by Lyle Brandt
*
The street that Ryder sought was dark and silent when he reached it. Galveston had few street lamps on residential avenues, and none at all on this one. He would have to run the shadow gauntlet—or, more accurately, make his way along at a slow walking pace, drawing no unwelcome attention to himself while covering the two blocks to his destination.
And he had a choice to make, before that final trek began.
One way to do it would be walking down the middle of the street, avoiding all the darkest shadows where an ambush might be laid for him. That method would ensure that no one cut his throat, while leaving him exposed to gunfire from all sides. The other way—picking a side and staying in the very shadows where an enemy was likely to be hidden—left him open to direct attack throughout his two-block stroll.
He chose the shadows and prepared himself, drawing his Colt Army. From a trouser pocket, Ryder also removed a French Châtellerault switchblade knife, snapping open its six-inch blade with a touch to the button protruding from its stag horn handle. With the pistol cocked in his right hand, the long knife in his left, Ryder began the walk that would deliver him, with any luck, to his front door.
Each step he took bore Ryder closer to security, or its illusion. As he realized full well, there was a chance his enemies could be inside the boardinghouse, even inside his rented room, hoping to strike at closer quarters than the first pair that had failed. If they surprised and cornered him inside, his chances of survival would be nil, but it was far too late to look for other lodgings, and he didn’t plan to spend the night roaming the streets of Galveston.
Halfway to his destination, Ryder heard a scuffling in some shrubbery to his right and swung the Colt in that direction, index finger tightening around its trigger. Just as he prepared to fire, a gray cat burst out of the bushes there with something in its jaws, perhaps one of the city’s countless rats. He watched the hunter vanish with its prey, waited another moment for his pounding heart to find a normal rhythm, then proceeded on his way.
The biggest danger to him, once he’d reached the boardinghouse, was climbing to its porch and going on inside. From where he stood, Ryder saw no one seated in the pair of rocking chairs positioned on the building’s covered porch, but there were shadows farther back that might conceal a crouching gunman, maybe even two. Steeling himself, perspiring even though the night was cool, he walked up to the porch, mounted its wooden steps, and waited for the ax to fall.
Nothing. No shots, no rush of adversaries to assault him.
For an awkward, deadly moment, Ryder had to put his Colt back in its holster while he found his key and opened the front door. Once he had stepped inside and latched the door behind him, he replaced the key and drew the gun again, proceeding to the nearby stairs with both hands full. If someone waited on the second floor to spring at him, he might go down, but not before his enemy had tasted lead and sharpened steel.
The stairs creaked under Ryder’s weight; no help for that. It let the landlord know when boarders came and went, if it was any of his business, and it would announce him to an ambush party if they’d slipped into the house ahead of him. In that case, would the owner and the other tenants still be living now? Would killing Ryder, after one attempt had failed, be worth a wholesale massacre?
He reached the landing without incident, paused there, then moved along the short hall toward his room. The floor creaked, too, its squeaky music following his progress, maybe waking up the whole damned house if anyone beneath its roof was still alive. So far, he’d found no bodies, seen no bloodstains, smelled no gun smoke. It was early, though, for letting down his guard.
Standing outside his door, he had to use the other key. This time, he closed the switchblade knife, returned it to his pocket, and unlocked the door to his small room. Followed his Colt inside and spent a moment feeling empty space around him, before he was game enough to close and lock the door, lower the hammer on his piece, and holster it. Relaxing took a good deal longer, once he’d taken off his gunbelt, placed it on his nightstand, and sat down upon the bed.
Whoever hoped to kill him had already missed their chance tonight—not once, but twice. They still might storm the boardinghouse, or even try to burn it down, but Ryder couldn’t guard the place all night. He had a rendezvous to keep with Seitz and Pickering tomorrow morning, sailing off to dig for pirate treasure on an island he had never heard of. Never in his wildest fantasy had he believed that such a thing was possible in 1865, much less that duty with the Secret Service would involve such antiquated hijinks.
