Taking the High Road
Book 5: Travis Yancey
Morris Fenris
Changing Culture Publications
Taking the High Road
Book 5: Travis 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
It is, U.S. Marshal Travis Yancey was beginning to realize, a lengthy journey from the Pinaleño Mountains in Eastern Arizona Territory to the mighty capitol of these United States in Washington, D.C. And not just in miles. Distance counted for little in comparison to mindset.
The trip involved a transfer from rough outdoor gear astride a horse to battered carpetbag slung atop a stagecoach to semi-confinement inside the belly of the fire-breathing, smoke-belching dragon known as the Central Pacific Railroad’s passenger car.
Heading East, every turn of the locomotive’s wheels chugged away in wordless repetition. Heading East.
In this, the final leg of his odyssey, he had plenty of time to ruminate over events of the past couple of weeks.
Mostly, it was the adventure with his twin, Thomas, which had sent them searching for and retrieving the kidnapped daughter of a prominent rancher. Elizabeth Drayton was one beauteous, provocative spitfire. And evidently the ideal of his brother’s dreams, because he’d gone off the deep end for the girl, falling hard and fast in love; they’d pulled together their wedding arrangements within a scandalously short time.
Good thing, too, because the way those two looked at each other was scandalous enough in itself. Steam. Simple, pure steam that came near to peeling the fancy paper in her father’s parlor right off the walls. Travis would bet his brother had her out of her petticoats and into his bed five minutes after their last guest departed.
Once again, tradition had been upheld. Every brother, along with family and friends, had arrived in time to attend the ceremony, celebrating happily and boisterously. These last-minute nuptials were getting to be old hat, Travis reflected now. In the past five years, he had seen four of his brothers married off and settled down, within weeks—or even mere days—of each meeting his future bride. Let a Yancey set sight on his goal, and he damn well achieved it. Then and there, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
A fate worse than death, Thomas had often firmly declared. No matrimony for him. No, sir. No little woman tying him down. Not a damn bit.
Balderdash.
They’d fallen like a row of dominoes, those self-reliant, self-sufficient brothers, one after the other. Not surprising, of course, given the wives they’d chosen: all attractive, independent, capable, spirited young women. Especially Liz. Seeing her dressed like an angel in her mother’s white satin wedding gown, complete with veil, had clogged up even Travis’ implacable throat. He could only imagine the effect on his brother. Come to think of it, Thomas had been wearing sort of a dopey look on his face all during the ceremony and the partying afterward.
Not at all fitten, was Travis’ opinion, for any self-respecting, hard-edged, easy-loping male.
“You mind sharing your space with me, cowboy?”
Travis glanced up. He had been dozing in his seat next to the window, paying no attention to the most recent few stops. Knoxville? Roanoke? Lynchburg? At which station had this gentleman climbed on board? “By all means, sir,” he invited. “Help yourself.”
“Ah.” Well-dressed in a black frock coat and spiffy black tie, the man, whose graying beard had been neatly trimmed to match his salt-and-pepper hair, settled in with a small, polished valise squarely at his feet. “Things are crowded this morning.”
“Are they?” Vaguely Travis surveyed the surrounding area. “You’re right. Definitely crowded.”
His companion reached out a hand to shake in introduction. “Simon Welker. Representative from Ohio. Are you one of my constituents?” The friendly hazel eyes twinkled.
“Don’t b’lieve I am, Congressman.”
“Ah, well. Maybe someday you’ll decide to uproot and settle in our fair dominion.”
“Doubt it.”
For some time, all during the years of the War Between the States, Travis had stood in glum disbelief at the doings of national elected bureaucrats. Scandal, graft, greed, bribery; he suspected most illustrious legislators had already committed every one of the seven deadly sins and would continue on even beyond the day they left office. Sanctimonious and hypocritical, besides. So much for serving the people who had voted them into office.
Thus, feeling the way he did toward such Washington snakes-in-the-grass, the Marshal was hard put now to preserve an air of politeness when confronted by one of those very snakes.
“Ah, well,” said the Congressman again, with an air of regret. Pulling an expensive cheroot from his inside pocket, he offered one to his seatmate, who politely refused. Then, engaging in whatever elaborate ritual pursued by smokers, he lit up and inhaled.
From a seat across the aisle, a lovely young thing scented the whiff of expensive rolled tobacco leaf and glanced Travis’ way with a sweet flirt of lashes. He was nothing if not experienced. Catching the look as easily as if capturing a butterfly in mid-air, he sent the glance right back at her. Along with a wink. Then came her smile; dimpled, no less. And a little toss of the head that bounced flossy brown curls.
Rep. Welker was taking all this in with just part of his awareness. The rest seemed intent on something else entirely. “Hmmph. Pretty girl. Got an eye for you, anyway. So, Marshal Yancey, you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, in this neck of the woods.”
