The Steel Angel Read online

  “Against a mud bank!” Adam shouted. “Double team it.”

  Behind him he could hear the steady slice of oars again. A second boat, bringing in another wagon, was almost there.

  “Come on, come on!” Hanover said impatiently. “Things are going to pile up here if we ain’t careful.”

  “Ready,” Joe Denver said from the darkness.

  Adam moved away from the wagon. A whip popped hollowly. Denver’s strident voice shouted, “Git, you hump-nosed glue farms!” and the wagon lurched forward. Its front wheels struck the underwater ledge, stalled momentarily, and then rolled on. Shortly, it was on dry land, water pouring from it in a hundred cascading rivulets.

  After the first it was easy. The bank quickly wore down to a slope, and the teamsters were not long in getting the hang of maneuvering the odd, heavily loaded vehicles. By the time the first flare of sunrise was brightening the east, the last was ashore, the dinghies had departed into the mist, and the train was almost ready to move.

  Hanover, as wet to the skin as was Rait, rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Made it … and just in time. Where’s camp?”

  Adam pointed to the grove a hundred yards distant. “Cook’ll have some grub waiting. Only thing that’s still undone is laying in a full supply for the trip.”

  Hanover expressed annoyance, “You were supposed to be all ready!”

  “Would have had that done, too, only you never got around to telling me how long we’d be on the road.”

  “Important we move out today.”

  “We will. Town’s about two miles off. I’ll take the cook and buy what we’ll be needing and catch up. There’ll be no time lost.” There was a sharp edge to Adam Rait’s voice.

  Hanover grinned, slapped him on the shoulder. “Sure thing.”

  Adam raised his arm to give Joe Denver a signal. Immediately the lead wagon sprang into motion and began to move toward the camp. He turned back to Hanover. The blockade runner was staring off to their left at an approaching buggy, in which sat a lone man.

  “How long you been here?” Hanover asked anxiously.

  “Three days,” Adam informed him.

  Kurt swore quietly. “Expect whoever that is has been sitting there, watching you all the time.”

  Adam glanced to the right at the brush that had drawn his attention earlier. “Had a feeling somebody was … but not from that side of the cove.”

  Chapter Three

  Hanover looked at Rait questioningly. He started to speak but thought better of it and swung his attention back to the approaching buggy.

  The driver pulled to a halt and climbed down hastily. He was a Mexican, conservatively dressed in dark gray suit and a black plug hat. He stood for a moment with his eyes on the freighters moving toward the grove, and then faced the two men. Fog had begun to lift slightly, but there was still a thin mist; silhouetted against the brassy flare in the east, the visitor appeared strange and unreal.

  “I am Emiliano Escobar,” he said in the precise style of foreigners who have been carefully tutored in an unfamiliar language. “Which of you is Mister Hanover?”

  “Me,” Kurt replied bluntly, reaching for his cigar case. His hand fell away when he remembered he had left the container in his jacket.

  “And you?” Escobar asked politely, glancing at Rait.

  “Adam Rait.”

  “A pleasure, gentlemen.” The Mexican looked again at the train. Half the vehicles had reached the grove and were out of sight in the dense brush and trees. “You bring a large cargo, Mister Hanover.”

  “So?”

  “It is of extreme, and even vital, interest to those I represent.”

  “Who’s that?” Hanover asked.

  Escobar hesitated as Joe Denver came trotting up. The squat teamster’s broad face was lined into a deep frown. “We pulling out, or we staying the night?”

  “We’re pulling out,” Hanover answered before Adam could speak. “Right away.”

  Denver bobbed his head, wheeled, and headed back for camp.

  Escobar began: “I represent Presidente Benito Juárez and the Republic of Mexico.”

  Hanover merely nodded, but Adam looked more closely at the quiet-faced man. He was a Juárista, and a long way from headquarters.

  “Your cargo … it can be purchased?” Escobar asked.

  Hanover shrugged. “Usually anything I own’s for sale.”

  The Mexican took an eager half step forward. “It is possible then to negotiate?”

