Lord Apache

by Robert J. Steelman

  "That's right," Jack agreed. "Women are a proper and fitting part of the landscape, even on the frontier, Uncle Roscoe. I am glad we have attractive females on Rancho Terco."

  Phoebe looked at him with a peculiar look, and said, "Well, if I must settle for being part of the landscape, I suppose that will have to do."

  "Like the yucca plant," Jack amended. "That is part of the landscape, too. When it blooms, all the birds are attracted to the beautiful waxy flowers. The—the yucca is useful, too. The Indians make all sorts of things out of it."

  "And I suppose we females are useful too, Mr. Drumm?"

  He was not sure whether she was ragging him. Somewhat stiffly he said, "You and Mrs. Glore have been a great help to us here."

  "And you've helped me and Beulah too," Phoebe murmured. "So we must be grateful." She turned away to wander among the outbuildings, inspecting everything new, leaving Jack Drumm with the remembrance that the yucca plant had sharp spiky leaves resembling small daggers. He was pondering this botanical resemblance when Eggleston emerged from the adobe. Mrs. Glore was already preparing a fresh kettle of beans and had a batch of biscuits going.

  "I was so glad to see Beulah again," the valet said earnestly. "Really, Mr. Jack, I missed her dreadfully."

  "I, also."

  "But—" Eggleston broke off and looked down at his fingers, scarred and toughened by the hard life. "What I mean to say is—I missed her in an entirely different way from you, Mr. Jack."

  "How is that?"

  Eggleston coughed, clasped his hands nervously behind his back. "Well, I have never married. But there comes a time in a man's life when he thinks about growing old alone, and lonely. I do not care if Beulah has committed some offense against the American law. I am sure she meant well, and was probably even justified in what she did. That would be no bar to my marrying her."

  "Marrying her?" Jack was astonished.

  "Marry her!" Eggleston spoke firmly. "Yes, Indeed, I would be happy spending my declining years with such a female as Beulah Glore! I would, of course, someday want to take her home with me to Clarendon Hall, but—well, she is such a different kind that I wonder how she would fit in in Hampshire."

  Jack put his hand on the valet's sleeve. "Eggie, if you love her and she loves you—"

  "Oh, Mr. Jack, she does, and I do!"

  "Then she is the mate for you in Hampshire, or in Halifax! Perhaps the old families in Hampshire—like yours and mine—would benefit from new blood, some of the new American blood, teeming as it does with life and energy and determination."

  Feeling awkward at having spoken so emotionally, he clapped Eggleston on the back and hurried away to make his plans. Time was of the essence. He called them together to advise them.

  "We had a narrow escape from Mr. Meech in Prescott. No one knows when he may reappear. In the meantime, we must all be cautious. The adobe is finished, and is commodious and comfortable. You, Phoebe, and Mrs. Glore will spend your time inside, emerging only at night, so as not to be seen."

  "But how will I cook?" Beulah demanded. "I'll bet none of you has had a decent meal since I left!"

  "Eggie will attend to the cooking," Jack said.

  "I know we're in danger," Phoebe protested, "but we can't spend the rest of our lives caged like animals in a zoo!"

  "It will not be long," he promised. "I have a plan. If everything works out, you will be confined only for a few days."

  "What kind of plan?"

  He shook his head. "Only trust me for a little while."

  "But—"

  "I have every reason to think it will come off successfully. But first—we must plan a little gathering. A Christmas party, that's it!"

  "Christmas?" Phoebe asked doubtfully.

  "Yes, indeed! It is almost that time, is it not? At home, in Hampshire, good neighbors are gathering for syllabub and innocent games. The goose is fat; English countrymen are roaming the forest for a proper Yule log. The cellars are filled with apples and pears, preserves, fat gammon, braces of fowl. Snow is deep, and children are singing of good King Wenceslas. Here, in this Arizona desert, we should also be mindful of the Christmas season, should we not?"

  "But your plan—" Phoebe insisted.

  "The celebration is all part of the plan," he said, and would tell them no more. But they liked the idea of a celebration and fell to with a will, planning a menu, cutting down a sapling cottonwood and draping it with strings of paper flowers and bits of tin and glass, deciding which chickens would grace the festive board.

  "And there will be a guest," Jack added. "If we are to give each other small gifts as Phoebe suggests, there must of course be one for the guest."

