Death Valley Drifter, page 13
Why was this in my sheath? he wondered.
He began to fold the map when he noticed something odd about it. The paper had been folded with the map side out. He opened it fully once again, saw that there were smudges on the back side. Examining them more closely, he noticed that the blemishes each concealed a small black dot in the center.
Quinn put the notebook down and raised the map over his head so that the moon shined through it. The white light revealed that the map had been intended to be viewed this way and only this way. One dot seemed to be south of where he had woken in the desert.
Martins’ campsite, he guessed.
The other was off the coast. Remembering the contours of Martins’ map, he put this mark around San Francisco. He looked more closely. The spot was not where the city was marked on the other map but just to the west.
In the water.
Whoever had hit him could not have known he would lose his memory. This had to have been marked and left behind for another reason.
Of course, he thought.
“You did not know where we were going, Mr. Quinn,” he said.
Beaudine had left it where a knife fighter would surely find it.
It did not seem possible that events could be clearer and muddier at the same time, but that was how Quinn felt. He knew his name, and there was clearly a place he had to go, but he did not yet know why—and what exactly his relationship was with the man who had hit him. Was his partner William Beaudine, or was that someone he was to meet in San Francisco? If the latter, whom had he been traveling with, from where, and why?
And Au . . . Aggiena . . . Aggie. His wife? His gal? His sister? The way they’d been squabbling, it could have been any of those.
He went to the horse he had left tethered to a tree and put the items in Lieutenant Martins’ saddlebag. He could not take Snowcap. The stallion was not saddled, and he did not want to make a commotion. And whoever was here might just notice that such a distinctive horse was absent.
As Quinn stood there, he heard muttering from the direction of the way station. He walked slowly back along the side of the barn and heard someone shifting around inside the outhouse, all elbows from the number of times he bumped the walls. Quinn moved cautiously to the edge of the barn wall and, looking around, drew the knife and moved stealthily through the dark.
He had done this before many times. There was nothing to remember. The reflexes were all there.
Quinn had to cross moonlight to reach the small but sturdy structure. He did not know if the place had a dog, but he stayed upwind of the house, which was also upwind of the outhouse. He breathed through his mouth to avoid the odor—then shifted to breathing through his teeth to avoid the moths that flitted in the heavenly light above.
“You go a week or two, no visitors,” a voice from inside was saying. “Then it’s a flood. And not from the damn train, don’t you know. And not even listening to me. ‘Doctoring is extra,’ I told them. ‘My wife don’t work for free. No way, no how.’ Do they care?”
Quinn bent—the location of the sounds suggested the man was probably seated now—and moved his face close to the back wall.
“My horse is in your barn,” Quinn said softly.
“Jesus’ spit! Who else is creeping—”
“Hush, damn it! My name is Jason Quinn, and I want to know how my horse came into your possession. These men, your current guests—they didn’t bring it.”
“No, sir, they did not,” the man inside whispered. “Hold on! Dear God, a man can’t even visit the privy without a crowd. I’m gonna move up to— What the hell’s that new town? Where the Suquamish Indians are?”
“Seattle,” Quinn said—remarkably and without hesitation.
“Yeah. I’ll take Liz if she cares to go or get me a squaw, or maybe both, and live in timber country where no one will bother me.”
There were sounds of movement inside the shack, and then the tall man emerged in the bright night. Bare chested and fixing the suspenders on his red range trousers, he came fully around back and regarded the man crouching in the shadows.
“Only varmints hide in the dark,” the owner said. “You a varmint?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s a curious reply. Can’t you talk straight?”
“Friend, all I know I can do is throw straight,” he said, realizing that might have been perceived as a threat and sheathing the knife. “What about my stuff, my horse? Why are they here?”
“I was told you might be showing up.”
“Told by who?”
“A Mr. William Beaudine. Said I should hold the horse and some belongings for you. You say you found that, too? The satchel.”
“Yes.”
“You always feel free to go nosing about a man’s—”
“Look, mister—”
“Moore. Zebulon Moore.”
“Mr. Moore, I don’t have time for this.”
“You have money?”
“No.” He added menacingly now, “Just the Bowie knife.”
Moore took a moment and then nodded, not a show of acquiescence but answering his own unspoken question: Do I want to survive this encounter?
“When was Mr. Beaudine here?” Quinn asked.
“This morning. Ate, paid, dropped off your stuff, then left.”
“He gave you no instructions?”
“All the gentleman said to me was that the horse was to go to no one but him or you—”
“He’s coming back?”
“Said he would, didn’t say when, only that he would pay me more—which is why I asked, Mr. Quinn, not to be greedy but it was our agreement—”
“Go on,” Quinn said with mounting impatience.
“He said to give what he left to you, but only if you was alone.”
“Did he anticipate I would be with someone?”
