“And part,” went on the old outlaw, “was b’cause they stole the woman I loved.”
A sucked-in sympathetic breath and widened eyes. “Oh, Win.”
“Uh-huh. Started a whole long chain of events. They wanted ransom. But, by the time I caught up to ’em, my—the lady had been—they’d done—they’d taken—Jesus! And afterward, they killed her.” An annoying mist came across his vision, and he swiped at his eyes with the back of one sleeve. “So I killed them.”
She swallowed her own tears. Reaching across the table top, she laid a gentle hand upon his forearm. “Win, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, I know. Me, too.”
“You loved her?”
He raised a heavy gaze to meet hers. “With all my heart, girl.”
“But, then—I don’t understand. Why didn’t you pay the ransom? Why didn’t you save her with the money they were asking? Or was it too much? Did it take too long to raise the amount? Could you not—”
“No, I couldn’t. She wasn’t mine. She was your father’s wife.”
“My father’s—” Elizabeth’s great blue eyes searched his face, taking her time, while the words sank in, to make sense of what he was saying. “My father’s wife. My mother? That was my mother?”
He draped his big gnarly hand over hers. “That was your mother. Amelia.”
A jerk away and free, in shock, in horror, in absolute disbelief. “But, I—no, that wasn’t—he told me—” Suddenly she pushed back her chair and thrust herself upright, clumping with hard ugly strides across to the fireplace and back, to the door and back. “You’re lying!” she accused viciously over the huge lump in her throat. “This is all a lie to—”
The slow compassionate shake of his head stopped her, mid-speech.
“Those men—they—they violated her?”
Win nodded, just as slowly and compassionately. As much as the pain of Amelia’s loss still burned like a live coal inside his breast, he had had nearly a score of years to deal with it. Elizabeth was only now learning some of the facts behind that tragedy. To save his soul, he could not and would not reveal what other terrors her mother had suffered before being coldly and callously executed. But he must at least provide some background details, for her understanding.
“I met your maw while I was sheriffin’, in Juniper,” the gunslinger told her carefully. She had stopped pacing; had paused, with drenched lashes and flushed cheeks, to listen. “God, she was pretty. You put me in mind o’ her. Same eyes, same hair. We spent some time t’gether, and I was just thinkin’ I had a chance t’ make this work, when your paw showed up.”
Big and burly, handsome as all get out, Augustus Drayton had immediately captured her attention, and her heart. They were married not long after and set up householding at a small ranch some ten miles out of town. Win Carpenter had endured, but never really accepted, what he considered the theft of the only woman he had ever loved.
And life went on.
Then, two years later, when Elizabeth herself was only a baby, Gus had come thundering into town on a lathered horse, looking for help. Three men had burst into his home, he reported, knocked him over the head, and stolen away his wife.
“Why?” Elizabeth’s question came out as a choked, ragged wail. “Why would they have done that?”
Pitying, Win could only gaze at her in the flickering light. “Your paw had cheated ’em outa some hefty funds in a poker game, a week or so before. They come t’ get back what they could.”
“Cheated? No, that can’t be true. My father—he wouldn’t do that.”
“Told me he did, Missy. Admitted it. Fact. Needed t’ restock his ranch, wanted t’ build up the herd. So, me—I took off in pursuit.”
She slumped over and collapsed into the chair, as if her legs would no longer keep her upright. “Dad told me that my mother—Mom had been kidnapped…and killed in a fire fight, before he could get the ransom money together. All my life…” A pause, while she sniffled a little. “…all my life I’ve wondered—what actually happened…the whole time I’ve been—missing her…”
“Me, too,” said Win quietly. “I been missin’ her a whole heap myself.”
Elizabeth drew in a deep shaky breath and worked at control. “Go on.”
He shrugged. “Not much more t’ tell. Chased after three lawbreakers—rotten t’ the core, every damn one of ’em—but they’d already shot your maw by the time I tracked ’em down. Didn’t give no leeway; I opened fire without a second thought. And then ended up a fugitive my own self.”
“But why—why didn’t my father—“
“He had you t’ worry about. Couldn’t likely go harin’ off int’ the wilderness with a baby t’ care for.”
