The storm front moved through and on to the thorny scrub desert country to the east, where the rain hit the ground and dried up in a matter of minutes. A weak sun rose in the sky and the morning grew warmer.
Fifteen minutes after his run-in with the Kid, Shawn saw three Arab seamen walk away from the tracks and head out in the direction of the coast. Moss and his riders showed up shortly thereafter, leading the horses of Shawn, Tweedy, and Lowth.
Behind Moss, Julia Davenport and five other women were roped together on foot. One of the women had flaming red hair and carried a baby in her arms, the mother of the child Shawn had found in the cabin. He recognized the two white women as girls who’d worked in the Lucky Lady. Used and abused by men, they seemed resigned to their fate, ready to make the best of whatever came their way.
But the two Mexican girls, both young and pretty, were frightened and clung to each other as though each was trying to gain courage from the other. They were not saloon girls, but young woman kidnapped off the street because of their glossy hair and flashing eyes.
Zeb Moss kneed his horse closer to the Pullman and removed a gun belt from the saddle horn—all the cartridge loops filled—and passed it to Shawn. “Heel yourself, O’Brien. You’ll need this before too long.”
“What’s on your mind, Moss?” Shawn asked, buckling the belt around his waist.
“You’ll find out. When the shooting starts, just make sure your gun is pointed in the right direction.”
Shawn smiled. “And what direction might that be?”
Moss smiled in return, but without humor. “If you don’t find out real quick, you’ll be dead.”
Shawn gazed across the flats. The Arabs had stopped and were looking back at the train, waiting for Moss and his men to catch up.
Suddenly Shawn put it all together. “Hell, Moss, you’re going to gun the Arabs and take their women.”
Moss nodded. “And their ship. A man can get rich in the slave trade if he plays his cards right.”
“Half the navies in the world are out looking for slave ships, Moss. You ever think about that?”
“I reckon I’ll take my chances. In for a couple years, then out a rich man. You can be a part of it, O’Brien.”
Shawn shook his head. “I wouldn’t allow myself to sink that low, Moss.”
Stung, Moss leaned from the saddle and stared into Shawn’s face. “Get on your damned horse. You try to make a run for it, I kill Trixie. Understand?”
“I hear you loud and clear, Moss.”
“Good. Then we’re reading from the same page of the book.”
The desert brush country stretched ahead of them all the way to the shore. Scattered clumps of paloverde, ocotillo, ironwood, and skeletal limber bush stood in silent testimony that it was a rain-starved land. Tweedy was armed with his rifle and belt gun. Lowth carried only a rope over his shoulder. Shawn rode between them, behind Moss and Creeds.
“You plannin’ to hang some poor feller with that there hemp, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy asked, making conversation.
“In my line of work it always pays to be prepared,” Lowth answered.
“Here, I’ve been meanin’ to ask you something.”
“Ask away, Mr. Tweedy.”
“It’s about them fancy drawers your wife makes.”
“I’m listening to you, Mr. Tweedy.”
Tweedy leaned across Shawn and whispered, “Would she make a pair for Trixie? Right fancy, mind, with that there lacy stuff an’ all.”
“Why, I’m sure she would. That is, if the young lady is of good character and of gentle breeding.”
“Well, she’s all of that now, a schoolma’am by profession.” Tweedy leaned back in the saddle as though he’d fairly stated his case.
Thinking of something else, he leaned across Shawn again. “The drawers are for her to wear on our honeymoon, like.”
“Of course you’re talking about Miss Davenport,” Lowth said.
“None other.”
“Then I will consult with Mrs. Lowth at the earliest opportunity and she will give me her opinion on this rather, ah . . . delicate matter.”
“Spoke like a true gent,” Tweedy said, smiling. “And that’s the truth of it.”
“Uriah,” Shawn interrupted as Tweedy once again sat back in the saddle. “Has it occurred to you that all three of us could be dead in a few hours?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” Tweedy said, suddenly belligerent.
“It seems to be that if the slavers don’t do for us, Moss will,” Shawn said.
