“I’m not so sure. He seemed pretty scared. He might keep on running until he joins up with the rest of the Kinch West bunch. If he does that, we might not see him for a long time.”
“Yes. That’s possible. But if he intends to do that, he’d probably find them before we find him. Then we’d be the ones in trouble. No. The best way to track a man is to figure where he’s going, then get there ahead of him. If you’re wrong, go back and refigure. Mary Sue Doss said he comes to her at night because he can’t sleep without a woman. Not only that, the boutique is such an unlikely place, he’ll figure it’s still the safest place to be. He may join up with Kinch West, but he’ll be back here soon enough.”
“Yeah? Well, at least we know what he looks like and he knows this stalking business is a two way street. That should slow him up a little.”
Jack turned back to the cantina. The still angry bartender came out the door accompanied by a disheveled looking vaquero. The vaquero looked around. Obviously, it had been his horse Ferdie had stolen. The two men gave Edson and Jack murderous looks. The vaquero reached for his pistol. Fortunately for him, it was still held tightly in its holster by the hammer loop. Jack and Edson raised their weapons and leveled them directly at the man’s head.
“Easy there, amigo.” Jack spoke calmly in his most cultured Spanish. “I am United States Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes. This is Deputy Marshal Edson Rabb. We mean you no harm. We’re sorry the miserable murdering rat we were chasing stole your horse. However, I will personally see to it you get another, of much better quality than the one you just lost. Before I do that, you must agree to share a bottle with us. We will not leave here until we are assured of your friendship. There must be no hard feelings.”
Jack had learned long ago the danger of leaving enemies behind to cause trouble in the future. This was especially true of Mexican vaqueros who lived by a sense of honor only they could comprehend. Quick to anger, even quicker to forgive, it was always wise to appease such men if it was possible to do so. The bartender and the vaquero looked at each other curiously. Smiles grew on their faces.
“Put away your pistolos,” the bartender said in Spanish. “I think we can be friends. I’m sure Cipriano will be happy with any horse you might provide. Come on in and join us. We are a poor cantina with no fancy liquors, but more pulque than you could drink in a week. Do you have cajones, señor?”
“What did they say, Jack?”
“They’ve just invited us into the cantina to share a bottle of pulque with them. They figure we need a drink after all the running we’ve been doing.”
“Well, they’re right about that. What’s pulque?”
“What’s pulque? Do you mean you’ve never had any pulque?”
“That’s what I said, Jack. Do I have to repeat myself every time I ask you a question? Dang, Jack. My poor old mouth is going to fall right off if’n I hang around you much more.”
“More’n likely you won’t have a mouth left, after we get out of here. Pulque can do that to you. It’s a poor man’s drink, fermented juice of the maguey cactus. Now that we’ve made friends with these people, I’m sure they won’t let us get away until every man in the place has tried to drink us under the table. Take my word for it.”
“Well, I’m game. The more friends I make, the better I like it. Do you think there are any women in there?”
Jack smiled. “Yes. But not one of them will speak English. You may be handsome, but you’ve got to sweet talk a Mexican girl. If you can’t, you’re flat out of luck.”
Edson hesitated, and then smiled. “Wanna bet?”
CHAPTER 37
“Thank you, Mr. Mobley. I liked that story. But I still don’t understand how someone can change a pumpkin into a carriage. Is that another one of those somethings I will find out about when I get older?”
“No, I don’t think so. At least I never learned how. I think it’s something only a fairy godmother can learn to do. But, who knows? Maybe one day you’ll get to be a fairy godmother, and then you can come back and explain it to me.”
“Oh, that would be fun.”
Mobley shifted on the bed as Gertrude adjusted his pillow. Talking with her had become one of his great pleasures. Everything about her reminded him of Lydia, her soft skin, green penetrating eyes. It was almost like he was a child again with a schoolboy’s crush on the prettiest girl in town.
