They slid silently past the boats moored along the river, edged into the current, and headed south.
Just around a bend of the river they saw the steamboat they hoped to salvage lying in shallow water. After hitting the snag, the pilot had made a run for the shore to try to save his boat and his cargo, and he had almost made it.
“What we got to watch for,” Captain Peterson said, “is river rats. They try to get all they can lay hands on, and you can be sure they’ve been down there, looking around. They’re a pack of cut throats.”
“That they are,” Paddy agreed. “You can’t trust ‘em an inch.”
They watched the shore, but they saw no one before they neared the wreck. The shores there were heavily wooded right down to the water, with cottonwood, box elder, elm, and willow.
After they had tied up to the wreck itself, Val stripped to dive. This would be the first time he had ever swum for any reason other than for pleasure. His activities would be shielded from the shore by the bulk of their own small steamer.
The Texas, with its pilot house, was visible above the water. A quick examination of the pilot house told Val that it had been looted of everything valuable. Even the wheel had been ripped out and taken away, as well as the brass lamps and other fixtures.
The Texas, where the officers as well as the boat’s crew had their quarters, came next. This too, had been thoroughly looted.
Peterson got out a fishing pole and after lighting his pipe, dropped his line over the side. Beside him on a hatch he had his shotgun. “Let ‘em figure I’m just fishing,” he said. “It mayn’t fool ‘em for long, or at all, but it might.”
Val belted on a crudely made canvas belt with large pockets attached, into which he had placed stones to weight him down. He climbed over the side to the hurricane deck, and from there he climbed down a stanchion to the saloon deck. Here, ranged around the saloon, were the first-class cabins—staterooms that on Mississippi River boats were named for the states of the Union.
The water was murky, but there was still light enough to see, and if there had been a search down there Val realized that it had been a hurried one. On the fourth dive he found a long wooden case in one of the cabins. It was an elegant, highly polished box. Tying it to the end of a line, Val signaled for it to be hoisted.
Later, on deck, they examined it. On it was the name Steven Bricker, which Val had seen before.
“Let’s bust it open,” Lahey suggested.
“No, let’s not. The man that owns this box is at the Southern Hotel. I saw his name on the register there when I was waiting to see the manager. He might pay us for it. Anyway, I think I know what it is.”
It was a gun case, Val felt sure. He had seen such cases before, and they usually held guns treasured by sportsmen, weapons often inlaid with gold, and sometimes covered with ornamentation.
The following morning he dived deep, going at once to the main deck. This was littered with boxes and crates, and on the foredeck he found some heavy lines, evidently used in mooring the boat. These could easily be sold along the river front, or used by Captain Peterson himself, and they were hoisted aloft.
Lahey made two quick dives after that. He could not stay down as long as Val, but he went directly to the hatch on the main deck and knocked out a couple of wedges and removed a batten. By mid-morning when they stopped for coffee they had the forward hatch opened and had exposed the barrels. Peterson had steam up and had turned on the power so they could use it in hoisting the barrels.
“There’s a cargo net down there,” Lahey said. “We’ve only got to roll the barrels into it. They weigh nothing much under water.”
Huddled under a blanket, Val sipped coffee. He had never been in the water so much before, and had not gone so deep more than once or twice. But he was excited by the search, and there were still several cabins to be examined.
It was hard work, but by nightfall they had fifty barrels of flour aboard their own steamer. They were covered with tarpaulins, some of which had been salvaged from the wreck. So far they had seen no sign of anybody about.
They examined one barrel of flour, and found that the flour next to the outside of the barrel had settled into a hard crust for about three inches, while that in the center of the barrel was still as good as ever. This flour they kept for their own use.
Reluctantly, they cast off, leaving Paddy Lahey aboard to watch their cargo. They steamed back up the river, and when they reached the water front at St. Louis Val went ashore and headed for the Southern Hotel with Steven Bricker’s gun case under his arm.
This time there was no interference. He was given Bricker’s room number, and went up.
The man who answered the door was short and stocky, with graying hair and beard. He had sharp blue eyes, that went from Val’s face to the case. “Well,” he said, “you’d better come in.” He added, “I never expected to see that again.”
“I was in the hotel the other night and saw your name on the register, so when we found this … well, I imagine they are favorite weapons of yours, and that can be important to a man.”
“They are important,” Bricker said. “They were the last gifts to me from my father. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, sir. I am merely returning your property.”
Bricker looked at him shrewdly. “If you’ll permit me to say so, you look as if you could use the money.”
“I could,” Val admitted frankly, “but I’ll not take money for returning your property.”
“How did you come by it? I thought the ‘Gypsy Belle’ was a total loss.”
Val explained. He told about how he had learned about the flour, and what they had done so far. Captain Peterson, he added, had even now gone to the insurers to make a deal for recovery of the flour.
Bricker listened, lighting a fresh cigar. “Had you ever thought they might just take over and continue the salvage themselves, allowing you nothing?”
“We did think of that. I hope they will be decent about it, sir.”
Bricker got up and took his coat from the wardrobe. “Let’s just walk over and see how Captain Peterson is doing. He might be able to use some help.”
