Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 21

  The man was rambling, but the import of his recitation struck Macalester like a mule kick to the balls. Garland Humble meant to trade his wife to a bunch of heathen white slavers for a herd of horses. Macalester had heard of such atrocious doings before, but he had never known of it himself, and had therefore never believed it. But he believed it now.

  The next thing Mac knew, the wet man in burlap was out cold on the floor of the wagon with a river of blood gushing from his broken nose. His own knuckles throbbed.

  "Feel better, now?" Billy's voice, somewhere behind him, had a laugh in it, but it was a bitter laugh. "Let's get the hell out of here."

  "I'm right behind you, Senator."

  Macalester, Billy knew instinctively, would gallop the roan to death and shoot another man for his horse, if he had to, to get to Galveston now. Whoever and whatever this Geneva Lionwood was, he mused grimly, climbing into his own saddle, he hoped she was worth what it was going to cost.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The roan and the gray were lathered and sluggish. Macalester guessed, leading his animal through the dusk to the livery, that he and Billy had covered two hundred miles in two days. The horses were near dead, and he was pretty beat himself Even Billy had grown surly, so much so that all conversation between them had ceased several hours before and was not likely to resume. Not, at least, until they'd had a hot meal. Macalester would have liked a bath and a rest in a warm, dry bed as well, but they had reached Galveston. There was no time to rest. Not when he was so near to his goal.

  The air stank of salt marsh and the sea. Macalester hated the smell. He was unaccustomed to it, and it had always made him a little sick. Billy, on the other hand, stood straight and tall and filled his chest with the noxious stuff, vowing he should have been a sailor.

  The man at the livery stable treated them like a pair of criminals, and Macalester suspected that it had to do with the condition of their horses. He did not care. Most things had ceased to bother him in the last forty-eight hours, including his own comfort. The rain had only lasted a day, and that in itself, Billy had declared, was a good omen. Cold, unrelenting rain was a regular event at this time of year along the gulf Rain, sun, wind; it was all the same to Kieran Macalester. Since Irving, the days and nights had become one unending string of gray hours, counted as one would count the rings in a hangman's knot.

  Galveston. They were here at last, and Macalester found renewed energy. Having stabled the horses, he began to formulate a plan of search for the missing diva. Galveston was a good-sized town, but its ranks ebbed and swelled with the arrival and departure of ships on the gulf Galveston was, after all, the port through which much of the state's raw goods were shipped and finished ones received. It should be simple enough to identify a cargo of thirty Arabian horses and to locate their ship of origin.

  "Let's take a short walk to the harbormaster, William," Macalester invited, trying to inject a bounce into his step that he was far from feeling. His boots, at the moment, felt as though they were filled with buckshot.

  Billy Deal stopped him dead with a look of such amazement that he felt his face grow warm. "Tonight? Mac, I'm beat!"

  "We'll take a cab, then." Macalester looked down the darkened street at the row of gas lamps and the traffic of wagons and buggies so he did not have to meet his partner's gaze. Beside him, he heard Billy Deal laugh wearily.

  "You don't give up, do you, Senator?" he declared incredulously. "I ain't goin'. I don't care if you carry me all the way down to the dock on your back. I'm gonna find me a hotel, a bath, a saloon and a whore, in that order. And maybe I'll squeeze a steak or some gulf shrimp in there, somewhere. This is your little picnic, remember? I just gave you my itinerary; you'll know where to find me if you need me. Mind a word of advice?"

  Macalester shrugged, hooking his gloved thumbs in his belt as he rocked back on his heels. Billy's handsome face looked haggard.

  "Do the same," the younger man said in a terse, weary voice. "They couldn'ta got to town no quicker'n us. Hell, they're prob'ly still on the road. A night's sleep'll do you no harm, and we can start fresh in the morning."

  There was a warm, heavy pressure on Macalester's left shoulder. It was Billy Deal's hand, firm and sure. The weight of it nearly overwhelmed Macalester with weariness and something even worse. He shook off the feelings, though, slapping his partner casually in the chest with the back of his hand as he edged away from his grip.

