Murder in Dogleg City Read Online Free PDF Page B

precisely mounted.
    “ There,” Karl said.
“Mister Henry, you have the finest bar mirror in Dogleg City, if
not all of Wolf Creek.”
    Dab echoed Karl’s words. “There you
have it, only at the Lucky Break.”
    Samuel Jones smiled slightly at the
pride in Henry’s voice. He glanced at the mirror and then back to
his game. Then the image in the mirror registered.
    Valentine Hébert.
    The gambler looked back at
the mirror, but the New Orleans dandy was gone. Samuel quickly
scanned the Lucky Break. No one he could see resembled Valentine
Hébert. A mistake? He looked around again, making sure he saw every
person in the room. No Hébert. Still, Samuel Jones trusted his own
eyesight. Too many times it had proved correct, and because of
that, he was still alive. Thrice up and down the Santa Fe Trail
with Hank Brockman’s wagon trains of big Murphys. Countless times
up and down Ol’ Miss aboard the Delta
Princess . The last Delacorte man had tried
to kill Samuel Jones on the Princess . Samuel still bore the scar
the bullet sliced across his face just below his cheekbone. The
Delacorte man took a round in the breastbone from Samuel’s pocket
Colt and toppled into the frothy water churned by the stern wheel.
That’s when Samuel decided to make his living on dry
land.
    Hébert.
    Samuel remembered well the last time
he’d seen Hébert. Spring in New Orleans, 1855.
    * * *
    Back then Samuel Jones had been known
as Philippe Beaumont, and made his living as an
assassin.
    Sometimes he went a month without
killing, never two. On April 14, 1855, Beaumont stood beneath the
dueling oaks of City Park in New Orleans. He'd been forced to
choose dawn because others had already set more reasonable hours at
which to defend their honor. The approaching morning grayed the
spaces between the giant live oaks. Tendrils of night fog seemed to
drag at the tree trunks with wraithly fingers as they surrendered
to the day. Beaumont's horse snorted.
    "Monsieur Larouche's party arrives,
sir," said Marcel, Beaumont's quadroon manservant.
    Beaumont nodded. He hoped his second,
Claude Bucher, would not impinge upon his honor by being
unconscionably late. He stepped from under the oak to greet his
opponent. His sudden movement startled the doves roosting in the
branches and made them stir about and chortle among themselves. Ha,
symbol of peace, he thought—more men have died on this dueling
field than fell to British bullets in the Battle of New
Orleans.
    " Bonjour, mes amis. The mists have
lifted, Monsieur Larouche. It seems a fine morning in which to
defend one's honor, no?" Beaumont doffed his silk top hat and bowed
to the Larouche entourage.
    "God damn your honor, Beaumont. Where
is your second? Let's get on with it."
    Beaumont noticed a slight quaver in
young Larouche’s voice, and his hands shook as he removed his
gloves. A sense of calm settled over Beaumont. He remembered the
challenge.
    Three days earlier, a packet had
arrived at Beaumont's residence containing a demand draft for five
hundred dollars on the Bank of Orleans and a note: ANNALISA MUST
NOT CONSORT WITH LAROUCHE. SEE TO IT.
    Beaumont learned that Larouche was to
attend a soirée on Chartres Street the following evening, and used
his connections to obtain an invitation as well. Beaumont entered
the party with Elizabeth, an octoroon, on his arm. With his usual
dexterity of arrangements, he seated his lady friend in the chair
next to Annalisa Delacorte, whom Larouche accompanied. He and
Elizabeth did not dance. Theirs was another mission.
    Larouche escorted Annalisa back from
the dance floor and repositioned her chair. While seating her, he
moved it imperceptibly closer to Elizabeth. Immediately Beaumont
was at Larouche's side. He spoke too low for anyone but Larouche to
hear. "Your presence on the balcony, monsieur," he said, and left
the hall.
    "What's this all about, Beaumont?"
Larouche said as he came through the doors to the
balcony.
    Beaumont stepped forward and slapped
Delacorte