Death Valley Drifter, page 14
When the sergeant had approached with the strap, and Jane discerned his intent, she yelled at the captain and nodded toward Douglas, “At least wait!”
Dupré did that much, ordering the sergeant to proceed when Douglas was led away.
“It will be all right!” she said after her son. “I promise.”
“I know, Ma,” the boy had replied. It was not a statement of hope but strong with purpose.
After being roughly bound, Jane was returned to her crude bedding, rubbed uncomfortably with the hard edges of the leather strap, and told to lie down. At least she was not thrown to the earth. Perhaps the sergeant had a particle of decency; or it could be that he was too tired to make the effort.
The captain came over before retiring. “My apologies,” he said without sincerity. “Though I have, in Paris, dealt before with women who possessed murder in their hearts, this is the first time I have had to restrain a lady.”
“Your conquests never cease,” she said mockingly.
The captain showed no remorse for his actions and seemed proud of the remark. He acknowledged her comment with a little bow. She reminded herself it was dark, and maybe he just did not understand English well enough to recognize disdain.
Jane had spent the next hour or so in deep, silent reflection. On the one hand, she was concerned about her son. He had been so young but so present when his father was brought home, gravely injured. He had not seen the worst of the blood and breaks, and Nehemiah was unconscious by the time he arrived. Any cries of anguish—and she knew there would have been many—had been spent inside the limping return of the stagecoach after the accident. His shotgun rider, Gonzalez, had borne the worst of it.
This was very different. Douglas had been stunned to silence by the violent destruction of a man he knew and liked. An adventure had suddenly become a horror about a single violent event. Like a photograph, it would never change or fade or do anything but glare back at him in shocking red.
Jane wanted to believe, to trust, that with her own love and attention, and by his own growing to manhood, her son would get through the shock of it. She had. As a girl, she had witnessed the aftermath of Indian massacres and wolf attacks and a bison stampede. They were grotesque and indelible. But so were many of the images she had seen in church. One, in particular, was as vivid in her mind as it had been the day she had seen it: A figure of the most serene Jesus with his heart outside his body, the organ burning, surrounded by the crown of thorns, had kept her awake many a night. As long as there was an adult to calm her, to explain how the evils were part of Satan’s plan to weaken them, she had recovered.
There was, on the other hand, the larger question of whether Jane and her son would survive this journey at all. The French had orchestrated the casual slaughter of a human being, an upstanding member of their own local community. She had no reason to believe that this captain—who had ordered one murder that she was aware of—would hesitate to have his men commit two more. Maybe he had never intended for them to survive. Captain Dupré was not just a murderer; he was the leader of a war party, an invading army in a foreign, hostile land. He could not allow anyone to survive who might provide information about the present operation, the men, their weapons, their strength, their movement, or their eventual retreat. Surely Fort Yuma in the Arizona Territory or some other outpost would mount a counterattack.
She knew those policies well. They were the very things Nehemiah used to talk about with Major Lancaster and his alert cavalry. Their lives and mission depended upon accurate information, and they listened carefully as her husband described the Indians he had seen or been confronted by along the stage trail. A lone, experienced rider saw much more than a coach whose comings and goings adhered to a timetable. That, plus the dust of the stage, gave the native population time to conceal whatever hunting, trading, or war parties were about. They were even known to interrupt skirmishes among one another to hide.
If the visit of the troops did not align with Nehemiah being at home, he would leave behind his report—spoken to his wife since he could not write. In exchange, they would leave her with supplies including ammunition if Jane had spotted any Indians herself.
The woman wondered about their chances of running into the mounted troops out on patrol. The cavalry tended to ride a circuit marked by water sources, since those were the paths the Indians also took. Thanks to the French captain’s ignorance, and not his tactics, they were not exactly following one of the trails known to the locals. Major Lancaster would cut the French down and save her and Douglas. But she could not rely on that.
No, she thought. The cold reality of the ruthless heart behind Dupré’s affable facade made it imperative that at least Douglas get away. And not during the day when they could be hunted down, but at night.
This night.
Deciding to do something, Jane carefully considered the situation. Dust storms, wild animals, drought, fire—she had dealt with those kinds of afflictions. This was new for her. Even if she could bury her pride under a rock, she did not think that charm would work on this commander.
And I’m out of practice, she thought, amused that she could be amused at such a moment. Or maybe it was not so strange. She thought of Sheriff Russell, of Hank, of Nehemiah. She had been self-sufficient for so long, she did not know how to approach men as men.
The night was filled with small sounds both inside the camp and without. One of them in particular caught Jane’s ear. The sound came late, when the sky was star-spangled pitch. It sounded like the scratching noise made when their old dog, Dusty, had shamefully belly-walked through grass one morning after being licked by something smaller, his tawny self spotted with little rodent teeth marks.
Her eyes sought details among the dark, low grass and snagged tumbleweeds. When they finally emerged, she was no longer sure she was awake.
