Usher's Passing (58 page)

The
Bayou Moon
rocked and heaved over rough water, its timbers groaning as if about to split apart. Fifty- and hundred-dollar bills littered the card table, and the oil lamps arranged around the room glowed through shifting layers of blue cigar smoke. Ludlow expected to lose his money quickly and return to the bar for the rest of the long trip to St. Louis—and so he was surprised when, less than an hour later, he'd won almost five thousand dollars.

Tyson poured him another whiskey and complimented him on his shrewd handling of the cards. Ludlow had done nothing particularly shrewd; in fact, most of his winnings had come when the other players folded. Nicholls, with the practiced delivery of an ex-thespian, suddenly offered the suggestion that all bets should be doubled. "It's doom on my own fool head, I know," he said with a thin smile, "but perhaps this young man's luck will change."

"I'm not so sure, Mr. Nicholls," Tyson replied. "Our Mr. Wyatt has a canny look about him. What say, Mr. Wyatt? Are you agreeable?"

Ludlow knew he should take the money and run. All eyes were on him. There was a moment of strained silence. Ludlow decided to play it out. "I'm agreeable," he said.

To his amusement, he continued to win with no apparent effort. Ludlow's quick, retentive mind was calculating the odds on each hand; it took no genius to realize he was being primed for disaster. It began slowly, as Brethren won a thousand-dollar pot that was mostly Ludlow's money. Then Ludlow was only winning one hand out of four, and his stack of chips was dwindling fast. Still, just when it appeared that Ludlow might fold and rise from the table, he was allowed to win a substantial pot. They were toying with him, he knew, and had to be all in it together for such clockwork precision. Perhaps Tyson had chosen him as a mark because of his well-cut clothing, or his diamond stickpin, or the wad of cash with which he'd paid his bar bill. Though their faces were innocently concerned with their own cards, the men seemed to know exactly what Ludlow held, and bet accordingly. Ludlow was puzzled; how were they doing it?

He stopped drinking the whiskeys that Tyson pressed on him, and concentrated with a vengeance on the cards. Ludlow was down to his last thousand dollars of winnings when his ringers touched three tiny raised dots in the lower left corner of the king of spades. The other cards he held also had a combination of dots in the same place; they would not be perceived, Ludlow realized, by a drunken man who was convinced the tide of luck would again return in his favor. The cards were marked in what seemed to be random patterns of faint dots—an intricate code that told the dealer exactly what cards each man held. Ludlow smiled inwardly at the double challenge that faced him: to decipher that code, and to gain control of the deck.

"Well," he said, adding a slur to his voice as he lost another four hundred dollars, "I think that'll be all for me, gentlemen." He started to rise.

Tyson clasped his arm. "One more hand, Mr. Wyatt. I sense you're a very lucky man today."

Ludlow won the next hand, and the one after that as well. Then his losing streak started in earnest. His winnings were gone, and he was playing with Usher money. Control of the deck circulated around the table, with Chance's chips on the rise.

For the next hour, as the
Bayou Moon
fought the river currents and rain thrashed down in torrents, the mind behind Ludlow's mask worked like a machine. He calculated odds like a master mathematician, his fingers playing over the series of dots, entering each combination and the card it signified into memory. He began to fold more regularly, to conserve his money, and subsequently—with a quick glance from Chance to Tyson that Ludlow caught from the corner of his eye—his "luck" returned with a heavy pot, encouraging him to bet recklessly the next round.

As long as he could deal, Ludlow knew, he would stand a better chance of beating them at their own game. But they had more experience than he, and he would still have to play the bewildered fool—until the time was right to destroy them. He focused all his concentration on the cards he dealt, letting the marked corner slide against his finger, but he was clumsy at it and only recognized half of the cards.

He had to wait six more hands before he got the deal again. This time, he did it more slowly, deliberately. Though he lost to Brethren, Ludlow's percentage of correct calls went up considerably. When he dealt the next time, Ludlow was down seven thousand dollars of his own money. There was blood in the eyes of the other men; they smelled fresh meat, and were pressing forward for the kill.

And now it was time. "Gentlemen," Ludlow said, as he cut and shuffled the deck, "I feel lucky. What say we up the ante?"

A slick smile spread over Tyson's face. "Another thousand dollars apiece, Mr. Wyatt?"

"No sir," Ludlow replied. "Another
ten
thousand dollars apiece. In cash." In the sudden silence he put the deck carefully down in front of him and peeled off the bills from the roll in his coat. He laid the money out in the middle of the table.

"That's . . . a hell of a sum of money," Nicholls said, his eyes dancing around at the other men.

"What's wrong?" Ludlow feigned stupid surprise. "Aren't you gentlemen up to it?"

"Ten thousand dollars as ante for
one
hand?" Brethren took the cigar from his mouth, his black eyes slitting. "What's the limit?"

"The sky," Ludlow said. "Is anyone willing to play?"

The silence stretched. Tyson cleared his throat nervously and slugged down a shot of whiskey. Across the table from Ludlow, Chance stared fixedly at him, smiling coldly. "I'll play," Chance said. He brought a wad of bills from his own brown velvet jacket, counted out ten thousand dollars and tossed the money to cover Ludlow's. Brethren said, "I'm out, men." Nicholls sputtered with indecision, then added his money to the pot. Tyson paused; his eyes had turned reptilian, and studied Ludlow's face. Then he grunted softly and came up with ten thousand dollars.

Now Ludlow had to be both careful and precise. He dealt slowly, sliding the dots against his finger, identifying each card before he dealt the next. When the cards were out and the draw had been dealt, Ludlow had a pair of tens, the queen of hearts, the five of diamonds, and the five of hearts. By his calculations, Tyson had two aces, Nicholls a mixed hand, and Chance held two pair, jacks and nines.

