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rapt faces—”this shipment of hay, stacked four tiers deep on the guards, weren’t just any old bales.”
    Pearson swallowed a sip of his coffee, the liquid hot and bitter all the way down. “What was so different?”
    “Government issue, that’s what. The stuff was parched as powder on account of being kiln dried.”
    “I’ve heard of this,” Theo said. “They dry the hay to fight off mold.”
    The old boy nodded. “The water was high that night, so it was clear sailing through the channel on Caddo Lake. At the midnight hour, just below Swanson’s Landing, a steersman alerted the pilot that he’d caught a whiff of smoke. Sure enough, they hadn’t properly snuffed the torch baskets on the bow before setting sail. The wind lifted sparks from the basket, carrying them across to the dry bales. They went up as if doused with coal oil. The crew kept their wits about them and tossed the gunpowder overboard, but it was too late.”
    He leaned across the table, his haggard face ghoulish above the flickering candle. “Better than sixty folks lost their lives that fateful night. Some because they couldn’t swim but most because they plainlost their bearings.” He shook his head. “Blinded by the flames, the poor souls swam away from the bank. Turns out the
Mittie
was less than twenty feet from shore. She ran aground with her cargo of gold and sank into Caddo’s murky depths.” He shuddered then grew silent, his haunted eyes staring into the blazing hearth.
    “And?” Rosie prompted.
    Without warning, his chin sank to his chest and his bottom lip sagged.
    Rosie clutched his bony shoulder and shook him awake. “Is that it? Nothing else about the gold?”
    Jerking upright, he fixed her with bloodshot eyes. “I’ve blabbered all I know, though I’m sure there’s more to tell.” He yawned and wiped his slack mouth on his sleeve. “I’m bone-weary, Miss Rosie. Can’t go no more. Ain’t found a place to sleep since I left my ship.” Folding his arms for pillows, he slumped to the table, resting his grizzled head.
    Compassion softened her features. “Poor, wretched thing, you have now.” Signaling Cookie, she gave him instructions to help the fellow to the storeroom.
    Towering over him, Cookie sighed. “He’s playing you for a mark, Rosie. You should charge him rent. He spends more time on free cots than he does at sea.”
    Rosie tilted her face up to him. “I’m surprised at you, Cookie. Where’s your Christian charity?”
    “Christian charity?” He snorted. “He should be keelhauled.”
    She frowned. “I won’t turn away a man in need.”
    “Suit yourself, but don’t expect him to appreciate it none. And while you’re at it, forget any notion of collecting his tab. You won’t see a nickel.” He circled the fellow’s chest with both arms and hauled him to his feet. “Toe the mark, you old beggar. No night watches for you.”
    They took a few shuffling steps before the man’s drooping head lolled to the side. “There’s a fellow on Caddo Lake,” he said, his voice surprisingly strong for a bone-weary man. “An old fishing guide they call Catfish John. Ask for him around Marshall, Texas.”
    “Yes?” Theo said. “What about him?”
    “Find him. He can tell you anything you want to know about the
Mittie.”
He and Cookie disappeared beneath the low archway.
    Rosie turned twinkling eyes on Pearson. “Well then?”
    He shrugged. “Well, what?”
    “It’s a good lead. Why aren’t you running out the door to book passage on a northbound train?”
    Pearson stifled a grin and winked at the spellbound circle of men. “Sorry, honey, but he’s not the first drunken sailor with a far-fetched yarn.” He hooked his thumb toward the mainland. “There’s a tale like his in every port of call.”
    Dazed, she shook her head. “No, sir. Not like this one. I sense he’s telling the truth.”
    Pearson laughed softly. “Oh, he is … the truth as he believes it to be.”
    Rosie slapped the