Smugglers' Gold (19 page)

A crack of gunfire from the landing made him stop and duck. The bullet did not reach him, but he wasted precious moments waiting, started forward once again, then stopped short at the echo of a second shot. Mouthing a silent curse at his own cowardice, Pickering willed his feet to move and had advanced ten feet or so when he collided with a woman rushing toward him, through the smoke. He sidestepped, caught her with an arm around her slender waist, and held her fast.

“Who's back there?” he demanded, giving her a shake to clear the dazed look from her face.

“Bryan and Georgie,” she replied.

“Would that be George Revere?”

The little hooker bobbed her head. “They're killing one another!”

“Not if I get to 'em first,” said Pickering. “Which room?”

“Mine,” she replied, as if that told him anything.

Another shake, harder this time. “Which one is that?”

“The third one down!”

“Get outta here,” he said and spun her off behind him, toward the stairs.

He passed two open doorways on his left, pausing at each to check for lurking enemies, then moved on to the third. No shooting now, except for what continued in the main saloon downstairs. Pickering wondered if the girl had lied to him or if the two men he was hunting had eliminated one another.

Why would they do that, if Marley had dispatched Revere to burn the
Banshee
? Pickering had no idea and didn't aim to stand there wondering about it, if they were within his reach and still alive.

If they were dead, so be it. But he wanted ironclad proof before he left the burning whorehouse.

And his problem, now, was moving from the spot where he stood rooted by a sudden pang of fear. It struck him that if Marley and Revere were in cahoots against him, they could easily have told the girl to spin a tale for Pickering and make him walk into their waiting guns. He still had not worked out why Marley would have turned against him, but it didn't matter now. The die was cast—and dying was the last bit that remained, for one or both of them.

Pickering found his nerve and cocked his rifle, charged the doorway with a loping stride, braced for whatever he might find inside the crib—except the empty room that mocked him. Furious, he checked under the bed, knowing before he did that two men couldn't fit beneath it, then stood up and saw the open window leaking smoke into the night.

Damn it!

He started for the window, then experienced another tremor rising through his lower body. Not a case of nerves, this time. The house was definitely breaking up around him, crumbling as its ground floor was consumed. Pickering turned back toward the doorway, took one step, then cried out as the floor split underneath him and he plunged, howling, into the hungry flames.

*   *   *

R
yder landed on his feet, then lost his balance, tipping over to his left as garbage slid and shifted out from under him. He landed hard but kept a tight grip on his pistol, rolled clear of the stinking refuse pile, and wound up on his knees, facing along the alley toward the point where he had last seen Bryan Marley. Firelight from the brothel helped him spot his target, running with a limp but making decent time, nearly a block away from Ryder.

Try a shot, or follow him?

Ryder lurched to his feet, nearly went down again, but found his balance somehow and ran after Marley, trash and gravel crunching underneath his boots. He caught his second wind, gained speed, and had begun to close the gap when Marley reached a corner up ahead, turned to his right, and disappeared. Ryder kept after him, aware of how much racket he was making in the process, then slowed down as he approached the corner, wary of a trap.

Decisions.

Every second that he waited, listening for receding footsteps, gave Marley a greater lead. The problem: Ryder's ears were ringing from the recent gunfire and commotion back in Awful Annie's, coupled with his jarring leap out of the second-story window, and he couldn't tell if Marley was retreating or if he was just around the bend, lying in wait.

One way to tell,
he thought and lunged into the open, belly down and rolling with his Colt Army extended for a hasty shot if need be. Marley wasn't huddled in the shadows, though. Instead, Ryder could see him running for his life, a block or more down range and widening his fair head start.

Ryder knew cursing was a waste of breath and energy but did it anyway, while he was rising to his feet once more, rejoining the pursuit. He didn't know where Marley might be headed, wasn't sure he could keep up, but knew that he was bound to try, even if he collapsed in the attempt. It all came down to this, the risks and lives that he had taken to arrest one man, before his quarry could escape and start all over in some other port, with new accomplices.

After a few more blocks, it finally occurred to Ryder that his man was heading for the treasure warehouse. Whether Marley hoped to hide out there, or simply bag enough loot to get started in another place, it made no difference. If Ryder let him slip away from Galveston, it could be months before he found his man again—if ever. Failure on his first job for the Secret Service, when he'd come this far, was unacceptable.

