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  When coercing Turtle into a spirit of cooperation, Dusty had promised that nothing of a criminal nature he learned would be divulged to the authorities unless it pertained to his task of protecting the Crown Prince. It had said much for the respect Turtle felt for the small Texan, who had previously got the better of him in Fort Worth,13 that the assurance was accepted. Furthermore, as Dusty had been posing as a hired killer rather than a wanted outlaw, it was easy for Raffles to ensure he did not hear details of crimes in the making.

  Realizing how Raffles—whose help had gone beyond that envisaged by Turtle—would be far more compromised than the master criminal if the truth became known, Dusty’s warning of how dangerous it would be to cause him embarrassment was made to ensure Digbry’s reticence. The secret was safe if the marshal was frightened into silence. As far as everybody else in Corpus Christie’s criminal circles was concerned, finding no gainful employment was forthcoming there, “Rapido Clint” had gone elsewhere in search of it.

  “I had a message brought to the Portside Hotel that Schindler was here,” Dusty concluded, without explaining the nature of the precautions which had been taken to save the Crown Prince from an assassination bid at long range. He was satisfied that Digbry had overlooked the discrepancy where Raffles was concerned. “Figured it had come from Beguinage and must be a trap, but reckoned I could stop it being sprung. It was a close call, but I made it. It doesn’t look as if he’s got anything much on him, though.”

  While speaking, the small Texan had been watching the searching of the body. Despite his conviction that he had killed Beguinage, it was something of a relief to see how the still shape was dressed beneath the padre’s habit. It had a collarless white shirt and a dark blue suit with the trouser legs rolled up above the knees. He had noticed Digbry’s annoyance when the jacket’s pockets yielded nothing but a pair of socks, a collar and an already fastened necktie which would have allowed their owner to affect a change in appearance from the distinctive attire of a padre.

  “Only this,” the marshal answered, holding forward what appeared to be the kind of “vest-pocket” inkwell secretaries and clerks often carried. He clearly attached no importance to the item as he handed it to the small Texan. “Last time I saw anything like it was one I took offen a tinhorn. He used it to carry some dye he had for marking the cards in the game.”

  “Could be that’s what he used it for, this isn’t ink,” Dusty replied, having lifted the lid and looking at the blackish paste in the container. Then his gaze flickered to the knife by the body and he stiffened slightly. There was a hint of tension in his voice as he went on, “Whooee! Likely I’ve had an even closer call than I figured.”

  “How’s that, Cap’n?” Digbry asked, not knowing the small Texan well enough to detect the change.

  “Take that sheath off and give it to me!” Dusty ordered, picking up the knife. “And make sure nobody is careless when they handle this damned thing. That’s not blood on the blade, it’s some kind of poison.”14

  “P—Poison?” the marshal repeated, but the baleful glare he received put motion into his limbs and he obeyed. Accepting the sheathed weapon with some reluctance, he dropped it into the right side pocket of his jacket and said, “I’ll go straight to the jail and lock it in the safe.”

  “After you’ve searched the body upstairs,” Dusty corrected. “It’s not likely he’s carrying anything to tell us who he’s working for, but he might be.”

  About five minutes later, after having conducted an abortive examination of Schindler’s body, Dusty and Digbry left the building. While the marshal was locking the door with a key they had found on a hook inside, the small Texan looked around. There was no sign of other human life in the immediate vicinity, so they set off in the direction of the waterfront. They were almost at the other side of the street when Dusty saw somebody he recognized walking swiftly from the alley they were approaching.

  Of medium height and build, with nondescript pallid and bespectacled features, the man who appeared did not have the look of belonging to the Texas range country. His round topped “Derby” hat, neat brown suit, white, stiff-collared shirt, sober necktie and low-heeled footwear were such as might be worn by a well-situated secretary, clerk or salesman in one of the major Northern cities.

  Despite the man’s innocuous appearance, Dusty knew he was nothing so harmless as an Eastern office worker who had been transplanted to Corpus Christie. Whether calling himself “Gustav Breakast” in Brownsville, or using his current alias, “George Luncher,” he was the go-between for a criminal organization based in New York and one of the factions who were plotting against the life of the Crown Prince. What was more, he had already negotiated for the services of “Rapido Clint.”

