by Lyle Brandt
Another moment passed before their marching shadows fell across the street in front of Ryder, then he saw the leader of the group and recognized Stede Pickering. Most of the others straggled out behind their captain in a rough parade formation, were familiar to him from his one-way trip aboard the Banshee. All of them were armed with rifles, pistols, plus a wide variety of sabers, swords, and knives.
Going to war, unless he missed his guess.
But war with whom?
The only thought that sprang to mind was Bryan Marley and his crew, though Ryder couldn’t figure out why Pickering would turn against his business partner. Not unless the captain blamed Marley for what had happened to his clipper. And if Pickering believed that …
Ryder thought he might not need those reinforcements, after all.
He waited for the mob to pass him by, gave them a block’s head start, then slipped out of the alleyway and followed them. There was no question. Pickering was headed for the brothel where Ryder had seen him earlier, before he’d gone to torch the Banshee at the waterfront. Two blocks before they reached their destination, Pickering hissed at his men for silence, then proceeded with the nearest thing to stealth a crowd of angry men can manage on their way to facing death.
This wasn’t what he’d planned, but being heavily outnumbered, Ryder figured he should seize whatever opportunity he had to thin the odds against him. Bryan Marley was his primary concern, the one he wanted to arrest above all others and deliver to Director Wood. Whatever happened after that—a deal worked out between them, or a quick trip to the penitentiary—was no concern of Ryder’s.
He still hoped to bring Marley in alive, for trial, although that raised a whole new set of risks beyond the mere act of arresting him. Would Galveston’s police cooperate with Ryder, or conspire to liberate the smuggler who’d been bribing them for years on end? In the alternative, could Ryder trust the county’s sheriff or the Texas Rangers for assistance? Houston was the nearest town to Galveston of any size, some fifty miles away—another seaport where, for all he knew, Marley might well have friends in power.
Never mind, he thought, and tried to concentrate on what was happening right now, without distractions. Marley wasn’t in his hands yet, and might never be. They both had to survive this night, before Ryder could see his mission through.
A half block short of Awful Annie’s, Pickering stopped short and issued orders to his troops. Ryder was too far back to overhear him, but he saw three men duck down an alley on the brothel’s eastern side, while two more ran around the southwest corner. They were covering all exits, making sure that no one could escape.
Ryder slowly advanced along the north side of the street, moving from one shop doorway to the next. Pickering’s men were focused on their target, paying no attention to the neighborhood around them as they found the best cover they could, their rifles aimed at Annie’s door and windows. With his Colt Army in hand, Ryder crept up behind them, waiting for the battle to commence.
*
Say that again,” Bryan Marley responded. “You’re not making sense.”
“I swear it’s the truth,” Tommy Rafferty answered. “I seen it myself.”
“He ain’t lyin’,” Ed Parsons chimed in.
“Just repeat it, will you!” Marley snapped.
“It was Otto. He kilt Jim and Billy, but Jim got a shot in ’im as he was dyin’, it looks like.”
“Why in hell would he do that?” asked Marley, already half sure of the answer.
“You kicked him out, din’t you,” said Parsons. “I figger he took it real hard.”
“Mebbe thought he could pick up some cash for the road,” Tommy offered. “You know how he was.”
“Tried to rob us,” said Marley, and then something clicked in his mind. “The warehouse! You just left it unguarded with dead men inside?”
Ed and Tommy exchanged startled glances. “Well, we—” Tommy started to say.
“Get back over there, you idjits!” Marley raged. “Somebody could be looting it right now!”
Parsons and Rafferty broke for the bat-wing doors, then stopped dead just inside them, staring at the street. “Bryan,” Tommy called out, “you better have a look at this.”
“What is it now, for God’s sake?” he shouted back, moving reluctantly across the barroom, toward the exit. He could feel his men and some of Annie’s girls tracking his progress, all afraid to make a peep when he was in a fury.
Halfway to the door, he halted, frozen by the echo of a voice he recognized. “Marley!” it bellowed. “Bryan Marley! Show yourself, you scurvy bastard!”
