Taking the High Road

by Morris Fenris

  So he had ruminated, as night wore away into early morning, and stars blinked and shimmered and faded with the coming of new pinkish dawn. Finally, having reached a decision that would change his life forever, either way, he betook himself to the cool clean sheets of his waiting bed.

  Seven a.m. found him washed, shaved, dressed, and ready to go.

  “Good mornin’,” he greeted the sleepy-eyed clerk at Hotel Alexandria’s front desk. “Nice day out there.”

  “Aren’t they always?” grumped the clerk in return. “Can I help you somehow?”

  “And you’re—?”

  “Harley. Harley Brookings. Some reason you need to know that?”

  “Just bein’ friendly, Mr. Brookings.” The agent reached out to shake hands. “John Yancey here. Now, sir, I’m sure enough hopin’ you can help me. Lookin’ for one of your guests…Noah Harper.”

  Brookings’ stubby finger moved slowly down over the lined page of the hotel registration. “Harper. Harper. Ah, yes, there he is. Now I remember him.”

  “Ahuh. Any chance he’s around?”

  “At this hour of the morning?” Skepticism crinkled the clerk’s pudgy features. “Still in his room, I’m sure—packing.”

  “Packin’. Huh. He’s headin’ out somewhere?”

  A raised eyebrow now. Where was the cheerful hospitality for which this hotel was known? “And if he is, what business is that of yours?”

  “Sorta thought that might come up. Maybe this will change your point of view.” Smoothly John slipped the small case containing his Pinkerton credentials from a vest pocket and placed it on the counter. Easily seen. Easily comprehended.

  If the clerk were impressed by this sudden show of authority, he gave no indication. “I see. Well, after breakfast Mr. Harper plans on checking out of the hotel. Booked himself passage on the King Neptune, which is due to depart the docks tomorrow, about noon, heading east to New York. Is there a problem?”

  “Could be.” And damn well would be, if the son-of-a-bitch didn’t climb on board that ship, first chance he got. “Thanks. I appreciate the information.”

  John’s next port of call was a friendly visit to the local hoosegow. Or, more rightly, to the sheriff running it. He was already several up on Noah Harper, whatever shenanigans he might try to pull. And this would be one more.

  He had called upon William Goddard shortly after his arrival, several weeks ago, to introduce himself as a fellow member of a law-serving establishment. Long ago, John had learned to collect and accumulate credits, from every source possible, in case he ever needed a favor from someone able to do one. (Of course, the same held true in reverse.)

  At any rate, he and Sheriff Goddard were now on cordial terms, swapping stories and pleasantries and the occasional jigger of rye.

  “Hiya, John,” William greeted him above the jangle of the bell overhead. “You’re out and about pretty early, young man.”

  “Yeah, got some business to take care of, so I thought I’d stop in to say hello. Anything new happenin’ in town?”

  Over a cup of hot coffee, freshly made, and therefore semi-drinkable, the two men sprawled comfortably into wooden chairs, kicked back, and shot the bull for a while.

  “Naw. things’ve been pretty quiet recently,” drawled William, in reply. “Ten years ago, when the gold rush first took hold, the whole dockside was teemin’ with drunken miners, drunken sailors, and drunken harlots. Hell, I needed a pack of deputies to deal with crime, tryin’ to keep the streets safe for decent hard-workin’ people. But not much of that any more.”

  “You prob’ly miss all that excitement.”

  Laughing, William took a hearty sip from his mug. “Gettin’ too old for that nonsense, my friend. I like the peaceful life. Besides, with San Fran becomin’ respectable, most of the criminal element has taken off for other parts.” Another quaff must have sparked memory. “Oh, I heard some Eastern dude got himself rolled in an alley late yesterday afternoon.”

  “Did he now? Huh. Any damage?”

  “Just word on the grapevine, John. Never heard a name, nor got the circumstances. Reckon if the fellah wanted, he could come talk t’me, and we’d take action.”

  John shrugged. “Maybe he was too embarrassed to report bein’ waylaid.”

  “Maybe. Say, looks like you hurt your hand, there, son. You get caught in a meat grinder?”

  “What, this? Nothin’ serious, Will. Just scraped the knuckles on a chunk of cee-ment.”