  “Afraid not, señor. It’s already sold. Deal was made before I ever went after it,” Hanover explained.

  Escobar’s face sagged with disappointment. “I have waited many days, hoping … is it possible you can be persuaded to a change of mind?”

  Kurt Hanover shook his head. “One thing I’ve never done is gone back on a deal … and I won’t start now. It’s bad for business.” He paused, then added: “Tell you this … once I get this shipment delivered, I’ll be ready to talk turkey.”

  “Talk turkey?” Escobar repeated wonderingly, and then said: “Yes, I understand. Such would require many months, is that not so?”

  “To make delivery to you? Be close to a year … that’s if my luck holds.”

  “I fear that would be too late,” Escobar said quietly.

  Hanover glanced longingly toward the camp and the dry clothing and black cigar that awaited him there. “Best I could do. How goes your revolution, señor?”

  “It has not yet reached full proportions. The presidente remains in hiding, but we are informed by reliable sources in Mexico City that soon the French emperor will withdraw his army, leaving Maximilian to cope unaided with his problems.”

  “Ought to be just what you’re looking for.”

  “Indeed. At such time we hope to strike. We strive now to have everything in readiness, for without the French soldiers to fight for Maximilian, our chances for overthrowing him and restoring the people’s republic will be excellent … but we must have arms and ammunition with which to do this.”

  Adam Rait settled back. So that was what Hanover was engaged in—gunrunning. Rifles and ammunition. He should have known the moment he saw the long wooden cases in their waterproof wrappings, the specially built wagons with their heavy axles and wide-tread wheels. He wondered then who the purchaser of the shipment could be? Maximilian? It would be like Hanover to sell to the Mexican emperor, and immediately turn around and sell also to the opposing Juáristas. But it couldn’t be Maximilian and Mexico. Hanover had questioned him as to his knowledge of Texas …

  “Sure like to help,” Kurt was saying briskly, watching the last wagon disappear into the trees. “But I would if I could. And you can believe that. Always kind of liked your Benito Juárez.”

  Like most Americans he pronounced the displaced presidente’s name war-ezz, with the accent on the last syllable.

  “You look favorably on our struggle for right?” Escobar brightened.

  “Sure. I think the Mexican people got a raw deal. Juárez is a good man.”

  “Then perhaps it would be possible to negotiate for half your cargo? What value would you set on such a portion?”

  “Twenty thousand dollars … but it’s no deal, señor. Still aim to stand by my agreement … and my customer is waiting. Like I said, once I’ve taken care of them, I’ll make a trip to Juárez City and have a talk with your presidente. Maybe it won’t be too late.”

  Emiliano Escobar lowered his head in defeat. “Very well, Mister Hanover. I can do no more.” He shook hands gravely with both men and turned to his buggy. Pausing there, he said: “Should there be change and you wish to again meet with me, I may be found in Galveston, at the home of a friend, Don Francisco Chavez. Vaya con Dios, amigos.”

  Hanover nodded.

  Rait said: “Adios, señor.” He felt a tinge of sadness for the l
ittle man. That the patriots of Mexico needed help was common knowledge. Again he pondered the destination of Hanover’s cargo and decided that if by some chance it was to go, ultimately, to Maximilian, he’d call it quits, go back to Huntsville, and see if his old job was still open. He was no flag waver, but the way Napoleon III had jammed the Austrian archduke down the throats of the Mexican people was enough to gag anyone.

  “Sort of like to help him,” Hanover said as they watched the buggy roll away. “But gold’s gold, and I’m a man to stick with my agreement.” He looked at Adam. “Expect you know now what this’s all about.”

  “I know we’re freighting rifles and ammunition. What I don’t know is who for?”

  “The Confederacy.”

  “The Confederacy!” Raid echoed in surprise. He stared at Kurt. “Where the hell’s the Confederacy going to get forty thousand dollars in gold?”

  “They’ve got it … leastwise the bunch I made a deal with have. Made sure of that before I ever shipped out for Germany.”

  Adam shook his head. “There’s been a lot happening since you left. Might be better to deal with the Mexicans.”

