Rancher's Law
Page 15
“The poor girl thought indisposed meant without clothes. She told me you never ran through the house like that.”
Ellen closed her dark lashes, shook her head so the curls on her shoulder tossed, and laughed freely. “Oh, well. The word was too big for her.”
She motioned to the two parlor chairs with her own drink in her hand. “She also didn’t know that you always come on business.”
“Yes,” he agreed. Seated, he took a sip. Good stuff. Expensive, no doubt, and only for her best customers. “What do you hear about the lynching?”
“Nothing that would help you. My rancher customers all talk about it, but they aren’t from there and I’ve never heard a word on who did it. They do approve of it.”
“Yes, but that’s why we have courts to decide. Rupp’s men are working up there. They say they can’t find any evidence of rustling against those men that were hung.”
“Whew,” she said with a long exhale. “Then why—”
“Why, that’s why I am asking you to listen.”
“I will.”
“The Yuma thing we spoke about earlier?”
She leaned toward him, so close he could see the small freckles on her deep cleavage. “Whiskey talk. A man named Arnold said the territory was paying for his night here. Needless to say, he spent several dollars. He’s supplying material to the contractor, I understand.”
“Thanks.” He sat back in the chair and considered the whiskey in his glass. At last, he had a name to go on. He raised his gaze and met her green eyes.
“You must be a happily married man, Major?”
“If I wasn’t, I would like to see you indisposed.”
Ellen burst out laughing. Not some haughty loud obscene outburst, but the warm mirth of a friend sharing something humorous with another. Her eyes sparkled and in the end, shaking her head, she raised her glass to a toast.
“To your wife.”
“To Mary,” he said, and they clinked glasses.
“I will listen for any news coming out of the basin. It is usually fall, and fall roundup, before I see anyone from over there. Preskitt is not convient for them to get here and I suspect that we aren’t on their list of favorite places.”
The major finished his drink, thanked her, and left the Harrington House. It was a six-block walk to the mansion. He dreaded the notion of his trip to Yuma. Talking the matter over with Sterling would not be easy. The man jumped at anything wrong.
When he reached the mansion, Sterling was in a meeting, so he found a chair in the outer office and read the dog-eared issue of Harper’s. The artwork showed savage Indians, much uglier than he had ever experienced meeting. The writer spoke about the Army’s campaign into Mexico for the fugitive Apaches. He wasn’t concentrating on the article, when two men came out of the paneled door with Sterling.
The governor introduced them as legislators from the Salt River Valley. They looked like farmers dressed in suits that made them appear stiff.
“We’ve been talking about a dam project on the Salt,” Sterling said.
“It would make our valley a bonanza,” the darker faced one said.
“Sounds good,” the major agreed.
Sterling shook their hands and wished them well.
“You a dam builder now?” he asked when the governor returned.
“No, why?” Sterling closed the double doors and then smiled. “They need one badly down there. But I doubt this term of Congress does a thing.”
“I didn’t come to talk dams.”
“Have a seat. What did you learn?”
“Haskell is in the basin. But it will take time.”
“I understand. I spoke to Rupp again. He’s leaving those two deputies over there a while longer.”
“Good. Maybe they can learn something. We’re all after the same thing.”
“You think we should leave your man there, too?”
“Of course. We’ve gone this far.” He shook his head at Sterling’s thinking. “I have full confidence that Haskell will find the killers.”
“The Dikes family, I understand, will be coming here in a week or so.”
What could they do, except raise more hell? The major wanted to ask it out loud, but realized that neither he nor Sterling could dissuade them if they tried. Too many cooks spoiled the soup was his second thought. He hoped Haskell found out something soon, but he doubted it. Investigations like this took a long time.
“I need to go to Yuma,” he said, to get onto his next project
Sterling blinked and looked aghast. “Whatever for?”
“To get warm, I guess. They tell me it’s a hundred and ten there every day. No, I have some information from an informer that there might be some bill padding going on at the new prison construction.”
Sterling’s slapped his own forehead. The major could almost hear his words before he spoke them.
“My God, Gerald, what next?”
“It may not be much, but I better check on it. I’m going myself. If I learn anything, I’ll wire you.”
“Good.” Sterling exhaled. “How bad do you think it is?”
“No idea. It may be small, but I’ll go see.”
“Be careful, Gerald. I need you.” A look of deep concern crossed the man’s face.
“I will.” They had a short drink and he headed for home. Mary would be the hard one to tell. On his walk back, a blue jay perched on a bough scolded him and he smiled. His wife might sound worse than that.
When the major informed her of his travel plans, she frowned, displeased at him. “You’re going again?”
“I know,” he said, hugging her. “But it is only to Yuma this time.”
“I better get your bags packed.”
“No. Let’s sit in the swing and enjoy this lovely day for a while.”
She looked at him and raised an eyebrow. Then with a shrug, she led him to the swing seat. The ropes creaked as they went back and forth. He closed his eyes. A cool breath of air swept over them as fat clouds gathered for the afternoon showers. Prescott could be heaven; Yuma would be hell. Dread clouded his relaxation as he hugged her closer.
