GHOST OF MOON in a gray pearled sky. A thin band of light ringing the horizon and distilling over the moving surface of the sea. Lap of waves against the timbers of the jetty, dark and clogged with the slime and green of seaweed. Men moving slowly along the rickety planks, handling heavy crates with difficulty. The sails of the gunboat tight about the three masts. Slim funnel set amidships, slanting backwards.
The air before dawn biting into men’s limbs, gouging their uncovered faces.
While the sailors loaded the crates on board ship, four men watched. One on the boat, standing close by the stem, one hand resting on the top rail. Another at the sea end of the jetty, legs braced apart and arms behind his back, letting the wind strike the dullness from his brain and clear the pallor from his cheeks. A third where the jetty met the dock, squatting down on his haunches, a poncho falling about him and touching the floor. The last inside the warehouse, walking slowly yet with a spring in his step—a spring that gave the impression of being coiled tight. Walking and always watching.
Cade Onslow.
Yates McCloud.
Jamie Durham.
Jonas Strong.
The gringos.
‘Hold it!’
‘Major, watch ...!’
The first shot cracked the morning apart. It smashed into the side of a crate that was being carried along the jetty. Wood splintered and tore and the sailors handling the crate jumped away, letting it crash downwards.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Who the hell?’
‘No man is to move. Nobody at all.’ The order boomed above all other noise, coming from a loud hailer along the dock.
One of the sailors jumped to his feet and ran for the boat. He got ten yards before a volley of shots hit him and lifted him off the jetty. For an instant he seemed to be suspended in mid-air, a thing in dark blue trousers and jumper that hung its arms and legs like a rag doll. Then he bounced on the edge of the jetty, once, twice, and went down into the water with a splash.
‘Yates! Jamie!’
They hadn’t needed telling. Not after that. McCloud dived backwards off the end of the planking, going through a twist and entering the water hands and arms first, then striking out for the side of the gunboat.
The Kid sprinted for the inside of the warehouse, keeping low and going as fast as he could, no sense in bothering with any fancy zigzag. Not there.
Strong had swung his shotgun round on its strap and now stood behind the remaining crates, covering the Kid on his way in. Bullets skittered and dug their way across the front of the warehouse as Jamie made the last yards in a leap that sent him rolling by unharmed into a pile of straw.
‘Get that blasted engine fired!’ Onslow ran along the boat, keeping himself below the line of the cabins, shouting at the captain.
‘Don’t be a fool! I ain’t startin’ no engine with all this goin’ on. You saw what happened to one of my men.’
The weasel face looked up at Onslow, its sharp nose twitching nervously.
Onslow drew his automatic and pressed the muzzle against the captain’s throat. ‘Never mind what else is going on. Just you mind this. You’ve taken a commission and you’ll carry it out.’ He nodded down at the gun. ‘This says so.’
The eyes that peered back along the gun barrel said yes.
‘Then get below. And be fast about it.’
The captain ducked down the gangway and scurried down the steep steps to the small engine room. Behind Onslow, his head barely showing above a corner of polished wood, McCloud levelled his Colt .38 Lightning and waited.
Onslow dropped down beside him.
‘What d’you reckon?’ McCloud asked in his soft, Southern drawl.
‘I reckon someone has sold us into the shit.’
‘Uh-huh. An’ how d’you see us gettin’ out of it?’
Onslow looked grim. ‘As fast as we damned well can.’ McCloud looked behind them, out to sea. The ring of light at the horizon’s edge was spreading, thickening.
‘You think they’ve got a ship ready to block us off?’
Onslow shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Might have showed by now if they had. I think we’ll play it as if they were intending to stop us on land.’
‘Then why wait till now?’
‘Perfect time. Catch us in the act of smuggling arms on board a ship bound for Mexico. What could be better?’
McCloud looked at him. ‘You reckon as how someone gave them a little inside information?’
The question didn’t need an answer, nor did it get one. Onslow turned and went to the head of the gangway. ‘What’s the matter with that damned engine?’
In the warehouse, Strong and Jamie Durham were waiting also, uncertain of what was to happen. After that first salvo, the law had held their fire. It meant they were confident of having the arms smugglers where they wanted them. The dock must be sealed off and there was little chance of the boat getting away quickly enough to evade capture.
