Death Valley Drifter, page 10
“You’re sure about this?” she was asking, her voice a hollow echo in his brain.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve gone over it every which way I can think of. It’s not a great way out, but it’s the best way.”
“I’m worried about you,” the woman had told him. “I’ve met these people. They are venomous.”
“Bill told me all about them—”
“Did he?”
“Yes, but if he’s going, I’m going.” He looked into the woman’s concerned eyes. “He won’t do anything. In case I don’t come back, I wanted you to know I believe that.”
“Thank you. You’re both leaving now?”
“Soon as I pack my grip. He’ll be waiting with the horses.”
She smiled at him, crinkling the skin around her green eyes. He remembered her having looked away quickly.
Why did she do that? I didn’t.
He remembered hesitating there, then abruptly leaving, but he did not know from where. He went outside, was on a town street, the sands golden beneath his feet, the smell of horse piss and patties pungent and familiar. There were people walking about, but they were washed out in the sunlight. He could not read any of the signs behind those folks, but there were a handful of vaguely familiar storefronts.
Did he live here?
“Quinn!”
He could feel himself stopping but not turning as Aggie walked toward him, making her way toward a couple of horses hitched in front of the place he had just departed. He felt a deep, deep sorrow in his heart—he felt it now still.
“However this works out, I’m sorry for the rest,” she had told him.
“Yeah.”
“No, truly.”
Till that point, he had pointedly showed her his back. He had turned then. There were no tears in the woman’s eyes. He had not been surprised.
“You were playing by rules we didn’t make,” Quinn had said.
“I know. And I’m sorry about how it ended.”
“Just tell me,” he had said. “Was it all a script? Everything?”
“I think you know better,” she had said, looking away.
Hank remembered the words and her look. The young woman’s smile was weak but earnest. He remembered trying to smile back but failing. He did not know if he hated or loved the woman just then. They both seemed tired. She had started to reach for his hands, but he had withdrawn.
“That was only in case I don’t see you again—,” she began.
“I hold nothing against you,” he said. “Not against the folks who will try to kill me, not Bill, not you. I swear it, Aggie. This is the life I chose.”
“Why don’t you go see Father Garcia?”
“For another homily?”
Suddenly, she vanished from his mind—along with the street and the buildings, the horses and the people, the empty feeling and the memory. Hank was once again holding on to the neck of the horse as it ran across the plain as though it, too, was acting by its own natural rules.
With the colors fading behind his closed eyes and the pain in his head once again growing manageable, Hank felt for the reins, found them, and gradually slowed the animal. It stopped and stood, wagging its head from side to side as Hank tried to raise his own to an upright position. It came slowly, painfully, but it did come. Somewhere during the run his hat had flown away. He turned his head slowly, spotted it about fifty yards behind him, gleaming in the sun, and rode back to fetch it.
What was that? he asked himself. Where? Who is she?
Aggie and Quinn. He knew those names, one of them apparently his own.
“Quinn . . . ,” he said. “Quinn.” He was trying to figure out what came before it. Or after? Was that his Christian name?
Hank dimly recollected the woman—but he did not know why or who she might be. He could almost hear her voice, low and purposeful. He seemed to recall she was never in a hurry. As for the location, that was a total blank.
Reaching his hat—Nehemiah’s hat, he reminded himself—Hank stared down at it.
Another man’s hat. Given to him by another man’s woman. Why did that suddenly make him uncomfortable?
The hat had landed near a scorpion. “You again,” Hank said. He remembered something then. “‘I will beat you with scorpions.’” It was from the Bible. Maybe he had gone to see Father Garcia before departing wherever it was he left.
Hank—or was his name Quinn?—looked around at the desolation and combined it with his own isolation. Christ, how the hell had he gotten here? Alone in the middle of a plain, hazy visions, a lazy brain, a skull that pawed like a cougar and seemed always ready to pounce. Was God or fate or stupid luck responsible for this mischief?
I’m Quinn, he decided, and dismounted slowly, bent carefully, and retrieved the hat. He swatted it against his hip, then fanned away the dust that spun in the air. As he stood there, Quinn saw riders to the west. He put the hat on to shade his eyes. He saw three horses, moving north.
They were the men he had left behind. He had obviously gone more east than north in his flight. The trio was just spots on the plain, like ants crossing a pie on a windowsill. He pictured the map, saw that he and they were probably intending to converge on the same spot, the way station at Oak Ridge.
“If I can see them, then they can see me,” he reminded himself.
But he suspected that, chastened earlier, they would likely not charge across the plain. And as he watched, the three horses made no move to change course. Quinn did not, however, presume that he was free of them. They had Lieutenant Martins with them, and he needed mending. That was likely the big reason for their steady, direct ride.
