It was a few minutes past eleven by Quincannon’s watch when they finished the last game. Time to venture out and await the arrival of the Stockton packet. After returning to his room for his valise, he said as much to Kennett, explaining briefly that Noah Rideout was supposed to be arriving on one of the night boats and that he had business with the farmer.
“Supposed to be?” Kennett said as Quincannon donned his chesterfield, muffler, and cap. “You’re not sure?”
“Not positively, no.”
“Your business with him must be urgent.”
“That it is. Very urgent.”
The innkeeper made no further comment, though his expression indicated that he thought any man who went out into a fierce late-night blow like this one on an uncertain errand, no matter what his purpose, was something of an addlepate.
22
Quincannon
In the wet darkness Quincannon drew the muffler up over his face like a bandit’s mask, wishing that he had a slicker rather than the soon-to-be-sodden chesterfield. At least his valise was waterproof. Visibility was no more than a few yards; he could barely make out the daubs of light that marked the ferryman’s shack, the brighter glows of the protected hurricane lanterns on the steamboat landing. Wind gusts constantly changed the slant of the rain so that it was like a jiggling curtain against the night’s black wall.
Shoulders hunched and body bowed, he set off along the muddy levee road. Its surface was still solid along the edges, but if the rain continued to whack down with this much intensity by morning the road would be a quagmire.
Faint scattered lights materialized here and there in the town buildings, but none shone at the upslough wharf when he detoured in that direction. At first he thought Burgade had lied and the Island Star had slipped out of Dead Man’s Slough under cover of the storm. But no, she was still moored there, the bumpers roped to her strakes thumping against the pilings as the rough waters rolled her from side to side. All dark as she was, she looked like an abandoned derelict.
Quincannon heeled around, returned to the levee road, and plowed down it past the unlighted ferryman’s shack. The steamer landing, he saw as he approached, was deserted. When he entered the landing’s rickety lean-to shelter, he startled a bird of some sort, a snipe or plover, and sent it whickering off through the swamp growth. Nothing else moved in the vicinity except the rain and wind — whipped cottonwood and willow branches.
He stood shivering under the lean-to, watching the river. There was no sign yet of the first of the Stockton packets. He had been there less than five minutes when the ferry bell on the opposite side of Dead Man’s Slough began its muted summons. Noah Rideout’s transportation to Schyler Island, no doubt. Through the downpour he saw light bloom brighter in the ferryman’s shack, then had glimpses of the grizzled tender emerging with a bug-eye lantern in hand and readying the scow. It would be a rough and potentially dangerous crossing in this weather, even though the slough water at that point was not as badly roiled as the open river.
But the ferryman knew his onions. After more than ten minutes, the barge returned to this side without incident. A large hooded carriage drawn by a brace of horses rattled off the lowered apron, came on down the road to the landing. Quincannon stepped out from under the lean-to to meet it. It was a black Concord buggy, gold monogrammed letters on its body — NJR — just visible through the blowing rain. The driver, wearing a hooded oilskin slicker, set the brake and stepped down. Rideout’s aide, Foster.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded when he recognized Quincannon.
“The same as you. Waiting for Mr. Rideout.”
“I told you he won’t want to be disturbed tonight. Your business with him can wait until tomorrow.”
“No, it can’t.”
Foster glared at him. “If you’re looking for trouble, mister, you’ll find more than you can handle with me.”
“I doubt that,” Quincannon said. “What I have to say to Mr. Rideout may save him a considerable sum of money—”
He broke off at the sound of the first shrill blast of a packet’s whistle. This was followed by two more, which announced her intention to put in at Kennett’s Crossing. He stepped back onto the landing, in time to make out the steamer’s three tiers of blurred lights downriver. In that moment a lull between gusts brought a new sound to his ears. It was faint and far-off, an odd hollow chunking. Almost immediately it came again... and again. It seemed to be coming from on or across the slough, but he couldn’t be certain of exactly where. He waited to hear it one more time — and heard only the wind, the harsh slap-and-gurgle of the river water as it punished the landing’s pilings and the flanking banks.
Foster was tending to the somewhat skittish horses; he seemed content now to wait for his employer’s arrival before saying anything more. The night boat was now making her turn toward Kennett’s Crossing. She was within a few hundred yards of the landing, her buckets churning, when a slicker-clad figure came hurrying down the levee road, tacking unsteadily through the mud and rain. He lurched past the buggy onto the landing — the old man with the glass eye, Dana. He was almost upon Quincannon before spying him; he started so violently he came close to losing his balance and toppling into the river.
“Hellfire!” he shouted when he recovered. He leaned close to peer into Quincannon’s face, breathing whiskey fumes at him. “That you, you damn Johnny Reb? What you lurking here for?”
“I’m not lurking; I’m waiting for the night boat.”
“Frisco bound, eh?”
“No. Meeting someone.”
“Another Copperhead, I’ll wager.” The old man followed this with a lusty belch. “Say, you got relatives fought with the Confederates at Antietam?”
“No. Every member of my family was faithful to the Union.”
“Damn lie.” Foster had come up onto the landing and Dana appealed to him, “Reb that shot my eye out looked just like this fella here.”
Foster said nothing. Quincannon said irritably, “I was eight years old in 1862.”
“Phooey.” Dana belched again, then moved over to the far end of the shelter to watch the packet’s approach.
The steamer’s captain was experienced at landing in the midst of a squall. He brought the stern-wheeler in straight to the landing, her whistle shrieking fitfully, and held her there with her buckets lashing the river while a team of deckhands slung out a gangplank. As soon as the plank was down, a man wearing a yellow slicker and rain hat and toting a carpetbag hurried off. After which Dana, with a one-eyed glower at Quincannon and a muttered, “Goddamn all Johnny Rebs,” staggered on board. The deckhands immediately hauled in the plank and the steamer swung out toward mid-channel again. The entire operation had taken no more than a minute.
The arriving passenger was Noah Rideout; he went straight to the Concord buggy, where Foster now stood. Quincannon joined them as Foster opened the door and slung the carpetbag inside.
“My name is John Quincannon, Mr. Rideout. Of Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, San Francisco.”
“Detective?” Rideout peered up at him; he was half a head shorter and stood with his feet widespread, in a way that was both belligerent and challenging. He reminded Quincannon of a fighting cock.
Foster said, “He came out to the ranch this afternoon looking for you, sir. Wouldn’t tell me why.”