"Causing trouble, you mean?"
Bagley nodded. "I guess you could say that. Last night he raided along the Agua Fria."
Jack Drumm felt suddenly cold. The desert sun lost its warmth. Something in Jim Bagley's voice made him tremble. There was more coming, he knew. The scar on his lip began to smart, to burn.
"Last night," the corporal said, "Agustín come down hard on your place. Rancho Terco—ain't that what you called it?"
Jack nodded dumbly. After a moment he asked, "Was anyone—was anyone—hurt?"
Bagley took a deep breath. "Luther," he said to the telegraph operator, "you got any gin put away? Or whiskey? I want to give Mr. Drumm a little snort."
"I don't need anything!" Jack insisted. "Tell me—what happened?"
"Feller named Sloat was killed," Bagley said grimly. "Some of the others was cut up, but they'll live. And that girl—the one with the pretty hair—"
"Damn it!" Jack shouted, taking him by the butternut sleeve. "Tell me! What happened?"
Bagley's face was somber. "Miss Larkin—that her name? Agustín carried her off to the Mazatzals, Major Trimble thinks."
Chapter Ten
He loved her. He loved Phoebe Larkin. He must have known it all the time, from the moment she stepped off the stage at Rancho Terco, hair done up in that China silk scarf. There had been the sprinkle of freckles across her nose, the proud and independent way of her, the coltish eagerness so strange and unsettling to his staid British soul. Yes, he must have known all the time that he loved her, but had been too Drumm-stubborn, too Anglo-Saxon reserved, to admit it. Now the realization stunned him. This was— this must have been—love all along! He tugged at his tight collar, stared wild-eyed from Bagley to the telegraph operator.
"I'm going back! Right now!"
"Take it easy, Mr. Drumm," Corporal Bagley cautioned. "There's no need to—"
"I'm going back! Can you let me have a horse from your corral out there?" He pointed through the dusty window. "Look, if it's money—"
Bagley pushed the wallet away. "There's nothing you can do, believe me. Major Trimble and George Dunaway and B Company are there by now."
A steam whistle blew. The musical note, rich and complex, sounded like the chimes of Salisbury Cathedral. "Mr. Drumm!" Beulah Glore called. "Hurry! The cars is coming!"
He ran out on the platform. Around the distant bend came the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad's Western Express, stack puffing smoke as the train toiled up the grade to Bear Spring station. Eggleston and Charlie the Papago carried baggage to the edge of the platform.
"I'm not going," Jack blurted.
They stared in astonishment.
"Listen," he said, fumbling in his pocket. "Listen to me! Something has happened at the ranch. The Apaches attacked again. They killed Mr. Sloat and carried off Miss Phoebe." He handed the envelope to the valet. "Here are your railroad tickets, and money."
Beulah Glore, listening, nearly swooned. Eggleston caught her under the arms. "My God, Mr. Jack! Can it be so?"
The Western Express reached the plateau of Bear Spring. The chuffing quieted, the whistle blew again, this time louder and nearer.
"There is no time to talk!" Jack insisted. "I must somehow get back to the ranch and see what I can do in this terrible situation!"
"But what are we to do when we reach New York City?"
"Go directly to the offices of the White Star Lines at Pier B and book passage for yourself and Mrs. Glore. I will try to catch up with you, but there can be no assurance. There is no reason for you and your—" He tried to smile reassuringly at Beulah Glore, but the gesture was strained. "For you and Beulah to delay your return to Clarendon Hall."
The Western Express slowed, ground to a halt. Brakes squealed, there was a release of steam, a shower of ashes, clouds of pungent woodsmoke.
"Now go!" Jack commanded. "Look—the conductor is already signaling the engine driver!"
In spite of Beulah's protestations, he rushed her and Eggleston into the car. When Charlie attempted to put his own bag in the vestibule, Jack snatched it away, saying, "No, no, Charlie! I am not going!"
Weeping, Beulah leaned from the open window. "I can't go! What will happen to poor Phoebe?" She turned within. "Mr. Eggleston, let go my skirts!"
Gently Jack pushed her back into the car.
"There is nothing you can do," he comforted. "I myself can probably accomplish little. But Corporal Bagley says Lieutenant Dunaway and B Company are already on the trail of the kidnappers, so please put your mind at ease."
