Taking the High Road
Book 4: Thomas Yancey
Morris Fenris
Changing Culture Publications
Taking the High Road
Book 4: Thomas Yancey
Copyright 2015 Morris Fenris, Changing Culture Publications
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Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Thank You
About the Author
Book List
I
“Not much of a town.” Thomas Yancey, paused on the top step of a UP car rear platform as the engine up ahead huffed and puffed, cast a discerning glance around.
“Doesn’t have t’ be, brother.” From behind him, his twin, Travis, picked up both saddle and gear to hoist over one shoulder. “As long as there’s a saloon and a whorehouse handy, small suits me just fine.”
Thomas shrugged. “The place is named Chico. Guess you can’t expect much else.”
“Right. Let’s head on over to the hotel and find out about a room. I could do with some chow.”
In common with the rest of the prolific Yancey clan, these two possessed the same tall, rangy build, the same air of cool competence no matter what came along, the same long-sighted far-seeing gaze of the born trailblazer.
One aberration lay in their coloring. The hair of both had been cut conservatively, close to the head, as a rough, coarse, reddish-brown thatch; Thomas’ eyes shone light blue as aquamarine, Travis’ eyes gleamed green as Irish moss. As vexatious boys, bound straight for the devil, that was the only way their despairing mother could tell them apart, and punish accordingly. Although, for the most part, what wickedness one caused, the other was right there helping him.
The other aberration lay in their personalities. While Travis, the older twin by seven minutes, enjoyed rough-and-tumble banter, fist fights, and sex play, Thomas tended more to seclusion and gravity. Life was a serious business, coming at you straight on with no holds barred; he met it the same way.
“Barkeep.” Travis raised his voice slightly, to attract attention. “Bottle of whiskey, if you please.”
“Convenient,” murmured Thomas, from the splintery wooden table, where he had just pulled up a chair. “Got everything you want, all right under one roof.”
“Looks that way. Figure we’ll get us a drink, settle in, have some supper, and then find this Drayton fellah.”
“Why, I can help you there, gentlemen.”
A woman approached, smiling, carrying a tray with two small glasses and the inebriant of the day. She was preceded by the heavy stale smell of old perfume that tried—but failed—to mask the odor of unwashed body.
“If you’re lookin’ for Mr. Drayton, he was here earlier but said he had a coupla things to do. He’ll be back directly.”
“Why, thank you, darlin’,” drawled Travis, ever the gallant. “That’s almighty kind of you.”
She leaned forward with her offering—both the red-eye and her buxom self. “Oh, you Southern boys.” Her enthusiastic chuckle set an over-expansive bare cleavage to quivering. “You could charm a woodchuck right outa its burrow. My name’s Dorrie. Anything you want, anything a’tall,” her voice dropped into a lower register to purr, “you just let me know.”
With a companionable wink, her target lifted his glass to her in a salute. “Good t’ know, Dorrie. Catch you later.”
“Betcher boots, honey.” She sashayed away, swishing her corpulent bottom in its cheap short skirt.
Thomas was shaking his head with semi-admiration. “What a talent.”
“Just watch the master at work, Tom, boy.” Grinning, Travis leaned back in his chair and, settling in, crossed one leg across the other thigh.
“’D rather get this job goin’ and over with, if you could quiet down your ragin’ hormones for a while.”
“Now, Tommy, what fun is that? Howsomever, I take your point.” A quick swallow of the whiskey and a grimace of distaste. “Damnation. If that’s his best, I’d sure in hell hate to see his worst. So, brother of mine, reckon you’re gung-ho to chase down this gal and hand her back over t’ family.”
“That’s what Mr. Drayton’s asked us t’ do,” said Thomas dryly. “Through a personal request of President Johnson, no less. And this does seem t’ be a federal crime.”
“Must be nice, havin’ all that money and power. Just contact your great friend, the number one man in the whole country, and ask for the best of the best t’ come help out.” Chuckling, Travis tilted back a little, balancing the chair on two legs. A good trick, without walls as support, if you can do it.