Captain Peterson, cap in hand, was just being shown through the gate at the office of the insurers. His face was red with anger. “Boy, they’ve threatened us with arrest. They’ve said—”
Steven Bricker stepped past him and opened the door of the inner office. “Danforth, I think we had better discuss this matter of salvage,” he said. “Come in, Darrant. You, too, Peterson.”
“Now, see here! What’s your part in this, Bricker?”
“These gentlemen are friends of mine, Danforth. And, I might add, they will be represented by my attorneys.”
Danforth sat down and took up a cigar. “You can’t mean that, Bricker. I’ve known of Peterson for years. He’s nothing but a waterfront bum, scavenging along the river for whatever he can pick up.”
“And now he has picked up a beauty,” Bricker replied, “and you’re going to pay him for it. I happen to know that after the initial survey you abandoned that wreck. As it happens, if you remember, I was a passenger on the ‘Gypsy Belle.’ I had personal effects of considerable value aboard.
“You can buy out the interests of Peterson and Darrant,” he went on, “or they will proceed to salvage it themselves. I happen to know that you have offered to settle with some of the shippers at a very modest price.”
“That is none of your business, Bricker.”
“I shall make it my business.” Bricker got up. “You have been notified. I shall instruct my attorneys to proceed at once.”
When they were outside, Bricker turned to the others. “Are you gentlemen willing to fight? I mean, can you fight?”
“We can, sir,” Val answered.
“Then you get back down to that steamboat and tie up to her. Unless I’m wrong, they will make an effort to drive you off. I will get help to you as soon as possible. When my men come, they will be carryin
g a blue flag.”
Val Darrant had grown up in a hard school, in which one often moved fast, or not at all. There was no time for contemplation, and he knew it. Peterson would arrive at the right decision but he would take too long, and Lahey was content to abide by whatever they decided.
“Captain,” Val said, “you and Paddy unload the cargo. I’m going to take a boat and go back to the wreck.”
He wasted no time. There was a skiff on the “Idle Hour” which he quickly launched, and then without delay he shoved off. He had a small packet of food, a keg of water, and the Smith & Wesson pistol. There was a good current in the river, and he was a strong hand with the oars.
He had not gone many miles when suddenly he heard the chug-chug of a steam engine and the thrash of paddles. Glancing back, he saw a small steamer, not much larger than the “Idle Hour,” steaming toward him. At once he was sure this was a boat sent by Danforth to take possession of the wreck.
For a moment he was swept by dismay, but almost immediately he had an idea. Taking up a line from the bow of the boat, he fashioned a hasty slip knot. He had learned roping long ago while herding cattle, and although no great shakes as a roper, he knew the roping of a bollard would not be too difficult a trick. She was a side-wheeler running at no more than half-speed, but he was going to get no more than one cast and it had to be good. Still, the bollard would be as large as a calf’s head, and certainly wouldn’t be bobbing as much.
He coiled his line, giving himself as much slack as he could after making the other end fast, and as the steamer swept past he made his throw. It shot straight and true, and instantly he dropped into place and grabbed his oars and managed to get in a couple of good strokes to ease the jerk as the slack came to an end.
Despite that, it gave him quite a jolt, but the line held fast and the next thing he knew he was proceeding downriver at a good clip. He sat back and relaxed. It was night, no one was on deck aft, and probably the only man awake was in the pilot house.
They made good time, but he knew that when they rounded the bend they must slow down because of the risk of running upon the wreck. That would be his chance.
He was waiting for the moment, and when they swept into the cove and cut the speed to slow, he waited until the steamer swung around broadside to the wreck. Instantly he slashed the line and caught up his oars. He made two sweeping strokes before he was seen; there was a shout from the steamer’s deck, but he kept on.
Suddenly there was another shout, this time a command to halt. He pulled hard on his right oar, easing on the left, swung out of line, continued on.
A shot rang out and struck the water to his right, and then with one more strong pull he turned quickly, caught hold of the Texas and pulled himself hand over hand around it to the sheltering side. Then he tied up his skiff and climbed aboard, taking his food and water.
By now it was almost light. He climbed into the pilot house. There seemed to have been no one aboard since they had left. There were ladders on both sides of the pilot house to the hurricane deck, where the Texas was. The hurricane deck was under water, but if necessary he could retreat to that more sheltered area.
These were tough men, sent to do a job, and no doubt had been well chosen for it. They would shoot to frighten him, and when he did not frighten they would shoot to kill.
Some of the hatch covers they had taken out when opening the hatch had floated against the Texas and lay there among the other driftwood. They were about six feet long and three inches thick, so he carried several of them up and used them to thicken the pilothouse bulkhead, an added protection against bullets.
Then he made coffee on the little pilothouse stove, ate a piece of cheese and some crackers and sat back to keep watch, and to wait. And he knew he had very little time to wait.
There were at least a dozen men on that steamboat, and he could see them gathering near the rail—evidently a boat was to be lowered.
