prolong my stay.
“My brother, William Tell Sackett, and I are trying to locate our father’s
grave. We understand he left here with your brother-in-law, Pierre Bontemps, and
we thought you might be able to provide us with the date and destination.”
Philip Baston considered that, and then said briefly, “Your father was known to
Pierre through an acquaintance who was killed. It was known that your father was
familiar with the San Juan Mountains in Colorado, and Pierre asked him to act as
a guide and to share in the results, if any.
“They left here twenty years ago, almost to the day. My brother-in-law and I
were very close, gentlemen, closer I might add, than I and my brother. He wrote
to me from Natchez, and another letter came from the mouth of the Arkansas.
“I believe they went up the Arkansas from there to Webber’s Falls, but that is
pure guesswork. From there it was overland, but at that point they were
together.”
“Pierre Bontemps, my father, and—”
Philip Baston hesitated, and then said. “There were four more at the time. My
brother Andre, then a very young man, a man named Pettigrew, and another named
Swan.”
“Hippo Swan?” I asked.
Baston glanced at me. “Do you know the man?”
“He was pointed out to me.”
He seemed about to say something further, then turned back to Orrin. “There was
one other … a slave.”
“His name?”
Again there was a moment of hesitation. “Priest. Angus Priest.”
Orrin got to his feet. “One thing more, sir, and then we shall be on our way.
What were they after?”
Baston looked disgusted. “They were hunting gold buried by a French army
detachment that mined it earlier. Supposedly this detachment was sent in there
around 1790, and I believe there is some record of it.
“The reports vary, of course, but the consensus is that they dug some five
million dollars in gold. The figure increases with each retelling of the story.
I think Pierre and Andre believed the figure was closer to thirty million. In
any event, from one cause or another the strength of the detachment was cut
until a final Indian attack left only five of them to escape.
“Pierre had a map. Your father told him he could take him to the location. So
they started out.”
“Thanks very much.” Orrin thrust out his hand, and Philip took it. If he knew
anything of our difficulties with his brother, he said nothing about it.
In the carriage we set quiet for a time, and then I said, “The gold could be
there. There was many a place, them years, where a party of men could mine that
much.”
“Do you know the country?”
“Uh-huh. No city man’s goin’ to find anything up there, Orrin. That’s almighty
rough country, and she’s high up. You’ve got a few months each year when a body
can work, and then you have to hightail it out of there or get snowed in.
“Landmarks don’t last in that high country, Orrin. There’s heavy snow, wind,
lightnin’, an’ rain. There’s snowslides, landslides, and the passage of men and
animals. Only the rocks last … for a while.”
“What do you think about pa?”
“I think he took ’em to the hills. I think he took ’em high up yonder, and I
think there was blood, Orrin. Andre and them, they’re runnin’ scared. Something
happened only Andre knows of and the rest suspect.”
“What could they be afraid of now? Us?”
“No, sir. Of Philip yonder. That’s a fine, proud old man, and he has money. I
think the rest of them hope to inherit, but likely he doesn’t approve of them,
and if he found some cause to suspect what happened to Pierre, well, they’d have
nothing.”
“I think they have some notion of going for the gold.”
“Likely.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“I think we should catch ourselves a steamer, Orrin, and go back upriver hunting
folks with long memories. There’s always one, a-settin’ by somewheres who’ll
recall. We want a man who can recall.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I reckon. First, though, I’ve got a little something to do. I’m going to have a
little quiet talk with a priest.”
CHAPTER VIII
We packed our gear in the morning, and we booked our passage north, and as much
as I liked that wonderful, colorful town, I was ready to hit for the high
country again. I wanted to see the wide plains with the mountains in the purple
haze yonder, and I wanted to feel a good horse under me and ride out where the
long wind bends the grass.
First I had to talk to a priest—a Judas Priest. And he was nowhere in sight, nor
to be found wherever I looked. He’d quit his hotel job. They spoke well of him,
although they looked at me strangely when I asked after him, and they commented
that he was an odd one.
“What do you mean—odd?” Orrin asked.
The man just shrugged and would say nothing, but I wasn’t going to leave it at
that, so I caught up with another porter I’d seen around and I took out a couple
of silver dollars, tossed them and ketched them.
When I asked my question he looked at me and at those dollars. “He took to you,
mister. He done tol’ me so. He thought there was a charm on you. He thought you
walked well with the spirits, mister. He said you follered the right, and the
evil would never come to you.”
“Where will I find him?”
“If’n he wishes to be found, he’ll find you. Don’t you look, mister. He’s
voodoo, he is. Pow’ful strong voodoo.”
Well, no matter what he was, I wanted to talk with him. The slave who had gone
west with Pierre Bontemps had been named Angus Priest, and I had a hunch there
was more than one reason behind the help Judas had provided.
We saw nothing of Andre Baston, nor of the others. I had an urge to go hunting
Hippo Swan, but I fought it down. We’d promised Barres we’d leave and take the
ache from his thoughts, so we done it, but I left not thinking kindly of Hippo.
The river was a busy place them days. We took a stateroom called the Texas, the
highest point on a river-boat except the pilothouse. It was said along the river
that Shreve, for whom Shreveport was named, had named cabins for the various
states, and ever after they were called staterooms.
Now I’ve no knowledge of the language or anything. I’m a fair hand with a rope
and a horse, with some knowhow about cattle and reading sign, but words kind of
interest me, and many a time I’ve covered miles out yonder where there’s nothing
but grass and sky, just figuring on how words came to be. Like Dixie Land. For a
time they issued a ten-dollar note down there in New Orleans that had a ten on
one side and a dix—French for ten—on the other. Folks began calling them dixies,
and the word somehow got to mean the place they were used—Dixie Land.
At the last minute the Tinker showed up and wanted to go along with us, so the
three of us headed north for the Arkansas. The Tinker showed for dinner in a
perfectly tailored black suit, looking almighty elegant like some foreign
prince, which among his own folks he probably was.
We set up to table, hungry as all get-out. We were giving study to the card on
which they’d printed what grub was available when a soft voice said, “Something
from the bar, gentlemen?” It was Judas Priest.
“I have been wanting to talk to you,” I said.
He smiled with sly amusement. “Ah? Of course. I shall be available later.” He
paused a moment. “If you gentlemen do not object, and could use some good
cooking on your way west, I would be pleased to accompany you.”
“Can you ride?”
He smiled again. “Yes, suh. I can ride. And to answer your question, suh,” he
looked at me, “I look for a grave as well as you. I also look for the reason why
there needs to be a grave.”
“Come along, then,” Orrin replied. “And we’ll take you up on the cooking.”
It was midnight, a few days later, when we transferred from our upriver steamer
to the smaller steamer that would take us up the Arkansas. Judas, in his
mysterious way, had transferred too, refusing any assistance from us.
Orrin went to his cabin, and I loitered on deck, watching the lights, of the big
steamer as it pulled away, churning the water to foam as it made the turn. In
the waves thrown up by the paddle wheels there was a boat, a small boat that
seemed to have appeared from the other side of the steamer. I watched it idly,