Several days’ riding had taken them above the tree line, into colder temperatures, wailing winds, and a light drift of snow. Following Henry Reed’s instructions, they had finally attained their goal: a small weathered shack tucked up against a protective wall of stone.
“The place was occupied, all right,” asserted Paul. “Smoke risin’ from the chimney, horse stowed not far away, in a sheltered space under pine. We burst inside without warnin’, ready for a fight, flyin’ shells, anything.”
Their impromptu raid ended up being rather anticlimactic. After being primed by three days of mental and physical anticipation, the Yanceys found the wanted man sprawled on a bedroll, half-dead from wounds in his arm and leg.
“So we got him fixed up, best as we could, collected his belongin’s and a saddlebag fulla his stolen cash, and made our way back down the mountains.”
“Another story written and sold,” concluded Nathaniel. “So you all were a smidge disappointed that you didn’t have a big gun battle up there in them peaks.”
Shrugging, Paul shifted position on the chesterfield. These big Yancey boys took up a lot of space in any room, and getting comfortable for some length of time could be a challenge. “Well, if you wanted action, you woulda enjoyed dealin’ with the worst desperado of my career so far.”
“Ah. You must mean—”
“Etta Mae Starr. Yep. As God is my witness, that woman could scrap tooth and nail more’n any mountain lion. Right t’ the very end…”
Etta Mae was neither the most dangerous nor the most heinous of criminals in Paul’s experience thus far. No. She simply consorted with them. Born to a wealthy cattle rancher in New Mexico Territory, Etta Mae was an attractive young woman who had decided, early on, that adventure beckoned in the form of one “Texas Joe” Coulter, a horse thief on the run from the state next door.
The two of them met when Joe, who was graduating to bigger and more daring schemes, decided to hold up the bank in nearby Santa Fe. Etta Mae happened to be inside at the time. Joe, dragging Etta Mae with him, managed to escape the ensuing volley of gunfire, and the pair fled to relative safety at the Big Starr Ranch. By the time Santa Fe’s sheriff and posse arrived, Texas Joe was long gone, while Etta Mae remained at home to play innocent. And dumb.
The robberies continued, on an irregular timetable, throughout a wide swath of the Southwest. After each one, Joe swung back to what had become his home base, at Starr Ranch, and his light o’ love. Light, because occasionally Joe brought along a compadre or two, and Etta seemed happy to share her favors indiscriminately.
Thus, when Texas Joe was finally captured and held for trial, his next in line, Red MacDougall, easily took his place—both in the number of ever increasingly violent stickups, but also in Etta Mae’s bed.
Eventually he, too, was brought to justice. This in a fierce gunfight that left three sheriff’s deputies wounded and Red, riddled by bullets, flat-out-dead on the ground.
For a long while, Etta Mae, soured by the loss of her most recent lover, stayed close to home. Her father having long since gone to his Maker, she stood in sole possession of the ranch, its use and value set at her own discretion. Then, soon enough, the old itch for excitement started up again.
This time, the man to satisfy that itch, one Barclay Ritter, was a deadeye come south from the northern country with his gang of cutthroats. These were the fellows of whom outlaw legend was written, true hooligans and scofflaws, every one. A few with jail sentences trailing them, others with a string of murders and burglaries to their credit, all wanted by the law.
To Barclay and his bunch, Etta Mae offered asylum, shelter, plenty of food, and enough freewheeling sex to keep everyone happy.
Until the Day of Reckoning arrived.
“That was when we Yanceys swarmed in, with the local gendarmes,” Paul said proudly. “Right there, at the Big Starr.”
Seven outlaw gang members, outnumbered and outmaneuvered: three who eventually surrendered to authorities, four cold stiff gore-soaked bodies laid out for transport. And a distraught Etta Me.
“Man, she came out a-swingin’,” reported Paul, his voice tinged with awe and disbelief. “Reckon she felt more for this last fella in her life than anybody knew. She’d been firin’, right along, with a Remington. Then when her ammo was finished, she flew into us with a damned pitchfork. Took the sheriff right in the thigh with a coupla the tines; and near t’ put out the eye of another deputy till they got her corralled. Kickin’ and hissin’ and spittin’. Never seen a woman so riled up.”
