He had meant it jokingly, in the best of good humor, but she grew distraught. "You—you—" She broke off, twisting the handkerchief in her fingers. "I have told you everything—at least, what I was lief to tell." She gave him a long and tragic look. Never had he seen her so lacking in composure. Gone was the clever and confident young woman; Phoebe Larkin suddenly became a fearful child, eyes misting with tears and pain.
"I am sorry," he blurted, trying to rise on an elbow. "Phoebe, excuse me! I did not mean to—"
Suddenly she fled; he heard footsteps diminish into the night. Along the river the coyotes howled; the frogs stopped for a moment at the sound, then resumed their drumming.
What was the mystery?
The next day he found out. After lying late abed, he wandered out into the sunlight. Raising an arm over his head, he found his shoulder almost free of pain. The fever had abated, also. Standing thus, flexing his arm, he watched a traveler approach from the direction of the capital. Alonzo Meech, the Pinkerton detective, got creakingly down from the decrepit mare and shook hands.
"Bon joor," Meech said. "That's French for 'it's a hell of a nice day.'"
Jack looked around for Mrs. Glore, hoping she had coffee on and boiling, but Beulah was not in the kitchen. He did not see Phoebe Larkin, either. Eggleston was feeding the chickens that a teamster had traded Mrs. Glore for peach pies, and Charlie stalked mice under the spreading ironwood tree.
"So the Apaches didn't get you," Drumm remarked.
The detective shook his head. He looked dusty and funereal as ever, and weary also. But there was something enduring in his manner.
"No," he said. "Oh, they stepped on my corns a little in a gulch near Prescott, but I give them as good as I got." He accepted a dipper of water; drinking part of it, he splashed the rest in his face and rubbed at his eyes. "My butt feels like a dime's worth of stew meat from all the saddle time I been putting in." Throwing the reins over the mare's head, he watched the animal shamble toward the greenery along the river. "Been on the road all night. Best time to travel, with old Agustín and his cutthroats loose."
Drumm remembered the detective's mission. "You were pursuing someone."
Meech nodded. "A pretty young lady named Phoebe Buckner. Her companion is a middle-aged lady goes by the name of Beulah Glore. They was seen around here. A freighter said he'd heard—"
"Two—two females?" Drumm tried to keep his voice casual.
"That's right." Meech walked slowly toward the bright patch of color thrown over the back of a chair under the ramada. It was Phoebe Larkin's China silk scarf, the garish print to keep her hair in place against the wind. The detective picked it up, spread it, examined it. "I'd know that anywhere," he muttered.
"I guess she forgot it," Drumm said. "But—what crime did they commit?"
The detective folded the kerchief and slipped it into his pocket. He stared around, taking in the reed hut, the half-finished adobe, the lean-tos, the earthen dam, freshly sown crops, the graves of the two Apaches.
"The young one," he said, "plugged Mr. Phineas Buckner, her husband, with a little derringer. Didn't kill him, but that wasn't her fault! Rifled the old man's strongbox, run off with Buckner's cook, an old friend of hers from Pocahontas County, West Virginia. Where are they, Mr. Drumm?"
Chapter Six
Suddenly Drumm realized that the two females must have observed the approach of Alonzo Meech from a distance. Eggleston was laying up adobe bricks in a mortar made by burning rocks, and the Papago shoveled dirt atop the dam to accommodate the steadily rising waters. But there was no sign of Phoebe Larkin or Mrs. Glore; they had fled.
"Why—ah—I—"
"They stopped here, didn't they?" Meech demanded. "Heard the two of 'em come through on the Phoenix stage, then stayed when Apaches turned the stage back."
Drumm's words came so glibly, so naturally, that he himself was astounded. He had up until now been a truthful man.
"That's right," he lied. "They were here. But one of Tully and Ochoa's wagons took them into Prescott the other day. They packed up and left, both of them. It seems Miss Larkin has an uncle in Prescott, and—"
"That was her maiden name—Larkin," Meech observed. "Her married name is Buckner."
"Well, anyway, they are not here now. They have gone on to Prescott. Quite suddenly, as a matter of fact." He wanted desperately to look around, to see whether Phoebe and Mrs. Glore might even now be rolling out pie dough or chopping wood for the kitchen fire to give the lie to his statement, but did not dare.
