The Grant presidency has come to an end. A strange new world presented itself to America as on November 7th, 1886 the country voted to choose its next president.
A few weeks after the voting, the country was in the middle of the ugliest voting scandal this country had ever seen. Every vote counted and was counted, over and over again. Back-door deals were being offered and negotiated. Only days before the final decision was reached, a letter arrived in Washington and the campaign headquarters of both candidates Rutherford B. Hayes and Samuel J. Tilden.
Ballot boxes from ten different polling locations in New Orleans, Louisiana had been stolen the night of the election—before the ballots could be counted. There were more than enough ballots to give the election to one candidate or the other. The letter listed several demands, including sole usage rights of eight key shipping lanes and tariff and taxation limits. If a candidate chose to agree to the demands, the ballots voting for that candidate would be 'found.'
Of course the Secret Service had already been investigating the ballot-box thefts. The letters brought the case to the forefront of the Service's agenda. Unfortunately, a day before the threatening letters had arrived, the agent investigating the theft had failed to report in and was now considered missing, probably dead.
At another time they might have sent another agent, but possibly not. A few ballot boxes normally were not worth risking another life. Now, however, the situation was critical. Colonel Richards had no choice but to put his best and brightest on the job. Three days after the letters had been received, James West and Artemis Gordon were on their way to New Orleans.
Jair scampered down the dark alleyway and peered out between two of the tall warehouses that lined the New Orleans docks. He searched the crowds until he again spied the slight man dressed in the fancy blue suit and black hat. He really stood out among the crowds of filthy wharf laborers and sailors. Always one to be on the lookout for an easy mark, Jair studied the man carefully, turning his head so that his one good eye could see the man clearly. Not an easy target for a pick-pocket, the wharf-brat decided as he watched the confidence with which the small man moved though the mobs of dock workers. Most people as clean and well-dressed as the man in blue would not be that comfortable around the rough laborers.
Jair watched as the man in blue was nearly knocked over by a drunken old man with a Cajun accent. Although the old drunkard was loudly apologetic, Jair noticed the note passed from the old man to the man in blue and the quick look between the two men. They were obviously working together, but didn't want that to be widely known. Jair grinned. He loved to know secrets. The old drunkard reeled off down the quay and the man in blue turned back into town.
After a moment of hesitation, Jair headed after the man in blue. Jair liked to know everything that was going on in his small corner of New Orleans, but since only his right eye worked properly, choosing someone to follow who stood out among the denizens of this part of town made it easier. The man in blue easily made his way through the dark and unfriendly streets of New Orleans's lower districts. He stopped in front of bars and houses of ill-repute, reading the names carefully before moving on. He must be looking for a certain place, Jair thought. Before Jair could offer assistance, however, the man in blue turned down an alleyway. He was followed by a rather large gang of men who had suddenly appeared behind him.
Jair turned to go; the man in blue would not survive—or at least not survive very well. Just as he was about to leave, something flashed in the sunlight; a knife being drawn from its hiding place by one of the gang members. This made Jair begin to think. His knife had broken several days ago. Maybe if he helped the gang, he would get a knife. Jair carefully made his way towards the ally – from the back, of course. Jair wasn't suicidal. In fact, Jair was very clever at surviving. By the time he arrived, the fight had been going on for several minutes.
Jair was astounded. The blue man was not only holding his own, he was beating back the eight attackers with surprising ease. Change of plans – help the man in blue. That would get him the knife for certain. Jair carefully analyzed the situation and was just about to make his move when a shadow blocked the street side of the alleyway.
"Hold it, West," a menacing voice spoke from the shadow. The shadow held a gun and had it aimed directly at the man in blue. The man stopped fighting and stood still, breathing hard. "You are as good as your reputation, West, if not better. I'm impressed. Eight of my best men and you were still abl-uh!" the last part of his sentence was cut off with an exclamation of pain as Jair leaped out of the doorway he had been hiding in and tackled the shadow with the gun. The menacing gunman was taken completely by surprise and Jair had little trouble subduing him with several street-fighting tricks, none of which were very nice.
The man called West easily dealt with the remaining thugs; soon the alley was carpeted in unconscious men. By the time West had finished, Jair was quietly searching the gunman he had tackled for a knife. He didn't want the gun – policemen stopped people like him if they carried guns. A knife could be hidden. It was good in a fight, could be used to make things, or even allow escapes from bad places. Jair wanted a knife. He continued to search as West came up behind him and stared. That was fine, he could stare all he wanted. Jair didn't care; he just wanted to find a knife—or maybe the gunman's wallet.