  Phoebe, caught up in the excitement, was cutting a large star from a tin can. "A guest? Oh, Jack—who?"

  "You will see," he promised. "You will see come Sunday."

  He wasted no time in getting in touch with the guest. Yes, word came from Prescott, the guest would be honored to attend. He would ride out before dawn and arrive at noon. The Sloats, and the Sprankles down the road, were reminded also of the holiday season and planned their own celebrations. Charlie the Papago disappeared; in a few days he came back with a wife and several brown children in ragged shifts and bare feet. Though not understanding exactly what Christmas was all about, Charlie dug up a clump of saltbush with its clusters of papery fruit and planted it near his hut for his children to decorate as Ostin Drumm's tree was adorned.

  "We've got to make presents for Charlie's family too," Phoebe decided.

  In the hubbub and bonhomie of the season their precautions against Alonzo Meech were neglected. Stages came and went, passengers climbed down to eat beans and pie and drink coffee, freight wagons rolled ponderously to and from Prescott. They were so busy, not only with the routine business of the ranch but with the happy preparations for Christmas, that Jack was sure someone knew the females were once again at Rancho Terco. Meech would undoubtedly hear the rumors and take up the scent again. But tomorrow was Sunday—by nightfall everything should be happily resolved.

  George Dunaway arrived shortly before noon, sweaty and dusty in dress blues. "I'm grateful to you, Drumm," he said. "Fort Whipple can be a lonesome place for a bachelor officer during the holidays. Oh, someone takes pity on me now and then and invites me for dinner, but I don't take kindly to pity!"

  The lieutenant was astonished at finding Phoebe and Mrs. Glore at the ranch. Phoebe, excited, threw her arms about him in what Drumm thought was an excess of emotion, kissing Dunaway hard on his hairy cheek. Mrs. Glore, too, bussed him.

  "It's George!" Phoebe cried. "Isn't that nice! He's come all the way from Prescott for our party!" She turned to Jack Drumm. "Well, isn't this the nicest surprise! You sly fox! So George was the guest, all along!"

  Eggleston too shook hands with the lieutenant, and Uncle Roscoe had known Dunaway for a long time.

  "Saved my gizzard one time, over at Mule Canyon!" he crowed. "Some renegade Navahos had me boxed in, but George and his roughnecks drove 'em off and took an arrer out of my behind!"

  "But I don't understand!" Dunaway said, turning to Jack Drumm. "You said the ladies had gone on to Prescott, and now—"

  "I'll explain later," Jack promised.

  Dunaway sniffed at the aroma of roasting chickens, hot pie crust, and cinnamon and other spices. "Don't smell like Army fare!"

  "Dinner's at twelve sharp!" Mrs. Glore beamed, her face red from the stove, arms floured to the elbow. "Now you menfolk just set and talk while I look to the pies!"

  "And after dinner we'll open the presents!" Phoebe cried. "Oh, it will be such fun! There's something for you, George—I made it myself!"

  When the rest had gone back to their work, Jack drew Dunaway aside to present him with one of the American stogies he had learned to tolerate. Sitting together in the shade of the ramada, they drank cold tea from an olla, laced with bourbon.

  "Oh, by the way—" Dunaway fished in a shirt pocket. "Here's a telegraph message come for you to Fort
Whipple. Must be important! Civilians usually don't get to use the military wire unless they're pretty high mucketymucks."

  Jack had long been expecting word from Andrew about the money he had requested. He slipped the folded paper into his pocket. "We're glad to have you here, George," he said. "It was a long way for you to come, and I appreciate it."

  Dunaway lay back in his chair and stared at the distant Mazatzals, already dusted with the first snows of winter. "A man never knows how things will work out," he mused. "A few months ago you and I were pummeling each other. I hated your guts, I guess. Now we're friends, having a sociable drink together. This Territory is a strange place—nothing goes according to plan, the way it does elsewhere." He blew a contemplative smoke ring. "So the two females were in the back of your wagon when I came up on you in front of the Lucky Lady in Prescott!"

  "That's right."

  "I'm glad you explained it to me. I heard Detective Meech was chasing them, but I knew two fine ladies like them couldn't have done anything wrong."

  Jack spoke carefully. "They are fine ladies, indeed. And Miss Larkin is handsome, into the bargain, with that copper-colored hair and fine complexion."