Meech strolled to the water butt and drank another dipperful. "They ain't in Prescott," he grumbled. "By now I know everyone in Prescott, except for the greasers. Them two ain't there—ain't been there!" Shaking water from his grizzled beard, he stared at Jack Drumm. "Seems like you favor that shoulder."
"Apaches again, a few days ago. They shot up the place, but we —Eggie and I—drove them off."
"Heard in Prescott you was planning to stay here along the Agua Fria. Seems to me like a damned fool idea, but—" Casually the detective wandered toward the kitchen, but Drumm steered him to a chair under the ramada.
"You must be tired after riding all the way from Prescott. Sit there and rest—I'll bring something to eat. I was about to have a bit of lunch myself."
While Alonzo Meech slumped in the chair, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, Jack spoke in low tones to Eggleston.
"That is Detective Meech—do you remember? The people he was searching for are Miss Phoebe and Mrs. Glore."
The valet's eyes opened wide. "But what—"
Jack quickly put a finger to his lips. "Where are they?"
"Mr. Jack, I don't know! A moment ago they were working in the kitchen, but I heard Mrs. Glore make a funny noise and they hurried into the reeds along the river!"
Drumm nodded. "I thought so." He looked again toward Meech, lolling in the chair. "If you will, bring us something to eat. Remember—say nothing whatever about the ladies! I told him they left here several days ago for Prescott."
"But—"
"Shhhh! I will explain everything later. In the meantime, let us act perfectly natural. Perhaps Meech will be satisfied and go on about his business."
Together Drumm and the detective ate pie and drank coffee under the ramada. The sun climbed high in the sky; the Mazatzals turned blue and hazy. A wren dipped brazenly through the shelter and then perched atop a cactus, singing a cheerful song. Meech spooned up the last of his pie.
"Ain't had a treat like that since I come out here! Crust just like my wife makes." He looked thoughtfully at Jack Drumm and belched. "Mrs. Glore was said to be a good cook."
"Eggie is almost of chef level," Jack said carelessly. "You remember his cooking the night we had dinner here, just before Agustín and his Apaches attacked. Eggie is a real coper—he can bring off almost anything you care to mention. Really, a marvelous servant!"
Meech wiped his mouth, staring at laundry spread over the bushes. Jack suspected they were Phoebe Larkin's underthings. From where he sat he could not quite make out the laces and bows undoubtedly there.
"Eggie is quite clean, also," he added. "He insists on laundering our linen daily. Since we settled down here, we have become very regular in our habits."
"Well—" Meech sighed and put on his broad-brimmed hat. He filled his canteen from the water butt and buckled the big Colt's revolver about his waist. "Got to get on about my business."
Jack's inquiry was casual. "Where are you bound for now?"
Meech stared with reddened eyes down the road; his gaze followed the winding track into Centinela Canyon. "Just around, I guess, to pick up their trail and start all over again. I had 'em dead to rights in Phoenix but they gave me the slip." He mounted the buckskin and waved. "Churchy la femme. That's French for 'don't never trust a woman.'"
Jack sat for a long while under the ramada, watching the detective and his mount dwindle in the southern distance. Finally they were gone, but perhaps the detective had f
ield glasses in his saddlebags. He walked slowly, casually, to the dam. Eggleston looked up, brow shiny with sweat, face smeared clownlike with dirt.
"He has gone, then?" he asked.
"How far, I don't know! But I think he is suspicious. Even now he may be watching the camp."
The valet leaned for a moment on his shovel. "I do not think the women are very far away, Mr. Jack. A moment ago I was sure I heard voices."
Jack parted the reeds. Damned females—what had they gotten him into? Now he was an accomplice after the fact, when all he had to do, really, was admit their presence and let Meech take them away to a well-deserved fate! Murder was a serious business.
"Phoebe?" he called. "Miss Larkin?"
The sun beat down in a lacy green pattern. Something plopped into a scum-edged pool. His boots gurgled and sucked in the rich ooze.
"Phoebe!" he called again. "Where are you?"
A bee lumbered near his ear. The buzz was loud in the silence.
"Phoebe?"