James West looked at the unconscious gunman and the small boy with something akin to wonder. The man with the gun, Joe Verde, was a leading smuggler in the New Orleans area and had lost quite a bit of business to the Secret Service. How the Verde had known who he was would have to remain a mystery to Jim for the time being. Verde was very unconscious.
This street urchin had been following him for the past couple of hours. When Jim realized that Verde's gang was following him, he had moved into the alleyway to settle the dispute quietly. When Verde had shown up, though, Jim knew he was in trouble. Then this kid had leaped out of nowhere—onto a fully grown, armed man—and saved Jim a great deal of trouble. Now the urchin, couldn't be more than seven or eight, was calmly searching the unconscious man for—something.
"What is your name, son?" Jim asked in English. The boy turned his head and peered over his shoulder. Then he stood and turned so he was standing opposite of Jim, just looking at him. A Cajun boy—light but tawny skin, dark hair and flashing black eyes. Actually, only one of the boy's eyes were black; the boy's left eye was cloudy-white and the area of his face around the eye was slightly disfigured. He must have been almost completely blinded in that eye by a blow to the head several years ago.
What is your name? Jim tried again, this time in Cajun.
"I speak English," the boy replied, still studying Jim's face carefully. Jim was relieved. His French was pretty weak and his Cajun was even worse. The boy had an accent, but nothing too difficult to understand.
"Well, then what is your name?" Jim tried again.
"Jair," the boy replied, giving the 'j' the French, slightly rumbling sound.
"That's your only name?" Jim queried.
"Jeremiah I was called. Now I am just Jair," the boy smiled wryly.
"Well, then Jeremiah, thank you for helping me. Is there something I can do for you as payment for your…valuable services?" Jim knew that this young boy must be very clever to survive on the street and thus would never do something for nothing. He must want something. He looked a little thin. "Maybe I could get you dinner?" Jim suggested. The boy's wry smile twisted further.
"You are very kind to offer, sir, but all I really want is a knife," he spoke plainly. This had been his purpose in helping. Jim knew Jair had to have a motive beyond just being a good Samaritan. Jim reached back and pulled the knife he had carried in his belt under his jacket and gave it to the boy. It was a good knife: sharp, effective, and good looking to boot. The boy gave a pleased cry as he took it in his hands. He cradled the small weapon as if it was gold. "Thank you, Sir! Thank you! It is so beautiful! It is so sharp!" his compliments faded away into incomprehensible Cajun in his glee.
Jim realized that this was probably the first nice thing little Jair had ever seen, much less owned, in his short life. Jim wouldn't miss the knife; the gift would be an excellent use of tax-payer dollars. "Now, how about dinner?" He proposed.
"Oh, Sir! I could not ask! No, no; I have my beautiful new knife. I need nothing more!" Jair looked shocked. Jim nearly laughed aloud.
"Don't like charity, do yah?" Jair shook his head. "What makes you think I'm not going to make you pay me for it? I think I need another pair of eyes to tell me what is happening here – and you know the streets. What do you think?" The boy's good eye sparkled.
"I think this would be good. But I am afraid I cannot help you," he looked sad – Jim could tell he was pretending, but he did a pretty good job if it.
"What's the problem?" Jim took the bait.
"I have only one good eye. The other, she is no good. I cannot be another pair of eyes…" Jair allowed his sentence to drift off into silence.
"Somehow I think that having only one good eye hasn't kept you from seeing more than most people do with two. Come on, let's eat." Jim turned and made his way out of the alley. Jair followed on his heels.
"How could you tell, sir?" the boy asked wonderingly.
"I noticed you following me earlier. I thought I had lost you, but you showed up back on the docks. After that you stayed with me pretty well. You're better at tailing someone than most trained professionals," Jim answered, striding briskly down the filthy excuse for a backstreet, wondering where they could get decent food in this district of New Orleans. Suddenly Jair tapped on his arm.
"Sir, I can take you to a good place. It has good food, good drink, and good company. I think you will find it very…very…nice?" The last word was unsure.
Better than nothing Jim thought, but he answered aloud, "Let's go then. Lead the way, Jair." The boy grinned and did, taking off at a run. Jim could do little but follow and wonder where exactly the boy was leading him.