White Doves at Morning: A Dave Robicheaux Novel Read Online Free
Author: James Lee Burke
slaughterhouse buzzing with bottle flies and a brick saloon with a railed bar inside, then a paint-skinned, two-story frame house with a sagging gallery that served as New Iberia's only bordello. The owner, Carrie LaRose, who some said had been in prison in the West Indies or France, had added a tent in the side yard, with cots inside, to handle the increase in business from Camp Pratt.
A dark-haired chub of a girl in front of the tent scooped up her dress and lifted it high above her bloomers. "How about a ride, Willie? Only a dollar," she said.
Willie raised himself in the saddle and removed his hat. "It's a terrible temptation, May, but I'd be stricken blind by your beauty and would never find my home ordear mother again," he said.The girl grinned broadly and was about to shout back a rejoinder, when she was startled by a young barefoot man, six and a half feet tall, running hard after Willie Burke.
The tall youth vaulted onto the rump of Willie's horse, grabbing Willie around the sides for purchase while Willie's horse spooked sideways and almost caved with the additional weight.
Willie could smell an odor like milk and freshly mowed hay in the tall youth's clothes.
"You pass by without saying hello to your pal?" the young man said.
"Hello, Jim!"
"Hello there, Willie!"
"You get enough grog in you last night?" Willie asked.
"Hardly," Jim replied. "Are you going to see that nigger girl again?"
"It's a possibility. Care to come along?" Willie said. The young man named Jim had hair the color of straw and an angular, self-confident face that reflected neither judgment of himself nor others. He pulled slightly at the book that protruded from Willie's pocket and flipped his thumb along the edges of the pages.
"What you're about to do is against the law, Willie," Jim said.
Willie looked at the dust blowing out of the new sugarcane, a solitary drop of rain that made a star in the dust. "Smell the salt? It's a fine day, Jim. I think you should stay out of saloons for a spell," he said.
"That girl is owned by Ira Jamison. He's not a man to fool with," Jim said.
"Really, now?"
"Join the Home Guards with me. You should see the Enfield rifles we uncrated yesterday. The Yankees come down here, by God we'll lighten their load."
"I'm sure they're properly frightened at the prospect. You'd better drop off now, Jim. I don't want to get you in trouble with Marse Jamison," Willie said.
Jim's silence made Willie truly wish for the first time that day he'd kept his own counsel. He felt Jim's hands let go of his sides, then heard his weight hit the dirt road. Willie turned to wave good-bye to his friend, sorry for his condescending attitude, even sorrier for the fear in his breast that he could barely conceal. But his friend did not look back.
THE last house on the road was a ramshackle laundry owned by Ira Jamison, set between two spreading oaks, behind which Flower sat in an open-air wash shed, scrubbing stains out of a man's nightshirt, her face beaded with perspiration from the iron pots steaming around her. Her hair was black and straight, like an Indian's, her cheekbones pronounced, her skin the color of coffee with milk poured in it.
She looked at the sun's place in the sky and set the shirt down in the boiling water again and went into the cypress cabin where she lived by the coulee and wiped her face and neck and underarms with a rag she dipped into a cypress bucket.
From under her bed she removed the lined tablet and dictionary Willie had given her and sat in a chair by the window and read the lines she had written in the tablet:
A owl flown acrost the moon late last night.
A cricket sleeped on the pillow by my head.
The gator down in the coulee look like dark stone when the sunlite turn red and spill out on the land.
There is talk of a war. A free man of color who have a big house on the bayou say for the rest of us not to listen to no such talk. He own slaves hisself and makes bricks in a big oven.
I
A dark-haired chub of a girl in front of the tent scooped up her dress and lifted it high above her bloomers. "How about a ride, Willie? Only a dollar," she said.
Willie raised himself in the saddle and removed his hat. "It's a terrible temptation, May, but I'd be stricken blind by your beauty and would never find my home ordear mother again," he said.The girl grinned broadly and was about to shout back a rejoinder, when she was startled by a young barefoot man, six and a half feet tall, running hard after Willie Burke.
The tall youth vaulted onto the rump of Willie's horse, grabbing Willie around the sides for purchase while Willie's horse spooked sideways and almost caved with the additional weight.
Willie could smell an odor like milk and freshly mowed hay in the tall youth's clothes.
"You pass by without saying hello to your pal?" the young man said.
"Hello, Jim!"
"Hello there, Willie!"
"You get enough grog in you last night?" Willie asked.
"Hardly," Jim replied. "Are you going to see that nigger girl again?"
"It's a possibility. Care to come along?" Willie said. The young man named Jim had hair the color of straw and an angular, self-confident face that reflected neither judgment of himself nor others. He pulled slightly at the book that protruded from Willie's pocket and flipped his thumb along the edges of the pages.
"What you're about to do is against the law, Willie," Jim said.
Willie looked at the dust blowing out of the new sugarcane, a solitary drop of rain that made a star in the dust. "Smell the salt? It's a fine day, Jim. I think you should stay out of saloons for a spell," he said.
"That girl is owned by Ira Jamison. He's not a man to fool with," Jim said.
"Really, now?"
"Join the Home Guards with me. You should see the Enfield rifles we uncrated yesterday. The Yankees come down here, by God we'll lighten their load."
"I'm sure they're properly frightened at the prospect. You'd better drop off now, Jim. I don't want to get you in trouble with Marse Jamison," Willie said.
Jim's silence made Willie truly wish for the first time that day he'd kept his own counsel. He felt Jim's hands let go of his sides, then heard his weight hit the dirt road. Willie turned to wave good-bye to his friend, sorry for his condescending attitude, even sorrier for the fear in his breast that he could barely conceal. But his friend did not look back.
THE last house on the road was a ramshackle laundry owned by Ira Jamison, set between two spreading oaks, behind which Flower sat in an open-air wash shed, scrubbing stains out of a man's nightshirt, her face beaded with perspiration from the iron pots steaming around her. Her hair was black and straight, like an Indian's, her cheekbones pronounced, her skin the color of coffee with milk poured in it.
She looked at the sun's place in the sky and set the shirt down in the boiling water again and went into the cypress cabin where she lived by the coulee and wiped her face and neck and underarms with a rag she dipped into a cypress bucket.
From under her bed she removed the lined tablet and dictionary Willie had given her and sat in a chair by the window and read the lines she had written in the tablet:
A owl flown acrost the moon late last night.
A cricket sleeped on the pillow by my head.
The gator down in the coulee look like dark stone when the sunlite turn red and spill out on the land.
There is talk of a war. A free man of color who have a big house on the bayou say for the rest of us not to listen to no such talk. He own slaves hisself and makes bricks in a big oven.
I
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