Left to themselves, the men settled down again, talking desultorily of this and that, a few more comments or questions about what was lined up for the morrow. Then it was finally time to take their own tired bones off to bed.
V
“Gone? Whaddya mean, gone?”
“Just what I said,” retorted an irritated and frustrated U.S. Marshal. “Has your hearin’ gone south, you dumb galoot?”
Matthew rose from the kitchen table to meet his brother nose-to-nose. Except the older man had the benefit of a couple extra inches in height over the younger, and he used it to his advantage. “Ease up there, boy. Show a little respect.”
“Skedaddled,” John mused. “Shoulda seen it comin’.”
Puzzled, Elizabeth turned from breakfast work at the cook stove to survey her men folk, all with feathers as ruffled as a fighting cock. “But how did the secretary and the manager find out you’d be wanting to talk with them?”
“Not hard t’ figure, honey,” said Thomas. Stocking-footed, he reached around her for the simmering coffee pot. “Any more of that cream back there? And the sugar? Ah. Thank you, Liz. Naw, with all of us showin’ up outa the blue like that yesterday, and Trav consultin’ right away with both Mrs. Waring and the lawyer, you’d have t’ be an idjut not t’ know you were next t’ be grilled.”
“Pretty much leaves their guilt wide open, as far as I’m concerned.” That was Matthew, the long arm of the law, with plenty of experience dealing with criminals and hoodlums.
Travis, wearing a black mood as big around as his hat, had dropped into a chair and was now kicking childishly at the table leg to vent. Much earlier, he had left his family peacefully slumbering in their comfortable cottage beds while he, determined clue-pursuer and top man on the case, had set off across the Rancho’s concourse.
“And I hadn’t even had my goddamned coffee yet!” he blurted out, as the worst of several offenses.
Deprived of sustenance and aggravated to a near case of distemper, he’d headed out to track down Reuben Harwood and Bentley Lawton, that he might interview both as part of his ongoing investigation.
Only to find first one, then the other, flown the coop. Mrs. Waring, quickly consulted, was astonished by their unexpected disappearance, and could offer no suggestions as to where either might have gone.
“Into San Juan, perhaps,” she said vaguely, seated at her own breakfast table. The sight and scent of fried eggs, crisp bacon, and fresh-brewed coffee had set Travis’ taste buds to tingling in anticipation. “That’s the largest town in the area, though much farther away, of course. Then there’s Zuma Ridge, much smaller, but closer.”
“They took all their stuff with ’em,” the Marshal pointed out.
“Yes, then I suppose they won’t be returning, will they?” Martha smiled up at him. This stunning blonde lady, with fortune in her favor, had been hitting the bottle again. Too early for that kind of stuff. “Won’t you join me, Marshal? Everything is quite delicious.”
Hat in hand, Travis gritted his teeth and reluctantly demurred. “Thank you, ma’am, but I’d better get back t’ my family. We’ll need to reconnoiter.”
Now, reconnoitering around the table while Elizabeth served slabs of ham and scrambled eggs, Travis was forced to admit he didn’t even know what either man looked like.
“Yeah, prob’ly shoulda talked to ’em right away yesterday,” said John around a chunk of flapjack swimming in syrup, “soon’s we got here.”
“Trouble is, it was already late by then,” Cochinay, always ready to fly to the twins’ defense if necessary, reminded the group. “Hard t’ know what next step t’ take till we got the lay of the land. And Trav needed to confer with Mrs. Waring. Plentya time for our two scalawags t’ decamp.”
Clearly, however, the Marshal was still kicking himself for the lost opportunity. Which meant he was ready to take out his displeasure on those nearest and dearest around him. “Don’t need anya your faultfindin’, Pinkerton Man. Tom, for God’s sake, cancha keep your hands off your woman for a few goddamned minutes?”
A sunny grin directed toward their irascible commander. “Hell, you’re just jealous, Trav, b’cause you ain’t got one of your own. C’mere, Liz.” Deliberately poking at the bear in his cage, Thomas encircled his bride with both arms to kiss her fully and passionately. To which she responded just as passionately, as if no spectators were watching her every move.