  "I'll be along in a bit. Get us a room over there." He found Billy a brief grin and gestured to a small sign across the street, advertising clean rooms with bath plus hot water, two dollars a night. "It won't take me more than an hour. Just don't bring any lady friends back to the room. I'm not in any mood to be sociable."

  Billy grimaced with no hint of amusement, however wry.

  "You don't say," the younger man offered in a rude tone. "Go 'head, Senator. Wander off down on the docks by yourself. Get yourself shanghaied. When you wake up pukin' your guts out on some steamer bound for the East Indies, just don't say I didn't warn you."

  Billy ambled away, showing his own saddle weariness in his limping gait. Kieran watched him go, wanting to call him back, wanting to apologize for not caring about his feelings, or about anything. But the words would not come. He stood on the street for a full minute watching until Billy disappeared into the hotel. He turned his back on comfort and headed in the other direction.

  The harbormaster was gone for supper and would not return for an hour. The clerk was pouring over a tower of manifests, and was unwilling, if not unable, to impart any information to Macalester regarding cargos, arrivals and departures. He did, however, suggest the Sailor's Rest saloon on pier three as a possible source of information. Macalester thanked the man and aimed himself in that direction, thinking a beer would go down real easy right about then.

  The street was dark and trafficked by men in pea jackets and small pancake hats. Macalester, in his brown Stetson, felt conspicuous. Indeed, he drew a few stares as he strode along the waterfront to the accompaniment of waves lapping at the pylons, the odd caw of a gull and the lonely, far-off ring of a buoy bell out in the harbor. God, the stench of barnacles and rotting sea life and air heavy with salt mist was disgusting! How did these men tolerate it every day of their seafaring lives?

  The reek of tobacco and sour beer in the saloon was a welcome change for Macalester. The Sailor's Rest was a small place, tucked away between two warehouses on the pier, off the street. A perfect location, the outlaw mused, surveying its seedy-looking denizens, for a shanghai such as Billy had mentioned. He had best be on his guard.

  The barkeep provided him with a bottle and a glass, and Macalester paid with one of the greenbacks recently liberated from the tight fist of Garland Humble. He felt the curious stares of the handful of patrons in the place. Even the barkeep, a tall, solid-looking man with red-blond hair, a ruddy complexion and a bushy mustache of the same color regarded him with some-thing approaching suspicion, his ice-blue eyes steady and unblinking.

  "You lose your way, cowboy?" He poured Macalester his first shot of whiskey. Macalester considered the man and swallowed the drink. He allowed the liquid fire to settle in his stomach and watched the inquisitive bartender pour a second glass before he responded.

  "I wish to hell I had," he replied without smiling. "I'm looking for a shipment of thirty Arab horses, and ships like that don't navigate the Trinity to Fort Worth. You wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

  The bartender considered him, his stare yielding no clue. At last he cocked his head slightly to one side and crossed his big arms, covered with golden hair, before his white-shirted chest. Macalester swallowed the second drink.

  "I might," he conceded briefly, glancing once to a far corner of the room. Macalester did not turn around. He had assessed the room upon entering, and recalled a large shadow in that area belonging, he assumed, to an equally large man who apparently had no desire to be seen in the light. Macalester did allow a faint smile on hi
s wide mouth, then.

  "Remarkable how money improves a memory, isn't it?" he said whimsically, shaking his head. "Well, hell. It ain't my money." He withdrew a fiver from his pocket without revealing its several bigger brothers.

  His audience stiffened. The big man's arms dropped to his sides, and his stare became hard. "I don't like your mouth, cowboy. Now get the hell out of my place."

  This was an interesting ruse. "And what if I don't?"

  "Abel!" The barkeep bellowed, not taking his eyes off of Macalester. "This fellow's leaving. Help him out!"

  Macalester was wondering what kind of a show he should put on when he felt a large, crushingly strong hand grasp the collar of his corduroy jacket from behind. To the accompaniment of the bored and amused stares of the few patrons of the Sailor's Rest, Macalester protested as his assailant half-pushed, half-carried him a few steps to the door. He braced himself for what was to follow.

