Eli Warren on the Mississippi

—•—

The saloon of the Crescent Belle breathed heat and lamplight, its brass lamps swaying lazily on their chains as the paddlewheel’s thump carried through the floorboards like a steady heartbeat. The air was thick with the slow curl of cigar smoke, softening the edges of the green baize table that stood at the room’s center. Men had gathered around it the way iron filings gather to a magnet—boatmen with river mud on their boots, merchants smelling faintly of cologne and coin, drifters with nothing to lose but their last chip.

Eli had taken a chair that gave him the whole room in a single sweep—the bar, the main stair, and both doors. His coat was plain but pressed, his collar clean, his hair neatly combed. It was the kind of face and frame a man forgot by morning, and that suited him fine. There was water in his glass, not whiskey. Whiskey clouded the sense and dulled the reflexes, and slow hands didn’t last long on the river.

The deck beneath him had a faint spring to it, the boards flexing just enough to remind a man where he was. The scent of smoke and old varnish mingled with the sharper tang of river water drifting in through a half-open porthole. Somewhere near the rail, a battered piano leaned into a lazy waltz, the tune stumbling against the buzz of conversation and the rattle of dice at a far table.

Across from Eli sat Burke Kettering, broad-shouldered and still as cut stone. He played the way he looked—without wasted motion, without a smile or frown, moving chips with the quiet authority of a man who expected the table to bend to him. Every so often his eyes swept the crowd behind Eli, not lingering, not searching, just taking inventory of who was where.

Eli made his own inventory. The bar’s warped mirror caught the whole scene in a second reflection, bending the lamplight into wavering halos over heads and shoulders. In it, a man in a gray vest leaned on the bar, one hand wrapped around a whiskey glass that hadn’t sweated a ring on the wood. The glass didn’t move much, and neither did the man. The hang of his coat tugged faintly on one side, a weight pulling at the fabric—metal weight. Eli filed it away.

The cards came in easy rhythm, the dealer’s hands moving with the precision of long practice. Eli played sparingly, folding more than he saw. When he stayed in, he stayed shallow, letting the others show their tells. The merchant in the striped waistcoat smiled too easily. The riverhand chewed his mustache whenever he counted his chips. Burke didn’t chew anything—he breathed, he moved chips, and when the dealer turned him a bad card, his eyes stayed exactly the same. That was a tell in its own right.

The Crescent Belle gave a slow roll to port, the shift in weight drawing a soft rattle from the glasses on the back bar. Two men by the door leaned the wrong way before the deck moved—a land man’s reflex, not a river man’s—and then stood rooted in place, waiting for something that wasn’t the river’s current. Eli made note of them as easily as another man might note the weather.

From somewhere just behind his chair, a low voice carried a story in fragments—Memphis, a bent card, a chair going over, a preacher the next morning. The words came like someone tossing pebbles in a pond, each one sinking without a splash, but the ripples traveled all the same. Eli didn’t turn to look, but he noticed the faint tightening of Burke’s jaw when the preacher was mentioned.

The dealer raked in a pot and set the next hand. The room’s rhythm shifted—the conversations softened, more heads turned toward the center table. A woman in a red dress passed close, her perfume threading through the smoke. She lingered for a heartbeat too long, her eyes on the game rather than the man whose arm she brushed. Another note for the ledger.

Eli let the night settle around him like a coat, his breathing slow and steady. The exits were in mind—three doors, plus the rail and the river if the choice was between swimming and dying on the deck. He knew the distances to each man worth noting, and he kept a quiet count of movements, words, and the changes in the air that told him when the river’s current had shifted from water to men.

When the dealer said, “Let’s play,” Eli already knew he was in the right place, at the right table, at the right moment. He also knew that somewhere before the night was over, this game would ask for more than coin. On the Mississippi, games often did.

—•—

The second hand came smooth and quick, the cards whispering over the felt as the dealer’s fingers worked without hurry. The Crescent Belle’s steady churn beneath them was a rhythm Eli could have timed a watch by—two beats in the paddlewheel, one in the dealer’s hands, the same quiet pulse that carried the room forward.

Eli took his cards with an easy motion, holding them just long enough for a glance. They weren’t much—certainly nothing worth chasing—but he let them rest in front of him as if the decision could wait. Early hands weren’t for winning; they were for watching. The real game started in the spaces between bets.

To his left, the merchant in the striped waistcoat raised on a face that said he believed fortune favored the bold. It didn’t, not for long, but Eli wasn’t about to teach that lesson tonight. Across the table, the riverhand was already stacking his chips before the last bet landed, his fingers moving by habit, not confidence. Burke Kettering, on the other hand, moved chips with the calm weight of a man who never wondered if the pot was his—it simply would be, unless someone took it from him, and few tried.