She turned her sapphire eyes upon him. “So now you’re repeating history by abducting me?”
“Nope. Just wantin’ what’s mine. Gettin’ too old to rob banks any more, Miss Drayton. Just wanna settle down here, in a spot I like, till I cash in my chips. Your paw owes me a deal of money. It’s time t’ pay off his debt and this is my way of forcin’ him t’ do it.”
Silence, turning the enamel coffee cup this way and that, stem to stern, while she digested the gist of their conversation. He simply waited, this aged sheriff become outlaw, for her to reach some conclusion.
“I’m tired, Win,” she finally admitted. All the starch had gone out of her posture, all the gritty independence out of her voice. “So much riding today—and—and what you’ve told me, now…I’m worn out. Can I go to bed?”
Had different circumstances prevailed, she might have been his daughter sitting here, looking so exhausted yet so beautiful in the firelight. Had Amelia never met Augustus…
“’Course you can,” he told her gently. “Leave your door open a while, make sure your room gets warm enough from the fire. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
Anything other than directions back to the Catamount Ranch.
III
They made camp early in the evening of that first day. Light filtering through the trees still allowed vision enough to tether the horses, gather and break up dead fallen branches, arrange bedrolls, collect canteens full of fresh water from the nearby spring, and prepare a meal, of sorts. No higher elevation had yet been reached, so the air was cool and brisk but not yet cold.
“Speak for yourself,” admonished Cochinay, as he unpacked gear from the mule’s sturdy back. “I’m Apache; I like the heat. This feels damn cold to me, all right.”
The twins shared a smile. “Then it’s a good bet you’ll never be travelin’ north to Canada,” said Thomas politely.
“Betcher wampum,” the tracker agreed. “The farther south, the better.”
Having taken charge of building the fire, he now stood warming his hands at the blaze while coffee began to heat in its pot. Travis was slicing bacon off a slab into the cast-iron skillet retrieved from their equipment; his brother began stirring up flapjack batter. The brothers worked as a team, with Cochinay, as expected, joining in, to produce their supper and clean up dishes and supplies afterward.
At full dark, with coyotes singing their mournful cry in the distance, and screech owls hoo-hooing closer to, the men could lounge around their campfire, resting against the bulk of saddles, and indulge in small talk and another pot of coffee.
“Never been to this part of the Territory before,” commented Thomas, first off. “Pretty place. You grow up here, Cochinay?”
“Been here my whole life.” The tracker was using a slender twig to draw aimless circles into the bare brown earth. “Born and raised on the Catamount.”
“Cochinay. Cochinay,” Travis mused. “Your name have some special meanin’?”
Through the wavering firelight his teeth flashed white in a grin. “Yellow Thunder.”
“Nice. Sounds tough and powerful.”
“I thought so. Started usin’ it in white man’s school, when I was a kid, b’cause I figured that would make me fit in better. Trouble was, the other boys
shortened it to Yellow.”
“Uh.” Travis winced feelingly. “S’pose that started a few fist fights. God, we young’uns can be cruel to others, can’t we?”
“And your maw is housekeeper at the ranch?” Thomas started that off, then backtracked to apologize, “Sorry. Not tryin’ to be nosy. Just wantin’ t’ get the lay of the land.”
With a shrug, the young Apache settled back against his saddle, one leg bent at the knee, taking his ease. “My mother was hired shortly after the tragedy, when Liz was a baby.”
An exchange of glances, curious, contemplative. “Tragedy?”
“You weren’t told? Not surprisin’. It’s a damn painful subject, still, for everybody.”
“Somethin’ almighty hard t’ deal with, I’m guessin’, by the sounds of it.” Thomas put down the empty coffee cup and turned onto his side, head propped by one elbow. “Before you were born, then.”
“A little, yeah.”
For a few minutes, while something rustled in the bushes up the hill, and one of the horses snorted, and the fire crackled and sparked with color, Cochinay considered his response. Then he told the story as his mother had told it to him: the poker game and its cheating of funds, the disappearance of Amelia Drayton, the search and horrific discovery, the retribution.