“Not partic’larly,” Travis, still focused on the lady, said without one iota of curiosity.
“Well, I’ve been on a fact-finding tour,” the Congressman went on.
Bull in a china shop, harrumphing his way around like he owned the place. Damned critters could be found in every corner of the country.
“Bunch of us have been touring the south,” continued the Congressman, “looking to see what needs to be done to bring things back into shape again.”
Travis’ ears almost visibly pricked forward. “Were you now?”
“Yes, sir. And, judging by your accent, I’d say you had some knowledge of that area yourself.”
“Goin’ t’ pour a ton o’ money into the ravaged Confederacy, are you?”
“That remains to be seen. But a few other stalwart Representatives and I decided we needed a first-hand look at the damage that’s been done. Then we can report back to Congress.”
“Ahuh.” Travis settled back against his seat and, with a display of appalling poor manners, pulled his hat down over his eyes for another snoo
ze. “It’ll take more’n money, Mr. Welker. It’ll take a generation or two before that part o’ the world comes back anywhere near normal. Mayhap more.”
Thoughtfully, Welker studied his seatmate. “Astute, Mr. Yancey. Very astute. And where did you say you’re headed?”
“Don’t recall that I did say.” Scrunching down, the Marshall made himself more comfortable and closed his eyes. “But I’ve been invited to the White House.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
October in Washington brought out the foliage colors of red, gold, and flame around every memorial and museum ever put into place. Leaf-changing not so different from that done around little Chico, in Arizona Territory, Travis reflected, surveying block after block of new terrain to be explored. Dissimilar trees, of course, and squared-off, single-minded lawns maintained almost to the point of persnickety-ness instead of growing wild, as he was accustomed to seeing.
Not that he was a novice to the city. It seemed just a short time ago that the Yancey twins had visited the Capitol and its surrounds to be appointed U.S. Marshals by President Johnson himself.
During that initial visit, the brothers had taken in some of the historic sights: the National Mall, extending from the Potomac River to the Capitol Building; New York Avenue Presbyterian Church (regularly attended by the Lincoln family); Smithsonian Institution; various other famous and natural landmarks; even several of the theatres—in company with newly acquired female companions delighted to let two such attractive individuals serve as escort. In honor of their brother, James, a veteran of the War Between the States, they had visited Arlington National Cemetery, now military, to pay their respects.
If pressing business allowed, Travis decided he would renew acquaintance with some of these milestones. If not, then playing tourist would have to wait for another visit.
As might be expected, after President Lincoln had been mortally wounded just last April, security guards abounded at Pennsylvania Avenue, and Travis was requested to present his credentials and his presidential invitation at every turn. After a while, after too much federal scrutiny, an oblique (some might call it twisted) sense of humor grabbed control of his tongue.
“Gonna have me take my shirt off next?” he wanted to know, tongue in cheek. “Show you every detail of my long johns, maybe?”
The first couple of times he tried this, he received merely a cool, steady look as response.
The third, and final, time, he was politely asked if, instead of complying, he would prefer to inspect one of the on-site lock-up cells for a month or so.
At last he was shown into the presence of the Great Man himself.
The Seventeenth President of the United States moved around from behind his desk to shake hands. “Good to see you again, Marshal Yancey. Come, let’s have a seat over here by the fire.”
For a man born and raised in a log cabin by impoverished parents, Andrew Johnson presented the picture of a self-made man. He had worked his way up through indentured servitude to operation of a prosperous business to political success in the Tennessee House of Representatives and the Senate, then Congress, and finally in the office of Vice-President.
Which had, of course, involuntarily ascended even higher.
Attired in a dark blue morning coat and matching waistcoat, white linen shirt with stand-up collar, navy necktie looped into a knot, and trousers of similar navy fabric, President Johnson’s dignified and formal appearance befit the dignity and formality of the White House itself.
“Sit, man, sit,” he was now urging his visitor.
Travis, who was awaiting the President’s discretion, obliged. Similarly though more casually and colorfully dressed, he swept aside the tails of his frock coat to take a ginger perch upon an upholstered chair that turned out to be more sturdy than it had first seemed.
“So, Marshal Yancey, pray tell me what’s been happening since last we met. A successful venture in the Territory with rescuing Miss Drayton, I understand.”
“More’n that, sir. I’ve just come from her weddin’ to my brother.”
“You don’t say. Highly successful, then.” The President’s smile lightened his rather somber visage. “Well, I regret having to call you away so quickly from such an auspicious occasion, but I find that, once again, I have need of your services.”
“Certainly, sir. Please let me know what I can do for you.”
President Johnson leaned forward, speaking in soft tones that carried no farther than this small conversational area. “A confidential matter, Marshal. Hush-hush. I’m asking you to take on an undercover mission for me.”
