Hart still wore his hat, but he’d pulled the kerchief down around his neck. He gave us a humorless smile and leveled a revolver at me. His hand was much steadier than his son’s.
Kashmir’s hand had gone to his knife, but he dropped his arm to his side. My father lowered his own gun, and when Hart gestured at me, I threw the shovel aside.
“An unexpected pleasure, Mr. Hart,” Slate said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Captain. And ah, the charming dancing instructor is still unscathed.” Kashmir’s jaw clenched. “Do pardon my behavior earlier.” Mr. Hart waved his gun. “The heat of the moment, you understand.”
“That’s all behind us.” Slate held out palm in a placating gesture, the hand holding the gun low against his thigh. “We’re just here to bury the gold, like I said we would. But if you want to change the deal with the league, it’s not my business. My only business is with the map.” Slate paused, but Mr. Hart’s smirk hadn’t budged. Slate’s eyes roved from Hart’s face, down his arm to the gun, to me, and then back to the revolver. He took a shallow breath. “I don’t suppose you’ve brought me the map.”
“No, Captain.” Mr. Hart stepped away from the limp bag. Gold coins rolled away under his feet as he walked toward me. The dark center of the steel barrel was like a black hole, pulling me in. “The map would do you little good anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Slate said.
Mr. Hart’s thin lips hinted at the tips of his white teeth. “Do you know, at the very beginning, I was simply grateful to have my debts forgiven? The others would stand to make their fortunes, while I would barely remain afloat.” He reached down and picked up the bag, laughing in delight.
“I would have offered more if I’d known you needed so much.”
“You don’t know how that woman can spend. Spending is one of two things that make her happy. You may guess the other, sir.” He glanced at Kashmir with eyes as hard as coffin nails. “You, and half the men in their fine houses downtown. She wasn’t always like this. It was living here, on this rock, with these heathens; it has changed her. I blame my brother. He was the first. She couldn’t have made it more obvious, naming the boy after him.”
My breath hissed in my teeth, but Blake had told me himself—he had his uncle’s artistic bent.
“Take the money, Hart,” Slate said. “I don’t care what you do with it. What is wrong with the map?”
“Why, nothing, sir,” Mr. Hart said. “But you would find it little use without your ship.”
“My . . . ship?”
“I’ve told you, sir, I cannot stay. By tomorrow the whole island will know what I’ve done. Besides, this climate is too . . . hot for my wife’s temperament. No, she and I will be leaving aboard the Temptation.”
“Fine, yes.” Slate ground his teeth, and Kashmir’s face had gone pale. “We’ll take you away. We’ll start a new life for you, somewhere else.”
“Alas, sir, it is long past time I take my fate in my own hands. I will be starting my new life elsewhere. You will be staying here.”
“You can’t sail the Temptation.”
“I won’t have to. The girl is the expert, you said it yourself.” He hefted the bag and threw me an appraising glance.
“No,” my father said, his voice low. “No, no, no. Take the ship then, take the money, leave her. Just go. We’ll stay here. Come, Nixie, come here.” Slate opened his arms, but Mr. Hart jerked the gun toward the captain.
“Stay where you are,” he said to me. “He wouldn’t be the first man I’ve killed, and shooting is a lot easier than drowning.”
I swallowed, but my mouth was so dry. Kashmir had the vest, but the revolver was pointed at my father’s face.
Slate did not quail. “Don’t do this,” he said, his face pale with rage. “Don’t take her from me, because I will kill you if you do. I will hunt you down and I will kill you, no matter how long it takes.”
“Captain!” Kashmir said, but Mr. Hart only smiled.
“So you do understand,” he said. “Why a man would kill for love.” Mr. Hart cocked the revolver.
“Wait!” My voice broke, but I’d found it again. “Wait, please.” Mr. Hart half turned his head, though his eyes—and his aim—stayed on Slate. “I’ll take you wherever you want. Just don’t shoot. Whatever you need.” I racked my brain. “Diamonds. In Arabia. And, uh, gold.” The gun dipped a little, and his eyes flicked to me then. “Gold from the Cibola. El Dorado, you know El Dorado?”
“It’s real?”
“I can take you there. Or Carthage. In Carthage they pay gold for salt.” Tears stung my eyes and I knew, then, just what my father felt: I would do whatever it took. “I can take you anywhere. Anything you want. Only let them live. Please.”
Mr. Hart stared at me for a long moment, then he nodded once. “Throw down your weapons.”
“No!”
“Dad!”
Mr. Hart shrugged, as if in regret. He raised his gun again, but I was out of ideas.