"All abo—o—oard!" called the conductor.
As the cars gathered speed Jack ran along the platform, shaking Eggleston's hand. "Mrs. Glore is your concern now, Eggie! When you arrive, tell everyone at home I will be along as soon as possible!"
Shaken and out of breath, he watched the departing Western Express, bound for places with strange-sounding names like Albuquerque, Trinidad, Wichita, and Topeka. Suddenly he realized Charlie was tugging at his sleeve. The Papago's face was clouded with fear.
"Ostin, what happen? Something—something bad?"
"Charlie, Agustín and his Apaches attacked our ranch last night." He spoke slowly and carefully; the Papago's English was poor. "You are not to worry, though. Corporal Bagley says that only poor Mr. Sloat was killed."
Charlie's leathery face contorted. "Esposa—my wife—my niños—"
"I am sure they are all safe, else Corporal Bagley would have told me."
He had not been aware that Corporal Jim Bagley was standing near. "No word of other casualties," the corporal confirmed.
Charlie looked bewildered. "What we do now, Ostin?"
"I want to get to the ranch fast," Jack said to Bagley. "I must ask you again. Can I borrow one of your cavalry mounts?"
Bagley scratched his head, uncertain. "Mr. Drumm, I'm in a pack of trouble already with the major. Them bangtails is U. S. Gov'mint property. If I was to let a civilian take one—"
"This is a matter of life and death!" Jack burst out. "Good God, Bagley, can't you see that—"
"Not so fast!" the corporal grumbled. He pulled at his lip. "Just let me think here a minute!"
"There's no time to think! Phoebe Larkin has been kidnapped! Even now she may be in Agustín's camp in the Mazatzals, subjected to God knows what tortures, indignities—"
"You was sweet on the gal," Bagley remarked. It was a statement, not a question. Jack Drumm stared at him.
"What do you know about my feelings for—for—"
"I know," the corporal said. "George Dunaway told me."
Exasperated, Jack said, "Are you going to lend me a horse or not?"
Bagley sighed, then whistled to a barrel-chested roan with a white star on the forehead.
"My own mount," he said, throwing a saddle blanket over the horse's back. "Take good care of Tom, Mr. Drumm. If anything was to happen to old Tom, I'd have to cut out your liver with a rusty knife." Drawing the cinch tight, he spoke from under the horse's belly. "You know why I'm trusting you with this here horse?"
Jack shook his head.
Bagley straightened, and contemplated him across the saddle.
"I finally figgered you for a natural man. Till now I took you for a stuffed shirt, as they say—river water in the veins, and didn't give shucks about anyone but yourself. But I guess I was wrong." He shoved a Spencer carbine into the saddle scabbard and tossed Jack Drumm a quick-loading cartridge box of patent design. "Seven-shot magazine—tube slides in through the buttplate. I'm charged with the damned carbine, too; bring it back along with the horse or Major Trimble'll kick my butt right into Leavenworth Prison."
Jack mounted the roan. Skittish at his neatly pressed suit and bowler hat, Tom danced for a moment, snuffling and pawing the dust. He settled down when Jack pulled firmly on the reins.
"I'm going to ride directly to the ranch," he told Charlie. "You take the mule and wagon and come back through Prescott. I will cut straight across; down the Verde for a ways, then along Turkey
Creek to the Agua Fria and the ranch."
"Keep your eye peeled, Mr. Drumm!" Bagley warned. "No telling where Agustín has got to by now! He may be heading for that country himself!"
Jack nodded. "And I want you to know, Corporal, I'll never forget what you have done for me this day!"
"Neither will Major Trimble," Bagley said glumly, "if'n he finds out! But it's in a good cause, I guess. I liked Miss Phoebe." He dug a toe in the dust. "I had me a gal, onct, back in St. Louis, at Jefferson Barracks. She was a lot like Miss Phoebe. She—" Embarrassed, he broke off.
Jack leaned from the saddle, shook hands, wheeled the horse, and clapped his heels into Tom's ribs.
"Good luck, Mr. Drumm!" Bagley called after him.
It was almost fifty miles from Bear Spring station of the A. and P. to the ranch. The roan had a long easy pace, but much of the country was forbidding and rubble-littered, the way hindered by patches of cactus and narrow canyons. He had no map, but from the position of the sun he calculated a generally southerly course and knew that sooner or later he would intersect Turkey Creek.