He lay back as he watched her fuss about the room, like all of the women in his life, busy, busy, busy. Never stopping. He’d always relished the satisfaction of hard work and doing a job right, but every woman he’d known had taken the matter one step farther. It was as if keeping constantly busy was satisfaction in itself. And it wasn’t something they’d come to learn as they grew up. As with Gertrude, it seemed part of their nature.
He thought about the past several weeks, of how Lydia had hovered over him, comforted him during the worst of the sweats and chills. It all seemed like a dream now. She’d ordered Jack and Edson around like children. She’d searched for a treatment, and found it. She and Edson.
Thinking of Lydia. It was all he’d been able to do in his delirium. A great welling in his chest, a growing feeling unlike any he had experienced before, had dominated him. It was a warm feeling most of the time now, but it had caused terrible fear and anxiety for her safety during his worst periods. The train battle scene had repeatedly flashed before his eyes. Throwing himself in front of her and firing, aiming, firing. He’d saved her. He knew that. Then she’d saved him. But the fight was not over. He might not be able to protect her the next time. And there would be a next time, of that he was absolutely certain.
Watching Gertrude, knowing everyone was working, doing something positive, suddenly became frustrating. It was time he got up. Time he started making plans and getting back in control. He was weak, but felt much better than before.
“Gertrude, would you mind leaving the room for a few minutes? I’d like to get up and into my clothes. It’s time I stopped laying around like a cripple. I think moving and walking would be good for me, don’t you think?”
Gertrude stopped fussing with the breakfast tray, turned and stood, hands on her hips. “I don’t think so, Mr. Mobley. Momma thinks you need more rest. You might hurt yourself if you get up too soon.”
“Well, you go tell your momma that I’m tired of this bed and I am going to get up. If I hurt myself, I’ll yell out.”
Gertrude stared at him a few more seconds, and then turned to go into her mother’s room. Mobley leaned forward, threw his sheets back and sat up. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He put his head down and waited it out. His wound was still painful, but the worst was clearly past. He would be able to move around, but not without his clothes. They were neatly folded on the chair next to the dresser, across the room.
Lydia walked in as he reached the halfway point. She looked at him and smiled. He felt a rush of heat on his face. The woman he loved was looking at him. He was stark naked. He turned too quickly, grimaced at the pain radiating from his side and hurriedly limped back to the bed. She followed, sat on the edge of the mattress, reached out to caress his chest as he pulled the sheets up around his neck.
Her hand traced circles from his breast bone to his navel, soft even through the sheet. He began to shake as if the fever was coming back. Lydia had a strange look in her eye, a look of love and passion. He wanted to reach out, hold her, and caress her. But something stopped him. He was embarrassed; but there was more to it. Fear for her safety. He was a target, certain to be stalked and attacked, again and again. If he allowed his passions to take over, he’d never be able to send her away, to keep her safe. She must not be harmed.
Lydia lowered her head to his chest. His heart pounded. He struggled for control, and lost. The soft scent of her hair coursed through his senses, firing his body as never before. He reached for her, kissed her gently on the forehead, then with force on the lips. He kissed her again, deeply. She lay beside him, cooing in his ear, hands moving s
ensually over his body, breasts pressed against him. His breath became ragged.
No. He pushed himself back, turned away.
Lydia lifted her head. She leaned over him, willing him to snuggle her breasts. But, something was wrong. She tried to look into his eyes, but he refused contact. She’d wanted only to comfort him, to hug and kiss. He’d responded, but not as she’d thought. Seeing him standing naked had stirred her, but after caring for him so long, caring for him like a baby, she’d sought only to tell and show him how much she cared.
She sat up, moved to the side of the bed. Her lower lip began to quiver, tears of love, frustration and fear, trickled down her cheek. She thought she’d been too aggressive, not realizing how sensitive he was. She lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Mobley. I—I’ve embarrassed you. Please forgive me.”
