Death Valley Drifter, page 22
The people, the train, the platform seemed to soften from view, leaving only the agent and the president behind. Martins knew, at that moment, what John Wilkes Booth had had to feel five years before, in the president’s box at Ford’s Theatre: the weight and glory of history, a point of light that obliterated everything that came before and might come after. All that existed was the task, the honor of his forebears on his shoulders.
Even as he felt this, thought this, his hand was reaching into his new coat for the Colt Lightning revolver. Two, maybe three shots and the Pinkerton, the guard, the president would fall in quick succession.
“Cover me!” Martins heard himself say, half turning to Voight as the gun cleared his coat.
A small flash from the direction of the lady, from a derringer, and a sharp pinch in his waist caused Martins to freeze momentarily. The crowd went silent and motionless at the pop. They scattered and screamed as a louder sound put a hole in the man’s stomach and doubled him over.
Behind Martins, fully exposed as he fell, Voight stood with his own revolver in his hand. He turned, like a buck fleeing from a springing mountain cat, but even the thinning crowd slowed him.
The confused soldier turned toward Beaudine, backed off, and pointed the rifle in his direction.
“Get out of my way!” Beaudine shouted as he pushed past, following the fleeing Confederate.
Behind them, Aggie grabbed the soldier’s rifle and pushed the barrel toward the ground. “He just saved the president, man!” she shouted.
The confused soldier turned toward the two running men, joined by another officer while the remaining men circled the president and hustled him back on board the train.
His legs churning, Beaudine overtook the panicked Rebel. He grabbed him by a fistful of left shoulder with one hand and jammed the gun to his spine with the other.
“Stop or die!” Beaudine shouted.
Voight scraped the soles of his boots into the ground and raised his hands. Beaudine seized the six-shooter that was in one of them and jammed it in his belt. Still holding the man’s shoulder, he yanked him around as Aggie and the two guards came up behind him.
Frowning at the face that was lit now by the orange rays of the new day, the Pinkerton man put the barrel of his Colt up under the man’s nostrils and cocked the hammer.
“Where’re the other two men? And the French column?”
Voight was surprised by what the man knew. He blurted, “Stevens is dead, killed by Quinn at the way station. Maria, the French—I don’t know. I swear.”
“Who is their target?”
Voight had recovered himself somewhat and did not answer. Beaudine rolled his lips together as though that would keep him from firing.
“Bill,” Aggie said. She did not touch him for fear of releasing what was inside of him—weeks of planning, days of pursuit and flight. But her voice alone had a calming effect.
He lowered the gun, and the soldiers took Voight between them. The major in charge of the detachment had walked over and faced Beaudine. He was an older man with one eye. He knew battle fatigue when he saw it, and the unsought, unintended responses it caused. He pushed Beaudine’s Colt farther toward the ground. His good eye briefly lit on the Pinkerton badge.
“The lady tells me you have a story to tell.”
Beaudine looked up at the creased orange face and proud eye patch. “Yes, Major. But first I have a request.”
The officer drew his shoulders back, tacitly asserting command but showing a willingness to listen. “And that is?”
“We have to get this train to San Francisco,” Beaudine told him. “Other lives are in danger.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
QUINN’S PLAN, SUCH as it was, had been simple and elegant.
Throughout the daylight, the two men had kept a considerable distance from the column, two travelers on the same well-established road and nothing more. At night, the plan had been for Zebulon to move off to the north, where there were hills, while Quinn slipped into the camp to try to free the Smiths. It was as good a plan as any, Quinn had felt, as long as the men stopped.
They did not.
Quinn was not sure why the line pressed on, though the road was flat and relatively free of gullies and sand pits—a hazard on the plains.
“We only have about a half hour of darkness,” Quinn finally said to Zebulon. “I don’t think they’ll be stopping until they get where they’re going, probably San Francisco.”
“Seems likely. You think they’re part of this plot?”
“I don’t know. I was not the best informed of men.” Quinn studied the slow-moving line. “Yeah, I’m going to go in. I’ll try for the boy first, bring him to you, then go back for his mother. You take off and get the boy to safety.”
“That’s a suicidal errand, friend Quinn. Even if you get yourself out, which is unlikely, as you’ll be shielding the boy from gunfire, they’ll have the woman surrounded. You sure they been abducted, those two?”
“They would never have up and left, and they definitely wouldn’t have been separated. Or riding under the restraint of someone larger.”
“Okay, all that’s fair. In that case, I say we ride in and take them. Just grab them off their horses before it gets light. I’m guessing those boys are about as tired as I am, so they won’t be too fast or too sure with their guns or pursuit.”
Quinn considered the plan. He could not think of another one.
“Of course, we could just wait and see where they end up,” Zebulon suggested. “It might not be something bad.”
“The way Douglas looked at me didn’t suggest he was going someplace he wanted to be.”
“Then we have our plan. ‘Let the hooves and bullets fall as they may,’ I used to say when bison got itchy and stampeded the way they are prone to.”
Quinn was still thinking. He did not like Zebulon riding into a situation like that or the Smiths riding out of it.