The hum of conversation from the rail thickened as the hand played out. A laugh rose and fell from a far table, the sound quickly swallowed by the room’s low murmur. The scent of cigar smoke hung close to the lamps, where heat pulled it upward before letting it drift back down in lazy spirals. Through it, Eli caught a glimpse of the woman in red leaning into the ear of a man in a brown bowler. Her lips moved, but her eyes flicked toward the table here.

The merchant pushed the last of his chips into the pot with a flourish, only to lose them a heartbeat later. The dealer’s rake was swift, and the man’s smile faltered just enough to show the first crack. Eli didn’t move except to fold his own cards with quiet precision. The merchant’s loss told him more than any win could have—overconfidence had a sound, and it carried in the shuffle of chips like a current under the main flow.

The next few hands passed in the same measured fashion. Eli let one come to him, winning it with a cautious raise and a modest take—just enough to show he was part of the game without making himself the game. He folded the next, and the one after, content to let the pot swell without his stake. Patience kept a man alive longer than bravado.

All the while, his attention drifted in its own slow circuit. Burke’s eyes were level and unreadable, but when the dealer turned a card that didn’t suit him, there was the faintest stillness—less than a breath—before his hand moved. The gray-vested man at the bar still hadn’t shifted much, though the lamplight found the edge of a watch chain when he adjusted his stance.

The Crescent Belle rolled gently, a reminder that the river outside was always moving, always changing. Inside, the motion was in the men—the subtle tightening of posture, the shift of weight toward the table, the way conversation tapered when the stakes climbed. Eli could feel it in the air, the same way a man on the water feels a wind change before the sails stir.

The dealer cleared another pot and began to shuffle. Around them, the murmur of the crowd seemed to lean in. Somewhere, a coin rolled across wood and dropped with a faint, ringing note, as if the boat itself had decided to place a small wager on what was coming next.

Eli settled back in his chair, the faint smile at the corner of his mouth carrying no mirth. The river had a way of telling a man when it was about to turn—and from where he sat, it was already starting to bend.

—•—

The deck outside the saloon doors was a strip of light between the heat inside and the cool black stretch of the Mississippi. Eli stepped out for a moment, letting the air clear his head. The paddlewheel’s churn was steady, the scent of river water sharp against the memory of tobacco smoke.

He leaned on the rail, eyes sweeping the length of the promenade. The moon was a sliver, its light pooling in the ripples. Passengers moved in twos and threes, their conversations little more than murmurs lost to the current. Somewhere below, the boilers hissed like an impatient animal.

Behind him, the saloon roared on—chips clinking, laughter spiking, the piano staggering through a tune it had played too often. But when he stepped back inside, the shift was subtle. A table had turned colder. The men still played, but the pace was different—measured now, careful.

Burke Kettering was still there, his stack of chips neat, perfectly stacked. The man in the gray vest had moved closer to the game, his eyes fixed not on the cards but on the men who held them. Near the aft door, two strangers watched without watching, their posture just loose enough to look casual.

Eli slid back into his seat. He didn’t play the next hand. He let the rhythm of the table tell him its story. Something was drawing in—like the slow tightening of a noose—and whatever it was, it wasn’t about the pot.

—•—

The game thinned as the hours stretched. Losers drifted away, drawn off by the lure of the bar or the sting of their own empty pockets. What remained was a tighter circle—men with enough coin to matter and enough will to risk it. The smoke was thicker now, the lamps burning lower, casting longer shadows across the felt.

Eli stayed in his seat, neither pressing his luck nor backing away from it. His stack of chips was respectable, the result of patience more than nerve. Across from him, Burke Kettering sat unchanged, his pile a quiet monument to the same principle.

The gray-vested man had left the bar at some point without making a sound. Eli noticed his absence the way a woodsman notices a missing birdcall—it was the silence that marked it. A glance toward the far end of the saloon found him now posted near the stairwell, a better vantage for the table.

The paddlewheel’s thump seemed louder in the quiet between bets. The dealer moved with measured precision, but the table had grown wary. Each card fell like a pebble into still water, sending ripples across faces.

Eli took a small hand, folding the next. He was watching the space behind Burke now, where the two land men from earlier had stationed themselves near the aft door. They weren’t here for cards. Their eyes moved too often, and when they landed, they landed on Burke.

A sudden raise from the riverhand at the far end of the table broke the rhythm. The man leaned forward, a bead of sweat tracking from his temple to his jaw. Burke called without changing expression, and the dealer turned the final card. The riverhand’s bluff fell apart as quickly as his smile. Burke’s win was silent, his rake smooth.

But Eli wasn’t looking at the pot. He was watching the faint tilt of Burke’s head toward the aft door, the briefest acknowledgment of the watchers. It wasn’t fear—it was recognition.