  From under his bristly brows, the sheriff sent a significant glance from his companion’s bandaged injury to his companion’s stoic, expressionless face. “Did you now?” he asked with casual interest. “Well, serves you right for gettin’ caught up against a—chunk of cee-ment…”

  John grinned. “Couldn’t agree with you more. Well, thanks for the coffee, Will. Guess I’d better be on my way—got places to be and people to see.”

  “Busy man,” murmured William, sending him off with a smile and a wave.

  The last stop, and by far the most important, meant a long trudge through town and up the hill to the Powell residence.

  “Why, Mr. Yancey,” said the housekeeper, answering his knock with some surprise.

  “Yep. It’s me all right.” John couldn’t keep the bounce out of his step or the grin off his face. He was feeling pretty good about life in general, and yet a little apprehensive at the same time. One wrong word, and this whole thing could turn upside down. “Miss Powell around?”

  “She is. The whole family is. They’re eating breakfast.” Her slightly cool tone indicated that, if John had any sense, he’d be eating breakfast somewhere, too, instead of bothering honest householders at this hour of the morning.

  He nodded. “Fine and dandy. I’ll just head on in and join ’em. All right by you?” Too impatient to wait for an answer, he attempted to slip on past and inside, but Mrs. Liang wasn’t moving.

  She stood with arms folded across her breast, implacable as Buddha. “You stay here. I will go inform Miss Powell of your presence.”

  “Great idea. I’ll go with you.”

  “Incorrect, Mr. Yancey. You’re not about to be barging in, unannounced. Weren’t you raised with any manners?”

  “Sure was,” said John cheerfully. Reaching forward, he picked her up by the waist, forcefully set her aside from blocking the doorway, and took off down the hall like a hightailing camel. At the dining room entrance, he skidded to a halt long enough to send a wide dimpled grin around the table.

  “Mornin’,” he offered a greeting.

  “Mr. Yancey!” Cecelia was puzzled, but smiling. “How—uh—where—uh—”

  “Nice to see you, too, Miss Powell. Lovely day. Lovely.”

  Those charming indentations at each corner of her mouth had appeared again. Exchanging an amused look with Gabe and Bridget, both of whom appeared as astonished as she, Cecelia put down her fork, rested one elbow on the table, and surveyed their unexpected guest.

  “I’d like to join you. Mind if I join you?” Hastily plopping down on an empty chair, John leaned back with a happy sigh, feeling like the king of the world and all that lay before him.

  “By all means, join us,” murmured Cecelia. “Mrs. Liang, another plate, if you please.”

  Gabe finished his cup of coffee and studied this brash young man who had just invaded his household, uninvited, for the second time in as many days. “I’m thinkin’ there must be a reason for this visit?” he asked mildly.

  Silence for a minute, while John dug hungrily into scrambled eggs and toast spread lavishly with butter.

  “It’s not starvin’ you’ve been,” observed Bridget, on just a tiny edge of sarcasm, “when I saw you put away plenty of roast beef and potatoes just last night at this very table.”

  John’s expression couldn’t have been sunnier. “Was it just last night? I’m right sorry, ma’am, excitement sharpens my appetite. And you do have the best cook.”

  “Hear that, Mrs. Liang?” Gabe asked of their house
keeper, as she appeared in the doorway with a fresh pot of coffee that was steaming no more than she was. “He likes your cookin’.”

  “Oh, happy day,” said Mrs. Liang, unmollified. Much more sarcasm to her reply than just the edge to Bridget’s.

  Cecelia, head tilted slightly as if she were examining some specimen alien to life on earth, was pursuing her own line of thought. “And the excitement?”

  “Huh?” Blithely ignoring the cool atmosphere surrounding Mrs. Liang, John lifted his own cup to her to be filled.

  “Excitement. You mentioned excitement.”

  “Oh. Yes, ma’am. Well, this ain’t exactly how I had planned this, but…” Reaching across the corner of the table, he took her free hand into his own bandaged fingers and gave her a beatific smile. “Miss Powell, will you do me the honor of becomin’ my wife?”

  Crash. Gabe’s water glass, fortunately empty, fell from his nerveless grip. Crash. Bridget’s knife dropped heavily onto her plate. No damage done from either, other than stupefaction and noise.