Perhaps, came Nathaniel’s random thought, next time the littlers decided to go at it, he should send Paul out into the middle of one of their own home-grown brawls. If he emerged unscathed from that catawampus, he might have more respect for the fighting power of the aroused female.
“You get hurt in all that falderal?”
“Naw. Well, a scratch or two. Not much. Them local boys took the brunt of it.”
“And Etta Mae?”
“She got herself an unsympathetic jury this time, and is sittin’ b’hind bars t’ this day.”
Nathaniel stretched his arms overhead and shook loose his muscles. He’d been sitting in this chair, comfortable or not, for a protracted period of time, and he was about ready to start moving, take his brother on a tour of the place—of which he was rightfully proud—before dinner.
Besides, things had been still as a stone outside for far too long, and he would need to see what was going on. Or not going on. Too much quiet in anything involving the littlers was never a good sign.
“So you recovered from this scratch or two, lay idle for a bit, and now you’re here. Any particular reason?”
“As a matter of fact,” Paul said slowly, “somethin’ has come up that I wanna work on. However, we’ve spent the whole mornin’ talkin’ about me. We can discuss all of this later. Tell me about your own self, brother. Are you likin’ this area, and the profession you chose?”
Brightening, because he never tired of telling all and sundry about this extraordinary life he was living, thanks to God’s blessings on him and his family, Nathaniel delayed any departure to settle back for a bit more conversation.
“Everything here suits me just fine. I feel like I was called to this church, Paul, and that I can do real, heartwarmin’ good here amongst the parishioners. Then, of course, to meet and marry my Caroline—well, most of the time this is heaven on earth. Kinda just waitin’ for the other shoe t’ drop, y’know?”
“Yeah, I do know. Like things are goin’ so well that you don’t wanna attract notice, in case somebody decides you don’t deserve all you got and rips it away from you.” Paul chuckled.
“That’s about it.”
For a few minutes, while the outside breeze trickled in to lift the curtains, and somewhere someone’s mule brayed suddenly and insistently, the Reverend spoke of so much that had happened here in the year since his arrival. Minor changes in the church service, special programs at Christmas and Easter, community outreach after a downtown fire had destroyed most of one whole city block, fellowship in the form of picnics and a fall festival. Surprisingly enough, Sheriff Carter Novak has been keeping company with Delilah Trubody at many of these events.
“And, o’ course, you knew that Portia was married to Andy Templeton last September,” Nathaniel resumed. “I was privileged to perform the wedding ceremony.”
“They settled roundabouts, close by?”
“Sure are. Andy’s family runs the livery stable, and the young couple set up housekeepin’ in a little cottage about halfway b’tween us and his folks.”
Paul laughed. “Prudent.”
“And Tina was married to her Josh just last month.” Glancing toward the window, where open green vistas drew the gaze outward, Nathaniel sighed. “I don’t know, Paul—those girls seemed awful young t’ be leavin’ the nest. Still, they’re both in love and very happy, and their husbands are good dependable men, so I reckon I shouldn’t be worryin’.”
“Is Caroline?”
“What, worryin’? Not that I can tell.”
“Well, then…” Paul shrugged, with an “ease up” gesture. “Still takin’ a lot on yourself, Nate. You always did. Tell me, heard anything new goin’ on with the rest of the family?”
“Not since we all last got t’gether for Ben’s nuptials. Doncha keep in touch with your brothers?”
“Not as much as I should,” admitted Paul. “Oh, we exchange letters now and then, but everybody is just too involved in their own lives t’ put words t’ paper.”
Crossing one leg over the other thigh, Nathaniel mused, “Maybe that’s a good thing. If some tragedy had come along, we’d hear about it fast enough, I reckon. I like knowin’ that our brothers are scattered around through the Southwest, close enough for visits, settlin’ down and havin’ kids.”
Paul perked up, tilting his head slightly. With his hair standing on end from emotional brush-throughs, and dark eyes lit up by curiosity, he looked like an inquisitive cockatoo. “Speakin’ of havin’ kids…”
A knock at the study door broke off whatever he’d been about to say.