If he hadn’t shot that damned senator’s son, if William Wood had simply let him climb inside a bottle after he’d been cashiered from the U.S. Marshals Service, Ryder thought he could be drunk right now and loving it, without a thought of whether he would be alive tomorrow—maybe forced to walk the plank somewhere over the Gulf of Mexico.
He shifted, lay back on the bed, still fully dressed, and closed his eyes. Although nearly exhausted, Ryder was not sleepy in the normal sense. His mind was racing, churning up successive questions that he couldn’t answer, posing problems that he couldn’t solve. Frustration kept his nerves on edge. His right hand twitched with memory of carrying the Colt Army.
Tomorrow, when he shipped out on the Banshee under Captain Pickering, it was entirely possible that he might disappear without a trace. A small voice in his head added, But not without a fight, small consolation in the present circumstances.
Make that none at all.
He didn’t want to die at twenty-four years old but realized that his control over what happened next was minimal to nonexistent. He could cut and run, desert his post, try getting out of Galveston tonight. But otherwise, his sole choice was to sail at eight o’clock and see whatever Fate might hold in store for him.
He would go armed, of course, with knife, pistol, and extra loaded cylinders. The Henry rifle would, regrettably, remain behind. Too difficult for Ryder to explain it, when he had no reason to believe that they were going on a hunting expedition. Call it eighteen shots and no idea how many men would be aboard the clipper when they sailed from Galveston.
It was a deadly game, maybe a last-ditch play, and Ryder had already passed the point where it was safe for him to fold. He was all-in, even before the final hand was dealt.
Sleep caught him unawares and drew him down into the dark, where hungry things waited to tear him limb from limb.
13
Ryder had an early breakfast—fried eggs, ham, and grits, with “Texas toast.” The latter proved to be a kind of thick-sliced bread, toasted as advertised, slathered with spicy apple butter. It would have to get him through the day, for all he knew, and on into the night. If there was any food aboard the Banshee, it was likely to be jerky, hardtack, or some other recipe designed to crack a seaman’s molars.
On his way out of the boardinghouse, he checked his pockets, verifying that he’d brought two spare cylinders for his Colt Army. The pistol was a muzzle-loading cap-and-ball revolver, each of the cylinder’s six chambers being loaded individually with a paper cartridge consisting of a pre-measured black powder load and a lead ball, wrapped in flammable nitrated paper, pressed home with the pivoting loading lever attached beneath the Colt’s barrel. All that, and you still had to place a percussion cap onto the raised nipple at the rear of each chamber. Slow reloading in combat could often be fatal, hence the common practice of loading extra cylinders in advance and switching them out in seconds, rather than minutes.
None of which would help if Ryder somehow got disarmed.
As far as he could tell, nobody trailed him to the waterfront. Why would they, when the gang knew where he was going and when he’d arrive? The only purpose for a shadow would be picking Ryder off if he attempted to escape, and he’d abandoned any thought of that last night.
Ryder was fifteen minutes early for the Banshee’s sailing, welcomed by a number of Marley’s crew waiting to go aboard. On deck, he saw Stede Pickering and Otto Seitz together, in the mid
st of conversation until Otto saw him on the pier. For once, he didn’t scowl, but he said something to the clipper’s captain that made Pickering glance down toward Ryder, offer Seitz a shrug, then turn away.
Did that mean they were laying for him? Was he reading too much into an expression and a gesture? Ryder knew his best bet—no, his only bet—was to remain on guard throughout the voyage, keep his wits about him, and be ready as he could be if a trap was sprung.
“C’mon aboard!” Seitz called down to the men collected on the dock. Ryder went up the Banshee’s gangplank with a dozen others whom he knew from Awful Annie’s and the raid against Jack Menefee, taking his place on deck amidst a group that showed no trace of military discipline.
Pickering’s men hauled in the gangplank and cast off the mooring lines, not trusting it to landlubbers. Easing out of the harbor took some time, appointed sailors hurrying aloft without a second thought for altitude or what would happen to them if they tumbled from the rigging to the deck below. When they were under way, sails billowing, the captain made his way down from the bridge to speak with Marley’s men.