“Didn’t say. I told you every instruction he gave me. There wasn’t a word more. Oh, excepting he had me bury a box. It’s about two paces behind you, about a foot down. You can feel where the earth was turned over.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all,” Zebulon said.
If there had been more, Quinn was certain this talkative man would say it. “The men inside—one of them has a head wound?”
“That’s right. A lieutenant. The other two are a private and a colonel. They keep talking about some sergeant, but they say ‘she,’ so I guess it’s kind of an honorary name. At least, that’s what they call each other.”
Quinn was still secreted in the darkness behind the outhouse. Zebulon looked hungrily through the dark, like a rogue coyote searching for a meal.
“You, uh—you want more information? I can probably get it.”
“I don’t have any money,” Quinn said.
“Oh.”
“I’ll tell you what, though. I’ve got a horse tied to a tree behind the barn. I’ll claim mine. You can have that one.”
“Is it stolen? I don’t want no trouble with the law. Retired peacekeeper Sheriff Russell, he comes around now and then. He’d know if I was hiding something like a horse.”
“It was roaming free when I took him,” Quinn answered. He nodded toward the station. “Are any of the men awake?”
“Not when I left, but if we keep jawin’ in a loud whisper—”
“Just go inside and do something for me. You can have my horse, Snowcap. That’s been mine for a while.”
“Mister, that’s a fine horse, and you got a deal . . . depending on what it is you want done.”
“What you said. Ask about me, by name. Did you tell them Beaudine had been here?”
“No, sir. The privacy of my—”
“Tell them.”
“Okay.”
“Come back and tell me what they said, how they reacted.”
The proprietor nodded and set off. Quinn did not like the bargain at all, but he had nothing else to offer. Rising to his full height, Quinn eased cautiously around the outhouse and into the moonlight.
“Say, Mr. Quinn?” Zebulon said, no longer whispering.
His heart going dull on him, Quinn stepped cautiously to the side of the outhouse, the knife still in its sheath. He used his toe to feel for the box, but before he could dig it up he caught the glint of a moon-kissing shotgun barrel pointing at him and his host from the open back door.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WILLIAM BEAUDINE WAS getting set to sleep where he did not sleep enough: under the blanket of heaven, with the million eyes of heaven looking down. It made him feel like a part of something bigger—bigger even than the United States of America, which was a dangerous thing to be reminded of. It challenged his commitment to just how important his mission was.
“I sure hope that when you die, that’s where you are,” he said, looking at a swath of stars so opaque that it seemed like God’s own robes. Now and then the sky was split by a white streak. Beaudine was not a churchgoing man, but he suspected those were local souls that hadn’t quite passed muster and were headed the other way.
He lay in his bedroll with his head on the bulging root of a towering pine. He had softened the natural pillow with his shirt; it was a hot night, and he would not need any extra covering.
Beside him, on the right, in easy reach, were his two revolvers and his rifle. He was hopeful about that being the path to heaven above him—what else could it be? The lights were not good for anything else. But he was not overeager to make the trip. Beyond the guns were twigs he had strewn on four sides for a considerable distance. Their crunch would let him know if a man or an animal was approaching. He did not worry about being shot from a distance: He did not have anything worth stealing, other than the horse and the guns. A horse was its own alarm, if anyone came for it. And he could reach his guns and fire from a deep sleep as fast as a hammer could be cocked. In his work, accuracy was not as important as speed. Second to speed was the ability to pencil-roll away before a shot could be fired by someone else. He had survived these five years with Pinkerton—and the War before that—following that policy. He had seen marksmen die because, while they knew they could hit what they fired at, they did not always have the time.
On his left side, close in, was the box that he and Quinn had stolen from the American mercenaries hired by the French. He had carefully opened the box, studied its contents, and then returned the box to its original condition.
He needed all of it intact.
Lying there, his eyes taking longer, slower blinks as the minutes passed, he thought about Quinn. He was a good man, a very good man. But damned headstrong. Beaudine truly hoped that the man had survived. He prayed that Quinn woke before the others found him. But there had not been time to argue, and Quinn was clearly of a mind, a very set mind, to disobey his instructions.
Beaudine’s eyes finally closed, tired from too much sun. His mind journeyed back—was it only just a day?
“You haven’t even told me why we’re here!”
“Look, keeping secrets wasn’t my choice. Those were orders.”
“Then this is my choice. Kill me if you want, but I run to fights. I don’t run from them.”
That dispute, which there had been no time to settle, had risked the success of the mission. That was why Beaudine had struck him with his gun butt and left him on the desert sands, unarmed, near undressed, and bleeding more than Beaudine had intended. But according to the map that Beaudine had memorized down to the smallest hill, Quinn was close enough to water that he could fix himself up and move on when he woke. And, after he had refreshed himself, there was an old halfway house still occupied by a family where he could hopefully get some nursing. The only reason Beaudine had not left the other knife was that, coming upon Quinn, the mercenaries would have known that this was one of the men who had attacked him. They would still likely figure that, but not knowing much, Quinn would not have been able to tell them anything other than two names, one of them William Beaudine. They might have heard of him, which could actually work in his favor. The men would be unlikely to rush into anything without due consideration. Anything that slowed them down helped him.
