Lord Apache

by Robert J. Steelman

  Jack remembered the string of beads around an Apache raider's neck that first night on the Agua Fria. Maybe the rosary had belonged to Conception Peralta. The miller was helping him load the bags of meal when a woman passed, trudging down the lane with a sack over one shoulder. In the falling snow Jack caught only a brief glimpse, but recollection stirred; the stout figure, the measured stride, the purposeful manner.

  "Mrs. Glore!" he called.

  For a moment the figure broke stride.

  "Wait!" Dropping the meal, he ran after her. "Wait a minute!"

  The cloaked figure started to run, suddenly disappeared. Jack paused, staring into the rabbit warren of jacales, lean-tos, tumbledown adobes where the figure had vanished. Somewhere a concertina played, a woman laughed. Light from a lamp in a window shone into the snow-dusted alleyway. "Dispénseme, señor," a small boy carrying a basket of fresh tortillas murmured, and squeezed by him.

  Beulah Glore? Or was it only a trick of his imagination? Maybe it was just that he longed to see Phoebe Larkin once more. But the two ladies were probably long gone from the town of Prescott.

  "Ladies?" Peralta tugged at his mustache. "Two ladies? Gringo ladies?" He pondered the question. "Seem to me—"

  "A Mrs. Beulah Glore," Jack said, "and a younger lady—Miss Phoebe Larkin." He waited. "With red hair," he added.

  Peralta seemed undecided. Finally he said, "You don't mean them no harm?"

  "Good Lord, no!" Jack said. "I'm a friend!"

  "Because," Peralta said, "there is a man looking for them, too, I hear. A detective."

  "Meech!" Jack blurted.

  "I don't know his name. I don't know their name, either. It is none of my business." The miller shrugged. "You understand, señor, people come to Mex Town to hide, sometimes, when the law is after them. But it is not good for a Mexican to stick his nose into things. We give them a bed, maybe frijoles and a cup of coffee —you understand, it is not any of our business. They pay us, then they go away. That is all there is to it!"

  "Yes, yes!" Jack said, impatient. "That's all very true, I'm sure! But where can I find these two ladies?"

  The snow was falling more heavily now; a church bell rang. It was six o'clock. A dog shambled up to Peralta, and he kicked at it. Whimpering, it loped away on three legs.

  "Go down to the church," the miller said. "Turn left and walk to the end of the lane. Under the hill there is a little house with a stone chimney, and a cow and a burro behind a fence. The padre lives there—Father Garcés. Maybe he can tell you something."

  Leaving the wagon and old Bonyparts, Jack hurried toward the corner. In his haste he hardly saw the figure standing in the deep embrasure of the church doorway.

  "Well!" The man caught him by the arm. His flat-brimmed hat was crowned with a peak of snow; the stuff lay heavy on the dark cloth of his coat. His breath merged in frosty puffs. "It's a small world!"

  Jack swallowed hard, and could only stare.

  Alonzo Meech nodded. "Bonus snowshoes! That's Spanish for 'ain't it a hell of a night out?' What are you doing in Prescott, Mr. Drumm?"

  Chapter Eight

  Seeing no other way out of the predicament, Jack Drumm paid for beans, tortillas, and a bottle of fiery aguardiente brandy at a tiny cantina.

  "It's mighty nice of you," Meech acknowledged. "I'm about out of cash, and the home office is getting real fussy about sending me expense money. I been out here a long time now without nothing to show for it. And the Buckner family is getting mad, I guess, because I ain't clapped the cuffs on those two she-devils yet!" Draining a tin cup of brandy, he tapped Jack on the arm. "You know what? People are helping them two! Everyone seems in cahoots with 'em! Take now, for instance. I was sure I'd run 'em down to Mex Town here, but I lost the danged trail again! When a feller don't speak the Spanish lingo, and these miserable little shacks all piled together the way they are, it don't make my job no easier!"

  "Yes," Jack agreed, "a detective's job is difficult, I should imagine." A thought began to form in his mind. "Well, I think I'll take a room at the Imperial tonight and drive back to the ranch in the morning. I'm not anxious to go down that grade in a snowstorm."

  Seeming not to hear, Alonzo Meech reached for another hot chile and sucked reflectively on it. Jack had tried one, spitting it out when it seemed to be incinerating his tongue, but the detective seemed to relish them.