Finally Travis had had enough. Shoving back from the table, he snorted and stamped his way to the door. “When you all are ready t’ get on with what we came here for, meet me outside so’s I can give you some directions. Damn it.”
For a little while he paced under the limbs of the giant madrones that shaded so much of the overseer’s cottage. So many steps this way, turn, so many steps back: the activity helped dissipate his ill temper and clear his thinking. Mainly, that his twin had the right of it. He was jealous. Or, at least, envious. Not in Tom’s possession of a wife, but of a bedmate, a companion, a consort, a friend.
Inevitably, his reflections progressed from the case in hand to one of its primary actors, Miss Rosamond Waring. Peppery and provocative, this girl, with her untamed hair and tomboyish attitude that reminded him of another pretty little spitfire—James’ wife, Molly. One sensed that life lived with the beguiling Miss Rosamond would never end up dull or routine.
By the time his clan moved onto the front porch to join him, Travis had formulated arrangements for the day.
“I want Matt and John t’ stay here with Elizabeth. You need to circulate, talk t’ the employees, gather whatever information you can about this whole operation.”
Lounging against the doorframe, propped by one shoulder, Matthew asked about the ranch’s books and records.
“I’ll speak t’ Mrs. Waring,” Travis nodded at the logical question. “Tell her you boys need access t’ her husband’s office, correspondence, personal papers, what-all. I want the three of you—yeah, you, too, Liz; you’re along for a purpose—t’ put together everything you can.”
“And you, little brother?” John wanted to know.
“Tom and I, along with Coch, here, are headin’ out. Gonna see where them two employees have got to. They may have nothin’ t’ do with all this; they may have a lot. We won’t know till we find ’em and have us a little chat.”
“Aw, hell, you keep all the good stuff for yourself,” scoffed John. “Think I’d rather be out chasin’ down the bad guys than moonin’ over some dusty documents pulled from an old man’s desk.”
More disgruntlement from the eldest. “We could all go out a-huntin’,” was Matthew’s judgment. “Easier t’ pick up a trail usin’ six of us, ’steada three.”
Elizabeth was equally unhappy. She had swished out to stand, arms crossed belligerently over her bosom, and glare at her brother-in-law. From her vantage point of the porch’s extra few inches in height, her lapis blue eyes were on a level with his own. “You’re taking my husband away from me, Travis Yancey. You’d better bring him back in one piece.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” muttered Travis. “Stop bellyachin’, all of you. You come along on this trek of your own free will, so try obeyin’ orders for a change. I am the—”
“Mr. Yancey! Marshal! Marshal Yancey!” The gentle voice of Martha Waring carried across the intervening distance as she hurriedly approached the group in heated conversation.
Pulling up a long-suffering “What now?” sigh, he turned. “Yes, Mrs. Waring. Somethin’ I can help you with?”
“She’s gone, Marshal!”
“Who’s gone?”
“Rosamond. She’s gone!” Huffing and puffing a little, short-winded due to haste (and probably a tightly laced corset), Martha paused to catch her breath. She looked very lovely, standing there with the California sun showering her in beneficent rays, and her ecru day dress shimmering like molten gold. To give her credit, however, appearance counted for nothing against apprehension.
“Mrs. Waring. Martha.” Of t
hem all, Travis was nearest; he simply reached out to grab hold of both her upper arms through the satiny sleeves for a little back-down-to-earth shake. “What’s happened? Tell me what’s goin’ on.”
“Why, she’s gone off after Reuben and Bentley, the little idiot!” Fear had been warring with fury, and the fury was beginning to win out. “Livvie so informed me just a few minutes ago. Apparently, Rose has hatched some hair-brained scheme about tracking down our missing employees.”
A little frisson of foreboding raised gooseflesh on the Marshal’s muscular forearms. “What in the world would cause her t’ do such a damn fool thing?” he grated.
“Oh, she’s always been headstrong, thinks she knows best about everything. Marshal—” Mrs. Waring let out a little moan of distress, “you’ll find her, won’t you, and bring her home?”
