He was too tired, too recently released from the terror of the guns, to do anything but sit down on a flat rock. "Don't worry!" His lungs labored for air; he wheezed, coughed, holding his throat. "Don't worry about anything. I'll vouch for them."
For a long time he sat on the rock, Phoebe Larkin beside him, watching the defeated Tinneh ride by. The soldiers had lit torches; in the flickering light each warrior, as he passed by, raised a hand in salute to Jack Drumm, muttered something. Dunaway watched them, and shook his head.
"Beats anything I ever saw," he murmured, pushing the battered felt hat far back on his head. "We didn't have to fight them— they just came to us!" He chuckled. "No blood and brains spattered all over the rocks! Old Hardbutt Trimble will be real disappointed!"
As the Indians passed, Dunaway kept a tally in a notebook. "What is it they're saying?"
Jack knew. Each passing brave held up his hand, palm out, and called "Ostin." Ostin Tinneh. Lord. Lord Drumm. Lord Apache.
"They are saying good-bye," he told Dunaway.
"To you?"
He nodded. "To me, I suppose—and to a way of life. This is the end for them."
The end for them, he thought. And a beginning for me and Phoebe Larkin.
Wire communication was fast improving in the Territory. It did not take long for the word of the capture of Agustín's rebellious band to spread. Freed from the Apache menace, people rode out from Prescott in wagons to see the camp where the captive savages waited for the long journey back to the Verde River reservation.
Almost immediately wagon traffic had resumed on the road. The vehicles of the California and Arizona Stage Line made their runs between Phoenix and the capital. Quickly the story spread, also, of Jack Drumm's role as intermediary in the capture, and of how he had rescued the Red Hair Lady. Stuff of a legend was in the making, and it embarrassed him.
Sam Valentine wrung his hand, thanking him in the name of the Arizona Legislature. Ike Coogan grinned toothlessly and handed him a chew of Wedding Cake, allowing as how he'd better start now to carry his own tobacco, like a real Arizony hombre. Charlie the Papago brought his whole family to see the famous man. The children made garlands of desert flowers to hang around Jack's neck while he turned beet-red, prevented from flight only by Phoebe's arm linked with his. Perhaps the only unhappy person, with the exception of Nacho's people, was Major Henry Trimble, who—according to George Dunaway—was searching War Department regulations to see if there was something illegal in a civilian interfering with a military operation in the field.
Jack and Phoebe sat together in the shade of a ramada, the one structure of Rancho Terco that had not been destroyed. A carnival air prevailed. The Firemen's Brass Band and Silver Cornet Quartet had come out from Prescott with several barrels of beer in the back of their wagon; the settlement along the Agua Fria had a holiday air. Families strolled about, children played in the reeds and splashed in the river, the more daring citizens approached the Apache camp and stared at the subjugated foe, sullen in captivity but resigned. An issue of prime government beef had ameliorated their discomfort somewhat, and over greasewood fires sizzled whole sides.
"This place has changed since I—since we—came here," Jack mused.
Phoebe laid her cheek against his hand. "We have changed too, Jack."
Yes, he thought. I have changed, certainly. He could hardly remember the plump young man in sporting dress who wandered through the Territory only a few months ago, fowling piece under his arm and his nose buried in The Traveler's Guide to the Far West. Now that young man, dimly remembered, seemed a caricature, a foppish and absurd figure.
"When I first came here on the stage that day," Phoebe reminisced, "I was a foolish and a flighty young woman. I had my excuses, I suppose; after all, I was being pursued by the law for murder, or so I thought. By now—" She fell silent, staring into the purple distances.
"Now?"
She turned, looking into his eyes with that cerulean gaze. "I—I suppose, now, you will want to go home."
"Home?" For a moment he was puzzled. "Hampshire, I suppose you mean. Clarendon Hall."
Her gaze was steady, asking nothing. "That is what I mean."
He smiled. "I want our child—our first child—to be born in the Arizona Territory. Does that answer the question in your mind, Phoebe Larkin—soon to be Phoebe Drumm?" Taking the carefully folded Union Jack from his pocket, he walked to the river. Cutting a stout reed, he fastened the flag to it. The United States flag fluttered over Major Trimble's command post, next to the ruined adobe. Jack drove the improvised staff into the ground next to the Stars and Stripes, propped it with a few rocks, and stepped back to admire the effect. It was then he heard Phoebe's shriek.
Shaken, he ran to the ramada. Alonzo Meech was smiling like a hoary crocodile, one cuff snapped to Phoebe's slender wrist and the other to his own. Jack stopped, bewildered, looking from Phoebe to the detective.
"What—what is this? Meech, you told me—"
The detective grinned. "Just to kind of round things off, Mr. Drumm! Veni, vidi, vicious! That's Latin for 'I caught up with her at last.' It's my little joke, kind of." Chuckling, he unlocked the bracelets and stuffed them in a capacious pocket. "Maybe it's a technicality, and it don't make any difference now, but I can say I did actual put the cuffs on Miss Phoebe! My record stands. I ain't never yet lost a customer!"
George Dunaway, too, found them sitting hand in hand under the ramada.
"Tomorrow," he said, "I'm taking B Company and escorting Nacho and his people to the Verde River reservation."
Jack looked toward Major Henry Trimble's tent.
"How is he taking all this?"
Dunaway grinned. "General Crook's sending Trimble to the Dakotas to fight Sioux! I'm commanding at Fort Whipple, at least until they write orders for some Washington coffee-cooler to come out here and take over."
"I thought you were going to Australia," Phoebe said.
Dunaway looked sheepish. "Hell—excuse me, ma'am—but soldiering's my business, always has been. They don't need soldiers in Australia. I guess I'll just string along here, put in my thirty years, then retire and sit in the sun till the Big Bugler blows Taps. It's a rough life at times, but on the whole it isn't too bad—especially with old Trimble a thousand miles to the north of me!"
He shook hands with Jack Drumm, bowed awkwardly to Phoebe. "No, you don't, George!" Phoebe protested. She threw her arms about Dunaway, kissed him hard on the cheek.
"Good luck, George, in whatever you do," Jack called after him.
Dunaway paused in his rapid retreat, rubbing his cheek, the grizzled face an unaccustomed pink.
"I guess," he said, "the first boy ought to be called John Peter Christian Drumm, after his daddy. But you might give some thought to naming the next one George. George isn't a half-bad name for a boy."
Phoebe laughed. "It is surely not, George! Next to Jack, it is my favorite!"
When the moon rose over the Mazatzals they continued to sit under the ramada, listening to the night sounds, seeing the dying fires of the Apache camp. After a while Jack sighed, kissed her, pulled her close to him.
"It is time for bed," he whispered. "And in the morning I intend to get up early and start making adobe blocks for our new home."
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
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Lord Apache Page 20
