Mississippi Bayou Belle

Chapter 10 – All Kinds of Missing

Samuel Fisher of Montana Savings and Loan replied to Bart's telegram.

Mason and Grant to obtain your signature on Deed of Transfer.

Finch sent as protection.

Jody Mayfield requestor of Deed.

Samuel Fisher, President. Montana S & L

So Jody was the person who'd requested the official Deed of Transfer. There must be a reason for it, she'd had almost a year to make the change of ownership official and she hadn't done anything about it. Why now? And why hadn't she answered his telegram to her?

These were some of the questions running through Bart's mind when he got the Fisher telegram. It was the first piece of the puzzle that they'd received in days and at least it gave them a starting point. Bret had a hunch about the man actually committing the murders and went back to see Captain Sampson, hoping to get a roster of employees. Emily told both men about her dream that someone had entered the suite and the information served to enforce Bret's suspicions that the intruder was a ship employee. How else could someone gain access to the stateroom to plant the murder weapon? There was no sign of a break-in; that limited access to someone with a key. The only other keys besides those in Bret and Bart's possession belonged to the staff on the ship.

Sampson was reluctant to hand over the list of employees at first but reconsidered when he determined that helping Bret Maverick clear his brother of murder charges might be the only way to save his job. Bret took the list back to the stateroom and went over the information carefully. He found three men hired at the last minute for positions on the Belle's maiden voyage – a bartender named Fred Dabner and two stewards – Zeke Crawford and Tim Jameson. It was someplace to start.

In all the confusion over Bart's 'detention' the question of Emily's prowler had been forgotten. Until another note was slipped under her door. This one read 'I know you still have it. Where is it?'

After the three put their heads together it was decided that Bret's efforts were most likely to bear fruit if he concentrated on the three new employees. Bart, meanwhile, being too high profile at this point to work on his own problems, would continue to squire Emily around the ship and take his turn tonight at the poker tables. Then retire to her room and wait to see if anyone would take the bait. It would also give him something to concentrate on other than the unsolved murders. Emily's main job was to be seen by the ships personnel and passengers and then 'retire' to her room, to stay safe and secure in the Maverick stateroom while everyone believed her to be asleep on the second deck.

Bret left the stateroom in search of his first new employee and had no trouble finding the man – Fred Dabner, in the saloon. He couldn't possibly be the killer – he was bald as a billiard ball and well past the age of consent. Bret drank coffee and chatted with the bartender for about twenty minutes and tried to pick his brain regarding the other two new employees. From Dabner's description of Tim Jameson, he didn't fit the physical picture of what Bret was looking for, either. He was not much more than a green kid, short and quick and a real go-getter. Dabner didn't know Zeke Crawford and couldn't give Maverick any information. He thanked the bartender and went looking for Crawford, hoping it wouldn't take him long to find the steward. Zeke Crawford proved to be elusive, however, and Bret spent the better part of the evening and most of the night hunting a ghost.

Bart and Emily went to the dining salon and Bart pretended to be interested in supper. Emily was still trying to figure out he survived on the small amount of food she'd seen him eat. Just to humor her he ordered steak and potatoes and found that he was actually hungry. And Emily became the latest lady in his life that was amused by his seeming addiction to coffee. After supper they walked back carefully and prominently out along the deck so that they could be seen and kept track of by whoever might be watching them. After making sure that they were observed arriving at Emily Mayhew's room, they waited until there was no one in sight and snuck back up to the top deck stateroom. Bart made sure that Emily was safe, locked in for the evening and then drifted back down to the gaming room, where he quickly found a suitable poker game and joined the table.

Half a night later and several thousand dollars ahead, Bart couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. At the end of the next hand he excused himself for the night and was last seen heading back to the stateroom. As soon as he could do so he found himself at Emily's door, where he surreptitiously entered without being seen. The plan was to stay awake and wait, in the hope that whoever had been threatening the young lady would try to break in to her room and get caught before he could do any more harm. And that was totally Bart's intention when he got to Emily's room.

He was so tired that it was a struggle to stay awake. A struggle that he gradually lost, and without ever being aware of it, he fell asleep. He slept fitfully; after Captain Sampson and the search of his room, the nightmares about jail and dying resurfaced. Around four in the morning he realized there was someone in the room with him and he fought to wake completely. The figure was a man, about Bart's own height but heavier and darker. For some reason the intruder looked strangely familiar – Bart tried to place him but it was difficult to see in the dimly lit room. Obviously looking for something, the thief was digging through the shattered pieces of Emily's wooden treasure box. Bart reached for his gun and remembered it wasn't next to him; it was still secure in its holster, buckled around his hips and strapped to his right leg. It was almost impossible to get the Peacemaker out and into his hand without being spotted. Just then the shadowy figure looked up and Bart could clearly see his face – it was Jerome Lewis.

Lewis realized the person sleeping on the bed wasn't Emily and pointed his weapon just as the young gambler saw him clearly. Bart rolled sideways as the gun discharged and saved his life, but the bullet caught him in the upper arm and stung like he'd been set on fire. He got the Peacemaker out of its holster and got a shot off, but his aim was erratic and he caught the corner of the door instead of Lewis. The door slammed shut as the thief made his escape; Bart let out a howl of pain.

He was bleeding where the bullet struck him and he grabbed for his arm; he had to get up and get out of there before he passed out from blood loss. He shifted his gun to his left hand and struggled out of bed, leaning to the left and crashing heavily into a wall before he could make it to the door. He managed to get the door open and staggered into the hallway, stumbling and almost falling more than once before he slumped against a wall and slid the length of it to the stairs. He managed to get up four steps before he finally crashed to the ground in the stairway and laid there bleeding and unconscious.

