A Western Romance: Paul Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 8) (Taking The High Road Series)

by Morris Fenris

  “Ferguson” read the simple sign posted outside a combination storefront and livery at the far edge of town. As if anyone with any intelligence would know exactly what sort of establishment it was, without needing embellishment or explanation.

  The interior presented almost as stark and practical a view as the outside. A counter, a desk, several battered wooden chairs, some paperwork stacked on a cabinet. No curtains at the blank windows, no rugs on the scuffed floor, no photographs or posters on the plain walls.

  “H’lo,” called the journalist, to announce his presence in an empty office. And listened to his own words echo back at him. “Anybody here?”

  He paced across to the back door, which opened onto a dust-clogged alley. From there, sounds inside the stable came trickling through. Rumbles of a deep voice, querulous in tone; another, higher, raised and contentious. An argument. Paul wondered what they were wrangling about.

  “H’lo?” he said again, entering the dim and animal-scented interior.

  “Huh. You our client?”

  “I am,” came his immediate acknowledgement. “Paul Yancey. You must be Ezra Ferguson.”

  You can tell a lot about a man by his handshake. Brief: business-like and needing to get on with things; lingering too long, and a little clammy: not exactly who you want guarding your back; firm: probably about on a par with character; too firm: constantly testing for an opponent’s weaknesses; limp as a dishrag: release and move away as soon as possible.

  Ezra Ferguson’s handshake matched Paul’s in force and strength. Ah. They might clash during the course of this mountain expedition, but they should be able to get along. Likewise for his son, Teddy, who came confidently forward to make introductions.

  Both were dressed for the trail. Loose white cotton shirts were tucked into buckskin pants and layered under buckskin coats. On a wooden table up against one wall lay wide-brimmed hats, leather gloves, and fully loaded gun belts, all ready to be donned upon departure.

  “Well, I see you got my letter,” observed Paul, approving the preparations being made. Canvas tarps had been laid out on the straw-strewn ground, with supplies settled inside for packing once everything was in position to go.

  “I did at that,” said Ezra. “Me and Teddy, here, we been gettin’ our stuff put t’gether.”

  The motion of Paul’s left hand indicated front and outside of the livery. “Yeah, brought some things my own self.”

  “So, then. Three hawses t’ ride and three pack mules. Should be in good shape.”

  “Two pack mules,” corrected Paul. “Got me a pack mare. D’we need t’ go over any other details about this trip?”

  Ezra paused to consider. He was a bandy-legged man, about average height, who looked, according to Western vernacular, “like he’d been rode hard and put away wet.” Probably as tough as the deer hide he wore, and twice as durable. The immense white handlebar mustache he cultivated was evidently meant to counterbalance the head which was bald as an egg.

  “Reckon we shook on our contract,” he finally decreed. “A man’s word is a man’s word. We’ll do our best t’ get you where you wanna be goin’, Mr. Yancey. Ain’t much of the Sierra Nevadas we don’t know, is there, Teddy?”

  “Maybe a rock or two, here and there.” From his task of rolling up and folding some sort of fabric, the boy flashed a grin over one shoulder.

  Amazing eyes, Paul noticed, of a particularly piercing shade of gray, accentuated by thick black lashes that any girl would envy. Hair that shaded between strawberry blonde in some places, exposed to the sun, to deep rich chestnut in others, and waving overlong almost to the shoulders. He wondered about the kid’s age. Still beardless and small-framed, for sure. Would he be strong enough and robust enough for whatever hardships might be encountered?

  “How soon did you figure on leavin’?” was Paul’s next question.

  “Won’t take much longer t’ finish gettin’ packed up,” Ezra answered. He, too, was working away while he spoke, arranging and re-arranging, putting in order. “Might as well grab us a quick bite t’ eat, and then use what daylight hours we can. That okay with you?”

  “Plenty okay. You’re the leader on this trip, Mr. Ferguson. I’ll abide by your orders.”

  “Glad t’ hear it, son. That’s jist common sense. First thing, it’d make life a helluva lot easier if we ain’t Misterin’ everybody back and forth. You agree?”

  “I agree,” said Paul, much amused.