Moving to the door, he pushed Parsons and Rafferty aside. “Is that you, Pickering?” he shouted back, already certain of it.
“Who else would it be?” the captain answered.
Marley saw eight or nine armed men outside, crouching behind whatever objects offered partial shelter—water troughs, a wagon parked across the street, one at the nearest corner. All of them were armed with rifles, as was Pickering, the only man who stood before him in the open.
“What’s the problem, Stede?” asked Marley.
“You know goddamn well,” said Pickering.
“I heard your ship was damaged.”
“Damaged, hell! It’s gone, as you well know.”
“All right, it’s gone” Marley replied. “What brings you here, dressed up for war?”
“Oh, now you’re playin’ innocent? Is that the deal?”
“Make sense, will you?”
“Your man was seen leavin’ the Banshee, just afore she burnt,” snarled Pickering.
“My man? Which man?”
“Your precious George Revere!”
“You’re either drunk or crazy,” Marley said. “You left him on Timbalier Island, if it hasn’t slipped your mind.”
“We left ’im, but he’s back,” said Pickering. “Your bosom friend.”
“You think he burned the clipper?”
“I jus’ tole you he was seen.”
“By who?” Marley demanded.
“By a man with eyes, is who.”
“Let’s say that’s true,” Marley replied. “I ain’t admitting it, but say you’re right. What makes you think I sent him to your ship? Seems like he had reason enough to hate you, on his own account.”
“Don’t even try talkin’ your way around this, Marley. Time and time again you’ve told me nothin’ happens in the Port of Galveston without your say-so.”
“Stede, be sensible. You don’t—”
The shot cracked past his face before Marley could finish, clipped the top curve of the bat-wing doors, and sprayed his cheek with wooden splinters. Diving backward, out of sight, he flipped a poker table on its side and ducked behind it for the extra cover.
Marley shouted to his gunmen, “Let ’em have it! None of ’em goes home alive!”
*
Stede Pickering was shouting, “Who did that? Who fired that shot?” when pistols blazed from Awful Annie’s two front windows, smashing glass and forcing him to run for any cover he could find. Ryder, well out of range from that barrage, edged forward, ducked into the nearest alley running north-south from the sidewalk where he was, and moved along the narrow passageway toward the rear of the brothel. Rats scurried out of Ryder’s way, and garbage shifted underneath his boots as he proceeded, following the path that three men from the Banshee had already taken to their posts.
Behind him, more gunfire was hammering the street, glass breaking, bullets rattling as they struck the brothel’s clapboard walls. That racket signaled Pickering’s rear guards to make their move, a crashing at the back door as they stormed it, kicking through and rushing on inside. The next shots that he heard were muffled, coming through the wall immediately to his left. Ryder picked up his pace, making more noise than he preferred, but feeling fairly confident no one would hear him with the battle under way.
How long before police arrived in answer to the gunfire? They’d been slow the night he went with Marle
y, on the raid against Jack Menefee, but that was no reliable predictor for the present case. It wouldn’t do for him to waste a moment, when he might wind up arrested with the smugglers and their former friends-turned-enemies. Ryder was sure he wouldn’t last the night if he was jailed with either group—and that might happen, he supposed, even if he arrested Bryan Marley and identified himself to the authorities.
As Ryder reached the brothel’s northeast corner, he paused once again, wishing he’d gotten off the Southern Belle at Tampa, with Irene McGowan, when he’d had the chance. It was too late for anything resembling a happy ending now, he thought, cocking his Colt Army before he eased around the corner, watching out for stragglers from the Banshee’s crew. None challenged him, and he saw no one as he approached the back door of the whorehouse, standing open in a haze of gray gun smoke.
Across that threshold, Ryder knew that life-and-death decisions would be mandatory. On the other hand, if he retreated, hid somewhere and let the battle run its course, then who would be any the wiser? No one back in Washington expected him to stand between two warring gangs, did they? His mission had not been to die in Galveston, but rather to break up a smuggling ring. Couldn’t he wait and see if Pickering accomplished that, himself?
The answer from his conscience came back, clear and unequivocal.