  “Mr.—Yancey—”

  “Ahuh.”

  Cecelia’s befuddled blue eyes gazed straight into John’s twinkling brown eyes. She blinked. “Well, I—uh—you do me a great honor, but I—”

  “Oh, you can’t be tryin’ to fob me off with that old excuse,” he protested with vigor. “Here’s the deal, Miss Powell. From what I understand about your circumstances, you’re short an intended husband. Am I right?” he pleaded his case with the two remaining diners.

  “To be sure,” agreed Bridget, bobbing her head.

  “Yes to that,” agreed Gabe, bobbing his.

  “And you need one soon. Well, that husband can be me.”

  “Mr. Yancey, I hardly—”

  “Here we go again. Look, strictly a business proposition, just what you’d want. We’ll get married and see how things go. Ain’t that fair?”

  Cecelia felt as if she were being swept along on a runaway horse, with no way to escape. A glance at Gabe, who was smiling and nodding; a glance at Bridget, who was positively beaming with joy. “But I can’t let you—”

  “Sure you can. I ain’t lookin’ for your money, Miss Powell. My job pays pretty well, and I have a nice hefty inheritance myself, from my mother’s side of the family. We’ll give it some time. Maybe six months or so, maybe a year. And if it hasn’t worked out by then, why, hell! We’ll just go our separate ways. Fair enough?”

  “Your offer certainly sounds more than fair, Mr. Yancey, but I still—”

  “We can work out any arrangements you like, Miss Powell. Set it in writin’, if that makes you feel better.”

  “Damn it!” Flinging off his hand, Cecelia surged to her feet. “Will you at least let me finish a sentence?”

  “Mr. Yancey,” Gabe interrupted at this point. “Son, this is a mighty big surprise to spring on a woman. She needs a little while to take it all in.”

  “No, she doesn’t!” exclaimed Bridget, cheeks reddened by the thrill of the moment. “It’s so romantic. Oh, Miss Cecie, do say yes!”

  Eyes widened, Cecelia looked from one opposing view to the other. “You advise me to marry this man, one I hardly know?”

  Pushing back his chair, John rose as well, to meet her on level ground. “I’m a damn sight better catch than that yokel you chose first time around,” he assured her.

  A knock sounded at the front door.

  Frustrated by the interruption, Gabe threw down his napkin with an oath. “Don’t people spend time in their own homes anymore?” he grumbled. “Why the hell is everyone botherin’ everyone else at breakfast?”

  “Mr. Finnegan.” Their housekeeper appeared from the hallway, expression muted and solemn. Almost apprehensive. “Sir, Sheriff William Goddard is here to see you.”

  Gabe did a double take. “The sheriff?”

  “And some other man. Younger.”

  The flash of his glance across the room collided meaningfully with their visitor’s. “C’mon, John. I suspect you’re involved in whatever’s goin’ on. Let’s go see what the sheriff wants. Ladies?”

  Cecelia was beginning to wonder if such unusual activity always followed John Yancey around like a shadow, trailing in his wake. “Of course. Bridget and I will both join you.”

  The sheriff was standing in the middle of the parlor when they entered, rocking slowly back and forth on his booted heels in a way so many men have, surveying the pleasant room with appreciation. Sunny, cool, with fresh flowers and comfort abiding.

  Noah Harper had sunk onto the nearest chair, only to spring immediately erect. “You!” he gasped.

  “Sure enough seems to be me,” John agreed. “You’re lookin’ a little the worse for wear, Noah.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be,” countered Noah bitterly, “when it’s you who’s responsible?”

  Indeed, the ladies hesitated in the doorway, aghast by sight of the badly battered face, the missing side tooth, the scrapes and gashes from hairline to cravat.

  “My, my, you’ve kinda got things mixed up, my friend. Musta been that terrible fall you took in the alley. Not far from The Nugget, wasn’t it? D’jou ever get hold of that girl you were plannin’ to be with, or did you manage to scare her away?”

  Through his bruised and swollen lips, Noah issued a hiss of fury. “This is the one who attacked me, Sheriff. I want to press charges.”

  “H’lo, John.” Goddard, apparently unperturbed by the man’s vitriol, was favoring the lovely young blonde woman with a smile. “Now I understand you bein’ in such a hurry to leave my company this mornin’.”

