Shark Alley

By John C. Goins

The first story of The Barbary Coast Squad, "Shark Alley", introduces the team. Nick Lockwood: The cool-headed leader and dedicated family man. Sergeant
Forty-Four: A burly former prizefighter. Roy Tate: Descended from a line of Sioux Medicine Men. Elvin DeJohn: Wealthy and privileged and a walking encyclopedia of 'all things San Francisco'.

It's 1877 in San Francisco, and an insane ex-Confederate Colonel is murdering members of the famous Barbary Coast Squad. "Shark Alley" follows Detective Inspector Nick Lockwood as he pursues the evil Colonel Tobias before Lockwood's hidden past is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C. Goins
• Release date: Nov 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311627988

John C. Goins

John C. Goins is a writer, musician and songwriter.He grew up in Portland, Oregon and was the bass guitarist in numerous Portland bands including The Cleavers and Theatre of Sheep.He currently lives in San Bruno, California.

Book preview

SHARK ALLEY

A Novel by

John C. Goins

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 by John C. Goins

Cover Design by Steven Isakson

Table of Contents:

Part 1

1. It’s All Over, Danny Bailey

2. An Easy Game

3. Now, The Doctor Came In

4. I Forgot To Remember To Forget

5. Daddy, What's Wrong?

6. My Old Desk

7. Saturday Night's All-Right For Fighting

8. Woke Up, Fell Out Of Bed

9. Me and My Arrow

10. Jackknife, In Your Sweaty Hand

Part 2

11. Do You Want To Know A Secret?

12. From Behind That Locked Door

13. Tell Me What You See

14. One More For The Road

Part 3

15. I've Got A Feeling

16. I Don't Wanna Go Down To The Basement

17. Watching The Wheels

Part 1

Chapter 1: It’s All Over, Danny Bailey

Tom Mills, a wild mountain man convicted of murdering his entire family, was having trouble getting a drink of water. The prison wagon bounced on the uneven trail and the water in the bucket kept sloshing out of the rusty ladle.

God damn it! Stop this thing so I can get a proper drink!

Of the four cavalrymen flanking the wagon, only Private Danny Bailey took pity on him. The heat of the Arizona desert in August could kill a man even if he had water. Not letting a man drink, even a man like Mills, was something he could not tolerate.

He reached for his canteen but Lieutenant Powell told him to put it away. If he can’t manage the bucket, it’s not your concern. Besides, Tobias doesn’t seem thirsty.

Indeed, William Tobias didn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat. But Mills didn’t care about his fellow prisoner’s demeanor. Never mind him. He’s been like that this whole trip. Like he’s goin’ to a Sunday picnic. He ain’t even human.

I ain’t gonna let a prisoner die on my watch, Lieutenant, Bailey said. He handed Mills the canteen. And even though the water was warm and tasted like metal, he savored every drop. But Danny Bailey was no softy. He snatched it back That’s enough, Mills. Don’t be a hog. He slung the canteen back on his saddle horn and glared at the Lieutenant. And if you want to file a report, or press charges, I’ll understand.

Now Texas heat, Tobias said, deflecting the Lieutenant’s response. That is another story.

Shut up, you! Mills yelled. You always be goin’ on about Texas!

Maybe our new hosts in Nevada will be more like our young Private here. Bailey, isn’t it?

Best you forget my name, Tobias.

Won’t take much to be an improvement over this bunch, Mills spat.

They were heading for their new home, the Carson City Asylum for the Criminally Insane. A transfer was to be made at the Nevada border, another two days ride, where guards from the asylum would take the prisoners to the new facility.

Tobias and Mills had worn out their welcome in Yuma a long time ago, and the prison was busting at the seams. They easily made their way to the top of the Asylum list. Mills was a perfect candidate. Besides hearing voices, he also could never understand why murdering his wife and kids was a problem. And the warden wanted him out because he was a fighter. Always getting into it with guards and other inmates.

And Tobias…well, everybody knew he was mad. His methods of killing during the war, his bizarre choices of weapons, and numerous other idiosyncrasies, like believing that if he wore something red he couldn’t be harmed, all made him an excellent choice for the Carson City.

Half of the prisoners and guards wanted him dead because of the kind of man he was. Not just a killer of Yankees, but of Yankee women and children. Anyone who crossed him or supported the Union had been fair game. He probably should have been executed, but after they hanged the Lincoln conspirators and Captain Henry Wirz, the Commander at Andersonville, people had had enough of hangings. And a lot of folks still thought Tobias was a hero. No need to stir that pot.

Moving him wouldn’t change people’s opinion of the most notorious Confederate renegade of the Civil War, but the Yuma warden had had a bellyful of trying to keep him alive. And the Carson City warden thought that having such a famous inmate would bring him and his new remote outpost some notoriety.

From a nearby rise, the six Apache teenagers watching the procession probably didn’t even know what a prison was, let alone an asylum. And it was even more unlikely that they had ever heard of Colonel William Tobias. But they knew that they could use those pretty horses the escorts rode and the weapons they carried.

Through the haze of the heat, Private Bishop, riding shotgun, saw two specks in the distance. He picked up his weapon and was about to say something to the driver. Before he spoke, he heard a rider coming from the other direction. But he never saw him. A tomahawk landed in his ear, covering the driver with Bishop’s blood and brains. The other Apache rammed a spear into a daydreaming cavalryman riding point. Bishop was dead, slumped on the seat, but his two specks were on them now, and it became a foursome of dirty teenagers swarming the wagon.

The driver slapped the reins, but after three days at a slow steady walk and the choking heat, the horses were reluctant to move fast. But a volley of gunshots from Lieutenant Powell’s revolver seemed to wake them up. The wagon picked up speed and a soldier up front was riding full tilt. Thoughts of protecting the prisoners and the field manual’s strategic rules about engaging hostiles apparently vanished from his head. Otherwise, he would have hung back with Powell and Danny Bailey, forming an organized, moving perimeter around the wagon. But the soldier only saw the horizon. He didn’t even pull out his weapon.

Powell saw an Apache on the soldier’s tail. As the pony was gaining on him, Powell expected the Indian to pull a tomahawk. He knew they didn’t have any firearms or they would have used them by now. But the boy lifted his bow and arrow instead, riding no-hands style. The arrow was a dead center shot and the soldier fell forward, his skull crushed by his own mount.

Then Powell’s mount stumbled. He probably knew he was a dead man before he even hit the ground. A tomahawk sank into his shoulder as he got to his feet. And as the dull rush of pain spread through him, the Apaches circled back and finished him off with enough arrows to take down a buffalo.

Danny Bailey stayed with the wagon as it came over a small rise. A boulder sent the wagon in a violent upward motion. Luckily for the horses, the yoke snapped and they galloped off, dragging the heavy harness with them. But the driver’s luck wasn’t as good as the horses. He was thrown from his seat and the wagon trampled him like a scorpion under an Army boot.

The wagon was on its side now and the rear back door had busted wide open. Bailey realized he was on his own now. That is, except for two certifiably insane prisoners. He reined up and dismounted, using the crippled wagon as cover. But an arrow out of nowhere shot him through his ribs. His legs gave out as he watched Tom Mills flee. Maybe Mills saw the mountains in the distance that he used to call home. But the open desert is no place to run with a bunch of young Apaches on horseback racing around you. The