Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

The woman nodded. “It served its purpose. This little Chinese girl got close enough to Mickey Kerr to kill him.”

“And there’s more killing to be done, Miss Christian.”

“I’m ready,” Chastity said. Her eyes were glittering, like sun-splashed ripples in a brook.

The sun was nudging noon when a man scratched at the door and told Penman that Sprague’s longboat was in the bay. The lawyer passed the man a coin, dismissed him, then said, “We will make our way to the dock.” He glanced at Chastity. “You look lovely, Miss Christian. The green color of your afternoon dress becomes you.”

The woman smiled and dropped a graceful little curtsy.

“You are armed, of course?” Penman asked.

“Of course.”

“Then if you are also ready, Mr. Tone, shall we proceed?”

At that time of the day, most of the people in the streets and alleys along the waterfront were Chinese, though a few sightseers from the city were in evidence, elegantly dressed men and women shivering with delight as they passed drinking dives, whorehouses and opium dens, chattering in high, excited voices.

As Tone and the others arrived at the dock, Sprague’s longboat was just tying up. Tone did a quick count. Including Sprague and his shadow, the giant Blind Jack, there were thirteen men crammed into the small craft.

Superstitions of childhood coming back to him, he felt like crossing himself. Thirteen, the number at the Last Supper, was an unlucky omen.

But Tone was reassured by the swaggering confidence of Sprague’s men. Each one of his tough, weather-beaten sailors wore a brace of Colt revolvers and had a wicked-looking cutlass tucked into his belt. They looked like men to be reckoned with, and Tone had a sudden premonition that before this war was over, Sprague would need every one of them.

Sprague himself looked as hale and hearty as ever, short, stocky and indestructible. He had not dressed himself from the slop chest, but wore an expensive pearl gray suit, a top hat of the same color and a huge diamond stickpin sparkling in his cravat. He did not appear to be armed, perhaps trusting to the Colts of his men for his protection.

As soon as he set foot on the dock, he beckoned Penman to one side and the two had an animated, heads-bent conversation. When it was done, Sprague stepped to Tone, his hand extended.

“One down, five to go, Mr. Tone,” he said. “But there is still much work to be done.”

Tone made the appropriate response, and Sprague’s attention was drawn to Chastity. His eyes moved over her body from shoes to hat. Then he said, smiling, “And who is this divine creature?” He looked at Tone. “Yours?”

Tone shook his head, then nodded in Penman’s direction. “His.”

Sprague was surprised. “Luther, you’ve been holding out on me. I didn’t know you’d given up boys, you old rogue.”

The lawyer was quick to explain. “I hired Miss Christian to be Mr. Tone’s assistant,” he said. “To aid him in any way he deems necessary.”

“You mean as a private secretary or something?” Sprague asked, puzzled.

“He means as a bounty hunter,” Tone said. “I didn’t kill Mickey Kerr. She did.”

Sprague was silent for a moment as he took the mental step from puzzled to completely bewildered. Finally he said, “I’ve never heard of such a thing. There are no lady bounty hunters in the West.”

Chastity smiled. “There are now, Mr. Sprague. Well, one at least.”

“She’s good at her job,” Penman said. “Men who underestimate her have a habit of ending up dead.”

“In Boot Hill. Isn’t that the term, Miss Christian?” Sprague grinned.

“That’s the term. And I’ve put a few there.”

“And are you as pure as your name implies?” Sprague asked.

“I’m sure you will very soon endeavor to answer that question for yourself,” Chastity said.

Sprague laughed. “Damn my eyes if that wasn’t well said! Come alongside o’ me, lass, and take my arm. We’ll walk together. I keep a fine establishment on Kearney Street befitting a lady like yourself.”

“Mr. Sprague, we’ve got trouble,” Penman said, his voice low and urgent.

Tone looked ahead of them and saw two dozen policemen shaking out in a loose skirmish line, guns drawn. At their head, stern as ever, was the broad and determined form of Sergeant Thomas Langford.

Chapter 19

“Langford,” Sprague said, “what the hell are you doing out of your scratcher at this time o’ the day? I always thought you were a nocturnal son of a bitch, like a bat.”

“Ah, Captain Sprague, as pleasant as ever,” the cop said, his huge arms crossed over his chest. “What brings you on land? Is the piracy business slow?”

“Is that an accusation, Langford?” Penman said, taking a threatening step toward the sergeant. “I warn you, be respectful now. I could have your badge.”

“Respectful, to a well-known pirate rogue”—Langford’s eyes roamed over Sprague’s toughs—“and as scurvy a group of cutthroats as I ever clapped eyes on.”

“I warn you—” the lawyer began.

Sprague talked over him. “Langford, we go back a ways, you and me. You know that the last brave pirate lads hauled down their colors and found berths on the beach twoscore years ago. If you have come to arrest me, then get it done and be damned to ye.” He thrust out his hands in a dramatic gesture. “Where are the shackles?”

Langford shook his head. “I’m not here to arrest you, Cap’n Sprague—”

“Then, damn your soul, why did you bring an army?”

“Call it a bait o’ insurance, Cap’n. Force is the only thing a blackhearted pirate rascal like you understands.”

“Be circumspect, Sergeant Langford,” Penman warned. “You’re treading on extremely dangerous ground here.”

If the big cop was intimidated, he hid it well. “Cap’n Sprague—”

“Mr. Sprague,” the lawyer snapped.

“Cap’n Sprague, the three-masted clipper ship Bonny Leslie arrived in port yesterday, Captain Oliver McCoy commanding,” Langford said. “He reported that the day before, he sailed through the wreckage of a ship seventeen miles south of the Golden Gate. Her logbook was found floating among the debris and identified her as the steam freighter Benton, bound for the port of London with a cargo of silver coin and gold bullion.”

“And what’s all that to me, Langford?” Sprague asked. “Two days ago I was thirty miles nor’west of the Golden Gate strait. Hell roast your guts, man, what are you implying?”

“What am I implying, Cap’n Sprague? Piracy, man! Piracy on the high seas! The Benton went down with all hands, but I believe every man jack of them was murdered before the ship was sent to the bottom.”

“I’ve heard enough, Langford,” Penman said. “The only place Mr. Sprague will answer your vile accusations will be in a court of law.” He looked beyond the officer. “Now, call off your dogs and give us the road.”

Langford ignored the man. “Cap’n Sprague, my jurisdiction does not extend to the high seas, but through my superiors I can raise the matter in Washington. I suspect that a naval court of inquiry into the sinking of the Benton could go badly for you.”

Sprague was taken aback. “Damn you, there’s a whiff of blackmail in the wind. Are you trying to shake me down, Langford?”

The cop stared at Sprague, and even from where he stood Tone could feel the force of his anger. Seagulls quarreled noisily over kitchen waste dumped overboard from a ship and a key clanked as a bartender unlocked the door of an early-opening saloon.

“I want no truck with your blood money, Sprague,” Langford said finally. “But aye, ‘blackmail’ is the right word for what I have in mind. The sea is not my jurisdiction, but the waterfront is, and if you start a war, damn you, I’ll go to my superiors and demand an immediate inquiry into the sinking of the steamship Benton .”