Shawn shook his head. “I wouldn’t allow myself to sink that low, Moss.”
Stung, Moss leaned from the saddle and stared into Shawn’s face. “Get on your damned horse. You try to make a run for it, I kill Trixie. Understand?”
“I hear you loud and clear, Moss.”
“Good. Then we’re reading from the same page of the book.”
The desert brush country stretched ahead of them all the way to the shore. Scattered clumps of paloverde, ocotillo, ironwood, and skeletal limber bush stood in silent testimony that it was a rain-starved land. Tweedy was armed with his rifle and belt gun. Lowth carried only a rope over his shoulder. Shawn rode between them, behind Moss and Creeds.
“You plannin’ to hang some poor feller with that there hemp, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy asked, making conversation.
“In my line of work it always pays to be prepared,” Lowth answered.
“Here, I’ve been meanin’ to ask you something.”
“Ask away, Mr. Tweedy.”
“It’s about them fancy drawers your wife makes.”
“I’m listening to you, Mr. Tweedy.”
Tweedy leaned across Shawn and whispered, “Would she make a pair for Trixie? Right fancy, mind, with that there lacy stuff an’ all.”
“Why, I’m sure she would. That is, if the young lady is of good character and of gentle breeding.”
“Well, she’s all of that now, a schoolma’am by profession.” Tweedy leaned back in the saddle as though he’d fairly stated his case.
Thinking of something else, he leaned across Shawn again. “The drawers are for her to wear on our honeymoon, like.”
“Of course you’re talking about Miss Davenport,” Lowth said.
“None other.”
“Then I will consult with Mrs. Lowth at the earliest opportunity and she will give me her opinion on this rather, ah . . . delicate matter.”
“Spoke like a true gent,” Tweedy said, smiling. “And that’s the truth of it.”
“Uriah,” Shawn interrupted as Tweedy once again sat back in the saddle. “Has it occurred to you that all three of us could be dead in a few hours?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Tweedy said, suddenly belligerent.
“It seems to be that if the slavers don’t do for us, Moss will,” Shawn said.
“Listen, sonny. Ol’ Ephraim has been trying to put his claws into me for nigh on twenty year and he ain’t kilt me yet. If he can’t corral Uriah, a snake like Zeb Moss ain’t likely to succeed, is he? An’ afore you answer that, a bunch of black pirates with beards down to their belly buttons like them as is leading us ain’t going to do me in, either.” Tweedy spat over the side of his horse. “Hell, I haven’t made a speech that long since I was a youngster an’ first learned how to talk American.”
Shawn grinned. “I sure wish I had your confidence.”
“If it comes to a fight, boy, shoot an’ move, shoot an’ move. That’s all there is to it. It’s something ol’ Ephraim taught me.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Shawn said.
“You do that, sonny. Live longer if you listen to your elders.”
As the riders neared the gulf, the water came in sight, glittering under the climbing sun. Shawn saw that a couple tents had been erected near the beach and the topmast of a sailing ship was just visible in a well-camouflaged inlet. A table had been set out, groaning under the weight of joints of salt beef, fruit, and stacks of flatbread. A large keg of Jamaican rum surrounded by glasses took up the middle of the table.
Behind the feast stood two dozen white, black, and Oriental girls, all smiling steadily as though they’d been ordered on pain of death to look welcoming. And behind them was a score of swarthy, bearded sailors. They showed no arms but for the cutlasses at their sides.
Catching Shawn’s attention were the two men who stepped purposely toward Moss’s cavalcade. One was immensely tall, dressed in flowing Arab robes of blue and white, his hand on the hilt of a scimitar in a scabbard studded with pearls and rubies. Beside him, in less elaborate robes, was a scar-faced rogue with shifty, rodent eyes lingering on nothing but seeing everything.
Grinning, Moss swung out of the saddle and stepped toward the tall Arab, guessing, correctly that he was the boss.
Sheik Abdul Basir-Hakim made a deep salaam, straightened, and deftly sidestepped Moss’s embrace, leaving the man to drop his arms and look confused.
“Welcome to my humble encampment,” Hakim greeted, teeth flashing white in his dusky face.
“It is an honor to be here, my friend,” Moss replied.