  "I ain't especially smart," Meech admitted. "Oh, I read about all these great detectives—the Bow Street Runners in London—that fellow—what was his name? Oh, yes—Javert, in Mr. Hugo's book, which I can't pronounce—"

  "Les Miserables."

  "Yes, that's it! Anyway, I'm not smart and deducting all the time, the way those fellers did. But what I got on my side is patience. Even the smartest crinim—crinim—"

  "Criminal?"

  "I don't usual drink on the job, but it's a cold night." Meech poured himself another brandy. "Anyway, even the smartest of 'em will slip up sooner or later, and that's when old Meech is on hand with the cuffs!"

  Remembering the detective's weakness, Jack crooked a finger at the Mexican woman who ran the cantina and asked for another bottle of aguardiente. He poured Meech and himself a cupful, only sipping at his.

  "Well," he said again, "I've got to be going. The Legislature is in session. I'll probably have a hard time getting a room."

  Meech drank half the brandy and set the cup down so hard it sloshed on the table. "It don't make no difference," he said loudly, "whether Pinkerton's pays me or not! It's a matter of pride, see? Professional pride! I'm getting up in years—fifty-six next July—and I'll not have my record spoiled now!"

  When Jack slipped away Meech was pouring himself another drink, seeming not to hear the Latin laughter, the quarreling from a corner where a monte game was going on. Jack was not even sure Meech noticed his own departure.

  The snow was falling faster. There was no wind, only the steady downfall that muffled sound, cast iridescent rings around the lamplight from an occasional window. Peralta had locked the mill and gone to supper. Bonyparts stood in the traces, broad back mounded with snow; he snuffled impatiently and tossed his head.

  "Good mule," Jack muttered, and gave him a nosebag of oats. Go down to the church, the miller said. Under the hill is a little house with a cow and a burro behind a fence. The padre—Father Garcés—

  Hesitantly he knocked at the door. It was more substantial than the rest of the house—heavy oak planks, an iron ring set in the middle.

  There was no answer. The burro looked at him with disinterest. Shaking its coat to throw off the snow, it ambled into the brush-topped ramada to join the cow.

  He knocked again, watching over his shoulder for Meech. A man with that kind of persistence had to be taken into account, even when he was tipsy with aguardiente. There was no answer. Putting his lips close to the door, he called softly.

  "Miss Larkin! Mrs. Glore? Are you there?"

  Pressing his ear against the door, he heard nothing. But suddenly the door opened. He fell headlong into the room.

  "Don't move!" a voice commanded. "Just lay there, spread out like that!"

  He obeyed. The yellow rays of a lamp spread over his prostrate form, something hard and metallic pressed into the hollow behind his ear. The door closed, a bar fell heavily into place.

  "Turn over!"

  Gingerly he rolled over, blinking in the light.

  "Why, it's Mr. Drumm!" Beulah Glore cried. She moved closer with the lamp. Phoebe Larkin, kneeling next him, slipped the derringer into the cleavage of her bosom.

  "Jack!" she cried. "Jack Drumm! It's you!"

  Somewhat miffed, he got to his feet. Readjusting his poncho, he picked up the sombrero and said, "You gave me a very strange welcome!"

  Phoebe beckoned him to a table and poured a cup of coffee. "We thought it was Meech," she explained. "Our friend—Father Garcés—has seen him here, in Prescott. And tonight, when Beulah went out to buy a few potatoes and a piece of meat for the father's
supper, someone in the street called her by name and began to chase her!"

  "That was I," Jack said. "But Alonzo Meech is indeed here! I found him standing near the church, watching people pass by, probably hoping to catch sight of one of you." He waved aside the coffee. "We must hurry and get out of here! Where is the padre?"

  "At the church," Phoebe said, "hearing confessions or whatever they do in the Catholic church. But what—"

  "I have a wagon," Jack explained, "and old Bonyparts. I came to town for supplies and they are in the wagon, covered with canvas. Get your things ready and come with me! I will put you under the canvas, and we will drive out of town and back to Rancho Terco!"

  In the lamplight Phoebe Larkin's face was pale and distraught. Her freckles stood out. Nervously she put a hand to her brow, pushing back the vagrant hair. The lamplight behind her shone through the red-gold hair with a shimmering halo.

