Kathleen Kent - The Outcasts

He turned and walked quickly along the avenue, soon disappearing into a poorly lit alley.

Lucinda stood against the wall, which was colder by far than the marble column of the house, with her head tilted back, looking at the sky, sensing the sweat and the deeper wetness of the blood on her shift being lifted away by the wind. She considered for a time remaining propped against the stones until all the parts of her vital self were likewise evaporated into the air, leaving behind only the shell. But after a time she roused herself and walked back into the house.

Nate woke to a whitewashed room and a prolonged pounding on the door, which was eventually answered by the black-haired girl. He sat up rubbing the shoulder that had been pressed to the floor all night and saw the barefoot boy walking across the threshold as though familiar with the house and its owner.

He nodded to Nate but cut his eyes away in a nervous reflex, jamming both arms stiffly into the pockets of his trousers. He said, “Mr. Gorman is waiting for you. He says come now.”

Nate got up and began folding the blanket he had slept in when the girl shook her head and took it from him. He gathered up his hat, fit the Dance into his belt, and followed the boy outside. He had a thought that he should pay the girl something for the evening, but she had already closed and bolted the door and so he followed the boy back towards St. Charles Avenue. He squinted against the light and asked, “What time is it? And where’s my horse and rifle?”

The boy spit. “It’s past noon. And your gun and horse are with Mr. Gorman.”

Nate followed the boy for a few blocks, and after watching him nervously scanning the streets, Nate took hold of him by the shoulder and asked, “Something you need to tell me?”

The boy licked his lips, his eyes restless and searching. “Mr. Gorman says to come on…”

A cold, smattering mist had started falling and Nate pulled up his collar against the chill. He kept a close eye on the thoroughfares, though he wouldn’t have known which of the pinched or restless faces signaled a threat until it had crawled up his back.

The boy led him to the Buffalo House and Nate saw that its porch was filled with half a dozen men who wore their pistols exposed to both the elements and passersby. A few also had Enfield rifles held in the crooks of their arms. The boy chucked his chin for Nate go on inside and then he vanished into the street crowd. Gorman was sitting at the same table as the day before, and Pierre stood up, his face as shuttered as a bank window, and gestured for Nate to take his chair before wandering back to the faro table.

Gorman gestured to Nate’s face. “You’ve got a black eye.”

Nate touched the tender flesh and said, “From the recoil on the Whitworth, I guess.”

Gorman waved to a serving girl and she brought to the table steak and eggs and coffee.

Nate took off his hat. “Those men out there because of me?”

“Everyone in New Orleans has heard of your shot.” Gorman smiled tightly. “Duverje has his men looking for you.” He eased a small bundle wrapped in paper across the table in front of Nate. “You embarrassed my enemy and made a lot of money for me, Mr. Cannon.”

Nate pushed the bundle away. “I don’t need that. I just need to know where McGill is.”

Gorman poured a cup of coffee for himself and took his time blowing it cool. “There have been of late some unexplained killings in the district. Men murdered and robbed in alleyways and on dark streets. Their throats slit. I think it may be your man McGill, though it’s unusual for a man-killer of his ilk to change his tactics. From what I’ve been told, he likes to gut-shoot his victims.”

Nate started to eat from his plate, nodding tensely in agreement.

“McGill is here, I can tell you that, but no one has seen him since he brought a girl, your girl, to Hattie Hamilton’s sporting palace. The girl has not shown up for several days, but Hattie believes she and McGill are working a game to bilk one of her regular clients. The mark, if he’s still alive, will not remain that way much longer.”

Nate thumbed his plate away. “Where is this client?”

Gorman paused for a moment, seemingly to study the pattern on the coffee cup. He said, “Better than most, I understand the desire for settling disputes in a more time-honored fashion. The war robbed us of a great many things, but one thing we in New Orleans mourn the loss of, perhaps more than anything else, is the ritual for regaining our pride. McGill certainly does not respect those rules, but I believe you do.”

Gorman set down his cup.

“Therefore, I will admit to certain grandfatherly feelings towards you, Mr. Cannon. And I will tell you in all earnestness that instead of encountering McGill face to face, you should shoot him in the back. Lie in wait for him in the dark if you must, because if you don’t, he will be the one to kill you.”

Gorman propped his elbows on the table and leaned closer. “I will tell you that as much influence as I may have over some of my people here, I have very little over the police, even the ones I pay. There is also the complication now of Duverje, who does not put too fine a point on honor.”

Gorman gestured to the serving girl and she brought a bottle of brandy and poured some into both cups. “You should stay here until dark. Then the boy will take you to Hattie’s. You’ll have until first light tomorrow to find McGill and do what you came to do. After that, you must leave; for your own safety, and because those men out there are costing me a small fortune. You’ll get back your rifle and horse once you’re on the boat for Galveston. You’ll not see me again, I’m afraid, Mr. Cannon. But I wish you bonne chance. ”

He walked out of the Buffalo House and disappeared into the street, and Nate passed the afternoon drinking coffee until he felt his hands shaking when he loaded fresh powder into the Dance. He sat watching the clock and the people that wandered in and out of the Buffalo House, some of them to find a drink or a girl, some of them to take a turn at cards. He suspected more than a few had come to gawk at him while passing pleasantries with Pierre, even placing bets on whether or not he would make it onto the steamer the following day. He tried to find a place of rage or even grief that he could sharpen his intent on, but in the well-ordered and functional arena that was the Buffalo House, the best he could find was a kind of nervous expectation.

The barefoot boy appeared at his table just after dark, and he led Nate past the armed men—who nodded to him with a kind of professional wariness—into the rain-swollen alleyways of Canal. They weaved their way through the numberless outhouses, stables, and sheds of Basin Street to Hattie Hamilton’s palace. He pointed for Nate to go in through the front door and then leaned against the gate in an attitude of alert waiting, hands in pockets, one bare foot cocked over the other.

The entranceway to the sporting house was flanked by two life-size statues of disrobed women, each holding in her outstretched hands live gas torches, and Nate followed after a man in evening dress, surprised that the door was not locked but rather opened readily on its oiled hinges.

The reception hall led to a grand parlor the likes of which Nate had never before witnessed. Seated on velvet couches and satin chairs were women of such confounding, artful beauty, their near nakedness reflected in infinite tides through the gilt mirrors filling every wall, that Nate was stunned to immobility, and a feeling of confined desperation swelled in him when several of the women looked in his direction and smiled through parted lips.