Smugglers' Gold (17 page)

And any way he looked at it, the pot was coming to a boil in Galveston.

From Western Union, Ryder made a quick but cautious circuit of the waterfront, watching for any members of the
Banshee
's crew and spotting none. He buttonholed a passing stevedore and asked if anybody from the clipper's crew had come to view the wreckage yet, receiving a description of a man who had to be Stede Pickering, arriving on the scene with something like a dozen men, then storming off again.

Where to?

The dock worker could only shrug at that, but Ryder knew from conversations he had overheard that Pickering and company had no lodgings in Galveston. When they delivered cargo to the port, they spent their idle time ashore in the pursuit of booze and women, then slept off the binge aboard their vessel. When they
had
a vessel.

Now, where would they go? Back to the cribs at Awful Annie's? Or would the disaster that had overtaken them persuade the buccaneers that they had best find someplace else to stay, while they considered their next move?

Ryder could not begin to list all of the brothels, bars, and cheap hotels in Galveston. The only starting place that he could think of for a search was Awful Annie's, with the danger it presented if he should be spotted there by anyone from Marley's gang or Pickering's. It would be helpful, once his reinforcements had arrived, if he could find all of the miscreants together in one place, but that posed problems, too.

He didn't know how many men would be aboard the USRC
Martin Van Buren
when it arrived, or how they would be armed. Pitting that crew against two fighting gangs, perhaps three dozen men in all, could spark a battle that was bound to draw police—but to assist which side? The best thing he could do, Ryder supposed, was make his cautious way to Annie's place, try to discover who was there, and hope that all of them were drinking heavily enough to put them out of action when the time came.

Nine long hours, at a minimum.

More than enough time, Ryder thought, for any drunk to sleep it off and have his wits about him when the law arrived.

Unless he found some way to thin their numbers in the meantime.

Nothing had occurred to him as he set off for Awful Annie's, moving through the gray light of an early dusk. He calculated that the cutter couldn't possibly arrive before the clock struck three
A.M
., and that would be if nothing slowed it down. He would devise some kind of plan before the night ran out and hope he didn't wind up paying for the effort with his life.

Ryder had left his Henry rifle at the boardinghouse, thinking that it would make him too conspicuous, walking around the city's streets. Now he regretted that decision, but did not think he could spare the time to go back for the long gun. If the
Banshee
's crew had made for Awful Annie's and persuaded Marley's men to seek new quarters overnight, for safety's sake, he ran the risk of losing them entirely while he went back to his room.

He would make do with what he had, the Colt Army with two spare cylinders. Beyond that, if it came down to a fight with melee weapons, Ryder had his switchblade, but he knew it wouldn't do much good against a mob of cutthroats.

Neither would his badge, unless he somehow managed to get help from the police.

Not likely, he decided, judging that the coppers would most likely let a battle run its course before they waded in to risk their own lives.

Mopping up was always easier than taking sides.

*   *   *

P
ickering's gun dealer, as he'd expected, wasn't keen on parting with his merchandise on credit. Neither was he in the mood to offer discounts, nor to rent his guns out for the evening, accepting promises that they would be returned. Pickering soon grew tired of arguing about it, drew his pepperbox revolver, and demanded satisfaction on the spot. That worked, all right, but got him thinking about coppers, so he had one of his men escort the dealer to his shop's back room and slit his gullet.

Dead men tell no tales.

The shop was well stocked, and since most of their old arsenal had gone down with the
Banshee
, Pickering gave his men free rein to arm themselves. Those lacking pistols had their choice of Colts—Dragoons, as well as 1851 and 1861 Navy models—along with the the Remington Model 1858, the Smith & Wesson Model 1, and the double-action Starr revolver. Pickering himself collected a LeMat .36-caliber with a nine-round cylinder and a separate 16-gauge smoothbore barrel for buckshot.

Most of his crewmen also went for long guns, including a mix of Spencer repeaters, Springfield's Model 1861, and Enfield's Pattern 1853. Again, Pickering claimed what he regarded as the best piece for himself: a shortened carbine version of the Colt revolving rifle, chambered in .44 caliber with a five-shot cylinder.

“Don't stint on ammunition, either,” he advised them, as they rummaged over shelves, one man detailed to guard the door. “No tellin' when we'll have another chance to shop for cartridges and powder.”

Some of them, by then, were grabbing sabers from a rack behind the counter, slicing at the air with them and growling until Pickering commanded them to sober up and act like men preparing for a fight, instead of children on a holiday.

In terms of arms and numbers, Pickering imagined they should do all right against the Marley gang. What troubled him was going up against his adversaries on their home ground, where a natural advantage lay with the defenders. Yet another disadvantage would be laying siege to Awful Annie's, where the enemy had cover and his men would be compelled to risk their skins on open streets. Darkness would help a bit, in that regard, and also the advantage of surprise, if he could keep it. Still, storming a building was a chancy proposition, on a par with boarding hostile ships at sea.

Except, of course, the building would be stationary. Neither it nor any of its occupants could sail away.

But, like a ship, it
could
be set on fire.

“We'll take those lanterns, while we're at it,” Pickering directed, pointing toward another shelf. “Just leave 'em dark for now. I'll tell you when to light 'em up.”

Some of his men saw what he had in mind, smiling and moving to collect the six or seven lanterns, checking to make sure their reservoirs were amply filled with kerosene. Pickering had them leave the shop in twos and threes, with intervals of time between them to avoid attracting undue notice on the street. They would seem strange and savage as it was, armed to the teeth with swords, pistols, and rifles, but he didn't want them looking like an army on the march, making their way to Awful Annie's.

Most of all, he didn't want to get police involved until their work was done, or nearly so.

And after that . . . well, what the hell. Those uniforms they wore weren't bulletproof.

Pickering was the last man out, locking the door behind him to forestall discovery of the arms dealer's corpse. After tonight, Pickering would have burned his bridges here in Galveston and wasn't sure exactly how he'd make his way to some more friendly port. Perhaps he and his men—those who survived the night—could steal a small ship from the waterfront and sail away. If not, they'd have to travel overland, avoiding lawmen till they reached someplace where they weren't recognized and bargains could be struck.

And if it all went wrong, if this night proved to be the only time that he had left, at least Stede Pickering could use it striking back at someone who'd betrayed him. He could teach a lesson that would be remembered, after he was gone.

Truth be told, he'd rather be a
living
legend, but nobody lived forever. Better to die fighting than lie down and waste away.

With that in mind, he reckoned Galveston would be as good a place as any for a grand rip-roaring end.

O
n his way to Awful Annie's, keeping to the alleyways and shadows, Ryder heard a grumbling, growling sound approaching from the east. Accompanied by noise of tramping feet, he recognized it as the echo of an angry crowd in motion, and paused in an alley's mouth beyond the reach of lamplight while he watched and waited for the mob to come within his line of sight.

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.

*   *   *

S
ay 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!”

*   *   *

S
tede 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 Marley, 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.

*   *   *

N
o 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 street-side 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.