Smugglers' Gold by Lyle Brandt

predecessor’s plan for readmission of the former Rebel states on relatively easy terms, while his Republican opponents in Congress—lately dubbed “radicals” in the Democratic press—clamored for giving former slaves the vote and passing legislation granting them complete social equality with whites. Johnson was holding firm against that tide so far, but even his plan would demand that southern legislatures ratify a new Thirteenth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, banning slavery. Lincoln had sought compensation for slave owners forced to release their human property, but members of his own party had killed that provision before passing the amendment through the House in April 1864, and through the Senate nine months later.
    There was still, Ryder reflected, ample room for intrigue on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line—and would be, he supposed, for years to come. The hatred spawned by civil war would not fade quickly, if at all, nor would the counterfeiters who had prospered during wartime suddenly give up their trade.
    From his hasty education as a Secret Service agent, Ryder knew that a nationwide network of some sixteen hundred private, state-chartered banks were authorized to print paper money and did so, producing a staggering thirty thousand different varieties in all colors and sizes. In 1861, Congress had authorized the U.S. Treasury to print its own “demand notes,” replaced a year later by currency widely dubbed “greenbacks.” The vast array of paper money presently in circulation made America a happy hunting ground for counterfeiters, printing reams of “bogus,” as the operators called it, every month.
    While I’m off hunting smugglers. Just my luck,
he thought.
    Ryder was still uneasy with the plan outlined by William Wood. His former duties with the Marshals Service had been more or less straightforward: guarding federal judges who’d been threatened in performance of their duties, tracking fugitives who’d been identified by other officers but managed to elude them. He had never tried to infiltrate a gang of any kind, or even thought about it heretofore. Ryder had told his share of lies, but never had occasion to pretend that he was someone other than himself, much less a hunted criminal.
    First time for everything.
    The trick would be ensuring that it didn’t prove to be his
last
time.
    Going in, he had a physical description of his target, Bryan Marley, and a short list of red-light establishments he patronized in Galveston. Beyond that, Marley was suspected of assorted crimes ranging from theft and smuggling contraband to murder, but he’d never been indicted, much less tried and convicted. Bagging him depended on whatever evidence Ryder could collect, if any, and his own survival to present a case in court.
    The
Southern Belle
took its time steaming out of Baltimore Harbor, into the Patapsco River. From there, Ryder knew, it was 39 miles down to Chesapeake Bay, then another 173 miles to the boat’s first stop at Norfolk. Call it 2,300 miles from start to finish, by the time they reached Galveston on the Gulf of Mexico, with the
Belle
making an average 18 miles per hour between stops.
    The prospect of a week on board was daunting, but at least he felt no stirring of seasickness yet. In fact, the grumbling in his stomach now reminded him that he’d skipped breakfast to be early for the sailing, and he wondered how long it would be before some kind of food was ready in the dining hall. It wouldn’t hurt to see if any serving times were posted, then he could explore the boat for safety features, means of disembarking in a hurry, any kind of firefighting equipment. Just in case.
    If something happened to the
Southern Belle
, he didn’t plan to be among those lost at sea. Enough danger awaited Ryder at the far end of his journey without drowning or becoming food for sharks. He wanted to survive, at least until he went