Trail of Blood and Bones: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott
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proved to be the case.
The skipper swore again when what had happened was outlined for him. He turned to Slade, held out his hand.
“Thanks, cowboy, for sorta evening up the score,” he said. “And the Company will want to thank you too, and a mite more. Better’n twenty-five thousand dollars in that box. Yes, you did a fine chore and I won’t forget it.” He gestured to the dead sailor.
“That poor swab was with me for five years,” he added. “Most of my boys have been sticking around for quite a spell. I’ve got so I sorta look on them as if they were my own kids; hurts when something happens to one of them.”
“I can well understand,” Slade remarked. “Captain, who all knew the money was to be sent down the river on the Bravo?”
“Why, only the bank officials and myself were supposed to know,” the skipper replied.
“Could some of your seamen have learned of it?” Slade asked. The captain hesitated.
“Well, some of them might have guessed it, at least guessed we were carrying something of value,” he admitted. “The cashier of the bank delivered the money to me in person and watched me lock it up.”
Typical of the way “official secrets” were guarded, Slade reflected. However, he merely nodded and let the subject drop. Sosna had somehow learned the money was on the steamer. How? Perhaps he’d find the answer to that one later.
“And now,” suggested the mayor, “suppose we drag that dead ladrone in here where it’s light and examine him.”
The body was hauled in unceremoniously by the heels. The dead man appeared to be an ordinary individual of medium height and build. His pockets disclosed nothing of significance, so far as Slade could see.
“Anybody recognize him?” he asked. There was a general shaking of heads. Which was what El Halcón expected. He raised one of the fellow’s hands and scrutinized it, then the other; he turned to the Bravo’s captain, who was squatting beside him.
“What do you think?” he said.
“The same as you do,” the skipper replied. “Yep, he was a deepwater man not so long back; only hauling on lines will put that sort of marks on a swab’s hands. Nothing strange about that, though; we get quite a few of ’em in Brownsville. Mostly Gulf men who sign on with the little coastwise trade wind ships. A lot of ’em have been around quite a bit. Sort of settle down here.”
“I suppose some of your hands are former deepwater men?” Slade suggested.
“About half of them, I reckon,” the skipper admitted.
“And this fellow would have been able to speak their language and associate with them without attracting any attention.”
The skipper shot him a shrewd glance. “Uh-huh, I reckon,” he replied. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he could use his ears good, too.”
“Exactly,” Slade nodded.
Another example of how Veck Sosna worked, and of his uncanny ability to corral followers who would best serve his purpose. The man in question mingled with the Bravo seamen and listened to what was said. Perhaps was able to adroitly steer the conversation into a discussion as to what cargo she bore coming down from Laredo. Some loquacious individual might have mentioned the bank cashier’s visit with the captain, the significance of which Sosna would have interpreted correctly. Yes, the Sosna touch.
His deduction was corroborated a moment later when the Bravo seamen, having heard what happened, came streaming aboard. They mingled their curses with the skipper’s and grouped around the dead outlaw.
“Say, I remember this lubber!” one exclaimed. “He was drinking with us in Laredo. Got to gabbing about ships he’d sailed on. One of them was the Gloucester, a schooner I signed with once. He knew all about her, all right.” A couple of his companions nodded agreement.
The skipper glared at them. “And I suppose some of you swabs blabbed about what you thought was in the cabin safe,” he said accusingly.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Slade felt pretty sure that one or more of those present suffered twinges of conscience but preferred not to incur the captain’s wrath by saying so. Well, it didn’t matter one way or another who was guilty of imprudent loquacity. The damage had been done, providing Sosna with opportunity of which he had been quick to take advantage.
Slade stood up. “Well, amigos, I’m going to call it a night,” he said. “You will hold an inquest, Don Pedro?”
“Sí, in the afternoon,” the mayor replied. “This one we will give holy burial. Let the other—” he glowered at the dead outlaw—“let him go unshriven and unannealed, his soul dragged hell-wards weighted by his sins. Sleep well, Cápitan, I will attend to all.”
Accompanied by Amado and Estevan, Slade made his way through the crowd of curious gathered on the wharf.
“Vive El Halcón!” a voice cried. The cheer was given with a will. Slade smiled and raised his hat. “Thank you, amigos,” he called answer.
“A glass of wine before you retire?” Amado suggested.
“I’ll settle for a cup of coffee,” Slade replied. “Wouldn’t go bad right now.”
“Bueno!” said the cantina owner. “Dolores will joy to see you are all right. She was in tears when we left in answer to your call.”
When they entered the cantina and sat down at a vacant table—most of the patrons were grouped at the bar, discussing the recent happenings—Dolores joined them.
“I was terribly frightened when I heard that awful shooting,” she told Slade. “I just knew you were mixed up in it. And when you called Uncle Amado your voice sounded as if you were hurt.”
“I wasn’t,” he replied cheerfully. “Just a mite excited, I guess.”
Dolores shrugged her slim shoulders disdainfully. “I don’t think you ever get excited, or show any emotion of any kind.”
“You may learn different,” Slade warned, his eyes dancing.
For some reason known best to herself, the remark caused her to blush and lower her lashes.
“You look terribly tired,” she said, solicitously. “You should go to bed without delay.”
“That’s a notion,” he agreed. “I am tired and I’m going to do just that; it’s been a busy night. See you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here in the late afternoon,” she replied. “Hasta luego!”
“Hasta luego—till we meet again.”
FOUR
SLADE DID GO TO BED, AFTER CLEANING AND OILING HIS GUNS, and was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. He awakened shortly after noon, greatly refreshed and fit for anything. After breakfast at Amado’s La Luz, he and the cantina owner attended the inquest.
It was more formal and stately than the rangeland type across the river, but the verdict was similarly terse and to the point. Slade was commended for the part he played. The deckhand met his death at the hands of parties unknown whom the authorities were urged to apprehend and bring to justice. The slain outlaw was now tasting of the flames of infierno, it was hoped.
Afterward, everybody reparied to Amado’s cantina for a drink. Slade and the owner occupied a table in a corner near the dance floor, where they could talk without interruption.
“And you feel sure that the outrage was planned and executed by the man Sosna you seek?” said Amado.
“No doubt in my mind,” Slade replied. “I didn’t get a look at him, but I heard his voice, a voice I’ll never forget. Yes, it was Sosna, all right; the chore was typical