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Bret was a frustrated man. He'd spent almost the entire night searching for Zeke Crawford, to no avail. Every time he'd get to where Crawford was last seen he'd already left there and gone somewhere else. Finally he gave up and realized the search would have to be continued in the morning; he was too tired to keep going. He needed sleep, at least a few hours, and he wasn't that far away from the stateroom, just upstairs and around the corner.

He climbed the first set of stairs he came to and walked quietly down the hall. At just after five o'clock in the morning almost everyone was asleep. When he got to the stateroom door he paused to dig out the key and that's when he heard it. Soft and low, almost too faint to perceive, it sounded like moaning. He must be hearing things. No, there it was again. He wasn't imagining it. He heard someone moaning. Probably an inebriated southern gentleman. He had the door unlocked and ready to open when he heard it one more time. It sounded like someone in pain and he couldn't go to bed wondering. Bret walked back down the hallway, towards the staircase he hadn't taken, and the closer he got the louder the sound. When he reached the stairs he looked down. There was a body lying across the steps, near the bottom, and that's who was making the noise. He was right; it looked like the man had simply passed out on the way up the stairs. Then the gleam of something caught his eye and he could see a ring. A pinky ring. Bart. He knew in a split second this was no inebriated southerner. This was his brother.

Bret went running down the stairs, no longer caring how much noise he made or what time of the morning it was. As he got closer to Bart he could see the red stain all down the left sleeve of the shirt. He'd been shot in the arm and appeared to have lost a lot of blood. "Bart! Bart! Wake up now, son, we need to get you on your feet and out of here."

There was no response from his brother besides another moan of pain and Bret did the only thing he could do – picked Bart up and carried him over his shoulder, back up to the door of the stateroom. He twisted the door handle and it opened; he brought Bart in and laid him down across the bed. Bret could see the bullet hole torn in the shirt and the whole front of the sleeve was as red as the back. "Emily!" he yelled as loud as he could and hoped it was enough to wake her. It was. In just a few moments she came scurrying in to the room and gasped when she saw Bart lying there covered in his own blood. "Don't you dare faint!" Bret commanded.

She gulped and nodded her head. "Go get the doctor. Tell him it's a gunshot wound. Get him up here in a hurry." When she stood there for a few seconds he turned his attention temporarily away from Bart and back to her. "Go on now. Git. We need the doctor here. Shoo."

She finally nodded and ran. The thought that she might be in danger never crossed his mind; his only concern was his brother. If it was any other person Bret might not be so worried, but Bart had already been through enough physical trauma to kill most men and survived. He wasn't taking any chances with his brother's life.

Bret got Bart's shirt unbuttoned and partially off – as careful as he was when removing the left sleeve Bart still moaned in pain. Thank goodness he was unconscious. The shoulder holster with the derringer in it came off easily enough and Bret set it off to the side. He could see the bullet wound – right into the bicep on his brother's arm. That was gonna hurt like hell for quite a while. And now there was nothing that Bart could use for the pain, save laudanum, and Bart swore he wouldn't touch that again; they didn't dare take a chance on using aspirin, since the possibility of a severe reaction loomed. He'd have to tough it out, and it wouldn't be pretty. Bret pushed his brother's hair back from his face and prayed with all his heart that Bart would stay unconscious while the doctor did whatever he was going to have to do. Where was the doctor, anyway?

Just then he heard the door opening and voices. Emily's was one of them; he assumed the other to be the doctor's. "In here," he called, expecting to see a familiar face and an unfamiliar one. Emily was the first person through the door, but the next thing he saw wasn't the doctor – it was the barrel of a gun. Followed by the same man that had just shot his brother. Jerome Lewis.

Bret refused to play poker against Lewis – he knew his reputation and the kind of gambler he was. It didn't matter that everyone said Lewis changed when he became a father – there was something about the man that Bret's instincts told him not to trust. But he certainly knew the man by sight – and knew his reputation with a gun. Whispered stories said he'd even backed Doc Holliday down once. Still, it surprised Bret to realize that Jerome Lewis' life appeared to be so out of control that he would take to – what? Threatening women with murder and shooting Bart? Why? What was it all about?

Emily looked at Bret and felt helpless. How could a person that seemed to be so changed, so different from the reputation that followed him, turn out to be everything people said about him? The Jerome Lewis Emily knew was a good man, a loving husband and father who'd turned his life around for the love of his wife and children – not the scum that stood before her holding a gun, having just shot one of the men trying to protect her from something or someone evil.

Lewis pointed the gun at Emily and pulled the hammer back. Then he looked directly at Bret and ordered, "Take the gun belt off and drop it on the floor. Push it over here when you're done. And dig the derringer out and drop it, too."

"I don't carry the derringer anymore." Bret unbuckled his gun belt and dropped it, then shoved it toward Lewis with his foot. After Jerome picked the gun belt up he motioned Bret over to the far side of the room.

"Get away from your brother – get over there with her." Emily had moved across the room, behind the bed Bart was lying on. Bret moved over to stand next to her.

"Now what, Lewis? What's this all about?"

"Shut up," is all Lewis had to say. He looked down at Bart, still unconscious, and removed Bart's gun from its holster. He shoved it in his waistband and then slowly let the hammer back down. He turned his attention back to Bret and Emily. "I suppose you want to know what this is all about. Fair enough. It's about enough money that I'll never have to play another game of poker again as long as I live. And Everett Mayhew was the only man that knew where it was."