Death Valley Drifter, page 9
The man turned back and walked over, shaking his head like a starving elk that had just found a watering hole filled with mud.
“Friend, the name of this place once meant comfort and adventure to all who heard it. One of the drivers, now departed Nehemiah Smith—he used to tell folks they was in the best hands in the West when he would escort them here if the Injuns were warring, and then leave to hurry back to his wife and child. And he meant it. Now? Now it’s just me and my wife and our dog. And old Windy ain’t much of a hound at that.”
The man at the table had not even realized there was a dog until Zebulon broke a corner of bread from the loaf on the table and underhand-threw it at him. The golden dog belly-walked near, then stretched his neck and jaw as if the whole thing was nearly too much effort. After chewing down the treat, the dog apparently had the energy to go outside. Or else he, too, was tired of his master’s voice.
Zebulon stood beside his guest, who sat on the side of the table facing outside. The narration ended, the proprietor would now and then look out at the backyard, wince into the bright light, and watch his wife work over the oak bucket and washboard. Not once, however, from the time his guest had arrived through the serving of food and drink—for which his wife had briefly stopped her labors out back—had he stopped reciting the history of this station, his own essential function as a stableman for every teamster who drove a coach, and his dissatisfaction with the state of things.
Like so many old wounds, his bitterness kept the cause current.
As if silence signaled defeat, the man went on.
“The rail road,” he said, pronouncing it as two accursed words. “I seen it up close. With my own eyes, I watched it cough all over Apple Town on its way to Truckee. It was late by ten hours getting in, like a steer that had no fight left reaching the stocks in Abilene. I rode like the Express riders used to, and by God, I beat the dang thing to Truckee! And when it finally came coughing in, it was all ugly hot iron and choking engine smoke and mobs of riders who had been crushed by noise and unwanted fellowship. Too many for the train crew to give personal care, you know? Not like it was here. And that station?” he said, throwing up a hand. “Nothing more than a sooty room with birds and flies inside, plus chairs and a stove that didn’t work. I told my wife, ‘Elizabeth, you would not last a minute working there without grabbing that new turkey-feather duster you bought by post.’ It was not clean like here. Well, we don’t scrub every day like we used to, but this is still better. People used to appreciate that after a short hop on the stage lasting no more than the daylight hours, as you can see, as you can attest, sir, we provided whatever a traveler requires.”
Without passengers and fresh linen on the table and goods to vend, the man’s voice was a hollow echo of a structure. And Zebulon Moore, dressed in buckskins that had seen better times, was like the caretaker of a forgotten tomb, a tributarian without an audience of mourners—save himself.
Fortunately, William Beaudine required nothing more—unless it was silence, which it would have been ironic to ask for. And pointless. He knew men, knew them well, and nothing but a bullet, probably two, would silence this man.
It really did not matter. In his years as a detective, he had grown accustomed to shutting out nearby sounds, even in a busy saloon, to hear who might be riding into town and when. You learned a lot from the speed made by hooves on hard-packed dirt streets or wooden sidewalks.
But Beaudine also was not in a mind or mood to “attest” to anything, if a compliment was what Zebulon Moore sought. Upon arriving, he had shot the lock off the box he had stolen and examined the contents, and now he was considering them carefully. There had been three items, not the one he had been expecting. Three things that made a bad situation uglier.
The diner’s dark eyes were turned down with long black hair falling over them. His strong jaw chewing, he ate the stew of beans and chicken quickly, not because he was tired of hearing the owner of the way station but because he had to be on his way. He had made the decision to travel a little out of his way north to refresh himself. Lives—nations—were at risk.
Contemplating what he had done was pointless. He had bought himself time, perhaps only a little, off Quinn’s stubbornness. It was a decision forced on him, and done. What remained to do was the reason Beaudine ate in silence, letting the other man prattle on. He also ignored the sound of the utensils scraping or stabbing the metal bowl, the chewing in his own ears, and most especially any sounds from outside. At least Zebulon Moore was utterly lacking in curiosity. He did not ask anything about his guest.
Even if Beaudine had been interested, he also did not have time to waste on talk or something he needed more—rest. The horses needed it, too, and the only reason he was here was to let them feed, drink water, get some shade, and—one of them, at least—be free of someone bending his back.
Beaudine also wanted to make a delivery, and he would get to that soon enough.
Fortunately, the man was used to hardship, not just as a career but as a way of life. He was accustomed to enduring it but also managing it. Where in the Snowy Saw Range—the Sierra Nevadas—the temperature was cooler and the sun met its match when it climbed the towering, impenetrable peaks, breaks like these were necessary, he had learned long ago. Push yourself, and eventually, you lost more time than a rest stop would have saved. He loved it up there, and he had left because he had been summoned.
A telegram sent to him, general delivery, at the new and struggling town of Jefferson Cue in the foothills. Take the train to San Francisco. Meet Mr. JP—never a full name. Not where other eyes could see the message or the man himself.
