Absolution's Curse

Saturday August 19, 1843

Falcon shaded his eyes as he stepped out of his tent. The first rays of morning light streamed over baron edges of a seemingly endless mountain chain. Long shadows danced in vibrant colors across the desert floor. In an instant, the dark, featureless night transformed into a beautiful sight with every hue imaginable on display. The desert itself came alive.

Before the sun could complete its rise over the eastern mountains, his small tribe stirred to start the same rituals as all other days of their lives. The women woke, gathering their children just as their mothers had years before. The men woke, gathering at the center of the community as their grandfathers had taught them. Daily orders would be given with only slight variations. Work began as it had for centuries.

One day they will follow me, he whispered as images from his dream floated around in his head.

He rose on the tips of his toes to see around tents blocking his view. The key to his visions resided only a short run away. A glance through the tents cracked opening revealed a moment of inattention from his mother, providing the perfect opportunity to throw down his mundane chores.

Falcon! Where are you running? she yelled. Do not enter The Keeper's tent again.

His mother’s warning faded into the background noise of the waking tribe. Darting between another pack of children and an old man shaking out a rug, he continued east toward a tent he knew lay on the outer edge of their village. Tall, muscular warriors representing the best of the tribe, gathered at the village’s center, discussing this week's guard duties along with next week's harvest. Five elderly men sat in a circle listening to the preparation, offering a few words of wisdom. The tallest warrior paused from barking orders to watch him run by. Falcon kept his eyes forward, not wanting to see the disapproving gaze of his father. He passed more tents with even more elders, but didn’t care what any of them said, or why they didn’t approve his morning rush.

A small tent decorated with bright red and green painted shapes marked the home of Falcon’s target, The Keeper. He skidded to a stop outside the tent flap, willing his lungs to relax by taking a series of deep breaths. Outlines of birds, foxes, and other revered hunters dotted the animal skin exterior. He ran his fingers over the raised paintings, feeling the natural bumps in the surface. A breeze swept through his curly hair, pushing a stream of purplish smoke rising from the tents center into the brightening sky. After the wind died, he raised the tent flap, bowing to his mentor as he entered.

The Keeper sat on a rug with his back turned toward the tent opening. He looked frail with his shoulder blades and ribs poking out of his leathery wrinkled skin. Smoke circled his head before escaping through a small hole in the tent top. The Keeper hadn’t acknowledged Falcon’s arrival, causing him to pause, not knowing what he should say or do first.

You enter my tent early. Even The Keeper’s voice sounded frail and distant.

Yes, Keeper.

Your mother knows you are here?

He glanced back to the closed tent flap. Yes, Keeper.

Young Falcon, you must always be truthful with me. An edge appeared in his tone, reminding Falcon to give respect to the old man in front of him.

He walked around the edge of the tent, careful to avoid kicking sand onto the stack of purple leaves, or disturbing the smoke emitting from the pot of brew simmering over a small fire within arm's length of the old man.

Falcon swallowed hard as he knelt, peering at his target through the haze. Keeper, I had a dream.

Another leaf fell into the pot. The Keeper's head rose, his sunken eyes brighter, more youthful than the rest of his body. You did?

Yes, Keeper. You were in it. You were giving me something.

The Keeper nodded then breathed in the rising contents of his brew. Could you see what I gave you?

Falcon lowered his eyes, replying, No, Keeper. He peeked at the old man tending his pot then continued questioning with a renewed rush of urgency. That is why I have come to you. Do you know what the dream is?

Smoke curled its way to the top of the tent before disappearing through the fist sized hole. The Keeper smiled as he raised his head to follow the smokes escape into the early morning sky. This is a special day for you, is it not?

Yes, Keeper. My mother says I came into this tribe ten years ago today.

The Keeper nodded, whispering toward the sky, It is a special day for me too, but I stopped counting the years long ago. He shifted his stare to the boy before him, a smile still spread wide across his weathered face. You feel you are becoming a man. You want to know what purpose you hold for the tribe… for yourself.

I… Falcon stumbled, trying to come up with the correct response. I only want to do what is right… for–

I know, young Falcon. I have had my eyes on you for many of your ten years. Your father has been a great warrior for this tribe. I am sure he expects you to follow in his steps.

