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shrill.
    â€œThey’re putting up a flag!” Irene exclaimed.
    â€œIt isn’t just a flag,” said Ryder. “That’s a Jolly Roger.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œIt means they’re pirates, and they plan to come aboard.”

5
    R yder led Irene McGowan to her cabin on the
Southern Belle
’s topmost deck, instructed her to lock the door, then hurried back downstairs to his own cabin amidships. There, he donned his pistol belt, double-checking the Colt’s cylinder, then loaded fifteen .44-caliber rounds into his Henry rifle’s tubular magazine. A quick pump on the lever-action put one cartridge in the chamber, permitting Ryder to load a sixteenth round before he left and locked his cabin.
    When the Union Army had begun to issue Henry rifles, Confederates armed with muzzle-loading weapons had complained that the new guns could be loaded on Sunday and fired all week. That wasn’t strictly true, of course, but its high rate of fire—up to forty-five shots per minute by some estimates, in true expert hands—had proved devastating against charging lines of graycoats.
    Ryder had only used his Henry for target shooting so far, but he knew that 200-grain bullets fired from its .44 rimfire cartridges left the rifle’s muzzle traveling around eleven hundred feet per second. Too slow for big-game hunting or a long-range shot of any accuracy, but the slugs were hell on human targets out to fifty yards or so.
    And Ryder didn’t think the pirates would be that far from the
Southern Belle.
    The packet’s whistle shrieked as Ryder made his way back to the main deck, jostling other passengers along the way. Panic was spreading, heightened by a crack of pistol fire across the water as the clipper closed to firing range. Some of the people Ryder passed drew back from him, seeing the rifle in his hands, but he ignored them. What they thought of him was meaningless. His sole priority was to prevent the raiders clambering aboard the
Southern Belle
and wreaking bloody havoc there.
    They had a decent chance, he thought, assuming that the steamer’s captain didn’t quail and cut his speed in some misguided bid to save the boat. In that case, Ryder knew, it could mean fighting hand to hand along the rails, and from the flight of passengers he’d seen so far, it didn’t seem that many were inclined to risk themselves in combat for the Leary Line.
    What they’d forgotten was that once the pirates came on board, no one was safe.
    The very thought of pirates raiding in the modern day and age struck Ryder as ridiculous, but it was happening, and it brought back to mind what William Wood had told him about Galveston. He had no reason to believe that these were Bryan Morley’s men, but meeting them was an ironic introduction to his job in Galveston.
    Now, all he had to do was stay alive for the remainder of the trip.
    Which might prove difficult.
    The clipper was already close beside the
Southern Belle
when Ryder reached the main deck, one of its burly crewmen leaping toward the packet, catching hold of its brass rail. He was a bearded thug, with a revolver tucked under his belt and a long knife clenched in his teeth, freeing both hands for climbing as he came aboard, snarling at nearby passengers to frighten them away.
    Instead of fleeing, Ryder stepped up to the rail and slammed his Henry’s brass butt plate into the scowling face, driving the blade back through its hairy cheeks with an impressive splash of blood. Squealing, the pirate lost his grip and tumbled backward, falling in between the clipper and the
Southern Belle,
where he was lost to sight.
    Another burst of gunfire crackled from the clipper, sending Ryder down below the steamer’s gunwale to avoid the bullets flying overhead. As he was ducking, Ryder glimpsed the name painted across the clipper’s bow:
Revenant,
which, if he recalled correctly, was some kind of ghost or evil spirit.
    Apt enough,