“Nate?” came Caroline’s voice from the hallway. “I apologize for the interruption. But we have dinner on the table, and I thought you and Paul might be ready to eat about now.”
“You betcha!” affirmed her husband, reaching the door in several long strides. “C’mon in, sweetheart. We were just finishin’ up.”
“For now,” Paul, rising to greet her, amended that. “H’lo, Carrie.”
“Welcome, Paul. It’s so good to see you again.” Her blue eyes crinkled in the old remembered way as she enveloped him in a hug.
Black-haired, brown-haired, redhead, blonde—Paul had noticed that every one of his sisters-in-law was quite beautiful in her own way. But the appearance of each was striking for more than that. A radiance seemed to shine about the women that reflected out upon to envelope family and friends alike. All possessed a confident, take-charge, can-do attitude, with the spirit of a generous heart and willing hands that more than matched the far-seeing men they had married.
Of such unquenchable vitality and courage had pioneer explorers been forged.
Dinner was a merry meal, despite the glass of milk overturned and the plate upended and broken upon the floor, both of which were dealt with as calmly as if this were an everyday occurrence.
With three little girls clamoring for attention, murmured conferences between Caroline and Delilah, and tall tales being shared by the Yancey brothers, plenty of laughter and enthusiasm reverberated around the table.
With Paul’s arrival in mind, Delilah had prepared what she called “a company spread”—pot roast simmering in spices and gravy, potatoes mashed with butter, various side dishes, and a lemon coconut cake for dessert that positively surpassed itself.
Paul, confronted by this culinary delight, blurted out, “Delilah, sweet Delilah, will you marry me?”
“I will not. Carrie, looks like you got everything on my list. I sure needed them supplies, since Parson, sir, is shovin’ off ont’ you and me all the details of that big barbeque he’s planned.”
“That I planned?” Nathaniel repeated with a howl of disbelief for being so maligned. “No such thing; I had nothin’ t’ do with it. You take up your concerns with The Chapel’s Social Committee, Miss Trubody, and leave my good name alone. So, Carrie, any problem with upcomin’ dance classes for Hollie?”
After a final serving of coffee and cake, after the men had groaningly pushed themselves away from the table, Paul suggested they return the borrowed horse and carriage to Buckwell’s livery and walk back home for the exercise.
“All this good eatin’ has added a little flesh t’ your bones, brother o’ mine,” he teased. “You could benefit from more walkin’ and less ridin’.”
“Apparently Paul means taking a brisk hike, Nate, dear,” murmured Caroline, overhearing this friendly gibe. “Not the slow strolls that you and I enjoy, these lovely summer evenings.”
“With all the stops we make in between?” he murmured back, grinning. Then finished off with a deep satisfying kiss and a nuzzle along the side of her throat, to the outspoken delight of all onlookers.
“So…as t’ havin’ a kid…” Once settled in the neat black carriage, and trotting their way along the packed dirt lane, Paul picked up that thread of their earlier conversation.
“Who, me and Carrie?”
“You and who else? Everybody in this family seems determined t’ repopulate the earth.”
Slightly embarrassed, Nathaniel flipped his reins at the accommodating surrey mare, who turned her head to throw him a reproachful look. “Well, as t’ that—”
“Hell, look at John and Cecelia, goin’ at it like a coupla rabid squirrels, and Matt and Star ain’t far b’hind. Doncha expect the twins t’ be foistin’ news of their impendin’ fatherhood upon the rest of us any day now, and maybe Jim and Molly? So how soon will you and Carrie be makin’ an announcement?”
“Well, not at the moment, that’s for sure.” Nathaniel’s voice sounded a trifle testy. “We’ve had so much goin’ on, what with three weddin’s in a short time, and settlin’ in with the church. B’sides, she’s had enough child care t’ last her a long time, helpin’ t’ raise the littlers.”
Paul sent his brother a shrewd glance and a knowing grin. “And you ain’t ready t’ share her anymore’n you already have to.”
A sheepish pink crept up and over his cheekbones. “Well, now. There is that…”
It was during their walk back to the parsonage, with Paul setting a lively pace, and Nathaniel huffing just a little alongside, that the journalist broached his reason for this visit.