Anyway, two of them were cut off from the rest.
Between the two pairs of gringos, the smashed crate lay on the jetty, the weight of its fall having broken through some of the planking. Pieces of darkened wood were splayed open: layers of oiled paper revealed rifles, shaken from the neat positions in which they had been stacked.
‘What shall we do?’ asked Jamie, a nervous smile on the edges of his mouth—the edge that could be seen. For Jamie was wearing his mask, a rectangular patch of leather with thongs attached to the corners. It hid the awful scar; the twisted, seared purple of the flesh.
‘Let’s see.’
Strong moved silently, slowly to the edge of the doorway and showed a fraction of himself for a split second. Rifle shots sprang from up and down the dock as he dodged back.
‘One thing sure, Kid, we don’t go out that way. Not like that we don’t.’
Jamie pointed at the crates. ‘What we got left here?’
‘I ain’t sure.’
‘We got one of them machine-guns?’
It was Strong’s turn to smile. ‘Could be.’
Jamie moved fast. ‘Well let’s damn well take a look.’
The voice came clearly over the loud hailer. ‘You’re surrounded. There’s no way of escape. Come out with your hands up—before we blow you out of the water.’
Jamie and Strong held their breath: there was no reply.
‘You are in direct contravention of the laws concerning the shipment of arms. What’s more you’re resisting arrest by an authorized detail of the Texas Rangers.’
There were a further few seconds of silence, after which all hell seemed to break loose. Automatic and rifle fire poured into the gunboat, ricocheting off the woodwork of the decks and masts, tearing gaping holes in the bundles of sails. One of the seamen sheltering dangerously close to the top of the rear gangway took a deflection through the side of the head, spraying blood and brains over an area of ten yards.
Yates McCloud began to fire back, alternating between the two ends of the dock where the majority of the Rangers were positioned. After a few moments, Onslow stopped him.
‘Don’t waste it. We’re goin’ to need all we got. Just look out for when they rush us. I’m goin’ down to sort out this blasted engine.’
Inside the warehouse, Jamie and Jonas Strong were busy levering the tops off crates, searching for one of the machine-guns. They had just thrown a load of automatic pistols down onto the floor when Strong heard a movement from above.
He yelled at the Kid and pushed him flat with his left hand; the right hauled up the Browning shotgun from where it hung by his hip.
One of the Rangers had got through a gap in the roof and made his way along the narrow platform that Strong himself had used the day before. He had been quiet, very quiet. It must have taken him a long, long time to inch his way into that position. It was ideal. With two efficient shots from the Colt in his hand he could dispose of the two gringos with ease.
One second too long: one foot placed too firmly upon the board that gave fractionally beneath it.
Strong brought the sawed-off barrel through a swift arc and fired. The pump-action shotgun boomed loudly and the Ranger was lifted off his feet and dashed backwards against the wall. He clung there for a moment, a raw and bloody morass taking over the entire center of his body. Then he took one, two ungainly steps and pitched forwards. He struck the nearest beam and bounced up and round, crashing onto the floor below.
‘Jesus!’
‘Find that damned gun!’
They each attacked a fresh crate as a fresh volley of fire sounded from the dock.
Even before he saw the men come running towards the boat, McCloud sensed in his bones that this was the one.
‘Major!’
The last syllable was lost in his own shot. One of the Rangers approaching the end of the jetty threw an arm upwards and spun round, bumping into a pair of men following. Onslow appeared at McCloud’s shoulder, offering him a rifle.
‘Here. Use this instead of that popgun of yours.’
McCloud grunted and pushed his sawn-down .38 Lightning back into his shoulder holster. The Winchester would be more efficient, more deadly.
‘How’s she comin’?’
‘Damned thing won’t fire. He says he can fix it. He says.’
‘How long?’
McCloud ducked his head back, pushed out the rifle and fired. A smile appeared on his face as another Ranger slid sideways across the end of the dock and slowly slithered over the edge into the sea.
‘Five minutes. Maybe.’
‘Shit! That’s one hell of a long time!’
‘That’s okay,’ said Onslow, straight-faced. ‘Time goes fast when you’re busy.’
‘We sure as sweet damn are that!’
