Bart – The End of the Riverboat
It was our last morning on the riverboat and I was, quite frankly, glad for that small fact. We'd had nothing but trouble since we first got on board and I was beginnin' to think we were destined to finish the trip the same way.
Pappy and me were awake and in desperate need of coffee . . . Bret was still sound asleep, and from the sound of his snoring, he was gonna stay that way for quite a while. "How about the dining room?" I asked Pappy.
"Sure. Sounds good to me."
In just a few minutes we were sitting at a table in the dining salon having coffee and talking about where Pappy most wanted to go in New Orleans. We were on our second cup when a familiar individual walked up to the table and stopped. I braced myself for a firestorm of trouble.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the sanctimonious Beauregard Maverick and one of his guard dogs. Which one is this, Beauregard? Or should I call you Mr. Maverick?"
I could see Pappy steaming behind his coffee cup, but all he said was, "What do you want, Singer?"
"How did you convince the owners of the River Belle that you were an upstanding citizen, and not the cardsharp you've always been?"
I started to say something and Pappy put down his cup and laid his hand on my wrist. "I've never been a cardsharp, Mr. Singer, and if you knew anything about me, you'd know that."
A condescending laugh accompanied the smoke he blew out, straight at Pappy. "Oh really? And why is it your name is as well-known as some of your friends, like Charlie Black and Everett Mayhew?"
Everett Mayhew I knew about; as a matter-of-fact, Bret and me had helped his daughter Emily out of a sticky situation on a different riverboat. Charlie Black I'd never heard of, but this wouldn't be the last time his name came up. "Just because you're friends with a man doesn't mean you're like him."
"Why don't you tell that to Vic Hansboro?"
That one shook Pappy; I could see it in his eyes. I couldn't sit by silently any longer. I don't know where Singer had gotten his information, but he certainly seemed to be well-acquainted with some of the ne'er-do-wells that had been Pappy's friends at one time or another. And the inferences were unwarranted. Beauregard Maverick may have known some of the best card cheats and con men in the business, but he wasn't one of them.
"Wherever you got your information, Mr. Singer, it sounds like you only got half of it. Beauregard Maverick has a well-earned reputation for being something you wouldn't know how to be if your life depended on it – an honest poker player. He doesn't have to defend himself against the likes of you or any of your ilk. I suggest you go find somebody else to bother."
For a minute it looked like the card sharp was contemplating doing something that wouldn't have been a smart move . . . reaching for his gun. It was just about that time big brother decided to join us for something a little more substantial than coffee, and he came striding across the salon floor. Mr. Singer decided better of another encounter and beat a hasty retreat.
"What did I miss?" Bret questioned when he arrived.
"Nothing, Brother Bret," I told him. "Absolutely nothing."