The hand ended, and the next began, but the feel of the room had shifted. Somewhere beyond the saloon’s walls, the river rolled on, black and deep. Inside, something was moving under the surface, and Eli knew it was only a matter of time before it broke.

—•—

The quiet came like the eye of a storm—unnatural in a place built on noise. Conversations thinned. The piano player, half-asleep at his bench, let the last notes of a tune wander into stillness. Even the paddlewheel’s steady beat felt muffled, as if the river had drawn a breath and was holding it.

Eli felt it in the skin between his shoulders. Years on the trail, years on the river, years where listening meant living—this was the kind of silence that meant something was about to happen.

Burke’s gaze slid past Eli to the far corner, where the gray-vested man now stood. Their eyes met in a quick, wordless exchange. One of the land men near the door shifted his coat with the kind of motion that meant more than comfort.

The dealer’s hands moved slower now, his eyes flicking toward the same corner more often than the cards. Eli took his hand without looking at it, sliding a modest bet into the pot just to keep his place in the rhythm.

A whisper of fabric caught his ear—the soft draw of a coat hem against a chair back. He didn’t look. He didn’t have to. His right hand stayed loose on the table’s edge, but his mind measured the space to the rail, the distance to the nearest cover, and the angle of the lamp overhead that might blind a man if tipped.

Then, just as quick as it had come, the tension shifted. A laugh broke from somewhere near the bar, sharp and loud, followed by a muttered curse. The piano stumbled back into life, the paddlewheel’s beat felt stronger again.

But Eli didn’t buy it. Whatever had passed between Burke and the watchers was still hanging in the air, too heavy to vanish with a laugh. The river was back in motion, but the current had changed.

The air in the saloon thickened. The smell of cigar smoke clung to the back of Eli’s throat, mingling with the faint tang of river water drifting in through an open porthole. Every creak of the Crescent Belle’s timbers seemed louder, every shift in the deck beneath his boots more pronounced.

The pot in the center of the table was no longer just chips and coins — it was a magnet pulling every eye in the room. Even the dealer’s hands moved slower now, as though unwilling to disturb the tension that had settled over them.

Burke Kettering leaned forward, elbows on the table. His gaze locked on Eli, steady as a rifle sight. Then, without a word, he pushed a tower of chips into the pot. They toppled slightly at the top, clinking together in a lazy cascade. The crowd murmured. It wasn’t just a bet — it was a dare.

From the bar, the man in the gray vest shifted his stance. His free hand rested casually — too casually — near his coat pocket. Eli didn’t need to guess what was inside. A small flash of brass at his waist when the lamplight caught it confirmed it.

Eli’s own stack was respectable but not limitless. Calling the bet would put him deep in the current with no way back. Folding would save him, but at the cost of every hour he’d fought to get here — and he needed that money before they docked in Vicksburg.

Somewhere behind him, a chair scraped back. Footsteps crossed the saloon floor. The woman in red was closer now, her perfume cutting through the smoke. Her eyes weren’t on the cards anymore. They were on the men holding them.

Eli let his fingers rest on the edge of his chips, his face calm, his breathing steady. He could hear his own pulse in his ears, steady as the paddlewheel thump underfoot. He thought about Memphis, about the whispered warning. About the preacher and the fresh-dug grave.

The Mississippi rolled on outside, black and silent, its currents shifting unseen beneath the surface. Inside, the current was visible, audible — the hitch in a gambler’s breath, the scrape of a coin across felt, the low hum of men waiting for someone to break.

Eli picked up a stack of chips. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to look like a man who had already made up his mind. He slid them forward, the clack of their movement cutting through the room like a pistol’s hammer falling.

Burke’s expression didn’t change, but something in the set of his jaw tightened. The dealer’s eyes flicked between them, then to the pot. The next move belonged to Burke, but every man in the room knew the next mistake could belong to Eli.

—•—

The dealer’s hands moved like clockwork, sweeping the pot into a neat pile, but the air in the saloon was anything but orderly. Every man close enough to see the board leaned forward, their breaths mingling with the smoke. The Crescent Belle seemed to slow in the water, the thrum of the paddlewheel muffled under the weight of what was about to happen.

Burke’s fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. The dealer burned the top card and turned the river over with a soft flick.

It was nothing to most eyes — just a single rectangle of pasteboard. But to Eli, it was the missing stone in an arch, the hinge on which the whole door swung. Not a perfect card, but the perfect card for the story he’d been telling all night.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Every man who’d survived a table like this knew the deadliest moment wasn’t when you saw your hand made — it was in convincing the rest of the table they were already buried.

Burke’s gaze dropped to the card, then lifted to meet Eli’s. He placed a single chip forward — a feeler. Eli’s call came quick, a smooth push of matching value.

That’s when Burke shoved the rest of his stack into the pot. No hesitation, no glance at the sidekick in the gray vest. It was the kind of bet that left no room for retreat.