The stage to Phoenix-Tucson left at sunup. The run to Phoenix required twelve hours, without a breakdown or holdup. In another half a day he could be in Tucson. Then he’d take a stage to Yuma, which ate up another full day, according to the agent. He recommended that the major stop over in Papago Wells and catch the Yuma stage there, rather than riding in and back out for Tucson.
All the major could decipher of this scheduling was that he had some long hours to spend on the rumbling coach. His valises stored under the canvas cover, he climbed in and took a backward-facing seat. Two other men joined him. Both looked like drummers. The thin-faced one named Benton held his sample case on his lap, and close to his chest, as if it was very valuable. The salesman called Gordon looked ready to nap, leaned to the side, used his hands for a pillow, and with his bowler hat pulled down, tried to sleep.
After the driver’s loud, “Hee ha!” in the soft first light of morning, the coach started out of Prescott. Sounds of the chinking tug chains and harness accompanied the motions as he circled the coach around and headed for the Black Canyon Road. In a crack of the whip and more vocal calls the rocking ride began.
The torturous hills slowed the ride to a cautious crawl, then they flew across the flats to snake up another steep grade at a walk. In a few hours, when heat of the day fired up, the major saw his first giant saguaro cactus of the trip. Their great arms, like those of a dancer, swung out. Some said it was for balance, giving them an appearance of a graceful woman dipping and swaying to soft music. The giants clung to the slopes, leaving the lacy palo verde trees to populate the flats.
Brown grass tufted from between great beds of pancake cactus, some purple on the edges of the flat pads. Yucca bloomed in great white profusion and the elegant century plant with its great once in a lifetime stolon reached up with stair-step blossoms in an outline against the clear blue sky.
At the next stop, he followed the two drummers off and stretched his legs.
“Money? You got money?” The beggar was a small young girl in a filthy, ragged dress. She held out her unwashed hand cupped for him. Her wild black hair whipped by the wind and uncombed hung in her face. He could see dirt on her cheeks.
For a moment he considered her. She probably was an unrepentable slut even at that young an age. Her bare, dustcoated feet stuck out from under a raveled hem. Unable to deny even such a suspect of falsehood, he found a dime in his pocket and paid her. He did this more to get her out of his path than in charity.
“You good man,” she said. With her fingers closed tight over the coin, she shuffled away.
He went to find the facilities behind the station, his bladder about to burst. Amongst the buzz of flies and powerful stench, it took him no extra time in the outhouse. When he returned, he found the girl seated on her butt with her back to the stage stop wall and proudly eating a snowy flour tortilla filled with something.
Her cheeks bulging like a gopher, she grinned at him.
“She got anyone?” he asked the man who had finished harnessing the fresh horses.
“No.” He shook his head and glanced at her. “Showed up here by herself a couple weeks ago.”
“I’ll give you the money, if you will put her on the next stage to Preskitt?”
“Yeah. What for?”
“My wife needs help in her yard. What’s her name?”
“Lucy.”
He nodded. Then he went over and squatted down beside her. “Lucy, there’s a lady in Preskitt needs some help. Do you want a job?”
She nodded and swallowed hard, as if taken aback by his offer.
He took out a pencil and paper, then he scribbled down Mary Bowen. He handed it to her. “You can ride the next stage there. Ask for the way to Major Bowen’s house. They will tell you. Then go see her.”
“Mary Bowen?” she asked, so exactly, it knifed him in the chest.
“Yes. She’s my wife.”
He straightened and dug out two more quarters. “Maybe take a bath first.” He handed her the coins. She switched hands with the tortilla and took them.
She swept back the wild hair with her fist holding the quarters and quickly nodded that she heard him. No telling, he decided, what she would do. Perhaps take his fifty cents and go the opposite way, but he’d tried. With that done, he went inside and paid for her one-way ticket to Prescott. She would need no intro to Mary. His wife would know why he sent her.
His last sight of her, she waved good-bye to him with half of the tortilla guarded in her fist. The coach rumbled off for the New River station.
Later that night, in the pitch darkness, he half slept on a bench in front of an adobe hovel, outside the stage stop at Papago Wells. Soon it would be daylight and he would be grateful for it. His bags close by, he wondered about that grim place, with slinking cur dogs and snoring Indians on the ground sleeping off their drunkenness. Strong fecal smells lingered that even the pungent perfume of the desert’s creosote bushes could not dilute.
A dead burro’s bloated carcass lay near the rock-walled water tank a hundred feet from where he sat. His eyes dry and sore, he tried to rub some moisture into them. The air lay still and hot even at the final hour before sunrise. Despite the higher temperatures it would bring, he would feel better in the light of day, when he could see what was around him.
Since his arrival, a handful of riders stopped and came to the pool. They spoke in Spanish, watered their horses, and rode on. Under the pearly light of the stars, they didn’t look worth the powder to blow them away. In his book, they appeared to be up to some kind of skullduggery. He never moved during the time they watered their mounts, and hence went unnoticed.
In deep thought about the matter, he considered Lucy. Had she gone to find Mary? How would his wife take to the girl? She would have said later, “You should have sent her to me.” He had done that.
