by Lyle Brandt
Chief Doherty spoke first, saying, “It seems you’ve wreaked a lot of havoc here in Galveston.”
“How so?” Ryder inquired.
“We’ve had a ship burned at the wharf, and then a tavern where they’re still counting the dead. Now we’ve got four men murdered at this warehouse—”
“One, I understand, was shot in self-defense,” Pulaski interjected, “while the rest killed one another.”
“So he says,” the chief replied, clearly unhappy with the interruption.
“Have you any reason to dispute it?” asked Pulaski.
“Not yet. But you can be sure that I’ll be looking into it.”
“The warehouse stands on county land,” said Sheriff Winstead. “If there’s any lookin’ in to do, I’ll be the one to do it.”
“I suppose you’ll want to hog the merchandise, as well?” Doherty challenged.
“I can put your mind to ease on that score,” said Pulaski. “Everything inside that storehouse is the fruits of smuggling, meaning a conspiracy against the U.S. government.”
Doherty snorted back at him, derisively. “Conspiracy, my ass.”
“Evading import duties for a start,” Pulaski said. “That’s federal. Defrauding Customs and the U.S. Treasury.”
The sheriff cleared his throat. “If there was a reward …”
“You’d have to take that up with Washington,” Pulaski told him. “What I understand, most of the loot was stolen off of foreign shipping, more than fifty years ago. You’d have to trace the ownership, first thing, and even then you can’t claim a reward unless you’re able to return the items. Which you won’t be, while they’re held in federal custody. Try writing to the State Department if you think you’ve got a case.”
Ryder was pleased to sit and watch the argument play out around him, thankful that he wasn’t forced to answer any of those questions on his own. The less that Chief Doherty and Sheriff Winstead focused on him, the better he liked it.
“Damn it,” Doherty was saying, “I don’t like the way we’re being pushed aside in this. I represent the law in Galveston, and—”
“Chief,” Pulaski interrupted him again, “you needn’t worry. I’ll be sure to note in my report that Marley’s gang accumulated all this loot while you were busy … um … investigating them.”
“Hold on, now!”
“I suspect the Secret Service may want to discuss your methods. Agent Ryder?”
“Hmm. I wouldn’t doubt it,” Ryder said, making an effort not to smile.
“Hey, now!” said Doherty. “We can’t watch every ship that comes to port. That’s down to Customs, anyhow.”
“That’s settled, then,” Pulaski said. “We’ll have no more discussion about shares, rewards, or any other foolishness.”
The chief and his two escorts rose, red-faced. As he was stalking toward the exit, Doherty rasped out, “I don’t know why you bothered calling us at all.”
“Consider it a courtesy,” Pulaski said, to his retreating back.
The sheriff’s laugh was muted, like a hiss of steam escaping from a leaky radiator. “It was worth my cut, just watchin’ that,” he said. “But seriously, fellas, if there’s any chance to get a piece before you take the lion’s share …”
*
From Sheriff Winstead’s office, Ryder went back to his boardinghouse, to fetch his rifle and the personal effects still waiting in his rented room. Pulaski had gone off to make arrangements for a team and wagon, planning several trips between the warehouse and the waterfront until he’d salvaged Marley’s treasure and secured it aboard the Revenue Cutter. Ryder was supposed to join them at his leisure, understanding that the Martin Van Buren meant to leave for Corpus Christi by sundown, at the latest.
One more voyage over water, and he hoped that it would be his last.
En route to claim his Henry and the rest of his belongings, Ryder heard his stomach growling and remembered that he’d had nothing to eat since supper, yesterday. The Mexican café where he had dined last night was on his way, so Ryder stopped in there for a steak they called carne asada, with a side order of tamales, rice, and beans. He washed the whole lot down with beer—cerveza in the native tongue—but passed on the tequila, since he meant to keep his wits about him.
No time yet to celebrate.
It took less time than Ryder had imagined, clearing out his room and settling his final payment to the landlord. On his walk back to the waterfront, he thought about Director Wood and how he might react to the conclusion of his work in Galveston. The lack of an impending trial, he thought, might work to his advantage, since there’d be no risk of anybody paying off a judge or jury to derail the wheels of justice. As to any mixed emotions Ryder had about the fate of Bryan Marley, he supposed that he would learn to live with them.
He stayed alert during his final stroll through town, keenly aware that some of Marley’s men might still be circulating through the city, scheming to recover loot they saw as theirs, perhaps seeking revenge for the demise of Marley and their crew. No one but little Nell had heard Ryder proclaim himself a lawman in the fight at Awful Annie’s, but she might have talked to others. And, he knew, there was a nagging possibility that Doherty or one of his corrupt policemen could have spread the word, from simple spite.
With that in mind, he kept the Henry rifle in his left hand, while his right was free to draw the Colt Army, the portmanteau he’d brought from Washington slung from his shoulder by its strap. His watchfulness turned out to be a waste of time, since no one challenged him along the way, and Ryder was relieved to reach the pier without another fight.
Pulaski showed up moments later, with a second wagonload of crates from Marley’s warehouse. They attracted some attention, but his rifle-bearing seamen kept the gawkers at a distance. Ryder was about to join them, shifting cargo from the wagon to the cutter, when Pulaski stopped him, handing Ryder a flimsy envelope printed with the legend WESTERN UNION TELEGRAM.
“A messenger brought this while you were gone,” Pulaski said.
Ryder opened the envelope, unfolded the message inside, and perused it. The telegram read:
JOB WELL DONE STOP PROCEED CORPUS CHRISTI STOP AWAIT ORDERS RE KNIGHTS OF RISING SUN STOP WOOD
Ryder showed Pulaski the telegram and asked him, “Any idea what that last bit means?”
“A Rebel outfit,” said Pulaski. “Never heard of Appomattox. Are you going after them?”
Ryder could only shrug. “You know as much as I do. Maybe.”
“Well, good luck then,” the lieutenant told him. “Better you than me.”