  "What good will that do?" Phoebe asked quietly. "No, Jack—it's no good! That man will never give up! He chased us three thousand miles, and now he's as near as the church! It's time to give up, to let him take us back to stand trial, no matter how unfair the whole thing is bound to be."

  "Never!" Jack cried. "If I have anything to do with it, he will not catch you! I can tell you—we Drumms from Clarendon Hall are stubborn people! We do not give up, and you and Beulah would be well advised to follow our example!"

  Mrs. Glore shook her head. "If we get back to the ranch safe— the Lord knows how I miss that place, and Mr. Eggleston—then Meech'd just find us there, sooner or later!"

  "We will cross that bridge when we come to it," Jack said curtly. "Right now you are in immediate danger, and we must deal with that directly! Hurry and pack what things you need!"

  Phoebe wrote a note to Father Garcés. They turned out the lamp, slipped furtively into the snowy night, and locked the door after them.

  "The padre, as they call him, is a good man," Beulah sighed. "Myself, I'm a Baptist. But I guess Catholics has got a stake in the true faith too!"

  The dirt lanes were deserted. A dog shambled over to sniff them. "Good boy!" Phoebe said, and the dog slunk away. Over their heads the bells of the church rang, and they all started nervously. "Just around the corner here," Jack whispered, "at Peralta's mill!"

  At the sight of Phoebe, Bonyparts whickered in recognition.

  "Quiet!" she cautioned, rubbing the velvety muzzle. "I'm glad to see you too, old fellow!"

  Jack stowed the valises in the wagon, then held up the canvas for them to climb in.

  "There are blankets in there," he advised. "If you huddle together among the meal sacks and cover yourselves it will not be too cold, I think."

  Phoebe helped Mrs. Glore into the bed of the wagon. While Jack continued to hold the canvas high, she paused before him. Her face was pale in the gloom, her eyes only deep shadows.

  "I asked you once before! Why are you doing this for us? You're risking your own safety, your reputation, maybe even your own freedom!"

  "I told you," he said, "the Drumms always fight injustice. If you go far enough back, they resisted King John himself and made him sign the Magna Charta."

  For a long time her eyes looked into his. Snow fell on her hair, A ray of moonlight filtered perversely through the misty downpour.

  "There isn't—there isn't any other reason?"

  He was uncomfortable, not knowing what she was trying to get at.

  "If we stand here," he blurted, "discussing ethics, we are all apt to be collared by Detective Meech! Will you hurry and get into the damned wagon?"

  It must have been well after ten at night when he clucked to Bonyparts and slapped the reins over his broad back. There was only one way out of Mex Town, one rutted lane leading back to Prescott, the long grade, the valley of the Agua Fria—and that way had to pass the church. The wagon moved away, iron-shod wheels crunching in the mud. Alonzo Meech had probably gone to bed somewhere. Perhaps he only had his head on a table at the cantina, empty aguardiente bottle before him, while a mozo swept out.

  In any case, no one stopped them. The neatly fenced houses of Prescott slept in the snowy night; the brewery and blacksmith shops and mercantile stores were closed. Only from the Ten Strike, the Jack of Diamonds, and the other saloons came the sound of activity. Lights showed through frosted windows, a fiddle squealed, haze of blue tobacco smoke drifted from an open door. Singing and roistering, a few late revelers staggered from the gaming houses.

  "Drumm? Is that you, Drumm?"

  A soldier in a cavalry greatcoat lurched alongside the wagon, tugging at Jack's sleeve.

  "Stop, damn it! Stop your mule! Is that you, Jack Drumm?"

  The soldier was Lieutenant George Dunaway, in his cups. Dunaway motioned to another shambling figure; Corporal Bagley, the mustached brigand who seemed always near. "Jim, c'mere!" Dunaway gestured, almost losing his balance, preserving himself only by clutching at the wagon seat. "Here's Drumm, good ol' Drumm! Shake hands with Drumm, Jim! You remember old Englishman Drumm! I licked him once, but he's a better man than I first give him credit for!"

  Corporal Bagley was also in his cups. Putting out a hand, he swayed and fell in the snow. Dunaway disregarded him.

  "What you doin' in Prescott?" he demanded.

  Even from the high seat Jack could smell the bouquet of bourbon whiskey.

  "Just came into town to buy a few supplies." Nervously he looked over his shoulder. Meech might be following them.