  From what happened next, Dusty discovered that he was not alone in having identified the newcomer.

  “Watch him, Cap’n Fog!” Digbry yelled, laying great emphasis on the name he uttered.

  It was also obvious that the recognition was mutual.

  “Luncher’s” face took on a startled expression as he heard the name by which the peace officer had addressed “Rapido Clint.” Instantly, realizing his danger, he pressed his left elbow against his side to activate the switch of the spring-loaded holster strapped to his wrist. His right hand started across to meet the Remington Double Derringer which was emerging from the cuff of the jacket’s left sleeve. What was more, he saw that the marshal—who had already received payments for services rendered—was intending to earn more by preventing the small Texan from being able to demonstrate how the name “Rapido,” which in the Spanish of the Mexican border country meant exceptionally fast, had been acquired.

  While calling a warning which had no apparent justification, Digbry also acted with a rapidity that seemed out of keeping with his normally sluggish behavior. Shooting out his left hand, he delivered such a hard push that Dusty was sent staggering away from him.

  Taken unawares, the small Texan was neither able to control his movements nor retain his equilibrium. Even as he was starting to fall, he discovered that Digbry’s action which might have been intended to save his life, did in fact put him in grave danger. Having learned his true identity, “Luncher” was producing the weapon which he had detected concealed in the left sleeve on their first meeting. With his balance destroyed by the marshal’s push, Dusty could do nothing to prevent himself from being shot.

  Chapter 2

  HE’LL COME LOOKING fOR YOU-ALL

  “I’LL SAY ONE THING, MR. RICHIE,” CROWN PRINCE Rudolph of Bosgravnia remarked, looking over his shoulder as the barge belonging to the captain of the United States Navy’s sixteen-gun steam-sloop Nantucket1 was negotiating the gap in the reef, “Whoever picked this place for us to land knew what he was about. The way the ends overlap, the entrance to the lagoon can’t be seen until you’re almost on it.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the warship’s third lieutenant, who had been assigned the duty of landing the distinguished visitor in Texas. He turned from signalling for the thirty-six foot launch to follow them. “But I’ll still take her in carefully, if that’s all right with you. It looks like the bottom’s level sand, but I’d rather not chance stoving in the barge on a rock.”

  “Do whatever you like,” Rudolph authorized with a grin, speaking excellent English and thinking of such an accident in which he had been involved a few years earlier. “From what I remember, allowing something like that to happen to his barge isn’t the best way to keep the captain in a good humor.”

  Not quite six foot tall, twenty-five years of age, the Crown Prince was black haired, clean shaven and handsome. The rather plain dark blue Hussar-style uniform he had donned was set off to its best advantage and his slim figure possessed surprising strength and agility. Although he exuded an aura of authority, his lifetime of receiving deference and obedience had not made him haughty or demanding. In fact, his friendly nature had endeared him to the whole of the Nantucket’s crew. The small country over which his family had r
uled for generations was hundreds of miles from the nearest sea coast, but part of his education had been obtained while serving as a midshipman in the British Royal Navy. Inside four days of boarding in Europe, he had been ascending the rigging of the sloop’s three masts2 with the same facility as the sailors who normally worked aloft.

  The ready acceptance of Lieutenant Richie’s suggestion was typical of Rudolph’s behavior all through the voyage from Hamburg, and particularly during the events of the previous afternoon. Making for the Texas’ port of Corpus Christie, the Nantucket had been intercepted out of sight of land by another vessel of her class and Captain McKie was informed of a change in the plans for delivering the distinguished visitor. It had been discovered that there was a plot to assassinate the Crown Prince and preventive measures were to be taken. While the other steam-sloop entered the harbor pretending to be the Nantucket, they were to proceed southward along the coast. Next morning, on receiving a smoke signal from an escort who would be waiting, the passengers were to be put ashore and would complete the journey to Corpus Christie overland.

