Smugglers' Gold

by Lyle Brandt

  “You think so, do you?”

  “What’s your story, then? You reckon that he came from Menefee? After tonight?”

  “The only thing I know for sure is that there’s somethin’ wrong about him.”

  “Know what I think?”

  “Do I wanna know?”

  “I think you’re jealous.”

  Seitz felt a sudden flush of anger heating up his cheeks. “The hell you mean by that?”

  “You see him gettin’ close to Bryan, and you think he’s after your spot.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “But you’re in a sweat about it, anyhow.”

  “A lot you know.”

  “I know I need to get a poke. You seen Lavinia around?”

  Seitz turned away from Rafferty, disgusted by his inability to see the obvious. It was ridiculous to him, a total stranger being welcomed in to join a killing raid, of all things, when they barely knew the man. No, scratch that. None of them, in fact, knew George Revere at all. He was a cipher who had come from God knew where, appearing just when Marley needed him, as if by magic, and voila! The next thing Otto knew, Revere had joined their inner circle somehow and had saved Bryan again, shooting a man this time.

  The thing Seitz couldn’t figure out was why. What did he want?

  There was the obvious, of course, if Otto took him at his word. Some kind of minor outlaw looking for a gang to join and maybe work his way up through the ranks. Nothing disqualified his story, on the face of it, though he’d been reticent about providing details. Some would call that only natural, if he was on the run, but Seitz still couldn’t swallow it. He wouldn’t swallow it.

  Jealous? To hell with that!

  He had the business to look out for, even if their leader wasn’t doing what he’d call a bang-up job of dealing with security. No bummer off the street was going to invade and undermine their operation, not if Seitz had anything to say about it.

  And he would. Oh, yes indeed.

  Bryan had asked Revere to join them at the docks tomorrow, helping with a shipment that was scheduled to arrive. Call that another test, and Otto would be watching, primed to land on Georgie Boy with both feet at the first sign of a shady move. Both feet and then some, you could bet your life on that.

  Lavinia appeared in front of him, a trifle tipsy, just the slightest bit unsteady on her feet. “Somebody said Tommy was lookin’ for me,” she told Seitz. “Know where he is?”

  “Ain’t seen him,” Otto said. “But since you’re free, why don’t we head upstairs?”

  “You think I’m free, you don’t know much,” she said.

  “I know enough,” Otto assured her. “You just wait and see.”

  *

  Walking back from Awful Annie’s to his boardinghouse, the second night in Galveston, Ryder was sure that he had someone trailing him. Make that at least two someones, since they muttered back and forth from time to time, not making any serious attempt at stealth. Two pairs of shoes plodding behind him, or it might be more, the way they echoed in the dead streets trying to catch up with Ryder.

  Who this time? he wondered, as he ducked into an alleyway. All darkness, he had learned, was not created equal, and he wanted maximum concealment now, hoping that it would save his life.

  Jack Menefee was dead or dying when they’d left him on the second-story balcony at Gerta’s place, but Ryder guessed that other members of his gang could have been absent from the battle zone. If so, replacement of their fallen leader was inevitable, and it wouldn’t take survivors long to lay the blame at Bryan Marley’s doorstep—which, it seemed, meant Awful Annie’s. And their next step would be … what? They might not be prepared for a reprisal in force, so soon after the beating they’d taken. But picking off a single member of the gang might help assuage their fury for the moment.

  Ryder didn’t know if he had been the first to leave the celebration of their victory. He’d spent a sweet, intense half hour with Nell upstairs and had not bothered counting heads as he was leaving the saloon. It would have served no purpose anyway, since any number of the crew might be engaged in similar activities with Annie’s girls, behind closed doors.

  The muffled voices had drawn closer now, approaching Ryder’s hiding place. He had a choice to make, and quickly. Should he flee along the alley, seek another route back to the boardinghouse, or spring an ambush of his own and find out who was dogging him?