“Please. There is food and drink for you and your men, Mr. Moss, though I fear my poor table does you no honor.”
“Hell,” Moss said, “it looks just fine to me . . . mister . . .”
“You may call me Sheik,” Hakim offered smugly.
Moss clapped his hand on Hakim’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “And Sheik it is.” He turned to his men and yelled. “Light and set, boys. There’s grub and rum for all of ye.”
A cheer went up from the gunmen. They dismounted and crowded around the rum keg, handing glasses to each other.
Hakim glanced at Hassan Najid and smiled. It was going just as he’d hoped. Soon the American pigs would be drunk and easy to kill.
Shawn remained mounted, as did Tweedy and the fastidious Lowth, who frowned as he watched Moss’s gunmen among the women, swigging down rum with one hand, exploring with the other.
Or were they drinking rum?
It was Tweedy who noticed it first. He leaned over in the saddle and whispered to Shawn, “Them Texas boys ain’t drinkin’. A man doesn’t drink like that, real dainty from a glass like your maiden aunt sippin’ sherry at a funeral.”
Shawn studied the gunmen. They seemed rowdy and loud, drinking heartily as they pawed the girls, but no matter how many times they put a glass to their lips, the level of the rum stayed the same. And to a man, they tried to keep their gun hands untangled.
“What do you reckon, O’Brien?” Tweedy asked quietly.
“They’re only pretending to drink and they’re not sitting on their gun hands,” Shawn said. “Moss is getting ready to make his move and take over the whole shebang.”
“Lookee.” Tweedy nodded toward the gulf. “Over yonder by the shoreline.”
Shawn glanced toward the beach. Arab seamen drifted toward their stacked rifles, and a dozen had already armed themselves.
He glanced to where Hakim and Moss were standing together, examining the female merchandise. Julia looked lost and forlorn, keeping her eyes downcast at the sand under her feet. Moss and the tall Arab were engaged in a deep, hand-waving discussion.
Haggling over prices, Shawn guessed. He eased his hand closer to his holstered Colt.
Didn’t Zeb Moss know the danger they were all in?
Chapter Thirty-seven
“O’Brien, get off that hoss, and that goes for you two as well.” Silas Creeds motioned with his glass at Tweedy and Lowth.
Shawn swung out of the saddle and stood holding the reins of his mount. “Looks like the ball is about to open, Creeds.”
“Soon. But not yet. The boss wants to look over the ship.”
“He may not have time,” Shawn pointed out.
“He’s got the Arab in gun range. Zeb knows it and the Arab knows it. The ball will open when Zeb Moss decides to open it and it ain’t yet.” Creeds waved toward the table. “Go get yourself some grub, but stay clear of the rum.”
Shawn looked around him. “I count thirty seamen, and most of them are already armed. You plan to take them on with six men?”
“Nine, including you and them two with you, and ten, counting Mr. Moss. The boss should count for two or three, just like me and maybe the Topock Kid, if he’s well enough.”
“It’s getting a little too tense for comfort around here, Creeds,” Shawn said. “When will the shooting start?”
Creeds gave his yellow smile. “When I put a bullet in you, O’Bri
en, you’ll know when it ends. Until then, be ready.”
After Creeds strolled away, Shawn and the others stepped to the table. Shawn was hungry. He wrapped some salt beef in a flatbread and discovered it made a tasty sandwich. He stayed away from the rum, though Tweedy helped himself to a glass.
“Know what I feel like, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy said, after sampling the rum.
“Do tell, Mr. Tweedy.” Like Shawn, Lowth was munching on a sandwich.
“It’s like when I’m stupid enough to get myself downwind of ol’ Ephraim an’ he’s as mad as hell and comes after me. I know I’ve got a fight on my hands and the only question is . . . when? And the answer is that Ephraim’s smart an’ won’t brace me until he figgers he’s got an edge. But as to when that will come about, only he knows.” Tweedy looked at Shawn. “You take my meanin’?”
Shawn looked to where Moss and the Arab were walking toward the sailing ship, unhurried, talking like two old friends out for a morning stroll.
“You mean hard times are coming down sometime soon, Uriah.” Shawn smiled. “I hope you’re loaded for bear.”