As he approached them, Ryder noted that he had a pepperbox revolver tucked under his wide belt, and a knife the size of a short sword on his right hip. He wore a wide-brimmed floppy had to shade his eyes, and a red kerchief knotted around his neck. Soft leather boots reached almost to his knees, with dull toe caps that looked like tarnished brass.
“You lot won’t know the arse end of a ship from for’ard,” Pickering declared without preamble. “You’re what we call ballast on the Banshee, but you’ll have a mite of work to do ashore, when we get to Timbalier Island. In the meantime, stay out of the way and cause no bother. Any questions?”
There were none, apparently, the message being fairly simple. Ryder thought the pirate chief was staring at him during that brief monologue, but hoped it might be his imagination working overtime. If not … well, it was already too late for him to change the course of whatever might happen next.
They had a thirteen-hour run ahead of them, by Marley’s estimate, assuming that the winds cooperated and their sails stayed full. The deck rolled gently under Ryder’s feet—at least, so far—and thankfully had no effect on his digestion. When Bob Jacobs hit the starboard rail and spewed his breakfast out into the Gulf, it gave Ryder a fleeting opportunity to feel superior.
He wandered aft, alone, dodging the Banshee’s busy crewmen as they went about their duties, and stood watching Galveston recede into the hazy distance. Wondering if it would be the last time he saw land.
*
Standing on the Banshee’s fantail, Otto Seitz watched George Revere leaning against the starboard rail, no doubt feeling the salt spray in his face and thinking—what? That was the question Seitz would love to answer, but he wasn’t sure he’d get the chance.
Last night, he’d slipped away from Awful Annie’s when the others started drifting off upstairs to do their business with the working girls. He needed to find Harley Baker and his pal, Alfredo Tijerina, to find out exactly why in hell they hadn’t done the job he’d paid them for. He’d checked the places where they normally hung out—a sad cantina called Diablo’s and a whorehouse known as Zona Rosa—where the owners didn’t care for white men unless they were spending money. More cash out of pocket, then, to learn that neither one of his two pistoleros had turned up at either place during the afternoon or evening.
After that, his time and money wasted, Seitz had walked to Revere’s boardinghouse, then tried to follow the path he would probably take to reach Annie’s. The bad news: there were half a dozen routes that fit the bill, depending on preliminary destinations, anyplace he might have stopped along the way to have a meal or meet with someone else. Seitz would have given up, disgusted, if the high note of a copper’s whistle hadn’t lured him off course and down an alley that he would have passed without a second glance.
Police were standing over Baker and the Mex when Seitz arrived. He hung back in the shadows, watching as they picked the dead men’s pockets, taking anything of value for themselves. There went his money, spent in good faith to put George Revere away, once and for all. But what had happened to his shooters?
Back at Awful Annie’s, there had been no mention of an ambush. If his target was the one who’d killed Baker and Tijerina, then Revere must have some reason not to mention it, the way he’d told Marley about his beating of the coppers who had followed him. He was suspicious, then, uncertain who had put the gunmen on his trail, worried that Marley might have been behind it.
Or, he hadn’t done the job himself, at all.
Seitz guessed there was a chance—although a very minor one—that someone else had come along and killed his shooters. Stupid as they were, they might have jumped the wrong man in the dark and paid the price for it. He wouldn’t put it past them to mess up a simple plan, and while it made no difference to Seitz whether they lived or died, it galled him that they’d let him down.
If you want a thing done right, do it yourself.
Which was exactly what he meant to do, this time.
Seitz didn’t care for boats—could feel his stomach grumbling already, just a few short miles from land—but he was chewing on a fat plug of tobacco, hoping it would calm his gut and nerves. His move against Revere would wait until they’d reached Timbalier Island and the heavy work was done, the Banshee loaded with their cargo for the trip back home to Galveston. Then he would do what must be done, and use their thirteen hours on the water afterward to plan how he would break it to the boss.
Call it an accident? That wouldn’t fly, since he had made no secret of his feelings toward Revere. Besides, even if he had sworn the other members of his crew to secrecy, one of them still might squeal. He wasn’t universally beloved by any means, and didn’t given a damn.
