Death Valley Drifter, page 18
“We were going to tail the Rebels. That’s all. But then the Mexican marines in Ensenada sent them running.”
“How? Why?”
“Some officer wanted to make a name for himself, tried to arrest them. Our contact, Contraalmirante Esteban Allende—I believe you met him.”
She nodded.
“He told them they were only to watch the ship. They didn’t even do that well. The Rebels got away—with the letter.”
Aggie froze. “How did they get it?”
“Bribes to trusted dockhands,” Beaudine said, spreading jam on the toast Aggie set before him. “That’s how everything works there—you know that.”
The letter, Aggie thought. It was a sentiment of gratitude from First Lady Margarita Maza de Juárez to President Grant, and it had gone ahead with her luggage. In itself, the article was nothing. But the official seal of the president on the back would get someone up the gangway for an audience with an officer on the ship. Once there, a fire, someone falling overboard, a stabbing—there were any number of ways to create a distraction to allow a separate plan to unfold unhindered.
“So the Confederates fled. Assassins should be made of sterner stuff.” Aggie sat, refilled Beaudine’s cup, and poured coffee for herself.
“That’s not the end,” Beaudine said. He took another bite, then sipped the hot coffee. “A rider arrived from the palace and informed me there was a second letter in the box, added before the baggage departed. Margarita felt that a woman should be the one to present it, a woman with ties to the government but who would not be a prize to assassins. That ruled out her daughter Felícitas. The bearer was to be Maria Allende, the daughter of Contraalmirante Esteban Allende. She was already in Ensenada.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Love,” he answered bluntly.
Aggie’s expression changed from attentive to disapproving.
“Not mine,” he assured her. “Felícitas Juárez was sweet on a man named Raoul Dupré. You mentioned him in a report.”
“An agitator. The Mexicans say he is the head of a group of bandits in Zamora, but the French don’t exactly wear the tricolors, and they pay the locals for anonymity. That would make sense, trying to woo a member of the presidential family.”
“It backfired,” Beaudine said. “Felícitas learned through a servant that he had been Maria Allende’s lover since the days of Maximilian. Still was. Still is. Felícitas wanted to hurt them both and sent the information with the rider, that Allende’s daughter was consorting with a French anarchist.”
“Why to you? Why not to Maria’s father?”
“And distract the man protecting her own father’s life? Felícitas felt like she had been kicked by a mule, but not in the head. In her letter, she said her father had mentioned that the Pinkertons watching for assassins in Ensenada had his absolute trust.”
Aggie shook her head sadly. “A traitor to Mexico and to her father. It’s abhorrent.”
“Well, a woman in love . . . ,” Beaudine said. Realizing again that was its own swamp, he let his voice trail off. He finished one piece of toast and started on another. “What you did not know about the mission, and what Quinn was not told, was that the men who ran from Ensenada—who are still out there and may be after me—were only part of what we were after. Washington thinks the enemy may have two presidents in their sights. Maria was not with the Rebels at their camp. We think she must have gone to Dupré to tell him about the letters, that the Confederates might have to shift tactics. I’m guessing they each had a target president.”
“You mentioned the Rebels may be chasing you. Why would Maria need the letter? Her father will be there. Her father’s men would know her. She could admit the killers without being implicated, remain a source on the inside.”
“Because Maria will still be compromised.” Beaudine finally nodded at the lockbox. “That also contains the pay for the graybacks. Treasury gold.”
“What has that to do with her?”
“Pay for the navy is kept in Mexicali. The letter of introduction, signed by the first lady, would have given Maria access to that as well. A paymaster, thinking she was on her father’s business, would not have contested the withdrawal.”
“She would have had to sign a voucher—”
“She did. It’s in the box.”
Aggie did not have to hear more. Maria must have slipped it away under his bedazzled eyes, or when he was asking to be personally remembered to the contraalmirante. For young women of a certain temperament and manner, this was a perfect and rewarding livelihood.
Aggie digested that while Beaudine digested his breakfast.
“I’m impressed that President Grant is letting himself be used as bait,” she said.
“The man was a soldier before he was a politician,” Beaudine said admiringly.
“What’s your move?” she asked.
“San Francisco. Juárez should be safe until then.”
“Will Quinn go there?”
He answered with reluctance, but honestly. “I don’t know. Depends if the Rebels found him.”
Aggie was absently stirring sugar into her coffee. Though she was accustomed to Beaudine’s callous manner when it came to the job, she felt bad for Quinn. But as she herself had learned, in this business you were rarely told everything, and you followed orders just the same.
Beaudine looked at her as he finished his coffee. “I need eyes to replace Quinn. Will you be them?”
“Always. What are your immediate plans?”
“I haven’t quite figured them out. I sent the rider back to the palace, suggested the Juárez coach travel alone and heavily guarded—the fewer people knowing its destination, the better.”
“By land all the way to San Francisco?” Aggie asked.