He stepped into a hole and fell headlong, grasping the tough stalks in an effort to regain his balance. As he toppled, his eye registered the scene as a photographic plate is struck by light to fix a permanent image. Phoebe Larkin stood in a clearing, aiming carefully with her derringer. Mrs. Glore screamed; Jack saw her also with utmost clarity, terror-struck, hand over her mouth. Fortunately the shot went wide, cutting through the grasses over his head. Indignantly he clambered from the muck to snatch the weapon.
"One murder," he protested, "is enough for any female, I should think! You almost killed me!"
Phoebe sank down on a grassy mound, face in her hands.
"I thought it was Detective Meech," she quavered.
"That's right!" Mrs. Glore cried. "That's the God's truth! May I be set afire without no hose company if that ain't the truth! We was hiding here, and when someone come blundering through the reeds, we figured the jig was up!"
Eggleston came running, Sharp's rifle at the ready. "What is it? What's happened?"
"Nothing," Jack said. "Nothing at all, Eggie. Just a little misunderstanding. Go back to your work."
Now he understood their strange behavior: the initial refusal to return to Phoenix, their later refusal to go on to Prescott with the wagons under the escort of Lieutenant Dunaway. The Pinkerton had lost their trail in Phoenix. Thinking they had finally eluded Meech, the two women took the stage to Prescott and Phoebe's uncle Buell, only to have the stage turned back by the Apaches. They could not, of course, return to Phoenix, where Meech was, and so insisted on staying at the Agua Fria with Jack Drumm. Then, when safe transportation to Prescott was assured, Drumm told Dunaway that Meech was in Prescott, still on the trail of his quarry. It must have been an agonizing moment for Phoebe and Beulah Glore, trapped between Phoenix and Prescott. But Drumm hardened his soul. Phoebe Larkin was a murderess.
"Come with me!" he ordered, slipping the derringer into his pocket.
"Where?" Phoebe asked.
He nodded toward the reed hut.
"But—" A hand crept toward her throat. "Where is that devil Meech?"
"He has gone, but may be watching us from a distance." Taking her hand, he guided Phoebe and Mrs. Glore to a thicket that bordered the reed hut; they were able to slip in unseen, so far as he knew.
"I don't understand this," Phoebe murmured. She sat in their shelter, cluttered about with fripperies. A lacy nightgown hung from a nail, bottles of cologne and containers of face powder littered an upturned box, the place smelled feminine and foreign to Jack Drumm. Face pale but head proudly erect, Phoebe clasped hands in her lap. "Mr. Meech must have told you the whole story! Why didn't you just turn us in?"
He had no ready answer. "I don't know, exactly. Maybe it was only that I wanted to hear your side."
That was not it—not the whole thing, anyway. He found himself in the grip of a powerful emotion he did not quite understand. He distrusted emotion, especially his own; better always to be cool and practical. To cover his discomfiture, he added, "Anyway, that's neither here nor there."
"But it is!" Phoebe insisted. "It makes you an accomplice, or some such legal foolishness! I know that much! Since I was caught up in this nasty business I studied the law to find out where I stood!"
"And where," he asked, "do you stand, Miss Larkin?"
Phoebe swallowed hard, looked down at her clenched fingers.
"I want you to know the truth! Since you helped us so—me and Beulah—I'll tell you everything, just as it happened." In a monotone, not looking at him, she went on. "I was a poor girl from Clover Lick, in Pocahontas County. That's in West Virginia, the coal-mining country. I worked hard, and hunted and fished with my uncle Buell. Mr. Phineas Buckner owned most of the mines. He was a rich man, a real rich man, that lived in Philadephia. He used to come to Pocahontas County to visit his mines and see how much money they was—were making. One time he came to our house—my pa was a foreman in the Black Diamond Mine—and saw me. I was only eighteen then, and I guess something of a looker—"
"That's right!" Mrs. Glore interrupted. "Peaches-and-cream complexion, and that red hair falling all over her shoulders—"
"Be quiet, Beulah," Phoebe said. "Anyway, Mr. Buckner courted me. He was nigh on to fifty then, and old enough to be my father. But I was a loving girl—still am. I am full of love, and sometimes regret it. I—I—" She broke off; tears misted her eyes. "I gave him my hand, and we were married in a big church in Philadelphia. That was ten years ago, come spring."