“Tell you what,” Quinn suggested. “Why don’t we just ride in and ask to join them? Worst they can say is no, in which case we grab the boy and his mother and ride.”
“I have no way of knowing if that’s a better plan, only a different one,” Zebulon said. “I’ll go where you do.”
“Makes sense to try and find out more before we charge in,” Quinn said.
The two kicked their horses to a quicker pace. The column had slowed, and they overtook it before the horses had worked much. The men took opposite sides of the column, Quinn on the north side, where Jane Smith would be. The moon would be enough to show her face, if her shawl was down.
The riders looked back as the men galloped toward them, Jane turning with them and seeing Zebulon for the first time. Her eyes reflected the moon in their round fullness, and her exposed mouth was wide, still, and surprised. He smiled at the woman, pointed to the south, and fell in beside her. Quinn arrived simultaneously, riding beside Captain Dupré but looking past him at Jane. Their eyes met. Maria, still behind Jane, had to feel the fire.
“Speak English?” Quinn asked the man, who, up close, did not look Mexican.
“I do.”
“Mr. Moore and I were wondering if you had a map,” Quinn said. “We’re trying to get to San Francisco, but he says this is the road to the capital.”
“I’m afraid we cannot help you,” Dupré replied with a stern French accent.
“I see. Well, then, how about just allowing us the company of fellow human beings? Moore and I, we’ve been out here—”
“I’m sorry, but we are engaged in a private matter that does not admit outside participation. If you will—”
Quinn leaned to his right, reached across with his left hand, and grabbed the man’s reins. Steadying Dupré’s horse, Quinn swung onto the man’s stallion, simultaneously drawing his knife, reaching around, and putting it under Dupré’s soft chin. Quinn held the reins tightly and kept the horse calm. His head pounded, but he refused to let that distract him.
“Jane!” he shouted. “You here by your own choice?”
“No,” she said. “Hank, be careful—”
“Name’s Quinn. Jason Quinn. And I want you to take my horse, with the boy on it, and get clear of these folks. Zebulon will go with you.”
“What about you?”
“Let’s go,” Zebulon urged, extending a hand that wasn’t holding his six-shooter. “It won’t pay to argue.” He looked past her at Quinn. “Not exactly the plan, you know.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that on this mission.”
Dupré was sitting very still, more for clarity than from fear. Certain that these men were likely with Beaudine, he shouted back, “Kill the boy!”
Jane screamed, and Zebulon spun his horse around, firing into the air in the hope of panicking the horses. He succeeded somewhat: Jane fell to the ground, and three of the men were reared off as well. The one riding with Douglas still had his seat and reached for his gun.
His heart drumming, Douglas dragged his stick across the horse’s neck. The animal bolted now, with Douglas remaining on its back while the man behind him was tossed hard to the dirt. The boy managed to stay seated while the horse ran off, Zebulon charging after him. The sun was just coming up, and he could see the boy clearly, the horse racing and leaping not far off.
Jane’s fall and the sudden departure of Zebulon caused the captain’s mount to kick as well. The animal’s first buck caused Quinn’s head to explode, and he lowered the knife, lost his hold on the horse, and fell onto his back. Dupré still had the reins and seized control of the animal.
Snarling, the captain reached for his holster and drew his revolver.
Jane recovered and threw herself across Quinn, feeling the tension in his body as he gripped his head. She held him, her cheek to his, expecting to die there, and that way. Except for Douglas, it was all right. It was good.
The shots she heard were from farther off than she had expected, and from behind. Dupré and several men shouted at once, and without releasing Quinn, she looked back across the plain.
There was a white coach with six armed men on or around it firing at the column. None of the Frenchmen fell but that was because, she presumed, the others had fired high. If the column dared to go for their rifles—
“Arrêtez-vous!” Dupré shouted at his men, apparently having deduced the same thing as Jane. The men in the distance wore the uniforms of the Mexican navy. They were accustomed to firing on rolling decks and did not miss unless they intended to.
The Frenchmen, or at least the few who had maintained control of their horses after the volley, did not return fire. The rest took a few moments to quiet their animals. And then, suddenly, save for the rolling, thinning cloud from the distant shots, the field was still and silent.
Jane turned her attention to the man now called Quinn. With gentle hands, she turned him onto his back and cradled his head.
“What happened just now?” he asked.
“The French surrendered to Spanish soldiers,” Jane said.
Quinn laughed through his pain. “Another army invading us?”
“Just a coach,” she said. “An ornate one. Don’t talk—rest your head.”
Quinn did as she suggested, though he knew at once who it was that had just saved them: no less than the president of Mexico, Benito Juárez. One Spanish officer and then another came to check on them. Jane assured both men that they were all right, that she was familiar with treating Quinn’s wound.
When the officers were gone, Quinn said, “You speak—”
“Spanish, yes,” she said. “Funny how that surprises Northerners. Out here, we deal with more Mexicans than we do Americans. Now hush.”
He lay back, obedient and spent.
Zebulon came riding back with Douglas, followed by the coach and its armed guards. Douglas flew from the saddle more than dismounted, stumbling as he knit his way through the unhorsed French with their arms raised. He dropped to his knees beside his mother and Quinn.