A lengthy, weighty silence ensued once he had finished, one that, given such emotional significance, all three were reluctant to break. Sips of coffee, or reaches for more, helped fill in space.
“The whole thing about did the old man in,” Cochinay finally resumed in a thoughtful tone. “You can still see the sadness and blame that he carries around with him. He’s never gotten over it.”
“Easy t’ see why,” commented Thomas. “That would be damned hard t’ deal with.”
“Sure. And havin’ this happen t’ his daughter must be reopenin’ a lot of wounds.” This from his brother, with sympathy and understanding.
More rustling in the bushes and the scrabbling of claws against rock. Wary, Thomas slowly and carefully drew a revolver from its holster beside him and took aim. Just in case. “Coch,” he said quietly, “what n’hell is that thing? Looks like a raccoon.”
A slight turn sideways, then a chuckle. “Heap big scary devil-dragon? No, Mr. Yancey. That’s a ringtail. You’re right—he’s got the tail of a raccoon, but kinda like a fox, too. A carnivore. Just out lookin’ for his supper, like we did.”
“Interestin’ little critter,” said Thomas, peering into the darkness as he slid the weapon back into its sheath. “What other kinda wildlife you got around here?”
“Oh, some of the usual, like the rest of the country—black bear, elk, bobcat and mountain lion, bald eagle. And some not s’ usual, nasty varmints you might wanna avoid…scorpions, rattlers, Gila monsters.”
“Hmmph.” Travis cast a look around. “Am I gonna wake up t’morrow mawnin’ with comp’ny in my bedroll?”
“Not much chance, Mr. Yancey, with the fire goin’, and the horses stampin’ around. And I can do a war chant b’fore you go to sleep, keep away the stray beasties.” In the dim light Cochinay’s dark eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Yeah, you go right ahead and do that. Oh, and Coch?”
“Sir?”
“No more Mr., okay? Just first names’ll do us both fine.”
“Deal.” The tracker eased upright, poured another cup of coffee from the enamel pot, and sighed with pleasure. At the tag end of a busy and demanding day, this brief interlude of leisure made it all worthwhile. Except for the gravity of the mission, of course. “Where’d you two come from, anyway? I’m bettin’ somewhere in the deep South, with those easy-goin’ accents. Must drive women crazy.”
“Ah, we get our share,” admitted Travis with a self-deprecating grin. “Charleston, son. We grew up outsidea Charleston. Greatest city in the world, bar none.”
Some minutes were spent detailing life there on a plantation, the crops, the sweet and slow as sorghum routine, the large family and their whereabouts. “Scattered, before and after the War,” said Thomas. “But we manage t’ get together when needed.”
Travis snorted a laugh. “Only for weddin’s, the last few years. How ’bout you, Coch? Any plans t’ walk down the aisle somewhere?”
“Nope. Not now. Prob’ly not never. Saw how things went for my maw.”
Cocking his head to one side, Thomas eyed their guide up and down. “Problems?”
“You might say.” Cochinay tossed aside the dregs of his coffee, gone cold now, and emptied out the pot, then hunched down with both knees bent to wrap a blanket around his shoulders against the night chill. “Can’t really complain, though. She did her best by me.”
“What’s her name?”
“Sonsee-array. It means Morning Star Takes Away Clouds.”
“Musical. Sounds fitten.” Across the fire, Thomas sent an encouraging smile.
“It is. She was hired onto the ranch, right outa our family clan, t’ run the house and take care o’ little Liz. I was born about a year later.”
“Uh.” The subject was left wide open, hanging there in mid-air, with a question almost visible and ready to ask. So Travis did. “Never knew your paw?”
Cochinay lay back against the saddle once more, settling in. He replied with a slight edge to his voice. “’Course I know him, I’ve known him all my life. My father is Gus Drayton, and Liz is my half-sister. G’night, gentlemen.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Doin’ a good job of hidin’ his tracks, the ol’ so-and-so,” commented Thomas in a neutral tone.