He nodded, but the excitement in his face faded. His friends talked about the day they would wear the paint. They played games, leading each other to glorious victories while protecting their families from unnamed danger. The position of Chief Warrior represented the ultimate goal of all young boys in the tribe, all except Falcon. The idea the dream signified an honor like his father’s wasn’t satisfying. He hoped the visions were about more, an honor far greater.

The Keeper closed his eyes as he breathed in deeply again. His chest expanded, ribs and lungs threatening to burst through their constraints. When he exhaled, a cloud of smoke billowed in Falcon's direction.

You have heard stories of The Portal?

Yes, Keeper. Falcon’s heart suddenly beat faster than during the sprint toward the tent at the mere mention of the fabled Portal.

Gather five of your closest friends. Tell your mothers I have requested your company. Bring them back to my tent tonight.

Keeper, will you tell me about my dream?

In time, young Falcon.

The Keeper closed his eyes and lowered his head. The only sounds in the tent came from small belches from the smoking pot. After a minute of silence, Falcon knew there would be no more information given until night returned.

He didn’t want to leave. Chores and a probably angry mother awaited him at his home. He scanned the tents interior, desperate to find any reason to stay. More purple leaves like The Keeper used to create his powdery potion sat stacked in a corner. A mat lay on the ground where the great man slept. Next to the bed, a giant headdress sat waiting for its next ceremonial unveiling. Feathers sprouted from the top, a long beak poked out the front. The Keeper could tell wonderful stories about the roadrunner. Stories of grace, speed, and resourcefulness. There would be no such storytelling this morning.

Rising slowly, Falcon made his way to the exit. The Keeper cleared his throat, causing Falcon to pause at the tent flap.

Return as the sun drops below the western mountains.

Keeper, he asked, turning again toward the old man's bony back, what will you tell us?

The last puffs of smoke faded, replaced by a thin wisp of thick vapor, leaving only a dry white powder clinging to the pot below.

Your destinies.

CHAPTER I

Riverboat Gambler

Saturday April 28, 1849

The poker table and its associated crowd jammed the middle of the smoke-filled room. A smooth felt cloth brought an illusion of elegance to the plain banquet table. Long wooden benches wore no such embellishments, only offering a hard seat for those lucky enough to find a spot at the main table.

Large men in tuxedos, rings of smoke from expensive cigars circling their black top hats, laughed as they traded stories of previous conquests. Others, dressed in wrinkled and stained white shirts topped with all manner of wide brimmed hats, remained quiet, attempting to draw as little attention as possible.

Frank pulled on the cuffs of his dark coat, careful not to disturb any bills stacked on the table or dislodge unseen items tucked under his freshly pressed white sleeves. The dealer, a scrawny man the riverboat captain hired to officiate all large money games, flicked the final cards onto the table. Four red diamonds sprinkled across an off-white card skidded to a stop in front of Frank’s stack, offering no help to the rest of his hand.

A pack of women dressed in multicolored lace dresses giggled as they passed. Bouncy tunes from a band tucked into a corner of the already loud room mingled with rich smells from an overflowing banquet table to punctuate the party atmosphere.

The dealer pointed to the only other player still in the game, a bespectacled squirrelly gentleman perspiring through his cheap tux.

Sir, you’re ace is still the high card, the dealer proclaimed over the roar. You have first option.

The Easterner, who earlier in the night seemed to grossly overestimate his card playing skills, dabbed beads of sweat from his forehead. He flipped up a corner of his hole card for the fifth time since the hand started then picked up a few bills from his stack. Raise, he said with unconvincing bravado. The bills added little to the already large pot in the center of the table.

Another scan of the room found a few constants among the flowing crowd. A red-head almost half his age leaning against the wall stood out, not only because of her overly revealing dress, but also because he spent most of the previous night trying to climb on top of her. A man in a long black overcoat, his hat pulled low creating a shadow over his face, stood motionless a few feet behind the Easterner who still fretted over his bet.

A rule learned long ago stated always know where your enemies stand. Another rule, consider everyone your enemy, made the first rule complicated.

The Easterner’s ace of clubs didn’t cause any concern. A three of spades lying face down, the object of the Easterner’s constant peeks, matched a face up three of hearts. That pair, small compared to what Frank pretended to hold, represented a possible early end to the night.

The hot breath of Francis Corbett, an older gentleman clad in his finest suit and tails bankrolling Frank’s night at the table, seared into his neck. You still got this under control? he whispered.