The work was challenging, as always, though this particular job had not given Beaudine the time to prepare as carefully as he would have liked. The aggressive Pinkerton detective, whose motto was “Stop or Die,” knew that haste increased the chance of failure, though in this case he understood the need for it. Back in Washington, Congress was busy taking the first steps to putting together something that by all rights should have been turned on that body itself: an apprehension unit for the new Department of Justice. There was loud talk that the twenty-year-old group founded by Allan Pinkerton would land that contract.
“But only if,” the fifty-year-old Pinkerton had told him in their meeting in San Francisco, “only if we can convince President Grant that we are not just capable, not just exemplars, but superior to anyone else they might possibly or creatively consider.”
After all, President Grant was a former military man. He would be inclined to trust them; a military detachment perhaps with men culled from regional police forces was among the other ideas. Such men were trained to serve and would not drag departmental corruption with them.
But the president feared that such men would be subject to the same bias as he himself was: They would be more sympathetic to anyone who had fought in the war—certainly for the North, maybe for the South. The integrity of the enterprise would always be in doubt.
In that respect, and in terms of devotion to duty and reputation, Pinkerton was the only choice, which also meant that Beaudine could not afford to foul this up. He had to succeed, at any cost.
At any cost, he thought, feeling the kind of regret he could ill afford.
Pinkerton had emphasized those last three words in a way that left no mistaking the risks and leeway. Even if Beaudine or anyone else died in the attempt, he must not fail. Any possible injury, even to innocents, had to be considered dispassionately and within the larger framework. The men they were dealing with had to be stopped, and they were ruthless.
You got that information from Aggie and me, Mr. Pinkerton, Beaudine thought as he pushed his plate across the table and rose.
Zebulon had resumed talking about the Butterfield Overland Stage, littering his reminiscences with praise for the vision of John Butterfield. Beaudine had no opinion of the man other than, like Pinkerton, he was a visionary who had commanded and deserved respect.
Beaudine picked up his dirty white hat from the table and left a quarter-dollar coin in its place. The proprietor’s watery brown eyes went wide.
It was worth the extra cost to shut the man up, if only briefly.
“Thank you, sir!” the owner said, smoothing his mustache with his left hand while reaching for the coin with his right. He inspected the braid-haired lady on the front as if mistrusting her authenticity.
The payment was more than double the actual price. Beaudine had long ago learned that money bought discretion, a commodity whose value far exceeded its price.
Beaudine finished his glass of warm but wet pale ale and turned to the door. The nattering of the owner of the station resumed as the man followed him out. Beaudine saw the proprietor’s wide, strong-shouldered wife still washing laundry out back and waved. She was cleaning the cloth that he had seen on top of the vegetable garden when he arrived; it had been covered with bird droppings. Crows sat unmolested on the remains of crosses atop three graves well behind her. They scattered when the woman raised one sudsy hand and flicked soap at them; it was a dance they had apparently shared before when the birds trespassed. Casting a look back at the still retreating birds, the woman went back to her work. The big mutt of a dog lay flopped between her feet and the big basin, seemingly glad for every cooling splash that landed on him.
There was something world-weary but clear-eyed about the woman. And she was handsome in both her face and energy. In his forty-three years, Beaudine had known many saloon girls, a number of Mexican and Indian ladies, and a few bored Washington socialites who wondered about frontiersmen. But he had never known a frontier woman, and he wondered about them, too. Was she the aggressor when the door was closed? Did a woman like this attack everything like it was a vegetable-patch cover?
The proprietor continued to chatter. The Pinkerton man did not really hear what his companion was saying just now about the patio and a fiddle player. Beaudine was searching the southern horizon as he made his way to the hitching rail. It was clear. Not so the air out here. The yellow grass underfoot smelled foul—like death. Death of a place, death of an enterprise. He had to get away from here. Beaudine had stopped not just for food and respite, not just to clear the dust from his face and hands and to eat, but also to see—from a defensible shelter, should that be necessary—if there was anyone in pursuit. That applied not just to the men whose camp had been invaded, and the troops who Beaudine believed were riding hard to join up with them. It also applied to the man the detective had left behind, Jason Quinn.
Beaudine walked slowly to his horse, thinking about his old friend and colleague. Now, there was a man to set against a foeman. That was the reason Beaudine had hired him in the first place. Brave, with courage and knife skills, and also somewhat mad, Quinn could never have been a Pinkerton. He had no use for a standard code of conduct. But that was another reason any corporation, government, or individual hired the agency. It was something that had to be on the mind of President Grant. Pinkerton knew firebrands like Quinn and employed them as needed.
The road in the direction he’d come looked clear. There were no clouds in the sky, which meant no local rain to muddy the ground and keep dust from rising. The clearness meant that if anyone was headed this way, they were at least two hours off. That was how far the dust showed against a generally flat plain under a clear sky.
Beaudine stood beside the trough and looked at the stuffed leather satchel he had lashed to the second horse. The horse was a striking animal, dark brown with a blond mane. It was as majestic as the bundle was fat and ungainly, and everything he had taken from Quinn was in the leather-bound heap, including the sheath. That was in Beaudine’s saddlebag. Quinn loved that nearly as much as he did the horse, a gift from the widow of Jim Bowie himself. He would want that back more than he would want to take any kind of vengeance.