“We’re leavin’ in a few minutes, ma’am,” interjected Thomas. “Just as soon as we pack up our gear. Liz—” Turning, he glanced at his wife, with a tiny jerk of the head toward the distraught woman. Such was their communication that Elizabeth instantly understood.
“Come, Mrs. Waring, and let’s return to your house,” she said firmly, grasping Martha’s hand in her own. “Yes, it’ll be all right. We’ll let the men do their job, and you and I will go have some tea.”
Relieved of at least this much responsibility, Travis included his twin and the Apache guide in his encompassing glance. “Time t’ pack up, boys. Then let’s ride.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
If wooded hills, the faint salty flavor of ocean air, white sand dunes, wind-carved cliffs, and exotic flora and fauna symbolized paradise, then this land of southern California might be paradise, indeed. Of course, Cochinay would plead preference for his dry desert rocks and bluffs, but the Yancey Marshals had held down enough jobs in enough far-flung locales to simply enjoy—or tolerate—any landscape, wherever they ended up.
This morning’s trek took them first to the tiny palm tree studded metropolis of Zuma Ridge.
“Kinda like Chico,” observed Thomas.
His brother glanced around at the few buildings, the stray dogs sleeping in the shade along one short main street, the flock of chickens scratching in the dust. “Only smaller.”
An hour’s ride, and no sign of the errant Rancho Riata’s workers or its owner anywhere along the trail; nor, as they would soon discover, in the town—a place not necessarily friendly toward visitors.
A stop at the local calaboose came first. Expecting the courtesy of one lawman to another, the Yanceys were taken aback by their reception.
“Hep ya, boys?” asked what was apparently the sheriff for this area, when they entered the miniscule room.
“Yessir,” Travis replied. “We stopped in to see—”
“Hold it. That Injun with you?”
Frowning, Thomas turned slightly sideways, as if someone other than Cochinay might have slipped into space behind them. “This is our guide, from—”
“Not interested in who he is or where he’s from. Don’t allow his kind in here.” The man with a tarnished silver star pinned lopsidedly to a dirty shirt shoved his castored chair back from the desk, crossed one leg over the other, and surveyed the newcomers without a smile.
“U.S. Marshal Travis Yancey,” was the cold reply, “and my brother, U.S. Marshal Thomas Yancey. Just stoppin’ by t’ pay our respects, Sheriff. Good day t’ you.”
Outside, the three men, two of them fuming, clumped off and made their way to the less-than-prepossessing saloon. Plain splintered walls, sticky floors, and an absolute minimum of décor. The only advantage to a place so lackluster was, as far as Thomas could tell, that no fancy ladies were trolling for suckers. Not one other customer shared their space; the room stood dead empty.
“Barkeep,” said Travis, still truculent and showing it. “A bottle of your best rotgut, if you’d be so kind.”
With the face, physique, and manner of a wounded grizzly bear, the taverner wasn’t about to win any points for hospitality. Slamming a dusty bottle down upon the counter, he proceeded to charge double its original cost.
“Miserable little pissant picayune piece of dingo dog dirt,” Travis was muttering as a refrain. He picked up the bottle, poured a shot glass full, and drank without tasting. For just a minute. Then the stuff reached him, full force. Eyes watering, he began to cough.
“Easy, there, son,” urged his brother. “On both counts.”
Their Apache guide and friend had gone silent and withdrawn, as if mustering all his resources into one central core for strength. Nor did he accept a helping of booze.
Once Travis had stopped grinding his teeth together, he was able to demand, “That sorta thing happen often?”
A slight lift of the shoulders in their buckskin covering. “Often enough. You get used to it.”
“No, you don’t.” Only too aware he was being fobbed off, like a child being reassured about the boogeyman after a nightmare. “And that man calls himself the law,” Travis spat out. And took another swill of the hardcase hootch.
Thumps across the floor, and then a shadow overlaying their table, as the beefy bartender approached. “That’s our Sheriff you’re talkin’ about,” he advised the party in low, menacing tones. “While you’re under this roof, you keep a civil tongue in your heads. Sheriff Lawton is a fine man.”