A small group of Rangers cut off from the main attack on the boat and raced towards the warehouse. Four of them got as far as the door, one dropping with a bullet from the Kid’s Colt .41 Thunderer lodged in his calf.
‘Jamie!’ Strong shouted a warning and the two of them ducked back behind the spread of crates as a succession of shots sought them out.
They returned the fire carefully, placing shell after shell where it would have the maximum effect. In the midst of it, there was the first sign of life from the boat’s engine. The Rangers outside the warehouse hesitated, then withdrew.
Strong tore the planking from almost the last of the crates and there it was.
‘Sweet damn!’
He patted its shiny surface and whistled. Jamie made his way over and grinned broadly. They quickly unpacked the machine-gun and put it together, piece by lovely piece.
It was a brand new Vickers and Cade Onslow had paid a lot of money for it. One hell of a lot of money. It was the prestige weapon with which he had hoped to impress Zapata. A British-designed gun which was basically an improved version of the Maxim machine-gun of 1887. Model of 1912.
Jamie finished screwing the tripod and body of the gun together. Strong had found a number of rectangular boxes containing layered belts of ammunition.
‘Come on, baby! Come on!’
Below in the engine room of the gunboat, the captain closed his eyes and said a short prayer. He knew that if it didn’t fire this time and keep going, he was as good as dead. If the Rangers didn’t finish him when they charged in, then one of the two men upstairs would.
If the engine died, he died.
But it didn’t.
Onslow appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘You got that bastard working at last?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can move out?’
‘We can try. When you’re ready.’
Onslow went back to McCloud. The Rangers hadn’t made another rush at the boat, but now, with the first signs of smoke appearing from the grimed funnel, they wouldn’t be long. At the present they were concentrating on keeping the gringos pinned down. Riflemen had been positioned at intervals along the tops of the buildings that lined the dock.
‘See what Strong and the Kid are up to?’ Onslow asked.
McCloud shrugged. ‘Group of Rangers made one go at ’em. That’s all. No sign of ’em gettin’ out, though.’
‘Well, they’d better haul ass out of there soon. We ain’t staying round here to get shot to pieces. Reason those Rangers are biding their time, they’re waiting for some reinforcements.’
McCloud’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘You reckon so? Damn ’em! Think it’s the Army?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Tellin’ you, I surely don’t feel like endin’ my days here in Galveston takin’ on the United States Army an’ the Texas Rangers.’
‘Me neither.’
‘What d’you think about gettin’ them two out of that warehouse?’
‘Shit! We got problems of our own. They can get themselves out. Soon as they see us moving, they’ll come running.’
‘An’ the weapons back there?’
Onslow made a face. ‘We’ll have to lose ’em.’
He was thinking about Crombie’s fat, flustered face as he had sweated his way through their last meeting together. No wonder he had been afraid. The only thing was—was it fear on account of knowing that the Rangers were on to him but hadn’t caught up with him yet, or had he already made a deal with them to sell Onslow and the others down river?
Down river.
It wasn’t a river exactly, but Onslow didn’t take to the idea of ending up on the bottom of all that water. Being drawn in and out by the tide while thousands of little fish bit away the flesh from his bones and glided through the empty sockets that had once held his eyes.
He turned and shouted down the gangway to the captain. ‘Let’s get cast off and to hell out of here!’
The Vickers was loaded and ready, set up between a number of crates out of which the live ammunition had been discarded. Jonas Strong sat behind it, right hand gripping the wooden stock tightly, index finger curled inside the metal trigger guard as he looked along the top of the rifled, rounded barrel.
Jamie Durham lay full length on the floor, the ammunition belt resting in his hands.
As soon as the covering fire began from the rooftops, they knew that the Rangers were on their way in. Which meant they would have to get along the jetty. Which meant that the way the machine-gun was angled, they stood a good chance of getting mown down.
At the crescendo of rifle and automatic fire, Strong looked quickly down at Jamie who nodded back—then he squeezed back on the trigger.
The high-pitched chatter of the Vickers made itself heard through the other noise; the stream of bullets left the barrel at the rate of four hundred a minute. Within a very short time, Jamie was changing belts.
Outside, the Rangers were in total disarray. They had not expected the counter-attack to be so well armed or so savage. Men who had been lucky to escape the lacework of bullets dragged their colleagues back out of the firing line and looked round, waiting for orders that were slow in coming.