“That was one plan, the other being by sea from San Diego. We were not told which, only that they would end up in San Francisco. They’d have been safer and more comfortable at sea, but the president’s advisers seemed to feel it would be better to divide the enemy.” He rubbed his face. “I figure that’s four days’ ride for them, with two of those days gone. A day’s travel ahead for me—so I have time to rest here, rest the horse. We’ve been going without a stop since Ensenada.”
“I’ll get the horse to the stable.”
“Thanks, Aggie.”
“When do you want to leave?”
He rubbed his face with a palm. “Let me think.”
“Well, you’ve eaten,” she coaxed. “Maybe a wash?”
The woman’s tone was playful, but for Beaudine on a mission, every act was judged with an administrative eye, a practical checklist from start to end.
“Yeah, that’s overdue. Didn’t have time to stop at the Scouse River. I’ll do that, then take a bit of a rest if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind.” Aggie had started toward the bedroom. “I’ll turn down the—”
“The couch will be fine. Or the rug. I sorely need to lie down and close my eyes.” He turned toward the window. “There’s also the graybacks. I don’t know if they’re coming. I want to be able to hear anyone who approaches.”
The woman’s smile was more disappointed than before, but Aggie acknowledged his request with a nod and went to get a pillow and a sheet.
Beaudine thanked her, then went outside and around the side of the house with its garden and rosebushes. There was a well out back, shared by the general store behind, a small church to the north, and a second cottage to the south, where the smell of apple pies was ever present. Those, too, went to Truckee for export. The owner, Frau Mack, was making quite a reputation throughout the region. She gave Beaudine a hearty wave from the open window of her kitchen. He took a moment to inhale, to clean his nose of the prairie.
The bucket was empty, and Beaudine hooked it on a line and cranked it down. He washed his face, went back inside, and happily removed his boots.
Aggie was clearing the table. “You want to be wakened?”
“Only if I sleep till this time tomorrow, which is possible,” he said.
She walked over to him. “I didn’t mean to judge you, Bill. I know that this job has big implications.”
“Aggie, this has been tougher than anything I’ve done. It’s not just missing Confederate gold or someone sabotaging the railroad because they’re invested in the stage line. There are Pinkerton’s expectations, which I will not fail to meet, but also what is actually at stake for two nations.”
“Now that you say it—I regret more my tone. I also know that Quinn was probably hard on you.”
Beaudine shook his head ruefully. “I wanted him to stand down. Son of a bitch would not. You hire a man for his qualities until you bump up against them.”
Facing him from two feet away and one head smaller, she smiled up. “Put the burdens of the world and the road to rest for now. I’ll draw the shades, take care of the horse, and make sure I am quiet as a cat.”
“Except for the scratch of your pen,” he said. “I like hearing that. Reminds me how clever my girl is.”
Aggie put a hand on his chest, then turned toward the front door. Beaudine reached out and embraced her. The woman smelled as good as she felt. He did not end up sleeping on the couch.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DOUGLAS SMITH HAD been perched comfortably on the fattest lower limb of the tree for over a half hour. His mother was silent, save for twice whispering his name and contenting herself with the breathy response, “I’m fine.” An Indian had once shown him how to make a sound like a whip-poor-will, but that was for signaling at a greater distance.
While he was up there, the boy briefly enjoyed the freedom that came from being invisible, like a mouse in its hole. He always thought that little creatures must be afraid all the time, but maybe that was not the case. He would get to know them better when they were home; there was no time to consider the matter now.
Douglas occupied himself by remembering back to every word Hank had said before he left, about all the things he could do with a sharp stick. He remembered that better than any of his lessons: Flick. Stab. Dig. Cut a trench. Point. Write in the dirt.
Using the stick like a knife, the boy did not have the gumption to think he could do more than scratch a single soldier, let alone a dozen of them. That would not stop the French officer from making good his ugly promise to cut off the boy’s ear. Douglas had heard Dupré yell about that before they dragged his poor ma.
Hearing that voice again in his head was scary, coming from the mouth of the man who had let Sheriff Russell be shot to death. When he thought about it, Douglas’s belly felt the way it had when that wild dog came to drink and snarled while he was bathing in the pond. Either you got a rock from the pond bottom or waited for your ma to shoot . . . or you talked calm and made friends, the way he had once seen his pa do with a bucking horse. That was what Douglas had done, and the dog had left without trying to bite him.
The jumble of thoughts somehow suggested something Douglas could do with the stick to help him and his mother. Something that— What were the words that man Martins had said to Hank? Buy time.
That was what Douglas needed to do now.
“I’m coming down,” he said some time after last speaking to his mother.
“To do what?”
“To make friends with the captain.”
The woman’s horror temporarily froze her throat, and Douglas was already on the way down before she found her voice.
“You can’t!” she wheezed. “Douglas—”
The boy hopped down nearly his full height from the lowest branch. He was facing the encampment.
“Mr. Captain!” he yelled, but then his voice cracked.
