Free Smugglers' Gold by Lyle Brandt

to his touch. Slipping inside, he ducked again as gunfire smashed the window to his left, glass flying everywhere.
    Ryder had glimpsed the steamboat’s captain from a distance, several times during their voyage, and had been impressed with both his size and his demeanor. Six foot four or five in height, and barrel-chested, graying hair and beard to match. He hardly looked the part of a commander now, as Ryder found him on one knee behind the steamer’s large spoked steering wheel, cringing from bullets as they whistled overhead.
    Seeing Ryder with his rifle on the bridge, the captain closed his eyes, clung to the wheel, and said, “All right, then. Shoot! You may as well.”
    Ryder crouched down beside him, saying, “Listen, Captain! I’m one of your passengers. You probably have pirates on the
Belle
by now, and they’re about to jam the paddle-wheel.”
    â€œWe’re finished, then,” the captain told him, bitterly. “My crew’s not worth a damn for fighting. In the old days—”
    â€œCan you get more speed out of the engines?” Ryder interrupted him.
    â€œMaybe a knot or two.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    â€œIt’s a measurement of—”
    â€œNever mind. Do what you can. I’ll try to hold them off.” Retreating toward the open wheelhouse door, he paused and added, “If you get a chance, why don’t you ram the bastards.”
    â€œDangerous,” the captain said.
    â€œYou think we’re not in danger now?”
    Gunfire was crackling from the
Revenant
as he emerged, the pistols’ popping punctuated by a shotgun blast. From his position at the apex of the steamer’s superstructure, Ryder had a clear view of the pirate clipper and its men still laboring to jam the larger vessel’s paddle-wheel with wooden beams, her captain shouting orders at them from the bridge. Although exposed to gunfire from below, he paused to aim his Henry down the full length of the
Southern Belle
and triggered two quick shots in the direction of the wrecking crew.
    One found its mark and dropped a pirate twitching to the deck. Without him, two more who’d been helping aim one of the long beams toward the steamer’s paddle-wheel were thrown off balance, lost their grip, and watched it tip over the gunwale, gone.
    Which just left one.
    Unfortunately, shooters on the
Revenant
had Ryder spotted now, and they were pouring on the pistol fire. Their aim had not improved, but they came close enough to make him drop and crawl along the deck, working his slow way toward the stern. Beneath him, Ryder felt the steamboat shudder as it put on extra speed, but he had no idea if it would be enough.
    And there
were
pirates on the paddle-wheeler now. He heard them calling back and forth to one another from the main deck, mostly cursing, while a woman screamed somewhere below him, toward the stern. It set his teeth on edge, but Ryder knew there were too many passengers aboard the
Southern Belle
for him to help them individually. His first priority was making sure the pirates didn’t stop the
Belle
dead in the water, where it would be easy prey.
    And that was proving difficult enough.
    In fact, he thought, it might turn out to be impossible.
    *   *   *
    T hroughout his tenure with the U.S. Marshals Service, Ryder had been called upon to fire his pistol only once. As luck would have it, that event had ended his career—and, indirectly, placed him in his current life-or-death predicament. He wasn’t squeamish when it came to shooting, but he’d never pictured holding off an army, either.
    Or, was this part of a navy?
    Either way, quick action was required, or he was sunk.
    When he had crawled approximately half the steamer’s length, Ryder popped up again and risked another glance in the direction of the stern. All five remaining pirates there were grappling with the one remaining spar, trying to jam the