Smugglers' Gold (15 page)

He sat and listened, curious, until he'd satisfied himself that he was not imagining the sound. It seemed to emanate from somewhere to his right, roughly northeastward, drawing closer by the moment on a course from east to west. A steamer, he decided, but with no idea how close it was or how far it would pass offshore from where he sat, beside his meager fire.

Ryder was reaching for another piece of driftwood when he hesitated. Could this be some trick by Seitz or Pickering to draw him out? The
Banshee
had no engine, but could they have found another ship since stranding him and sent it back to see if Ryder would reveal himself? If so, they were approaching from the wrong direction. They had sailed away westward, back toward Galveston, and would have needed hours to return, circling around the island just to dupe him.

No, he finally decided. Not the men who had marooned him—but they could be other smugglers, pirates, outlaws trolling on the Gulf for easy prey. He almost doused the fire, then, but decided it would be a foolish move to hide when help might be at hand.

Some fifteen minutes after Ryder heard the engine for the first time, he saw lights across the water. Lanterns on a ship's deck, clearly, and he started piling driftwood on his dying fire, fanning the low flames with his hands until they caught and leaped into the island's dark, moist air. He tried to judge the ship's size from the space between the lanterns at its bow and stern, guessing around one hundred feet.

Was anyone on watch to see his fire, and if so, would they pay it any mind?

Ryder decided it was worth a gamble. When the ship was opposite his stretch of beach, perhaps three hundred yards offshore, he drew his Colt Army and aimed it skyward, squeezing off two slow and measured shots that echoed from the island's tree line out into the night.

Another moment, and a voice sounded across the water, hollow-sounding, clearly amplified by virtue of a speaking-trumpet. “Ahoy! Are you in need of help?”

“I am!” he shouted back, throat parched, with no idea if it would carry to the ship.

“Stand by!” the tinny call came to his ears, then nothing more except for creaking, splashing sounds. A lifeboat being lowered?

Ryder stepped off from the fire, determined not to make himself an easy target if there was some treachery afoot, his pistol still in hand. Ten minutes later, he heard oars slapping the water, muffled conversation from the boat as it approached the beach. He stood well back, watching the oarsmen drag their boat ashore, noting their uniforms before he put his Colt back in its holster and stepped forward.

Polished brass reflected firelight from the tunic collar of the man who greeted him. “Lieutenant Holland, with the U.S. Revenue Cutter
Andrew Jackson
,” he said. “And you, I think, must be Gideon Ryder.”

*   *   *

T
he
Andrew Jackson
was, in fact, one hundred and twenty feet long, a schooner-rigged steamer with three tall masts and a belching smokestack amidships. Its main cabin lay aft, with the lifeboats in their slings, while a pair of three-inch guns on swivel mounts were planted near the bow. No sails were rigged as it proceeded under power toward Galveston.

Ryder ate his first meal within twenty-odd hours, while Lieutenant Holland told the story of his rescue. His telegrams
had
reached Director Wood, and mention of Timbalier Island had inspired the Secret Service chief to send a cutter snooping in the area, after a decent interval, in case something had gone awry. Holland had not been briefed on Ryder's mission otherwise and gave no indication that he cared to know about it.

“The message,” Holland said, “is that you can't expect assistance and you shouldn't trust the local law. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Ryder replied.
Unfortunately
. “I appreciate the lift,” he added, pushing back his empty plate, “but I can't risk you dropping me at Galveston.”

“I've thought about that,” Holland told him. “There's another way to handle it, but you'll be on your own.”

“I'm getting used to that,” said Ryder.

“If you're sure . . .”

“Let's hear the plan.”

“Pelican Island,” Holland said.

“Okay. Let's hear a little more.”

“It lies north of Galveston proper, connected to the larger island by a plank bridge. Some fishermen have shanties there. Moonshiners, too, we reckon, though we've never actually caught them at it.”

“So?”

“So, I was thinking you could go ashore, maybe in uniform, then change into civilian duds and cross the bridge to Galveston, like coming in the back door. I surmise the scurvy rats who left you won't expect you to come in behind them.”

Ryder nodded. “I believe you're right.”

“Of course, there
is
another way.”

“And I appreciate the thought,” said Ryder. “But if I come roaring in with your crew, they'll just scatter. We'd be lucky to collect a handful of the flunkies.”

“As you like it,” Holland said.

“I don't like any of it,” Ryder told him. “But I'm in this far and bound to see it through.”

