Bowie's Gold

Evan Lewis

Description

Jim Bowie is on a Quest for Vengeance—and the Lost Treasure of Jean Lafitte. Famous knife fighter James Bowie wants a seat in Congress. But to win it he needs money—and lots of it. When an old pirate friend—and his beautiful daughter—seek his help with a treasure map, he’s drawn into a wild race across the Gulf of Mexico, to Texas and beyond. Opposing them is Bowie’s most bitter enemy, a former captain of Lafitte’s calling himself The Last Great Terror of the Gulf. The two men’s fates have been long entwined, and their thirst for vengeance exceeds even their desire for the treasure. Who will feed the sharks? Find out in Bowie’s Gold.

Sujets

• Historical
• Jean Lafitte
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Steeger Books
• Date de parution: 02 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9791222045573
• Langue: English

Extrait

Bowie’s Gold
by
Evan Lewis
cover by Gary Carbon

Steeger Books / 2022
Copyright Information

© 2022 Evan Lewis
Cover art © 2022 Gary Carbon. All rights reserved.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This edition has been marked via subtle changes, so anyone who reprints from this novel is committing a violation of copyright.
Dedication
Mr. Bowie and I wish to salute the following folks, heroes all, who helped out on this one. In pretty much alphabetical order, they are:

Drew Bentley, Jackie Blain, Gary Carbon, Jack Edmondson, Rob and June Edwards, Christine Finlayson, LaVonne Griffin-Valade, Ron Ianitello, Kassandra Kelly, Becky Kjelstrom, Nancy LaPaglia, Doug Levin, Ann Littlewood, Marilyn McFarlane, Matt Moring, Will Murray, Cap’n Bob Napier, Angela M. Sanders and Brian Trainer.

And, most of all, my lovely wife Irene, without whom this book would never have seen the light of day.
Part I: Vengeance
CHAPTER 1
“Little more than a savage.”

