Death Valley Drifter, page 12
Of the three routes presented, that was the decision of one of the two men, Contraalmirante Esteban Allende, who was in charge of this expedition. It was his marines who had been overexuberant, who had had American intelligence from a pair of agents and taken it upon themselves to try to arrest the would-be killers.
They had failed.
Now the risks were worse: The land route he chose was the hardest path but the least traveled. It avoided towns and most spreads, including the old Butterfield way stations. They felt they could fend off any attack, with seven armed men aboard. There were reports from an outpost in Zamora of a column of French soldiers dressed as peasants, but they were rumors. His own daughter said she knew the man who had started the rumors, a soldier who wanted to be a writer like Cervantes. The only real hazard Allende envisioned was at night, when they planned to stop for two or three hours to rest the horses. He hoped that the absolute quiet in the plains would alert them to anyone approaching.
In his forties, the contraalmirante was the older and more experienced of the pair. That also made him frustrated by the limitations he faced on land: impediments to his view and the din the wheels and the thoroughbrace made. There was noise on the ocean—the slap of the surging water against the hull, the creaking of the masts, the shouts of the sailors—but at least one could see if anyone were approaching. Out here—
But that had not been an option. Not after the plot had been unearthed by that American woman. The plan had been designed and financed by the French. Since the long-planned meeting could not be changed, the conveyance had to be used. Capitán Donato Ortega—the other officer, a veteran of countless artillery engagements—had arranged this stagecoach quickly, and without intermediaries, to minimize the chance of the change being discovered. Allende had sent his daughter, Maria, ahead to inform the captain of their plans; she was the swiftest rider he knew and the only one he could trust. They had personally interviewed and hired the two young cavalry lieutenants in the boot, men who had repeatedly distinguished themselves since the Battle of Camerón seven years before.
What remained was to reach San Francisco. It was a journey that would have gone much quicker had they taken the frigate Jalapa from the port of Ensenada, as planned. But the two American agents had uncovered a plot based on information provided by a third member of their team, a woman at the palace. A woman who even the presidential guards did not know had been there, one who also had contacts among French sympathizers—in particular, a man named Raoul Dupré, who was said to live among the peasantry stirring dissent. In itself, her ability to infiltrate the ranks of both sides was alarming and reassuring at the same time.
Now, at the suggestion of those two men, the party traveled by land. The senior man, Beaudine, had the trust of the American president, and more important, he had a plan for dealing with the would-be killers.
“They are not in this alone,” Beaudine had told a trusted Juárista at the port, a man who worked as a rider. “There is an elite French unit in concealment, one that must be exposed and stopped.”
Allende was glad that President Grant was such a good friend of Mexico, or at least a strong enemy of European intervention on the continent. Either way, the officer was glad to have the Americans as allies rather than enemies, as they had been for too many years.
It will all be well, Allende assured himself. God is with us, and perhaps as importantly, so are the Americans.
Which is why the trip was so vitally important. The alliance forged by President Grant must be reinforced by images, mutually signed decrees, the exchange of letters. The previous American president, Andrew Johnson, had not wanted the French army or any other European army on the continent, but the American Congress had not wanted to give the unpopular leader anything he wished. As a result, and without any official sanction for his actions, the president had ordered U.S. general Philip Sheridan to leave rifles and ammunition near the border, where they could be collected by the freedom fighters.
The foreign intervention had ended officially, but in fact it had simply gone underground, where fewer numbers could obtain their destructive designs by more insidious means. Napoleon III still had designs on an empire in North America. More than that, he still had troops in Mexico—well concealed and well financed, many secreted in Guatemala.
Gold stolen from these ancient shores, then returned for favors—it was an insane world.
It was Napoleon’s view that it was no longer efficient or wise to attack the body of the state. He had to do what had been done in France a century before: remove the head.
And that head belonged to the third man in the stagecoach, President Benito Juárez.
There was a serenity about the sixty-four-year-old politician and revolutionary that his companions envied. Even during the height of their struggle, with death around them or imminent, his vision was uncompromised, his valor absolute. To date, his had been a full, active, and difficult life that had included political office and even exile for opposing the corrupt leader Santa Anna—who had been chased to Cuba fifteen years before by Juárez and his comrade Ignacio Comonfort. There followed battles with invaders and with the Catholic Church over their unseemly wealth. Neither he nor his closest advisers had known peace. Yet the man himself was at peace with everything he had done.
Juárez did not blame the other men for their agitation. If anything was to happen to him, his life of proud service to his liberal causes would be over, and the republic would continue. However, the loss of the great leader was a stain from which the two officers would never recover. That responsibility would not be over even after the meeting with President Grant, but at least this plot would be ended.
Along with French designs, the assurances from Washington were based on sound action and not the kind of brawny, improvised tactics for which Grant and his associates had been famous on the battlefield.
