The captain of the ship came up and leaned on the railing beside Longarm. "Are you sure you want us to put you ashore here, Marshal?" asked the man. "There's a good-sized port city just down the coast a few miles."
"This'll do fine, as long as it's not too much trouble for you and your men, Captain," replied Longarm.
"All right," the captain said with a shrug. "I'll have the men lower a boat, and we'll have you safely ashore in a few minutes."
Longarm supposed that making this voyage had been in the back of his mind from the very moment he had discovered that Paul Clement had not perished in the burning warehouse. He had gotten hold of a map of Saint Laurent and sat down with Annie so that she could show him where the Clement sugar plantation was located. Longarm tried to keep the conversation light and innocuous, but he thought he could see awareness in Annie's eyes. She wanted him to go after Paul too.
Claudette had not been quite so understanding. When he had stopped by the St. Charles to throw a few things into his warbag, she had caught hold of his arm and looked up at him worriedly.
"Custis, you are not leaving yet, no," she had insisted.
"Afraid I've got to," Longarm had told her. "There's something left undone."
"You are not responsible for bringing justice to the whole world, you."
"I'm responsible for my part of it."
"But Custis..." And here she had lowered her voice and come into his arms, reaching down to slide her hand over his groin and then cup his shaft, which was growing hard despite his best intentions. "There is so little-little time, and so much we have not done, us."
"Maybe I'll be back to New Orleans someday," Longarm had told her in a husky whisper.
She had turned away from him and flounced across the room. "An' maybe I will not be here, me."
That was how they had left things, and even now, Longarm felt like sighing in regret as he climbed down into the small boat that would take him ashore on Saint Laurent. Claudette was one hell of a woman.
But when you came right down to it, he had ultimately said good-bye to every woman he had ever met. That was part of the price of carrying a badge. Other lawmen might be able to marry and have families, but Longarm had never figured he could manage it. The chances were too good he would leave a widow behind, probably with a passel of kids who would miss their daddy something fierce. The bitter-sweet pain of always saying good-bye was easier to bear.
At least he hadn't had to say good-bye to Marie Laveau. He had only seen the Voodoo Queen that one time, and if he never crossed trails with her again, that would be just fine with him.
The small boat's hull scraped the sand of the beach, and one of the crewmen jumped out to pull it higher out of the water. Longarm stood up carefully, his warbag thrown over his shoulder, and stepped out onto the sand. "Much obliged, gents," he said to the men who had brought him ashore.
The second mate, who commanded this detail, said, "The cap'n told me to tell you, Marshal, that we'll be in port down the coast for a day, if you want to catch up to us once your business is taken care of."
Longarm nodded. "I'll sure try to do that, old son. Reckon you've got room for another passenger besides me?"
"Plenty of room in the brig," said the young sailor with a grin.
Longarm returned the grin and touched a finger to the brim of his hat as the boat was pushed off. The sailors didn't know exactly what had brought him to Saint Laurent, but they had a pretty good idea. They had figured out that he hoped to have a prisoner with him on the return voyage.
Longarm hoped so too. Paul Clement deserved to spend some time behind bars--before he wound up at the end of a hangman's rope.
The closest Longarm had ever been to the tropics was the jungles of southern Mexico. The thick vegetation here along the coastline of Saint Laurent was similar, and so were the prevalent smells of rich earth and decay. He pushed through the clinging plants and walked inland, watching for snakes and other varmints. He almost wished he had a machete, so that he could chop an easier path through the jungle. Even an old-fashioned Bowie knife would have come in handy.
Luckily, though, he didn't have far to go. By late afternoon, he had reached the edge of the fields that were planted with sugarcane. It would be a while before the crop was ready for harvesting, but the stalks were already pretty tall. Longarm was grateful for their concealment as he hunkered down among them and waited for the sun to go down.
He would wait for nightfall before he paid a visit to Paul Clement.
Somewhere far off in the darkness, a jungle cat of some sort let out a howl. Longarm grimaced. Back in his usual stomping grounds, such a sound would have come from a wolf or a coyote or maybe even an Apache on the prowl. Here on this tropical island, he didn't know what sort of big cats might be wandering around.
He glanced up at the sky overhead, black as sable and dotted with pinpricks of brilliant light. He would be glad when he was once more under the light of Western stars.
About fifty yards from where Longarm crouched, the plantation house belonging to Paul Clement loomed in the middle of a clearing that had been hacked out of the jungle. A broad veranda ran all the way around the house, and several tall, broad-shouldered men carrying rifles patrolled it regularly. Longarm had been able to establish that much after spying on the house for only a few minutes. As one of the guards turned a corner, another rounded the far corner, so that each side of the house always had a sentry watching for trouble. Getting in there was going to be a challenge--and he wasn't even sure that Paul Clement was inside, although it seemed likely considering the way the place was guarded.
And there was really nowhere else Clement could have gone. The police in New Orleans had searched the mansion on Chartres Street and found no sign of him. Officers had been left on duty there in case he returned. But Longarm thought it was much more likely--and Annie agreed with him--that Clement had run back home to Saint Laurent. Though his schemes had been ruined, here in this stronghold he could live out the rest of his life without being disturbed.
Or so he thought. Longarm didn't intend to let that happen.
A door leading onto the veranda opened, and a man stepped out to speak in low tones to the guard who was patrolling that side of the house at the moment. Slender, dressed in immaculate white trousers and a blousy white shirt, the man was undoubtedly Paul Clement. Longarm's jaw tightened as he watched Clement talking to the guard. The big man nodded, and Clement went back inside.
A couple of minutes later, two more men came from the direction of the slave quarters. They had a young black woman with them. The dress she wore was short and so tight that her lush body seemed to be on the verge of bursting out of it. She looked scared and reluctant, and Longarm wasn't surprised when she was taken up on the veranda and led into the house. Clement had almost certainly sent for her so that she could warm his bed tonight.
Longarm's fingers strayed to the walnut grips of the Colt he carried in his cross-draw rig. He was no cold-blooded killer, and he wasn't just about to take the law into his own hands... but a man like Clement made him at least ponder the possibility for a few moments before discarding it.
If he could, Longarm was going to take Clement back to New Orleans so that the law could deal with him. But if Clement made that impossible... well, Longarm wasn't going to lose a hell of a lot of sleep over it. Or any sleep, for that matter.
It was going to take a distraction for him to be able to get into the house, Longarm realized. But what was it going to be?
The sudden shouts that came to his ears through the warm night air made his head jerk up. He looked around, toward the slave quarters. An orange glow lit the sky in that direction, and even though Longarm didn't speak much French, he knew that whoever was hollering over there was alerting the plantation to the fact that something was on fire.