“It's your decision,” the lieutenant said. “When you get done here, we can fit you for a uniform.”

Ryder finished his coffee, set the tin cup down, and said, “Let's get it done.”

It was half past five
A.M
. when the
Andrew Jackson
dropped anchor off Pelican Island, a roughly triangular land mass separated from Galveston's north shore by a narrow strait, spanned by the bridge that Holland had described. Ryder bid his rescuers farewell before the landing party went ashore, with him in uniform. The borrowed clothes fit poorly, but it hardly mattered in the first gray light of dawn, surrounded as he was by other crewmen dressed the same. The fishermen—or smugglers?—who were up and on the move so early made a point of ignoring the revenue officers, even avoiding eye contact.

Ryder carried his civilian clothes and gunbelt tied up in a bundle, tucked beneath one arm as inconspicuously as he could. When the other members of his party fanned out on the pretext of conducting a search, he left them behind, ducked into a dark grove of trees, and changed outfits, leaving the uniform behind. Dressed as himself again, he hiked off toward the south side of the island with its bridge, facing across the strait toward Galveston.

His first stop, he decided, ought to be his boardinghouse. The landlord might be wondering what had become of him, and Ryder didn't want the man disposing of his rifle or his other belongings. Beyond that, he craved a change of clothing, a bath, and a shave, before he went back on the hunt.

It was a different game, now that he had been marked for death by Otto Seitz. Ryder still didn't know if Bryan Marley was behind that move, but he'd decided that it was irrelevant. Seitz would have given Marley his account of the events as soon as he returned to Galveston. The time for argument had passed.

He had a job to finish. And it seemed he would be doing it alone.

B
ryan Marley glowered at the two men facing him across the table in Awful Annie's back room. One of his men who'd done some boxing had adjusted Otto's broken nose a bit, but there was nothing to be done about the purple bruises underneath both eyes. Behind him, glaring back at Marley, sat Stede Pickering.

“He hit me with a shovel, in the face,” Seitz said. “He killed Bob Jacobs.”

“And one of my men, too,” the
Banshee
's captain added. “Stoney Rogers.”

“After
you
drew down on him,” Marley replied to Seitz, teeth clenched in anger.

“What'n hell was I supposed to do?”

“Leave him alone, goddamn it, like I told you to!”

“Bryan—”

“You started riding him the minute that I brought him in,” said Marley, “and for no damned reason.”

“But he
ran
. He shot two men!”

“With
them
shooting at
him
. Would you stand there and let somebody kill you without fighting back?”

“You're saying this is
my
fault?”

Marley slammed his fist onto the table, making whiskey glasses dance. “And who else should I blame?”

Beneath the bruising, Seitz wore an expression of amazement. “All the years we been together, if you still don't trust me—”

“
Trust
you? When I give an order time and time again, but you ignore it?”

“There was somethin' wrong with him, I tell you! If you'd seen him—”

“Shut it!” Marley growled. He turned to Pickering. “And you . . .”

The captain rocked back in his chair and aimed a thick finger at Seitz. “
He
told me that the two of you were square on this. I went along with it and lost a good man on the deal. That's it, as far as I'm concerned.”

Seitz was half turned in his chair, toward Pickering, staring at each of them in turn. “So I'm the goat? Is that it?”

“Three men down for nothing,” Marley said. “You brought it on yourself.”

“Brought
what
on?”

“You went behind my back, Otto. Ignored my orders. What do you think I should do?”

Seitz stiffened. “I suppose you'd better tell me.”

“If it weren't for all those years you talk about, I'd kill you,” Marley said. “As it stands, I can't afford to keep you on.”

“For God's sake, Bryan—”

“No. For
your
sake, Otto. Get out while you can. And I mean out of Galveston.”

“You run this city now? Is that it?” Otto challenged him.

“Why don't you ask Jack Menefee?”

Seitz pushed his chair back with a grating sound and stood. Beneath the table, Marley kept a Colt Navy aimed at his one-time partner's groin.

“You reckon this is finished?” Otto asked.

“If you come back here,” Marley said, “you'd best come shooting.”

Seitz seemed on the verge of answering but reconsidered it and turned away, stormed out, and left the two men seated at the table, staring after him.

“Looks like you've made an enemy,” said Pickering.

“I don't need friends who go against me.”

“True enough. So, how do we stand?”

Marley said, “I take you at your word that you were misinformed.”

“All right, then. We'll be heading out this afternoon. I'll be in touch when I have something for you.”

