Burgades crossing, p.1
Burgade's Crossing, page 1
"Pronzini [is] always a skillful storyteller."
-San Diego Union-Tribune
"Pronzini is a pro."
-San Jose Mercury News
"Pronzini [is] a magnificent entertainer of the first rank."
-Ed Gorman
"Once in a crocodile's age you come across a writer whose work you instinctively like and...I've found one-Bill Pronzini. Buy him, read him, and relax."
-Los Angeles Times
"His characters are well developed, his plots interesting, and his sense of place.. .is wonderfiil."
-Roundup Magazine
"Those who eschew the Western genre as a literary poor cousin are missing some fine writing. [All the Long Years] is an excellent example."
-Booklist
Westerns:
ACTS OF MERCY
THE TORMENTOR
ALL THE LONG YEARS
Horror:
MASQUES
NIGHT FREIGHT
Bill Pronzini
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
Burgade's Crossing
Lady One-Eye
Coney Game
The Desert Limited
The Highgraders
No Room at the Inn
The Horseshoe Nail
The Highbinders
Quincannon heard the calliope ten minutes before the Walnut Grove stage reached Dead Man's Slough. The off-key notes of "The Girl I Left Behind Me" woke him out of a thin doze; he sat up to listen and then peer through the coach's isinglass window. He saw nothing but swamp growth crowding close to the levee road. Sounds carried far here in the river delta, particularly on cold, early winter afternoons such as this one. And the rusty-piped sound of the calliope was familiar even at a distance: the Island Star had drifted downriver and tied up at Burgade's Crossing, just as he'd expected.
The stage's only other passenger, a mild little whiskey drummer named Whittle, lowered the dime novel he'd been reading and said tentatively: "Sounds festive, doesn't it?"
"No," Quincannon growled, "it doesn't."
Whittle hid his face again behind the book. It was plain that he was intimidated by a man twice his size who wore a bushy, gray-flecked freebooter's beard and was given to ferocious glowers when in a dark mood. He was pretending to be a drummer himself, of patent medicines, and Whittle had tried to engage him in brotherly conversation by telling a brace of smutty stories. Quincannon had glowered him into silence. Ordinarily he was friendly and enjoyed a good joke, but today he had too much on his mind for frivolous pursuits. Besides, Whittle's stories were graybeards that hadn't been worth a chuckle even when they were new.
The Island Star's calliope stopped playing for a time, started up again with the same tune just before they reached the north-bank ferry landing at Dead Man's Slough. The coach's driver clattered them off the levee road, down an embankment steep enough to cause the rear wheels to skid and the brake blocks to give off dry squeals. Quincannon had the door open and was already swinging out when the stage came to a halt.
A chill wind assailed him. Overhead, dark-edged clouds moved furtively; the smell of rain was heavy in the air. The coming storm would break before the passenger packet Yosemite, bound upriver from San Francisco, reached Burgade's Crossing at midnight. There were possible benefits in a stormy night, Quincannon thought bleakly, but the potential dangers far outweighed them.
He took a pipe from the pocket of his corduroy jacket, packed and lit it as he surveyed his surroundings. He had seen Burgade's Crossing from a distance several times, from the deck of one or another of the Sacramento River steamers, but he had never been here before. It was a sorry little backwater, with no attractions for anyone except the misguided souls who chose to live in or near it.
There was nothing on this side but the road and ferry landing; the town's buildings were all on the south bank. The ferry ran across Dead Man's a few hundred yards from where the slough merged with the much wider expanse of the Sacramento. West of the ferry, on the river, was a steamboat landing; east of the ferry, on the slough next to a continuation of the levee road, stood Burgade's Inn-a long, weathered structure built partly on solid ground and partly on thick pilings over the water. The rest of Brigade's Crossing ran east in a ragged line to where the slough narrowed and vanished among tangles of cattails and swamp oaks choked with wild grapevine. Its sum was a dozen or so buildings, a dozen or so shantyboats and houseboats tied to the bank, and a single sagging wharf.
