Death Valley Drifter, page 20
“Good afternoon, Miss Sanchez.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Levey.”
“I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“No need,” she replied. “I know where the books are. You can put a copy of Mr. Harte’s opus on my account.”
“Everyone’s talking about The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Sketches,” he said. “You’ll get my last copy.”
“I hope it is an inspiration to me,” she replied.
The two men were busy poking through pants and shirts that were folded on a shelf. They did not look up. Aggie took a moment to study them. The uniforms, and the men, were definitely those she had seen at the docks.
She turned down the aisle that had a selection of books, secured the volume, and left.
Her walk back to the cottage had an urgency that had not been present during her stroll. Those two men were not looking for Beaudine—or, apparently, their purloined letter. If they were, their uniforms would have been a calling card. They would have left them on to draw the man out. The men were also not on their way to San Francisco. Apple Town was in the wrong direction.
There was something else afoot, and Aggie went back inside to watch out and see where they went.
She had her answer ten minutes later, even as she heard Beaudine stirring in the bedroom. The men were headed northwest, where there was only one possible destination.
The railroad station at Truckee.
* * *
* * *
THE FRENCH COLUMN was up with the sun and moving at a brisk pace to the west. Jane and Douglas had both managed to sleep, from exhaustion rather than from peace of mind. They resumed the ride in the same positions, Jane with Maria in the front and Douglas in the rear. The woman was limp with fear, and she had to force herself to eat the apple and biscuit that were provided. Dupré did not seem so much invigorated by the rest as eager to reach their destination. His expression did not change, but his posture went from upright to forward, his eagerness exposed by small tics and backward glances along the line. With each passing mile or hill, he seemed to become more infected with purpose.
For his part, Captain Dupré was impatient to engage, to fulfill the task that had been set him by General Marais in Paris: to organize a pair of assassinations that would allow a fleet to land in Mexico, a fleet that would already have left Clipperton Island to the south. The land had been annexed by Napoleon III a little over a decade earlier and had been a useful port of call during the war against the Juáristas.
Initially, of course, the column was not supposed to participate in the attack. It was to be done by the Confederates working alone. But when that plan faltered, the captain had had no choice but to execute the backup plan and move in. The risk, of course, was that he or his men would be captured and identified, causing an international incident. But there were no American troops permanently stationed in the narrow region through which they would be traveling. And the risk, ultimately, was worth it. The French had been shamed with the other European nations being driven from Mexico. The humiliation had affected their credibility and effectiveness as an international power. That must be restored by this bold counterattack.
But the captain was also a thoughtful, thorough man. Before they set out this morning, he had taken a look around with his binoculars. He saw no one from the rise, neither man nor horse. The Smith boy had probably lied the night before, probably to spare himself punishment. Perhaps he had heard that his ear was to be forfeited. But if Douglas had not lied, then the column was being dogged by a mongrel who was well hidden.
Given the naïveté of a child, the truth could go one way or the other, the captain thought as they rode. After all, Douglas had blurted Hank’s name back at the cabin. That had been anything but subterfuge.
As he marched, he mentally reviewed the plans he had crafted in Mexico City—altered to accommodate the possible loss of the letters that would gain Maria access. She might believe in the three Confederates, but he had to know the expedition would not fail.
Juárez would reach San Francisco by frigate. That was certain. There was no way he could reach the city in time by coach. President Grant would reach San Francisco in his own vessel. The same reason applied: It was the only way to cover the ground between San Francisco and the meeting by the scheduled time. One man would have to cross from one ship to the other—whether by boat or by shore, it did not matter. The press would be there, the reporters and their cameras announcing the target. That was where the French, posing as cheering Juáristas, would strike.
It would be sudden and turbulent, and while half the unit was engaged there, the other half, if necessary, would go on board to strike at the other target. It would tax the men to be half here, half there instead of the boarding party that had originally been planned. But that required a person on the inside, and if Maria could not be that agent, incapacitating guards, then success had to come another way.
Divide the targets and conquer.
He had no doubt that Maria, with her great infatuation for him, would be able to kill. He had carefully nurtured her love in Mexico City. And on the farm outside Chihuahua where the rest of the French troops had lived raising animals for cover, the woman had successfully slaughtered chickens and pigs under their tutelage. And while there would be an advance ship of the French fleet to take her away after the raid, that was to ensure her silence. Captain Dupré would be remaining. He would work with the fallen aristocrats and the embittered churchmen to overthrow the soon-to-be-discredited Juáristas. He would rise on two continents: at home by restoring a French presence in North America; locally by restoring the influence and wealth of the nobility and the stolen lands of the clergy.
Just three months in the planning, since the presidential meeting was announced, and finally here, he thought with passions that were difficult to control.
No more harassing guerrilla skirmishes for the dozen French soldiers who had remained after the ousting of foreign powers. Here was a plan quickly but completely formed, down to the hiring of America’s fallen, the Confederates. By surviving or more likely by dying, they would stir their own downtrodden brothers into action by destroying the man who had crushed them, Ulysses S. Grant. No one campaign had ever been so ambitious, the assassination of two leaders to sow two rebellions.
