“Hey, boss, you’re lookin’ pretty bad,” ventured Sykes, riding alongside. He cast a worried glance toward his employer. “Still bleedin’ like a stuck pig, in fact. Hadn’t you oughta sit this one out somewhere? Let us handle trackin’ them two varmints.”
In the pale moonlight Bower’s eyes, seen under the brim of his hat, might have been those of a demon: reddened, maddened, and enraged. “Let you handle it?” he snarled. “When you were the ones let ’em git away? Of all the incompetent, worthless, soul-suckin’ kin to vermin—!”
The rancher’s head turned out to be harder than anyone, especially Raquel Garcia, had realized. While the girls had been pinning their hopes for escape on at least several hours running start, Bower had regained consciousness all too soon. Then, crawling toward the bedroom’s doorway, he had bawled for help.
Shocked to the core of his aristocratic being, Horace had assembled medical supplies and begun attending to a multitude of wounds. Something like this would certainly never take place in his part of the world. The very idea!
Shortly, with bandages wrapped tightly around the gaping slit in his middle, sticking plaster applied to the slice on his cheek, and a thorough if hasty washing and rinsing done of the head wound, Bower was able to change into ranch gear. Urged to rest and recover by even those who disliked him, such as his manservant, Franklin let his fury carry him along.
“Goddamn whores,” he raged, swigging from the nearest bottle of rum. Enough spirits might dull the worst of his pain; enough would also fuel the fire until this night was over and he’d done what he was setting out to do. “Stole my best horse, did they? I could string ’em up. I could send ’em to hell in a hand basket. Sweet Jesus, this hurts! Goddamn fancy-dressed fancy-talkin’ sluts!”
No one had noticed the disappearance; no one had heard any sound of departure.
“Goddamn blind fools. I should fire the lot of you!” fumed Bower.
Physically impaired, and with a brain not exactly clicking along as it should be, still, while forced to sit quietly for his manservant’s medical care, he was already working out a plan. He was done with both these jezebels. Who needed all this aggravation, when there were plenty of other fish in the sea? No. They would be recaptured and returned to the Condor Ranch.
Then...well, what came next would not be pleasant.
Bandaged, changed, well-lit by alcohol and a giant smelly cigar, Bower had gathered his men together to explain their mission. “First off, Felipe, I need you to get hold of Suarez. Tell him all hell’sa poppin’ and I need him here at the ranch. Pronto. The resta you boys, saddle up. There’s a job t’ get done, and it’s time you earn your pay. Move out!”
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The weight of either girl, singly, would hardly cause a strain for any horse. Taken together, however, after a while even the strongest mount would begin to tire. As this one was doing now.
“How much farther do you think it is to town?” whispered Star.
Sound carried a long distance, up here in the hills. Best to be as quiet as possible.
“Hard to tell,” said Raquel, peering through trees and brush. A few minutes ago she had slid to the ground to reconnoiter, because they had apparently wandered into unfamiliar territory. “A back road, like this—not sure of miles. Or time.”
Silence for a few minutes. She led the stallion forward, around a mound of boulders, down a small knoll. A softened, quiet path, filled with powdery dust, some pine needles, dead leaves. So little light, such a huge space.
“I’m sorry for what you’ve gone through at Franklin Bower’s filthy hands,” Star offered. “He’s a horrible man, and we need to bring charges against him. We need to rescue all the people he’s hurt.”
A sliver of moon shone in the sky. Raquel turned, glancing up over her shoulder. “Bring charges how?” she scoffed. “Who would believe us, you and me? Him a white man, with all the rights in the world; he’d be laughin’ when they put us both in jail.”
The unfairness of it, pitting one race against the other: that’s what had held her back from reporting Bower’s past offenses. And now... “I know. I understand. And I’m worried, too, about my mother, about what may come up to haunt her.”
“Your mother. My brother. He holds all the cards,” said Raquel bitterly. “And we pay the price.”
“Maybe not. I have a good friend in the sheriff of San Francisco. And—and another...lawman, possibly...”
