Taking the High Road
Book 2: Matthew Yancey
Morris Fenris
Changing Culture Publications
Taking the High Road
Book 2: Matthew Yancey
Copyright 2014 Morris Fenris, Changing Culture Publications
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Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Thank You
About the Author
Book List
I
“Star! Hey, Star! You’re lookin’ mighty pretty today.”
Franklin Bower again. Somehow he had found her, even though she had moved from her favorite marketplace down near the wharf, just because of his unwanted advances. Ignoring the importunate call, she continued unloading items from her small wagon to arrange onto the plank table set up.
Soft, well-tanned pelts taken from beaver and wolf, fur pieces, bowls and vases made of fired clay, jewelry put together with silver wire and colorful glass beads, deerskin moccasins, leather hand-tooled belts, shining solid silver buckles: all laid out to attract the most attention from passersby.
Except for Franklin Bower.
He had discovered her shift in whereabouts from the height of his palomino stallion, and was now riding slowly around and around the new field of operation to fully inspect what was going on. “You got some fresh stuff on your cart today, girl? Well, now, ain’t seen them bolo ties before. Looks like blue agate, outa the hills. Holy crow, Star, your maw’ll try puttin’ together just about anything to sell, won’t she?”
No response. Still mounted, leaning forward with one arm resting on the saddle horn, Bower kept on leisurely circling, like the swoop of a hawk overhead in search of prey.
“Does that include you, Goldenstar Mendoza?” he asked in a low, insinuating voice.
That reached her. Despite the heat, chills raced up her spine and back down again, but cold fire darkened her pretty amber eyes to smoke. “It does not. I have refused your offers since you first started making them, Mr. Bower. What makes you think I would now change my mind?”
He grinned. A brash, bulky man, his thick black hair curled with sweat under a wide-brimmed hat, his mustache badly in need of a trim, he oozed something that might, in some circles, be considered charm. Flinging one leg over his horse’s rump, he climbed down, hitched the reins to a post, and stepped up onto the wooden walkway.
“Oh, Star, you know I’ll keep on a-tryin’. You got your stuff laid out in such nice order, I think I’ll just have to inspect your wares.”
The young woman had set up her outdoor shop outside the Hotel Alexandria. Across the narrow dusty street, two men idled on a bench in front of the Hanrahan Saloon. One in particular, Sheriff William Goddard, was keeping an interested eye on these proceedings that might require intervention.
“Somethin’ goin’ on over there?” his companion asked, curious.
“Could be. Bower’s a rancher, comes into town now and then, and trouble somehow seems to follow him wherever he goes.”
“Looks like he’s bein’ a nuisance to that Indian girl. Then it’s okay in San Francisco to sell goods on a street corner like that?”
Goddard stretched his legs out and crossed one ankle over the other. “Ain’t no ord’nance against it. ’Course, the city council may get it into their heads to make some damn fool changes.” He glanced sideways. “I take it that sorta thing can’t be allowed in Charleston?”
“Not that I know of. Nor in Santone.” Matthew Yancey took another cautious sip of the piss-poor brew that passed for coffee and slowly shook his head of rather shaggy black hair. “Will, did you ever consider gettin’ someone else to make the pot of joe every mornin’, ’stead of doin’ it yourself?”
“First order of the day, son. Whatsamatter, you don’t like the taste?”
Matt grinned. “Oh, it’s fine, just fine. Puts lead in your pencil, if nothin’ else. Just thinkin’ of savin’ you some time, that’s all.”
“Hmmph.” The sort of half-snort that worked well for male communication when there was nothing more to be said. “Didn’t have t’pay for it, didja?”
“Oh, I b’lieve I will be doin’ just that, in more ways than one.”
From under level brows, Goddard thoughtfully studied his new friend. “Yeah, you may be right. Nice of you to stay on here for a while, after your brother’s weddin’, only b’cause I asked you to.”
Matt was gazing out over the street scene, with pedestrian traffic, horse traffic, and wagon traffic stirring up noise and dust, seemingly oblivious—just enjoying the usual fine weather of San Francisco, thank you very much—yet acutely aware of every detail. Especially the scene being played out between rancher and Indian girl: cajolery and ribald comments from one; from the other, frozen chunks of a response bitten off here and there between hard white teeth.
“Lot of bad stuff goin’ in the world right now,” he said soberly.
“You got that straight. Part of the reason I’m glad you’re here, Matt. Didn’t know if the Rangers could spare you though.”
Another sip of the godawful coffee, almost cold now, which made it even less palatable. “Reckon my captain figured, since I’d already come this far north and west to get young John married off, I may as well have a little more time to myself, lookin’ around. He gave me permission to extend my leave, anyway.”
“Mighty white of him. Tell me again how you happened to join up?”
For a brief moment, Matt was lost in time, harking back to events over the past few years, and beyond. His boyhood on the sprawling cotton plantation outside Charleston. His wedding to Elisa Nolan, daughter of a neighboring planter. The birth of baby Robert Yancey, some twelve months later, and the death of his beloved wife from childbed fever.