Juárez liked and respected Grant, as he had liked and respected Abraham Lincoln. Whether it was the American president or his clever secretary of state, Hamilton Fish, who had the vision, Washington also wanted to work out a plan to help forestall any future incursions from Europe. That included the nefarious efforts of Russia, which had made repeated efforts to trigger rebellion and secession in California. In the day after the presidential meeting on the Pacific Fleet steamer USS Resaca, Juárez intended to visit with railroad men and banking executives. Independence and cross-border alliances were good. Money was better. It amused the president to think that of all the things Europe had not effectively tried to gain influence over in his nation, it was support for the struggling national economy.
But all of that was for the future. At the moment, the stocky man with a benevolent face was just enjoying the break from his duties. He had spent the night reading documents by lantern light and was focused on big plans for his nation, not personal security. It was for others to worry about plots against his life. Like his beloved wife, Margarita, who had done little more in her adult life than worry about him and their twelve children. At least she had the vitality to do so, being younger than he by twenty years. Perhaps, though, it was exactly such activity that had taxed her overly. She had been planning to join her husband, to meet the American president, but the lady was ailing.
He was sorry, for her sake, but the trip was a hard one. She would have been so disappointed, making the journey and being in no condition to board a rocking vessel exposed to the raw sea air.
For his sake, though, this was a journey well worth it. This was the kind of statesmanship Juárez had fought to achieve and most enjoyed.
All I need do is follow the path destiny has decreed, whatever that may be, he thought as the wheels clattered and threw up pebbles and the horses’ hooves clomped loudly.
And the assassins who had been thwarted by their absence in Ensenada were forced to scramble to find Juárez, or his destination, and stop him.
CHAPTER TEN
THE CHANGE FROM daylight to twilight was familiar to Quinn.
Pushing his horse to cover as much ground as possible while the sun was still out, the man knew he had experienced sunset before, of course, even though he could not picture where or when. All of the transitions of light and shadow were strangely reassuring along with the slight cooling of the air, the first hint of the full moon staking its claim on the horizon.
Yet that was where the comfort of dusk had ended. Every sound seemed strange—like he was a primitive man hearing something for the first time, and being especially alert because he was uncertain what was out there, only knowing that it probably wasn’t good for him.
But those were all surface feelings, something that came naturally. What was deeper and had been troubling him since noontime was that Hank felt as though he did not even belong here, in this place, in this body.
His name had to be Quinn—why else would he have seen and heard it so clearly? He must know a woman named Aggie, for the same reason. And he had, without the full vignette, remembered the name Beaudine, a blond-maned horse.
Yet what if that was not part of his past but rather an elaborate delirium or dream, some kind of fancy brought on by the damage to his skull? The present was reliable because he could see and hear and smell it. The images in his head could be anything.
They certainly had not triggered a cascade of memories or images or a continuation of the little story that had played out. Hopefully, those would come. He did not want to exert himself the way he had earlier, since he did not know what might happen to him physically while his mind was wandering through the past.
“And anyway, you have more immediate concerns.”
Such as which way to go. He had checked Martins’ map as he rode. It would have been easier, by moonlight, to take the Butterfield route to the way station, but he had to assume Lieutenant Martins’ accomplices possessed the same map he did. They would be looking for the most direct trip, and that was it. So he would stay the course, guided by the setting sun and the few landmarks on the map. Hank had already decided not to stop for the night, counting on the full moon to illuminate any gopher holes or gullies along the way.
Quinn’s plan was rewarded when, well after dark, he saw moonlit curls of smoke rising from a shadowy chimney. As the rider neared, the moon-tinged outline of the overall structure came out in relief against the dark mountains behind it. The log building was long, low, and set behind a lattice fence that only ran along the front and was covered with dead vines that had probably once held flowers. There was a two-story barn out back that likely doubled as stables. He saw a pen with a coop for chickens—for eggs, he reasoned. What meat they served here no doubt came from game like deer and wild turkey.
What made me think that? Quinn wondered. Had he himself hunted in the wild?
As he approached, lantern light peeked through the unshaded windows. It did not appear that anyone was about in the yard. Except to use the necessary or to get well water, there was no reason to be out. He could not tell if there were footprints. The moon was not high enough for that. There were no horses hitched to the post that sat at the east side of the fence. He did not smell tobacco. He did not hear voices. There were no children moving about inside.
That told him what was not going on, not what was. He needed to be careful.
Quinn decided to go wide around the compound and check the barn. The back door of that outbuilding was shut, and he left his own mount there, tied to an oak at the front of a small cluster of trees. The open front door would be visible from the station, but he risked going around the far side to at least have a peek inside.
With his knife tucked into his belt, he crept in a careful, sure-footed manner that made him certain he had done this kind of activity before. The moon did not reach here, and he felt his way along the dark barn wall, which was covered with peeling paint. It turned out there was no need to go to the front. There was a window here—on the eastern side, probably for morning sunlight—and Quinn raised it without effort. He climbed over the sill and saw six horses filling all six stalls on the opposite side of the barn. The animals were facing out, where feed buckets hung from metal hooks on the northern wall of each. Moonlight spilling high through the front door illuminated the first three stalls.
