Soul Catcher (2 page)

Cain, who had something of a temper, had struck men for much less, especially if his sense of honor was at stake. He knew his frailties and faults as well as any man did his own shortcomings, but he held firmly to the conviction, even now in his present humble circumstances, that he was at his core an honorable man, despite any and all evidence to the contrary. When he was twelve he'd gotten into a fight with a much older boy when the other had made a reference about Cain's father having a mistress in town. Though Cain knew the accusation to be true, he went at the boy savagely, with fists and boots and teeth, whereupon the larger boy thrashed him soundly, bloodying his nose and blackening both his eyes. It wasn't out of love certainly that he defended his father, perhaps not even out of begrudging respect for the man. Rather it was out of some quaint notion of family honor, of respecting his name and, too, the memory of his beloved mother. Later, when he was a man, in a card game a Yankee businessman had once made the mistake of accusing him of cheating. Cain had reached across the table and grabbed the man by the throat and started to throttle him. When the Yank tried to draw a piddling little vest-pocket derringer on him, Cain had slapped it out of his hand and placed his own gun against the man's skull. He told him he'd either have an apology or the man's brains on the spot. The man promptly apologized. But Cain was also a realist. He was outnumbered now, they were armed and he wasn't, and he was still feeling the immobilizing effects of a sour-mash-and-laudanum hangover. Besides, he was wearing only one boot. He was more than a fair street fighter, but he didn't like to engage in fisticuffs without his boots on, which limited his capabilities.

"You won't get blood from a stone," he replied.

"I am prepared to squeeze as hard as it takes," Eberly countered. "I have friends in high places in Richmond. And I am well aware of your other creditors."

"That's my damn business," Cain shouted. It seemed that this Eberly knew quite a bit about him.

"Passing IOUs you have no intention of making good on could land you in prison."

"Go ahead and try it," Cain bluffed. Still, he didn't relish the notion of jail. He wasn't the sort of man that could abide being locked up, told when to eat, when to shit, when to sleep. He'd been to jail twice, once in the war, and then two years earlier he'd spent six months in the county jail for assaulting a man who turned out to be a judge, and so he knew a little about such accommodations. He already disliked this Eberly. He knew his sort. The wealthy planter who treated the rest of the world as if they were his slaves, the kind of man who thought he could buy anything he wanted.

"You think you can scare me?" Cain said.

"I'll have satisfaction, one way or the other," replied Eberly, throwing a sideways glance at his burly companion.

Cain wondered now if the big man's presence was intended to bully him into settling accounts. He'd known of men who brought along such characters as this to exact payment of debts. Enforcers. Shoulder hitters.

"Who do you think you're dealing with?" Cain scoffed.

With a glance from Eberly, the big man stepped forward. "I reckon you'll want to square up with Mr. Eberly now, you know what's good for you."

"Is that so?" Cain replied.

"Yes sir," the man said, resting the shotgun against the door and pushing back the sleeves of his coat.

Cain hadn't paid much attention to the man before this, but now he sized him up as a possible adversary. He was big, about Cain's own height, but powerfully built, must have outweighed him by sixty pounds. His fists were broad and gnarled, his forearms knotted with muscle like those of a smithy. Cain suspected that on his best day he'd have more than he could handle with this man, but hungover as he was now and missing a boot, he wouldn't give three-to-one odds on himself. He quickly glanced over at his revolver again. He guessed that by the time he got to it, pulled it from the holster, and cocked it, they'd have had ample opportunity to use their own weapons. He felt in the back pocket of his pants for his blackjack but was hardly surprised not to find it there. Not the way his luck was going today. So Cain stood, fists clenched at his sides, his one booted foot prepared for a kick to the man's groin should it come to that.

But the old man suddenly intervened. "Wait, Strofe," he said, with a hand to the other's shoulder. "I have an offer to make you, Cain."

"An offer?"

"I've been told that you are quite skilled at catching slaves."

"Who told you that?"

"A Palmer Whitcomb, from down Petersburg way."

He remembered Whitcomb, all right, as well as the runaway he'd hired Cain to catch. Eben. A tall, striking-looking buck with a brand on his right cheek, punishment for an earlier escape attempt. Whitcomb had been willing to pay Cain two hundred dollars for the slave's return, a quite sizable sum for an unskilled field hand, especially given that the usual reward for the capture of a slave was fifty dollars if caught within the state, double that if he'd crossed over into a free state. He had tracked Eben for several weeks, catching him finally in Baltimore, where he had kin. There was something else, too, that Cain recalled about this particular runaway. Whitcomb had a young daughter who'd secretly taken a fancy to Eben. When it came to light that her virtue had been compromised and that she was in a family way, and that the father was none other than Eben himself, Whitcomb had wanted him back in the worst way. Of course, that wasn't any of Cain's business. Why an owner was willing to pay good money for a slave's return and what he did with him once he got him back, well, that wasn't any of his concern.

"Palmer spoke quite highly of your skill as a slave catcher," Eberly offered. "I am prepared to make you an offer."

"What sort of offer?"

"I have two runaways. A buck and a young wench. I am willing to write off your debt, if you bring them back for me."

"Not interested."

"Hear me out, Cain. I am even prepared to pay you a modest reward for their capture and return."

"Like I said, I'm not interested."