Tweedy made a face. “Lousy rum. Damn furriners.”
Shawn studied the terrain around the camp. There was no cover, no place to hide for miles, only desert brush on flat ground that stretched to the Sierra Madres. What he had in mind was impossible.
Tweedy winked. “Been thinking that my ownself, sonny. They’d ride us down afore we covered a quarter mile. Or they’d just stay right where they’re at an’ shoot us down.”
Shawn nodded. “I know. And we’d have women along with us.”
“It seems to me, Mr. O’Brien,” Lowth put in, “that all we can do is wait and then react to whatever situation manifests itself.”
“Fine words, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but them was high-sounding words.”
“We wait and see, Uriah,” Shawn explained. “That’s what he means.”
Tweedy took a swig of rum. “Hell, boy, that’s all we can do.” He laid the glass at his feet and levered a round into the Winchester’s chamber. “But right now I’m gonna go talk with my intended.”
“Uriah, those Arab sailors don’t look like they’d exactly welcome your visit,” Shawn pointed out.
“That’s their problem, not mine.”
“Wait, Mr. Tweedy, I’ll come with you,” Lowth said. “There’s strength in numbers.”
“You’re a mannerly, well-spoken gent, Mr. Lowth, so you’re welcome to talk with my future bride,” Tweedy offered. Then to Shawn he said, “Just in case things go bad, cover us, young feller.”
Four pairs of black, hostile eyes watched Tweedy and Lowth as they walked closer to the women. One of the guards, a big, brawny fellow with a ragged black beard down to his navel, stepped in their way. He managed a slight, artificial smile. “Rum,” he said, motioning with his Lebel rifle toward the table. “You go, infidel. Drink.”
Tweedy stopped, the Winchester in the crook of his left arm, and moved the forefinger of his right hand back and forth. “No drinkee.” He pointed at Julia. “Me talkee.”
The Arab hesitated. His lord was still on the schooner with the American and he’d been ordered to pretend a warm welcome to the infidel dogs. After a few moments, he bowed slightly and stepped aside.
“See, Mr. Lowth, all you have to do is talk to them in their own lingo and they’ll do anything for you.” Tweedy smiled at the stone-faced Arab. “Thankee . . .”
The women crowded around Tweedy and Lowth, all of them asking questions at the same time. Tweedy held up a silencing hand. “Ladies, I’m only here to see Miss Trixie Lee, my intended.”
One of the young Mexican girls asked, “Can you help us, señor? Can you take us away from this terrible place?”
Tweedy pretended a confidence he didn’t feel. “Never fear, ladies, we’ll get you out of here and back to Santa Fe.” He grinned. “Never fear. Tweedy is here.”
The girl took Tweedy’s hand and kissed it, her tears falling on his tough skin. “Thank you, señor. Oh, thank you.”
Tweedy, knowing he’d lied to the girl, who was little more than a child, felt like a Benedict Arnold and he was forced to swallow the lump in his throat.
“How are you holding up, Miss Lee?” Lowth asked Julia. “I hope you are not too distressed.”
Julia looked at the man, her face empty. She said nothing.
Tweedy, discouraged by his lie to the Mexican girls, said in an apologetic tone, “We’re goin’ to save you, Trixie. But it won’t be easy or soon. You understand?”
“Save yourself, Uriah,” Julia said. “It’s too late for me, too late for all of us.”
“Never you mind. We’ll come up with somethin’, Trixie. Damn right we will, on account of how when this is over me an’ you is gettin’ hitched right away.”
Julia managed a smile, but it was distant and fleeting. “Don’t get your hopes up, Uriah.” She put her hand on his buckskinned arm. “You are all in terrible danger. Tell Shawn O’Brien I said that.”
“I reckon he already knows, Trixie,” Tweedy said. “Zeb Moss wants to take the slave ship. Men will die, most of them real quick.”
“Then leave us. Get on your horses and ride and don’t stop until you reach Texas.”
Tweedy shook his head. “We’re not leaving you, little schoolteacher gal.”
“Then you’ll all die soon. It’s building, Uriah. Either Moss or the sheik will make his move before dark.”