“You ain’t gonna dispute that we’re best of the best, are you?”
“Not a chance. And it ain’t such a crowded field, is it? Ever since we got appointed as U.S. Marshals, I been itchin’ to try out somethin’ really serious, t’ make a name for myself. This could be it. You?”
“Ab-so-lute-ly. Rescuin’ a damsel in distress—why, the ladies would just flock to me. I could have my pick of ’em, little brother.”
Thomas’ face reflected disapproval of—almost antipathy toward—such a situation. “Marriage?”
“Marriage?” The chair slammed back onto the floor with a resounding crack. “Good God, no! What’n hell would I wanna get married for?”
A shrug, then a cautious sip of the offending whiskey. “Huh. That stuff is pretty bad. Paw woulda thrown it out t’ the hogs. Well, Trav, I been feelin’ the same way. After seein’ what the folks went through, havin’ all us kids runnin’ around…it’s enough t’ turn a man’s stomach.”
“Made ’em old b’fore their time, even if they did have the money t’ support us,” agreed Travis soberly. “I remember Maw, lookin’ so rundown and worn out.”
Thomas hooted. “She was rundown and worn out b’cause of us, older brother. We made her life a livin’ hell. Too many scrapes t’ even remember half of ’em by now.”
“Yeah, you’re right. And then we lost her, when Johnny was born.”
The twins sat silent for a moment, in tribute to a loving, caring woman whose presence in their lives was still missed. From the background came muted conversation and a few chuckles between the barkeeper and his willing helper, Dorrie. The clinking of glasses being washed and dried. The slam of a door somewhere. The whinney of a horse tied up at the hitching rail, and then another.
“Well, anyway,” went on Thomas, after the respectful pause, “that ain’t what I’m after. Tied down in marriage t’ one place, with a passel of kids? No, thanks. Sure don’t want no female leadin’ me around by a ring in my nose. I mean t’ keep my freedom, travel wherever I want and whenever I want. Got me a sugarfoot, Trav, and I ain’t gonna change till it’s time to cash in my chips.”
“That goes double for me. Jesus. The thought of
havin’ a wife just sends the creepin’ shivers up my spine. We got three of our brothers wedded, up in San Francisco—John first, then Matt, now James. Is there somethin’ about that city that bites men in the ass, makin’ ’em crave the weddin’ bed?”
“Dunno. Well, if it makes ’em happy…sure ain’t my cuppa tea, though. Want another drink, Trav?”
“What, that rotgut? Sure. Pour it in there, son.”
Each thinking his own thoughts, somber or otherwise, they partook in a second helping, one with an elaborate shiver, the other with a wry mouth. Upstairs, in what was considered the town’s hotel, a window crashed shut with enough force to break the glass. Someone outside began to strum a guitar, very loudly and very badly.
For the space of a heartbeat, the brothers simply looked at each other. Calmly, consideringly. Then Travis pulled out the deck of cards that went wherever he did. “High draw gets to shoot him.”
“That wouldn’t work, boys,” said a new voice, approaching. “You stop ol’ Ridley from playin’ out there, the next in line would show up. And he’s got six sons. I’m Gus Drayton. And you must be the Yanceys.”
“That we are,” agreed Thomas. Both pushed back chairs and rose for handshakes all around. Also a quick flash of both silver U.S. Marshal badges, for quick identification. “Care t’ join us for a little libation, sir, whilst we discuss business?”
Drayton cast a disparaging eye over the offering. “You ain’t drinkin’ that sheepdip, are you? No. C’mon up t’ my room, and I’ll give you some good stuff.”
There was no look of high finance or great political pull about this man. In fact, he seemed quite ordinary, his silvery hair cut overlong and inclined to wave, his face craggy as the Territory’s rock buttes, his frame a testament to years spent in a saddle. Dressed well enough, without a doubt, in a gray coat and wool tweed pants, carrying a sombrero made of felt, he was limping heavily as he led the way upstairs.