  “All right, then. We got everything we’re gonna need up in that range. Bitchin’ country, sometimes—never know if you’re gonna be hit with a rainstorm or a snowstorm, no matter what time of year i’tis. Best t’ be prepared for whatever might come along.”

  “For sure.” So far, he liked what he was seeing and hearing. But something still niggled in the back of his brain, seeking resolution. “Uh…you and Teddy have been doin’ this t’gether for a while?”

  “Coupla years now, ain’t it, Teddy?” Ferguson glanced up from a box of bullets for confirmation. “Cut your teeth on that there Miller huntin’ trip, unless I disremember.”

  Teddy had been kneeling to sort through a set of tools; now, he sat back on his heels to aim a cool gaze at their client. “I’ve got plenty of experience in the field, Paul, if that’s what’s worryin’ you.”

  “Uh—well.” Feeling uncomfortable, Paul jingled a few loose coins in his trouser pockets. “Didn’t mean t’ disparage you none. And maybe you’re older’n you look. But I was just wonderin’…”

  “Wonder away. You’re payin’ the fare; you get to ask the questions.” As if that were the end to it, Teddy rose and slipped off his coat to tuck in the tails of a loosened shirt. Turned sideways and moving efficiently, the thin fabric ballooned out, then stretched and tightened.

  Paul gaped. There could be no mistaking that glimpse of smooth throat and shadowed clavicle and farther below as anything other than what it was: the twin mounds of a prominent and quite obviously feminine torso. “Jesus Christ almighty!” he spluttered. “A girl!”

  Finished, and singularly unalarmed, Teddy shifted those stunning eyes toward him. “No lie? What was your first clue?”

  “Hell. Your—uh—the way you—uh—Ezra!” He bounced the blame back to where it belonged. “What the hell d’you mean, bringin’ a girl along?”

  “Don’t b’lieve there was ever anything said against it,” said Ferguson mildly. Leaning back against the table, he stroked one side of his glorious mustache in thought. “You got a problem here, son?”

  “Problem! Darn tootin’ there’s a problem. You can’t bring a girl up int’ that rough high country, not when—”

  “Done it b’fore,” the guide reminded him. “A number of times. She can handle herself jist fine. Let me tell you, Teddy has—”

  “Teddy!” repeated Paul, in fine feather. “Well, there you go, then. Who calls a girl Teddy?”

  “My mother,” she said. Feet planted far apart, hands on hips, her mood of belligerence was rising to match his. “I was named Theodosia, in honor of her mother, buried in Greece, and it means Gift from God. Anything else you want to know?”

  “Huh.” Still grumbling a bit, like thunder rolling away into distant hills, Paul finally subsided. “Don’t like this arrangement, Ezra. I don’t like it a’tall. But I’ll go along with it, since it looks like I got no choice. However. At the first sign that she can’t carry her share of the load, she goes back.”

  “She’ll be all right,” Ferguson assured him. “Maybe better’n you. Leastwise, she can cook real good. And she sings a mighty nice tune, b’sides. Now, let’s go on over t’ the diner ’cross the street and fork down some grub. Then we can pack up and head out.”

  IV

  Their first afternoon was spent traveling southwest from Carson City, skirting magnificent, mammoth Lake Tahoe and its environs. Rocky beaches, depths tingeing from aquamarine to richest sapphire, pine that was sugar and yellow and silver and bristlecone. An awesome view, especially for anyone n
ew to the area.

  “Now, that,” Paul pointed out, as they rode along, “would be a grand and glorious place t’ live. You ever seen such blue water in your life?”

  “It’s a beauty, all right,” agreed Ferguson. “Maybe we oughta pull up stakes and relocate our business here, Teddy, whaddya say?”

  She shrugged. “If you think our outfit is well-known enough by now to attract business from anywhere, then I say do it. If nothin’ else, maybe on our homeward trip we could stop over here for a few days. I wouldn’t mind takin’ a dip in that lake.”

  “You can swim?”

  A scornful look from the candid gray eyes. “Since I could walk. You?”

  “About the same. Where I grew up, outsidea Charleston, we boys had a favorite swimmin’ hole that we visited as often as we could.” Remembering those easy, lazy boyhood days, Paul smiled.