By late afternoon the sun dropped behind the ridges and a chill crept over the land. The sunset was glorious in these high elevations, streaks of pink and saffron and a blue that was almost gun-metal trailed streamers across the sky. Jack pulled the coat tighter about him, suddenly aware that he was hungry. He had not eaten since morning, and breakfast had been scanty.
At the bottom of a gloomy canyon was a small spring. He and the roan Tom both drank from it. Squatting nearby, he watched Tom wrench up tufts of grass from the borders of the spring. If only man could digest grass like a horse! Instead, he pulled off a handful of mesquite beans and chewed them. They were sweet, but a little floury, and he drank more water. Stretching his legs, he once more mounted the roan and headed south.
Riding in the twilight was difficult, but he kept stubbornly on. Once the horse shied, almost throwing him. A rattle sounded underfoot. Remembering, Jack muttered, "Ostin snake—sorry!"
A bit of moon rose, cup-shaped, as if to hold water. In Hampshire that meant rain, but here there was small prospect. The moon gave a little light, however, and they plodded on. Giant saguaros loomed high, the moon casting faint shadows of the many-armed figures. The moon drifted into a rack of clouds, feeble light dimming. In the distance a lone coyote howled, a high-pitched mournful keening that made Jack shiver, and not from the growing cold. In the small night breeze, desert bushes stirred, leaves rustling dryly.
For a while he dozed in the saddle. Suddenly he jerked erect, wondering where he is, what he was doing wandering in this strange desert. Tom moved easily under him, picking a dainty way through a waste studded with pitahaya and cardon. Jack stared upward at Polaris. They were still on their proper course. "Good horse!" he muttered, and rubbed the roan's warm neck.
Sometime before dawn, slipping into an almost drugged sleep, he staggered off the horse and threw the reins over Tom's head, Arizona style. Taking off the saddle and the sweat-rank blanket, he left Tom to graze while he cradled his head on the saddle and pulled the coarse stinking wool of the blanket about him. At dawn he awoke only when slanting shafts of sunlight crept over the ridges. He sat up, blinking, rubbing his reddened eyes. Lord, he was sore! He was not used to riding such distances, or sleeping among the rocks.
The roan, dangling reins tangled in a cholla cactus, rolled patient eyes at him.
"Good horse," Jack said again, and untangled the reins. Once more they started southward. In the distance he could see a vein of green that must be Turkey Creek.
The rising sun grew warm, then hot. At noon it had driven the chill from his bones, and he took off his coat and laid it over the saddle before him. His unsated hunger grew, possessed him. He felt faint, and wondered whether it was the heat or simply lack of food. Resting for a while in the shade of a desert ironwood, he thought longingly of Beulah Glore's hot biscuits, smothered in sidemeat gravy. What was happening at the ranch? Was there any word of Phoebe Larkin? He saw a tiny mouse gamboling about the twisted roots of the ironwood, pausing only to stand on hind feet and nibble seeds. He remembered Charlie the Papago snaring mice to eat, and almost wished he had a bit of thread or twine. After all, mice were animals, mammals, the same as beef cattle or sheep, only smaller. He would clean them first, of course, and it would take several mouse haunches to make a mouthful, but—
He got painfully to his feet and put the bowler hat on his head. The brim was narrow but the headgear, however inappropriate in these wilds, offered some protection against the sun.
"Tom!" he called, looking about for the horse. But behind him something made a small snapping sound and he wheeled, frightened. The carbine was in the saddle scabbard; he was defenseless.
Nothing—no further sound. He stared into the thicket of greasewood where the noise had seemed to originate. "Who's there?" he called. His voice sounded dry and reedlike.
Again, nothing; no sound. The wind blew, the sun bore down. Tom ambled up and stood patiently by him. Jack snatched the carbine from the scabbard, grasping it uncertainly. In the wilderness of scraggly bush he did not know where to aim.
On sudden impulse he picked up a stone and flung it into the bushes. Anything was better than waiting to be slaughtered.
"Who's there?" he called again.
He was sweating; the shirt was wet, and the breeze pressed it cold and clammy against his chest. As he stared into the bushes, clutching the Spencer nervously, he caught sight of a gray doglike animal loping from the greasewood and onto the stony slope. The coyote looked back at him, tongue lolling pinkly from its mouth.