  Another possibility, he thought, was Otto Seitz or someone he’d put up to it. Marley’s lieutenant had no use for Ryder and he took no pains to hide the feeling, even after Ryder saved his boss’s life a second time. Did Seitz possess some prescience, despite his brutish aspect, that had let him see through Ryder’s pose as rootless felon George Revere?

  Or were the midnight trackers simply muggers, of the kind he might expect to find in Washington, New York, or any other major city in this lawless age? He knew that Galveston must have its share of cutthroats prowling after dark. Indeed, he’d met a few already, and might be considered one himself.

  Ryder was running out of time. The shuffling feet had closed to half a block from his position, maybe less. If he was going to escape, he had to do it now. The darkness should conceal him if he left immediately and avoided making any noise. He had a fair chance to escape if they were simple muggers, but if Seitz had sent them, they could simply go on to the boardinghouse and head him off.

  To hell with it, he thought and drew his Colt Army.

  Nerves jangling, Ryder waited in the shadows at the alley’s mouth until his trackers closed the gap to six or seven feet. He stepped into the open then, his pistol leveled, putting on a cheery tone to welcome them.

  “Good evening, gents,” he said, then registered their uniforms, the badges on their chests, and felt his stomach drop.

  The two policemen gaped at Ryder for a heartbeat, then went for their guns, secured in military-style flap holsters. Ryder could have killed them then—or fired to wound them, maybe at their kneecaps—but he drew the line at shooting lawmen. Thinking quickly while they fumbled with their holsters, be sprang forward, swinging with his Colt to left and right, the weapon’s eight-inch barrel making solid thunking sounds on impact with their skulls.

  The cop to Ryder’s left went down immediately, grunting softly as the Colt stunned him. His partner turned to meet the backhand swing Ryder directed at his temple, taking it across the forehead, stumbling as he went down on his backside. Ryder followed through, another swing to put him out, sprawled on the sidewalk with his gun still holstered. Turning to the other, Ryder found him stretched out on his side, moaning, eyes closed.

  Now what?

  The first thing that he thought of, on impulse, was to snatch their badges, reaching quickly down to pluck each from its place on a blue coat and put them in his pocket. Let the two go home with headaches and concoct a story for their captain when they couldn’t find their tin stars in the morning.

  Would the pair of them be safe where they were lying, until they regained their senses?

  Not my problem, Ryder thought and struck off toward his boardinghouse.

  *

  Listen, I know you trust him, but—”

  “You don’t. I hear you, Otto. What you can’t explain is why?”

  “I just—”

  “Tonight makes twice he’s saved my bacon, and this time he killed a man to do it.”

  “May have killed one.”

  “No. I saw the body. He was dead as dirt. Ike Murphy.”

  “Still …”

  “Still nothing. First you thought he might be working on the sly for Menefee, and that turned out to be a load of bunkum. What’s your story now?”

  “I haven’t got a story, but—”

  “But what?”

  “There’s somethin’ wrong about him, Bryan. I can smell it on him. You know I can always smell a rat.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re nursing a grudge against this guy for no good reason.”

  “Oh,
you’ll hear my reasons when I’ve dug them up.”

  “Uh-huh. Meanwhile, don’t go off half-cocked. And keep your boys away from him.”

  “I won’t do anything without your say-so, Bryan. You know that.”

  “I know you’d better not.” Then Marley smiled and placed a hand on Otto’s shoulder, saying, “Just relax for once. Try to enjoy a bit of life.”

  “Who’s got the time?” Seitz asked. “We have that load coming tomorrow, and I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody took up the slack for Menefee. On top of that—”

  “G’night, Otto. I’m going home. Stay here and worry to your heart’s content if you’ve a mind to.”

  “Bryan—”

  “But remember what I said. Hands off!”

  “Hands off,” Seitz solemnly affirmed. Thinking, My hands, at least. For now.

  But when he had the evidence he needed, that would be another story. How to find it was the problem, or to recognize it once he had the proof in hand. And having made that recognition he would strike decisively, no begging Marley for the go-ahead. Given a choice between securing permission or forgiveness, Seitz would gamble on forgiveness nine times out of ten.