Whichever plan the captain ended up executing, there was one advantage that had been added to their side—a gift of providence suggesting that God was on their side. Whether the French attacked from the inside out or the other way round, anyone trying to stop them would be faced with a daunting, delaying impediment.
The boy and his mother would be at his side every step of the assault.
* * *
* * *
MARTINS AND VOIGHT did not exactly feel like new men, but they felt less conspicuous than they had when they arrived in Apple Town.
They were spent to the marrow by their continuous movement, first their flight and now pursuit. They were glad that the settlement was every bit as isolated as they had heard. Save for the trees that filled well-tilled, distinctively manured plots before and behind every establishment, and in seven separate groves, Apple Town was as openly serene as any small Southern town the men had ever been in. There were not many pedestrians and no horses about, presumably due to the heat. People nodded in a polite but perfunctory way, but seemed as curiously uncurious as any townsfolk Martins and Voight had ever encountered. Even their uniforms caused no stir.
That was fine with them. They had been desirous of privacy and anonymity. They had been hoping for something else, too—that, as they had heard, the railroad ran late. Although this was a presidential cavalcade—as the newspapers had reported—it was still reliant on an expansive array of track subject to weather, geography, incident, and mechanical devices subject to failure. There would be, they hoped, an opportunity to rest in Truckee.
The men rode their horses back down Main Street for two of its four blocks and stopped in a place called Anna’s Table for a meal, the first they had enjoyed in six or seven days; they could not tell exactly how long ago Ensenada had been. Even the flight from the desert in pursuit of Beaudine had been a blur of movement and tactics. And that was not even two days ago.
The slaying the previous day of Elizabeth Moore still clung like campfire smoke, slightly noxious but unavoidable.
Large, white-haired, grandmotherly Anna came over with a slate containing the menu. Martins deflected questions from Anna about where they were from and where they were headed.
“We’re growers on a tour of the state,” he said vaguely, “seeing how California raises their apples and oranges.”
“Better than anywhere else in the U.S. of A.,” she said, then, considering the men’s Southern accents, added, “At least, those few states west of the Rockies where I have dwelt.”
“Southern peaches would be a wonderful addition to your agriculture,” Martins could not resist pointing out.
“I wish you luck. Frau Mack always said she wishes she had them and cherries.” The woman glanced past them out the window. “Three horses—all yours?”
“That’s right,” Martins replied. Martins forced a smile. “About that—tell me. There do not seem to be many people out.”
“They work in the morning and evening, by torch,” she said. “Some hunters are out getting meats for us and Mr. Levey, but mostly we wait for the winds to come from the Pacific, late afternoon. Makes things bearable.”
“Very wise. You don’t get many visitors, then?”
“Some, on the way to the railroad in Truckee. A few engineers come to check their trains and tracks. They’re all at the west end of town.”
“We saw. Has anyone new come in today?”
“Here?” She shook her head. “You might check the hotel, though they have to come here to eat and no one has. You expecting someone?”
“Oh, a man—slender, long face, dark hair, would’ve been tired out—expressed an interest in buying that horse. We met him down at Oak Ridge. We thought he might have come through here.”
“No one that I know of. But if you’re looking to sell—”
“Not especially. We brought it to carry any fruit that we purchase. I was simply curious what happened to him.”
The men ordered, and Anna took her slate and left. Martins and Voight found the woman banal and her eagerness to engage bordering on rude. Sovereignty was not all that had been lost when Robert E. Lee had surrendered. A bastion of good manners, too, had been trampled under.
It was a strange thought for a man to have after murdering a woman with scissors, Martins had to admit. The War had done that, too: a windstorm that turned everything on its side.
But the larger issues were too big for one man. Past those Rockies Anna had mentioned, life had been reduced to essentials. And right now the steaks were juicy, the potatoes filling, and the whiskey satisfying. That was all the men required. They paid with coins they had received at the general store in exchange for a gold nugget. Richard Levey had been only too happy to accept it as payment.
“Years of prospecting, this is the largest lump I ever held.” He had cackled with delight after determining that the nugget was, in fact, gold.
It was late afternoon, with the day beginning to cool somewhat, when the men got back on their horses and once more headed toward the general store and past the railroad yards in the direction of Truckee.
They were unaware of the two sets of eyes that did not adhere to the casually welcoming pattern of the others: a man and a woman who followed the men’s departure with sharp interest.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
JASON QUINN WAS instantly if dully awake. He was lying still on his back but with his hand snaking to his hip, like there was a brain in the palm and little eyes in the fingertips. It was the “old” Quinn, the restored Quinn, and he knew it. His head had no more than a headache, thumping a little but not significantly painful. He was able to open his eyes.