A heavily built man came near the rail. The steamer was not more than thirty yards off, and his voice was loud and clear. “You, aboard there! We’re from the owners! We’re comin’ aboard to take possession. You can get off of your own free will, or you can be thrown off!”
“Nothing doing!” Val shouted. “I am in possession, and I intend to stay here. I am armed, and if necessary I will shoot.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then the big man shouted back, “All right, boy, you’re askin’ for it!”
A boat was brought around to the side and men started to descend a rope to get into the boat. The Smith & Wesson Russian was a powerful gun. He aimed the .44 at the water line of the rowboat and fired. Then he fired again. A man on the rope ladder scrambled back aboard, and there was a shout from the boat. “Hey! He’s put a hole in us!”
Another man yelled, “She’s leakin’!”
“Bail her out!” the big man ordered. “An’ row over there! You can make it before she sinks.”
Val Darrant loaded the empty chambers of his gun. He had no doubt that by plugging the holes and bailing they could make it. He was no kind of a showoff, but sometimes a demonstration of what could be done was enough to prevent having to do it.
On the ledge by the pilot house window was a bottle. He took it in his hand and stepped to the door.
“Just so you gentlemen will understand that I can do what I say,” he called, and tossed the bottle into the air. Lifting the gun, he fired, breaking the bottle; fired twice more, smashing the largest of the two falling fragments, and then smashing it again. The three shots sounded like one solid roll of thunder in the small cove.
When the sound died, he said, “I hope I won’t have to demonstrate on any of you.”
The rest of the men, despite the protests of the big man giving the orders, climbed back aboard, and Val could hear loud argument. Meanwhile he waited, desperately anxious, for the arrival of his friends. The trouble was, these men might seize the “Idle Hour” and force Val to give up his position to save his friends.
The steamer had drifted closer now. “All right, you can shoot. So we just set here and wait. When night comes you ain’t goin’ to see very good. We’ll come then.”
Despite his doubts, Val kept his voice confident. “Fine! You can just wait out there until the United States marshals arrive. They’ll be glad to see you, with all of those John Doe warrants they’ll be carrying. And I imagine they will know some of you boys very well! You just stick around. I’ve got a thousand rounds of ammunition and grub enough for two weeks.”
He had nothing of the sort, nor did he have any idea that United States marshals would be coming, but it gave them something to think about.
As Will Reilly had often said, “Let them use their imagination, Val. Nine times out of ten they will think you are holding more than you are. So just wait them out.”
He was not tired, the morning was dawning bright and beautiful, birds sang in the trees along the river bank, and his gun was loaded again.
It was a bird that warned him. A mud hen was swimming near the stern of the steamboat carrying the attackers. It had flown up briefly at the shots, then settled back. Now, suddenly, with a startled squawk, the mud hen took off.
Val sat up quickly. Instantly he knew what they were doing. They were coming now, swimming underneath the water. There might be one or two, there might be a dozen, but they were coming, and he was one against them all.
Chapter Fourteen
He could feel the softness of the air, see the sunlight and cloud shadows on the trees and water. He could see the men along the rail yonder, and four of them now had rifles.
The men swimming to attack him were probably coming from around both the bow and the stern to take him from both sides. He did not want to kill anyone, both because killing was no solution to one’s problems and because he had an idea the courts might be more inclined to hang him than not. And he had no witnesses … or none that he knew of.
“Call them back,” he said, shouting to the big man who watched from
the pilot house. “Call them back or I’ll have to shoot.”
“You fire that gun,” the big man shouted, “and we’ll riddle you with bullets!”
There is a time for all things. He had offered not to kill, the men were closing in, and he was alone. The attackers were thugs paid to do their work, but the director of it all was that big man yonder.
“Call them back,” he said again, knowing they were almost at the wreck. Incongruously, he noticed that the mud hen was back again, swimming complacently, and would still be there when all of them were gone.
There was no answer, so he lifted the Smith & Wesson and shot the big man through the shoulder.
He saw the man knocked backward, heard his cry of shock and astonishment, and Val yelled at him. “Call them back. It’s you I’m going to get if you don’t.”
The man dropped from sight, but unless they had reinforced their walls as he had done, that pilot house was no more protection than cardboard. Yet even as the man dropped from sight, the four riflemen opened up on him. He heard the ugly smash of the bullets into the bulkheads, the whine of ricochets. From the door, flat on his belly, he fired and saw one of the riflemen spin around and drop his rifle.
He fired again, and one of the others stumbled. All of them were running now. Hastily, he fed a couple of shells into his gun, and heard a splash in the water down below. At least one of the men was now inside the Texas, and right below him.
When he had tied up his skiff alongside the wreck, he had carried his oars up to the pilot house so they might not steal the boat. Now he caught up one of the oars. He thrust his pistol into his waistband and stepped quickly out on the shore side of the pilot house. A man was just scrambling up the ladder and catching the oar in both hands, above shoulder height, Val smashed the butt end of the oar into the man’s chest, knocking him back into the water.
Even as he splashed, Val heard running boots on the other side and wheeled around, drawing as he turned.
The man held a knife, an Arkansas toothpick, and he held it low down for thrusting.
Reilly's Luck Page 13