The word was, No.
Should he announce himself as being from the Secret Service? Would it matter, now that battle had been joined between the gangs? Ryder decided on the spot that it would be a foolish risk, drawing attention to himself in such a way that both sides might join forces to eliminate him.
Nice and quiet, then, if he could manage that.
He stepped through Annie’s back door, moved immediately to his left, and pressed his back against the wall. Whatever happened in the next few moments, at least nobody could shoot him in the back.
From where he stood, Ryder was forced to lean right for a view along the hallway leading from the back door to the barroom, past the entrance to a small kitchen and other doors he took for storage rooms or closets, possibly a small office. The hooker cribs were all upstairs, but he passed along the corridor, trailing the Banshee crewmen who had led the way inside.
And where were they?
Based on the shouts, the cursing, women’s screams and gunfire, they had reached the main saloon and gaming room, surprising Marley’s men who hadn’t thought to block the rear approach. Ryder wished he could still the tremor in his gun hand as he closed the gap between the back door and the barroom, where a second battle had erupted, only yards away.
*
No one had ’fessed up to firing the first shot at Marley, and Pickering no longer cared who had done it. They were down to killing now, and only one side could emerge victorious—that was, if either of them did. Hunched down behind a water trough that was already leaking from two bullet holes, Pickering aimed his Colt revolving rifle, squeezed the trigger carefully, not jerking it, and sent a .44 slug on its way into the whorehouse.
Hitting what? Most likely nothing, but at least he’d made some noise.
The men inside were fighting back with pistols only, so far, though he guessed they likely had some long guns stashed somewhere inside the place. Shotguns would be a problem, when his people tried to enter, but he didn’t plan to lead the way himself. Old Mother Pickering had raised some cutthroats, it was true, but none of them were idiots.
Speaking of men, he wondered what had happened to the bunch he sent around behind the brothel, hoping they would stand their ground and block the way for anyone who tried escaping through the windows or back door. A better deal, for Pickering, would be if they had made their way inside of Awful Annie’s, killing some of Marley’s boys or at the least distracting them while Pickering arranged a charge at the front door. With all the racket, it was hard to tell, but even one man on the inside could play hob with the defenders.
Pickering triggered another shot that whistled through one of the shattered streetside windows, going God knew where inside the barroom. That done, he called out to several of the crewmen nearest to him, drawing their attention briefly from the fight.
“Jubal! Eric! Nosey!” The latter’s name was something French, but he was nicknamed for his trait of butting in when others talked. When they had turned toward Pickering, he said, “We need to get inside there. Rush the front door on my signal. Pass it on!”
None of the three looked happy with that order, but they hastened to obey, knowing a bullet in the back might be their payment if they balked. Before another minute passed, the rest of Pickering’s men on the street were ready—or as ready as they’d ever be—to charge at the saloon and try to force their way inside.
Could be a massacre, thought Pickering. But on the other hand …
He shouted, “Now!” and cranked off two rounds from his Colt rifle in rapid fire, adding some cover as his men cut loose with everything they had. For some, that meant a single rifle shot, before they clawed their pistols free and ran headlong toward Awful Annie’s bat-wing doors. The two men armed with Spencers pumped the lever actions on their rifles, laying down a steady fire as they burst out from cover, joining in the charge.
One took a hit and fell, sprawling across the wooden sidewalk, nearly tripped the man behind him, then that second man was through the swinging doors and lost to sight. The others followed swiftly, shouting incoherently and firing shots at anything that moved.
Pickering counted off ten seconds in his head, then followed them inside.
*
Bryan Marley had begun to sympathize a bit with dead Jack Menefee. The siege of Awful Annie’s had surprised him, made him wonder whether Pickering had soaked his brain in too much rum and lost his mind entirely, but that didn’t matter now. They were surrounded in the brothel and, worse yet, some of the Banshee crewmen were inside. He hadn’t paid attention to the back door—hell, he hadn’t stationed any guards at all around the place—and now he was regretting it.