“Here. We are through the rough part. I think I know now where we are.” The girl approached, grabbed hold of the reins, and swung herself onto the horse, behind her companion. “One sheriff, good. But, Señorita, I think maybe not the whole town. Move on, Cyclone.”
An easy trot took them from the forested hills to an open road, flat and smooth and accessible. Traitorously so. In that space the half-dozen Condor riders unexpectedly emerged, thundering along from out of nowhere to overtake and surround.
Even vastly outnumbered, they fought, until there was no fight left in either of them. Pulled kicking and screaming from their horse, the girls were dragged before judge and jury, Franklin Bower. He sat wavering in his saddle, worn and shadowed like some bloodthirsty demon from the depths of hell.
“I hoped you were dead!” Star spat out at him.
He stared down at her, implacable, immovable. At the veil of black hair torn loose from its braid, at the lovely face registering open contempt, at the body held tight and fettered that he had planned to possess. “No such luck, Miss Mendoza,” he said tonelessly. Then, to the two men securing her position, he ordered. “Hit her. Now.”
Open-mouthed, they gawked at each other. “Hit her? Hit a woman? But—Mr. Bower, you can’t—”
“Do you see this?” he thundered, gesturing to the bandages still oozing gore. “Do you see what she did to me? B’sides, she ain’t nothin’ but a half-breed. Hit her, I said!”
Still hesitation. Then the slow scrape of a pistol being drawn from its holster, and the cold cock of a trigger being pulled back. Bower, obviously nearly ready to collapse, leaned forward onto the saddle horn to brace himself.
“If I was able to, I’d be down there, beatin’ her ass. So I have t’ leave it up t’ you. Which is it gonna be, boys? Her? Or you?”
Anyone confronted by a weapon held ready to fire knows that the only option available is surrender.
Sykes’ open-handed slap came before she was ready to bear it. Hard. Fast. Vicious. Flung sideways by the force of the blow, Star let out a cry. Then came the second. With it, and another louder cry, she crumpled helplessly in the dust.
“Is she bleedin’? Good. Just a little payback, trollop. As for you—” His attention turned toward Raquel, quailing between her captors, “—I can’t blame you quite as much. You’re too damned stupid to see how she was just suckin’ you up into her schemes. Still... Oh, hell, smack her around a little, too, fellahs. Show her how you don’t screw over the big boss.”
Several punches, some kicks, and numerous screams and tears later, Bower surveyed the scene before him. Master of his domain, and of a great deal of northern California. Against the pain in his midriff, he managed a rusty chuckle. “Didn’t really think you’d get away from me, didja? Dunderheads.”
Both women had been dragged to their feet, bruised and battered, weaving a little, and unsteady, standing upright only because their captors supplied support.
From the height of his stallion, Bower looked them over. “I’m done with the both of you. We get back to the Condor, it’s farewell and adios, ladies. Oh, no—” at Star’s unintentional flinch, “I ain’t gonna kill you. Not even a half-breed pup like you, Miss Snooty-Pants Mendoza. Naw. I got a better plan. You ever heard of Suarez?”
With a gasp of horror, Raquel tried to pull free. “Señor, please—no! Oh, please, for the love of God...I will do anything, anything—!”
“Oh, yeah, sweet little girl, I just bet you will. And, y’know, you bein’ so willin’, and all, I may just change my mind, k
eep you around on the ranch, after all. Maybe it’ll just be Star here that gets taken away.” Pleased, Bower chuckled again and included his employees in the explanation. “’Case you don’t know the name, boys, Suarez runs a band of banditos hereabouts.”
“Suarez?” repeated Russell Sykes, incredulous. “You’re dealin’ with the likes of him?”
“Yessir, I am. Got himself involved in the sex trade, too. Good money in it, and don’t we know. Word is he’s mighty hard on his women, but—” the very slightest of shrugs, with care for the bandaged wound, “this curvy ol’ catamount should get herself trained right well.”
“But—Suarez?” Clearly Sykes was having some trouble with the notion.
“That’s what I said!” snapped Bower. “Now mount up. Let’s head on home so I can get the rest of this business taken care of.”
