The Assassin by Clive Cussler (have you read this book txt) 📗

said, “I reckon Edna’s too busy—and far too expensive—but what a nice coincidence you find yourselves here together.”

“We often travel together,” said Nellie. “Particularly to places like this where a woman’s better off not alone.” A nod indicated the tarpaulin saloon, where the men were getting loud. “Two women are somewhat more formidable than one girl on her own, don’t you think?”

“Just ask those jackrabbits.”

“Will you stay to supper?”

“Let me run and find some wine.”

“In Humble? Good luck.”

Bell grinned. “What do you prefer with jackrabbit?”

Edna grinned. “A chilled Riesling, wouldn’t you say, Nellie?”

Nellie tossed Isaac Bell a second challenge. “On a hot night with a jackrabbit and a handsome gentleman, I’m in a mood for champagne!”

“I’ll be right back,” said Bell.

“Where are you going?” they chorused after him. “Houston?”

“New Orleans!” Bell called over his shoulder and kept going.

“Don’t be late.”

Bell went straight to the Toppling Derrick and asked Walt Hatfield, “Which did you say was the highest-class sporting house in town?”

“Things didn’t work out with the lady reporter?”

“I asked you a question.”

“Easy does it, old son. Just joshin’ you. The French Quarter was the one I mentioned. Around the corner and over a couple of streets.”

Bell found the French Quarter’s kitchen door down an alley and slipped the cook two twenty-dollar gold pieces. He returned to Edna’s tent with a whiskey keg under his arm. The barrelhead had been removed. The sisters peered in.

“Ice? Where did you get ice?”

Bell said, “Forgive me, Edna, but Riesling proved impossible. Will you settle for a Chablis?”

Edna said, “I am devastated. But I’ll settle for Chablis. Just this once.”

“What about me?” Nellie cried. “Where’s my champagne?”

“Moët & Chandon?”

“Are you serious?”

Bell pulled dripping bottles from the ice.

Nellie said, “Edna, one of us should grab this fellow before he gets away. You are quite the provider, Mr. Bell.”

“Here’s my suggestion,” said Bell. “First we share champagne and save the Chablis for the jackrabbit.”

“But we have no champagne glasses.”

“Tin cups will do,” said Edna.

“No need,” called a familiar voice, and around the tent strode Archie Abbott with four champagne flutes in his hand.

“Where in blazes did you come from?” asked Bell.

“Train from Houston,” said Archie, smiling at the ladies. “In the nick of time. Saw you lugging a barrel of ice, put two and two together, and quickly got glasses. Miss Hock, lovely to see you again. And you, Miss Matters, of course, are the famous flying orator.”

He bowed over Nellie’s hand. “What a treat to observe you without getting a crick in my neck.”

“Will you join us for supper, Mr. Abbott?”

Bell said, “Don’t you have an appointment with a witness, Mr. Abbott?”

“Not on an empty stomach.”

“That would be too cruel,” said Nellie. “You must let him have a bite first, Mr. Bell.”

“Rabbit first,” said Edna. “Witness later.”

The champagne lasted until night was falling and it was nearly dark.

“If you boys will open the Chablis, Nellie and I will ladle out the rabbit.”

The sisters gathered around the fire. Bell got to work on the wine bottle.

“Two lovelies!” Archie said in a low voice. “Count ’em, two. Beautiful, intelligent, charming, accomplished, and single. An abundance of riches.”

“Hands off,” said Bell. “I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

“Fear not, Ma-ma is vetting prospective fiancées.”

The Abbotts of New York had lost their money back in the Panic of ’93. Archie was supposedly on a hunt to replenish the treasury, but Bell doubted it would happen. He was more likely to fall in love, and money would be the last thing on his mind.

“Funny,” said Archie, “how they keep turning up wherever you’re investigating.”

“Intelligent,” said Bell. “As you said.”

“Come and get it!” cried Nellie.

“Don’t mind if we do,” bawled a loud voice at the edge of the firelight.

Six or seven drunk cowhands and oil workers had wandered over from the board-on-barrels saloon.

“You mean the food or the gals?” yelled a rangy rigger.

“Both!” howled a cowboy.

Isaac Bell and Archie Abbott stood up.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said Archie. “Go away.”

“Make me.”

Archie took a lightning step forward and threw an even faster left hook. The rigger tumbled backward into his friends. When they pounced at Archie, Bell was ready with a hard right that dropped the cowboy and a left cross for a burly roustabout.

The four drunks still standing were quickly joined by four more.

The two detectives stood shoulder to shoulder. Archie muttered, “Any more and I’m pulling a gun.”

“Too many folks around for gunplay,” said Bell.

“Bloody hell, you’re right about that.”

Nellie Matters laughed. “Go away! Our hearts are spoken for.”

If Nellie’s joke was designed to defang the mob, thought Bell, it had the opposite effect. She seemed oblivious to the danger. But Edna, Bell noticed, was coolly eyeing the tent flaps behind which was propped her shotgun.

He said, “Let’s take ’em, Archie.”

Archie said, “You’re on.”

—

The trick was to prevent being mobbed by a concerted rush.

The Van Dorns used their long reach and prize ring footwork to keep them at bay, darting in, dropping three more men with powerhouse punches, and backing lightly away. It looked as if five or six still standing were reconsidering their future when an enormous oil hand easily as big as Big Pete Straub lumbered up.

“Who wants it first?”

“Start with me,” said Isaac Bell, flashing forward, faking a left jab, and throwing a roundhouse right that flung the oil hand flat on his back. But as hard as he hit the ground, it seemed to have no effect. The giant shook his head like a dray horse annoyed by a fly, sprang to his feet, and charged. Bell took his measure, spotted his fists rise, which exposed his solar plexus, and lined up a straight left that would take advantage of the momentum.

Suddenly the man clutched his chest.

He lurched at Bell as if shoved from behind by a mighty force. The burst of unnatural speed caught Bell unaware. Before the tall detective could throw a punch or sidestep the charge, the giant slammed into him.

Three hundred pounds’ deadweight drove Isaac Bell to the ground.

Hot liquid splashed his face.

Rabbit stew, he