  "Goin' back to your ranch this time of night?" Dunaway demanded. "In a damned snowstorm?"

  "I—I thought it might be a little safer," Jack stammered. "I mean—the Apaches aren't likely to bother a wagon in this weather, are they?"

  Dunaway hiccuped. "Never know. Old Agustín is unpre— unpre—" He hitched up his breeches, spat into the snow. "He's un—pree—dickable!"

  "Well," Jack said, "I'd better be moving along."

  Dunaway, however, was in a conversational mood. He looked down at Corporal Bagley, prone in the snow and apparently sleeping.

  "Officers aren't supposh—supposed to fraternize with enlisted men. But Jim Bagley's an old friend. Shaved—saved my life at Shiloh in April of '62. Course, the damned West Pointers look down their noses at me, but I don't give a damn!" He looked up at Jack Drumm. "Do I, now?"

  Jack was uncomfortable. He wondered what the two females in the wagon were thinking about the delay. They were probably terrified.

  "I suppose not," he murmured.

  "My time's about up," Dunaway went on. "The hell with this tin-soldier Army! It's gone to hell since the war! You know what I'm going to do?"

  Jack shook his head.

  "In two more weeks I'm going to Australia! Down there I hear there's lot of cheap land, good wages, pretty girls looking for a husband! That's where I'm bound for! No more chasing raggedy-ass Apaches for me!" In a reedy tenor Dunaway began to sing:

  "We went to Arizony For to fight the Injuns there. We came near to being made bald-headed But they never got our hair!"

  Corporal Bagley wandered unsteadily to his feet, wiping mud and snow from his breeches. Together they bawled out the chorus:

  "Forty miles a day on beans and hay In the Regular Army, O! We bless the day we skipped away From the Regular Army, O!"

  "I must go!" Jack insisted. "I've got a long way to travel!"

  The lieutenant slapped him on the knee. "When a man gets to know you, you're not a bad sort, Drumm!" Hiccuping, he draped an arm about Jim Bagley's shoulder and the two staggered into the night, singing off key.

  Descending the rocky grade, well clear of Prescott, Jack halted the mule under a windswept grove of trees. Shaking snow from the canvas cover, he called, "Come out and stretch your limbs if you want to! I think we're out of danger—immediate danger, anyway!"

  Stiff and cramped, the two females clambered down. The snow had stopped and the moon shone, scudding high in a rack of clouds.

  "I was so afraid, back there in town, when you stopped the wagon," Phoebe sa
id, shivering.

  "That was Dunaway—George Dunaway."

  "After a while," Phoebe said, "I realized it was him. I'd know his voice anywhere. It would have been nice if I could have said hello. George Dunaway is such a good man. Oh, he's kind of rough, I give you that, but he's all wool and a yard wide!"

  Jack remembered the lieutenant bringing Phoebe flowers. He said, with some asperity, "There was hardly any time for visiting!"

  "I know," Phoebe cried. "Oh, yes, I know!"

  He helped them back into the wagon. This time they could safely lie together and look up at the stars, free from the smothering canvas. As he drove, he heard their drowsy chatter, the female talk; it was somehow domestic and comforting. An excellent idea came to him—one that might solve a lot of problems. Why not? he asked himself. Why not? The idea seemed eminently practicable, and he resolved to try it at the first opportunity.

  During his short absence Rancho Terco had grown—perhaps only a little, but one more gun to defend against Agustín and his Apaches was worthwhile. The newcomer, Eggleston reported, was a man from Columbus, Ohio, with weak lungs, a wife, and three towheaded children. Ben Sprankle had come to Arizona for his health. He had a small stock of chewing tobacco, coal oil, nails, tinware, and bolts of gingham.

  "He wants to start a little store here," the valet explained. "He never had a real home himself, he said, but he thought along the Agua Fria was a good place to raise children, with all the sunshine and fresh air. He says in Columbus, Ohio—where is that, Mr. Jack? —this time of year it's all snow and slush and sniffles."

  Phoebe, glad to be "home," as she said, breathed deep of the warm dry air. Uncle Roscoe, now completely recovered, shook her hand like a pump handle. "Ain't nothin' like a pretty woman to dress up a spread like this!" he said, and Phoebe blushed becomingly. Eggleston and Mrs. Glore had disappeared into the now-completed adobe to greet each other in a more private way.