Just three weeks prior to Abraham Lincoln’s assassination, he had signed a document returning San Juan Capistrano, formerly owned by the Englishman John Forster, to the Catholic Church. A mindful explorer bound by the limitations of difficult travel, Lincoln had dreamed of visiting the Golden State. Unfortunately, the prevalent state of affairs had prevented his ever journeying any farther west than the Kansas territory.
Among the foothills and along the coastline of southern California, near that same Mission of San Juan, lay thousands of sprawling acres contained in Rancho Oro Hermoso, owned by Henry Benjamin Waring and his family. For some time, “Beautiful Gold” had, per contract, provided good beef not only for the U.S. military but also for quite a portion of the southwestern United States as well.
Now, the owner of that vast estate lay dead, under suspicious circumstances. His death—or possible murder—must be investigated, and fears have arisen for the safety of Henry’s widow, Martha, and his two daughters, Rosamond and Olivia. Someone needs to check into the situation at the California rancho, as soon as possible, for a lot of crucial reasons.
“By someone,” Travis interjected slowly into the gathering silence, “you mean me.”
“That was my intent,” admitted the President. “You’ve already proven yourself supremely able and competent, during the Drayton case. Here’s another to test your ability.”
The Marshal would have, promised Johnson, every necessary resource available, along with access to all pertinent information. His assignment: serve as presidentially appointed overseer of Rancho Oro’s immense holdings, trustee of the estate, and ward of Mrs. Waring and the girls.
“Damn. That’s a big job.” Travis was not one to mince words, even with the Commander in Chief.
“It is. But you can handle it, Marshal. I have every confidence in your ability. And feel free to call upon anyone you like for assistance.”
“Ahuh.” He had a pretty good idea of just who that might be. Provided he could get everyone together in time. “Then I reckon I better skedaddle on outa here, sir.”
The President rose, signaling that their conference was at an end, and reached out to shake his hand once more. “I think you’re right, Marshal. Thank you for taking this on. And good luck to you.”
Good luck, thought Travis, as he made his way through the door. Much easier to leave than it was to enter. We’ll need all the luck—and prayers—we can get.
II
The locomotive’s great wheels, while still turning forward, seemed now to be working in reverse as travel arrangements flip-flopped: Heading West. Heading West.
No time for any gallivanting around the Capitol or Washington itself after the presidential interview; neither souvenir-shopping nor touring the red-light district nor taking any guided tours.
Only the rush to check departure arrangements and purchase a ticket.
Nor did Travis, once on board, waste precious hours in snoozing away. Armed with documents and confidential information, he perused what he could in feeble light from swaying overhead lanterns, wrote out lists, and mentally set up plans, backup plans, and contingency plans. Who knew what might be facing him and his crew—however many others he could commandeer into this high-flying, secretive operation—once they arrived on site?
The miles had never disappeared behind him so slowly.
Still, the pragmatic Marshal realiz
ed that, while he must physically round up his forces, he must also emotionally brace for whatever problems lay ahead. Once his arrangements were made and he could do no more, he slept. Despite the back-and-forth lurch of his passenger car and, later on, the up-and-down jounce of his stagecoach connection, he was able to put the use of brain, might, and muscles on hold, in preparation. Recouping strength.
Travis arrived at the Condor Ranch outside of Chico, in Arizona Territory, to discover, amazingly enough, most of the party-goers still in residence.
“Damned laggards,” he muttered, half in resignation, half in envy.
His backside and his frontside—every side, in fact—were feeling the effects of so much sustained travel is so short a time, and he was looking forward to a nice, relaxing soak in someone’s bathtub, somewhere, to unkink the kinks. Climbing down to tie his rented horse in a cottonwood’s shade at the hitching rail, he mounted the steps of Gus Drayton’s wraparound porch and knocked politely at the front door.
“Well, welcome back, you ol’ sidewinder, you,” Cochinay greeted him with a broad smile. “Didn’t think t’ see you for another few weeks, what with the fleshpots of Washington callin’ out your name.”
“Hmmph,” grumbled Travis, hooking his sombrero onto the hat rack. “Don’t I just wish. Who’s still hangin’ around here, anyway?”
“Who ain’t? Hell, we been havin’ such a good time socializin’ that nobody has wanted t’ leave.”
“Don’t these men have jobs t’ go home to?” Travis demanded, scandalized. “Or does every last one of ’em figure t’ sugarfoot and freeload for another coupla years?”
“Dunno. But I sure wanna be around when you ask ’em that question.”
“Trav!” His twin came strolling into the parlor, carrying a cup of coffee. The aroma sent Travis’ salivary glands into overload. “What’re you doin’ back already?”
“Hell,” the newcomer grumped. “Ain’t nobody happy t’ see me?”
A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5) Page 1
