Shooting For Justice, G. Tilman [best historical fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

town. Since the town was not large, he went out looking for her. He was successful.

“There’s a seagoing port here. Or rather a Gulf-going,” she told him. “Do you think it would be worthwhile to go over to the port area and listen for a while?” she asked.

“I should start keeping a change of work clothes for a disguise with me,” Pope admitted.

“Find another second-hand store. Nobody there is going to speak with a man in a navy-blue suit,” she said.

“Good thought. I will do some shopping and come back to change. See you soon.”

Pope found a second-hand store. It had a rack of clothes and boots and he found some which would work. They had been nicely washed, something he could remedy quickly.

He bought an outfit and went back to the hotel and changed. As before, without a covering coat or pockets, he could not take a gun. He used the same solution. His Bowie in a boot and the sheath bound to his calf.

He worried a bit about lack of stubble but had no remedy. As before, he slipped out the back of the hotel and began the walk to the port area. Arriving by horseback or a hansom cab would be out of character.

Pope walked around the port and watched. He found a saloon. Dive would have been a more appropriate description.

It was fairly full. Seamen and dockworkers drinking lunch and complaining.

Pope sidled up to the bar and ordered a draft. It was weak and tepid.

After a few minutes, the man next to him asked if he was new to town.

“Yeah. A fella in Mississippi told me there were jobs here. Lying bastard!”

“What do you do?” Pope had to think fast. As a gunfighter, he worked diligently to protect his hands. They were a giveaway he was not a laborer.

“I string wire. Sometimes, I do some varnishing. I got a problem with my hands. Born with it. No real strength to do a man’s work.”

His neighbor seemed to buy the lie.

“Yeah. Not much here. With the Navy Live Oak Preserve near, we used to ship out a lot of lumber to the Navy Yards. With them doing away with wood hulls, it’s already died out. Won’t come back until some of them steel ships break in half or sink. Men’s gonna die with the stupid idea. Mark my words. Everybody here thinks it!”

“Is there anything can be done about it?” Pope asked.

“Shoot them fellas in Washington who came up with this silliness.”

“Shooting them would work, I guess. But which ones would you shoot? There’s a lot of them up there,” Pope said, hoping to keep the man talking.

“Me, I’d start with the president, then the secretary of the Navy and whatever odd admiral walked past my gun.”

“Think you or anybody will actually do it?”

“Nope. It would be like suicide. Them guys got guards who are shooters for a living. They’d take me out in a second. A job is worth complaining about, but not worth dying for. They’s other jobs out there. The port will figure out something other to ship. Life goes on.”

“I guess,” Pope began, “but they sure are messing things up for us who work on ships, building ships, loading ships and more,” he said.

“Always government against the little man,” the man said.

Pope did not really have a retort, so said nothing. The man quaffed his beer and walked off a bit unsteadily.

If he is a good indicator, it does not sound like the entry level men will be anything other than cannon fodder in somebody bigger’s plan, Pope thought.

Pope hit five more bars and one café during the afternoon. He picked up the same sentiments and the same lack of probability of action on the part of marine industry workers.

He was interested in what tomorrow would bring in Biloxi. He would get a slightly different perspective talking with the owners of a marine lumber servicing company. Pope still could not see any tie-in with Scarsdale, New York however. Everything seemed to him to come back to New York. And New York brought him back to thinking about Conkling.

He returned to the hotel and cleaned up.

He picked up a horse and rode to the live oak reservation at Gulf Breeze. The manager hired by the Navy to run it hoped to be able to buy it because of the Navy’s decision to cease making wooden hulls.

“There’s lots of commercial hulls which will always be wood. I have people trying to buy from me all the time, but I can only sell to the Navy. I make a salary from the Navy. If I owned it, I’d make a lot more,” the manager said.

No rancor there, Pope thought.

They had an eight a.m. train in the morning. Sarah suggested eating in the hotel’s small dining room, packing and going to bed early. This time, Pope decided to keep his disguise outfit. If he could find a theatrical store somewhere, he even considered obtaining a bushy beard to add to the outfit. Assuming he could find one realistic enough to stand up to close scrutiny by someone on the next bar stool.

Pope and Sarah took a connector train over to the Mississippi River, then a commuter which took primarily businessmen down to New Orleans.

They got off at Biloxi. Pope rode out to the live oak reservation first and spoke with the Navy’s civilian manager.

“I may or may not lose my job. I’m not too worried either way. The Navy says they will keep it open along with the one over in Florida. They will still make small boats with wood hulls. They don’t really pay so well, so it’s no never mind to me if they close her down. I can find something else. Maybe something paying better,” he told Pope.

Pope returned to the hotel and got in his same disguise. He hit the bars and a couple of eateries catering to dockworkers. The complaints were similar to those in Pensacola. None were worrisome from a case