VIII
By the next morning, with no word from or mention of Star anywhere in town, Frances Goddard was becoming more and more alarmed. At the breakfast table, over slices of ham and new-laid scrambled eggs, she tackled her brother.
“Well, yeah, I agree it does seem strange we haven’t seen hide nor hair of her for two days now,” agreed William, comfortably sipping at his coffee. Much better tasting than the foul brew he seemed to come up with at the sheriff’s office...even if he wouldn’t admit that to anyone. How exactly did his sister put things together to fix something so darned good? Maybe if he washed out the pot a little more often than—oh, say, once a month or so... “What?”
“If you would pay attention to the subject at hand, Will,” said Frances with forced patience, “I said: it isn’t just me wondering where she’s gotten to. Several others asked me yesterday if she’s gone out of town. And I don’t think she has. Not without telling me, anyway. Why, I’m the closest friend she’s got in these parts.”
A bite of juicy ham, perfectly cooked; another forkful of fluffy eggs: delicious. Will wondered if Sarah Coleman liked to cook, and whether she was handy in the kitchen. It paid to know these things in advance.
“William! Stop woolgathering and listen to me!”
He squinted up at her, standing across from him with hands on hips in her favorite confrontational position. “I am listenin’, Frannie. I know you’re worried. And I’m startin’ to feel that way a mite, myself. Tell you what. Soon’s I finish, let’s go check out her cabin again, see if she’s there. And if she ain’t--”
“Sheriff! Hey, Sheriff! Will!” A pounding at the front door, and shouting to beat the band.
“Lands sake, what on earth is going on?”
But Frances didn’t get a chance to stomp through the hall in answer to the summons, because William beat her to the punch. He had already picked up his Stetson and was gone before she could even put aside the fry pan.
An exchange of voices from the porch: one she recognized as Clement’s, his deputy, raised and excited; the other was William’s, calm and easy-going as always, just the sort of response San Francisco’s citizenry appreciated in a crisis situation. Apparently this was.
“Hey, Frannie.” William poked his head around the corner. “Got us a good ol’ riot down by some saloon on the wharf. Feller come off a ship with what people are claimin’ might be some kinda plague, and the whole place is up in arms. I gotta go down there now, with Clem, maybe deputize me a few men.”
“But, Will—” Troubled by the problematic start to what had dawned as a golden day, she trailed into the foyer for further discussion.
He was already fastening on his badge and gun belt, taking on the woes of world, focusing on what must be done to restore order. Yet a small kernel of his busy thoughts remained centered on her worries about Star.
“Now, don’cha fret, honey. I’ll send somebody to ferret out Matt Yancey and he can go with you. You wait for him, y’hear? Don’t want you hightailin’ it off on your own—never know what you might run into. And best if you got yourself an experienced lawman along, in any case. Got it?”
Warm relief flooded her veins. As often as she chided or teased her brother, he was a dear, devoted individual, and she loved him for it. “Got it. Thank you, Will.”
“Not sure when I’ll be home, Frannie. Might be a long day.”
And possibly a dangerous one. By comparison, her concerns suddenly seemed minor. Reaching up, she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the cheek. “Be careful, William. Please be careful.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“You comfy cozy in there, Miss Goddard?”
“I’m just fine, Matt, thank you. Please, call me Frances, for heaven’s sake. And please, please, can we be on our way now? So much wasted time...” She was all but wringing her hands with anxiety.
As promised, Matt Yancey had shown up shortly after William’s abrupt departure. With the brief explanation that wasn’t really an explanation, he had taken it upon himself to move forward, hitching up the Goddard buggy to their rather overweight mare and helping Frances into the seat.
“Good t’ see you’re wearin’ somethin’ sensible,” he approved, flicking the reins.
She glanced down at her prim white blouse, pleated navy skirt, and low-heeled black boots. “Oh. Plain and unadorned, you mean?”
Matt grinned. “No, ma’am, you ain’t catchin’ me in that trap. What I meant was—no consarned giant hoops to get in the way.”