  “You had family?” There was an oddly poignant, wistful note to her voice.

  “A houseful. Nine brothers, and sometimes it was the devil’s own work tryin’ t’ get away from ’em for a while, t’ be on my own. Always somebody teasin’ or raggin’ on me, y’ know.” He paused to glance sideways at her. “Or maybe you don’t know.”

  Teddy was gazing straight ahead, following the curve of Lake Tahoe with those remarkable gray eyes. “Only child,” she responded succinctly.

  “Ah. Well, somethin’ good there, too—you get the full load of your folks’ attention, ’steada havin’ t’ share.”

  A few moments slid by, during which several ravens cawed from the treetops, and something of substantial weight came crashing down through branches to hit the ground with a solid whump. The ravens instantly took flight.

  “Sometimes,” the girl finally answered softly, “I wouldn’ta minded sharin’ attention.”

  Paul, who had been hoping for a few more glimpses of what lay tantalizingly beyond reach, beneath the cotton shirt, was destined to be frustrated. Over the shirt the buckskin coat, and over the coat a gun belt buckled solidly and securely around her small middle. “Well, what was your background like, then? Have you always lived in Carson City?”

  A short distance ahead, Ezra was meandering calmly along through the twisted meadow grass, leading his pack mule and humming like a drunken bumblebee. If Teddy truly were able to carry a tune, clearly the talent hadn’t come from her father.

  “My background,” she murmured. Another brief pause. Then: “I was a foundling.”

  Of all possible answers, he hadn’t expected that one.

  Ezra Ferguson had been born to scout. His best, most favorite times of existence meant roaming off in the wilds, guiding hunters through perilous spheres, tracking prey or enemy for various military agencies. Until he met Dorkas Antoni, beautiful immigrant daughter of a Greek immigrant family, and fell head over tincups in love. They were married, after a brief courtship, and Ezra happily divided his hours between the wilderness that called him and the sheltering arms that supported him.

  Nearly twenty years ago, he had been returning from his own hunting trip, in the timbered hills surrounding this very same lake, when an unusual mewling cry cut across the forest silence to catch his attention. No bird of any kind he had ever heard. No orphaned fawn or other animal.

  Puzzled, he followed the sound—softer now, less strident, and sporadic—winding around mossy fallen logs and cutting through underbrush, until he reached a clearing. There, in the heart of dark green no-man’s-land, sprawled the body of a young woman. And between her open thighs, drenched in blood, a newborn baby, equally drenched.

  Shock held Ezra prisoner for just a flash. Then, halting, dismounting, he rushed toward the scene of carnage. The woman had not survived. Whatever had befallen her, whatever had driven her, she now lay still and unmoving. But the infant lived.

  “Still attached t’ her mama,” explained Ezra, who had joined in the discussion to take up this tale. Memories came hard and fast: painful memories, joyous memories; and he blinked suddenly and pulled his battered hat a little lower.

  Why, the sentimental old coot, thought Paul, surprised.

  “So I cut the cord and tied it off. Cleaned up the baby as best I could, wrapped her in my extra shirt. After I buried the poor woman there in the woods, we hightailed it home, the little one and me. Mighty relieved to hand her over t’ Dorkas.”

  “The baby was, of course, me,” finished up Teddy as a foregone conclusion. “And I’ve been the Ferguson daughter, ever since.”

  Still blinking like a myopic owl, Ezra glanced over with a warmth of affection. “Never able t’ have kids of our own, me and Dorkas. This Teddy girl filled up a great big empty hole in our lives, then and always.”

  “I would have died there, in the hills, along with my mother, if this man hadn’t come along.” Smiling, she reached across the intervening space between their horses to pat her father’s forearm.

  “Talk about providential,” murmured Paul, with an incredulous whistle. “Who’d’a thought? And you never found out any more about your background?”

  A slow scan of the trail they were following around the lake, glittering and gleaming to their right. Ever-vigilant, even immersed in personal recollections. “Nothin’. Nobody to ask. Pa’s brought me back to visit my mother’s grave, a few times.” She shivered a little. “It’s a lonely place, and it always makes me so sad that I can’t bear to come here very often.”