  “I’ll deal with them later … after I’ve collected for this load. What do you mean a lot’s happened?”

  “The South’s lost the war. Grant’s got Lee backed against a wall with no place to go. The Confederacy’s going on guts and nothing else. They just don’t have sense enough to give in.”

  Hanover looked sharply at Rait. “Was a time when you didn’t think that way, I’m told.”

  “Right,” Adam said mildly. “Then I woke up to the fact that a lot of men were getting killed for no good reason … and I was a part of it.”

  “Fortunately the jaspers I’m dealing with don’t look at it that way,” Hanover said. “I’m damn glad of it … forty thousand dollars’ worth of glad. Come on. I want to get into some dry clothes.”

  As they started for the camp, Kurt asked: “Seen any soldiers around, Confederate or otherwise?”

  “None. Had a feeling somebody was watching us from the brush early this morning. Could’ve been wrong.”

  “Some potlicker from town, probably,” Hanover decided, dismissing the report.

  “Where are we taking this shipment?” Rait asked. “You never got around to telling me.”

  “Didn’t figure it was important to you,” the experienced blockade runner replied, “but we’re headed for Marshall.”

  “Who’s there? Kirby Smith’s across the line in Shreveport, but I don’t remember hearing anything about any soldiers in Marshall.”

  Hanover shrugged. “All I know is that I make delivery there, and collect my money. Plenty of high-ups are in on the proposition.”

  “Smith?”

  “Him, I wouldn’t know about for sure, and I don’t give a damn. Rule of mine is to never look under the bed to see who’s hiding. I just take my money and go.”

  Adam Rait reckoned it was no concern of his, either. He was getting $500 in gold for bossing a wagon train to Marshall, and all else was a side issue and shouldn’t worry him.

  It was dawn, and Sancho, the Mexican cook, had breakfast ready when they reached the square formed by the wagons: beans, side meat, flat corn cakes, and a drink that passed for coffee, but just barely. Hanover took one swallow and spat.

  “What in the name of God is this?”

  Rait grinned. “Roasted acorns pounded to meal. No coffee around anywhere … not with those Yankee gunboats squatting out there in the Gulf.”

  Hanover spat again, dashed the liquid to the ground. “Better lay in a supply of whiskey,” he said. “Man’s got to have something fit to drink with his meals. Got some around?”

  “No, except maybe a few bottles the teamsters might have. I’ll pick up a gallon while I’m in town.”

  Joe Denver came up, his brow wrinkled. “Floating didn’t do them wagons no good. Got to pull the wheels, dab on fresh grease.”

  Hanover’s face darkened with irritation. “Hubs were greased before they were loaded. Why …?”

  “Wagons ain’t boats,” Denver said calmly. “Reckon your grease sort of washed off.”

  “How long’ll it take?” Hanover was impatient.

  “Half a day, probably.”

  “Then get at it!”

  Denver glanced at Adam for approval. At Rait’s brief nod the teamster spun and walked quickly back to the crew gathered around one of the vehicles.

  Hanover handed his empty plate to Felipe, the cook’s swamper, and threw a smile at Rait. “Don’t mean to be stealing your thunder. You’re the boss of this outfit. Guess it just popped out … habit.”

  “All right with me,” Adam said disinterestedly. Two wagon masters would easily confuse matters, but if Hanover wanted to take full charge, let him. Adam Rait would still draw his pay.

  Kurt reached for his bag, opened it, and then began to strip off his wet clothing. “You mentioned needing supplies. Does the cook know what we ought to get?”

  “I’ll write him out a list,” Rait said.

  Hanover nodded. “I was just thinking there’s a few things I need, too. How about me running into town with him, and you staying on the job to get the wagons ready?”

  It was a good idea, Rait thought. He should stay; there appeared to be a little dissension. Bill Gannon was most likely responsible. “I’ll get on it,” Adam said, and turned to consult with the cook.

  When he had finished, Kurt was dressed and stood leaning against one of the wagons, watching the teamsters at work on another. Denver had cut and trimmed a fair-size tree and was employing it as a lever to hoist the heavily loaded vehicle off the ground. While a half a dozen men pressed their weight upon the pole, two others worked hurriedly to remove the wheels.