He sighed with relief. What he had heard must have been the coyote, sleeping off an all-night hunt in the bushes. He and Tom had come on it unexpectedly, that was all. But he would not dismount again without the carbine. Agustín may be heading for the same country—that was what Corporal Jim Bagley had reminded him.
High and hazy, the Mazatzals now loomed on his left. He stared at them, narrowing his eyes against the sun, wondering where the Apache camp lay. Could Phoebe Larkin be up there, looking longingly down at the playa and freedom, or was she—was she—He refused to think about it. Together man and beast plodded on. The roan was tired now also, and ambled slowly unless Jack urged him on. Finally reaching Turkey Creek, they watered in the sluggish pools. Remembering Beulah Glore's "poke salat," Jack chewed a handful of greens pulled from the muck. They tasted rank and medicinal, and nearly made him sick. Again he thought longingly of Eggie's omelets, Mrs. Glore's brown-crusted pies, the warm fragrant tortillas and rich frijol beans in the cantina at Prescott that night with Alonzo Meech.
Spitting out the shreds of grass, he rose, backside sore and chafed. Not too far down Turkey Creek, now, lay the junction of the Agua Fria, and the ranch. Straining his eyes into the distance, he saw dust devils whirling above the playa, tall spirals rising up and up, thousands of feet into the dry desert air. The wind was blowing hard. Looking at the towering columns, he saw something else, something that made him immediately apprehensive: blinks of light like small diamonds, sparks of brilliance punctuating the hazy distance. Watching, he saw one glimmer out. Almost immediately another flashed, as if in response, from the foothills of the Mazatzals. Were the Apaches out in force? Had other bands, encouraged by Agustín's rebellion, gone on the warpath against the white man? Perhaps the valley of the Agua Fria was already filled with them, looting, murdering. Perhaps Rancho Terco was finally overrun, perhaps even the Army was at last powerless to defend the valley. Climbing again onto the weary roan, he clapped his heels into the sweating ribs.
"Let's go, damn it! Hurry, Tom!"
When he splashed through the muddy pools of the Agua Fria just above the ranch the sun was low on the western horizon. Weary in the saddle, clothing worn and stained and face stubbled with beard, he hardly heard the challenge.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
Only half comprehending, he gazed slack-mouthed into the reeds while the horse stumbled
on, splashing in the mud.
"Halt, I say!"
The roan ambled on; the cavalry picket fired. Jack Drumm's bowler hat flew from his head. Startled, now fully awake, he threw his hands in the air and yelled, "God damn it, stop shooting!"
The reeds parted, a bearded face poked through.
"Advance and be recognized! That's what I'm supposed to say, mister!"
Wrathfully Jack slipped from the saddle to pick up the punctured hat. It had cost him four pounds sixpence at Mason's in the Strand. "What in hell did you think I was? Did you ever see an Apache in a bowler hat?"
The picket stepped from the greenery, reloading his Springfield. "I seen a Sioux, onct, wearing a plug hat and a long-tail coat. Shot the hell out of Corporal Voss." He squinted. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"
He herded Jack Drumm toward the cavalry headquarters, a tent pitched in the ruins of the despoiled Rancho Terco. Sadly Jack stared about. Ramadas had been burned, the painfully built adobe pulled down until only the walls, to a height of about a yard, remained. The corral had been destroyed, the watchtower set afire. Now it was only a blackened skeleton watching over a landscape of discarded clothing, broken pots, a few books. Everything smelled of fire, of rapine, of death. Something glittered in the ashes. Stooping to pick it up, he saw it was the Apache knife that had pinned Agustín's last warning to a post.
Someone spoke his name. It was Ben Sprankle, followed by a gaggle of his children. "Mr. Drumm!"
"Hello, Ben."
Sprankle's face was worn and sooty, a bloody bandage was tied around his arm. "They come down on us at night," he said in a dull voice. "Guess we got a little careless. Anyway, they was on us in an instant, whooping and hollering. There must have been a hundred of 'em! They come over us like a wave, set fire to everything, run off our stock. It wasn't no good to stand and fight; they was everywhere! Sloat—" He broke off, eyes filling with tears, and bit at his lip.
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