The Island Star, Gus Kennett's store boat, was moored at the wharf. The calliope on her foredeck was again giving forth, monotonously, with "The Girl I Left Behind Me". The music had drawn a small crowd. Quincannon could see men, women, a few children clustered on the gangplank at the battered little steamer's waist.
He shifted his attention to the broad, flat-bottomed ferry barge. It had been tied on the south side, and at the stage driver's hail the ferryman had come out of his shack and was now winching it across. The scow was held by greaseblackened cables made fast to pilings on a spit of north-side land a hundred yards upslough. The current pushed the ferry across from shore to shore, guided by a centerboard attached to its bottom and by the ferryman's windlass.
When the barge nudged the bank, the ferryman quickly put hitches in the mooring ropes, collected the toll, then lowered the approach apron. The stage driver took his team of four aboard, their hoofs and the coach's wheels clattering hollowly on the timbers. Quincannon, scowling and puffing on his pipe as if it were a bellows, followed on foot. A minute later the cable whined thinly on the windlass drum and the scow began moving again, back across.
The wind was stronger on open water, sharp with the smells of salt and swamp and impending rain. It made the slough choppy, which in turn caused the ferry to buck and squirm even with its heavy load. Again, Quincannon felt worry at what lay ahead that night. Why the devil couldn't Noah Rideout have been sensible and spent another night - or better yet, another week-in San Francisco?
He touched the pocket where he'd stowed the telegram that had arrived for him in Walnut Grove this morning. Its contents were what had thrust him into his bleak mood.
EFFORTS HERE STILL FRUITLESS STOP NJR RETURNING TONIGHT ON YOSEMITE STOP COULD NOT DISSUADE HIM COMMA STATES BUSINESS HERE FINISHED AND IS NEEDED AT HOME STOP LS ACCOMPANYING HIM BUT NO ONE ELSE COMMA REFUSED BODYGUARDS STOP URGENT YOU MEET HIM AT BURGADES CROSSING AT MIDNIGHT
SC
NJR was Noah J.Rideout, of course. LS was Leland Stannard, the foreman of Rideout's huge Tyler Island farm. And SC was Sabina Carpenter, the other member of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services.
There were still some narrow-minded dolts who questioned the wisdom of a former U.S.Secret Service operative entering into private partnership with a woman, even though Sabina had, like Kate Warne before her, worked for several years for Allan Pinkerton. The truth of the matter was, she was the equal of any man at detective work. In fact, Quincannon admitted grudgingly to himself, if never to Sabina or anyone else, she was not only his equal but in many ways his better. If her efforts in San Francisco were continuing to prove fruitless, then there was nothing to be found there.
The weight of the case was now all on his shoulders. And it was a dual burden: to find out, if he could, who wanted Noah Rideout dead, and to prevent, if he could, the act of murder from taking place. There had been one bungled attempt in San Francisco-that was what had led Rideout to hire Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Servicesand he was certain there would be another tonight. The one lead he and Sabina had uncovered had led him to Walnut Grove, and that lead had preceded him here to Burgade's Crossing: Gus Kennett, owner of the Island Star, who was rumored to be the man hired as Rideout's assassin.
The ferry trip took less than ten minutes. And five minutes after the barge landed on the south bank, the stage was on its way along the levee road to Isleton-empty now, for Whittle as well as Quincannon was stopping here. The two men, Quincannon carrying his old war bag, the drummer lugging a heavy carpetbag, trudged uphill to the inn without speaking. Inside, a bearded giant who identified himself as Adam Burgade took three dollars from each of them. The fee entitled the weary traveler to a meal and a room.
Burgade had at least two other guests at present. They were in the common room, and an odd pair they were: a young nun, dressed in a black habit, sitting before the glowing potbellied stove, and an old man with a glass eye and a fierce expression, standing with hands on hips before Brigade's liquor buffet.
Whittle stood blinking at the nun. Then, jerkily, he tipped his hat and said: "Good afternoon, Sister. Will you take offense if I say I am surprised to find you here?"
"Not at all, sir. I'm surprised myself to be here."
