Elizabeth Grayson Read Online Free PDF Page A

levee toward where the
Andromeda
was tying up. The boat seemed to be everything the commodore had promised. Her hull was sleek and black, narrow enough to slice through the current like a blade. Her decks rose in perfectly proportioned tiers, their graceful promenades inviting passengers to linger and enjoy the river breeze. Each post and railing was adorned with brass or paint or some doodad or another. A prim fringe of carpenter’s lace dripped from the lip of the pilothouse roof, giving the place a hint of refinement.
    Rue trailed Chase. “Have you heard who gets command of her?”
    “Command of the
Andromeda?”
Chase echoed. For a split second he was tempted to tell Rue about Ann Rossiter and her father’s extraordinary offer. Instead he shrugged the inquiry away.
    “Well, whoever it is,” Rue’s voice was tinged with awe, “he’s one lucky bastard!”
    “Oh, hell,” a voice drawled from directly behind where the two of them were standing. “It’s just another damned steamer.”
    “There’s nothing so special about them Gold Star tubs,” someone else put in, “even if their crews do like to claim there is.”
    Annoyance spiked up Chase’s back. Beside him Rue bristled in disagreement.
    “I’d as soon pilot a barber’s basin as one of them.”
    Chase and Rue both swung around to where Philo McKee, John Rogers, and Big Teddy Peterson stood amidst the gaggle of businessmen, passengers, and roustabouts who’d gathered to gawk at the handsome new steamer. All three were pilots for the Anchor Line and were well-known along the St. Louis riverfront as men who spent their off hours looking for trouble.
    Chase figured a little trouble was just the thing to dampen his disappointment.
    Rue fell right in with his line of thinking. “I’d say the
Andromeda
is about as well set up as any boat I’ve ever seen!” he challenged. “I’d be willing to bet she could outrun any tub the Anchor Line cared to put up against her!”
    John Rogers braced his hands on his hips and spat. “So you think this new packet’s fast enough to give the Anchor Line steamers a run for their money, do you, Hardesty?”
    Chase barged into the argument. “You put Rue or me in the wheelhouse and let Cal Watkins handle the boilers, and we’d show you a race. You’d be chasing our wake all the way to Alton.”
    “Hell, I admit that new scow can probably maneuver from one sandbar to the next”—Big Teddy gave a snort of disgust—“but none of the Gold Star boats has a chance of showing stern water to an Anchor Line packet.”
    “The hell you say!” Rue shouted and punched Big Teddy square in the nose.
    Chase instantly raised his fists. This wasn’t the first riverfront brawl his brother had started, and he was purely looking forward to joining in. He got his guard up just in time to keep John Rogers from taking off his head.
    With his ears buzzing from Rogers’ blow, Chase staggered back a step. He’d only just regained his balance when Philo McKee blindsided him.
    Twisting and grunting with the effort, Chase heaved the redheaded giant backwards. McKee staggered and caught his heels on a coil of rope. He tumbled, howling curses as he went down.
    Chase had no more than a moment to stand grinning over McKee before John Rogers came at him again. He scrambled for footing on the uneven stones, and prodded Rogers with his left. The other man feinted right. Chase saw his opening and smashed an uppercut through Rogers’ guard.
    Rogers went down like a pile of bricks.
    Chase danced back a step, shock waves shimmying up his arm.
    More than a dozen men had jumped into the fray. Businessmen grappled with roustabouts. Passengers battered one another with their valises. The waterfront taverns spewed drunkards into the midst of the brawl. More men pelted up the levee from where the Illinois ferry was docking.
    Philo McKee plowed into Chase again. The two of them went down, thumping and flailing.
    McKee grazed Chase’s cheekbone with one