Explain it outright, then, but with a canny twist. Tell Marley that Revere let something slip about intending to betray them, once he’d seen the treasure trove. It didn’t matter if he made George out to be a lawman or a member of some rival gang, as long as he was dirty, dangerous to their ongoing operation. Seitz was only doing what he thought best for the gang, and who could fault him?
Marley might. And if he did … what, then?
Seitz didn’t want to think that far ahead, but he’d be ready if and when it happened.
Ready to play his hand and let the chips fall where they may.
*
It was dark when the Banshee reached Timbalier Island and Captain Pickering dropped anchor a quarter mile offshore. Rather than lower skiffs and row to land immediately, Pickering decreed that they should wait for dawn, which meant eating and sleeping on the ship. Ryder was pleasantly surprised to learn there was a cook on board, and supper proved to be a very palatable stew. He hoped that it was beef, but didn’t push his luck by asking anyone.
Sleeping aboard was something else. The Banshee’s normal crew had berths belowdecks, narrow bunks and dangling hammocks that resembled slings made out of fish nets. No allowance had been made for Marley’s men, so they’d be sleeping on the weather deck and hoping that it didn’t rain during the night. Ryder picked out a lifeboat for himself and lay down in it, waiting for the clipper’s gentle rocking to lull him to sleep.
That took a while, with all the anxious thoughts crowding his mind. He lay with one hand on the Colt Army’s curved grip, not really thinking anyone would make a move against him overnight, out on the open deck, but still not absolutely positive. His mind was focused more on what awaited him on shore, tomorrow, or during the journey back to Galveston. If Seitz or Pickering—maybe the two of them together—planned to do away with him somehow, on Marley’s orders or without his knowledge, it made sense that they would do it on the island or at sea. Since he had finished half the trip alive, the island got his vote.
And what if he was wrong? What if there was no plot against him after all?
That optimistic notion overlooked last night’s attempt to kill him, and his best guess naming Ot
to as the man behind it. Maybe Otto and his boss, in which case getting back to Galveston alive was still no guarantee of safety.
Ryder wondered what Director Wood was doing, whether he’d received the telegrams Ryder had sent him, if he planned to take some action in support of Ryder or leave him to handle the whole operation on his own. The one-sided communication was frustrating, left Ryder dangling with no clue as to when—or if—he could expect assistance. Wood was probably afraid to answer, worried that someone in Galveston would intercept his message and deliver it to Marley. Still …
Still, nothing. Even if Wood answered his last telegram, he wouldn’t know it until he returned to Galveston. Ryder did not enjoy the thought of a message lying around the boardinghouse in his absence, but he trusted Wood to be discreet, if he replied at all.
One of the Banshee’s crewmen ambled past the lifeboat, trailing pipe smoke, humming to himself. Ryder observed that he was carrying a Pattern 1853 Enfield rifle, a British rifled musket that had been the South’s most common weapon in the recent war. Some Union troops had carried it, as well, though most preferred the Springfield Model 1861 for the interchangeability of its machine-made parts. Either piece would blow a .58-caliber hole through flesh and bone, dropping a man out to five hundred yards.
It came as no surprise, of course, to find the pirates armed. Ryder had estimated twenty-five on board, not counting Marley’s crew, which meant near-hopeless odds if Seitz or Pickering were planning to get rid of him. He couldn’t count on anyone from Marley’s side to help him if the order came from Seitz to put him down, and Ryder doubted whether any would risk aiding him if Pickering decided on his own to lay a trap. Why should they, when the pirate captain kept loot flowing through their hands?
Such thoughts kept sleep at bay, as did the ship’s bell, chiming each half hour as the night wore on. Eight bells, Ryder had learned, announced the stroke of midnight and a changing of the guard. Somehow, in spite of his anxiety and the incessant tolling from the bridge, he drifted off before a single ringing note declared twelve-thirty had arrived. The other bells, continuing throughout the night, provided grim accompaniment to his uneasy dreams.