Cain hadn't gone after a runaway in months. He'd grown tired of working for men like Eberly, wealthy planters who treated him like the dirt beneath their boots, men who thought their money made him their nigger. Tired of having to grease the palms of corrupt jailers or being honeyfuggled by thieving auction agents trying to cheat him out of his reward. Tired of being shot at by abolitionists, chased by vigilance committees, pelted by stones and rotten fruit thrown by antislavery crowds up north, spat upon by uppity Yankees who looked down their goddamned noses at someone like him, just trying to make a living. Tired, too, of fighting with fugitives, of fending off blows, of having knives or razor blades pulled on him (snaking down over his chest was a jagged pink scar from where a runaway had cut him with a razor, this after he'd been decent enough to take the irons off the black bastard so he could eat). He was tired of sleeping on the ground, eating jerked beef and not bathing for weeks. Tired of freezing his tail off waiting in the night outside some cheap doggery, hoping to catch a drunken runaway come staggering out. In short, he'd had his bellyful of the whole stinking business. For a long time now, he'd been hoping to make a change, just waiting for his luck to pick up some wind, to make a big killing at the card table or faro banks, and using his winnings to head out west and try his hand at something new. Something that wouldn't put him at the beck and call of men like this Eberly.

"You're hardly in a position to refuse me, Cain."

Cain stared at him and snorted. "Go to hell. Find yourself some other bootlick, Eberly."

The old man nodded condescendingly. "You own a chestnut stallion?"

"It's not for sale."

Eberly then removed a piece of paper from the pocket of his waistcoat and strode across the room, his boot heels clicking loudly on the wooden floor. He waved it in front of Cain.

"What's that?" he asked.

"A bill of sale," Eberly explained.

"For what?"

"For your horse."

"What? How in hell did you come by that?" Cain cursed. He tried to snatch the paper from the man, but Eberly pulled it back with surprising speed and returned it to his pocket.

"I guess you were drunker than you recollected. You put the animal up as surety against the promissory note. I am here to collect what I am owed."

Son of a whore, Cain cursed to himself. He'd wager most things he owned--his last two bits, his gun, his boots, even the flask his father had given him--but he'd never put up Hermes. No matter how drunk, no matter how good a hand he held, no matter how much he was losing, his horse was off limits. He'd had him for almost eight years. Had purchased him shortly after he'd returned from the war in Mexico, when he'd first gotten in the slave- catching business and often had to travel long distances. Fifteen hands, a chestnut Arabian stallion with a blaze, Hermes was the finest piece of horseflesh he'd ever seen: fast and sleek as a white- tailed deer, sure-footed as a catamount, the horse never spooked, could go forty miles a day on the trail of a runaway and keep it up for days on end, hardly breaking a sweat, and like his desert forebears could do without water or food or slowing down in the least. But he was more than an investment, more than merely a tool of his trade. Hermes was a boon traveling companion for the long days and nights on the hunt, a friend and ally, sometimes, he felt, his only one. He couldn't count the times the animal had brought him home when he was too snapped to sit straight in the saddle, or when, pursued by vigilance committees, the horse had outraced them back to the safety of the South. Besides, Hermes was patient enough to put up with most of Cain's eccentricities. Why, he'd rather sell his soul than part with his horse. And yet, here the man was holding the bill of sale for him.

Eberly then turned to the big man and said, "Strofe, wait downstairs for me."

"You sure, Mr. Eberly?" he said, shooting his pig-eyed look at Cain.

"Go," Eberly commanded. "Here," he said, taking a coin from his waistcoat pocket and tossing it to the man before he went out the door. "Pay the boy for watching the horses."

After he was gone, Eberly walked over to the bureau and gazed into the cracked mirror above it. He ran a hand through his graying hair, and he turned his head ever so slightly this way and that, inspecting himself. He was the sort of man, Cain saw, who, even in his declining years, took an inordinate pride in his appearance. His reflection was distorted because of the crack and he appeared almost to be two separate men, his face split down the middle. He caught Cain's gaze in the mirror.

"As I said, I have two runaways," he explained, turning to look at him. "The buck is of only passing interest to me. But he went off with another slave, a wench, and I believe if you find him you will find her. She's the one I want back."

Cain had a good mind to tell him to go to hell, but he had to be careful. He didn't want to chance losing Hermes.

"There are plenty of men who can catch your runaways for you."

"But I need someone I can trust." He glanced over Cain's shoulder, off toward the river in the background. "I am willing to write off your debt. Even to pay you a modest reward, if you'll find her and bring her back."

"As I told you, I'm not interested."

"Goddamn it, man!" Eberly cursed. He turned back toward the mirror and swept his hand over the bureau, throwing Cain's holster and gun as well as the ceramic washbasin crashing to the floor. Water had splashed over Eberly and spilled out over the floor in a dark, spreading stain, like blood leaching out of a wound. Cain's gun lay at his feet, and as he made a move to pick it up, the old man said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Cain glanced up to see that Eberly had already placed his hand on his revolver, ready to draw it.

"I'm prepared to go to the sheriff right now and have him seize your horse as part of what you owe me."

"You can't do that."

"Just watch me," the man hissed. "And I'll have you arrested." He calmly took out a lace-edged handkerchief and wiped his face where the water had splashed on it. He had a large ring on the finger of one pale, veiny hand. For a moment he stared at the ring, seeming to forget about Cain. Then, having regained his composure, he said, with restraint, "I am in a position to make things very hard for you, Cain. I have you by the balls and I'm going to squeeze until you cry uncle."