Damnation.
Sticking to the Butterfield Trail, the men had gotten here first. He recognized one of the animals as the horse he had ridden when he was Martins’ guest. The other two belonged to the men who had found Martins. Two more, he suspected, were owned by the way station. He did not think either of them belonged to William Beaudine; neither of them was equipped for travel. Then there was the last animal. Quinn could not quite make it out, and so he moved in closer.
He swore again. In the last stall was a dark brown stallion with a blond mane. That meant it had all been real, everything he saw in his mind.
The horse whinnied lightly when Quinn reached over the low door of the wooden compartment.
“Hi, boy,” he said soothingly. The horse responded with a gentle shake of its head. “Seems like you know me. I guess I know you, too, though I’ll be damned if I can tell you why.”
The man stroked the animal’s muzzle for nearly a minute. There was nothing about the touch or smell that triggered any memories. The mane, tumbling long and wild over both sides, was all he really seemed to remember.
“Listen, horse. I want you to remember me good because I may have to leave you. But if I do, I’ll be back. I swear it.”
The animal bucked its head playfully, and with another strong pat on its side, Quinn turned back into the barn. Bent low, he crept just beyond the thick cone of moonlight toward the open window, his boots crunching on the thick dirt and hay.
He was facing another decision. Inside the house were more answers from the men, not just who he was but what he was supposed to have stolen. But there was also danger. He had injured one of their own, and that would not earn him any charity.
He decided to leave but to stay near, wait till morning, follow the men—
“Snowcap!” he said suddenly, stopping and turning back. He walked back toward the animal. “That’s your name, isn’t it? Snowcap.”
The horse whinnied, and Quinn leapt over the door to quiet him.
“Hush, boy! We don’t want to attract attention.”
Standing inside the stable, comforting the horse with the light of the moon inching higher, Quinn noticed something he had not seen earlier: a bulging leather satchel sitting in the back of the stall. He went directly to it, knelt on the hay, and ran his hand across the worn hide, the faded initials in dirty, frayed metal leaf: JQ.
“Quinn,” he said, then said it more emphatically. “Quinn. Quinn—Jay . . . Jason. Jason Quinn. I’m Jason Quinn.”
That felt right. It sounded right. And it fit the bag that he was certain belonged to him. There were two well-worn buckles holding the fat parcel together. Quinn worked them open with anxious fingers. He threw back the flap of the case, which was partly torn away from use. It was too dark here to see, so he felt inside. He slipped a hand in, but it was a jumble to the touch, so he began pulling items out, feeling them and trying to see them in the faintest spill of moonlight. After examining each one, he set it on the ground.
There was a compass, first. Below it, a book, an Old Farmer’s Almanac, as long and thick as his hand. A pencil. A second Bowie knife and a deerskin sheath. He drew the blade; that, too, felt natural and right. Smiling, he attached that to his belt and put the other on the ground. There were some extra socks, underwear, leather gloves—and his clothes. They were still faintly damp, clammy, from being crammed inside.
“I was wearing those,” he muttered as he drew them out, releasing musk as strong as the horse smell. It was not a memory but an observation. Whoever had hit him had put the clothes inside for him to find, along with the rest of these items. “Then it couldn’t have been an attack. Was it a plan?”
Was he supposed to be found, but with his memory intact?
At the bottom of the case were two other items. One was a thin, slightly scratched tintype of a handsome woman. It was the same gal he had seen in his earlier vision and it was inscribed, Love, Augustina-Rose. There was no writing on the reverse side of the metal.
The picture did not trigger more memories. The name, a mix of American and Spanish, evoked nothing. He recalled only what he had seen in his pained memory earlier.
There was something else below that. His sheath—beads, piggin strings, well-used hide. Eagerly, he took it out, handled it in the dark, reacquainted himself with a belonging that was immediately familiar to the touch. His fingers found something surprising then: paper tucked inside.
A map folded to fit snugly within. He took it out, held it between his teeth as he attached the second sheath to his belt, then carefully returned the tintype to the bottom of the satchel. He replaced everything but the map and the notebook. There might be something written on both; he could not tell in here. When he was finished, the man who was now Jason Quinn closed the satchel, picked the other items up, and rose slowly so as not to aggravate his wound.
He patted Snowcap on the neck. “You’re a good guard, my friend. I’ll be back—just you be patient.”
The horse neighed, and Quinn took the two items to the window. He climbed out and stepped back, toward the edge of the trees where he could read them in the moonlight. He opened the map with eager fingers. He scanned the terrain and the markings.
The document was no help. Physically, it was a little smaller than the one Lieutenant Martins had had in his saddlebag, maybe twice the size of a writing slate. The terrain on both maps was the same, though this one had no printed names anywhere.
