The Vanquished by Brian Garfield

Crabb and his brother-in-law came up the ramp. Ainsa was lanky and darkly handsome; he moved in a loose-jointed manner and had an easy smile. Those two men went directly around into Crabb’s cabin suite. From overhead, the captain shouted: “Haul in the planks!”
    The forward plank was drawn up and the crew converged aft to pull in that gangplank. A crowd of men rushed onto the wharf and one of them bawled, “Leave that Goddamn plank down!”
    Charley recognized Chuck Parker and Bill Randolph in that crowd, a roistering loud bunch of burly men. The crewmen looked at one another with uncertainty; a man detached himself from that group and moved toward the upper deck, where the captain and pilot stood watching. But by then, Bill and Parker and the others were on board, grinning derisively at the crewmen. “All right,” Bill said. “You can haul it in now.” Laughing, he slapped a sailor on the back and wheeled forward with his retinue, a filthy mass of men smelling of whisky and body stink, hauling miscellaneous duffelbags and luggage, dressed in rumpled clothing.
    The plank wheeled in; lines were cast off and presently the boat got underway, wheels churning, smoke lifting in a back-tilted gray column from the stack. When they steamed through the Golden Gate, Charley was at the rail near the bow, and saw the cannon emplacements of Fort Scott looming high overhead in the thin mist. The air had a flesh-biting cold in it and, huddling inside his heavy new coat, Charley went below, and found Norval Douglas savoring the taste of a cigar in the saloon.
    The room had filled quickly. Charley leaned back against the bar. Douglas was observing the room’s bustling activity with bemused tolerance. Above the high curve of his cheekbones his eyes burned and glowed. Charley saw the fighting streak along his friend’s mouth and had the feeling that, if the mood moved Douglas, he would kill with deliberate coolness. His face, square at the jawbone, was handsome and sure; deviltry, planned or remembered, sparked in his eyes. He wore a clean brown cotton shirt and butternut trousers, and a belted Navy pistol.
    A voice beside Charley said, “Whisky.” Douglas looked past Charley at that man. Charley had never seen him before; it was a tall blond man, round-faced, who turned a flashing German smile on Douglas and said, “We’ve met before, I think.”
    â€œI was with William Walker,” Douglas said, extending his hand.
    â€œAh—that’s right. I’m Zimmerman. Correspondent for the New York Times .” He turned and swept the room with easy eyes. “A drink?”
    â€œAll right,” Douglas said, and introduced Charley to the man.
    Zimmerman with his German smile said, “A drink, son?” and Charley shook his head. “I’ll take coffee.”
    â€œWell enough,” said Zimmerman. “Two whiskies and a coffee, bartender.”
    Norval Douglas leaned back against the bar, hooking his thumbs idly in his gunbelt and letting his drink stand when it came.
    â€œYou’re with Crabb, I presume,” Zimmerman said.
    â€œIs there anyone on this boat who’s not with Crabb?” Charley said.
    â€œI don’t suppose so. No one but myself and my sister.” Zimmerman pulled out a pad and began to scribble with the stub of a pencil, making corrections in something he had written there. He spoke abstractedly while he wrote. “I’m always curious to know what sparks a man to join an expedition of this kind. Is it the promise of adventure?”
    â€œNot particularly,” Douglas murmured.
    â€œMoney, then.”
    â€œWhy, I wouldn’t say that.”
    â€œJust seeing what’s over the hill,” Zimmerman suggested, not looking up from his pencil work.
    â€œThat’s close enough,” Douglas said. His eyes appeared sleepy. “I’ve seen the hills before, but sometimes I get the feeling I must have