Frank leaned forward, partially to portray dominance to his worried adversary, mostly to escape the old farts foul breath. Tell you what, sir. I’m gonna take a chance here. If that ace of yours has a friend then I’m sunk. He tapped his hole card then a red king facing up. But if you’ve got any other pairs then, well, I’d kindly suggest you think twice about callin’ this raise.

He picked up the entire stack of bills to his right, representing an amount considerably greater than what the Easterner held, and dropped them with a flourish onto the middle of the stack. All boastful talk around the table ended. Even the top hats recognized an opportunity to create a new story.

I’m figurin’ my pair beats whatever you got, Frank said as he leaned back, careful to rub his right forearm against the edge of the table to dislodge an earlier stashed king.

A new river of sweat flowed down the side of the Easterner’s face. Another blast of hot air raked across Frank’s ear.

You win this pot and I’ll give you everything I promised, Francis assured.

He glanced at the red-head. She hadn’t been explicitly promised, but the night still held a few surprises for all. A slight smile gathered on his face as he slid his stare toward the squirming player across the table.

Sir, the dealer said as he turned toward the Easterner, do you intend to call?

The Easterner sniffed then checked his hole card again.

What’s it gonna to be? Frank asked with a slow, drawn out cadence. You givin’ me most of your money or all of your money?

The gathering crowd giggled in unison. Francis laughed out loud. Only the overcoat man’s dark face remained expressionless.

"You’ve got me beat you son-of-a-bitch, Frank thought so loud he wondered if others at the table could hear. You better fold."

The Easterner picked up his stack of bills, holding them before his eyes.

"Fold you ass," Frank pressed harder with his mind.

The bills fell to the table, this time at the Easterner’s side instead of on top of the pot. He dropped a finger on his hole card and slowly pushed it into the stack.

A rush of cheering spread through the crowd. Frank nodded at all the excitement while leaning forward to pull in his winnings. A hard slap to his back from Francis brought an extra smile.

"That old goat thinks he’s gettin’ half, Frank told himself, this time much quieter than before the lucky fold. Maybe I’ll leave him a little somethin’ as compensation for a memorable night with red."

A sudden end to the noise in the room brought him back to the game. The cheering stopped. Even the band halted their boisterous tune mid-stanza. A look around revealed all eyes focused on the middle of the table. A card, the king of clubs, lay a few inches away from Frank’s arm.

The overcoat finally moved. Sir, I believe you dropped something, the man said as he pushed forward, lifting his hat to reveal a narrow face with a bushy mustache.

Frank pressed his arm against the table. His expression faded to a blank stare when the comforting slick rectangle proved to be missing.

Always nice to see you Mr. Newell. Frank here’s been playing quite well all night, don’t you agree? Francis exclaimed.

Shut up, Frank whispered over his shoulder.

I don’t believe we’ve met, Newell said as he carefully reached around the Easterner’s shaking arm to inspect the dropped king. You seem to know your way around a poker table but I haven’t had the pleasure of watching you play before.

Ain’t been in town long, Frank carefully replied.

I see. He ran a finger along the edge of the card, checking it from every angle. We take our poker seriously here in New Orleans. Our captain likes to run a clean game.

Frank nodded but chose to remain silent.

Gentlemen, Newell said as he addressed the crowd, unless my eyes deceive me, what we have here is a professional cardsharp.

Most onlookers pushed closer while the few unkempt players slid away, gracefully disappearing into the sea of interested faces.

Frank straightened in his chair. His right hand slowly pulled back from the table to reach for the pistol strapped against his hip. A quick scan of the room found many left hands but few rights. The list of probable enemies grew considerably. He froze, leaving both hands on the table in clear view.

Now let’s think this over, Frank said slowly, a first bead of sweat forming beneath the brim of his hat. Technically I didn’t cheat. That guy folded fair and square. Just good poker.

Newell flipped the king over to inspect the back of the card. So this was insurance?

It was an unfortunate accident, Frank corrected as he glanced over his shoulder, finding Francis still smiling. What are you so giddy about?

The click of a cocking pistol snapped his eyes momentarily shut. When he turned back, Newell held a gun in one hand and the Easterner’s folded card in the other. And what would you have done if this had been another ace instead of a three? He flipped the card again, displaying it to the captivated crowd. You’re unfortunate pair of kings still would have lost. It’s almost like you knew what my friend here had.