  There had been some protests from members of the Crown Prince’s small retinue. Nor had these diminished at the sight of the proposed rendezvous. An examination of the appropriate charts had informed them that there was no town in the area to which they were directed. On arrival, it was discovered that there was no human habitation of any kind. In fact, apart from a solitary figure standing on the beach putting out the fire which had been used to signal them, there had been no sign of life at all. Nor had a search of the woodland revealed the rest of the escort, or the means by which the visitors would be taken to their destination.

  In addition, another factor had disturbed Captain McKie and Rudolph’s travelling companions. Having an overall length of three hundred and ten feet, a beam of forty-four feet and a two thousand, nine hundred tons’ burden, the Nantucket was almost twice as long as the average eighteenth-century ninety-gun “ship of the line” while only about the same width. Offering almost complete independence over the vagaries of the wind as a means of propulsion, the funnel which rose between the fore and main masts made it an even more efficient fighting vessel and showed why the days of the wooden walled, sail-driven warships were numbered. However, despite drawing only sixteen feet three inches, there was no way it could be taken into the half mile wide lagoon beyond the wide reef which ran along much of South Texas’s coastline. That aspect had been mentioned in the revised instructions, but it was claimed the ship’s boats could pass through a gap and reach the shore.

  Apart from there having been no gap visible, even to the lookouts at the mastheads, the fact that only one man was in sight had caused the captain and the retinue misgivings. One of the latter in particular had stated that they should disregard the change of arrangements and return to land at Corpus Christie as had originally been intended. Not unnaturally, the proposal put McKie in a dilemma. To carry it out would be in contravention of his new orders.

  The solution had come from the Crown Prince. Stating that to do otherwise was out of the question as it was requested by their official hosts, he had declared his intention of going ashore. Accepting the decision, McKie had insisted on sending the party in his barge and the launch, both crews being fully armed.

  Sitting at Rudolph’s side, Colonel Wilhelm Liebenfrau paid no attention to the conversation with the lieutenant and kept his attention fixed on the beach. His heavily moustached, seamed features might have been carved from a block of granite for all the emotion they displayed. A big, burly man, ramrod straight despite being in his late fifties, his post in the retinue was Personal Attendant. It was of far greater importance than the name suggested, entailing the duties of bodyguard and adviser. His plain, all black Hussar’s uniform and close-cropped iron-gray hair gave him a coldly authoritative look. Invariably, even in the roughest sea, he moved from place to place in a manner closer to a march than a mere walk. As he had never been seen without a saber hanging on the slings at the left side of his highly polished belt, the wags among the Nantucket’s crew had spread the word that he even wore it in bed. Although he had not interfered with anybody as long as he considered the Crown Prince was being treated with the proper respect, his attitude had struck the foc’sle hands as being too much the hard-bitten martinet in the mold of their captain for their liking. It had been obvious to all hands that he had not approved of his superior taking chances when skylarking aloft, but he never commented upon the matter in public.

  Side by side on the thwart ahead of Rudolph and Liebenfrau, the other two members of the retinue in the barge also subjected the shore to a careful scrutiny. Neither had been popular during the voyage, having been too filled with a sense of their respective importance as the Crown Prince’s travelling companions. Taken with the emphasis each had continually laid upon his family’s long history and social prominence, expecting to be accorded subservient deference on that account, this had caused them to be unpopular in the Nantucket’s wardroom. The lower deck had been equally disenchanted with them.

  Middle-aged, of medium height and thickset, bordering on corpulence, Major the Baron von Goeringwald’s face indicated he drank more than was good for him. He did not have a physique to complement his elaborately frogged and tight dark green jacket and riding breeches. It had soon become common knowledge around the steam-sloop that he made use of corsets to prevent his otherwise bulging paunch from being too much in evidence. A poor sailor, he had only been seen on the calmest of days and his normally florid features still bore a grayish tinge that did nothing to improve them. His post was aide-de-camp.