And why should they chase me if they figure I might be going to the same place? he thought. After all, that was the direction Martins had been headed. And these men likely did not know—or, if they knew, they did not believe—that Quinn had lost his memory. “What do you want to do?” the man asked himself. He could withdraw and forget this entire affair; he could shadow them, moving north at a safe distance; or he could wait until nightfall and then race north, to the way station, however precipitous that maneuver would be in the dark. He was not fully clear about whether he should try to finish something his “other” self had begun. Other than the possibility of learning who he was—and perhaps not liking that fellow much—he did not see the sense of continuing.
“Because you’re not Hank any longer. You’re Quinn,” he reminded himself. “Already, something’s changed.” He had to find out the rest. Maybe he could still make new choices then.
He wondered if he had ever liked having choices or whether he preferred fate or someone like Beaudine to do the deciding.
Gently replacing the hat on his head, Quinn mounted and rode north, as he had been doing. It occurred to him that if he could get to the way station first, he might be able to learn something about William Beaudine or himself before the other men arrived.
With a little less exuberance than previously, Hank kicked the horse to a trot and spent the next few minutes timing his rise and fall in the saddle to the punch and calm in his head.
* * *
* * *
IT MADE JANE angry, as she had time to think, that she had gone along with the bullying Frenchman.
There had been the practical reasons, all of them concerns for the safety of her and her boy. But now resentment had set in. These men from another continent had come to the shores of Mexico, crossed the border into the United States of America, then presumed to dictate instructions to her. Nehemiah would probably have resisted them for that attack on the sovereignty of a man, his home, and his nation.
And he probably would have died for it, she thought. Willingly, but no less buried.
At least Douglas seemed to be enjoying his adventure. He was mounted to her right, his owl eyes missing nothing. After some initial mistrust of the men around him, he tested his mettle by sitting tall, slightly away from the man behind him, as though he were alone on the horse.
Jane had access to the canteen, but she used it sparingly. The scarf protected her from the direct rays of the sun, but it was still hot, and the horse radiated even more heat. So did the ground where nothing green grew, which was often. As one hour became two, Jane also found herself drowsing. Slipping into a physical and emotional limbo, she was instantly awake when the line of soldiers suddenly halted.
Jane and her boy were at the end of the line, too far back to see why the captain had stopped the unit or to hear what he was saying to the man at his right. The second-in-command handed Dupré a pair of binoculars. The leader studied the horizon.
Douglas was trying to see around the near dozen men in front of them. “What’s happening, you think? A rider?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Though he was mostly in shadow from the rider in front, Douglas was clearly sweating, his clothes soaked; Jane noticed that the boy’s canteen was dusted with sand. It had not been used. “You should drink, son.”
“I will when you do,” he answered. “I think that’s what Pa would have done.”
Jane was not surprised to hear that. She smiled inside and did not instruct him otherwise.
Neither of the men with them spoke, not even to each other. She wondered if the other riders even understood English. In Mexico, that would not have been a requirement.
Because they were standing still, blockaded from the breeze, the heat quickly became oppressive. She felt faint, took more water. The man behind her said something harsh in French. She finished her short swallow and returned the canteen to the pommel. Suddenly, two men—those directly behind the captain and his second—peeled off from the line and rode forward.
“I wonder if it’s Hank,” Douglas said.
“Hush.”
The boy pressed his lips together tightly. Back at their home, even though he was telling the truth as his mother had always instructed, he might have said more than he should have. The woman’s caution back there made him determined not to do that again.
The two Smiths looked ahead, waiting. Jane found herself torn. She did not know whether she wanted the captain to find Hank or not. It might mean her release and his finding out who he was. But those good reasons did not lift the sense of omen that pressed on her chest.
And there was something else, too, something that surprised her. A yearning deep in her belly, a strong part of her that wanted it to be Hank . . . just to see him again.
Motionless, the entire band of soldiers, their guests, and their horses was becoming restlessly hot. Eyes were constantly turning back toward her, with occasional low chatter among the men. Jane moved forward from the man behind her, whose shirt and face had begun dripping. He put an arm around her waist and drew her back. He left it there. It had nothing to do with her safety. Jane turned to get the canteen hanging from the saddle, using the action to wrest free. She drank, and her son followed suit, thirstily, looking sideways so he could stop when she did. Canteens were also active and clanging up and down the line. Aware of the situation—and perhaps having an idea that the new arrival was not an immediate threat—the captain ordered the men forward.
It was then that Jane saw who was approaching and realized who it was. It was not, alas, Hank. The new arrival was Alan Russell with his wagon full of Apple Town goods bound for the Smith home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHEN HE HAD been the law in Apple Town after the War, Sheriff Alan Russell could not wait for the town to grow. And it was not only because he was growing—belly out with inactivity. There was talk, never more than rumors, that a train was coming through. He was a mustered-out cavalry sharpshooter, age fifty-and-some, when he took the job, mostly to keep the cattlemen and the sheepmen from killing one another over water, grazing, and general hotheaded bad humor. He liked the word Mrs. Lewein of the Triple L cattle ranch north of town had used to describe all the men: “They each got too much wax,” she said. Like the moon growing too full each month.
