“Would you like a drink?” Beswick asked Frank. “I have some decent brandy.”
“I’m obliged, but no thanks,” Frank said. He wasn’t that much of a drinker under normal circumstances. With Salty missing, Frank knew he might need a clear head even more than he usually did.
“I’m sure Monroe will be back shortly with the news that he’s found Mr. Stevens.”
Frank thought the captain was pretty irritated by the situation, but Beswick was trying to keep that from showing. The shipping line would want him to be polite to the passengers.
“The thing is, Salty doesn’t really know anybody else on the ship, either the passengers or the crew,” Meg said. “He wouldn’t have any reason to be in somebody else’s cabin.”
Frank said, “We think he’s gone ashore.”
Beswick frowned. “Into the settlement, you mean? Why would he do that? I explained to everyone about what sort of place Powderkeg Bay is.”
“That wouldn’t mean much to a man like Salty. He’s likely traipsed through every hell-on-wheels between the Rio Grande and the Milk River,” Frank said.
Of course, the same comment could be made about him.
“Salty used to drink quite a bit, too,” Meg added worriedly.
“Ah,” Beswick said. “I see.”
Anger flashed in Meg’s blue eyes. “I don’t think you do,” she said. “Salty’s not just some old drunk. He’s been all over the West and done just about everything there is to do.”
“I meant no offense, Miss Goodwin. Still, you have to admit, you are worried about him because you think he may have slipped off to some saloon in the settlement.”
Meg couldn’t deny that, so she settled for just glaring in silence as they waited for the young sailor, Monroe, to return.
That took about ten minutes. Beswick said, “Come in,” when someone rapped on the door. Monroe stepped inside, holding his cap respectfully in front of him.
“Mr. Stevens isn’t onboard, sir,” he reported.
Beswick frowned in surprise. “You’re sure of that?”
“Aye, sir. I found Mr. Handlesman, told him what you said, and he organized a search party. We checked everywhere, even in the cargo hold.”
“And you didn’t find Mr. Stevens?”
“No, sir.”
Beswick turned to Frank and Meg. “It looks like you may have been right. My apologies for doubting you.”
Frank didn’t care about apologies. He said, “Now that we know Salty’s not onboard, I’ll go take a look for him in the settlement.”
“Not alone,” Beswick said. “That wouldn’t be wise.”
Meg said, “He won’t be alone. I’m going with him.”
“That would be even more unwise.” Beswick looked at the sailor. “Monroe, you and Mr. Handlesman and the rest of that search party will accompany Mr. Morgan ashore.”
“I don’t want to have to keep up with a bunch of sailors,” Frank said.
“With all due respect, Mr. Morgan, that decision isn’t yours to make. I’m charged with the safety of my passengers, and I intend to see to it that I deliver each and every one of them safely to Seattle. Besides, you can use the help. Mr. Handlesman is my second mate and a good man.”
Frank supposed it wouldn’t hurt to have some of the crew with him, especially if Powderkeg Bay really was as wild and woolly a place as everybody said it was.
“All right, but I’m going ashore now. Salty could already be up to his neck in trouble.”
“There’s no doubt about that,” Beswick agreed.
“What about me?” Meg demanded.
“Go back to your cabin and wait,” Frank told her. “Sorry, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”
“I don’t like it,” she muttered darkly, “but I reckon we shouldn’t waste time standing around arguing. We’ve wasted too blasted much of it already.”
“I’ll see that the young lady gets back to her cabin safely,” Beswick said, which earned him another glare from Meg.
Frank and Monroe left them there and hurried back up to the deck. The continuing drizzle made it a little slippery under Frank’s boots.
Monroe found the second mate, Handlesman, who turned out to be a stocky gent with a bulldog face and red hair under his cap. Even though he clearly didn’t care for the orders that Monroe delivered, he quickly gathered up several sailors to serve as the search party.
“You don’t have to go ashore with us, sir,” he told Frank.
“I think it would be a good idea if I did. When you find Salty, he’s liable not to listen to you. He can be a crotchety old pelican when he wants to.”
Handlesman shrugged burly shoulders. “All right, then. Let’s go.”
They went down the gangplank to the dock. Frank was careful not to slip. His boots were made for riding, not for negotiating the damp gangplank of a ship.
Water lapped softly against the dock’s pilings. The thick mist in the air seemed to muffle sounds, including the music Frank could still hear.
“Where’s that coming from?” Frank asked Handlesman. “It might have lured Salty off the ship.”
The second mate grunted. “Like the Sirens, eh? You won’t find any such creatures at Red Mike’s place. Only whores, tinhorns, and cutthroats.”
“I’ve heard about Red Mike’s,” Monroe put in. “Never been there, though.”
“That’s because the skipper put the whole settlement off-limits before you shipped out with us,” Handlesman explained. He spat on the hard-packed dirt of the street as they reached the end of the pier. “We had a couple of crewmen get killed in there.”
It sounded like the sort of place where Salty could get in trouble, all right. Frank said, “Let’s go have a look.”
Not many people were out and about on this damp, dank night, and the ones who were got out of the way of the grim-faced party from the ship. Within moments, Frank and his companions were approaching a squat building made of rough-planed boards.
Frank had figured that the place was called Red Mike’s because the proprietor had red hair, but in the flickering light of a lantern that hung beside the door, he saw that the boards were painted red. It was a sloppy job with ragged bare patches and streaks, but Frank doubted if the men who came here to drink really cared about such things.
The door stood open. The music coming through it was louder now, but the notes came to an abrupt, discordant end when Frank and the men from the ship were still a block away. Loud, angry voices replaced the tinny strains from a piano.
“Sounds like trouble in there,” Frank said.
“I’m not surprised. Brawls happen all the time at Red Mike’s.” Handlesman motioned the other sailors forward. “Just in case the fella we’re looking for is in there, we’d better have a look before—”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Guns began to roar inside the saloon, their deadly blasts ripping through the misty night.
Chapter 3
Frank started to break into a run toward Red Mike’s, but Handlesman lunged and grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the Jupiter’s second mate demanded.
“My friend might be in there,” Frank responded as he jerked his arm free of Handlesman’s grip. He hurried toward the saloon.
“Come back here, you damned fool!” Handlesman shouted. Frank ignored him.
It would be just like Salty to get himself caught in the middle of a corpse-and-cartridge session like the one going on inside Red Mike’s. The old-timer was a trouble magnet.
Of course, the same thing could be said of Frank Morgan. But it took one to know one, as the old saying went.
He veered to the side as he approached the place. He didn’t want to run right into a stray bullet that came out that open door. When he reached the building, he put his back against the sloppily painted wall and slid along it toward the entrance.