  Slightly taller than Rudolph, with close-cropped blond hair and a tanned, handsome face marked on the cheeks with the little duelling scars which were mandatory for one of his class and background, Captain Fritz von Farlenheim was in his late twenties. He had suffered less than the aide-de-camp from mal de mer. However, being an officer of the elite Bosgravnian Blue Dragoon Guards and “First Taster” for the Crown Prince, he had displayed a complete disinterest in the Nantucket except as a means of transporting the entourage to the United States.

  By the time the barge was three-quarters of the way across the lagoon, Lieutenant Richie decided that his precautions were needless. Standing up in the stern, he found that the water was clear enough for him to see there was nothing to endanger it beneath the surface. Further evidence of what a suitable rendezvous had been selected showed in the way that the shore fell off sharply. The barge would not touch bottom until its bow was within stepping distance of dry land. Nor would the larger and more heavily loaded launch have any greater difficulty in arriving close enough to let its occupants disembark without wetting their feet.

  Satisfied that there was no cause for alarm as far as the boats under his command were concerned, Richie turned his gaze to the beach. When studying the figure by the fire with the aid of a telescope prior to leaving the Nantucket, the lieutenant had decided he was an exceptionally fine physical specimen. Nor, seen at closer range, was there any need for the point of view to be changed.

  “Ahoy there on the shore!” Richie bellowed. “Who are you?”

  “Likely my name won’t mean anything to you-all,” answered the waiting man, his baritone voice that of a well-educated Texan. “But it’s Mark Counter. I ride for General Hardin’s OD Connected ranch and Governor Howard’s sent me to escort Crown Prince Rudolph of Bosgravnia to Corpus Christie.”

  “Asking your pardon, sir,” the rearmost port side oarsman put in, also speaking with the accent of a son of the Lone Star State; albeit from a poorer level of society. “I reckon that’s him. From what I’ve allus heard, he’s close to’s big and good looking as Cap’n Dusty Fog and he’s been riding for Old Devil Hardin’s OD Connected since the end of the war.”

  In every respect, the man who had introduced himself as “Mark Counter” looked as popular conception imagined Dusty Fog to be.3 A good six foot three inches in height, he was in his early twenties and had a tanned, al
most classically handsome face. Shoved to the back of his head, a low-crowned, wide-brimmed white Stetson hat with silver conchas decorating its band exposed curly golden blond hair. There was a tremendous spread to his shoulders, tapering to a slender waist set upon spread apart and immensely powerful legs. Although made from the best quality materials and tailored to fit his giant frame, his clothing was functional and that of a working cowhand. Around his mid-section, a particularly fine brown buscadero gunbelt carried two ivory-handled Colt Cavalry Peacemakers in its contoured fast-draw holsters.

  “So I’ve heard,” Richie admitted, having served for two years in Brownsville before commencing his commission on the Nantucket. Raising his voice to its previous bellow, he continued, “Are you alone, Mr. Counter.”

  “I’ve got help around, making sure it won’t be needed,” the blond giant replied, waving his right hand in the direction of the woodland. “And as soon as you land, we can be on our way.”

  “That seems reasonable enough to me, Mr. Richie,” the Crown Prince remarked.

  After throwing a glance to his rear, the blond giant took a letter from his hip pocket. Then he advanced to where, conforming with the naval tradition of the senior ranking person being last into and first out of a boat, Rudolph was leading his party ashore.

  “Howdy, sir,” Mark greeted, holding out the envelope. “Governor Howard presents his compliments and sends his apologies for the change in the arrangements and for not being here in person to greet you-all. He’s sent this letter of introduction which will acquaint you with the latest developments.”

  Setting his weapon belt—which carried a fine épée-de-combat in the slings on the left and a revolver in a high riding, close-topped holster at the right—into a more comfortable position before accepting the sealed envelope, the Crown Prince utilized the brief period he was taking to open it in a study of its deliverer. He was impressed by the Texan’s magnificent physique and demeanor. Unless he missed his guess, there were muscles of Herculean proportions in the giant frame. The other’s whole attitude suggested neither subservience, nor a deliberate attempt to display an assumption of equality. Rather it exuded the aura of a man used to mingling on close to level terms with people of influence and importance. All in all, he presented a suggestion of quiet and yet complete confidence.