  No sooner had the door closed behind him than he felt the rush of a blow to the side of his head, a blow he ducked just in time. Raising his fists, he turned quickly on his attacker, who proved, to his dismay, to be even bigger than he'd expected.

  It was dark, and he could not see Abel's face. He was not even certain he wanted to. He had hoped to overpower the man and force from him the information he sought, but he thought, as he took a dizzying swat to the temple, that he would do well merely to keep out of the fellow's way. He considered reaching for his gun but decided that, as the greatest effect of the weapon was visual—in his hands, at least—its value would be considerably diminished by the fact that it would be nearly impossible to see in the darkness.

  He ducked a telegraphed punch and riposted by hurling himself into his opponent's midsection. Abel merely took a half-step backward, as though stepping out of the way of a passing lady.

  Shit, Macalester thought.

  Suddenly another pair of hands pinned his arms to his sides and yanked him backward. This unexpected turn of events gave him cause for alarm: His alternate plan had been to put up a struggle, then to feign unconsciousness to see where his assailant would take him. This new wrinkle in his plans might mean, he realized as he struggled against his new captor, that he might not, after all, get the chance to pretend.

  The first blow to his midsection knocked his wind clear back to Irving. With the second he felt a rib crack, and he doubled over in time to take a mighty swat to the jaw that set off a fireworks display in his brain. With the force of his will alone, he clung to consciousness and braced himself for the next blow, although where it would fall, he hadn't a clue.

  Even as he expected a punch, he heard a loud thump. Opening his eyes, he saw the massive bulk of his attacker fall prone on the pier before him, a virtual mountain of useless flesh. He looked up in surprise and was able to make out a familiar outline holding the muzzle of a Colt whose butt had, no doubt, recently rendered Abel unconscious. His arms were suddenly freed, and he heard the running footsteps of the other party fade into the darkness. With a sigh of relief, he flexed his arms and gingerly felt his bruised side.

  "Are you all right, Mac?" Billy's voice was terse, and he was breathing hard. Macalester nodded, gulping air before attempting to speak. "Yeah," he said finally. "Thanks, Bi—"

  His words were cut off by a punch that caught him full on his chin, sending him rocketing backward against the wall of the warehouse. He slid down the wall until he sat hard upon the pier, and it was a moment or two before he realized what had happened. He could not even muster the energy to be angry.

  "What the hell was that for?" he grumbled, rubbing his aching chin.

  "For bein' stupid," Billy answered him vehemently, working the fingers of his right hand. "Now come on. Let's get the hell outta here."

  He stood over Macalester, extending his arm to help him up. Macalester took it and, with a grunt, got to his feet unsteadily. No doubt about it, he thought, considering Billy's deadly serious, if shadowy, features. He was getting too old for this sort of thing.

  "You hit him hard?" He gestured to the prone body.

  Billy shrugged. "Hard enough, I guess. You wanna talk to him?"

  Macalester nodded. "Here, help me."

  With no small effort, the two men dragged Abel's lifeless bulk to the wall of the warehouse, where they sat him up. His huge head lolled to one side.

  "Wait a minute." Billy disappeared, and in moments he returned with a fire bucket. He leaned way over the side of the pier. There was a splash and Billy came up again, the bucket heavy with seawater.

  "Good thing it's high tide," he remarked, straightening. "Get out of the way." Macalester obeyed.

  With a heave, Billy Deal emptied the contents of his bucket upon Abel's face, drenching him. Something moved across the big man's chest. Billy reached for it and held it up in the dim light, laughing.

  "How 'bout that? A crab!"

  He tossed it over his shoulder, and the creature splashed back into the gulf, no doubt confused by its brief ordeal. Abel stirred and sputtered the salt water from his mouth. Macalester knelt beside him, slapping at his fat cheeks to encourage his revival. He did draw his gun then, and he placed its muzzle against Abel's ear so the fellow could not mistake the sound of a clean, cocked Colt.

  The man's eyes opened wide, reminding Macalester of a one-armed bandit in a gaming hall. He grinned at the analogy. "Damned if this ain't the unfriendliest place I ever saw," he declared softly. "I dislike having to shoot a man, my first day in town."