  “Ahuh. Business.” But John was glaring at Noah, and Noah was glaring back at John, and the atmosphere suddenly felt as heavy and oppressive as if a violent thunderstorm were moving in.

  “So what’s goin’ on here, Sheriff?” Gabe wanted to know. No niceties yet; no invitation to sit, no offer of refreshments. First get this matter, whatever it was, cleared up.

  “Well, we started out with a little problem Mr. Harper reported t’me,” began Goddard, with a lift of one shoulder. “He’s complainin’ that Miss Powell has stolen some property from him, and he wants it back.”

  “Noah.” John’s shift of a couple steps closer sent the complainant taking a couple steps away.

  “We discussed this over drinks, remember? We realized you were all wrong, and you were goin’ to drop the issue.”

  “Before you attacked me, you mean?”

  “Oh, now, Noah. Why would I do that? You hired me t’come out here. You were my client. B’sides,” he shrugged; these men were all big on shrugging when nothing else would do, “it’s your word against mine that anything even happened.”

  Noah shot a look at the sheriff, who spread his hands, palms out, in a defenseless gesture. “I’m afraid John is right, Mr. Harper. You file charges against him, he’ll file charges against you, and nothin’ goes anywhere.”

  “So he gets away with nearly killing me!”

  “Oh, not hardly,” John objected in a soft, silky voice. “If I really wanted to kill you, you’d’a been dead and buried already.”

  Involuntarily Bridget giggled. She couldn’t wait to relate the story of this whole proceeding to Max; the drama was more interesting than the stage play they’d seen.

  “Then what about my claim against Cecelia Powell?” demanded Noah. “What do you intend to do about that?”

  “Not much,” Gabe cut in. “I have a copy of the will that bequeathed The Catherine Syndicate to Miss Powell, properly signed and witnessed. The document is locked in the safe at my law office, if you want to look it over, Will.”

  “I’ll take this to court!” threatened Noah. “By Heaven, you must have legal proceedings here in this godforsaken back country, and judges to rule.”

  “Well, now,” said the sheriff, ruminating, “there’s such a thing as professional courtesy, y’see. Me bein’ the law, and all, and Gabe bein’ a lawyer, and John here bein’ a Pinkerton man…Sorry, Mr. Harper, looks like you ain’t gonn
a get too far.”

  “Tell you what, Noah, let’s go have us a nice little walk-and-talk outside, whaddya say?” suggested John in apparent good humor. “I made a promise t’you, last time we spoke, and I’d surely like doin’ my best to keep it.”

  Furiously, futilely, Noah looked from one expressionless face to the other and read his fate. It was a lost cause, trying to recover what was never his to begin with, and now he would have to slink back to his mother with his tail between his legs. Another look searched out Cecelia, leaning silently and stolidly against the wall. Watching. Waiting.

  “Goddamned little bitch,” he muttered. Grabbing his hat, he stalked away through the short hall.

  “The King Neptune is leavin’ shortly, Harper,” John couldn’t resist calling after him. “I’ll be checkin’ to make sure you’re on it.”

  The door slammed behind him. Hard.

  William Goddard, hands on hips, stood gazing regretfully after him. “And now I s’pose he’s gone and taken the buggy back downtown,” he griped. “Oh, well, reckon the walk won’t do me any harm.” He reached out to shake first Gabe’s hand, then John’s. “Thanks for takin’ the time to get this straightened out, gentlemen. And I’m sorry we had to barge in like this. But I think that’s the last we’ll see of Mr. Noah Harper.”

  Much relieved, Gabe chuckled. “I think you’re right, William. C’mon, let’s go have a cuppa coffee in the kitchen, and then I’ll hitch up the horse and give you a ride back. Bridge, honey—uh—why don’t you come and join us?”

  “Be glad to, Uncle Gabe. It’s plain these two have more to talk about, and they’d prob’ly like to be alone, doin’ it.”

  With everyone cleared out and the dust settled and the uproar subsided to a manageable size, Cecelia could exhale a huge sigh and relax her stiffened posture.

  “You still thinkin’ it over?” John asked quietly into the deafening silence.

  “Mr. Yancey—”

  “John.”

  “Uh. John. If we were to do this…if…what are the conditions?”