He ran, lungs clearing finally of all the smoke he had inhaled at Awful Annie's, laboring to match his pulse rate and the running pace he held by sheer determination. Any moment now, it seemed that he might trip over exhaustion, sprawling headlong into lassitude, and lose the race. Ryder could not have said what kept him on his feet and moving forward, other than his stubborn will.

They must be halfway to the warehouse now, he reasoned, maybe even closer. In a few more moments he would glimpse it, see the spot where he'd killed Otto Seitz in self-defense and staged the scene to blame it on his adversary's victims. Wondering if Marley knew about those killings yet, he ran on, wishing that he could gain some ground or, better yet, see Marley trip over a stone.

That didn't happen, but he
did
make out the warehouse, finally. Its door was closed now, Marley drawing closer to it with his limping stride, now rolling back the door and disappearing into midnight shadows. Then the pistol cracked in front of Ryder and he saw its muzzle flash, skipped awkwardly aside as Marley's bullet struck the earth between his feet.

“All right!” the smuggler shouted, sounding breathless from his run. “That's far enough!”

Y
our operation's finished,” Ryder called to Marley.

“This one, maybe,” the reply came back. “But I can always start again. You're finished, period.”

He had a point. Ryder was stuck on open ground, under the gun. His only cover was the night itself, and the long shadows cast by faint moonlight from the adjoining warehouses. The Colt Army felt heavy in his fist.

“It doesn't have to end like this,” he said.

“For you, it does,” Marley replied. “Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?”

“I have a job to do,” said Ryder, thinking that it sounded weak, under the circumstances.

“So, you've done it, right? No
Banshee
, anymore. You've broken up two gangs and put me out of business, for a while, at least. Why don't you let it go?”

“And leave you with a warehouse full of treasure? How would that sound, back in Washington?”

“The hell do you care?” Marley challenged him. “Most of this stuff was stolen from the Spanish or whoever, when our daddies were both still in short pants. No one's claiming it but me.”

“And Uncle Sam.”

“To hell with him. What did he ever do for me or mine?”

“I'm not here to debate a lot of politics,” said Ryder. “And the War Between the States is over, far as I'm concerned.”

“The wrong side won,” said Marley.

“But they
did
win. And the law says you pay taxes on whatever you're importing.”

“Jesus!” Marley barked a rasp of laughter. “That's what this is all about? You're just a goddamn tax man?”

“No. The Secret Service deals with frauds against the government.”

“The
Yankee
government.”

“The only one there is, from here on in,” Ryder replied.

“So, how 'bout you just take some of the swag and give it to your uncle, while I take the rest?”

“They might work out a deal with you. It's not for me to say.”

“What
do
you say, then?”

“Come with me and get yourself a lawyer. Make the best deal that you can. The pile of loot you're sitting on, who knows? They just might let you go.”

“With nothing left to show for years of work.”

“For years of stealing,” Ryder said, correcting him.

“That
is
my work!”

“You might want to consider changing that.”

Another bitter laugh. “Easy for you to say. Hey, tell me something, will you?”

“If I can.”

“You saved my life two differ'nt times,” said Marley. “Why'n hell'd you do that, when you could've just stood back and let me die? Less work for you that way, as I see it.”

“My job's to bring you in for trial, not kill you.”

“Let the Yankees shame me, eh? You figure there's a jury here in Texas that'll find me guilty?”

“Beats me,” Ryder said. “But if you're right, why don't you just throw down that Colt and come along with me?”

“Because I still lose everything! Your precious uncle robs me blind, regardless.”

“It was never yours to start with.”

“Hell it wasn't! Who else sweated like a field hand just to get it here? Who took the chances? Who spilled blood to make it happen?”

“Sell that to the jury, you'll be home and dry.”

“I like my chances as they stand,” Marley replied, emerging from the deeper shadows of the warehouse. “Do you want to holster up and draw, or just start shooting?”

“Please yourself,” Ryder replied.

“Well, since you put it that way—”

Marley raised his Colt Navy, as Ryder threw himself to one side, hit the dirt and rolled, his pistol out in front of him. Ryder fired once, just as Marley did, and heard the .44 slug zip through empty space where he'd been standing just an eyeblink earlier. His first shot may have missed, as well, but number two took Marley in the chest and staggered him. The smuggler fired another round as he was falling, wasted on vast darkness overhead.

