El Lazo - The Clint Ryan Series

  * * *

  Quade Sharpentier sat in a dark corner of Teodoro’s Cantina and downed the last of a mug of aguardiente. He banged the table for another. He had searched the pueblo and found no trace of John Clinton Ryan. The Californio attitude of poco tiempo and mañana—too little time, let’s do it tomorrow—set him on edge. He was beginning to believe that shrugging one’s shoulders was the national pastime of Alta California.

  The captain smoothed his gray-streaked beard and realized it needed a trim. He wished he were in Boston, but Boston would only mean an inquiry. Only hanging Clint Ryan would bring an end to the matter of the sinking of the Savannah.

  Sharpentier understood men of commerce well enough to know that if he sent correspondence ahead reporting that he had already punished the sogger responsible, that he had assumed command of another company ship without a captain, and more importantly that the ship was returning with a highly profitable cargo, all would he forgotten.

  Even though he had not yet found and silenced his scapegoat, he had made giant strides since the loss of the Savannah.

  Thanks to Skinner’s brute strength, Captain Armstrong had taken a dive off the quarterdeck into Davy Jones’s locker, followed by his helmsman, which was fine with Sharpentier. Sharpentier had another ship and a crew—albeit one that questioned their captain’s sudden death.

  Sharpentier rose from his table and crossed the room to where three of the crew of the Charleston sat. They quieted as he approached.

  “Well, men, are you about ready to get back to the line and canvas?” he asked, trying his best to appear friendly.

  Goetz, a dusky-complected square-headed man whom Sharpentier figured to be a German, did not return his smile. “There be too many in the fo’c’sle, Cap’n,” he grumbled. “Ye should cull a few and leave them ashore to work the hide fields.”

  “With full pay, o’course,” Sharpentier said sarcastically, waving the camerea over. Bring these men a round,” he instructed her, then watched her full-fleshed rump straining against the skirt.

  “If they do a full day’s work,” the German said.

  “Maybe you would like to be one who was left here to find work amongst the greasers?” Sharpentier snapped.

  The German looked away. “I signed with Cap’n Armstrong, Boston to California and back to Boston. I do my work, and I’ll complete the voyage.”

  “Then you’ll not complain about conditions beyond any man’s control. Captain Armstrong met with an unfortunate accident, and as a captain of the line I have assumed his responsibilities. The next man I hear complaining like a yellow cur will find himself ashore and looking for a way back to New England.”

  Goetz kept his eyes fixed on the table, but his face noticeably reddened, and his knuckles, grasping his empty mug, whitened. The barmaid returned with fresh drinks. Sharpentier kept his hard eyes on the German, but the man did not look up or reply.

  Sharpentier spun on his heel and returned to his own table without paying the girl. The German mumbled something that Sharpentier could not hear, dug into his pocket, and tossed some coins on the table.

  Rumors of Captain Armstrong’s murder and of the cloven-hoofed being aboard, as the sailors referred to any evildoers, had run rampant through the brig. If it had not been for the brace of Aston pistols that Sharpentier and Skinner had worn when a representative came to raise the crew’s objections, Sharpentier might be hanging from the same yardarm he had planned for Ryan.

  While Sharpentier stood with Astons drawn, Skinner had banged two men’s heads together, pulled a dagger, and offered to make capons of gamecocks. Their crowing had abruptly ceased. The pistols and the threat were enough to quell any thoughts of mutiny.

  Unfortunately for Quade Sharpentier, Armstrong had been a well-liked and respected man. And a crew with too much time on their hands had little better to do than grouse and complain and worry about what had happened. Yes, he had best get them back to the hard labor of sailing a quick trip.

  Usually, a ship did not call on the same port in any two-month period, so Sharpentier decided to catch them off guard. By the time he returned in less than a week, the crew would be resigned to his command, the fiesta of Corpus Christi would be well under way, the aguardiente would be flowing, and no one would know of their coming. He would make a short trip to Buenaventura, then return and, if the weather held, anchor off the point out of sight of the town, away from prying eyes.

  If Ryan was in the area, he would be at the fiesta, as would all of Pueblo Santa Barbara and the surrounding ranchos.

  Yes, he and the crew would slip back into town unnoticed; only this time every man would be armed with cutlass and musket.