Free Smugglers' Gold by Lyle Brandt Page A

churning paddle-wheel, but its ungainly length and weight was stalling them. Before their shipmates had another chance to spot him, Ryder raised the Henry rifle to his shoulder, sighting down its twenty-four-inch barrel toward the clipper’s stern.
    His first shot drilled one of the pirates closest to the rail, pitching him forward so his body fell across the beam, adding more weight as his supporting grip was lost. His next round hit the crewman bracing up the butt end of the spar and sent him tumbling to the deck. Before Ryder could fire again, the other three gave up and scampered off in search of cover, while the beam slid overboard.
    One problem down, but now the pistoleers were after him again, slugs hammering the steamer’s woodwork all around him. Ryder ducked into a nearby passageway that ran from port to starboard and descended to the middle deck from there, safe for the moment with the full bulk of the
Southern Belle
between the pirates and himself. As for the boarders from the
Revenant,
he’d have to hunt them down and deal with them as best he could.
    And it appeared that he’d be doing it alone.
    Ryder heard shouts, screams, crashing sounds as cabins were invaded, raiders kicking in the doors. He ran in that direction, through another passageway to reach the port side of the boat, nearer the
Revenant.
Halfway along, another figure blocked the daylight at the far end of the passageway—a burly, bearded man with a revolver in his hand, aimed straight at Ryder’s face.
    The shooter pulled his trigger, and the pistol’s hammer fell with a resounding
snap.
    Misfire!
    Ryder bellowed and charged him, swung the Henry’s butt into the big man’s groin and heard the air evacuate his lungs as he hunched over, clutching at himself. Ryder’s momentum carried both of them along the short remainder of the passageway and to the steamer’s railing, where a final shove was all it took to roll the pirate overboard.
    Shark bait? It didn’t matter, just so long as he was gone.
    Close to the
Revenant
again, Ryder took cover at the gunwale and began to rapid-fire across the rail, spraying the clipper’s deck with lead. He hit one of the crewmen, likely not a fatal wound, and saw more of them dive for cover. From the bridge, one of the crew—maybe the man in charge—was shouting to be heard over the sharp reports of gunfire, calling to the members of his boarding party.
    â€œAhoy! Belay the boarding! All hands back to me!”
    Ryder supposed he could have shot the man, captain or not, but let him keep on bawling orders as a couple of the men who’d come aboard the
Southern Belle
leaped back in the direction of the
Revenant.
One made it, rolling nimbly on the weather deck and springing to his feet among his shipmates, but the other timed his jump poorly, his face smacking the clipper’s rail before he dropped into the water, quickly sinking out of sight.
    The
Revenant
was veering off to westward now, frustrated crewmen loosing off a blaze of parting shots, but in another moment they were out of range, tacking southeastward toward the Keys, or maybe Cuba, farther on. Ryder was glad to watch them go, until he heard a growling sound behind him, and a woman’s gasp.
    Irene McGowan stood before him, trembling in the grasp of a straggler who’d missed his ride home. The pirate was bald, with skin like tanned leather, a thick blond mustache masking lips like a slash in his face. Those lips were drawn back in a snarl now, as he held a Bowie knife to Irene’s throat.
    â€œGeorge, please!” she said.
    â€œGeorge,
please,
” the pirate mimicked her. Then, with a glance to sea, he growled, “The hell are they goin’ without me?”
    â€œLooks like you missed the boat,” Ryder replied.
    â€œScrew that. You’re putting me ashore.”
    â€œDo I look like the captain?”
    â€œYou look like the guy who’s gonna tell him what