Frank forced the muscles in his face to relax, removing any hint of a reaction.

The design on the back of this three looks the same as your king except, Newell moved the card closer to a lamp, look at that folks. He held the card in the air, pointing toward the corner. This one has three little blue circles over here. The king doesn’t.

Unsettling whispers cascaded around the table.

These are Advantage cards, I’d venture to guess manufactured right here in good old New Orleans by Dr. Cross and Company. He handed the card to the Easterner for inspection then picked up a few more from the table and handed them off to various nearby players. Very nice workmanship. Almost indistinguishable from real cards. Problem is, I’ve seen ones like these on our table before. A quick wink sealed the catch. They may work in other cities, but not here. Not in the same town where they were born. But tell me, how’d you get them into the game?

The dealer slid away from the table, throwing his arms into the air. Mr. Newell, I promise I had nothing to do with it. His frightened eyes scanned the table, landing squarely on Frank’s guilty hands. They must have been switched before we started.

Frank offered no response.

It’s okay, Calvin. I believe you. Newell gave the dealer a firm slap on the back. But you might want to work on your card checking skills. He ran a hand down the sides of his mustache. You know boys, it’s been a few years since we hung a cardsharp. He nodded toward the grunts of approval. Cheating’s getting out of hand again around here. Maybe we need to make another example.

Odds be damned. Even if every man in the room pressed a finger to their trigger, going down in a blaze of bullets had to be better than dangling from a scratchy rope. That rule had not been taught, instead learned by example.

He allowed his hand to slide closer to the edge of the table but a pull at his hip stopped his motion. Hot breath filled his ear.

Sorry about this, Francis said as he lifted Frank’s pistol. It seems you picked the wrong family to scam.

Frank turned slowly in his chair, finding the barrel a few inches from his forehead. What makes you think this was a scam? he asked with a forced smile.

I believe you took quite a stack from a young man at a poker table in Memphis last month, Francis explained. What’d you do with it? Spend it all on whiskey and women? Loose it to better players? He looked at the crowd who seemed to hang on every word of Frank’s developing nightmare. You see gentlemen, that young man is my nephew.

Oh, said Frank, his face and bowels loosing muscle control.

And on behalf of all honest gamblers across this great country, Newell exclaimed while bowing, I would like to thank you for bringing this blight on our good sport to light.

Frank turned from Francis to Newell and back. You just can’t trust anybody anymore, he muttered.

His former pistol clicked as a bullet slid into the chamber.

Maybe you should be more careful who you try to swindle and who you try to bed, Francis hissed, his over-the-top smile morphing into a hateful frown.

Oh, Frank glanced at the red-head, still watching patiently, while he slipped his free hand under the table. Is she your granddaughter?

She’s my wife.

Frank’s eyelids lifted in surprise. And I wondered if I was too old for her.

A quick push sent the table flying. Cards, bills, and the velvet cloth flew into the air. A resonating pop broke the silence, splintering a hole in the wooden table as it flipped. Rushing wind associated with a speeding bullet narrowly missed his ear, instead catching Francis in the shoulder.

Women screamed, men yelled. Panic quickly seized the room. Frank ducked beneath the bedlam, slipping off his coat as he wormed his way through the crowd until coming face-to-face with a trumpet player.

He tipped his hat politely and asked, Would you mind playing a waltz?

Another shot rang out, creating a hole in the wall a few feet above the violin player.

Never mind. He slid along the wall, swiping a fat piece of pork from the banquet table before running out an open doorway onto the deck of the riverboat.

Multiple ships lined up, all resting calmly along the shore of the Mississippi River. A sea of activity on land among the ships indicated which were lazily unloading their supplies and which were preparing to leave.

More yelling spilled out of the room. New Orleans was no longer safe.

He ran down the deck, pushing unsuspecting men and women to the side until he reached a stairway leading to the pilot house. A quick reach behind the steps found the familiar cold steel of his father’s old shotgun, stashed earlier in the day in case the scam turned ugly.

He continued the escape route, passing stewards who yelled important sounding warnings, finally reaching the landing stage. The stage only held a sprinkling of stationary men, a far cry from the crowded decks he’d used as protection.

