a welcome relief from the cantina’s hullabaloo. The radiance of the late moon streamed through the east window. The other window opened onto the river, which glowed silver in the wan light. Without bothering with the lamp, he drew a chair to the window and sat gazing across the stream at the lights of Brownsville on the far shore. Below was the wharf, against which the black bulk of the small steamer, the Bravo, loomed. The gangplank was lowered, but there was no sign of life aboard the vessel. Only one wan light showed, doubtless in the captain’s cabin where very likely a lone deck hand or perhaps the skipper himself stood watch, while the rest of the crew celebrated in town.
The muted strains of music drifting through the cantina’s back windows were soothing, its babble of voices but a drowsy hum. Slade began to really enjoy himself as he pondered the information Estevan garnered. He wondered if Sosna had doubled back on his tracks and was headed west again. However, he thought it unlikely. A few miles west of the town was a ford which could be negotiated by horses when the river was low, as it was at the moment. Quite likely the cunning outlaw preferred to slip across the river via the ford rather than by way of the bridge from Matamoros, where such a band would be conspicuous. Well, he’d cross to Brownsville himself tomorrow and see if he could pick up the trail.
As he gazed dreamily at the star dimpled water, his eyelids grew heavy, and he was just about ready to call it a night and go to bed when something within his range of vision snapped him wide awake again.
Stealing slowly across the wharf was a group of men, six or seven in all, it appeared. Slade watched them slow their gait even more as they neared where the Bravo was moored. They halted, seemed to gaze earnestly at the boat. Then they crept forward again, headed for the gangplank. Just who and what they were, the Ranger wondered.
Some of the crew coming back from town? Possibly. But why that stealthy approach? To all appearances they were anxious to avoid detection, especially by somebody who might be watching from the Bravo. Slade grew very much interested. He stood up, moved back from the window a little and scanned the terrain about the wharf; it was devoid of life other than the crouching group that had now reached the gangplank.
At 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