They had risen this morning when dawn broke over the westering hills, with streaky clouds of pink and orange that stretched long fingers across the vast blue sky. Breakfast finished and camp chores attended to, Chochinay had begun to scout around the area for more signs of Carpenter’s trail. Three days cold.
“Dunno how far he’s goin’.” Travis was already mounted, leaning forward to watch as his brother, no mean tracker himself, cast about for any other human trace left behind.
“Or what’s gonna happen along the way.”
After last night’s gut-roiling tale of hardship and pain, today’s question remained, silent but demanding: if his captive couldn’t keep up, or caused problems, or downright disobeyed, what might the captor do, in retribution? Thomas really didn’t want to consider the possibility.
“Here!” called Cochinay, from a half-mile away.
He had picked up their course from the ranch easily enough: two horses, one with a much heavier rider, heading down the dirt lane and away to the west. After that, time and attention were necessary to see where this path might have veered off to another, and so on. Physically, it is a great deal less difficult to be the pursued rather than the pursuer; it is crucial only not to leave little bits and pieces of yourself behind, for others to spy and follow.
“It’s a button,” reported their guide, as they approached. “From Liz’ favorite shirtwaist. Somehow she managed to twist one off, and drop it. Prob’ly figured I’d be on the way.”
“Clever girl,” said Thomas with admiration. “Think she’ll be leavin’ clues all along?”
“If she can. D’pends on—d’pends on how he has her…”
Progress was slow and deliberate. A broken branch, a clutch of leaves turned backward, the partial imprint of a horseshoe, soil disturbed or a spider web damaged: for all these the search went on; of all these little was found. Win Carpenter had proven himself to be a woodsman, careful, wily, and ever-vigilant. He knew his way around.
“We could just head for the meetin’ place,” mused Travis, at one point. “Where Gus is s’posed t’ be bringin’ the cash. And wait him out.”
“We could,” agreed his brother, squinting off into the distance where Cochinay had disappeared. “Except that he’d see we were there, get spooked, and run. And what would happen to Liz Drayton then?”
“Oh, hell. There’s always a fly in the ointment.”
“Here!”
The call came from far ahead and to the left, and they hastened forward.
“Another button. Different, though. Bigger, heavier. Like from a coat.”
Thomas’ mouth twisted. “Let’s hope she don’t soon run outa buttons.”
From gently mounded hills, scattered with maple and colored sumac and some elderberry, to sandstone buttes towering like tan monoliths against the deep blue sky, to a valley where scrub brush and willow grew beside the curl of Coronado Creek, the three moved on. Watchful, cautious. At times backtracking, at others pacing steadily faster.
Each, normally taciturn as an individual, conversed occasionally and more in depth as the hours wore along. The brothers reminisced, for Cochinay’s benefit, about growing up in a family of ten boys, living an idyllic pre-War existence as the privileged sons of a well-to-do planter.
“We accepted everything as it was, status quo,” said Travis. “Figured the older ones’d run Belle Clare, once Paw passed on, and we’d keep right on a-doin’ what we’d done all along.”
“Never looked at the other side,” added Thomas. “Not till we grew up and left home, went out in the world amongst a whole slew of different people. Damn. That exposure made us look at the South’s plantations in a new light, didn’t it, Trav?”
“Treatment of the slaves, y’ mean?”
“Oh, yeah, that—and the whole structure. Seems like things woulda collapsed eventually, anyway, without a whole lotta good men gettin’ wounded or killed.”
“Not t’ mention bad blood b’tween the two sides,” Travis put in, “for at least a coupla generations. Maybe more.”
The horses clopped along, hooves sometimes ringing against solid rock, sometimes muffled in powder-soft dirt, sometimes shushing through fallen dead leaves and spongy pine needles. A tendency of anxious pursuit might be to rush, but the patient tracker was well aware that rushing led to missed clues. And they couldn’t afford to miss anything.
So far, their direction angled westward and ever slightly upward, toward the distant Pinaleño Mountains. Only their mounts, and the pack mule, appreciated a slower pace.
A Western Romance: Thomas Yancey Taking the High Road (Book 4) (Taking the High Road series) Page 3