Lowth had been listening intently, but made his way to the redhead with the baby in her arms. He smiled. “How is she?”
The woman looked haunted. “The slaver says he’ll buy me but not my baby. That man Moss said that was all right and they’d just leave my little Annie on the beach and let the tide take her.”
She grabbed the front of Lowth’s coat. “Please don’t let them take my baby from me.”
“I won’t let that happen.” Even as he said the words, Lowth knew they were as empty as a banker’s heart.
“Thank you.” Suddenly there was hope in the woman’s eyes. “You’ll save us, won’t you?”
“Yes. Yes I will,” Lowth said, hating himself. “You’ll see, dear lady, everything will be just fine.”
The woman so obviously and so eagerly believed him that Thaddeus Lowth felt himself die a little death.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The Chinese girls were slowly drifting away....
Shawn O’Brien sat in meager shade, his back against the thin trunk of a spineless young ironwood tree. As drowsy crickets made their small music in the brush near him, he wondered idly why the women were leaving. If they’d paired off with a man and were seeking a place for a rendezvous he’d have understood. But they were slowly walking toward the beach one by one as though afraid their leaving would be noticed.
Shawn’s eyes moved to Moss’s gunmen. They seemed unconcerned, talking to one another, though every now and then a man would slant a puzzled glance toward the schooner. No doubt Moss and the sheik were still bargaining for the women, Shawn decided. Or, more correctly, Moss was going through the motions, biding his time before he made his move.
Shawn shifted his eyes back to the Chinese girls and saw something else that disturbed him. Apart from the men guarding Moss’s captives, the ship’s crew had assembled near the schooner and all were armed with rifles and swords.
Suddenly, tension stretched in the air, taut as a fiddle string. The Arabs were not making any hostile moves, but constantly chattered to each other. Then, their black eyes glittering, they fingered their weapons and looked toward Moss’s gunmen.
Tweedy, as downcast as a man could be after spinning one lie after another, sat close by, drinking rum.
“Hey, Uriah—” Shawn began.
“I see ’em,” Tweedy said. “Trixie said the fun times was fixin’ to come down soon and I reckon she was right.”
“You reckon the Arabs will open the ball?” Shawn asked.
“Yeah, I do, but not yet. Not without their boss man.”
“It would seem like.” Shawn looked toward the schooner. There was no one on deck nor any sound but the faint creak of two tall masts in the breeze.
The morning had grown warmer and, except for Silas Creeds, the Moss gunmen had removed their coats, but all wore their guns. They were talking little now that they’d noticed the departure of the Chinese girls and the gathering of armed crewmen near the ship. But without Moss they seemed undecided about what to do. For the moment they were content to remain right where they were. A few of them were drinking rum in earnest.
Like Shawn and Tweedy, the gunmen felt something in the air, as though the atmosphere around them had shifted and become poisonous. Hostility hadn’t greeted them gently. It reached out, grabbed them by their throats, and started their alarm bells ringing.
Without even realizing it, the gunmen had spread out a little, each man clearing some fighting room around him.
Shawn rose to his feet. His eyes narrowed and his vision began to tunnel as happens to a man who knows he’s about to get into a shooting scrape.
Yet, the Arabs made no moves.
They remained standing where they were, silently looking toward the gunmen around the table as though waiting for something to happen.
Suddenly, the Arabs broke into a cheer.
Tweedy and Lowth stepped closer to Shawn. All eyes were on the beautiful Chinese girl who’d just bowed out of the smaller tent. She held a basket piled high with fruit and dates and she smiled as she walked toward Moss’s men.
Shawn was puzzled. Was this a peace offering of some kind?
The girl wore very little and her pert little breasts were mostly exposed, a sight not lost on Moss’s men. Grinning, they crowded around the girl, more interested in what she had on show than they were the fruit basket.
“Purty little thing, ain’t she, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy commented.
“Indeed she is, Mr. Tweedy. I believe Celestials as a whole are a pretty race.”
Shawn said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the young Arab man who’d also left the smaller tent. He seemed unsteady on his feet and drool from his slack mouth trickled down his black beard. Shawn thought the man was drunk or had been smoking opium, a drug to which his brother Jacob had once been much addicted.
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