  "I know," Dunaway murmured, his eyes far away. "Yes, I know."

  Encouraged, Jack puffed hard at his stogie. "You know, of course, we're pleased to have you here, George. But there's a little more to it than that." He cleared his throat, examined the ash of the cigar. "Maybe you've noticed—Miss Larkin is attracted to you."

  Dunaway turned sharply from his contemplation of the distant mountains. "She is?"

  "Surely you noticed how she threw her arms about you! Also, she kissed you on the cheek. In addition to being a fine figure of a woman, Phoebe is also affectionate."

  Dunaway was silent, apparently at a loss for words.

  "Look here!" Jack pressed on. "I won't shilly-shally any longer! The other night in Prescott you said you were going to leave the Army, go to Australia to make a new life."

  "That's right."

  "Take Phoebe with you! Make a new life for the both of you!"

  Dunaway stared at Jack Drumm. The stogie drooped. "Take— her? Take Phoebe with me?"

  "Of course! Can't you see, man, it solves all sorts of problems! You get a pretty wife for your old age, Phoebe is at last safe from Detective Meech—"

  "I'll be God damned!" Dunaway paled, chewed vigorously at his cigar. He rose, paced the dirt floor, furiously puffing. "I never dreamed—"

  "She is certainly too much of a lady to throw herself at you! But I believe there is a real affection there."

  "Are you sure? I wouldn't want to be made a fool of!"

  Jack swallowed another mouthful of the bourbon and tea mixture. The earthenware olla, swinging on a cord in the shade, kept the drink delightfully cool and refreshing.

  "These things always have an element of risk, I suppose. But I would say your chances were very good."

  Dunaway took the tattered cigar from his mouth. "How do I go about it? I'm not exactly a lady's man, you know! Never had much to do with females, excepting whores."

  "After dinner," Jack explained, "I'll arrange to get you and Phoebe alone for a little talk. Go at it slow, George; don't hurry. By and by you'll get the feel of it, and I know it'll come out right for everyone."

  Dunaway spat out a shred of tobacco. "Speaking of everyone, what about Beulah—Mrs. Glore?"

  "What about her?"

  "What are you planning for her? After all, from what you tell me, she's in the soup too."

  Impatient, Jack said, "Don't worry about Beulah! I'll arrange something for her too, though I don't know at the moment exactly what. In any case, Beulah is not your problem. Phoebe is! What do you say?"

  Dunaway walked nervously about. A spider dropped from the thatch onto his shirt but he did not notice it. "By God!" he muttered, as if confronted by some blinding apparition. Chewing on the wet remnants of the cigar, he suddenly lifted his head. "What was that?"

  Beluah Glore was ringing the piece of wagon tire that served as dinner pile. "Hash pile's ready!" she bawled. "All come a-runnin'!"

  Dunaway turned to Jack Drumm.

  "I'll do it!" he cried. "I'll have a go at it!"

  After they ate and ate and ate, and drank and drank and drank, Drumm arranged for George Dunaway and Phoebe to take one of Beulah's pies to the ailing Mrs. Ben Sprankle. "On the way back," he whispered to George, "just stroll along the river and make your case."

  The lieutenant was as excited as a small boy. "I have you to thank for this!" he said, and wrung Jack Drumm's hand.

  "Here I am with the pie!" Phoebe announced. "Are you ready, George?"

  She wore a lacy shirtwaist; the long red curls fell fetchingly about her cheeks. Her eyes danced. "If George and I don't come back soon," she teased Jack, "don't bother to look for us! We'll be back in our own good time!"

  Satisfied, he watched them go hand in hand down the road, Dunaway carefully balancing the pie, the muffler Phoebe had knitted for him around his neck. It was not a bad feeling at all, Jack mused, to play Cupid. Sometimes deserving people had to be put in each other's way. Phoebe would have a man to satisfy her loving nature, George Dunaway would gain a wife for Australia, Alonzo Meech would be finally balked. Of course, Phoebe Larkin would move beyond Jack Drumm's ken. He would no longer be distracted by her, no longer have to feel guilty of disloyalty to Cornelia Newton-Barrett.