"Bets?" Ludlow asked softly.

Tyson opened with a thousand dollars. Nicholls met it, and so did Chance.

"I'll see your thousand," Ludlow told them, "and raise you another ten thousand." He peeled the bills off and flung them to the table.

A soft cough of cheroot smoke left Nicholls's mouth. Tyson's face had begun to take on a yellowish cast; he picked up his cards and stared at them as if trying to read the future. Ludlow met Chance's gaze across the table, their faces revealing nothing. "Well?" Ludlow asked silkily.

"A gambler who runs away," Tyson said as he laid his cards on the table, "will live to win another day. Sorry, gents."

Nicholls had a bead of sweat on his nose. With a resigned moan, he pushed away his worthless hand.

"You think you've got me, don't you?" Chance's single eye was the color of a murky topaz. "No sir, I don't believe you do." He began to count off the bills—but after eight thousand three hundred dollars, his luck had run out.

"You're short, sir," Ludlow said. "I think that finishes you." He started to rake the money toward him.

But Chance's hand shot forward, the fingers clamping around Ludlow's wrist. The gambler's eye was blazing, a bitter twist to his mouth. "I have something," Chance said tersely, "that I think may make up the difference." He reached down to the floor beside his chair—and placed upon the table an object that bleached the blood from Ludlow's face.

It was the lion-headed Usher scepter.

"A beauty, isn't it?" Chance asked. "It used to belong to a rich man. Look at the workmanship in that silver lion's-head. Look at the ebony, as smooth as glass. It was given to me by that rich man's wife. She and I were, shall we say, well acquainted?"

Ludlow looked into Chance's face and realized he'd been playing cards with the man who'd killed his father. His heart had begun pounding, the blood rushing into his face again. "What . . . makes you believe that stick is worth seventeen hundred dollars, sir?"

"Because it's
magic,"
Chance said, leaning toward Ludlow with a conspiratorial smile. "You see this patch, Mr. Wyatt? I was shot in the face in Atlanta six years ago. Point-blank, with a derringer. I lost my eye, but I lived because I had that cane in my hand. Two years ago, a man on a train stabbed me in the stomach. The knife went deep . . . but the wound was healed in a week. A woman cut me in the neck with a broken bottle in Kansas City. The doctor said I should've bled to death, but I didn't. I had that cane in my hand. It's magic, and that's why it's worth seventeen hundred dollars and a lot more."

Ludlow picked the cane up and examined the lion's-head. His hands were shaking.

"It's full of luck," Chance told him. "Look at me. I'm walking proof."

And Ludlow said in a choked voice, "Your luck . . . has just run its course, Mr. Tigré."

Chance—Randolph Tigré—looked as stunned as if he'd been kicked in the head by a horse.

"My name is Ludlow Usher. You murdered my father, Aram Usher. I think the police would like to—"

And then Tigré leaped violently to his feet with a shouted curse, throwing the table over onto Ludlow. Cards, money, and chips flew through the air. Nicholls squalled like a scalded cat, and Tyson fell over in his chair. As Ludlow toppled backward with the cane in his grasp, Tigré was already drawing an Usher "Gentlemen's Defender" revolver from a holster under his coat. "No!" Brethren shouted, grabbing for the other man's arm. The gun went off, blasting one of the lamps to smithereens. Burning oil splattered across the floor and wall. The second shot blew the side of Tyson's head off as he was staggering to his feet. Then Tigré shoved Brethren aside and fired twice through the upturned table. One bullet snagged Ludlow's sleeve, and the second caught the edge of his left ear like a burning whip. "Murder!" Nicholls shouted. "Help!"

Tigré fled for the door, burst through it and into the narrow passageway. Ludlow went after him, revenge fiery in his veins. As he came through the door and onto the promenade deck, he found Tigré standing at the rail six feet away. With an animalish growl, Tigré brought the pistol up to fire into Ludlow's face.

But Ludlow was faster with the cane. He struck the other man's arm, upsetting his aim, and the bullet blazed over his shoulder. Then Ludlow barreled headlong into him; they smashed together and there was a sharp cracking sound as the rail broke. Clinging to each other, Ludlow and Tigré fell over the side into the churning river.

Underwater, Tigré hammered at Ludlow with the pistol. They turned over and over, blinded by mud, wrenched by tremendous currents. Ludlow's back slammed against something hard. A pounding, roaring noise filled his head—and he realized they'd been pulled underneath the
Bayou Moon.
The boat's hull was over their heads, the grinding paddlewheel dangerously close.

His flailing fist struck Tigré's body. He grasped the man's coat, but a booted foot kicked him in the stomach and precious air exploded from Ludlow's mouth. Tigré wrenched free, desperately swimming away. A fierce downward current caught Ludlow, and in the next instant he was caught in the branches of an underwater tree less than ten feet below the surface. He struggled to free himself, the last of his air burning in his lungs.

Tigré was caught in a current that hurled him toward the surface. His head slammed against wood, and then he gasped for breath. His relief turned rapidly to terror. The river boiled around him, and he was being lifted out of the water by his neck. His head was caught between the spokes of the paddlewheel. As it brought him up from the river, Tigré screamed with the pressure on his head and neck. His scream became strangled, and the knot of people who watched in horror saw Randolph Tigré's body writhe as his neck snapped. As if on a hideous revolving gallows, Tigré was borne up by the paddlewheel and then down into the water—and up again, lifeless and covered with mud.

And in the paddlewheel's wake, a tree that had been weighted down with mud rose suddenly from the bottom of the river. From its upper branches dangled Ludlow Usher, half-drowned and battered—but clutching in his hand his father's cane.

Rix was staring up at the brooding portrait of Ludlow. "Randolph Tigré believed the cane protected him from death?" he asked softly.