“Is he, then?” Thomas shared a significant glance with the other two, then rose. “Well, sir, my sincere apologies. I certainly wouldn’t wanna go bad-mouthin’ your respectable Sheriff Lawton. Boys, whaddya say we head ’em up?”
They were a quarter mile out of town before daring to resume conversation. In fact, Travis was shifting position so impatiently that his brother finally demanded an explanation. “You got a damn burr under your saddle?”
“No. An itchy spot right between my shoulder blades. Just about where a bullet might hit.”
“Sociable little place,” Cochinay observed idly, as they motated along. “Hate t’ leave it b’hind. Reckon we oughta pay ’em another visit in the near future.”
“Ahuh. Maybe catch that sheriff out on a dark night. Whaddya figure, maybe the Riata manager’s paw?”
“Or brother. Hidin’ the man out somewheres, most likely.”
“Well, sure in hell nobody else in that piddlin’ little burg t’ get information from, so that was a bust. What’s next, Mr. Pinkerton, sir?”
A crow went winging and cawing its way overhead, from the top of one giant oak to another, pursued by a number of much smaller birds, very angry and determined upon revenge for some crime. The bully versus the pack. Travis glanced up at the ruckus, swept his hat off to disarrange his rough reddish-brown thatch even further, and considered.
“Think we oughta make our way through the back woods t’ord San Juan,” he said at last. “Maybe Coch can pick up a trail showin’ where our two vagabonds have passed on through.”
“Good enough.” Thomas nodded decisively. “All right, Number One tracker, lead the way. And, while you’re at it, conjure up a miracle and find that missin’ girl, whaddya say?”
“Betcher wampum, White Eyes.”
From tiny Zuma Ridge they veered north and east, over rocky and sometimes sandy trails, through densely wooded flatland and terrain as undulating as the curves of a woman’s body. Thence into chaparral shrub and Coyote Brush, under overhanging oak trees and eucalyptus trees, past meadows of bunchgrass, once across a creek via its wooden covered bridge.
Travis’ shirt lifted as he drew in a deep piney breath. “Man, I am likin’ this country hereabouts,” he admitted. “You could do worse than settle down here.”
“Settle down?” His brother favored him with a skeptical look. “After tellin’ me time and again you ain’t ready for any such thing?”
“Yeah, could be. When I retire. ’Nother thirty years or so.”
“We don’t find this Waring girl and bring our job to a conclusion, you can put your retirement age a few more years past that.”
“Well, I’ll be hornswaggled,” marveled Thomas, leaning forward over the pommel to study the find. “You did it again, Thunder. Damn. You really are a Number One Tracker.”
His smile held no hint of modesty. “I try t’ be.” The sweep of one arm encompassed the surrounding area, crowded and crammed with all sorts of wild growing things—rangy, low to the ground, compact, flourishing, all in colors straight from an artist’s paint box. “Been seein’ sign for a while,” he told the Marshals. “Two horses, in a hurry and carryin’ weight. Now this’n, followin’ b’hind.”
“Followin’?” Travis stared, first at the track below, then upward to the nearly impenetrable greenery ahead. “So she wasn’t taken. Damn her hide, she’s on the hunt, as well!”
“What the hell is wrong with that girl?” Thomas demanded crossly. “She’s got no common sense a’tall.”
“Huh. Just as much as Liz, with all her shenanigans a few weeks ago. Cut from the same cloth, brother, seems t’ me.”
Cochinay sighed. The Yanceys might be a close-knit family, all right, with one often riding to the aid of another, and support all around whenever needed. But, in between times, they could be like a whole tree full of catamounts battling it out for the top branch.
“You want we should go find her, then, and get her home safe?”
“Damn straight!” Both twins exclaimed in unison.
The Apache climbed back onto his patient Appaloosa’s back. “Then let’s go do it.”
Early afternoon found them so close that Travis fancied he could catch the scent of her perfume. If she was wearing any, at least. And then his imagination was captured by thought of what else she might be wearing. Or not.
A Western Romance: Travis Yancey: Taking the High Road (Taking the High Road series Book 5) Page 5