mr. Fargo,” Waterstone said. “My employers will be most pleased and so will the sheriff, though I expect that he was hoping to cash in on the reward of two hundred and fifty dollars himself.”

Fargo narrowed his eyes at the man. “What did you say?” he asked, his voice like steel.

“I . . . I said the sheriff was probably hoping to cash in on the reward himself.”

“I heard that part,” Fargo said. “I’m more interested in the amount. Did you say two hundred fifty?”

Waterstone nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said. “It’s all right here on the poster.” He picked up the flyer and waved it in the air.

“Mister, you may think I’m nothing but an illiterate bounty hunter, but you better get your figures right in a hurry. The reward posted by your company was two thousand five hundred dollars, and if you don’t have it, then I’m afraid I’ll just have to let poor Billy here go.” Fargo’s voice was calm, but his hand dropped smoothly to the butt of the Colt. “Or I’ll have to take it out of you the hard way. Which do you prefer?”

Waterstone paled and quickly grabbed at the flyer, then made a show of looking it over. “Right you are, Mr. Fargo,” he said. “My mistake. It is two thousand five hundred. There’s no need for threats! The M&StL stands by its promises. Is a company draft acceptable?” He began rummaging through his desk.

Billy laughed. “Fargo, looks like you did a lot of work for damn little pay. You should’ve accepted my offer.”

“Shut up, Billy,” Fargo said, giving the rope a yank. He turned his attention back to Waterstone. “Cash,” he said to the fat man. “I can wait while you run to the bank.”

“I . . . Mr. Fargo, I will have to have the funds wired from Minneapolis. Our operating account here isn’t large enough to cover that kind of expense.” Waterstone raised his hands. “Please—you’ll get your money. It should only take a couple of days at the most.”

Fargo scowled at the man. “You know, Mr. Waterstone, when I found Billy here he had a sizable amount of money on him. Money he took from your trains. He even offered me a cut to just let him go.” He gave another yank on the rope. “Guess you were right, Billy. Let’s go divvy it up.”

He turned and started out of the office, while behind him Waterstone let out a yelp. “Please, Mr. Fargo. One day! That’s all it will take is one day. I swear.”

Fargo looked back at the man. “All right,” he said. “One day. I’ll even let the sheriff take Billy into custody. But when I come back tomorrow afternoon . . . I expect to be paid. Every penny. If I’m not, things are going to get downright ugly for you. Understood?”

Waterstone nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Fargo. You’ll get every penny tomorrow afternoon.”

Fargo nodded and said, “I better.” He turned back to Billy. “Let’s go, boy. We’ll wait for the sheriff outside.”

“You’re a fool, Fargo,” Billy said. “You ain’t going to see one dime.”

Fargo laughed. “I wouldn’t worry on it too much if I were you, Billy. I’ll get what I’m due for the work I’ve done—I always get paid what I’m due.”

Billy looked at the hardened features of the man before him, then said, “I bet you do. But sooner or later, everyone gets shorted; everyone lays down.”

“Not me,” Fargo said, yanking him onto the boardwalk to await the sheriff. “Not ever.”

The next afternoon, Waterstone had come through with the money and Fargo had gotten himself some clean clothes, a shave, and a haircut. He’d also taken the time to buy himself a fine steak dinner with a good whiskey and a clean bed to sleep in that night.

He almost felt like a new man—and he didn’t want that feeling to end.

There was no pressing reason for him to get back out on the trail, and St. Louis was filled to bursting with people talking about New Orleans and how decadent it had become. Luxurious brothels, expensive gambling, horse racing, duels, and more occurred on a nearly continual basis. For that reason, Fargo decided it might be an interesting place to visit.

Maybe he’d do well gambling and increase the size of his poke and maybe not, but either way, it was someplace new and if he didn’t like it, he could always move on. In fact, Fargo knew that eventually he would move on—that was his nature—but in the meantime, he had enough money to see at least a glimpse of how the rich city folk lived.

He led the Ovaro down to the docks of the Mississippi River where he booked passage for himself and the horse to New Orleans aboard a riverboat. The ship was good-sized and boasted private cabins and a fine saloon, complete with a fully stocked bar and humidor. Once he’d secured his horse and put his belongings away, Fargo headed for the dining room to wait for the boat to leave in the evening.

He wanted another good meal and perhaps a game of cards before calling it a night.

The waitress—a red-haired wench who clearly had more cleavage than sense, but a nice smile and a firm rear end—took his order and hinted that more services might be available after the boat closed down for the evening.

Fargo grinned and told her he’d keep it in mind, then sipped his whiskey while he waited for his dinner: pot roast with new potatoes, carrots, and cornbread, and apple pie for dessert. For a man who’d lived most of his life on trail rations or worse, it was a damn fine meal and he enjoyed it thoroughly before strolling toward the saloon to see if he could find a good game of poker that would hold his interest.

The main saloon and gambling room was a stark contrast to its cargo hold. Appointed in leather and dark green hues, it encouraged privacy at most of its tables, while the center of the room was dominated by card tables, well lit and attended by serving girls who kept the booze flowing freely.

Fargo wandered around the room, content to watch for a bit until he found a table he liked. Eventually, a seat opened as one man folded his cards in disgust and walked away. “Not my night,” he said as he passed by. “Maybe your luck will be better.”

“I hope so,” Fargo said, sitting down.

The dealer eyed his plain clothing. “The buy in for this table is one hundred dollars, sir,” he said. “Perhaps there are other tables that would be more to your liking.”

Resisting the urge to punch the pompous ass in the face, Fargo pulled the money out of his vest. “I’m in,” he said, keeping his voice even. “And you’d do better not to judge a book by its cover.”

“Yes, sir,” the dealer said, taking the money and quickly handing Fargo his chips. He glanced around the table once more and added, “The game is five-card draw, nothing wild. Ante is five dollars, no top bet.”

Fargo flicked a five-dollar chip forward and studied the other five players as they anted up. Most of the men were nondescript, but there was one who caught his attention immediately. Immaculately dressed and groomed, he appeared to be a city gentleman, with long sideburns and dark brown hair streaked liberally with gray. His suit was pressed and neat, his tie properly done up. He could be a professional, Fargo thought.

The dealer pushed out the first set of cards and Fargo glanced at his—a pair of eights, an ace of clubs, and junk.

“Bets, gentlemen?” the dealer said.

Fargo checked first, waiting to see what the other players—especially the potential professional—would do.