Mobley’s mind raced. Other than his youthful bout in the hay with Dolly McGee and a few Cuban girls, he’d had no experience with women. The only high class ladies he’d ever met demanded courtesy, protection, gentlemanly behavior from their men. They behaved properly, bore children, went to church. That was not the way he wanted Lydia to be, a follower. He liked her strength of will, her love of life. He wanted to cater to her, be her gentleman and protector. But it was impossible now, with so much killing, so much danger. He could not give in to his passions. But how to explain it to her, how to get her to leave him and go back to the safety of Waco, eluded him. Even now, the thought of her leaving sent chills of panic through his senses. If he allowed himself to go further, to make love to her, he’d lose all self control.
Lydia Sweetgrass was the first woman he’d ever met who really knew who she was, capable of taking and exercising power and remaining a lady through and through. He understood she was a widow, certainly not a virgin, and more sexually experienced than he. Making love to her would be—a thing of his dreams.
Lydia waited. What’s the matter here? Is he really that upset? She stood up. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. I will not come in again without knocking.” She turned and walked out.
Mobley got up slowly and walked back to the dresser. He put on his clothes, taking care not to strain himself or his injury. A bottle of sourmash whiskey was next to the water basin. He picked it up and took a long pull. His weak stomach turned, but did not further embarrass him. The whiskey felt good as it burned its way down his throat. He took another pull, then another, the pain in his side receding with each long swallow. The pain in his heart and mind, for having hurt Lydia, remained.
* * *
Edson paced back and forth in the hallway outside the hotel suite. “There’s something wrong with Mobley. He’s been acting strange and stiff-headed for more than a week. It’s almost as if he’d died and come back as another person. I don’t know what it is, but it has something to do with Lydia.”
“Of course it has something to do with Lydia. Can’t you see he’s fallen in love with her? I thought you were supposed to be perceptive.” Jack leaned against the hall wall and toed the carpet. “Men in love do the stupidest things.”
“Of course they do, but stupid isn’t exactly what he’s doing. I think he feels less of a man since being wounded. He’s lost some of his confidence. My old grandfather told me people are born thinking they’re immortal, that they can’t be killed. When they find out it ain’t so, it can hit pretty hard. Maybe that’s it. Being shot has him worried about death and all that would mean.”
“Like what? When you’re dead, you’re dead.”
“Your body’s dead. Not your soul.”
“True, at least I hope it’s true. But what would it mean to Mobley?”
“I don’t know. He clearly loves Lydia. Maybe he’s worried about what would happen to her if he was killed.”
“Or what might happen to her, if she stays around?”
Edson nodded. “Maybe.”
“What do you think we ought to do?”
“I don’t know, Jack. If we could get him out of his room, back out on the prairie, he might come around. I’ve seen towns mess people up before; but never this bad. He’s got to get out before he can start thinking straight. I think Lydia would agree.”
“Yeah, I think she would.” Lydia came in from her shopping trip, and saw Edson and Jack standing in the hallway. She had a smile on her face. “Guess what, boys? We’ve all been invited to a party at the governor’s mansion tonight.”
Edson looked at Jack. His eyes had turned a strange shade of black and violet. Jack fingered his pistol as his lips curled and twisted. Edson felt himself becoming angry as well. Governor Davis was responsible for everything. He had to be stopped.
Lydia looked back and forth between them. “Come on, boys. It should be fun. We need to get out. It’s been too dreary around here. “We all need some cheering up.”
CHAPTER 38
Jack threw his hat against the wall. “What a lot of ROT. I still don’t believe this. We’re going to waltz right over to the governor’s mansion, make a lot of small talk, maybe kiss his miserable bum and tell him how good it felt, and for what? So Lydia can brag about the wonderful party she attended while vacationing in Austin? For pity’s sake, Mobley, this man has been trying to kill us. He’s responsible for the deaths of a lot of people. Have you forgotten?”
