Riverboat Blaze Page 7

  “In theory, it was a fascinating undertaking. But it didn’t seem practical to me.”

  “Too heavy?” Clint asked.

  “Too big and too heavy. I can’t imagine the captain didn’t have trouble trying to maneuver all the twists and turns of the river. Also, the day of the riverboat is gone. It wasn’t a sound investment for anyone.”

  “That’s Dean Dillon’s specialty,” Clint said. “Convincing people with money to invest in something that’s not a sound investment.”

  “I see. You know him?”

  “We’re friends,” Clint said, “sort of. What did you mean when you said you studied the route?”

  “Well, by trying to figure the speed of the currents, and the speed that the boat was moving, I’m guessing that we’re probably somewhere around Vicksburg.”

  “That would be helpful,” Clint said. “That’s a big city. We’d be able to get all the help we need, and someone to salvage the boat.”

  “I’m guessing, mind you,” Jerry said.

  “I think your guess is pretty damn good, Jerry.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Clint stopped walking and pointed. “That sign.”

  Jerry looked at the signpost and nodded. It said: “VICKSBURG, 3 miles.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  As they entered Vicksburg, Clint wasn’t sure where they should go, so he decided the best thing would be to approach the law. They were attracting attention because of their condition, and Clint stopped one man and asked directions to the sheriff’s office.

  “Ain’t got no sheriff,” the man said, “but we got us a police station.”

  “That’ll do,” Clint said.

  They followed the man’s directions and found the station. They entered, and Clint asked for the chief of police. A portly man in his fifties said he was Chief Radcliffe. Clint and Jerry explained what had happened, and the chief didn’t waste any time. He assured them rescue efforts would be mounted within the hour. He sent several of his men out to make arrangements.

  “And go over to Anchor Line,” he told one of the men. “We’re gonna need their help.”

  “What’s Anchor Line?” Jerry asked.

  “They run a riverboat out of here called the City of Vicksburg,” Radcliffe said. “They also have some flat-boats we’re gonna need.”

  Clint took the time to explain fully the situation he and Jerry had left behind them: the boat sitting in shallow water, still burning when they left; survivors on both shores, the Mississippi side and the Louisiana side.

  “I’ll send some telegrams, see if we can’t get some help from Louisiana,” the chief said.

  The door opened then, and a tall, barrel-chested fellow in his fifties entered, black hair shot with gray.

  “Mr. Adams, this is Fred Ward,” Radcliffe said. “He manages Anchor Line and is in charge of all their boats. Fred, Clint Adams and Jerry . . .”

  “Sumner,” Jerry said. It was the first time Clint had heard his last name.

  “Mr. Sumner.”

  “Gents,” Ward said. “Every boat we have is at your disposal.”

  “I’m sure Dean Dillon will appreciate your help, Mr. Ward,” Clint said.

  “I hope so,” Ward said.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Dillon came to us with his plans for the Dolly Madison,” the man explained. “We turned him down.”

  “Why?” Jerry asked.

  “Well, aside from the fact that we didn’t want to run another riverboat on the Mississippi,” Ward said, “I told him his boat would be too big, and too heavy. A recipe for disaster. I guess I was right.”

  “That may not be what the problem was, Mr. Ward,” Clint said. “You see, there was an explosion on board.”

  “Well, I guess we won’t know for sure until my men get out there.”

  Clint turned to the chief.

  “I want to go along,” he said.

  “Me, too,” Jerry said.

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Radcliffe asked. “You men need some rest.”

  “There are a bunch of people out there who I gave my promise to, Chief,” Clint said. “I told them I was coming back with help, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  “And my wife is one of them,” Jerry said.

  “Well, it’s all right with me if it’s okay with Fred,” the chief said.

  They all looked at Ward. He and the chief were about the same age, and Clint sensed a friendship there.

  “It’s okay with me,” Ward said. “You better get down to the dock. My men are ready to go.”

  “Some of my men will go along, as well,” the chief said. “Good luck.”

  Clint and Jerry left the police station and, with six police officers, headed to the docks.

  There were two flat-bottom boats loaded and ready to go. They had to use them because even though Clint explained how deep the Dolly Madison was sitting, there was still no way for them to know what kind of shallows they’d be dealing with. They could be as little as three feet.

  Running with the current, they made good time to the bend in the river where the Dolly Madison had stalled. Still, it took hours to get there and it was past midday when they arrived.

  The rescue operation was being run by a man named Stan McKay. Clint was on the same boat with him and three policemen, while Jerry was on the other boat with three policemen. Jerry’s boat made its way toward the Mississippi shore, where he and Clint had left Jerry’s wife and the others. Jerry and the policemen disembarked, waded ashore, and headed inland to find them.

  Clint’s boat pulled up alongside the Dolly Madison.

  “We better check and see if there are any survivors on board,” McKay reasoned.

