Death Valley Drifter, page 23
The French and both Confederates were in the custody of J. T. Clark and his local constabulary, who had escorted them to the hospital. Martins would be charged with the murder of Elizabeth Moore, Voight with sedition and the attempted assassination of the president of the United States.
Amidst the hubbub and the crowds, Beaudine sought, but did not see, Jason Quinn. He was directed to Chief Clark, who watched with the eyes of a seabird for any other criminal acts.
“He’ll be out shortly,” the tall, clean-shaven man said, the brass buttons of his uniform near blinding. He nodded his head upon stately shoulders toward a telegraph office behind him. “It’s already been determined that every act he committed was in self-defense. My men are arranging for him to provide statements about the other two. We’ll want one from you, too, sir.”
“I will furnish that with pleasure.”
Aggie was off seeing to Jane and her son, making sure they had medical attention from the president’s own surgeon, who was treating them in the carriage that had brought the president from the railroad station. Zebulon Moore made sure they had food and drink from Barbary Bea’s. He charged it to the governor of California, feeling that if Henry Huntley Haight could advocate for the rights of the defeated South, he could treat loyal members of the Union to lunch.
When Quinn finally emerged from his interview, hat in hand and turning it round thoughtfully, he found Beaudine waiting for him. He was holding a bottle of Scotch the president had given him on the train. It had not yet been opened.
“Walk with me?” Beaudine said, extending a hand toward the cobbled lane that went along the docks.
“All right,” Quinn said.
The men turned to where the crowds were thinner and people went about their personal business.
“I’m sorry about what I did,” Beaudine said sincerely. “I most truly am.”
“I believe that,” Quinn said.
“That from me?” Beaudine asked, indicating Quinn’s head.
“Yeah.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah.”
Quinn did not bother telling him about his lost memory or anything else that had transpired. He was done with this business, this life, and every part of it.
“Did you prove what you had to prove?” Quinn asked.
“With your help, I did,” Beaudine replied. “I couldn’t tell you about the French. Mr. Pinkerton and President Grant did not want them turning back. We want their fleet to turn back, and now it will.”
“I understand. It’s a stinking business, but there you have it. I notice Aggie came back in.”
“I didn’t know where you were or what you were doing,” Beaudine said. “I needed backup.”
Quinn nodded. “I’m glad it all worked out.”
Beaudine stopped, offered the bottle. “Drink?”
“I don’t think so, Bill. I said I understood—not that I forgave.”
Beaudine looked at his companion with a trace of sadness in his eyes and smiled. He nodded, then cocked his head toward the carriage. “New friends?” he asked.
He looked over, felt nothing when he saw Aggie. “They’re the best things to come out of this. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be joining them now.”
“Sure.” Beaudine extended his hand. “Will you take that, at least? In gratitude if not friendship.”
Quinn clasped it. “For that, I will.”
After turning, Quinn walked toward Zebulon and the Smiths. Aggie saw him coming and, with a smile and a respectful tip of the head, swept away to join Beaudine. Against his own wishes, he watched her go with a sideward glance, saw her embrace her Pinkerton man as she had done the last time they had been together. Only this time, it meant nothing to Quinn.
Reaching the coach, he was introduced to Dr. Orville Soderbergh.
“Save for a few cuts and bruises, they are fine,” the portly surgeon said. “I’ll leave you to them, unless there’s anything you need.” The physician squinted. “That bump on your head?”
“No, thanks, Doc,” Quinn said. “I’m afraid you fiddle with it, you may cause me to forget things.”
“A scalp wound is a tricky thing,” the doctor agreed. “Make sure you don’t do anything to hurt it. Amnesia can come sudden and deep, like a dust storm.”
The others just smiled as he took his bag.
“If you need anything, I’ll be seeing to the prisoners at the hospital,” Soderbergh said as he left.
Zebulon watched him go, pressing his lips together firmly. For the first time in memory, he did not say what was on his mind: Hurt the one named Martins for me, Doc.
“I’ll trust in my president to see that justice is served,” Zebulon said, unprompted and grave.
Quinn regarded the man, his own expression somber. “The man will hang. I guarantee it.”
“I expect he will. It won’t bring my darling Liz back, but she and I will rest better.” The frontiersman sighed and looked at Quinn. Then his eyes rose toward the south and squinted generally homeward. “I’ve got a dog and chickens to check on—or at least a well-fed dog, unless the birds pecked him to death. I’ll be taking leave of you all.” He extended his hand to Quinn. “I can’t say I’m glad we met, but I will state before God that I am honored to know you.”
“I feel the same,” Quinn said, shaking the man’s big hand. It felt better, richer than Beaudine’s.
Zebulon made his farewells to Jane and Douglas in turn, then went to find out where whoever had taken the horses had put his.
“The Mexicans have it,” Jane told him. “I saw them move them with the coach.”
He thanked her and set off across the crowded wharf.
“He’s a good man,” Quinn said. “I’ll miss him.”
“He’s going to miss that woman something terrible,” Jane said. “They were quite a team.”
Sitting inside the shaded coach, with Douglas beside her and the driver feeding the horses up front, Jane cast soulful eyes on Quinn. “Where are you bound, Jason?”
Douglas chuckled behind her. “It still sounds funny. Mind if I call you Hank?”
“You can call me whatever you like, Mr. Douglas Smith,” Quinn said before he turned his eyes toward Jane, then toward the gleaming city spreading across terrain that was blessedly not flat. He inhaled deeply the salt air of the bay. “San Francisco is where I always intended to go, except I was constantly getting sidetracked with earning enough money to do something when I got there.”
“What would that be?”
“I rightly do not know,” he admitted. “Look at it, all full of opportunities . . . and civilization. I figured I’d settle that when I got here and found out what was needed.”
“I see,” Jane said, eyes downcast.
“First, though, I was thinking. We should probably go back to your cabin and collect your goods, get a wagon. I mean, that is if you and the boy are intending to come with me.”
Jane’s eyes snapped up at the same time as the boy’s smile split both cheeks. He raised his sharpened stick in triumph, nearly piercing the red velvet ceiling of the coach.
“I think I would have withered right here if you hadn’t asked,” Jane said.
After she stepped from the carriage and put her arms around Quinn, the two embraced as the world buzzed around them and the future loomed as big and bright as the Pacific.
About the Authors
Ralph Compton stood six foot eight without his boots. He worked as a musician, a radio announcer, a songwriter, and a newspaper columnist. His first novel, The Goodnight Trail, was a finalist for the Western Writers of America Medicine Pipe Bearer Award for best debut novel. He was the USA Today bestselling author of the Trail of the Gunfighter series, the Border Empire series, the Sundown Rider series, and the Trail Drive series, among others.
Jeff Rovin is the author of more than 150 books, fiction and nonfiction, under his own name, under various pseudonyms, or as a ghostwriter, including numerous New York Times bestsellers and over a dozen of the original Tom Clancy's Op-Center novels.
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Jeff Rovin, Death Valley Drifter