  Vaguely distraught, he watched for their return. They were a long time coming. Worried, he picked up the Sharp's rifle and started for the river. Perhaps wandering Apache scouts had seen them, silently ambushed them with knife and hatchet. But soon he saw Phoebe's blouse in the greenery, then George Dunaway's dress blues. Phoebe quickly left George and ran into the adobe. Dunaway himself seemed perplexed and angry. He walked slowly toward the ramada where Jack Drumm was lounging and sat down.

  "I've been a damned fool!" he muttered.

  Jack was puzzled. "How did it work out?"

  Dunaway contemplated his knuckles. "She got mad, real mad."

  "Mad?"

  "She don't love me! Oh, she was real nice about it! She thanked me and all that, said how it was a compliment she'd never forget. But she said she didn't love me."

  Jack was as disappointed as Dunaway. The plan, so carefully nurtured and executed, had failed.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "George, I'm truly sorry. I thought—"

  "You're sorry!" Suddenly Dunaway bristled. "I guess you better be! God damn it, you got me into this situation! I must have sounded like a lovesick fool, my head all filled up with church music and wedding bells! I thought this was it! I thought that after all these years of paying for rides, I'd finally caught the brass ring on the carousel! Now I'm back where I started, only this time it's worse!"

  Jack was startled at the emotion, and uncomfortable.

  "I told you I am sorry! I meant well! And I'll talk to Phoebe and try to straighten it out with her."

  "If she'll talk to you!" Dunaway said savagely.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Phoebe said she doesn't want to talk to you ever again! She said you can rot in hell before she ever utters another word to you, that's what she said. I tell you—she's madder about the whole thing than I am!"

  "But—"

  Swearing, Dunaway jammed the battered hat on his head and stalked away toward his horse.

  "Now wait a minute—"

  Rising, the yellow folded paper fell from Jack Drumm's pocket. Still swearing, Dunaway was searching the reeds for his mount. Baffled and unhappy, Jack slumped back in the chair and unfolded the crumpled form. After the usual military hieroglyphics, the message was terse. It had been sent by the Drumms' solicitors through Headquarters of the Department of the Missouri, U. S. Army:

  ANDREW DRUMM DIED THIS DATE OF INDIA FEVER. CAN YOU RETURN CLARENDON HALL IMMEDIATELY TO ATTEND TO ESTATE BUSINESS AND ASSUME TITLE LORD FIFIELD?

  Chapter Nine

  In the brush hut Jack Drumm sat silent and m
orose. Phoebe and Mrs. Glore had taken over the more luxurious structure of adobe. They all knew his bereavement, and left him alone to his thoughts. Andrew had been several years senior to Jack, always the protective elder brother. While Jack went to Cambridge and kept his head in books, Andrew was fighting rebel tribesmen in the Khyber. When Jack wanted to make the Grand Tour, Andrew, invalided home with the fever, took over the management of Clarendon Hall and its lands. Andrew had always protected him, accommodated him, cherished him. Now Andrew was gone.

  He took his sextant from his case and examined it: 112° 13' W…34° 17' N.—that was where he had been, far away from Hampshire and home, when Andrew, dear Andrew, died. His brother had probably died alone, except for Cousin Lionel, who lived nearby in Godalming and was the only other living heir. Trying to divert his grief, he picked up the dogeared Traveler's Guide to the Far West and thumbed through it. The plants, the animals, the mountains and deserts, all had once seemed foreign and exotic. Now, while Andrew sickened and died at Clarendon Hall, these things had become common and familiar, but at what a price! Angry, he flung the book from him. It fell to the earthen floor in a flutter of white pages.

  Someone scratched at the door.

  "Who is it?"

  "Me—Phoebe."

  She came in and sat on the edge of the sagging pallet, looking distraught. This morning she had done her hair very badly; it lay in listless coils and tangles. The freckles stood out, and the blue eyes were dark, with unattractive circles around them.

  "I thought," he muttered, "you were not ever again going to speak to me."

  She stared at the slender hands in her lap. "I—I wasn't. I'd made up my mind, that's right. But—" She shrugged, her face pale and wan. "I lost Uncle Buell, and I wasn't there either when he passed on. So I know how you feel, losing your only brother and being so far away when he died. So—I'm sorry. I came to tell you that."

  He had been cruel, and regretted it, but could not let her off so easily. She had been headstrong about George Dunaway's courtship and his own plan for the two of them. But before he could speak she went on.