  They boarded the boat, and even though her first deck was underwater, it was only up to their shins and they were able to walk.

  “Let’s check the bridge,” McKay said.

  He, Clint, and the policemen used the stairs to get to the third deck and approach the wheelhouse. As McKay opened the door, Captain Hatton looked up from his seated position and said, “Well what the hell took ya so long?”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Captain Hatton had recognized the fact that the Dolly Madison was not going to sink. In fact, he had done everything he could to get the boat to that bend in the river near Vicksburg, as he knew the water was shallow there.

  “Dillon’s going to be happy that you saved his boat,” Stan McKay said.

  “Fool made the boat too big and too heavy,” Hatton said.

  “Seems like everybody has that opinion except for him,” Clint said.

  “What about the fire?” McKay asked Hatton. “Any idea what started that?”

  “I ain’t been down there, but it had to be an explosion.”

  “I agree,” Clint said. “I could feel it through the deck beneath my feet.”

  “I’ll take some of my men down there and have a look,” McKay said. “Meanwhile, I’ll send my boat across the river to pick up some people and take them to Vicksburg.”

  “You did a good job, Captain,” Clint said, shaking the man’s hand. “I’ll be telling Dean Dillon that.”

  “I don’t think that’ll make much of a difference,” Hatton said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That friend of yours is gonna be lookin’ for somebody to blame,” the captain said. “He ain’t about to take the blame himself.”

  Clint was afraid the captain had Dean Dillon pegged right.

  There was nobody else on board. McKay had to have a couple of his men swim underwater to see what the damage was in the hold of the boat. They both came up shaking their heads.

  “There’s a hole in the boat on the port side,” one of them said. “Looks like it was blown out.”

  “What caused the explosion?” Clint asked.

  “If you ask me,” the man said, “somebody put some dynamite down there.”

  “Sabotage?” McKay asked.

  The man said, “Look
s like it to me,” and his partner nodded his agreement.

  Clint looked at the captain, who had accompanied them down to the first deck.

  “Dillon can’t blame this on you,” he said.

  Hatton laughed and said, “Watch him.”

  Captain Hatton came aboard their flatboat and then Clint and McKay went over to the Louisiana shore to pick up some survivors. They didn’t all fit on the two boats, so on the Mississippi side they made arrangements for some wagons to pick people up, as well.

  It was nightfall when Clint got into a hotel in Vicksburg, was able to take a bath, change his clothes, and get a hot meal. He’d been able to salvage his belongings from the Dolly Madison, including his beloved Colt New Line.

  Shelters had been set up for a lot of the survivors who could not afford to get themselves hotel rooms. Many of them had lost their money along the way, or had left it on the boat and had not been able to recover it yet. Arrangements were being made for a salvage run the next day.

  Angela had been able to get a room at the same hotel as Clint. Ava had been recovered from the Louisiana side, and it turned out she had some family in Vicksburg, so she was staying with them.

  The Warrant brothers had not turned up. The bodies that had washed up onto the shores had not yet been collected. That would be done last, after the living were seen to.

  Dean Dillon was nowhere to be found.

  Clint actually had a meal with Jerry Sumner that night. Jerry’s wife was in a hotel room, in bed wrapped in a blanket. They were staying in the same hotel as Clint, and they had their meal in the hotel dining room.

  “She won’t come out,” he told Clint.

  “You can’t really blame her,” Clint said. “She’s been through an ordeal.”

  “What’s on your agenda for tomorrow?” Jerry asked.

  “I was thinking about going out to the boat again with McKay and his men. Dean Dillon is still among the missing. What about you?”

  “I offered to go out and look at the boat as an engineer. Maybe I’ll be able to offer somethin’ helpful.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Well, if Margie isn’t gonna come out of our room, what else is there for me to do?”

  They finished up their dinners by stepping out in front of the hotel with cigars.

  “Who would have it in for Dillon and want to sabotage his boat?” Jerry asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s a long list,” Clint said. “You see, everything Dean does isn’t always on the up-and-up.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “This was supposed to be a legitimate enterprise for him, but now I don’t know.”

  “You think he was pulling something?” Jerry asked. “But he had a huge investment in that boat.”

  “I know his investors had huge investments in the boat,” Clint said. “I don’t know how much money Dean invested himself.”

  “But look at the boat he built,” Jerry said.

  “Yeah,” Clint said, “big and heavy. Is it insured? Will he get any money for the fact that it burned and sank? And will his investors get any of that?”

  “You think he built this huge boat just to bilk his investors?”

  “I don’t know, Jerry,” Clint said, tapping ash from his cigar, “I just don’t know.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Jerry went back to his room to see how his wife was doing. Clint remained out in front of the hotel, finishing his cigar and thinking. Would Dean Dillon have invited him onto the Dolly Madison knowing that it was going to sink? Would he have risked the life of all those people for a scam? He’d known Dillon to con people out of their money, but he’d never known the man to risk the lives of others.