Cussing and yells of protest bubbled through the mob. There was no time to develop a better plan. Head down, he rushed across the plank, visible to all interested eyes.

Shots rang. More women screamed. The few men on the landing stage suddenly found a reason to scatter. One bullet popped as it hit the railing to his left. Another twisted his right wrist sideways. The shotgun sprung out of his hand, sliding across the walkway. He dove forward, as much to avoid the wave of bullets as to grab his only remaining weapon.

The long barrel came to a stop, teetering over the edge, inches away from joining the cool Mississippi waters. His fingers touched a fresh dent the size of a bullet at the butt end of the shotgun. One more blast opened a thumb sized hole in the walkway next to his face. The jolt of the shot pushed his hand forward, sending the shotgun over the edge. Seconds later a splash welcomed the river’s newest treasure.

Stay right there or I’ll send you over the side too, Newell’s voice echoed from behind.

Frank turned back toward the ship to find Newell standing at the opening to the landing stage. The ship looked deserted. All women must have run for safety. The men probably hid under their dresses. A group of unwary sailors passed along shore. He made one last desperate push, scrambling to his feet and diving forward the final few yards to the waterfront.

Another shot narrowly missed, bringing all sorts of cursing from the startled sailors.

He turned to the right, running along the river’s side. A crowd around a ship in the distance seemed to be removing thick ropes. He kept moving, weaving between large groups and open ground. A gentle wind, made sharper by his frantic escape, tried to lift the hat off his head. He kept one hand on top, unwilling to lose a pistol, shotgun, and hat on the same day.

The boat began to pull away, the distance between shore and ship gradually expanding.

Don’t you dare leave without me, Frank huffed as he glanced over his shoulder.

He turned right down the short ramp leading toward the bubbling water. Without stopping to consider his odds, he jumped.

Railings along the boats side had been closed before departure. A few men in dark suits littered the walkway. Frank held on to the wooden slits tightly, hoping his hat could hold on without help. His feet, dangling down the side of the ship, found footing, allowing a push over the rail and onto the deck.

The boat shuttered as it pulled away from shore. He stood as Newell skidded to a stop. A quick wave told the wonderful city of New Orleans a final goodbye.

He turned, bowing slightly to the men who watched him with suspicion. This town was not as hospitable as I was led to believe. After passing their critical stares, he walked toward a young sailor busy coiling wet ropes.

Excuse me, can you tell-

Darkness of early dawn lit up. Bright stars danced in his head. A sharp pain on his cheek preceded a thud as he stumbled backward into a hard wall. He shook his head to remove the cobwebs then threw his hands into the air.

What the hell was that for? he asked in a voice a little less masculine than he cared to portray.

The sailor rubbed his knuckles but kept his feet in position, ready for another punch. I saw you jump on board. Captain don’t like stowaways.

Calm down, kid. I ain’t here to cause problems. Frank rubbed the growing bump on his jaw. The sailor’s arms came into view. They looked thicker than most men’s legs. Normally he wouldn’t make casual inquiries to human tree trunks so quickly after invading their territory. It broke a rule, which one was hard to determine with buzzing from the punch still filling his brain. All that madness from the poker table must have put him off his game. I’m sure we can make some kind of deal. What’s your job?

The sailor lowered his arms but didn’t unflex his muscles. I figure as long as you’re here, my job is to watch while you work.

You learn fast, kid. He looked around for anything useful. What ship is this anyway?

The Eudora.

He nodded. Where are we headed?

Should hit Natchez by nightfall, the relaxing sailor answered.

Frank pressed his throbbing lips together. Ain’t nothin’ there. Where else?

Memphis is about two days up river from there.

No, not Memphis. Old pains from places other than his lips radiated through his body. Just came from there, best not to go back so soon.

Next stop is supposed to be St. Louis. The sailor rubbed his face to conceal a growing smile. May take five or six days to get there, dependin’ on how the river runs.

St. Louis? Frank nodded again. Ain’t been back there since… Well, it’s been a long time. Old memories surfaced as his mind and vision cleared. The shack. The cot. His long ago abandoned father, creator of all rules. Guess I’m goin’ home.

You want to make it all the way to St. Louis without the captain findin’ out, you’re gonna have to pull a heavy load.

Well, sit back kid. Frank stuck his hand out, receiving a handshake that lifted his voice an