“Y’ know I was stayin’ with James for a while, over at his Condor Ranch, south of San Francisco. Guess word got out about the address, b’cause I received a letter not long ago.”
The sender was notorious, infamous “Catamount” Clemens, who claimed to be recently retired from his outlaw life. Holed up now somewhere on Mount Whitney, in the Sierra Nevada range, he wanted Paul Yancey, world-renowned newspaperman, to conduct an interview and write his biography.
“Only trouble is,” Paul concluded, “I gotta do it soon. Guess I’m not the only one who’ll be lookin’ for him.”
“Story of the century, huh? Figure him t’ be tellin’ the truth? Or just stringin’ you along?”
“Hard t’ savvy. From what I’ve read of him and his exploits, whatever wrongs he done, he never lied about it. Guess I’ll find out more once I’ve tracked him down.”
Nathaniel grinned, whooshed in a breath, and held out one hand to slow down just a bit. “So what’s the plan, brother?”
“Well, I need a good tracker and outdoorsman, one who knows his way around in the woods and a campsite.”
“Didja consider contactin’ Cochinay, down in Arizona Territory?”
“Tom’s brother-in-law? Yeah, I did. But, y’ know, he and his wife, Raquel, are expectin’, and she’s s’posed t’ deliver soon. So I don’t wanna drag him away right now. Hell.” Paul suddenly slapped the side of his thigh, in apparent disgust. “See what I mean? You Yancey boys have spread your procreatin’ not only amongst all the brothers, but throughout the outer fringes of the family, b’sides.”
Nathaniel, scuffing along in the dust, was unmoved. “We’ve just made our breedin’ and begettin’ int’ a fine art,” said he, grinning at how easily Scripture fit into the conversation. “One day it’ll be your turn, Paul, and I’ll have t’ remind you of our little talk.”
“Huh. Remind away. In maybe another ten years or so.”
II
Since the arrival of that intriguing letter, and the tentative plans he had begun to make, Paul had set inquiries in motion, both in person and by mail. He heard of this or that outdoorsman, and the experience gained from each.
One was a crackerjack, excellent mountaineer. But the whiskey bottle was his boon companion. For another, time was the issue; n
ot only the hour of the clock but the day of the week. Still another was deemed proficient by his peers, but then he had to deal with the very minor problem of family interference: squabbles and fist fights and stints behind bars.
More and more often, two names were mentioned as “High caliber” or “Top-notch” or “Best of the bunch.” A partnership team, apparently, made up of Ezra Ferguson and Teddy Ferguson.
Paul appreciated hearing not only about their reputation of behaving in a businesslike and professional manner, but also that they had often tracked and hunted and camped in the Sierra Nevadas. Exactly what he was looking for.
So he had fired off his own letter to this duo, whose enterprise was located on this side of the mountain range but farther south, in Carson City.
While he waited for a response, he was able to spend valuable time with Nathaniel, in between parish visits to the sick or the ailing and various church activities.
The reed organ, faithfully performing these many years, sustained a nervous breakdown during practice one Saturday; its wheezing required the services of a repairman and the replacement of several interior parts. For a short time, hymns scheduled during Sunday morning worship were sung acapella.
Several families moved into the area to set up shop, and one, the Meierlings, promptly joined The Little Chapel’s membership. Nathaniel was delighted to introduce to his congregation the father, Johann, a baker; his wife Freida, a bustling housewife whose whiter-than-white laundry would end up the envy of her neighbors; and three children, Joseph, Oskar, and Annalisa.
The Meierling daughter took one look around the sanctuary filled to overflowing and decided that Paul Yancey would definitely be worth catching in her net.
“You are brother to the Reverend, then, hah?” she asked in her rather broken English, halting him mid-step on his way out the church door.
The good manners instilled into him by his mother kept him from proceeding. Sidling sideways, out of the line of those fondly greeting Nathaniel, he nodded. “Paul,” he introduced himself, reaching out to shake her hand. A limp handshake, with no real strength behind it. More like the flop of a dead fish.
A Western Romance: Paul Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 8) (Taking The High Road Series) Page 2