  He wondered what had happened to the Warrant brothers. And what about the gamblers, Kingdom and Galvin? And Galvin’s woman, Kathy? Clint still didn’t know how many people had been picked up from both shores. Maybe he’d find out tomorrow, when he went down to the offices of the Anchor Line to see Stan McKay.

  He was about to toss the remainder of the cigar into the street when Angela came walking out the front door.

  “I was wondering where you were,” she said to him.

  “I figured you needed your rest,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I have something to talk to you about, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s about the Dolly Madison.”

  “Do you know something about the boat sinking?” he asked.

  “Not exactly.”

  He tossed the cigar into the street after all, and turned to face her.

  “Angela, if you know something . . . Was Dean trying to pull something?”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I know something about . . . the cargo.”

  “What about it?”

  “There’s something on the boat that’s very . . . valuable.”

  “What do you mean, valuable?”

  “I mean worth,” she looked around, then lowered her voice and said, “a lot of money.”

  “I know what valuable means, Angela,” Clint said. “You’re not being very clear.”

  “I know it,” she said. “I’m taking a big chance talking to you like this, Clint.”

  “What kind of chance?”

  “With my life.”

  “Well then, maybe we shouldn’t be having this conversation outside,” he said.

  “Your room?” she asked.

  “Let’s go inside and have some coffee instead,” he said.

  The man standing in the shadows across the street watched Clint take Angela’s arm and lead her back into the hotel. He didn’t know if he could still trust Angela or not. He didn’t care if she went to bed with the Gunsmith. He just didn’t want her talking to him.

  Not about what was in the hold of the Dolly Madison .

  Clint and Angela were seated, and then ordered not only coffee but pie. The waiter did not comment on the fact that Clint had just left the restaurant.

  “Okay,” Clint said, when they had coffee and pie in front of them, “what’s going on, Angela?”

  She took a bite of apple pie and a sip of coffee. Clint knew she was gathering her thoughts, and he allowed her to do so in her own time.

  “Okay,” she said, “I’m just gonna say it.”

  “Good.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “There’s gold on the Dolly Madison.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Say that again, slowly,” Clint said.

  “Gold,” she said. “On the Dolly Madison.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll tell you that later,” she said.

  “Did Dean know about the gold?”

  “No,” she said. “All he knows is that he was carrying some cargo.”

  “What’s the gold in?”

  “A big crate.”

  “Who shipped it?”

  “I can’t tell you that right now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Is the gold stolen?”

  She looked at him, surprised “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because you don’t want to tell me where it came from, or who shipped it. What else could the answer be?”

  “Well, yes,” she said, “it was stolen, but it was stolen from somebody who can’t report it stolen.”

  “Which means what, exactly?”

  “Which means,” she said, “it’s up for grabs.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “And you want me to help you grab it.”

  “Why not?” she asked, with a shrug. “I think a lot of people will be trying.”

  “A lot of people know about this gold?”

  “Well . . . not a lot . . .”

  “But enough that you think there’s going to be a scramble for it,” he said. “And you think you’ll have an advantage if I help you.”

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, I do think that.”

  Clint didn’t answer r
ight away. His first instinct was to say no, but he didn’t usually make a decision until he had all the facts—and at that moment, he didn’t have them.

  “So?” she asked.

  “I’ll need to know a lot more,” he said.

  “What are you going to be doing tomorrow?”

  “I was going back downriver to the Dolly Madison to do some salvage, and to see what it would take to get her out of there. There’ll be some people from the Anchor Line, as well as an engineer. Not to mention the law.”

  “The law,” she said. “You can’t let them find that gold.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “They won’t know it’s stolen. They’ll just think somebody was shipping it upriver.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “Why not?”

  She bit her lip, then said, “There’s too much of it.” “Just how much gold is there, Angela?”

  “A lot.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “I saw a real heavy crate being loaded just at the end there, after we boarded. Was that it?”

  She nodded. “That was it.”

  “That crate wasn’t filled with gold, was it?”

  “Well,” she said, “not filled.”

  Clint pushed away his unfinished pie and slapped his napkin down on the table. “Angela, I need to know a lot more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who shipped the gold? Where did it come from? Who stole it? And how do you know about all of this?”

  “All that?”

  He nodded. “All that.”

  Angela pushed away the last bite of her pie.

  Clint walked Angela up to the second floor and to her door.

  “Would you like to come in?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, Angela. I think we both need to get some rest,” he said, “and you need to do some heavy thinking.”

  She nodded.

  “All right,” she said. “Good night, Clint.”

  “Good night, Angela.”

  She unlocked her door and went inside. She reached for the gas lamp in the wall, and as she turned it up saw the man sitting on her bed with his ankles crossed.