Malachai Yancey, patriarch and owner of Belle Clare, took sick the next year. He lingered long enough to give over advice for each of his ten sons and was subsequently buried in the family plot, next to the boys’ mother, Clarissa, gone to heaven this quarter of a century ago.
The Belle Clare heirs had discussed the current volatile political situation, and what Matthew had conjectured was the handwriting on the wall: some sort of eventual, crucial clash between north and south, with every denizen caught in the middle. A joint, unanimous decision had led the Yanceys to sell their plantation, and each had eventually struck out on their own.
For Matthew, this meant leaving behind whatever troubles might be brewing in his home state and taking his motherless son and a nursemaid/governess, the widowed Sarah Coleman, to Texas. There, settling in, he had applied for and been accepted as a member of the Rangers, helping to defend the Texas frontier.
Under the leadership of Captain John Salmon “Rip” Ford, in 1858 an expeditionary force, made up of Matt
and some hundred others, set out to attack the Comanche, after their series of raids on homesteading settlers in the Red River area. With that battle successfully concluded, the following year saw Ford’s Rangers engaged in another action against and defeat of a local Mexican rancher, Juan Cortina, who had been harassing local landowners around Brownsville.
Matt had seen plenty of conflict during the last few years. He wanted to see no more. He longed for peace, and security, and a quiet place to raise his son. The news of yet another war, this one arisen between factions of his country, was disheartening.
At least he could feel that his judgment had been vindicated, and his decision to leave for a new land the right one, when South Carolina seceded from the Union in December, just last year. Then came the secession of Texas on February 1, the formation of Confederate states on February 9, and the firing on Fort Sumter in April, a mere four months ago.
He had no taste for more strife, more battles, more blood. Having left all that behind, he could only hope that what was going on back east would not ripple westward as far as California, to engulf more victims.
In answer to Goddard’s question, he gave a brief history of his more recent adventures, ending with the fact that his plans for the future lay somewhat in limbo.
“It’s a nasty business, what’s goin’ on with our citizens across the nation,” said the sheriff quietly, after a few minutes. “I’d like to think we’re well out of it.”
“So you’re expectin’ trouble?”
“Not necessarily. But sometimes you get some trigger-happy yahoos from both sides of the fence in any fight, determined to cause trouble, and all hell can break loose.”
“Sorta like what’s goin’ on over there, across the street?” The slight tilt of Matt’s head indicated the encounter between potential customer and proprietor at her marketplace stand. No violence, no real harassment yet; just, for the moment, mild annoyance, as indicated by a cool fix of facial expression and a non-response to any comment. “What’s her story again?”
Shifting position, leaning a little forward to rest both elbows across his wool-clad thighs, the sheriff surveyed his territory. “Ah, Goldenstar, you mean. Her folks live up in the hills, but she’s got herself a nice little cabin at the edge of town.”
“What’s that stuff she’s put out for sale?”
“Her paw is a Mexican trapper,” Goddard explained, “Daniel Mendoza, married to Star’s mama, a Cherokee woman named Adsila. Pretty woman. Easy to see where the girl comes by her looks. But the folks keep mostly to themselves, ever since that massacre, up by Eureka.”
A slight frown of heavy black brows recalling the faulty memory. “I heard some about that, but not the details.”
“Helluva thing. It happened about a year and a half ago, when a bunch of crazy white militia people attacked the Wiyot tribe, on Indian Island. It was a slaughter, Matt. Babies, kids, women, old men…blood and dead bodies everywhere. Made you sick to your stomach.”
“No provocation, if I recall.”
“None whatsoever.”
The lawman in Matt stirred up to grimace. “And nobody rounded up and hauled off to trial for the cold-blooded murder of more’n a hundred innocent people.”
“Not yet, and never likely t’be. So, with some bad feelin’s toward Indians roundabout, Star’s folks keep to themselves. She comes into the center of town every so often, like this—brings their handmade commodities to sell. Does quite well with it, from what I’ve seen.”
Matt glanced once again at the wagon, the patient mule hitched up in the shade, and the entrepreneur plying her trade. “Seems like she might be takin’ quite a chance bein’ on her own, if you think somebody might be out to cause problems.”
“Ah, not s’much because of her background. More just the low-life scum—like Bower, over there—that doesn’t respect any woman. He bothers Star ev’ry time he can, so I keep an eye on him and boot him back to his ranch if it gets too bad.” Goddard snorted and shifted position so that the wooden bench creaked a little, in protest. “Damned pain in the ass.”
Across the street, new customers had just approached the temporary marketplace. Customers much more welcome than the present one, it was safe to report.
“Good morning, Goldenstar. You’re looking well.”
At the sound of a female voice, the girl turned with relief from her busy work of rearranging painted clay bowls—work only undertaken to avoid Franklin Bower’s continued presence at the outer edges of her booth. “Miss Goddard,” she greeted the newcomer with a smile. “How nice to see you again.”