“I see. Well, you’ll be relieved to know that I rarely wear those consarned giant hoops. They’re a nuisance, especially if the wind hits you just right. So, tell me,” in a patent effort to shift her apprehensive thoughts, “what is young Rob up to today?”
Pushing back his hat, so that the hair curled and corkscrewed into ringlets to frame his face, he related the latest doings of Master Robert. “We’ve been spendin’ a lotta time together, doin’ this and that. He was a mite disappointed not t’ be comin’ along today, but Sarah’s workin’ on laundry and says she can use his help. That’ll keep the boy outa mischief.”
Riding in a carriage might not provide as much physical exercise as a good brisk walk, but it was certainly a speedier method of transport. Within just a few minutes they had arrived at Star’s cabin, still sleeping under the summer sun.
“No changes, from what I see,” observed Frances doubtfully. “And no damage.”
Springing easily to the ground, Matt moved to assist his passenger and they started toward the front door. California poppies the color of an ocean sunset swayed gently in a breeze, as did a pair of calico curtains at one open window.
“And still unlocked.” Carefully he pushed at the handle. Nothing untoward, as yet. A quick, cursory glance around inside, then another quick glance at the shed. Ezekiel, lonesome for some company, brayed a greeting.
“It’s the strangest thing,” Frances murmured. “How could Star have simply disappeared like that?”
The circuits had begun to connect in her razor-sharp brain while she considered the situation; and Matt, who had seen this sort of thing before, stood patiently by and waited, letting the world pass him by. Leaning against the fence rail, he crossed one ankle over the other and gave the mule a few friendly pats.
Bees zoomed here and there, gathering pollen from a garden of colorful flowers; butterflies, too, but taking a more leisurely, more graceful flight. Overhead a hawk slowly circled, searching for prey. White puffs of cloud gathered, formed, and drifted past.
“Do you have other matters awaiting your attention today, Matt?” she asked suddenly.
“No, ma’am. Nothin’ more important than tendin’ to whatever you’d like me to do.”
Frances smiled. “Oh, you are one very nice, dependable man. Very well, then. Here’s the plan. We must go call on Star’s parents.”
“Her parents? Thought they were out in the wild somewhere, hard to find?”
“Only,” said Frances smugly, “if you don’t know where to look. And I know exactly. Remember, Star was my pupil for a number of years. During that time I was pleased to conduct occ
asional home visits, talk with the families, nip any potential problems in the bud—that sort of thing. Yes, indeed, Matt. I know exactly where to look.”
And thus the journey resumed, to a much more far-flung place than Matt had envisioned.
For some time, the buggy wheels hummed along on what passed for a paved road, fairly smooth, packed-down dirt, with large rocks and larger boulders pushed off the side. All too soon, however, the convenience of that road ended, fading away into mere wagon tracks cut into the desert expanse—through pungent sagebrush and clumps of deergrass, woodbalm and milkweed and dwarf coyote bush, flowering pink bush mallow and creeping green yerba buena.
“That was its original name, you know,” Frances, squinting into the distance, offered suddenly.
“Huh?”
“The city of San Francisco. Literally, good herb. An aromatic mint.”
He glanced her way with a slow smile, whose effect Frances could feel from her toes to her susceptible heart. Oh, Star, could you have seen that very same smile and deliberately shut down your own reaction to it?
“Just makin’ conversation, are you?” asked the owner of that devastating smile.
“Just giving you some local history,” Frances replied, a trifle crossly. “It’s always helpful to be familiar with an area you’ve just come into, don’t you think?”
“Like this damned desert that ain’t got a soul in sight, maybe. You sure you know the way? You sure you come out here before in a buggy, ’stead of on hawseback?”
Frances sniffed. “You’re following the trail, aren’t you? Star makes this trip every few weeks, with her cart and her mule. Have a little faith, Matthew.”
“Faith t’ take a trail fulla bumps and ruts? Sure a lotta jouncin’ here. I’d be surprised if we don’t both end up bruised from top to bottom.”
“Surely you’re used to this sort of thing,” she said, surprised, “from your traveling around with the Rangers.”
A Western Romance: Matthew Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 2) (Taking the High Road series) Page 7