It was her son, using his elbows and knees to snake toward her. She suppressed a cry, but her eyes were wide with both surprise and concern. He crept next to her, low as only a young boy could make himself, before lying on his side, face-to-face with her.
“Been crawling for a long time,” he whispered.
She moved closer; he immediately noticed the awkward placement of her arms. Following them with his eyes, he raised his head and saw that she was tied up.
“I thought that’s what they done,” he said softly. Then added, “Did.”
“It’s all right,” she whispered back.
“You’re tied like a chicken!”
“Don’t fuss about that. Just pull the blanket to my nose, and you get under it.”
He did as she instructed. “Like when I was a boy.”
“You remember.”
“Uh-huh.”
When he was hidden in their small, tented way, she asked, “How are you here?”
“It was easy. I came through the horses. Calmed them, just like Dad once told me.”
“My clever boy!”
“I also made this.” He drew a stick about a foot long from inside the sleeve of his shirt. His chest expanded proudly as he held it in his mother’s face. She moved her head back to see.
“I sharpened it like Hank said,” he announced proudly, adding, “I pretended to snore so I could rub it on a rock.”
Despite the danger lurking just beyond the moment, Jane was smiling. She kissed her son on the forehead and then moved the blanket back with the upraised side of her head. She saw his bright eyes in the bit of moonlight that struck him. An idea had occurred to her—lunatic on one level, but no less uncertain than the fate they presently faced.
“Ma, let me untie you.”
“No, love. You gave me a blessing of an idea that needs me to stay bound up. And I want you to pay very careful attention, better than you have on grammar or when I warn you not to lean over the well,” she said softly but firmly.
There was movement outside the blanket, and Jane put her hand over her son’s mouth so he would not speak. The sentry had come over. He was behind her, Douglas in front. She craned around and looked up.
“Yes?”
“Rien,” the man replied, and walked away. He had probably been given instructions to check on the woman.
Jane muttered after the soldier as he left. If he heard her talking to her son, he was likely to return. She turned back around and spoke into the blanket.
“You are going to listen, yes? Nod to show me that you understand.”
The boy nodded once.
“I want you to leave the camp—”
“Ma, no—”
“Shh!” she said. “You are to listen to me. If I were to leave, they would chase me. I don’t think the captain will spare the men to go after you. They’re tired enough as is. As long as he has one of us, the captain may not care.”
“But he’ll be mad—”
“Son!”
“No, listen. It’s like Pa warned you when we helped that runaway squaw. What did he call it?”
“Pride,” she replied. “This isn’t the same. The captain will be angry, but he needs to move out at sunup, and he cannot spare the men. He won’t chase you, and he won’t hurt me.”
The boy took her hand under the blanket. “Come,” he whispered. “We can do it.”
Jane found it difficult to keep back tears at her son making his first sounds like a man. She looked back, saw that the sentry had not heard, and stopped telling Douglas to be silent.
“You must trust me,” she said. “And I don’t want you to come back whatever you hear the captain say. Even if he says he’s going to harm me. Even if he does hurt me. Promise?”
The boy did not answer.
“Promise? It will hurt me more to know you are here, in danger.”
Upon consideration, the boy relented. “Yes, Ma.”
Jane moved closer. “You keep your pa and Hank in your head. Be brave and steady.”
“Like Pa. Like Hank.”
“Good boy. Now, here’s what you do. Stay under the blanket, and when I get up, you crawl off the way you just did—but to the east. They don’t have a guard there. Go to the Scouse River and follow it north. The captain will probably think you’re going south to get home. If he sends men after you, it will be in that direction.” She put her fingers around the stick. “Anyone sees you and makes a commotion, run. Or get in the river and let it carry you. Use the stick if you have to, if someone grabs you.”
“But, Ma, if I’m not going home, where do I go?”
“You are going home, just not right away. When you’re sure nobody’s following double back downriver—”
“What about looking for Hank? He’s north.”
“With one of those men. You can’t swap one jailer for another.” She nodded and kissed his brow. “You can do this. If you need to, if someone comes to the house, go to the pond and hide there for a spell.”
“Like I do when you’re looking for me for schooling.”
“Exactly like that. Now, pull the blanket over you while I get up.”
The boy threw his arms around his mother and then, without hesitation, did as she had instructed. She prayed that he got the chance to play hooky again very soon.
Rolling from her side to her belly, Jane got her knees under her and rose. She intended to ask to be untied to tend to her private needs.
Even before Jane had her feet under her, one of the men yelled something from the center of the camp, near the corral. She did not understand the alarm, save for one word: Garçon.
Boy.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHO IS OUT there with you, Moore?”
The speaker stood tall in the doorway. His inquiring voice punched hard through the still, silent night—raw and unyielding.
Quinn eased back behind the outhouse while his companion pretended to finish hitching his pants, which he had already done.