Jack Drumm cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "If these details pain you so, you need not—"
"No!" She shook her head; the red tresses swirled about. The close air filled with feminine fragrance. "I've got to tell somebody, maybe just to get it all straight in my own mind!"
Brushing a vagrant strand back from her forehead, she went on. "Philadelphia was a big town, and I didn't fit in with his society friends. And Mr. Buckner was so much older than me that there was no one to talk to. I did get him to bring Beulah to his big house when he needed a cook, but she was the only friend I had. For a while he kind of showed me off, like I was a prize he won. But then he began to fuss at me. He got real mean." She closed her eyes. "He—he began to beat me. Said I was obstinate, when all the matter was that I just—I just was a country girl. I didn't know how to act in society and there wasn't anyone to teach me."
Mrs. Glore shuddered. "He was a brute, that old man!"
"I had a little derringer Uncle Buell gave me when I was fifteen, before he went off to seek gold in Arizona. Uncle Buell said I was so pretty—he said it, you see, I didn't—that sometime I might have to defend my body against wicked men. I thought it was a joke, but it wasn't." She bit her lip. "One night Mr. Buckner came to my room—we slept in separate rooms—and had—" She swallowed again, and her voice trailed off. "Well, he had his way with me. He abused me, beat me with his belt. I couldn't stand it anymore. I got my derringer from where I kept it in my—my underwear. I always have and always will kill my own snakes, so I shot him. I don't know where I shot him, but he fell down covered with blood."
Reliving the scene, Phoebe was overcome. She began to weep. Mrs. Glore sat with an arm around her, trying to comfort her.
"There ain't much more to tell," Beulah finished. "Phoebe come and told me what she'd done. While the rest of the servants was milling around upstairs, we took a crowbar and busted the lock off the old man's strongbox. I had my savings, but the old alligator hadn't paid me for weeks because I stuck up for Phoebe. I took what he owed me and we lit out of there. And that's the God's truth, the only kind of truth there is!"
Drumm scratched his chin. The beard itched. "Detective Meech gave me only the barest details. But your version puts a different light on things."
"What can we do? The Buckners are big bugs in Philadelphia, and Beulah and I are just little people. No one will believe us!"
"I have a plan," Drumm said.
They listened.
"With Meech about, as he ma
y well be, we have to be very careful. I told him you two had gone on to Prescott, to visit your uncle Buell, but I do not think he believed me."
"You never!" Mrs. Glore cried.
Phoebe was surprised, also. "But why did you do that? That puts you in as much trouble as us!"
"Never mind that! At any rate, here is what you must do. I want you and Mrs. Glore to remain here, in the hut, night and day. Do not venture out. There will be people passing by, more and more now that Agustín is barricaded in the Mazatzals—stages, freight wagons, travelers and settlers, miners. Even Alonzo Meech may unexpectedly return, hoping to catch you unawares. But you are not to show yourselves. In a few days, I expect a friend of mine—a Mr. Ike Coogan—to come by in the Tully and Ochoa wagons with a contract for me to sign. Coogan is a good sort. I think I can arrange to smuggle you and Mrs. Glore to Prescott in one of his wagons. There your uncle can take over your protection; perhaps help you to get to the Sandwich Islands or Australia, where you will be safe."
A tinge of color returned to Phoebe Larkin's cheeks. The freckles paled. She touched her lips with a wispy handkerchief. Phoebe looked dainty and very feminine; Jack marveled that this was the female who swung a mattock like a man, drove off Agustín's braves with a pistol in each hand—and shot a brutal husband.
"Why, I must ask you again," she said, "are you doing all this for us?"
"Because you have been badly used. We Britons believe in fair play."
She rose, looking him in the eye with that strange gaze he had once before observed. "Mr. Drumm," she said, "I thought you were cold as Mose's toe. But I'm bound to admit I'm a poor judge of men! All anyone has to do is remember I married Mr. Buckner. So I apologize for what I said. Maybe there is a little milk of human kindness in you."
"Me too," Mrs. Glore agreed. "That's the God's truth! We both got a little different slant on you now."
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