Soldaderas 2 (Patreon)

The riverboat didn’t dance in stately chaos like a ship would on the open seas—freshwater rivers didn’t offer that ebb and flow, but there was a flow. An unstopping progression of water from where God had mislaid it to where He wanted it.

The river water carried the boat, but not entirely; the captain and his crew guided it, resisting the liquid momentum like a surly debutante with an unlucky suitor, and in that velvet friction there was a slight tilt. As though the boat’s deck was an enormous book some giant was reading, and he turned it this way and that to make it legible in fading light.

Emerging from the saloon and into the world of passing forests and shoals, all motionless as the riverboat wavered by, Kon felt refreshed. It'd been a long night, but he wasn’t tired. The feeling of the pouch weighting down his vest pocket was like being struck by lightning.

He went to take the air up on the top deck, at the stern of the boat, and watch the sunrise. As he waited, he tore up Curry’s markers and let the dismembered paper trail down into the fray of the riverboat’s wake, where the paddle wheel churned the water in a way that made Kon think of barely restrained violence. Not the frothing boil of whitewater rapids but not the calm he remembered as a boy floating on a timber raft.

He didn’t know if he’d even be comfortable with that now. The noise this close to the engine was something of a relief from the night quiet.

Kon took a deep breath. His heartbeat was calm. His palms were dry. His bladder was empty and he’d washed his hands and tamped down his hair, even aired out the stale sweat under his arms from a few close calls in the early going of the gambling.

He was ready as a man ever was to meet his Maker. Not that Kon intended for there to be such a reunion. As he figured it, anyone who’d made a wildcard such as him could only be disappointed if Kon didn’t live long enough to really get into some trouble.

That was why he took the broom from the steward’s closet on his way up. He propped it up against the railing, then set his overcoat onto it, his hat on top of that. He tied the end of his sleeves to the top railing and took off his boots to stand up under the hem of the long, flowing coat.

It wasn’t the most convincing illusion up close, but it only had to last for a few moments in the dark.

With his little prank readied, Kon retreated into the shadows of the riverboat’s smoke stacks. He drew his gun. He waited. Seeing as how it would defeat the purpose of the whole affair to light a cheroot, he settled for some chewing tobacco and bet with himself how long it would take Curry to come after him.

So many minutes for his defeat to set in. Then so many minutes to run through his options. Some drinks to steel his nerves. The reminder that he couldn’t even close his bar tab without the money Kon had taken off him; well, Kon had tried to leave him with at least enough money to sleep within four walls and a ceiling. But when a man was dead-set on losing, you had to respect his wishes

Finally, Curry would weigh poverty against the consequences of a murder and decide that however undesirable a hanging was, it was at least quicker than the alternative.

Out he came, quicker than Kon had wagered on. And he was doing some thinking, holding a knife instead of a gun. He prowled up to what he took for Kon’s back, his blade making the most of what little moonlight remained for the night, and Kon cocked his revolver before Curry could put a hole in his coat. He liked the tailoring as it was just fine.

“I don’t think I need another pocket in my coat, much less in myself,” Kon announced, just in case Curry couldn’t hear him over the churn of the wheel. “You can send that knife into the drink, please. At this point, you should be used to parting with the things of the world.”

Even from behind, Kon could see how Curry’s jaw clenched. The man tossed his knife over the railing. Kon didn’t hear it plink into the water, but he trusted the thing couldn’t fly.

“Why don’t you unhitch your gunbelt too?” he asked without asking.

Curry didn’t. Instead, he turned around. His hands abreast of his waist and the gun on his hip.

“You cheated, you lousy bastard. You tricked me! You knew I had the diamonds from the start, didn’t you? You kept boiling me and boiling me until I had no choice but to bring them out!”

Kon kept his gun pointed right where it was. If Curry wanted it in the front instead of the back, that suited him fine. Just meant he wouldn’t get a reputation as a backshoot.

“I don’t claim to be the quickest draw west of the Mississippi, or west of anything for that matter, but I really don’t have to be when my finger’s on the trigger and the gun is loaded. You’re going for a swim, Curry. You choose how many holes you have in you when you hit the water.”

“You think dying scares me? You think I’d want to live if I can’t bring him his diamonds back?”

Kon sent a stream of brown tobacco juice over the side. He wasn’t much of a gentleman, but if he was going to threaten someone, the least he could do was not mumble.

“Curry, you’ve thrown your money away, now don’t throw away your life.”

Kon said it knowing that Curry would. He could see the man would go for his gun as easily as he could see that the sky was blue. But he waited. Hesitated. Giving the Good Lord every last chance to work some miraculous change on Curry’s heart that would leave him not as foolish as he was now.

Kon didn’t want to kill anyone. He’d done it before and he would’ve said he was too young for it, but he couldn’t imagine a man being old enough. But the Army had believed his lie or not cared about his lie and now he knew the path that the light took as if left a man’s eyes.

Maybe the more religious soldiers were right and killing someone like Curry made you God’s avenging sword, but God must’ve kept all the glory of that to Himself, because all Kon ever ended up feeling was bloody.

He hated killing. But he hated the thought of dying even more.

It still would’ve been a near thing, only Curry had either a new gun or a new holster, because the sight caught when he tried to draw. It was adding insult to injury. He was done either way. Kon just put his signature on it.

He pulled the trigger, the revolver kicked back, the bullet traveled the distance, and Curry became a clockwork mechanism designed only to land on the ground.

The gun came loose of Curry’s holster when he hit the deck. It skittered across the planks and slipped under the railing.

Curry laid there. The bullet had taken him high in the breast and the blood soaked his shirt so fast you would think he was being dunked in it. Still, he wasn’t dead. He looked at Kon like that was a betrayal.

“You’d better kill me, because he’ll do worse when he finds out I lost the loot, and then he’ll really go to work on you.”

“Quit being such a loon,” Kon told him, and kicked him in his pale face.

It was too much to ask of any man that he endure both a gunshot and the heel of a Justin. Curry’s eyes closed and stayed closed.

Kon bent over him, taking the handkerchief from Curry’s pocket, wadding it up, and pressing it to his wound, then rolling him over so his own weight would apply pressure to the bandage. It wasn’t much, but then, neither was Curry.

And though Kon was sure any jury in the great state of wherever the hell the riverboat had made it to during the night would see true that he was innocent, he didn’t wish to burden the courts with such busywork.

He went to pack his things and then be on his way, perhaps borrowing one of the life rafts so as to avoid the unpleasantness when Curry was either found or regained consciousness. Then he would buy a good horse and put some nature between himself and these unfortunate events. Once he was well clear of Curry’s bitterness, he would treat himself to a shave and a bath and a meal fit to celebrate the fortuitous turn his life had taken.

Maybe he’d even find a woman. After how adroitly he’d handled Curry, a woman couldn’t possibly be any trouble.