“Got me a bum leg,” he explained, opening the door so all could enter. “Stove up my ankle a couple weeks ago when I took a fall, so I been ridin’ a buckboard everywhere. That’s why I sent for you boys. Glad to see you got here so quick. Here, siddown, get comfortable.”
“If your daughter’s been taken off int’ the hills,” commented Thomas, as they pulled out plush leather chairs around the table (all in much nicer condition than those in the bar), “a man can only follow on hawseback.”
“That’s right. Grab a drink, boys, and let’s get goin’ on this.” Drayton handed over a bottle and glasses. “Went over t’ see the doc b’fore I came here, but he don’t want me ridin’ anywhere yet, till things heal up better. Truth t’ tell, don’t think I’d be much good anyway.”
Thomas took a sip from his serving. Ah. The whiskey was much better quality. Probably everything in this room rated higher on the scale, if it belonged to Drayton. “So your daughter was kidnapped, and a note was left demandin’ a ransom. How long ago, sir, by who, and how much?”
“Two days ago,” answered Drayton succinctly. “By Win Carpenter—a gunslinger known throughout the Territory for these good many years.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that name—pulled some bank robberies and a coupla stage holdups. Not sure what else. Baldwin Carpenter. Got a price on his head, if I recall right…a thousand bucks.”
“He’s also got my daughter. Elizabeth—my sweet little Liz. And he wants ten times that much, in what he called compensation.”
“How was it he managed to snatch her, sir?”
Drayton’s face roiled up, as if he wanted to spit, but nothing was available to spit into. “Man came onto my ranch bold as a monkey’s brass balls. Liz was out ridin’. He tracked her down and away they went. With a gun to her heart, no doubt.”
“You s’posed t’ meet him somewhere with the money?” Travis worked at pinning down facts.
Drayton took a hefty slug of liquor, sloshed it a little for taste, and swallowed hard. “Out in the damn middle of nowhere,” he growled. “The other side of the Pinaleño Mountains.”
“For a kidnapper, that makes sense,” mused Thomas. “Harder t’ get a whole posse there without attractin’ notice; easier to hide out up high, keep an eye on what’s goin’ on.”
“How soon is somebody s’posed to get there with the cash?”
Muscles pulled tight around Drayton’s expressive mouth. Clearly he was not so nonchalant, so unconcerned by this whole affair as he had seemed. The victim was this man’s daughter, after all; underneath that tough western exterior he must have been worried sick as to her treatment and eventual release.
“We got three more days. After that…”
“Mr. Drayton—”
“Gus. My name is Augustus; call me Gus. Yes?”
“Any idea why he took her?”
“He didn’t list any reasons in that damn note he left,” snapped Augustus call me Gus. A thump of the whiskey bottle, another knock-back of booze, then a glare around the table. “All right, then. You got everything you need t’ know?”
“Yes, sir. Trav and me, we want t’ get some food int’ our bellies, then we’ll pack up and light out.”
“I’ll go you one better,” said Drayton. “While you’re eatin’, I’ll send for a coupla horses from the stable. Also a pack mule with all the supplies you’ll need.”
“Thank you kindly, sir,” Travis was nothing if not respectful. “That’ll save us some time. Appreciate the help.”
“Help, nothin’. You rescue my daughter, you bring her back safe and untouched. You hear me? Don’t wanna think of anything bad happenin’ to that girl. Not after—well, you just get her home. Nothin’ bad, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Thomas, soberly. “We understand.”
The meal they shared in the saloon’s dining area turned out to be plates containing some sort of stew, day-old biscuits, and deep-dish cherry pie. “Passable,” concluded Travis, as he gulped down a cup of blistering hot coffee.
Thomas shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”
Rising, he plunked down a couple silver dollars as payment and strode to the corner of the room, to collect his saddle and gear. Travis waggled a couple fingers in Dorrie’s interested direction, along with a smile, then joined his brother. Belongings in tow, the brothers stepped outside, where Gus Drayton sat waiting.