Mobley jumped up from his chair and stared back, anger flashing in his eyes. “No, I haven’t forgotten. But I also haven’t forgotten we have no direct evidence linking him to these things. We have hearsay and that’s all. Not just hearsay, hearsay three, no, five times removed from the source. Davis supposedly gives orders to Yancy Potts. Yancy Potts tells Ferdie Lance. Ferdie Lance tells his girlfriend, and in a moment of wild passion, his girlfriend tells Edson. Edson tells us.”
Mobley turned, stomped across the room. He stood staring, and then smacked his fist against the bedroom door. Edson stood and edged between his two friends. “Easy now, let’s not forget we’re friends here. We’re all on the same side. There’s no use coming to blows, and no point upsetting Lydia. She’ll hear us if we keep yelling. Now, let’s all sit back down and talk this out.”
Jack turned his back, and then felt himself relenting. He picked up his hat and hung it on the bed post. Mobley stared at him for a moment, and then sat down on the bed. Anger still twitched his face.
Jack sat down on the other side of the bed. “All right, what’s this all about? Hearsay? What is that, and why does it make what we know mean so little?”
Mobley got up and walked to the door, then turned around. “Remember when you were kids, the games you used to play? Like the game where one person would whisper something to someone else, and they in turn would whisper it to another, and so on until it came back to the source. Invariably, the original message would be distorted. If it went through enough mouths, by the time it came all the way around it would be complete and total nonsense and unrecognizable.
That’s an example of the danger of hearsay evidence. It’s just not reliable, because as it goes from mouth to mouth, it doesn’t come out the same. Now, we’re talking about evidence of conspiracy and murder, evidence that seems to point in the direction of the governor of the state, the most powerful man Texas has ever known. We might believe in our hearts he’s guilty of these things, but we can’t fool ourselves into believing we can prove it. There is just no direct link, and that’s probably the way the governor worked it all along. He’s avoided doing anything that would lead anyone outside his closest circle directly to him.”
Mobley began pacing back and forth from the veranda window back to the door, now talking softly. “On the other hand, this thing may have started with Yancy Potts, or even by Ferdie Lance, and not the governor. We just don’t know for certain.”
Mobley stopped at the dresser, picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured himself a glass. He took a short sip and continued. “All the while you boys have been out doing such great work, I’ve been layin’ around here trying to figure why Davis would align himself with such murderous trash as Ferdie L
ance and Kinch West, if, in-fact, he did; and the only thing I can come up with is that he just can’t stand the thought of having to give the state back to the enemies he’s faced since well before the war. He’s about to lose everything he’s fought for over the past fifteen years, and he just can’t accept that fact.
But I have to tell you boys, when it comes to figuring the minds of lurkers and plotters, or what to do about them; I’m a fish out of water. My whole life, I’ve trusted people. If they say they’re going to do something, I expect them to do it. If someone plays me for a fool, I’m the last one to catch on. A lot of people have told me I’m terribly naïve, but there is one thing I have learned about it all. The best way to find out the truth of someone’s character is to give them your trust.
To me, that’s what it means to be civilized; you have to trust your fellow man. And, I think it works, for if people cooperate for the common good rather than acting solely in their own immediate interest, they all tend to do better in the end. I can’t prove that as a scientific fact, but I’ve seen enough of it to know there is something to it.
If the people you choose to trust turn out to be rotten, you’ll find out quicker that way than any other, and you’ll be better off for it. Yes, you’ll get snookered once in a while, but getting’ even ain’t all that hard and it can even be fun at times; but the best thing is just to accept you’ve been taken, learn from it, and move on. I know this probably sounds stupid, but to me it’s better than going through life worryin’ about everyone’s motives, constantly afraid they might stab you in the back.
Now, I’m not suggesting a man ought not do some study into the folks he does business with, especially if a lot of money is involved, but in just about every other circumstance, he ought to be willing to give a man the benefit of the doubt. In fact, that concept is fundamental to our system of justice. A man is innocent until proven guilty.
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