Death Valley Drifter, page 19
“Then there is no doubt he will achieve his target? You are sure?”
“Certain. I have spent enough time with them to know what kind of men he and his companions are. They will succeed even if it costs each one his life.”
“That is the kind of risk I support,” the captain said. “I will plan accordingly.”
Faith was good, but plans were better. He would come up with something that still achieved every objective.
Dupré turned back to Douglas. “I do not know if you are telling the truth, but we will find out presently. Until then, I will not take action. If this hero of yours is looking for you, he may yet try to help you. And Hank, as you know, is all we ever wanted from both of you.”
“May I have my stick back?” Douglas asked. “It’s special.”
The captain thought for a moment, then handed it over. Then he looked from the boy to his mother. “I will send the medic with bandages. You will not be bound, either of you. I will take no action against the boy.” He stepped closer. “But if either of you does anything to impede our progress, you will be shot—like your friend Russell. Is that quite clear?”
Douglas nodded. Jane sat still, staring out at the camp. Dupré left then, trailing Maria and the others who had gathered like a centipede pulling its body.
The boy sat beside his mother.
“That was clever,” she said. “Dangerous, but I know your pa and Hank would have been proud of how you conducted yourself.”
“I hate him for what he did to Sheriff Russell and you,” Douglas said. “I hate him more than I want to get away. I want to see him—”
“Don’t,” Jane said. “Don’t think of using the stick. Don’t speak what’s in your heart. We are not the Lord God, and it is He and He alone who orders and allows the end of a human life in its time. Our soul is poisoned by such thoughts.”
“I know, but I can’t help it. Maybe if I pray to God, He will understand and forgive me.”
A man arrived then with a canvas sack full of bandages and scissors, along with a bottle of alcohol to wash the wounds. He squatted beside the woman, and while he worked, Douglas folded his hands in prayer. His lips moved in silence as he prayed: first for his mother’s quick recovery; second for the forgiveness of the black mark he had put on his soul; and third for the safety of Hank.
It occurred to him he need not ask for anything more.
The death of Captain Raoul Dupré would accomplish all three.
* * *
* * *
IT WAS A sad parting for Zebulon Moore, but a quick one.
As soon as the animals were in the barn, with meal for the chickens, raw meat for the dog, and pans of water for all—the door was shut. Zebulon bagged some fruit and vegetables for Quinn and himself, they filled their canteens, and then Quinn and the proprietor were out on the open range before morning was very old.
They did not talk, and Zebulon did not ask anything of Quinn. He just rode beside, a little behind, the man with no memory. Each man wished to be alone with his private thoughts and feelings.
Quinn was happy to give the man his privacy and was not especially happy to be alone with his own thoughts. A man whose past went back a little more than a day did not have much to chew on, except to think about Jane and Douglas and the mystery of the man who had abandoned him and the woman who seemed to have done the same. He wondered if he had been a happy man. It did not feel like it. Had he not recalled any of that, had he stayed with Jane—if she had wanted him to stay—he wondered if he would have been a happy man.
It was after an hour or so of riding, of sitting in a sun that exceeded the intensity of the day before, that Quinn began to feel dizzy. He drank water, ate an apple, removed his hat, and fanned himself. The bare wound throbbed hot where the sun glared at it. Quinn doubled the reins around his hands and held them tighter.
“You want to stop?” Zebulon asked.
“No. Maybe if we find some shade around noon—”
That was the last thought Quinn had before the heat on his scalp seemed to sear itself inward, like boiling water on snow. He bent over, crying out as pain flowed around the sides of his skull. He dropped the reins and grasped the sides of his head.
Zebulon rode closer on the right side. He took Snowcap’s reins as the horse began to shy. He steadied the mount so Quinn did not slip off.
“I’m right here,” Zebulon said softly. “You need to get off, you tell me.”
If Quinn heard, he made no sign. His forehead was pressed to the horse’s blond mane, and his eyes were tightly shut, though he vividly saw pulsing red swirls on both sides, like a whirlpool draining. “Zebulon—”
“Right beside you.”
Quinn thrust out his right hand, gripped the other man’s shirt. “He was my friend! We argued about the mission. He clubbed me.”
“No one’s hitting you now.”
Quinn shook his head slowly, the movement causing the pain to explode.
“Before that,” he said through his teeth. “We were chasing . . . killers. Graybacks. They were sent . . . to assassinate . . . Juárez!”
The madness of the pain brought sudden, excellent clarity while making it difficult to speak. The mission rolled out backward from the confrontation with Beaudine in the desert to the hunt through the moorings and men in Ensenada to the departure from Apple Town . . . to Aggie-Rose.
“God! Jesus!” Quinn yelled as Zebulon pulled harder to steady Snowcap and now his own jumpy mount.
Deciding to dismount, Zebulon moved ahead a few paces to give himself room, then slid off without letting go of either set of reins. He felt like he had in his buffalo days, when veteran horses were suddenly panicked by proximity to the big herds.
Soothing Snowcap, which quieted his own horse, Zebulon helped Quinn from the saddle. The man could not stand on his own, so the onetime frontiersman took him in both arms and carried him several feet from the animals. The horses remained where they were, now that the apoplectic rider was gone.