He still heard himself hurriedly, angrily talking to the unconscious man as he took his belongings, hoping that something he said might get through:
“The order came from our employer, Mr. Pinkerton himself, which is that I can tell you no more than I have. His orders came from the president of the United States. And that, Quinn, is the devil with his horns on.”
As he fell asleep, Beaudine had one other thought. It rose from somewhere deep in his mind, unbidden. He would probably forget it by morning. But reliving the blow he had given Quinn, Beaudine questioned the choice not only because he was one man down in a two-man operation, but because he could not help but wonder if he had turned a very deadly man against himself. . . .
* * *
* * *
MARIA MIGHT NOT have been fluent in English, but what knowledge she had said was no less accurate for that.
Jane lay on the ground with her hands tied tightly behind her back.
It was a visibly, now consistently strained captain who had put her in that position. It was not in response to something she had done but something she had requested.
Earlier in the ride, as Douglas had begun to weep after finally reacting to what had happened to Sheriff Russell, his mother had leaned toward him. She spoke quietly; her words would be understood by none of the men within earshot, but her tone had to sound conversational.
“What happened back there was inhuman, but it was something that got out of control,” she had said. “That’s why we have to be reasonable.”
“Ma, Sheriff Russell was trying to help us,” he had replied. “I’m sad because I couldn’t help him. And I’m angry. That man who was holding me—he didn’t have to shoot twice. Sheriff Russell dropped his gun after he was hit.”
“I know. It was barbaric,” his mother had agreed.
“I’m okay now,” Douglas said, sniffling up his sorrow and becoming steely eyed. “I’ll think about Hank. He would know what to do.”
Jane nodded, smiled inside, and returned to her upright position and, like her son, rode on.
The delays at the Smith cabin and then with Sheriff Russell were two of the reasons the French column reached neither their American allies nor the Oak Ridge way station by nightfall. They were also on a forced march, which had tired the men. The horses, too, needed rest. With open reluctance and dismay, Captain Dupré ordered that camp be established atop a low hill. There was the Scouse River at the eastern foot of the hill, and both men and horses were allowed to water themselves before the sun was completely gone. Torches were set, more to frighten predators than to provide light. While that was being done, he conferred with the woman who was back with Jane and Douglas.
“I’ve decided that we cannot keep up this pace,” he had told her. “Do you think you can get aboard?”
“It is possible,” the woman had replied. “But I am concerned about the gold in the box along with the other documents.”
“Why be concerned? The Louis XIV from Rochefort shall be arriving shortly after off the California coast, south of San Francisco. A rowboat will meet you. You will be bound for a French port the day we strike.”
“And you? You have not said when you will join me,” Maria protested.
“L’Officier Généraux Marais will be carrying my orders. We will know then.” He had moved closer to her, looked down into eyes that were nearly as gray as the dusty sergeant’s uniform that Martins had provided for her. “We have waited this long. A little longer can be endured. What is most important is the present. I am going to abandon the chase of Lieutenant Martins and this mysterious ‘Hank.’ We must turn west in the morning, before the Juárez frigate sails.”
The woman nodded.
“I will plan a route,” he said, urging her to rest while she could.
The men gave Jane a blanket, and she gathered what grasses she could to make the ground softer. She would need to be under the blanket, or she would be gnawed to distraction by insects. She did not bother to inform the men of that fact.
Not that she expected to sleep. She was tired, but despite what she had said to her son, she was both angry and afraid. She had to think of a way out of this. The camp was set up without a campfire, the horses in the center and the men circled around them. One sentry was posted on the north, one on the west—the only directions the captain felt an intruder was likely to come from. Jane was between the fringe of the group and the northern sentry, a few yards from both. Douglas was initially situated on the other side of the camp. So far away, it was unlikely he would be tempted to sneak around the perimeter and plot with his mother.
Jane was openly hostile to this arrangement, and she had gone to the captain to impress on him the need for her to be near Douglas.
“My son has witnessed a great deal today,” she had told him pointedly. “He may have nightmares.”
“All children have nightmares.”
“You cannot be so ignorant,” she charged.
Dupré had not acceded to the request, stating, “Not so ignorant to keep mother and son close so they can plan an escape.”
“Merely escape?” she asked, the threat emerging before she had a chance to crush it down.
There was a thick, tense moment of silence. She found the officer more menacing than he had seemed all day.
“Monsieur Reynaud!” he had called out.
A beefy, sweating sergeant had hurried over. The captain spoke quickly, in French, and Jane soon learned the gist of his instructions. Dupré had ordered that her hands be bound behind her back and that her son be placed on the other side of the horses in the center of the encampment.
