Smugglers' Gold by Lyle Brandt Page A

to be enjoying it.
    Until the odds shifted against him, anyway.
    The slugger he’d knocked down a moment earlier was rising, groggy but determined not to miss the action’s finish. Ryder moved around the dancing duelists, closing in to meet the odd man out. Distracted, turning toward the interloper he had never seen before tonight, the ruffian stooped to retrieve his fallen knife.
    And it was Ryder’s turn to try a throw, although he’d never practiced it. Holding his borrowed dagger by the blade, he put his weight behind the pitch with no idea which end would hit his target, if it struck at all. In fact, the pommel smacked into his adversary’s forehead with sufficient force to pitch him over backward, sprawling empty handed in the street.
    An anguished cry behind him suddenly demanded Ryder’s full attention. Turning, he found Marley in a clinch with his would-be assassin, both men standing rigid for a moment in the lamplight. Marley pushed away a moment later, gave his dirk a sideways flick to clear its blade of blood, and watched the man he’d stabbed collapse facedown.
    â€œWell, now,” he said to Ryder. “I suppose you’d better tell me who you are, or maybe use that Colt.”
    â€œYou want to talk about it here? Right now?” Ryder inquired.
    Marley considered it, surveyed the scattered bodies of his enemies, and said, “All right. Put up the gun and come with me.”
    Ryder holstered his Colt and fell in step beside the man he’d traveled some twenty-three hundred miles to find. Marley seemed perfectly relaxed, now that the skirmish was behind him, but he kept an eye on Ryder all the same.
    â€œGeorge Revere,” said Ryder, when they’d covered half a block and turned a corner, with their fallen adversaries out of sight. “And you are . . . ?”
    â€œBryan Marley. You aren’t drunk at all, I take it?”
    â€œThought I’d have a better chance to get in close,” said Ryder, “if they didn’t take me seriously.”
    â€œRight. And why’d you bother?”
    â€œAs opposed to watching you get killed, you mean?”
    â€œOr turning back and going on about your business. It’s what I’d have done.”
    â€œYou have a funny way of saying thank you, Mr. Marley.”
    â€œMake it ‘Bryan,’ since you saved my skin. Same question: why?”
    â€œI might have watched you fight with one, or even two. The four of them, I guess it just seemed wrong to me.”
    â€œFelt wrong enough to risk your life?”
    â€œMaybe I didn’t think it through.”
    â€œWe haven’t met before,” said Marley. Not a question.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou don’t sound much like Galveston.”
    â€œI move around a lot,” said Ryder.
    â€œDoing what, if you don’t mind my asking?”
    â€œThis and that. I move commodities from here to there.”
    â€œCommodities. What kind?”
    â€œWhatever’s in demand. Man has to make a living.”
    â€œTrue. I’ve done a bit of that myself,” Marley replied.
    â€œAnd made some enemies along the way, I guess.”
    â€œCompetitors. Some take it worse than others when you top them on a deal.”
    â€œApparently.”
    â€œSo, thank you.”
    â€œWelcome.”
    â€œSince we both agree you’re sober, could you stand a drink?”
    â€œI wouldn’t mind.”
    â€œYou ever been to Awful Annie’s?”
    â€œHaven’t had the pleasure,” Ryder said.
    â€œSome might not call it pleasure,” Marley told him, “but the Menefees won’t find us there.”
    â€œThe Menefees?”
    â€œOur sparring partners. There are more than four of ’em.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œThe good news is, they won’t know who you are if you’re just new in town.”
    â€œMy lucky day.”
    â€œThe bad news is, the ones we didn’t kill will