“Listen, sonny. Ol’ Ephraim has been trying to put his claws into me for nigh on twenty year and he ain’t kilt me yet. If he can’t corral Uriah, a snake like Zeb Moss ain’t likely to succeed, is he? An’ afore you answer that, a bunch of black pirates with beards down to their belly buttons like them as is leading us ain’t going to do me in, either.” Tweedy spat over the side of his horse. “Hell, I haven’t made a speech that long since I was a youngster an’ first learned how to talk American.”
Shawn grinned. “I sure wish I had your confidence.”
“If it comes to a fight, boy, shoot an’ move, shoot an’ move. That’s all there is to it. It’s something ol’ Ephraim taught me.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” Shawn said.
“You do that, sonny. Live longer if you listen to your elders.”
As the riders neared the gulf, the water came in sight, glittering under the climbing sun. Shawn saw that a couple tents had been erected near the beach and the topmast of a sailing ship was just visible in a well-camouflaged inlet. A table had been set out, groaning under the weight of joints of salt beef, fruit, and stacks of flatbread. A large keg of Jamaican rum surrounded by glasses took up the middle of the table.
Behind the feast stood two dozen white, black, and Oriental girls, all smiling steadily as though they’d been ordered on pain of death to look welcoming. And behind them was a score of swarthy, bearded sailors. They showed no arms but for the cutlasses at their sides.
Catching Shawn’s attention were the two men who stepped purposely toward Moss’s cavalcade. One was immensely tall, dressed in flowing Arab robes of blue and white, his hand on the hilt of a scimitar in a scabbard studded with pearls and rubies. Beside him, in less elaborate robes, was a scar-faced rogue with shifty, rodent eyes lingering on nothing but seeing everything.
Grinning, Moss swung out of the saddle and stepped toward the tall Arab, guessing, correctly that he was the boss.
Sheik Abdul Basir-Hakim made a deep salaam, straightened, and deftly sidestepped Moss’s embrace, leaving the man to drop his arms and look confused.
“Welcome to my humble encampment,” Hakim greeted, teeth flashing white in his dusky face.
“It is an honor to be here, my friend,” Moss replied.
“Please. There is food and drink for you and your men, Mr. Moss, though I fear my poor table does you no honor.”
“Hell,” Moss said, “it looks just fine to me . . . mister . . .”
“You may call me Sheik,” Hakim offered smugly.
Moss clapped his hand on Hakim’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “And Sheik it is.” He turned to his men and yelled. “Light and set, boys. There’s grub and rum for all of ye.”
A cheer went up from the gunmen. They dismounted and crowded around the rum keg, handing glasses to each other.
Hakim glanced at Hassan Najid and smiled. It was going just as he’d hoped. Soon the American pigs would be drunk and easy to kill.
Shawn remained mounted, as did Tweedy and the fastidious Lowth, who frowned as he watched Moss’s gunmen among the women, swigging down rum with one hand, exploring with the other.
Or were they drinking rum?
It was Tweedy who noticed it first. He leaned over in the saddle and whispered to Shawn, “Them Texas boys ain’t drinkin’. A man doesn’t drink like that, real dainty from a glass like your maiden aunt sippin’ sherry at a funeral.”
Shawn studied the gunmen. They seemed rowdy and loud, drinking heartily as they pawed the girls, but no matter how many times they put a glass to their lips, the level of the rum stayed the same. And to a man, they tried to keep their gun hands untangled.
“What do you reckon, O’Brien?” Tweedy asked quietly.
“They’re only pretending to drink and they’re not sitting on their gun hands,” Shawn said. “Moss is getting ready to make his move and take over the whole shebang.”
“Lookee.” Tweedy nodded toward the gulf. “Over yonder by the shoreline.”
Shawn glanced toward the beach. Arab seamen drifted toward their stacked rifles, and a dozen had already armed themselves.
He glanced to where Hakim and Moss were standing together, examining the female merchandise. Julia looked lost and forlorn, keeping her eyes downcast at the sand under her feet. Moss and the tall Arab were engaged in a deep, hand-waving discussion.
Haggling over prices, Shawn guessed. He eased his hand closer to his holstered Colt.
Didn’t Zeb Moss know the danger they were all in?