Ryder got to his feet and took his time approaching Bryan Marley. He could see the Colt Navy where it had fallen, ten, maybe twelve inches from his adversary's hand, but reachable. He didn't want to fire again, so circled wide around Marley to reach the pistol, kicking it away.

Marley smiled up at him and wheezed, “You cheated, Georgie.”

“Were there rules?”

“Jus' one. I'm s'pose to win.”

“You had a long run. And it's Gideon.”

“What is?”

“My name.”

“Funny, ain't it? I don't even know . . . who . . . killed me.”

“Marley?
Bryan
?” There was no response, and Ryder saw the smuggler's eyes already glazing over, taking on that dusty look that's never found in life.

He dragged Marley inside the warehouse, leaving him with Otto and the two men Seitz had killed, then closed the door and started back toward Awful Annie's through the maze of darkened streets.

*   *   *

T
he place was burned out to a hollow smoking shell when Ryder got there, people standing in the street and gaping at the ruins, coughing when the night breeze shifted, carrying the smoke their way. The fire department had arrived in time to save adjoining structures, though the walls of Annie's next-door neighbors had been badly scorched before the flames were watered down. The odor that assaulted Ryder's nostrils was a mix of wood smoke, soggy ash, and roasted meat.

Police were on the scene by now, milling about and questioning spectators. Ryder moved around the fringes of the crowd, avoiding men in uniform, alert for any sign of the patrolmen he had pistol-whipped a few nights earlier, eavesdropping where he could. The witnesses he overheard were telling variations of a single story: men with guns had stormed the brothel, then the place went up in flames. Some claimed they'd seen people escaping from the fire, but couldn't offer any names. In passing, Ryder heard one copper tell another that he reckoned more people had gone up in the blaze than managed to get out.

That roasting smell.

Ryder felt sickened as he circulated, watching out for any faces he might recognize. Awful Annie should have been there, certainly, if she'd survived—unless, perhaps, she feared involvement with the law and had decided that discretion was the better part of valor. None of Marley's crew were present, that he saw, nor any from the late
Banshee.

All up in smoke?

He was about to leave and head back to his boardinghouse, hoping to get some sleep before he had to meet the USRC
Martin Van Buren
, when a small voice at his back said, “Georgie?”

Turning, he was face-to-face with little Nell, her cheeks darkened by soot, except where tears had left clean tracks. Her hair was wild, eyes red from weeping, smoke, or both.

“You made it out,” she said.

He nodded. Said, “I'm glad you're safe.”

“What's safe?”

“Alive, then.”

Lowering her voice to a near-whisper, stepping close enough to touch him, she asked, “What's become of Bryan?”

Ryder wondered whether he should bluff it out, play dumb, but then decided not to.

“Bryan didn't make it.”

“He's . . . in there?”

Ryder saw nothing to be gained from going into details, there and then. Instead, he simply told her, “It was quick.”

“Lucky for him. Wish it was quick for me.”

“You don't mean that,” he said.

“Oh, no? The hell are you, to tell me how I feel?”

Before he could respond, she turned and left him, vanishing into the crowd. Instead of lingering, Ryder departed in the opposite direction, ducking down the first alley he came to, hurrying along to reach the next street parallel to where the mob had gathered. There, he slowed his pace again, considered making for the Western Union office, sending off another telegram to Washington, but decided it could wait till morning.

Sleep was what he needed now, if he could manage it. Tomorrow, early, he would send a message to Director Wood, tell him the job was done after a fashion, then he'd meet the cutter coming in from Corpus Christi and direct its officers to Marley's treasure trove.

Assuming that it wasn't cleaned out overnight.

He doubted that would happen, though, with Marley's gang and Pickering's both slaughtered in the fight at Awful Annie's. Anyone who'd managed to survive, if they were fit to travel, would most likely be intent on getting out of Galveston before first light. He could have sent the coppers off to Marley's warehouse, but that would have meant a night in custody, at least, and might have guaranteed the loot was gone before the
Martin Van Buren
pulled into port.

Tomorrow would be soon enough.

Sufficient to this day was all the misery he'd seen.

*   *   *

T
he Western Union clerk was dozing in his chair when Ryder got there, jolting him from dreamland with the small bell hung above the office door. He gave Ryder a message blank and tried to hide a yawn behind his hand while Ryder filled it out, sticking to basics. He would have to file a full report in time, but didn't feel like sharing all the details with a stranger who would charge him by the word, then maybe share the contents of his telegram with God knows who in Galveston.