“Fair enough. Watch out for Seitz, while you're in port.”

“He doesn't worry me,” said Pickering. “At least, until he's done with you.”

“I'll keep my eyes peeled. Count on it.”

“Another glass, before I go upstairs,” the captain said. “I fancy there's a red-haired wench out there been givin' me the eye.”

“Good luck to you.”

Pickering thrust a hand into his pocket, jingling coins. “Luck's got nothin' to do with it.”

“You're right, at that.”

He watched Pickering drain his whiskey glass, then rise and leave the room. Marley remained, alone, brooding over the trouble Otto Seitz had caused.

He didn't mourn for George Revere, per se, although the man had saved his life on two occasions. People died in Marley's line of business. It was normal and accepted. What he couldn't tolerate was Seitz, the man he'd trusted most of any in his circle, openly defying him. They
would
be enemies from that point on, as Pickering had said.

Bad blood divided them, and that was only cured by spilling it.

If Seitz returned—
when
he returned—one of them had to die.

Marley lifted his Colt and placed it on the table. He would keep it close at hand from now on, sleep with one eye open if he had to, till the deadly game was finished.

There could only be one winner, and he planned to be the last man standing when the smoke cleared.

*   *   *

A
fter a change of clothes and visit to a barbershop that offered baths, Ryder stopped at a Mexican café where he believed he was unlikely to encounter anyone from Bryan Marley's gang. The fare was unfamiliar to him, but he found that he enjoyed it, wolfing down two enchiladas, a tamale, a chile relleno that proved to be a roasted pepper filled with cheese, and a side dish of beans that the chef called
frijoles refritos.
Thus fortified, with two tequila chasers, Ryder greeted early afternoon in Galveston as he began his hunt.

He had no detailed plan per se, aside from finding Otto Seitz before he tackled any other members of the gang. Their score was personal, and at the same time, Ryder knew the little smuggler's head was full of secrets that could sink the operation if revealed. He wanted more than just a single warehouse filled with loot, though if it came to that, Ryder supposed that he would settle for whatever he could get.

He was desperately short of reinforcements, and Lieutenant Holland's crew was far beyond his reach, but when they'd parted, Holland had provided Ryder with the name of another Revenue agent whose cutter—the USRC
Martin Van Buren
—operated out of Corpus Christi, some 190 miles southwest of Galveston. Still nine hours away at top speed, from the time Ryder sent the base a telegram, but that was four hours faster than waiting for help from New Orleans, where Holland was stationed.

Meanwhile, anything could happen.

First thing, Ryder took a chance and walked to Awful Annie's by a route that took him to the back door of the bawdy house. Unseen by anyone inside as he arrived, he crept along an alley to the north, finally reached a point where he could scan the street in front, and waited for some drunks to clear the plank sidewalk before he risked a peek into the barroom through one of its dirty windows. From there, he recognized some members of the Marley gang, but couldn't see the boss or Otto Seitz. Mixed in with Marley's men, he spotted several faces he remembered from the
Banshee
's crew—and Captain Pickering, just now emerging from one of the cribs upstairs.

Which gave him an idea.

He had not hoped to catch the pirates still in port, but now he had an opportunity that Ryder didn't feel he could ignore. Who knew how long the
Banshee
would remain in port, or when it would return? How long until her captain changed the clipper's name again to throw pursuers off her track?

He might be able to prevent that, even put the operation out of business for a time, if he was quick and deft enough. It meant delaying any further search for Otto Seitz, but Ryder was prepared to pay that price.

He left the neighborhood of Awful Annie's as he had approached it, without drawing any notice to himself. The men who could identify him liked to spend their daylight hours indoors, whenever possible, preferring whiskey and the charms of painted women to a sunburn and hard labor on the docks. He hoped the
Banshee
's crew was of a similar persuasion as he made his way down toward the waterfront, alert to any danger from familiar faces on the way.

He found the
Banshee
without difficulty, tied up to a pier, the gangplank down. Ryder expected guards but saw none on the deck as he approached the clipper. Could it be that all of them had gone ashore? That would explain the gangplank, since there'd be no means of lowering it from the pier, with no one left on board.

And finally, he knew that there was only one way to find out.

With one hand on his holstered Colt Army, Ryder approached the sloping plank and went aboard as if he owned the ship. No one came out to challenge him before he reached the weather deck and stood there listening for any sounds of human habitation on the ship.

Nothing.