A Mexican came out of the station and raised his arms to the sky and yawned loudly. Then, as if he recognized him, he asked, “You want some coffee, senor?”
“Yes,” the major said, and stood, realizing how stiff he had become. He picked up both bags and took them inside. In this dried-up land someone might steal them.
A small lamp shone on the rough-sawn wooden tables and benches. He found a seat and soon a thick-set woman brought him a steaming mug.
“Food?” she asked.
He nodded, satisfied his Spanish was too poor to suggest to her any concoction he might like to eat. Instead, he blew on the coffee and hoped his stage from Tucson got underway on time. Papago Wells was not his choice of places to reside for any length of time.
She delivered him a plate of eggs, parched corn, browned meat, corn tortillas, and honey. As if pleased, she smiled at him.
“Wonderful,” he said, “Gracias.” He took another sip of his coffee, which she refilled while he ate. The first decent food in a day. Involved with his meal, he looked up to scrutinize the four swarthy men who came in wearing serapes vests and straw Chihuahua sombreros. Floured in road dust, their large spur rowels rang like cowbells when they entered the station.
The woman knew them, or acted like she did. In Spanish they gave her orders for their food. She went back in the kitchen. The leader of the group came over and put his high-topped black boot on the bench seat opposite him.
“You saw anyone ride in here since you came?”
The major considered his food and the egg on his fork. Was this a lawman? He saw no badge.
“What sort?” Then he carefully took in the food.
“Some men. Mexican. There were perhaps five riders.”
“How long ago would they have been here?”
The man pushed his sombrero up with his thumb. His eyes were dark as coal, and the edges wedged in a fashion that gave him a look of powerful authority. “Perhaps they were here an hour or two ago?”
“Some men watered their horses in the night. It was dark, I couldn’t see their faces.”
“Muchas gracias,” the man said, and nodded. He put down his boot with a clink and started to turn.
“Those men wanted?”
The man turned, looked at him hard. “Sí, señor. They murdered some innocent people.”
“The law want them?” the major asked.
The man made a small nod. “In Sonora.”
He put down his fork and considered his coffee. “I savvy.”
They shared a look of understanding and respect, then the man went to join his compadres. No words were necessary. International borders should never hide criminals. His own men went beyond them. When justice failed, then men instituted it. The difference between metered out justice versus out and out murder rode a razor’s edge. Still, this swarthy man rode after killers—felons beyond his own grasp to prosecute under the territorial laws.
After they ate, the four rode on. Eventually the stage arrived from Tucson. The driver loaded his luggage and the major climbed inside. He removed his hat, nodded to the straight-back woman seated in the front bench, and took his place on the rear one facing her.
“Good day,” he said, settled and looking across the desert to the south. Heat waves distorted the saw-tooth mountains in the distance.
He guessed her age to be in her thirties. Her black hair was pulled straight back and her nose was too long and sharp. When she spoke, her too-small mouth formed the letters. “Good day, sir.”
“My name’s Gerald Bowen, ma’am.”
He waited, but she did n
ot reply. Obviously she did not wish to share her identity with him. A trip of eighteen hours across the Sonoran desert might force her to be more friendly. He only wished the coldness she extruded would cool off the increasing heat of the day. In an effort to escape some of it, he removed his coat and placed it on the seat beside him.
Miss Hmm, as he nicknamed her to himself, stared over his head. Perhaps there was some great painting he had missed in that corner where the ribbed roof met the back wall. A famous French artist’s canvas must exist up there and he had not noticed it. He removed his hat, mopped his forehead on his kerchief, and replaced the head gear.
“Let’s roll!” the driver shouted. The coach swayed as he climbed up on the seat. The major felt grateful; moving might stir the air some. Then he glanced at his fellow passenger. She looked very cool. Oh, well. In eighteen hours, he’d be in Yuma with more problems to solve than how to get a prim lady to be cordial.
“Hee-yah!” And they were westward bound in the rocking coach.
11
Luther and Hirk rode off the ridge and headed down the steep trail. Here the pines were scattered and the bunch grass grew knee-high on Luther’s roan pony, Cochise. Real cow country, the stock they observed looked in good flesh. Several of them wore Burtle’s B Bar brand. The cowboy obviously had been busy. But most showed the looks of mavericks. Many were staggy steers cut as past yearlings. Wild-eyed heifers, some still with scabby brands, told Luther they hadn’t been worked as calves. Maverick law let anyone with stock on the range and a registered brand to claim such unmarked animals.
“Is this the way to Dikes’s place?” Luther turned in the saddle and asked his man. Both pack mules followed, the panniers under the diamond hitches going side to side as they shuffled off the mountain.
“Yeah. It’s in this valley.” Hirk pointed to the clearing far beneath them. “Could be some more of Burtle’s stuff down there.”
Luther agreed with a nod, grateful for an excuse to see the dead man’s layout.
Ben made a short bark at a squirrel who teased him from a few feet off the ground on a ponderosa trunk. After three stiff jumps, the bulldog stopped. His charge was enough that the squirrel raced upward and chattered at him from high limbs. With a sneeze at him, Ben marked the tree and quickly caught up with the roan horse.