The old man glared with his good eye. "An outrage, that's what I call it. A damned outrage."
Burgade said: "Watch your language, Mister Dana. I won't tell you again."
"This is no place for a nun," Dana said. "Besides, I'm a veteran, I served with McClellan's Army of the Potomac in the War Between the States. I'm entitled to a drink of whiskey when I have the money to pay for it."
"The buffet is temporarily closed," Burgade explained to Whittle and Quincannon.
"You hear that?" Dana said. "Temporarily closed. Not a drop of good spirits sold while that woman is in the house. And me with a parched throat. It ain't right, I tell you, Burgade. I ain't Catholic. I ain't even religious."
"Well, I am."
The nun seemed embarrassed. "Really, Mister Burgade, as I said before, you needn't close your buffet on my account. I don't mind using alcohol in moderation."
"Mister Dana don't use it in moderation," Burgade said. "It's best this way, Sister Mary."
"Bah," Dana said.
"Mister Whittle here is a whiskey drummer," Burgade told him. "Maybe he has a bottle in his grip that he'll sell you."
"I would, and gladly," Whittle said, "but I've no samples left. This is my last stop, you see, Mister Dana...."
"Bah."
Burgade said: "Gus Kennett's store boat is in, tied up at the wharf. He'll have a jug of forty-rod for sale, if you don't mind paying his price."
"I'll pay any price. But can I bring it back here to drink?"
"No. Burgade's Inn is a temporary temperance house."
"Temporary temperance house. Bah." Dana started for the door, stopped abruptly when he passed Quincannon, and turned back to face him, scowling. "Well, lookee here. A Johnny Reb."
"Johnny Reb?"
"That's right. Southerner, ain't you?"
"I was born in Baltimore," Quincannon admitted, "but I've lived in California for fifteen years."
"Once a Johnny Reb, always a Johnny Reb. Spot one of you a mile away. Only good Reb's a dead one, you ask me."
"The Civil War has been over for thirty years, Mister Dana."
"Tell that to my right eye. It's been pining for the left one for more'n thirty years. Damned Reb shot it out at Antietam."
He clumped out and banged the door behind him.
"Don't mind him, gents," Burgade said. "Nor you, either, Sister. He's only like that when he's sober and on his way upriver to the doctor. His bark's worse than his bite."
Whittle said, lowering his voice: "We can do business, can't we, Mister Burgade? Even though the inn is a temporary temperance house. I've some fine buys on Kentucky sour mash...."
"In the kitchen, Whittle, in the kitchen."
The two men went through a door next to the buffet. Rich aromas wafted out, reminding Quincannon that he hadn't eaten since a sparse breakfast. No time now, though; he could have supper later. As for the closing of the buffet, it was of no consequence to him. He had given up the use of spirits when he entered into partnership with Sabina two years ago.
He found his way down a central corridor at the rear, to the room he'd been given. It was not much larger than a cell, windowless, furnished with a narrow bed and a washstand. He stayed there just long enough to deposit his war bag on the mattress and to double check the loads in the Navy revolver he carried under his coat.
Outside, the wind pushed him along a muddy branch of the levee road toward the wharf. The Island Star's calliope was mercifully silent and the number of customers had dwindled to a handful as dusk approached. The little steamer was old and weather-beaten, her brass work greening from lack of polish, her short foredeck cluttered with crates and barrels. She was one of a handful of store boats that prowled the fifteen thousand square miles of sloughs and islands between Sacramento and Stockton, peddling everything from candy to kerosene to shanty-boaters, small farmers, field hands, and other delta denizens.
Gus Kennett had more profitable sidelines, however. He bought and sold stolen goods, a crime for which he had been arrested twice and convicted once, and was rumored to be involved in a variety of other felonious activities, including robbery and assault. Murder, too, if what Quincannon had heard rumored was true.
As he drew abreast of the gangplank, the old man, Dana, came hurrying out of the lamplit cargo hold, clutching a bottle of forty-rod whiskey. Dana glared at him in passing, muttered something, and scooted off to find a place to do his solitary drinking. He was evidently the last of Kennett's customers. No one was visible in the hold and the decks were deserted except for a deckhand who lounged near the rusty calliope.
