The Crescent Belle’s paddlewheel slowed, its churn easing to a steady slap as the boat nosed against the Vicksburg dock. Lanterns swung on iron hooks, throwing yellow arcs across the black river. Passengers pressed toward the gangplank in a hurry, boots thudding, valises banging against knees. They wanted off, and they wanted it quick.

Eli wasn’t among them. He lingered in the saloon long enough to collect his coat, his saddlebag, and the bundle the purser slid across the counter with a nod. He checked the weight of it, then settled it over his shoulder. Nothing unusual in a man taking his time—at least, not to anyone watching. He moved with the same quiet patience that had kept him alive at a hundred tables and in a dozen back-country towns.

The two landmen from the game didn’t linger. They were first down the gangplank, shoulders brushing passengers aside, their boots hitting the dock quick and heavy. They cast a look over their shoulders once—brief, sharp, and full of intent—then melted into the shadows by the mooring posts. By the time Eli stepped out onto the deck to breathe the river air, they were gone.

The night had a smell to it—tar, wet rope, mule sweat, the faint sour reek of whiskey and the river, always the smell of the river. Dockhands moved cargo with the speed of men paid by the piece, but there were others who weren’t working. They loitered at the edges of the lantern glow, hats pulled low, pipes clenched between their teeth. Too many of them. Too idle for this hour.

Eli felt it, the same way a river pilot feels a snag under the surface without ever seeing it. He adjusted his grip on the saddlebag and started down the gangplank with the rest. No hurry in his step, but his eyes kept their own count—faces, shadows, the spaces between. The wood underfoot creaked with every boot, and somewhere in the dark a mule snorted and stamped like it had caught the scent of trouble.

The Mississippi slapped against the pilings, black and endless, but the current Eli minded now was on the dock. It was moving toward him.

—•—

At the foot of the gangplank, the dock spread wide, a litter of cargo and shadow. Cotton bales stood shoulder-high in uneven stacks, their burlap sides stained with river damp. Lantern light caught the iron hoops of hogsheads, the edges of crates, the dull gleam of a wagon’s wheel rim.

Eli stepped clear of the last passenger and let the crowd drift ahead. His eyes never left the dark edges. That was when one of them moved.

A man slid out from between the bales of cotton—broad, rough, his coat hanging loose around a pistol belt. He planted himself square in Eli’s path and spat to the side.

“Well now,” the man drawled, voice rough with whiskey. “Look who come off the Belle a little heavier than he went on.” His gaze dipped to the saddlebag, then back up with a grin that held no warmth.

Another shape shifted behind Eli, boots scuffing wood. Then a third, easing out from the line of mooring posts. The circle wasn’t tight yet, but it was closing, and the dock suddenly felt smaller than the deck he’d left behind.

Eli stopped. He let the bag hang easy on his shoulder, his hand resting at his side. The man in front wasn’t looking at his face—he was looking for a weakness, a twitch, anything to show the stranger had nerves.

“You took something don’t belong to you,” the cotton-bale man said, stepping closer. “Burke ain’t here to ask for it back, but we’ll do the asking.”

The river lapped against the pilings. A mule brayed sharp, tugging at its rope. The men around him shifted, the circle breathing in.

Eli didn’t answer right away. He let the silence settle like dust. He could feel the weight of the river at his back, the smell of cotton and tar in his lungs, the nearness of guns not yet drawn but itching.

When he spoke, his voice was flat, without hurry.

“If Burke wanted it back, he should’ve held onto it.”

The man’s grin vanished. The circle tightened another step.

And in the hush before the first move, Eli could hear it—the change in the air men carry right before they spring.

—•—

The grinless man’s hand twitched toward his belt. Eli caught the motion in the lantern light, saw the fabric pull tight across the butt of a revolver.

He moved first. His shoulder dropped, his hand flashing under his coat. The pistol cleared leather smooth, muzzle up before the cotton-bale man’s thumb brushed iron.

The shot cracked like a whip. Lantern glass rattled, a mule screamed and reared, chains clattering against wood. The man in front staggered back, clutching his side, his pistol half-drawn but useless.

Shouts rose from the shadows. A slug punched splinters from a crate near Eli’s head. He ducked sideways, boots thudding across the dock, saddlebag swinging. Another round hissed past and buried itself in a cotton bale, the burlap spitting white fluff.

Eli dropped to one knee behind a hogshead, steadying his aim. He breathed once, squeezed, and another man went down hard, sprawled across the mooring ropes. The rest scattered for cover, gunfire flashing out from behind barrels and wagons.

The dock became thunder and smoke—wood splintering, men cursing, the Mississippi slapping against pilings like it wanted to join the fight. Eli worked methodically, counting shots, shifting angles. He wasn’t here to waste bullets—each one had to find a man.

A figure lunged from behind a stack, charging with a knife. Eli pivoted, fired point-blank. The man spun, knife clattering across the boards before his body followed.

Then, for a heartbeat, there was quiet. Just the hiss of the river slipping past and the sight of powder smoke drifting, the mule’s panicked breathing, the paddlewheel’s steady churn upriver.

—•—

Powder smoke hung heavy over the dock, twisting in the lamplight. Three men lay still—the rest hadn’t charged again. From the shadows came only the scrape of boots, the shuffle of men pulling back but not running. Eli could hear them breathing in the dark, low curses carried on the river air.

He kept low behind the hogshead, pistol steady. Another shot cracked wide, more to remind him they were still there than to hit him. The bravado was gone, but the hate remained.

The wounded man at Eli’s feet coughed blood and spat weakly. His words rattled out like gravel:

“You… you don’t know what you’ve done. Burke ran more than cards. His men’ll come for you now—every last one of ’em.”

His head lolled, and he was gone.

Eli eased back into the cover of stacked crates, eyes sweeping the shadows. No shapes broke forward. They weren’t retreating far—just waiting, watching, letting the night cover them. The fight wasn’t over. It had only shifted.

Holstering wasn’t an option. He kept the Colt in hand, saddlebag tight to his shoulder, and angled toward the nearest alley mouth where lantern light thinned. Every step was measured, boots soft on the boards, eyes flicking to the dark where he knew Burke’s men still lingered.

At the edge of the dock, he slipped into the narrow street, swallowed by the crooked shadows of Vicksburg. Behind him, the dock stayed alive with smoke, whispers, and the steady thrum of the Mississippi.

He was in the city now. And the city already knew who he was.