  “Keep them at it,” Hanover commanded, moving to join Sancho, who waited for him in the supply wagon. “Ought to be back by noon. Be ready to roll.”

  Adam nodded. “We’ll be ready,” he said, irritated by the man’s tone, and then he dismissed it from his mind. For $500 in gold he guessed he could get along with the devil himself.

  Chapter Four

  The servicing of the wagons was a job of no small proportion. Nine of the vehicles contained rifles; twenty-seven cases were bedded so firmly and precisely in each that they appeared to be part of the wagon box itself. The remaining three were loaded with cartridges in smaller wooden cases, equally heavy and expertly packed. To empty the freighters would have been impractical and more time-consuming.

  Thus, each teamster and his relief driver were assigned the task of doing the actual lubricating chore on their own particular vehicle, while a half dozen or so of the other men, having finished with their units, took turns bearing down on the leverage pole.

  It was hot, backbreaking labor, and near noon, Adam, sweat streaming from every pore in his body, turned after cinching a hub nut and called to Joe Denver. “How many to go?”

  “Two. Gannon and Waterhouse.”

  “All right. You work with Waterhouse.” He turned and beckoned to Gannon. “Let’s get at it, Bill.”

  Several of the men trailed off after Denver, others moved up beside Rait. Gannon, squatting in the shade where he had apparently been all morning, did not stir.

  Anger flared through Adam. Hot and tired, he was in no mood for opposition. He crossed to where the bullnecked teamster was rising to his feet.

  “You heard me, Gannon. It’s your wagon!”

  “Might be, but I ain’t no friggin’ stable hand. I hired out to drive …”

  “You’ll do what I tell you … and you’re being told now to get busy on your wagon.”

  “The hell with you!” Gannon shouted, his temper rising also. “I’ll look after my driving, but no gimpy wagon boss is …”

  Rait’s balled fist hit him hard and clean on the point of his jaw. He staggered, f
ell against the tree immediately behind him, and sagged briefly. A yell broke from his lips as he struggled upright. “Goddamn, I’ve been hoping you’d try that,” he said, and plunged forward.

  Adam, outweighed by the thick-shouldered teamster, knew he could never outslug the man in a toe-to-toe match and doubted he could overcome his bull strength. His best chance was to stay clear, cut Gannon to ribbons, wear him down.

  He jerked aside as the teamster rushed in and smashed a sharp, down-sledging blow to the man’s ear. Gannon stumbled and went to his knees, but came up immediately. He wheeled, bumping into several of the crew now gathered in a circle about the two men.

  Adam heard Joe Denver say: “Knew this was coming. Gannon’s been asking for trouble ever since we got here.”

  Rait stared at Gannon, now more cautious as he moved in slowly at a crouch, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Denver was right. Bill had wanted to start something—and this was the time to settle it.

  Rait stepped in quickly, unexpectedly. Driving his left into the teamster’s nose, he crossed with a right to the head. Gannon paused, swayed uncertainly. Surprised at the effect of the blows, Rait followed up fast with several sharp drives to the head and body, before he pulled back, sucking deep for breath.

  Gannon, upright by sheer will, watched Adam with glazed, unseeing eyes. He hung motionlessly for several seconds, and then collapsed soundlessly.

  A cheer went up from several teamsters. Rait, sweating profusely and still dragging deep for wind, leaned over, retrieved his hat, and faced the crowd.

  “Let’s get to those wagons,” he snapped, temper still glowing in his eyes. “Somebody throw a bucket of water on Gannon. I want him in there doing his share.”

  He came about, hearing the metallic sound of iron tires slicing into the sandy soil. Hanover and Sancho had returned. The old cook pulled to a halt beside the chuck wagon, climbed down stiffly, and beckoned to Felipe. Together, they began to transfer the new stock of foodstuffs to the other vehicle. Hanover remained on the seat, staring vacantly at the sweating teamsters at work. Finally, he too descended.