Meanwhile the Sparrow was pulling away from the jetty.
‘Hey! See that?’ called Jamie.
Strong stood up and looked. He saw it right enough. A few more minutes and they wouldn’t simply be able to run and jump and then take a little swim. They’d be in the water for longer than either of them fancied—with Rangers able to take pot shots at them with all the time in the world.
‘Kid, we’re leavin’!’
‘What about this beauty?’
Strong looked down at the machine-gun; it surely would be a shame not to have that on their side. Especially when it looked as if the odds were going to stay piled against them.
‘I don’t know ...’ he began, but stopped short when the shooting started up again outside the warehouse. Jamie saw a group of four Rangers dashing for the jetty and a smile came to his face.
An evil smile that disappeared under the pouch of his mask.
He dropped down into Strong’s place behind the machine-gun and eased the barrel to the left. He wasn’t as expert with the weapon as Strong, but with a target like that it would have been difficult to miss.
He stitched a haphazard pattern of holes through the four men, bullets that burnt skin and clothing on entry and made the four Rangers dance an absurd dance of death—arms and legs jigging at the pull of an unseen, crazed puppet master.
Jamie Durham.
‘Kid! Leave it!’
Still Jamie leaned over the machine-gun, firing now at lifeless, inert shapes, pouring shell after shell into them as they lay on the boards of the jetty like so much sacking.
Strong stared at Jamie’s face and was sickened by the sheer pleasure that shone there.
‘Come on, you bastard! Let’s go! ’
He pushed Jamie to one side and the Kid started to round on him angrily; then, just as abruptly, Jamie stopped, as if coming out of a trance.
The two of them ran to the warehouse doors. More Rangers were advancing from both ends of the dock—it looked as if they might have left their escape just too late.
Strong ran back into the warehouse and bent over the Vickers, lifting the cumbersome weapon clear of the ground and hoisting it in front of him. With one hand round the barrel and the other on the trigger, he charged through the doorway.
As soon as they saw the huge Negro with the machine-gun, the Rangers started to pull up, to change direction. Strong fired swift bursts in first one direction, then the other, swiveling his body from side to side.
‘Come on, Kid!’ he roared over the chatter of the gun.
Jamie made a dash for the jetty, while McCloud and Onslow set up covering fire from the rear of the boat.
Bullets flew in Strong’s direction from the roof tops and he dodged sideways, the machine-gun beginning to slip from his hands. The heat of the barrel was burning his fingers. Finally, after a final burst of fire, he hurled the weapon over the end of the dock and into the sea.
Seconds later his body plunged into the water; his head broke the surface and his muscular arms struck out for the boat.
‘Throw a rope over!’ shouted Onslow and pushed one of the still-cowering sailors towards the rail.
Moments later, dripping and smiling, Jonas Strong was on board.
‘Well,’ smiled Onslow, ‘I thought you might not be joining us.’
‘Sure didn’t feel any too welcome back there, Major,’ said Strong.
‘We’ll soon be out of it,’ McCloud called across. ‘This old tub’s startin’ to move like she means it.’
Strong pointed aft. ‘Might not be enough. Take a look there.’
The three others followed his gaze. A boat, smaller than the Sparrow, but seemingly with a more powerful engine, was cutting across the harbor.
As it got nearer, the gringos could see that it wasn’t only the engine that was powerful—nor was it the last Jamie and Jonas Strong were going to see of a machine-gun that day. In fact, they recognized the sound before they spotted it, diving for cover as they did so.
Then, there it was, snug against the starboard side of the advancing boat and spraying them with deadly fire from end to end.
Emboldened by this, the Rangers’ sharpshooters had taken up fresh positions on the dock and were setting up a steady fire from the rear.
There was a muffled shout of pain as one of the sailors was hit by two bullets almost simultaneously. The first carved a passage between his upper ribs and was deflected downwards, passing under the heart and exiting through the flesh above his hip with a hole far bigger than a man’s fist. The second shot shattered the left knee cap and came close to severing the lengths of sinew that held calf and thigh together.
From his position rear of the funnel, Cade Onslow looked from one face to another—McCloud, Strong, Durham.
Shit! There was something about Galveston that just didn’t want them to leave.