The older man laid his companion on the hot sand, there being nothing else but scrub where, he knew from experience, biting bugs and lizards had a habit of dwelling. Zebulon went back and got Quinn’s canteen and hat, wetting the other man’s face with a little spill of water before laying the hat over his eyes. Quinn was breathing hard and heavy, his hands scratching at the dirt.
Zebulon knelt on one knee beside him. “What do you need, friend?”
Quinn shook his head and instantly regretted it. The fires burned fresh inside, causing him to gasp. “Have to . . . keep . . . still,” he said. “Am I bleeding?”
“Nope. Whatever got cracked must’ve got jarred again.”
“Yeah. Like it just happened . . . but with a different end.”
“What do you mean?”
“Instead of forgetting, I’m remembering.”
“That’s what all that jabber was about,” Zebulon said. “You some kind of ranger?”
“No. No, Bill is a Pinkerton . . . hires me from time to time. We fought about leaving those men alive, the Confederates. One of them took me prisoner after I woke. I escaped and . . . you know the rest.”
“I do,” Zebulon said mournfully.
Quinn’s hand sought the man’s arm. “I’m sorry for what happened and my part in it. If I had realized who we were dealing with—”
“But you didn’t, and you bear no blame. Don’t carry that.”
Quinn nodded once, lowered his arm, and sunk back in the sand. It was strange that this was nearly how he started—only now he had clothes and memory and the pain of betrayal by two people who were close to him. He liked it better when he had been heedless and blundering.
“Listen,” Zebulon went on, “we can’t risk moving you till you’re recovered somewhat. You keep having spells like that, you’ll frighten the horses. And it won’t do you no good.”
“I know.”
Zebulon looked around. “I can rig some kind of shade with scrub. Used to pile it close for warmth in winter when I was hunting and got snowed in. Mesh all the little vines, build a wall. No reason it shouldn’t work to block the sun. Won’t be much, but you won’t fry.”
“Thank you. I’ll only need it—a short while, I think. Then we have to go.”
“You know where to? You remember that?”
“I do.”
“Is that where those grays are headed?”
Quinn nodded carefully.
“That’s all I need to hear.”
“Where are we now?”
Zebulon looked up, squinting. “Judging by how far we rode, and where the sun is, I’d say about a half day’s ride north of Oak Ridge or southwest of Apple Town.”
“That puts San Francisco due west . . . maybe a day’s ride.”
“It’s about that, if you push.”
“We’ll have to,” Quinn said.
“I been to San Francisco. There’s not much there. Why do you want to go?”
“That’s where Juárez is headed. The assassins, too, most likely. And Beaudine. He’s going to be there.”
“You got yourself a big roll call there. You gonna be up to it?”
“Yeah.”
“I like your grit if not your common sense,” Zebulon said. “But I’m that way, too.”
Patting the man on the shoulder, the former buffalo hunter went off to collect tumbleweeds and pull brush from the few verdant patches.
When the older man was gone, Quinn grinned—at himself. As his life returned to him, he remembered being asked questions by every ranch foreman or cavalry officer he hired out to in Montana. Yes, he could sneak into a rival spread and cut their horses free the day before a drive. Yes, he could get into an Indian encampment and outstalk those famed stalkers to cut the throat of a shaman preaching war against the settlers. Yes, he could get behind Confederate lines and burn the command tent while everyone was inside—then wait and hamstring anyone who tried to put water on the blaze. He had grown up in Michigan, in wild timberland, where he lived with his parents and two younger sisters in a cabin. His father had been a lumberjack who was crippled by a falling tree. His mother nursed him until he died. If the boy had not learned to outwit wolverines for prey, they would not have survived. Quinn had learned to move so quietly, upwind, that he did not bother to kill his competitors: When quail or rabbits ran from those predators, he was waiting on the other side.
When the Quinn women moved to the Great Lakes region to work as bookkeepers for shipping and industry, the surviving man of the house took his heave and went west. He remembered now that it had always been his ambition to continue moving west until he reached the Pacific. It was ironic that he was on the verge of achieving that goal after forgetting he even had it.
All I have to do is succeed here and head up the coast, he told himself. He had sent his savings to a bank in San Francisco, and with his wages for this job, he would be set for whatever opportunities presented themselves on the infamous, bustling Barbary Coast. Perhaps a knife shop. He’d never want for business there.
And then it struck him, a welling of fullness and loss at the same time. One that pushed his old self back where it had been—in the past.
Jane.
She might not want him, he thought. Or San Francisco, however much it might help Douglas grow into a man who could get schooling and learn a trade. Would he give up his dream to stay with her?
I’m forgetting I got some mountains to scale first, he reminded himself. Assassins who had a mission and a reason for wanting Quinn as dead as their former cause. Something else he had learned in Michigan came back to him as well: Don’t eat the kill till the wolverine is beat. They had a way, especially in winter, especially when cornered, of coming after you and your victory.