Douglas said nothing more, uncertain whether anything would come out. The boy from the fringes of the desert was not accustomed to a human hive, and the camp was immediately astir, no one more alert than Captain Dupré, who had not yet gone to bed but was studying a map by torchlight. The officer stood silhouetted against a torch, the paper dangling, its shadow twisting across the few horses and men, most of whom were still out looking for the boy.
“Mrs. Smith?” Dupré yelled.
She struggled to straighten herself. “Yes?”
“Is that your boy? Is he with you?”
“He is.”
“I have something to show you!” Douglas yelled.
The captain drew his revolver and fired in the air before Jane could find the voice to scream in fear. She jumped against her bonds, then sunk back into them as the officer strode around the perimeter, folding the paper as he approached. Beyond the camp, on all sides, the pounding of hooves and the shouts of men could be heard as the searchers hurried back.
The officer stopped beside the mother and son, his dark features turned down at the boy. The young man stood with his legs slightly apart and bent at the knees. There was a sharp stick in his hand pointed toward the ground.
The captain noticed the boy’s stance and looked up. “You were there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The dark face turned back down. “Why?”
“I was trying to see Hank.”
Dupré stalked closer. “Why would he be here?”
“Do you remember, sir, when I asked to stop? Back when my ma changed horses?”
“Well?”
The boy raised the stick slowly. “That was because I saw this.”
Captain Dupré looked at it. “A sharpened stick. Why did you want it?”
“I think it’s from Hank, sir. He told me back at the house that if I ever wanted to find him, I should look for the pointers. I saw this, and it was pointing to the river.”
“Was it?”
Douglas nodded.
His mother struggled to get free of her bonds. “Son, I don’t think you should say any more.” It was not for fear of him giving away secrets but of getting himself in trouble because he did not possess any.
The boy looked at her, then back at the captain. “Will you let her go, sir? Her hands are bleeding, and she is in pain.”
The Frenchman regarded the woman. “I never argue when I am at a disadvantage,” he said, looking at the stick. The officer turned and spoke to one of the men standing several feet away. The man pulled a knife from a sheath he wore on his cloth sash belt. He supported the woman with one arm while he cut her free with the other. She tried to stand but slumped into the man’s elbow.
“Ses mains?” he asked the captain.
Dupré nodded once.
The man reached behind her and cut the leather strap. At once she tried to raise her hands to his shoulders for support; he stepped back from her bloody fingers, still supporting her at arm’s length.
Douglas stuck the stick in his trousers and moved to help as the man set her on the ground, against the fat tree trunk. She eased down, her breath coming freely now that she was free of the rope.
“You want water?” Douglas asked as he supported her elbows. Her blood ran back onto his fingers.
“Later,” she said. “I’m all right now.”
Douglas wiped his hands on his trousers and turned back to the captain, whose eyes had not left the boy.
“Would you be lying to help her, boy?” Dupré asked.
“I’d do anything for my ma, but right now I’m telling the truth.”
The captain extended a hand. It took a moment for Douglas to realize that he wanted the stick. Reluctantly, the boy passed it over. Dupré turned partway so there was torchlight on the stick. It had been rubbed to a point, from the stubble, most likely on a rock. It was possible that Hank had picked up both and worked on them clandestinely.
“Hank left this behind—for you? Why would he think that you would follow?”
“Not us. It was for Mr. Russell,” Jane said quickly. “We told him the sheriff was coming.”
“Then it’s a good thing for us he is not,” the captain said coldly. “Hank put this on the ground to indicate that he was going along the river. In which direction?”
“North, sir,” Douglas said.
“To—?”
Douglas shrugged. “I have to guess Apple Town, sir. That’s the only thing up there.”
“Then why would he go?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Maria had arrived and was standing beside the captain. While Dupré considered the testimony, she took him aside.
“There may be some truth in what the boy says,” she told him softly in Spanish. “Before we separated, Martins and the others agreed to rendezvous at Oak Ridge. It was felt that coming from Mexico City, Juárez might choose a land route to San Francisco and avoid the sea altogether.”
“I considered that, too,” the captain said, “though they would be exposed on land, without the sea to protect them.”
“We can anticipate that possibility without losing the ability of striking in San Francisco. Oak Ridge and the land route are northeast of here, same general direction as Apple Town.”
“I know. I studied the map. They are both a half day from here. If we divert, we may not reach San Francisco before el presidente.”
“Then maybe we have to change our plan. Perhaps we should go south, try and intercept him—taking care that my father comes to no harm.”
“In that wilderness?” The captain shook his head. “Because of Ensenada, they are warned. They will avoid known routes. They will not travel in a caravan but in a single well-armed coach. We may miss him. No,” the captain went on, “we must reach San Francisco in time to reconnoiter and carry out the execution. Once the Americans arrive, the forces will be formidable, success unlikely.”
“Both have their risks.”
“I will take the one that places us in proximity to Juárez. He is my target. What will your unit do if they cannot recover the box?”
“They will leave time to make the rendezvous, as planned. Lieutenant Martins is resourceful. He will come up with an alternate plan.”