No one blamed the men, not entirely. The territory contributed to that state of being. It was so empty of comfort, entirely overbaked with hardship, that even pastors had trouble staying for very long without becoming hostile. Father Garcia had stayed mostly because he had seen the Mother of Jesus seated and all aglow, he said, on the back of a horse ridden by the outlaw Joaquin Murrieta when Garcia was nine years old. That kind of belief died hard.
Mrs. Lewein preferred more substantial “religion” and took to carrying a rolling pin the way her rancher folk carried firearms. She used it more often and to greater effect, too.
The only time the men rallied shoulder to shoulder was when the Chemehuevi or Modoc got pushy. It usually started with attacks on miners or prospectors and spilled over to the spreads. Once the threat was neutralized, the citizens went back to spoiling things for one another.
Usually, all Russell had to do was show up to calm things down. Even without his gut, he stood an imposing six feet five. The men were often unreasonable, but they weren’t stupid. More often than not, Mrs. Lewein was his ally in making temporary peace, even against her own kin and hired hands.
Then the railroad finally did come. And with the growth came masses of Easterners who were looking for something and sometimes got swindled of everything they had by fake cowboys and real gamblers. There was also an influx of guns, men looking to make a reputation. Russell had killed two of them, both in their twenties, within the space of a month.
Realizing that the challenges would not stop, and that most deputies were unreliable, he changed his line of work. Because Russell was near sixty, being a messenger and deliveryman instead of a peace officer let him make his own hours and also enjoy the open plains while they lasted. He saw a time when the restless and bottomless-greedy railroad men from the East would crisscross the land with tracks. And towns. And people. He did not think that becoming a mountain man was in his future, though he had considered the possibility that building a house out in Jane Smith’s corner of the desert held appeal—for a variety of reasons, one of which was the widow herself.
Hidden beneath a floppy straw hat that repudiated the harsh sun, and bolstered by his own natural endurance to heat—born of a youth spent in humid Louisiana before his family came west seeking gold, which, like so many others, they failed to find—Alan Russell had been thinking fondly of the woman when he spotted what looked like a column of migrants . . . except they were riding too orderly for that, and more than likely should not have been riding at all. Then he saw a pair of riders peel away and gallop toward him.
Russell had a pair of single-action Smith & Wesson .44s on the buckboard beside him, with an extra six shells tucked into pockets on the outside of each holster. He was not wearing his gun belt because, with him being seated, it rubbed his belly red. The sheriff’s four-year-old Winchester rifle—which had fired more attention-getting bullets into the air than into people—rested in a scabbard hitched to the side of the buckboard.
Upon seeing the riders, he had removed the rifle and put it under his right arm. He did not stop. There was no reason to assume hostile intent. That kind of thinking had a way of triggering unintended action. He was good, and fast, but there were two of them and more behind.
As the men neared, Russell could see that they were indeed dressed like Mexicans, but they did not wear their garments like clothes. They were costumes, sweaty but not creased or worn through. The men sat stiff like they were tucked into uniforms that only they could see and feel. He relaxed a little when he saw that they did not carry sidearms, just carbines tucked in leather. New leather. These disguises were not just poor; they were of very recent vintage.
The men had ridden up side by side. They separated when they reached the wagon, one going to each side. Russell was on his guard when he stopped his two-horse team. The bundles and two crates in back rattled a little. They were unsecured; there had never been a reason for Russell to race or tie them down. The men beside the wagon looked to be about thirty and were clean-shaven.
“Our captain sends greetings,” one man said in a heavy French accent. “He seeks a word.”
“I’m always open to talk,” Russell said. “About what?”
The man shook his head. Either he did not know or he did not know any more English than what he had just said.
“Captain,” Russell chewed on the word. “Of what army?”
“Police,” the man replied.
“I know all the police hereabout. Can you be more specific?”
“Sir, please, will you come?”
“Well, I’m going in that direction anyway. I’ll follow you in.”
Either the men did not understand that last exchange either, or else—more likely—they had contrary orders. They did not lead the way but remained on either side of the wagon while Russell continued on his way. As he guided the horses forward, Russell pulled the holsters a little closer to his left hip.
The man on the left seemed to have noticed. He slowed a little so he was just behind Russell. Reluctantly, the sheriff relaxed his readiness. He had no reason to suspect bad intentions other than that was his natural way.
The unit was in motion forward by the time he arrived. There was little dust to stir, and he looked from front to back to make certain no one was openly armed.
That was when he saw Jane Smith.
“Whoa!” Russell said, now highly alert.
The wagon crunched to a stop some ten feet from the two men at the head of the column. The riders beside Russell stopped. The captain raised an arm to halt the others. Russell leaned over the side of the buckboard to peer around them.
“Mrs. Smith, what are you doing out here?” he asked, loud enough to reach where she was seated.
“She was invited,” one of the men in front answered.
“I wasn’t asking you,” Russell replied. He craned even more to the side. “You got Douglas with you?”