“Come, Mr. Bowie. Won’t you show us the knife?” The former governor of Louisiana slid a stack of gold coins toward the glittering pile at table’s center. “Raise five hundred.”
“Yes, James, please do.” The judge on Bowie’s left studied his cards a moment before dropping them in disgust. “Lord knows this game is not providing me much amusement.”
The tobacco baron on Bowie’s right made a sound that was half growl, half harrumph. “I’m out. But I, too, would like to see this fabled blade.”
James Bowie eyed his three jacks and two queens. He fingered five coins from his own dwindling stack and pushed them forward. “Call.”
When no one spoke, he glanced up to find them all looking at him.
He hesitated. The plush gaming salon of the Hotel Monock, favored haunt of the most distinguished men of New Orleans, was no place to be brandishing a knife. Particularly a knife with a ten-inch blade designed to open a man from gut to chin.
“Here.” The ex-governor plucked a gold piece from his stack. “I’ll even pay for the privilege.” He flicked his thumb, and the coin glittered as it spun through the air.
Bowie caught the coin and closed a fist around it. “A knife, gentlemen, is much like a sword. It should not be unsheathed unless one intends to use it. And I earnestly hope I shall never have to use it again.”
“By God,” the judge said, “I almost believe he means it.”
The former governor accepted the return of his coin. “You still intend, then, to seek Brent’s seat in Congress?”
“I intend,” Bowie said, “to win it. And I hope I may count you gentlemen among my supporters.”
Congressman William Brent was now in his third term, and voters had become increasingly dissatisfied with him. His latest opponent—a blowhard Democrat named Overton—had been favored to defeat him, a prospect that played no small part in Brent’s decision not to seek re-election.
After an uncomfortable pause, the tobacco grower said, “But what of your health? Have you truly recovered from that—that incident?”
“I’m strong as an ox,” Bowie lied, “and twice as handsome. The six months abed gave me time to reflect upon my sins, and I’ve come forth a new and better man.”
Bowie hoped at least part of that was true. The “incident” had been a huge setback in his quest for respectability, but had carried a hidden blessing.
Seven months earlier, on a humid afternoon in September 1827, his dreams had nearly gone to smash. On hand to witness a duel between a friend and another gentleman, he’d become embroiled with a personal enemy with friends of his own. As a result, he’d taken three pistol balls to the body and been run through four times with sword blades. One of those blades had pierced a lung, as he was still reminded with every breath.
That he lived was astonishing enough, but in the process he had buried his knife in the vitals of his chief opponent—killing him on the spot—and severely wounded another. The Sandbar Fight, as the newspapers called it, had tarnished his reputation as a gentleman. Over the past few months, Bowie’s name had become synonymous with dueling and sudden death.
But he had discovered, to his surprise, that while his newfound notoriety was off-putting to some high-minded voters, their less sophisticated neighbors heartily approved the notion of sending a knife fighter to Congress.
And that fact, he knew, was not lost on his present companions.
The ex-governor examined him with shrewd, probing eyes. “I find you a most formidable individual, Mr. Bowie, and believe you may be just the man to represent our interests. So yes, you shall have my support.”
The judge nodded. “And mine.”
The tobacco grower raised a glass. “Let’s make that unanimous.”
Aglow with success and fine bourbon, Bowie found the scene almost magical. Pipe and cigar smoke formed a hazy cloud above the players, muting the light of the great crystal chandelier. Waiters drifted like wraiths between the tables. To his ears came the murmur of a dozen conversations and the gentle clink of coins and chips, punctuated at intervals with cries of exultation or dismay.
As play progressed, Bowie lost steadily but with much grace. He was skillful enough to win when he wished, but today’s foray into the heart of New Orleans respectability was not about winning at cards. Having found favor with these three gentlemen, he peered through the haze of smoke in search of others to help advance his campaign.
Snatches of conversations in French and Spanish identified the Creoles, who still considered themselves the city’s aristocracy. The Creole families, having come to Louisiana during the time of French and Spanish rule, held less influence than they once had, but were still a contingent to be reckoned with.
These were outnumbered by the more boisterous Americans, who owed their social positions to wealth rather than breeding. They were sugar growers, shipping magnates, mill owners, manufacturers, physicians, barristers and landlords, and all, by their very presence here, proclaimed themselves to be among the city’s new elite.
“I hear Lafitte is dead again,” the ex-governor remarked.
The judge emitted a snort. “What is it this time? I suppose hanging is too much to hope for.”
“Sadly, yes.” The tobacco baron made a sour face. “Something about malaria, I believe.”
Bowie’s thoughts took him far from the gaming room and its distinguished company, back to the island stronghold Lafitte had called Campeachy . The sandy bank had teamed with jeering pirates, while Bowie himself sat nailed to a log in the lagoon, face to face with a man determined to take his life. Among the crowd he noted the saucy blonde cause of the duel, and the livid, snarling face of his opponent’s brother, Renato. And overseeing it all, amusement curling his lips, towered the figure of Jean Lafitte himself.
“What say you, Bowie? Did you ever encounter the blackguard?”
In his mind, Bowie ducked as his opponent’s blade flashed past his head, nicking his ear.
“Mr. Bowie, are you with us?”
Quick as lightning, he returned the thrust, grinning as blood spurted from the other man’s arm.
“James! James, for God’s sake!”
A hand gripped his wrist, and Bowie nearly lashed out, but some instinct warned him, and he blinked, shocked to behold his gaming companions regarding him with mouths agape.
“Good Lord, James.” The former governor fanned himself with his cards. “The way you were gripping that knife, we feared you were about to slaughter us all.”
Bowie glanced down, relieved to see the knife still sheathed at his hip. With effort, he loosened his grip on the smooth wooden handle and returned his hand to the table.
The scene at Lafitte’s base on Galveston Island had played out eight years earlier, but its aftermath, involving the saucy blonde wench and the pirate Renato, still haunted his dreams.
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” he said lightly, “I believe you were speaking of Lafitte. For my money, he was dead the last time we heard of him, and dead the time before that. These continuing rumors are the work of idle minds.”
“I must agree,” the former governor said. “Lafitte is indeed dead, and piracy died with him.”
Bowie lit a cigar to hide his smirk. The ex-governor was a fool, but there was no profit in saying so. Lafitte was dead, he had no doubt. But piracy, as he well knew, lived not upon the seas, but in the hearts of men.
It was mere minutes later—and Bowie’s equilibrium had not yet returned—when a new and entirely unwelcome voice came from the table behind.
“That bumpkin Bowie,” the voice said, “troubles me not at all. Lord knows, the man is little more than a savage, prancing about with that ridiculous toadsticker of his.”
Bowie turned to cast a hard eye upon the new arrival. It was General Walter Overton, one of the aging heroes of the Battle of New Orleans, and Bowie’s main rival in the coming election.
Dropping his bulk into a vacant chair, the man continued, “Thankfully, his bid for Congress has died a’borning, because that scoundrel Brent has reneged on his pledge to retire. ‘Duty to his constituents,’ he says. Balderdash! The man has been suckling at the public teat so long he cannot bear to be weaned.”
Bowie was out of his chair in an instant, already reaching for the man’s collar.
“What a state of things!” Overton droned on. “Men of character who will not stoop to low and dirty intrigue are shunned as being out of fashion, while the most blatantly corrupt are—”
The man gasped for air, his fat face purpling as Bowie yanked him out of his chair.
“This news of Brent,” Bowie gritted. “How did you come by it? Speak, damn you!”
“James.” The ex-governor was at his side. “A man can hardly speak while being strangled.”
Bowie’s red fury abated not at all, but he saw sense in the words, and loosened his grip.
“Now,” he said, “you will tell me more of Brent.”
Overton sucked in great draughts of air, his eyes b