Quincannon sauntered across the plank, entered the hold. It had been outfitted as a store, with cabinets fastened around the bulkhead, a long counter at one end, and every inch of deck space crammed with a welter of sacks, bins, barrels, boxes, tools, and other loose goods. Gus Kennett was perched on a stool behind the counter, a short-six cigar clamped between yellow horse teeth. He was a barrel of a man, Kennett-no, a powder keg of a man-with short stubby arms and legs, a small head, and a huge powerful torso.
"'Afternoon," Kennett said around the stump of his cigar. "Help you with something, friend?"
"A plug of cable twist, if you have it."
"Don't. Never had a call for it."
"What kind of pipe tobacco do you sell?"
"Virginia plug cut and Durham loose."
"The plug cut, then."
Kennett produced a sack of cheap tobacco and named a price that was half again what it would cost even in Walnut Grove. Quincannon paid without protest or comment.
"Don't believe I've seen you in Burgade's Crossing before," Kennett said. "Big gent like you, nice dressed, I wouldn't forget."
"I've never been here before."
"Passing through?"
"On business."
"What kind of business?"
"Patent medicines," Quincannon said. "Doctor Wallmann's Nerve and Brain Salts, guaranteed to cure more afflictions and derangements than any other product made. I don't suppose I might interest you in a bottle?"
Kennett laughed. "Do I look like I need nerve and brain salts?"
"No, sir, you don't. But some of your customers might."
"Got my own supplier for patent medicines."
Quincannon feigned a sigh. "Little enough business for me here, it seems. Or anywhere in these backwaters. I believe I'll catch the next steamer for Sacramento. There is one due tonight, isn't there?"
"I couldn't say, friend. Ask Adam Burgade."
"I'll do that. Doesn't appear to be much business for you here, either, if I may say so."
"Never is in Burgade's Crossing."
"So you'll be moving on soon yourself?"
"That I will," Kennett said. "Was there anything else, friend?"
Quincannon had taken the conversation to its limit; if he tried to prolong it, he would succeed only in making the store boat owner suspicious. He said-"No, friend, nothing."and took his leave.
He was uneasy again as he left the Island Star. How was Kennett planning to commit murder tonight? There had been nothing aboard the store boat and nothing in Kennett's manner to provide a clue. A distant rifle shot through rain-soaked darkness was pure folly. A pistol shot or knife thrust at close quarters were more certain methods, but Noah Rideout would not be alone when he left the Yosemite and the odds were short that an assassin would be identified or killed himself before he could escape. No, Gus Kennett would not risk his own neck, no matter how much he was being paid. He was sly and slippery, not bold.
Would he enlist the help of others? His deckhand, perhaps? That was another troubling thought.
As was the question of who had hired him and why.
Noah Rideout was a man of many enemies. A hard man, uncompromising in his business dealings and personal life. In his fifty-seven years he had had two wives, several mistresses, and three sons, all of whom, by his own free admission, hated him enough to want him dead. He owned much of the rich Tyler Island croplands; he had forced several small farmers to sell their land to him at low prices, and earned the hatred of others by his tireless and expensive campaign to build more levee roads as a means of flood control. And he had been a leader in the legal battle against hydraulic gold mining in the Mother Lode, the dumping of billions of cubic yards of yellow slickens that had clogged rivers and sloughs and destroyed farmland. The California Debris Commission Act, passed two years before in 1893, had made the discharge of debris into the rivers illegal and virtually put the hydraulickers known as the Little Giants out of business.
Rideout himself had been unable to narrow down the field, although it was his opinion that "one of the damned hydraulickers" was behind the murder plot. His battle with them had been long and bitter, involving bribery and intimidation of witnesses on the part of the miners, and he felt that some were not above mayhem as a means of revenge. But neither Quincannon nor Sabina had been able to find a link between Gus Kennett and one of the Little Giants or any other evidence to support Rideout's contention.