The room went still. The woman in red had stopped beside Eli now, close enough that he caught the faint whisper of silk when she shifted. The gray-vested man at the bar set his drink down without looking away, his hand resting inside his coat.

Eli let the silence stretch. Long enough for sweat to bead at the back of his neck. Long enough for the crowd to start murmuring, for a man near the bar to mutter something about “blood in the water.”

Then he smiled — just enough to be seen — and slid his own stack forward, the chips rolling into the pot with a sound like a tide breaking on rock.

The dealer’s hands moved fast now, gathering the wagers and laying the cards bare. Eli’s hand fanned out across the felt, the river card locking it tight. A full house.

For a breath, no one moved. Then Burke’s jaw clenched. He turned his cards over — two pair. Strong enough to kill most men. But not tonight.

The pot slid toward Eli, heavy with coin and promise. The crowd broke into a low hum. The woman in red smiled faintly and drifted back into the smoke. Burke’s eyes stayed on Eli, cold and measuring, before he pushed back from the table and stood.

The man in the gray vest stepped away from the bar, closing the space between them in three slow strides. He stopped beside Burke, said nothing, but his hand never left his coat.

Eli gathered the chips with a steady hand, never breaking eye contact. On the Mississippi, some winnings were measured in gold, others in how long you could keep breathing afterward.

Tonight, he intended to keep both.

—•—

By the time Eli stepped onto the deck, the night had gone clear and cold. The Mississippi stretched black and endless under a thin slice of moon, its surface broken only by the steady churn of the paddlewheel. Lanterns swayed gently on their hooks, throwing arcs of gold across the planks.

The air smelled of river water and distant rain, sharp after the smoke and heat of the saloon. Eli paused, letting his eyes adjust, scanning the length of the promenade deck. A few passengers lingered near the bow, their voices low against the sound of the current. No sign of Burke. No sign of the man in the gray vest.

He moved toward the rail, his footsteps quiet on the worn boards. The current pulled at the hull, a constant reminder that the river didn’t care what happened on its surface. His gaze drifted over the water, dark and restless under the moonlight.

A faint creak of boards came from behind him. Slow. Careful. Not the gait of a man out for air. Eli didn’t turn right away. He let his hands rest lightly on the rail, eyes still on the water, listening. The sound came again, closer now, joined by the faint jingle of metal against leather.

He turned slightly. Two figures slipped from the shadows. Burke’s hat brim kept his face in darkness, but Eli didn’t need to see the eyes to feel their weight. The gray-vested man walked half a pace behind, his coat sagging on one side—the telltale drag of a holstered pistol.

“Fine hand you played back there,” Burke said, his voice carrying over the hum of the paddlewheel. “Real fine. But we both know luck like that don’t last forever.”

Eli angled toward them, keeping the rail at his back. “Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” His tone was flat, unhurried, but his fingers brushed the top button of his coat—close enough to his gun if things turned.

The man in the vest flexed his fingers. “Maybe. But Burke don’t take kindly to being embarrassed in front of a crowd.”

Burke stepped closer, lamplight catching his jaw. “And I don’t like being taken for a fool. So here’s me wondering—was that hand honest, or am I owed something back?”

They stood ten feet apart—too far to grab, too close to miss. The river kept rolling, the deck holding still. Somewhere aft, a bell rang the change of watch. No one came.

Eli’s smile was faint, without warmth. “If you think I cheated… you should’ve called me on it at the table.”

Burke’s jaw locked. The gray-vested man shifted his weight. Below, the paddlewheel thumped in the dark. The next move would decide everything.

—•—

The gray-vested man twitched first. His hand dropped for the pistol under his coat.

Eli shifted sideways in one smooth step, lining the man directly behind Burke. As the gun came free, Eli shoved Burke backward into him. The revolver never cleared level—Eli’s hand snapped down on the man’s wrist, hard, jolting the weapon loose.

Burke lurched forward with a curse, clawing for his own gun. Eli stayed inside his reach, clamping his wrist, using his momentum to drive him toward the rail. Burke tried to wrench away, but there was no space to draw—only the cold push of Eli’s weight.

With a sudden turn, Eli heaved him over the rail. Burke hit the water with a splash swallowed by the current.

The gray-vested man lunged, maybe for Eli, maybe for the rail—but Eli’s boot caught him in the ribs. The man toppled backward into the black water, vanishing in the churning wake. For a heartbeat, he reappeared near the paddlewheel before the cross-current spun him away.

The wheel kept turning. One man drifted toward the far bank. The other disappeared into the night. Whether they reached shore, Eli never knew.

He straightened, buttoned his coat, and turned for the saloon. Behind him, the river kept its secrets, the paddlewheel beating a steady pulse into the dark.