  And this time, Otto realized, he could be gambling with his life.

  George Revere—or whatever his name was—had impressed the boss. Okay. That part was understandable. You help a man out of tight corner, he’s going to be grateful. Help him twice, and kill one of his enemies while you were doing it, you rose dramatically within his estimation. Knocking him back to normal size, and further down from there, would take some thought and effort.

  Otto needed something dirty. Not a woman thing, or opium. Something that would diminish George Revere in Marley’s eyes, make him expendable.

  No, more than that. Something to be disposed of without hesitation, eagerly.

  Or he could do the job himself, then turn around and blame it on some other gang in Galveston. Maybe just leave it unexplained, plead innocence when Marley questioned him and stick to that no matter what. The city was a rough place, dangerous, and Bryan’s new best friend had shown a knack for making enemies.

  Might be a way to go, if he was desperate. But first, Otto preferred to find out what was truly wrong with George Revere. Sniff out the rot that marked him as a danger to their gang and serve it up to Marley on a silver platter. Make it so that Bryan would be champing at the bit to kill Revere himself.

  Otto would miss out on the fun that way, but vindication was its own reward. As much as he loved Marley—as a brother, mind you, not like a couple of Marys—Seitz admitted to himself that he would like to see his old friend taken down a peg or two. Leave him in charge, of course, but help him understand that others had a way of seeing things he might find helpful, worthy of considering.

  Better a moment of embarrassment than being brought low by a stranger he had trusted on an impulse. Otto did not seek a change in leadership for their effective team, but if he thought about it now, who better to succeed his old friend than himself?

  It would require a vote, simple majority if no one challenged him. And why would anyone dispute Otto’s succession if he personally had revealed a traitor in their ranks? Of course, it would be tragic if he couldn’t stop that traitor from eliminating Bryan Marley before Otto’s bullets cut him down.

  Something to think about, he told himself. And smiled.

  *

  Back in his rented room, Ryder considered what he’d done to the policemen. If they had been sent for him particularly, by the captain he had irritated, Ryder thought that he—or rather, George Revere—could be in trouble. On the other hand, if they’d been watching out for anyone from Marley’s gang, there was a fair chance that they wouldn’t know his name or his address in Galveston. A third alternative, and the least likely, would apply if they’d been simply watching out for anyone to roust and picked on Ryder by coincidence. In that case, Ryder thought, he would be free and clear.

  But there were still the badges—no. 59 and no. 107—lying on the nightstand next to Ryder’s narrow bed. It seemed unlikely to him that the city would employ that many officers, allowing for sequential issuance of numbers, but it ultimately made no difference. At least two cops would be intent on punishing the man who’d knocked them out and walked off with their tin, if they could manage to identify him. They’d be furious, might even put the order out to gun him down on sight, which would do nothing to help Ryder with the job at hand.

  He had not counted on assistance from the local law, but neither had he figured on them hunting him. Ryder would treat it as another complication, keep his head down, and attempt to persevere. Meanwhile, he had another job ahead of him with Marley, shifting cargo on the docks at noon, which ought to rule out gunplay.

  Maybe.

  After two nights on the island, Ryder knew that he could take nothing for granted. No one from the crew that he had joined was trustworthy beyond completion of the basic tasks assigned to them, and any who suspected that he worked for law enforcement would dispose of him without a second thought, given the chance. Their competition, on the other hand, might kill him simply for consorting with the Marley crew. As for the local coppers, he’d been warned to view them as corrupt and likely brutal, not an element to trifle with.

  His mission still remained a relatively simple one: catch Marley and the others smuggling contraband, avoiding payment of the legal duties, and deliver his report to William Wood in Washington. When it was time to make arrests, he had been told that reinforcements would be waiting, ready to assist since one man could not be expected to corral a gang. Ryder expected Yankee soldiers, if the city force could not be trusted, but he’d have to wait and see how things progressed. If Wood had any influence over the Texans—doubtful, on the face of it—Ryder might still find ways to work with some of them.

  At least the ones he hadn’t knocked unconscious.