Jane released Quinn long enough to hug her son for the first time since before the adventure had begun. Quinn was well enough now to see the two, if not to smile.
The hug was tight but quick, the boy breaking it to bend over Quinn.
“Are you okay, Hank?” he asked.
“He has his memory back,” his mother told him. “His name is Jason Quinn.”
“Jason.” The boy smiled, then scrunched his face critically. “Which do you like better, Hank?”
The man was about to answer when Jane put a hand on his mouth, encouraging him to rally before saying any more. It was just as well, Quinn thought. He was going to say “Pa.”
The Mexican contingent disarmed the French, and Zebulon took lariats from several horses to cut them into bonds. The former frontiersman took a bayonet from one of the French saddles to cut it.
As Zebulon stood apart from the prisoners, not far from the coach, Capitán Donato Ortega strode over, his white breeches gleaming in the sun. He was an imposing figure, younger than Zebulon by about a score of years, but poised beyond his age. He had swapped his rifle for a pair of pistols that swung freely at his sides. The men introduced themselves.
“Probably feels good to stretch,” Zebulon said in passable Spanish.
“Yes, but especially to take on the enemy,” the officer replied. “We had heard the French might be pursuing us, intelligence from American agents.” He pointed one of the revolvers ahead. “That man I just checked on—who is he?”
“One of those intelligence folk. Name’s Quinn. He and a Pinkerton named Beaudine blew up a thing against your president in Ensenada, he told me.”
“What happened to those men?”
“Quinn killed one of them at my way station in Oak Ridge. The other two fled after they killed my wife. Don’t know where they are.”
“I am deeply grieved and grateful to you.”
Ortega swept off his bicorne and maintained a moment of respectful silence as he looked toward the front of the line, where Contraalmirante Allende had discovered his daughter among the French. After a moment of initial shock, the officer had put duty before family and left her with the French before joining Ortega to check on Quinn and Jane. Though his posture was formal and his expression stoic, his eyes showed loss and bewilderment.
It will be sorted out, Ortega thought, then looked back at the coach. The president had remained there, reluctantly, with the footmen. Juárez had wanted to come and see his rescuers, but Allende and Ortega feared his presence might incite the captives to new spirit.
And as Ortega had pointed out, there were still assassins afoot.
Ortega returned his hat to his head after Zebulon had finished cutting the ropes. Then the officer bowed to the man. “I thank you again for your industry and sacrifice. I go to bring your intelligence to his excellency.”
Zebulon wasn’t sure what many of the Spanish words meant, those last in particular, but he returned the bow, and when Ortega had left, he began tying the hands of the Frenchmen to the pommels of their horses. When he was finished, he went and collected Snowcap, who had stood where his master had left him.
Zebulon turned the horse around and walked him the few paces to where Quinn had fallen.
“Brought you a friend,” he said, leading the big brown animal toward its reclining master. “Seemed a little lost.”
Quinn smiled. “Thanks, Zebulon. For everything.”
“Shhh,” Jane told him.
“I’m okay now,” he assured her, turning slightly to his side and causing her to frown. “I am. My memory stayed put, the pain is behaving better, and I’m surrounded by all that’s dear to me.”
He was looking at Jane, who smiled.
“Is that your real horse?” Douglas asked.
“Ever since he was a colt,” Quinn replied, still looking at Jane.
“So beautiful,” the boy said.
His eyes still fixed on the woman, Quinn replied, “Quite beautiful.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THEIR PROWS FACING toward the shore, hulls rocking serenely out of synchronization, the two warships were an imposing backdrop for the two presidents and the governor of California. With the verdant hills of San Francisco spread before them, the men stood still and full of purpose as photographers took their pictures and reporters shouted questions, which all three men ignored.
“They will have a statement after they meet,” the American president’s secretary assured the nearly three dozen men who had gathered, some of them having journeyed from Washington with the president.
Benito Juárez and his party had ridden into San Francisco along the western spur of the Baker Road with the French prisoners in tow, hands bound and horses tied reins to tails to the coach. Those were the first photographs that had been taken, both Grant and Juárez posing tall and proud before the fallen French captain.
“That will sober those lunatic imperialists in Europe,” Grant boasted confidently.
The Mexican president was pleased and grateful when Grant extended a thick arm toward the building where the other surviving assassins were under guard.
“Let the anarchists try as they might, they will never pull our nations asunder,” Grant said, more to the reporters than to his fellow leader.
When the leaders had finally, jointly, and publicly expressed their gratitude to the “hidden men and lady of Pinkerton who averted a foreign plot,” as Grant put it, the two leaders departed for their meeting on board the USS Resaca.
Before the men departed, Beaudine took the opportunity to return the letters to Capitán Donato Ortega, who had ridden in with Juárez. The officer received them gratefully and, sharply saluting the American, promised to deliver them at once. The gold was given, with less ceremony, to Contraalmirante Esteban Allende. The desolate man received it with a father’s genuine gratitude. Maria had already been turned over to him, having committed no crime in the United States. With her only sin in Mexico having been robbing the exchequer—and with the French captain likely to be hanged for the murder of Sheriff Russell—her rehabilitation was likely.