“’Bout time,” he grumped. From somewhere he had filched a silver-headed cane, which he used now to point. “There. Two good strong horses. And a pack mule, loaded with equipment and foodstuffs. And your very own tracker.”
“Our what?”
“Tracker.” No point of the cane this time, in deference to the human involved, but the wave of a hand, instead. Negligible, that human. “Meet Cochinay. He’s goin’ with you.”
“Ahuh.” Thomas reached out for a shake, firm and substantial, with the weight of a lawman behind it; as did Travis. “Welcome. Had some experience, didja?”
“Cochinay is half Tonto Apache,” Drayton answered for him. Strangely enough, with a ring of pride in his voice. For whatever list of accomplishments, perchance? “He’ll do you just fine.”
A well-set-up young man, this newcomer, togged out in a rather battered hat that proudly carried an eagle feather and a leather vest over typical western garb. Although he wore the thick black hair of his people straight to the shoulders, his skin color showed more golden tan than burnished copper, and his features carried a lightness of spirit and good humor less commonly seen on the more stoic faces of his brethren.
“How,” said Cochinay. Then, with a grin, “Or howdy, if you prefer.” As if he could read their thoughts and was neither surprised nor offended that there might be any negative effect, either to his presence or his race.
“So you know the area we’ll be headin’ into?” Thomas looked him up and down, liking what he saw. “West, so I understand.”
“Yes, I’ve done some hunting in those mountains.”
Drayton stood, leaning on his cane, and barked out a laugh. “Don’t let his
modesty fool you, gentlemen. Cochinay is the best I’ve ever seen. He’ll follow that bastard Carpenter, and find him, too, even if it’s at the gates of hell. Coch,” a straightforward, warning look, from under bushy gray brows, “you get her back here in one piece, y’ understand?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Gettin’ on t’ord fall,” said the cattleman then, his scrutiny moving from one to the other. “Gonna get a mite chilly up in the high country. You boys all got your long johns?”
“We’re prepared, whatever happens,” said Travis, pulling his hat lower and gathering his gear. “C’mon, time t’ hit the trail.”
II
Two days earlier…
“Tell me again where you’re taking me.”
“Lord’s sake, girl, I done told you three times already. Ain’t you got ears in your head?”
“I can hear you all right,” retorted Elizabeth. “I just can’t remember what you said.”
For direction, Baldwin Carpenter waved a hand at the expanse ahead and beyond.
Flat grassland thick with green turning gold, suitable for ranching; dotted here and there by cottonwood, sycamore, and elm, whose leaves were tipped in amber by the afternoon sun; cut through by the shining swathe of a small river, bordered in overhanging willow and a few sumac. Red-winged blackbirds warbled, mourning doves cooed, woodpeckers hammered and whacked.
Farther on, the valley stretched itself out into reddish buttes, dappled and shaded, which led to higher hills and the mountains to the west. Great, grand mountains, topped by snow. Seen thus, even in the warmth of a late September day, any traveler might shiver with anticipated cold.
As did Elizabeth, now.
Under her soft brown felt hat, long blonde hair fell curling past her shoulders, hair as streaked and striated by the sun’s benevolent rays as carnival taffy. She was a pretty girl, this hoyden heir to the Catamount Ranch.
No. Beyond pretty. Beautiful.
Long-lashed dark eyes of the true sapphire blue; a sensual mouth, with the short upper lip and full lower lip often referred to as bee-stung; complexion warm and sleek, like the very richest top layer of cream skimmed from a milk pail. Her figure was slim but shapely—what the Scots might call sonsie— even dressed, as today, in a short coat clearly borrowed from her father’s wardrobe, long-sleeved plaid shirtwaist, and fitted wool trousers, with a pair of ladies’ sleek leather riding boots underneath it all.
A Western Romance: Thomas Yancey Taking the High Road (Book 4) (Taking the High Road series) Page 1