  "Come on, Senator, this ain't a social tea!" Billy was impatient. "Get what you want, so we can feed this big ol' boy to the sharks."

  "No, no," Abel protested feebly, his mass quivering. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

  Macalester, in a lazy, calculated way, forced the tip of the Colt's barrel a little way into the man's ear. Abel reacted by drawing up his bulky shoulders.

  "Thirty Arab horses," Macalester prompted. "We want to know where the ship is, and who bought 'em. And anything else you might know about it," he added, thinking that in all of the excitement, he might have forgotten something.

  "The Corvallis," the man stammered, panting like a winded dog. "Pier twelve. She's been here almost a month, and her captain's fit to be tied. He was supposed to discharge them horses and take on new cargo, and now his orders are to take the nags to Biloxi, and a boatload of furriners with 'em."

  Macalester pondered this. He did not doubt the man's story, but there was still plenty of margin for error. And if he missed Geneva somehow, he feared he would not get a second chance.

  "You looking to fill out her crew?" he asked then.

  "Damn, Mac, you ain't thinkin' of—" Billy's amazement trailed off in the darkness.

  "I might be," Macalester mused, before returning his attention to his oversized audience.

  "She's short a man or two," Abel offered, rubbing the back of his head, probably where Billy had hit him.

  "When does she sail?"

  "Tomorrow, I think. What the hell'd he hit me with?"

  "My finger," Billy supplied, pacing.

  In spite of himself, Macalester grinned. "When, tomorrow?"

  "Train's due in at the yard sometime after midnight. She'll sail with the next tide after that. Prob'ly around daybreak."

  Time. There was no time. Cursing under his breath, Macalester thought quickly. He and Billy could check out the train and its passengers. If they located Geneva, they might be able to get her before she was taken to the ship. If they could not, then they'd all be taking a short cruise to Biloxi. Macalester stood up.

  "Got any rope, Billy?"

  "What're you gonna do?" Abel ventured.

  Macalester couldn't be sure, but it sounded like the man was trembling. He let out a hard breath. "You broke my rib, you son-of-a-bitch." He sighed, shaking his head. "I'd like to kick the shit out of you. The sharks won't much care what you look like."

  "You'll mess up your boots," Billy observed, casually looking up and down the pier.

 
"Hmm." Macalester scratched his cheek. "You have a point. But these old boots ain't worth much, anyway."

  "That's true," Billy allowed. "I see some rope."

  He was back in a minute with a length of heavy hemp, and in a few minutes more, they had the man nicely trussed.

  "Well?" Billy winked at his partner. "Over the side?"

  Macalester considered the man, wondering why he and Billy enjoyed tormenting people with threats they had no intention of carrying out. Just like when he'd threatened to scald Gen, or told her he wouldn't mind dropping her on the road, and of course he'd had no such inclination.

  Geneva. The very thought of her drove a spike into his gut and brought a quick burn to the back of his eyes. Quickly he shook his head, looking for a fresh topic upon which to fix his mind. With a flick of his wrist, he removed the kerchief from around his neck and deftly secured it across the frightened man's mouth.

  "I won't see you again while we're in town, will I?" He looked directly into the man's wide pig eyes. "Because if I do…"

  Abel shook his head from side to side like a mournful steer caught in barbed wire. Beads of sweat had formed on his balding brow, in spite of the shower of seawater he'd enjoyed. Macalester nodded in satisfaction.

  "Good. Let's go, Billy."

  Billy muttered under his breath the whole way to the train yard.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The train jolted to a stop, awakening Geneva from a weird dream instantly forgotten. Groggy, annoyed, she got out of her bed and listened at the locked door for a clue as to the delay. Outside she heard nothing. Some time passed, and Geneva began to wonder if her captors had forgotten her.

  Hakim was her jailor but not her master. The sultan was her master, but she had not yet met him. She didn't want to. Hakim, his man-in-charge, was chilling enough. He was not a large man, but was, in his trim white suit and turban, nevertheless a commanding one. The fellow he most often commanded was Abdul, a distressingly large man with a propensity for pantaloon trousers and a garish gold sash. The two had attended her infrequently in the little, locked train car since her imprisonment.