It seemed unlikely to him that the
Banshee
would be left wholly unguarded, and he got the answer to that question moments later, when he found a crewman dozing in a hammock toward the starboard side, in shade. Beside him, near his dangling fingertips, an empty bottle stood upon the deck. Ryder retrieved and sniffed it, nearly overpowered by the fumes of rum, and put it back.

If this was Pickering's security, he thought, the ship was his.

*   *   *

A
rapid circuit of the weather deck and cabins proved that Ryder was correct; the drunken pirate was the only soul aboard the clipper, other than himself. From what he'd seen at Awful Annie's, Ryder guessed the other crewmen would not be returning to the
Banshee
for a few more hours, at least, but he would finish off the work he'd come to do as quickly as he could, regardless.

First, a search belowdecks.

Ryder did not hope to find the treasure from Timbalier Island still aboard, and he was right in that assumption. Had they stashed it in the same warehouse where he had helped unload the other loot and ganja previously? That was something to investigate, but first he meant to put the
Banshee
-
Revenant
-whatever out of action, permanently.

If he had his way, this ghost would never ply the seas again.

Well back in the hold he found barrels of tar, presumably used for waterproofing and the patching of leaks while at sea. A tool chest lay nearby, and Ryder rifled through it, settling on a rusty hatchet that he thought should serve him well. Tipping one barrel on its side, he swung the hatchet half a dozen times to smash the lid and waited for the barrel's viscous contents to come dribbling out. Once that was done, he rolled the opened barrel forward through the hold, leaving a trail of tar behind him from the other barrels, like a powder train.

And every bit as flammable.

He knew that fire remained the greatest danger to a wooden ship, whether at sea or moored in port. Fueled by the tar, once it was lit, the
Banshee
would go quickly up in flames, and maybe take the pier along with it. Ryder would have to save the drunken watchman if he could, but first he had to start the fire.

As it turned out, the tar was slow to catch. Ryder wasted a match before he saw a lantern hanging from the bulkhead, smashed it on the deck to spill its reservoir of kerosene, then tried again. This time the flames took hold without delay, spreading along the trail of tar that he had laid, soon lapping at the other barrels in the rear part of the hold, filling the air with acrid smoke.

And it was time to go.

He clambered up a ladder to the weather deck and circled back to reach the sleeping seaman in his hammock. Slapping him repeatedly brought no response beyond a muttered curse, so Ryder hoisted his deadweight out of the hammock, to the rail, and tipped him overboard, into the water. From the shout that echoed back at him, accompanied by thrashing sounds, he knew the man was finally awake.

Going down the gangplank, Ryder took it slow and easy, acting as if he belonged. The first black wisps of smoke were just emerging from the
Banshee
's hold as he stepped off the pier onto dry land, but then the first pale gout of flame shot skyward, and a sailor working on a nearby vessel raised the dreaded cry of “Fire!”

Two sailors passing on the dock ran to the clipper's gangplank, mounted to the deck, and started calling out to anyone who might still be aboard. When satisfied that no one was imperiled by the flames, they beat a quick retreat and stood apart with others, watching while the fire spread from the hold to upper decks, then climbed the masts and rigging unopposed. Crewmen aboard surrounding ships were busy with their own defenses, no one sparing any time or energy to save the
Banshee
as it was consumed at dockside, gradually burning to the water line.

Ryder remained, watching, until the fire had done its work and guttered out, charred masts collapsing, crushing any structures on the clipper's deck that had not been devoured by the flames beforehand. Turning from the blackened hulk as it began to settle, he was satisfied with one part of a job well done.

But he was far from finished, yet.

*   *   *

S
tede Pickering was working on another glass of rum—his sixth, maybe his seventh. He'd lost count and wasn't too concerned about it, since he had a solid head for liquor and the little redhead's amorous exertions had burned off a fair amount of alcohol that he'd consumed before their tryst upstairs. His mood was mellow when the barroom's bat-wing doors flew open and a straggler from his crew barged in, his shirt and trousers sopping wet.

“Captain!” he called out from the doorway, rushing forward. “Come quick! It's the
Banshee
!”

This one, Jonas Walker, had been left behind to watch the clipper, and his presence in the bar could only mean bad news.

“What of her?” he asked, apprehensively.

“S-s-sir,” the seaman stammered out, “she's gone!”

Pickering lumbered to his feet and growled, “The hell you say! What do you mean, she's
gone
?”

“Burnt up is what I mean, sir. Burnt and sunk. Gone up in smoke.”