  “Dorkas and me, we set up notices in some local newspapers,” Ezra put in at this juncture. “But never got no response. So, after a while, we jist give up. And Teddy was ours.”

  “And then Ma died when I was ten. Influenza. She started gettin’ sick one mornin’, and then suddenly got so much worse. It took her fast.”

  “Dunno what I’da done without Teddy. Missed my woman so much it near drove me round the bend, and I took t’ drinkin’. But this girl, she saved me.” The guide shook his head in reluctant admiration. “Even at that age, she had a mouth on her. Stood right up and give me what for.”

  “You deserved it. You needed it.”

  Point and counterpoint. The two continued their back-and-forth conversation until the story was done. With Paul in the middle, riding along, and one Ferguson stationed on each side, he felt like a spectator watching some indoor tennis game: head swiveled first to the left, then to the right, then back again. Time to bring this to a halt.

  “I have some contacts here and there,” he admitted modestly. “I could make some inquiries…”

  “Naw. Let it go. Too late t’ do anything about it anymore now,” said Ezra, at the same instant his foster daughter mused,

  “I don’t know. I would sorta like to know where I came from, who my family was.”

  “And solve the mystery,” Paul supplied, understanding her dilemma.

  She brightened. “Yes, that’s it. I feel like a puzzle that isn’t finished, because there’s this big piece missin’.”

  Ezra’s hat had been shoved back far enough to show an uncomfortable look on his weathered, mustachioed face. “Best t’ let the past alone. Can’t undo what’s already been done.”

  Stubbornness radiated from the girl’s stormy gray eyes to the inflexible set of her mouth. “But if Paul might be able to—”

  “I said, let the past alone, Theodosia.”

  At the severe tone, and the formal use of her name, she subsided. But only temporarily. Paul felt quite sure these would not be the last words on what had become a touchy subject.

  The westering sun signaled approaching dusk and the near end to a full day. Some brief time was needed to find a suitable camp site, while the Yancey party still had enough light available to set up. Fresh water and grass for the animals was a necessity, as was a sheltering haven of trees, if possible. In this part of the country, all three came wrapped up as a gift package in the first place they stopped, south of the lake.

  Fit and trim though he was, and thoroughly enjoying this adventure, still, Paul heaved a sigh of relief upon climbing creakily down from his s
addle. For a few minutes, he simply stood in place, shaking muscles loose and stretching what had tightened and kinked.

  “That’s some dance you’re doin’ there, son,” observed Ezra with a grin. He was already beginning to unbuckle and unharness and unstrap, preparatory to releasing both his mount and his mule to semi-freedom.

  “Maybe it’s one he can teach us, Pa,” Teddy suggested. “Looks like you don’t even need music.” She, too, was working at her chosen tasks with strong, capable hands. Amazing to watch such a little thing swing that heavy saddle down and out of the way.

  Their energy made Paul feel like a featherweight. “Oh ho, tough guys, huh? Don’t remember seein’ anywhere in that contract that I’m s’posed t’ be doin’ my own heavy labor on this trip.”

  Ezra chuckled. “Why, sure there was, son. You must notta read the fine print.”

  By full dark, the campsite was set up, a central fire was sending sparks into the night sky, bedrolls were arranged, and Teddy had a pot of coffee brewed and ready for consumption.

  The men were perfectly content to lie back against surrounding granite boulders and watch her prepare their supper. Strips of venison and cut-up potatoes into the cast iron skillet; cherry cobbler into the Dutch oven; a refill of cups all around.

  “So, Paul, you got an actual destination in mind?” Ezra wanted to know. Snug and comfortable, he had hauled out a corncob pipe whose contents smelled worse than a garbage dump.

  “Jesus, man, what’s that stuff you’re smokin’? Didja grind up a dead skunk, just to see if we’d notice?”

  Through the shadows thrown by wavering firelight, the guide’s teeth flashed white. “Worked, didn’t it?”

  “Huh.” Paul scrubbed at his rough thatch of hair and at the beard darkening his cheeks. “Well. Destination. Wherever Catamount Clemens happens t’ be, I reckon.”