“And a good day t’you, too,” said Bower from behind the table, tipping his hat. He hated being ignored by anyone. And by the Sheriff’s sister, one of the pillars of the community, no less—it was not to be borne.
Frances Goddard, tall, regal, and supremely self-confident, sent a cool glance sideways. “Mr. Bower,” she acknowledged. “In town visiting from the ranch, are you?”
“Yes, ma’am. Had some business t’take care of—layin’ claim to more property. Gonna have the biggest spread in all of California, soon,” he boasted. “And then I run into Star, here, and stopped to shoot the breeze a little.”
“Did you, now?” Frances exchanged a significant look with her companion.
Her companion: another woman of similar age, whose straw hat sat tipped at a becoming angle over gray-streaked hair, pulled back into a neat bun. Though her frame resembled one of Star’s squatty clay vases, her kindly faded blue eyes looked out onto the world with interest and compassion, and her hand rested lightly but compellingly on the shoulder of a small dark-haired boy standing beside her. Having no concern with adult conversation, he was craning his neck to look over the display items.
“Forgive me, I must make some introductions,” Frances said cheerfully. “Sarah, this is Goldenstar Mendoza, who lives in the area. Along with her parents, she’s become a real businesswoman. For a number of years, I had the pleasure of Star’s attendance in my schoolroom. And her high marks put several older students to shame, let me tell you. Oh, and Franklin Bower. A rancher, as you heard.”
“Ladies.” Bower tipped his sombrero again, offering an ingratiating smile. “And you are—?”
“I’m Mrs. Sarah Coleman.” She stepped forward immediately, with a firm handshake all around, and a smile. “I’m the housekeeper for Mr. Matthew Yancey, and I also keep watch over his son, young Master Rob, here.”
“I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Coleman. And yours, too, Rob.” Star returned the friendly gesture with her own lovely smile that included the whole group. “Have you recently relocated to San Francisco?”
“They traveled up from Texas a month or so ago,” Frances interceded, “When Mr. Yancey’s brother was married.”
Bower, still feeling ignored and out of sorts, shifted from one foot to the other and interjected himself with apparent authority. “Yeah, I saw somethin’ about that in the newspaper. Woman from Boston, come here with lotsa cash in her pocket. A good match—her rich, him poor. Money talks.”
The disparaging tone was guaranteed to draw Star’s attention. Fine brows drawn together, lovely generous mouth set now into ungenerous lines, she sent a scorching look from his boots to the top of his head. “Not if they were happy with each other. In that case, money doesn’t matter.”
“So, then.” He sent the same look in return, from her beaded moccasins to her shining black braids, except that his was coarse rather than contemptuous. “All the fortune I’ve put together don’t impress you one iota?”
A flash of the long-lashed amber eyes, angry only because she had allowed her dislike of the man to provoke her.
Frances, protective as always of her former student, stepped into the fray. “We mustn’t keep you from your important business, Mr. Bower,” she said firmly. “This is just women’s talk, anyway; nothing for you to be interested in.”
A dull flush rose into the rancher’s unshaven cheeks. Dismissed, just lik
e that: calmly and easily. Damned bitch. “Then I’ll say good day to you, ladies.” Two fingers touched the brim of his hat in a small salute, and he turned away. Only to toss back what he knew was the last word: “I’ll catch up with you later, Star, and we’ll have us a little powwow then.”
“Nasty heathen,” muttered Frances, watching him climb onto his horse and canter away.
“Do you think he takes rather a lot on himself?” Sarah wondered. “My dear, we seem to have happened upon you at an opportune time.”
“Deliberately, I’m sure,” said Star, with a glance of warm appreciation for her rescuers. “Have you been exploring the town, Miss Goddard?”
“We have, indeed, Star.”
It was a fine sun-splashed morning, with plenty of shade provided by shop awnings or an overhanging porch roof, even the incidental scrawny tree. An occasional passerby glanced their way: with chilly detachment, if female; with curiosity and speculation, if male. Several teenaged boys pelted past, their boots thumping on the wooden walkway, their attention shifting sideways to hiss, “Breed! Breed! Half-breed!” as they ran.
To everything, especially the invective, the Cherokee girl seemed oblivious. Defensively so.
“More heathens,” muttered Frances disparagingly, and then went on with an explanation: “I met Sarah at Cecelia Powell’s wedding, and we struck up a friendship. Since Mr. Yancey appears disposed to linger here indefinitely, she and I have been able to take tea together now and then, and we’ve twisted my brother’s arm to serve as escort for us at the theatre a time or two.”
Something quite poignant briefly clouded Star’s expression, then as quickly disappeared. “Friendships are important,” she agreed quietly. “And have you been shopping, as well?”
“We visited the Emporium,” Sarah contributed. “A nice lot of goods there, with plenty of variety. I very much enjoyed seeing some of the latest styles, both in bonnets and dresses.” She sighed happily.
“Miss Mendoza.”
A Western Romance: Matthew Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 2) (Taking the High Road series) Page 1