Beaudine turned to where the proprietor stood complaining now about the dry heat that reached all the way to the west from the desert. Beaudine pulled a dollar coin from his pocket. He held it so the sun shined in the eyes of the chattering man.
Zebulon raised a hand. “Say, watch that there—”
“Be quiet and listen,” Beaudine said. “This silver dollar is yours, and here’s what you’re going to do for it. You paying attention?”
The coin and the hand both came down. Zebulon was a changed, attentive man. “I’m listening.”
“Okay. Put this horse in your stable. Feed him, care for him, and keep him there. This satchel? Put it with the horse, out of sight, and leave them until one of two men comes for him. The first one would be me. If I don’t come back in a week, and the other man hasn’t come, the horse is yours—and burn the satchel.”
“Burn it?”
“The second is a man by the name of Quinn. But you only tell Quinn about the horse if he shows up alone. Do you understand all of that?”
Zebulon held out his bony hand and flashed his gums. “My friend, I do!”
“Fine. Repeat what I said.”
The man cast his eyes up, remembering. “Coulda used one of those pints,” Zebulon said, clearing his throat.
“Come on, you’re used to talking,” Beaudine replied, looking back at the southern horizon.
“All right now: You said that no one gets near the horse or satchel but you or Mr. Quinn, and Mr. Quinn only if he isn’t in the company of someone else.”
“That’s right. Now, don’t forget any of that. Also, tell no one other than Quinn I was here.”
“Is that for the same price?”
“You do everything as I instructed, and I’ll give you another dollar when I pass back this way.”
“And if you don’t come? You said— Well, you said you might or mightn’t.”
“I will get it to you somehow. My word.”
Zebulon grinned. “You seem trustworthy. You have a deal. Might I ask where you’re going? In case this Mr. Quinn wants to know.”
“He knows.”
“What if he forgot? And come to think of it, why do you have his horse instead of him?”
Beaudine was already impatient, and now he was growing irritated. “Our business is done, Mr. Moore.”
“If you say so, Mr. Beaudine. Sorry. I’m just naturally curious.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Don’t be shocked by Mr. Quinn’s appearance. He’s had a rough day.”
Zebulon snorted dismissively. “I’ve seen lots of folks with plenty of rough days under their belts. He won’t surprise me.”
“He may not have a belt,” Beaudine said as he passed the dollar to Zebulon.
“I won’t ask no questions. Oh, except what do you want me to do with the box you left?”
“Bury it.”
“It’s a perfectly good—”
“Worth dying for?”
“Huh?”
“Use it, someone finds it, they may think you took what was inside. They will want it back.”
“But I don’t have it.”
“Exactly. Keep it hidden, except for the man I told you about.”
Beaudine untied the reins and jumped into the saddle, refreshed and eager to get away from here. He looked back at the proprietor before he rode off.
“That better be more than a lick and a promise.”
“Mister, at the risk of sounding something other than modest, St. Peter’s got nothing on me. I’m a gatekeeper who also keeps my word.” He jerked his head toward the north. “Where you’re going, where the train is, where lost souls gather—that’s hell. Even got the fire in the maw of the big locomotive to prove it. The day that men like me don’t honor my word is the day it all falls apart.”
Beaudine looked south, and content, he looked down after settling himself for the long ride ahead. “I believe you, Zebulon. Thank the missus for me.”
“Sure thing. I’ve greatly enjoyed the jawing.”
Beaudine gave him a look as he reined the horse toward the southeast.
“Hey—you know you’re doubling back, heading inland, yeah?” Zebulon shouted after him.
“Thank you.”
“Most people here, they’re San Francisco bound!”
“To hell, you mean?” Beaudine said over his shoulder as he rode off, mercifully out of earshot.
“Yeah,” Zebulon said under his breath. “And who ever thought it would smell like oranges.”
As Beaudine headed into the plains, part of him—a large part—wished he were going the other way. He would rather get into this business now. But the contents of the box had given him an idea that required assistance. And there was only one place he could get it.
That being the case, things would get mighty sticky if and when Quinn caught up. But the mission came first, and that was all Beaudine could think about as he hurried toward Apple Town.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DON’T FORGET YOU’RE still injured!”
Jane Smith’s kindly, gentle words returned like a forgotten faith as Hank’s skull exploded with fire. No sooner had the man leaned into the bobbing head of his galloping horse than the world around him swam red and his grip on the reins lessened. He dropped them and instinctively wrapped his shaking arms around the animal’s powerful neck to keep from falling. He succeeded but just barely.
The swirling ruddy black opened briefly to reveal a woman. A handsome woman wearing a red floral-pattern day dress with detachable white cuffs and a frill collar. She was in a sunny room with a wooden desk and writing implements, an unlit lantern upon the desk. Her black hair was parted in the middle and pulled into braids.
She had a reason for doing that, he knew. It kept them out of the way when she rode, prevented damage from the wind and grit.
Framed by the hair was a big open face and a look of concern.