  Before lying down to sleep, he cleaned the Colt Army, reloaded it, and checked the barrel to be sure he hadn’t knocked it out of true when he’d applied it to a pair of bony skulls. Finding no damage to the weapon, confident it would perform upon demand when needed, he stretched out atop his blankets, still wearing his shirt and trousers.

  If someone decided to surprise him in the middle of the night, or at the crack of dawn, Ryder intended to be ready for them. If attacked, he would defend himself by any means available. The Henry rifle lying on the floor next to his bed was fully loaded, with a live round in the chamber, giving him a decent chance of fighting clear should someone try to storm the room.

  And if the raiders were police?

  He pushed that prospect out of mind and settled back to sleep, shifting his thoughts to Tampa and Irene McGowan, wondering if she had found her family and settled in with them. Ryder had no reason to think they’d ever meet again, but thinking of her settled him a bit. And later, in his dreams, when she got mixed up with Nell at Awful Annie’s, Ryder had no reason to complain.

  10

  Stede Pickering enjoyed the feel of salt spray in his face, running across blue water with wind in his sails and the whole world in front of him, his for the taking. It was freedom, nothing more or less, the legacy his forebears had passed down to him through generations of dependence on themselves and no one else. As for the law, it was an inconvenience he avoided when he could, or met head on and shattered by pure brute force.

  Another feeling he enjoyed.

  The clipper had made good time from Tampico, with a stop at Corpus Christi, and was bound for Galveston. The gold Stede carried in the clipper’s hold—some seven hundred pounds of it, concealed in crates of textiles—would be worth a little over thirteen thousand dollars on the open market, but the price he got in fact would be reduced by one-third at the dock, since the receivers had to cover costs of storing and distributing the contraband. The gems, pried out of rings and necklaces and such, sorted by type and quality, would bring another two, perhaps three thousand dollars.

  Then, there was the ganja,
grown and processed in Jamaica, where the clipper stopped at monthly intervals to fill its hold. Stede normally preferred a mug of rum when he was trying to relax, but he had tried the ganja once. A merchant’s duty to his customers, learning his products inside out. It gave a pleasant lift, without the rage that sometimes settled over him when he was drinking heavily, but Stede still liked the potent kick of alcohol. Most of his ganja customers, before the war, had been plantation owners looking for a way to pacify their slaves—or so they’d said. He didn’t know who used it now and frankly didn’t care. The thousand pounds he carried should be worth four hundred dollars to him, more or less.

  All told, when he had paid his crew and covered various expenses, Stede should have about five thousand dollars in his pocket. Not a princely sum, but it was more than most seafaring men would earn in eight or ten years’ time. And once he’d spent it, celebrating his good fortune, he would start all over with another load. His cache of gold and gems was not exhausted yet, and by the time it was he meant to be retired, a member of the leisured class, perhaps inhabiting a private island of his own.

  One place he wouldn’t want to live was Galveston. Its crowded wharf and streets were like a glimpse of Hell to someone who had known and learned to love the freedom of the open sea. When Stede put into port and tried to walk through Galveston, he couldn’t make a block without some stranger bumping into him and snarling as if he had been the clumsy one. He had thumped a few over the years, had been arrested once and forced to pay a fine for what they called battery, laughing up his sleeve the whole time at the things he’d done, which they would never know about.

  The clipper was Stede’s favorite ship, at least for now. He’d have to scuttle it someday, most likely sometime in the next few months, but there would always be another. For the moment, he enjoyed its speed and all he had accomplished as its captain. In Tampico, he had changed its name, the paint still bright and crisp across its bow.

  Banshee.

  He liked the sound of it, the images that it evoked. Stede was a superstitious man, like most sailors, although not religious in the normal sense. He’d witnessed savage rituals in Haiti, what they called vodou, and in Cuba, where Catholic saints were mixed into black magic for something called Santería. Stede had seen people possessed and behaving like animals, slathered with blood in the name of religion, and didn’t know whether their prayers would be answered by gods or by demons.