The sun was just up and night was creeping behind him quickly. The horses were tied to a rock a few paces to the north where there was grass. They were still saddled, which told him that Zebulon, at least, had not ruled out the need for a quick escape . . . or attack. Dark brown feathers swirled around him in the morning breeze. The smell of roasting meat came on every breath. What had caused him to wake was the sudden, sharp crackle of a fire that Zebulon was stoking. There were two birds, on spits, cooking over the fire.
“Sorry for the disturbance,” the older man said, turning toward him. “Fat dripping. Caught a pair of quails and thought you might want one. We ain’t ate for a time.”
“Thank you.”
Quinn eased up on his elbows. The pain in his head had definitely subsided. He relaxed his knife hand and a warm, damp kerchief slid from the top of his head when he rose.
“Prairie doctoring,” Zebulon said. “I figured you needed that more than your hat on your face, overheating things.”
“Thank you again,” Quinn said, rolling his shoulders and stretching stiff legs. “Did you rest any?”
“Some. Just to knock the fuzz from my eyes. Figured I could afford that. Horses is good alarms.”
“Did something worry you especially?”
Zebulon handed Quinn one of the spitted birds, taking the other for himself. Sitting up fully and holding the bird on the stick, Quinn was reminded of Douglas and his rabbit. He would have given a great deal to be back there, rid of this quest.
“What concerned me is that we’re only the rest of the morning’s ride from Baker Road,” Zebulon told him, pointing behind them, toward the southwest. “That’s the flattest ground out here to go east and west.”
“I’m assuming that’s why we went this way?”
“It is,” Zebulon said. “I figured if anyone was in a hurry to get to San Francisco, they’d eventually end up here.”
“Beaudine would be ahead of us,” Quinn said. “Maybe the Rebels, too.”
“Not necessarily. I didn’t see or smell any fresh horse patties. Also, there’s something else which speaks against what you said.”
“What’s that?”
Zebulon took a big bite of his bird and pointed northeast. “Been sitting here smelling horses since just before sunrise, coming from that direction. Likely someone was camped for the night and just set out.”
Quinn was now sharply alert. Because he was trained for hills and mountains, for conifer and elk—and for smelling what Indians sweat, wore, or ate—this land was still somewhat foreign to him. He had not noticed anything. “Any idea how many horses?”
“You can’t tell that from the smell. Could be a herd . . . or it could be two mounts that’s being pushed hard. All I can say for sure is they ain’t mules. Those smell different. Like camels I once saw at a show. Each of them is special.”
Quinn took a bite of meat, then stabbed the stick into the ground and recovered his hat from where Zebulon had left it secured on the ground by a stone. He shook off the dust, put his hat on, and looked under the brim toward the rising sun. He saw no silhouettes, but the wind was coming from just to the north where there were hills. Riders might be in among them.
“It could be anyone,” Quinn said.
“Or it could be one or more of those Rebels.”
The man was not wrong. Martins might have been slowed by his injury, or he might have taken a longer route to avoid another confrontation before his mission was completed. He and the other Rebel could have fallen behind Quinn and Zebulon.
Quinn looked around slowly, careful not to rattle his head. “If you’re right, there’s nowhere to hide the horses here.”
“No reason to. I’m not moving until I see who it is. If it’s the man who killed Elizabeth, one of us ain’t getting to San Francisco.”
Quinn continued to stare to the east as he retrieved the stick and ate more bird. He was as hungry as hell.
“We don’t want to invite an attack if it’s strangers,” Quinn said.
Zebulon bit down on his own bird. “I don’t intend to lay the horses down or be on them until I know what’s coming. You want to ride on and put some distance—”
“Don’t talk stupid.”
Zebulon smiled through a mash of bird. “I cannot tell you how many times those same words came from the mouth of my Elizabeth.” He glanced up. “You still with me, sweetheart? If you are, I’m willing to join you whenever the Lord says, though I ask you to look after my friend here. He’s a good man.”
Quinn was touched by the sentiment but had no time to consider it. Zebulon rose suddenly, his experienced eyes staring just north of the rising sun, his rawhide hand forming a salute to block it.
“There’s dust,” Zebulon announced. “Eat fast.”
Both men finished their meal, and Zebulon fetched his rifle from the horse. He set it on the ground near the fire and sat beside it. He was already wearing his six-shooters.
“You want one of the Colts?” he asked Quinn.
“No, thank you.” He filled his right hand with a Bowie knife and felt it, got on his knees, flipped it up.
“You were pretty sharp with that earlier,” Zebulon said. “And you didn’t even know who you was then.”
“Some things you don’t forget,” Quinn said, and slipped the knife back into the sheath with easy precision. “And some things get a little better when you remember.”
The men were seeming portraits of contentment by the time the rolling cloud became moving horsemen. Sitting out in the open like this, Quinn felt relief when he saw that they were not Martins and Voight. Zebulon felt disappointment, which he expressed with an oath. However, both men were quickly absorbed with trying to figure out who the riders were. They appeared to be a column of men, all in white, save for a woman riding up front with the leader.