When he was done, he waited for the message to be sent, saw it acknowledged, then retrieved his copy from the clerk and stuffed it in his pocket prior to settling up the bill. The groggy clerk, if he leaked anything, would have to reconstruct the terse message from memory before he passed it on.

From Western Union, Ryder made his way on to the waterfront and stopped in at the Customs house. He showed his badge, identified himself, and asked if there was any word about the cutter coming in from Corpus Christi. The officer on duty told him that the
Martin Van Buren
was expected shortly, whatever that meant, and directed Ryder to the pier where it would dock upon arrival. Stevedores and fishermen were busy at their work when Ryder reached the water's edge and settled down to wait.

He spent the better part of forty minutes idling on the dock, before the cutter pulled in, jockeyed for position, and was made fast to the pier. Ryder was waiting quayside when the crew began to disembark, led by a young lieutenant who introduced himself as Joseph Pulaski. The lieutenant verified Ryder's credentials, then picked two seamen to remain aboard the cutter and ordered the other fourteen into formation on the pier. Pulaski wore a holstered Colt Navy, while each of his men was armed with a Spencer repeating rifle.

Ryder led them to the warehouse where he'd left four dead men yesterday. The place was undisturbed when they arrived, but had acquired a rank aroma overnight. Pulaski scowled over the corpses, then instructed several of his men to drag them into daylight and fresh air.

“You say you found them this way?” he asked Ryder.

“All but him,” Ryder replied, nodding to Bryan Marley's body.

“I've heard of that one,” said Pulaski, “but I never had the pleasure. You were lucky that he didn't kill you.”

Ryder let it go at that and led Pulaski on a guided tour of the warehouse, watching the lieutenant's eyes go wide as he examined Marley's cache of treasures. Most of it was still in crates, except for what he'd found Seitz picking over yesterday. Around them, Ryder heard Pulaski's men exclaiming over one thing or another, sometimes whistling softly to themselves as more loot was revealed.

“I can't begin to estimate what all of this is worth,” Pulaski said, when they were finished with a cursory inspection. “Several hundred thousand dollars, easily. I wouldn't be surprised if some of it wound up in a museum.”

Ryder pictured the Smithsonian in Washington, opened five years before Abraham Lincoln was elected president and the United States plunged into turmoil. He imagined some of Marley's stolen objects on display there, if the rogues in Congress could be kept from picking over them beforehand. In the short term, he was looking forward to Director Wood's reaction when he saw the treasure trove and started working out its value.

Maybe that would cancel out the fact that Ryder had no one in custody for trial.

“How did you plan to move all this?” Pulaski asked him.

“Hadn't thought about it,” Ryder answered honestly. Railroads in Dixie were a fright after the war, with many of the tracks destroyed, repairs and new construction hanging fire until the readmission of the former Rebel states could be resolved. That narrowed down the choices to a ship or travel overland, which would require a train of wagons even if they left the normal merchandise and ganja there in Galveston.

“We could take it back to Corpus Christi, I suppose,” Pulaski said, “but that's moving it farther from the capital.”

“I'm waiting to hear back from my director,” Ryder told him.

“As am I, from Secretary McCulloch.”

“That would be my boss's boss,” Ryder replied.

“Maybe they'll have you guard it on the trip back East.”

“Be just my luck,” said Ryder. Then, remembering the difference between his life in Washington and what he'd seen of Texas, so far, he decided there were worse things than a turn on guard duty, if it would take him home.

*   *   *

W
hen Lieutenant Pulaski had finished a rough inventory of loot at the warehouse, he left most of his men on guard there, bringing one along on their trek to the county sheriff's office. Ryder was gambling on the sheriff as an intermediary with the Galveston police and was relieved to have two officers in uniform supporting him.

At least, this way, he couldn't simply disappear without a ripple.

Sheriff Roy Winstead was six feet tall and barrel-chested, with dark hair going gray around the temples. He'd been cut at some point, with the scar bisecting his right eyebrow at an angle and continuing down to the outside corner of his eye. He chewed a dead cigar while listening to Ryder's tale—the parts of it that Ryder chose to share—and then dispatched one of his deputies to fetch the chief of Galveston's police department.