Trail of Blood and Bones: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

the foot they hesitated for a moment, then went up it swiftly. On the deck were tall stacks of hides, bundled and awaiting unloading; the group vanished in their shadow, reappeared, heading for the captain’s cabin in which a light glowed.

      As was usually the case with the small river steamers, the captain’s cabin was a deck house. In deference to the heat, the door stood open. The group went through it with a rush.

      A sound split the silence—a clatter as of an overturned chair, a gurgling cry, then silence.

      THREE

      NERVES TENSE, SLADE PEERED OUT THE WINDOW and could see nothing save that single glow of light. He whirled, left the room and sped down the stairs, across the lobby, which was untenanted, and into the street. He rounded the corner of the building, raced a few steps and the wharf was before him.

      It lay silent and deserted, just as was the Bravo, to all appearances. But there was little doubt in Slade’s mind but that there was life aboard the Bravo, malevolent life. Also, very likely, death.

      With the greatest caution, he glided across the wharf to the foot of the gangplank. He paused, scanning the deck above, and saw nothing. A moment later and he was on the deck, his eyes fixed on the glow that seeped through the half-open door of the cabin. Keeping in the shadow of the stacked hides, he passed it, striving to reach a point from where he could peer in. He reached the edge of one of the hide stacks, and stepped from the shadow.

      Just in time Slade saw the loom of the man beside the cabin door. He was going sideways toward the stack when a lance of orange flame gushed through the darkness; a bullet ripped the brim of his hat. Jerking both guns he fired, left and right. There was a choking grunt and the thud of a falling body. The cabin erupted a storm of exclamations. Slade ducked behind the stack as guns blazed in his direction. Shoving one gun around the edge of the stack, he emptied it in the direction of the cabin door. A yelp of pain and a wailing curse echoed the reports, then another bellow of gunfire. Bullets thudded into the hides but none came through. He shifted guns and fired three more shots around the edge.

      A ringing voice boomed an order. There was a clatter of boots on the deck, a steady stream of shots. The outlaws were retreating to the gangplank, firing as they backed toward it. Slade crouched low. He did not dare peer around the stack, and he was saving his last three cartridges against a dire need; the hellions might take a notion to rush him.

      Abruptly the firing ceased. Slade waited a tense moment, heard the clatter of boots diminishing. He risked peering around the edge of his shelter and saw shadowy figures racing across the wharf.

      The cantina was a pandemonium of yells and curses. A head thrust out one of the windows, jerked back as a bullet smashed the glass above it. Slade bounded forward and emptied his gun after the vanishing figures, but with little hope of scoring a hit. He reloaded with frantic speed as he sped to the gangplank and down it. There was no sign of the outlaws, but to his ears came a clatter of hoofs fading westward. His voice rang out, piercing the turmoil in the cantina.

      “Amado!” he shouted. “Amado, come here. Bring Estevan with you.”

      “Sí, Cápitan!” howled answer from the cantina. A moment later Amado came puffing around the corner, clutching a sawed-off shotgun. Beside him was Estevan, a cocked Colt in one hand, a long knife in the other.

      “Cápitan, we come!” bawled Amado. “Where are the ladrones?”

      “Gone,” Slade replied, “but I think they left one behind. Let’s go see.”

      Heads were peering cautiously around the corner of the stable, shouting questions.

      “Let them come,” Slade said. “Best for everybody to see what happened.”

      He led the way up the gangplank and across the deck to the cabin door. Lying beside it was the body of a man.

      “Ha! one did stay behind!” exclaimed Amado. “Now he burns in el infierno. Cápitan, what happened?”

      Slade was peering into the cabin.

      “Take a look,” he said.

      On the floor lay another dead man who was dressed as a deckhand. The handle of a knife protruded between his shoulders.

      “Sosna leaves no witnesses,” Slade remarked. He gestured across the cabin.

      Against the far bulkhead stood a ponderous iron safe, a new model. Sticking in the door was the slim length of a steel bit, the hand drill still attached.

      “Already one hole started beside the combination knob,” Slade remarked. “Fifteen more minutes and the knob would have been out, the safe opened. Looks like there must be something of value in that box.” He turned to the swearing saloonkeeper.

      “Amado,” he said, “send somebody to try and locate the captain of this tub. Send somebody else to fetch the alcalde. I want him and the skipper to see things just as they are. Don’t let anybody touch anything.”

      Amado crackled orders to the crowd that had pushed close but did not attempt to enter the cabin. Several men dashed down the gangplank and vanished in the darkness.

      Slade drew up a chair that was not bolted to the deck, sat down and rolled a cigarette. Estevan hovered over him, glowering suspiciously in every direction and fingering his knife. Under the threat of his savage face and his long blade, the crowd remained at a respectful distance outside the door.

      It seemed the shooting had aroused half the town, for the throng was constantly augmented by new arrivals volleying questions that nobody could answer.

      “Can you tell us what happened, Cápitan?” Amado pleaded.

      Slade told him, briefly. Amado swore in two languages, Estevan adding a few pungent Yaqui expletives for good measure.

      “And if it weren’t for your courage and quick thinking, the ladrones would have gotten away with whatever they were after,” Amado declared. “One more good deed to the credit of El Halcón.” Estevan nodded emphatic agreement.

      “Here comes the alcalde,” somebody shouted. A moment later the mayor, a portly individual with a pleasant face and sharp eyes, pushed his way into the cabin.

      “Cien mil diablos!” he gasped, staring at the body of the sailor on the floor.

      “Not a hundred thousand devils, but enough, Don Pedro,” said Amado.

      “But what is the meaning of this?” demanded the bewildered official.

      Amado told him, vividly. The mayor walked over to Slade and solemnly shook hands.

      “Cápitan, I am honored,” he said. “Gracias for what you did. What is in the safe? I know not for sure, but I feel safe in saying there is a large sum of money from a Laredo bank. I was informed that they intended to dispatch it to Brownsville by steamer, because of the rash of stage and train robberies with which we have been plagued of late. The plan was supposed to have been a guarded secret.”

      Slade nodded, not at all surprised; Veck Sosna always seemed able to learn everything. If El Halcón had been inclined to be superstitious, he would have believed the hellion put into practice some gift of divination or mental telepathy.

      “When the Señor Clark, the steamer’s captain, arrives, doubtless he can tell us for sure,” added the mayor.

      At that moment the jefe politico, the chief of police, put in a tardy appearance. The mayor glowered at him.

      “And you, I suppose, were swilling pulque in some pulqueria while murder and robbery were being done,” he accused his subordinate. The policeman looked abashed and muttered something of just pausing to quench his thirst with a glass of the Mexican beer.

      “Besides, I knew not there was aught of value aboard the boat,” he added defensively. “Why should one keep watch over hides and tallow?”

      The