“That was just me keeping myself company,” Zebulon replied.
“On the side of the outhouse?”
“Thought I heard a coyote. We got chickens, y’know.”
The man at the door, Colonel Franklin Voight, just stood there.
“Would you lower that firearm?” Zebulon said, walking forward. “It might go off!”
“I asked who was out there, Moore, and ‘coyote’ ain’t the answer I was looking for,” the man said without altering his stance.
“Who d’you think is with me? Who would be with me while I’m doing my business, out here on a trail that no one travels anymore save when they miss the train or get lost?”
“All right, you idiot old coot. Move away from the latrine unless you want to die.”
“Why? What you gonna do?”
“Air it out,” the man said, cocking the shotgun. “Damn foul thing could use it.”
“Oh, no. No, you don’t. I’m not gonna toddle aside while you destroy my property!”
“Then you can be shot up with it, old man.” The man raised and aimed the shotgun. “I said step aside, and I mean now.”
“There’s no need for shooting,” Hank said from behind the structure. “I’ll come out.”
The man in the doorway grinned. “I thought so. I oughta shoot you for a lying buzzard, Moore.”
“Why? For seeing to the survival of one of my guests?”
“A guest.”
“That’s right. He’s here, and he can pay. What would you call him?”
“A man on borrowed time,” the man said. “Now, why don’t you just shut up and move away, Moore?”
“In my own home,” Zebulon muttered as he stepped to one side. “No one has any manners no more!”
While the men chattered, Quinn rose, raised his hands, and stepped very slowly from behind the outhouse. Like frozen lightning, full of portent and danger, the barrel of the shotgun remained pointed ahead in the white light. Below it, he saw a dog slink into the night, its tail low.
Quinn walked along the outhouse wall, well away from Zebulon. In case the man recognized him and decided to shoot him, he did not want the proprietor harmed.
“Stop where you are,” the man said when Quinn had cleared the building. “You got any weapons?”
“A knife.”
“Moore?”
“What?”
“Take it and toss it on the ground.”
The grizzled older man turned to Quinn and saw the blade. He approached. “Sorry to leave you naked.”
“It’s okay. It won’t be the first time today.”
The proprietor was puzzled by the remark, but Quinn was actually pleased. It felt good to clearly remember something that had happened to him.
The Bowie knife was removed from its sheath and thunked on the dirt.
“Awright,” the man said. “Resume walking toward me. Slow, hands where they are.”
Quinn did as he was told. Another man, roused by the commotion, came to the door. Behind him, the wakened Elizabeth Moore stood in shadow. In a corner, the dog raised his head, then set it back down.
As Quinn moved closer, the second man took a few steps forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with the other. He was holding a Colt.
“Jesus Lord,” Private Stevens remarked. “The Almighty is on our side and has delivered a bounty to our doorstep.”
“You figure it’s him?”
“I figure it can’t be no one else, slinking around at this hour,” Stevens said. “You come to finish what you started?”
“I came to talk.”
“Like you talked to the lieutenant?”
“I was his prisoner.”
“Now you’re ours,” Voight replied.
Quinn considered explaining that he had very few specifics on what they were talking about. But he decided for the moment to say nothing that might provoke them. Whatever his life was before today, Quinn felt it was wise to let the men with the weapons do all the talking.
When Quinn was just a few paces away, the man with the shotgun finally pointed it at the ground.
“You can stop there.”
Quinn began to lower his arms. “Thank you, Mr.—?”
“Colonel Voight. And raise ’em. No one said you can get comfortable.”
Quinn did as he had been instructed. The second man also lowered his gun.
“Where’s Beaudine, and where’s our box?” Stevens asked.
“I don’t know, but I’d like to show you something.”
“If it ain’t the box—”
“It isn’t, but what I have to show you may help us all figure things out. I’d like to remove my hat.”
Voight and Private Stevens were silhouetted against the light inside the station. They stood still in shared confusion.
“Your hat?” Voight said.
“That’s right.”
Stevens lifted his gun again. “Go ahead and show us.”
The three men stood silently watching as Quinn raised his hands higher and lifted his hat straight up. He turned slowly so the men could see the wound on the back of his skull. It was no longer bleeding, but the blood had caked there.
“This Beaudine you mentioned,” Quinn said. “I believe he hit me on the head and left me for dead in the desert. Gentlemen, I don’t know who I am, what I’m supposed to have done, or what I’m supposed to be doing.”
“You gonna tell me you don’t recall hitting Lieutenant Martins?” Stevens asked.
“Yes, that I do. He held me prisoner. I needed to get away.”
“To do what?” Voight asked.
“To try and find the man I was traveling with, to learn who I am.”
“Heck,” Zebulon said, “it’s gonna cost me a silver dollar when he returns, but if one of you makes good, I can tell you both of those things.”
The three men looked at him.
“You’ve seen Beaudine?” Voight demanded.