It was amazing, how the world could shift in nothing flat. One moment, he and Pickering had been the best of friends, drinking and whoring together; now, they were at each other’s throats over a stupid accusation that Marley had sent George Revere, of all people, to burn the Banshee. Revere, who should have been still stranded on Timbalier Island, thanks to Otto Seitz. And Otto, once his trusted right-hand man, was dead now, after killing two of Marley’s men in a botched robbery.
It was too much. He didn’t even want to think about the treasure storehouse, left unguarded. Not while he was busy fighting for his life.
Three of the gunmen who had come in through the back door were behind the bar, rising by turns to fire around the room. They’d shot the barkeep first thing, and they had his shotgun now, aside from any others weapons they had brought along with them. A fourth intruder had been gut-shot in the early moments of the skirmish. He was lying on the threshold of the hallway leading to the kitchen, Annie’s office, and the back door, through which Marley was expecting more invaders anytime now.
What he needed was a new perspective on the battlefield, a view from higher ground. And that, in turn, might offer him a chance to slip away unnoticed in the general confusion. Some might call that cowardice, desertion of his men, but Marley’s first concern had always been self-preservation. Friends might come and go—take Otto as a prime example—but he had only stayed alive this long by looking out for number one.
His first step was to find a way upstairs. That offered him a better vantage point for fighting, plus more windows he could possibly escape through, if raiders didn’t have them covered from below. And even if they did, Marley imagined that his odds of taking down one lookout, then escaping, were a great deal better than if he remained downstairs, hemmed in by shooters to the front and rear.
Marley was moving, ducking bullets from the street and watching out for Pickering’s three men behind the bar, when someone in the outer darkness shouted, “Now!” A storm of gunfire peppered Awful Annie’s bat-wing d
oors and shattered streetside windows, forcing Marley down to hands and knees, then driving him to wriggle on his belly like a lizard, making for the stairs. Passing Harry Morgan, Marley heard his squawk of pain, felt warm blood splash his cheek before he crawled on by.
He reached the staircase, started scrambling toward the second floor on knees and elbows, as the gunmen he had seen outside burst through the brothel’s swinging doors. One leaped in through an empty window frame, then tumbled out again, backward, when one of Marley’s people shot him in the chest.
“The lamps!” somebody shouted, and a fireball streaked across the barroom, bursting when it hit the old piano, spreading flames.
Marley could not afford another moment’s hesitation now. He had to get upstairs and find a way out of the house before it all went up and he was cooked alive.
*
Ryder was halfway down the hall when Pickering’s frontal assault began, the sound of shots and shouts redoubled in the barroom up ahead. He saw a lantern tossed and tumbling to explode in leaping flames and knew the building wouldn’t stand for long unless somebody doused the fire.
His sense of urgency increased, Ryder approached the doorway to the barroom, stepping past a wounded gunman who was writhing on the floor, clutching his stomach, dark blood pulsing from between his fingers. At the threshold, Ryder crouched and peered around the room, looking for Marley, glimpsing him just as he reached the second-story landing. It was thirty-some-odd feet from Ryder’s present position to the stairs, with nothing close to decent cover on the way. He’d have to trust in speed, and as he braced himself to run for it, Ryder wasn’t convinced that would be good enough.
Get on with it!
He bolted from the doorway, startling one of Marley’s men who’d crouched behind an upturned table. Ryder recognized the face but couldn’t put a name to it. The shooter gawked at him and cried, “You’re dead!” but raised his pistol anyway, to make it true.
Not yet! thought Ryder, as he fired his Colt point-blank into the smuggler’s chest.
A bullet plucked at Ryder’s left sleeve and kissed his biceps with a wasp’s sting before flying on to strike the room’s west wall. He didn’t know which side had fired the shot and didn’t care. A pirate’s gun would cut him down the same as one of Marley’s if he slowed his pace and made an easy target of himself. One saving grace was the confusion that surrounded him, men firing almost randomly around the barroom, Annie’s girls squealing in counterpoint to the staccato gunfire. The bar’s piano was consumed by fire, and now a second lamp had burst behind the bar, flames threatening the shelves of liquor there.