Shutting his eyes, Quinn welcomed the crinkling sound that was Zebulon building his little wall. It did not cool him worth a Richmond dollar, but it did push back the white light that had gotten inside his head and burned through his forgetfulness. He smiled as he remembered—as though reading them for the first time—the letters that told him how “little” Angel and Patricia Quinn were now Angel Wellington and Patricia Waters. He remembered his mother writing: P.S. Your father was your age when we wed.
Thomasina Quinn had not needed to write more than that.
The red circles had faded to an amber unity, and the pain in Quinn’s head had subsided considerably. His breathing relaxed, and his heart took kindly to repose, and his thoughts blended into a dream.
Save for the last one, which clung like a burr. The fact that he had been right about one thing. It was easier to plan for tomorrow when he knew far, far less about his past. . . .
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AUGUSTINA-ROSE SANCHEZ HAD left Beaudine asleep in the bedroom and gone to her writing desk. It was not to work on one of her plays but to write in her diary. She had kept it since she went to work for Pinkerton, thinking the adventures of an actress-turned-spy would make a delightful show.
It might have, had it not been her life. That kind of play was like the military adventure that had enjoyed a long run in Denver, How General Grant Won the War. She had costarred as Grant’s wife, Julia, mostly sitting at home sewing or praying as the fortunes of a sundered nation played out.
In her diary, she could confess to her sins and confusion. What did she feel toward Beaudine: gratitude for this life or loathing for the price, even though she did love him? What had she felt for Quinn? She had persuaded him to take a job, but she did finally care for him. He was rough and wild and—
“A cutthroat murderer,” she muttered.
But there was yet something innocent about him. She sat with the book open, the blank page bright with early-afternoon sunlight rather than with freshly inscribed thoughts, the ink dried on the tip of her pen as she did aught but reflect.
She went to the kitchen and had a slice of the apple bread she bought from Frau Mack. She peeled and ate a carrot. While she ate, she stopped thinking about the past and looked at the future. A bag was always packed for a quick departure, so all she had to do when Beaudine woke was change. She had not bothered to dress fully after leaving the bedroom; she was wearing only her white silk robe with lavender floral embroidery. The angle of the sun at this hour would prevent anyone on the street from seeing her. For all its diverse population, Apple Town still expected modesty from its women.
Not that there would be many people about at this time. The main street was burned from above by the sun and by roasting dirt from below, and only men going to the saloon for refreshment were out.
Except for the two who rode in in the late afternoon.
Aggie was sitting at her desk, rereading a portion of her play, with her guest still asleep, when she heard the clop-clop of a trio of horses—two full of rider, one empty by the lighter sound of it. She looked up by habit and saw, as the animals walked by, the passing of dirty gray fabric on two pants legs.
Former Rebels were not uncommon in an amnesty melting pot like Apple Town. But a pair of them riding slow from the plains, straight toward her, when two Rebels had been in pursuit of William Beaudine—that struck her as possibly unhealthy. Especially if they saw and recognized his horse settled out front. Fortunately, it was tied behind hers, from where they were coming. And their heads were down, like they were half drowsing or avoiding the sun, which was in their faces.
Rising, she went to the front door and pulled back the dainty lace curtain that hung on the glass panes at the top. Unless the men were just passing through, she saw the tail end of them heading toward one of the two things left on that side of the street: the general store or the rail yard.
They stopped in front of the general store just a dozen yards from where she stood.
Her heart pushing against her ribs, she let the fabric slip back and turned into the room to consider what she should do. If the men were after Beaudine, they could not know he was with her. Even if they asked Mr. Levey, the owner, he would not know Beaudine by name. Since joining the Pinkertons, Aggie did not use names when discussing her life or who her callers were.
If they aren’t here for Bill they’re here for supplies, she decided. She peeked out again. The men had not sought a stable but left their horses saddled. Either they were not intending to stay more than an hour or two, or they wanted to be prepared for a quick getaway.
With nothing on but her robe, Aggie went outside and walked Beaudine’s horse from the hitching post to the fence along the side of her house. It was a narrow spot, but it was the side she shared with the church. Father Sherman was making rounds of the two outlying ranches near Truckee. Even if he was here, he might be puzzled but not argumentative about the animal.
Returning to the bedroom, where it was dark and filled with a sleeping man, Aggie grabbed her clothes and changed in the hallway. It was haphazard without a mirror, fixing the high neck of the v-shaped dress, but she would not be out for very long, and Mr. Levey had sad vision to begin with. She hoped that the other men were inattentive. They had seen her in Ensenada, and she them—albeit she had been dressed like a dockside flower vendor then, dirty and with cuttings in her unkempt hair. Before going outside, she took a parasol to shield her from the daylight—and from the men.
And a derringer from a drawer in her secretary. She kept the gun in her right palm at her side.
The cross breeze that kept the cottage tolerably warm was not present in the street. She opened the parasol and walked briskly to where the horses had been tethered. They were drinking greedily, and two of the animals were sweating. They had been traveling for quite some time.
She entered the store, and the bell jangled above the door. Mr. Levey was with the two men in the small dry goods section of the store. He squinted over with eyes dimmed from years of prospecting up and down California, and bowed courteously.
