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

by Morris Fenris

  “Huh. Reckon there’s a tale needs describin’, as well. So, anyway…there was this feller named Amos Redfern…” and Paul was off and running, figuratively enough, with a tale designed to curl the hair of anyone within earshot.

  “And he was a killer?”

  “Darn tootin’.” Paul shifted position, rocking back against his saddle cantle to get more comfortable. “Run away from home when he was only fifteen, worked as a cowboy, then made his mark as an outlaw when he killed three men in a train robbery.”

  He was known as “The Dude” because of his fastidious appearance. A wavy-haired six-footer, Redfern always dressed in an immaculate black suit, complete with bowler hat, diamond stickpin, and highly polished black shoes.

  However, his dandified exterior hid the black cold heart of a conscienceless murderer. Fast on the draw, too. In one instance, while losing in a poker game, he gunned down another outlaw who had already pulled out his weapon before The Dude had even reached for his. Even Allan Pinkerton, John Yancey’s former boss, had tried to capture Redfern and his gang for years, without success.

  Another train robbery, near St Louis, netted him almost $40,000. A princely sum, one that would have kept him in bowler hats and well-shined shoes for years.

  But that was the one that did him in.

  During his flight toward Salt Lake City, his horse succumbed to a lame foot, and Pinkerton, hot in pursuit with his own trusted band, rode him down. It’s always the traffic stop that leads to a desperado’s undoing.

  “And then what happened?”

  “Not a very glorious end, I’m afraid,” admitted Paul. “Feller got sentenced to 25 years in the Missouri State Pen, but he’d served only a couplea years before he contracted tuberculosis and died.”

  Teddy shivered. “Sorta takes all the romance out of the gunfightin’ business.”

  “Hey, you two,” Ezra called back over his shoulder. “If you’re all done hootin’ and hollerin’ back there, I figure it’s time we should start lookin’ for t’night’s camp. My belly tells me it’s time t’ eat.”

  “I may holler,” said Paul, a trifle miffed, “but I never hoot. Howsomever, I’m about ready t’ eat, as well... Funny how hungry you get, just sittin’ on top of a hawse, doin’ nothin’.”

  “Reckon lettin’ out all that hot air empties your middle faster’n anything,” chuckled the guide.

  Campsite, campfire, coffee, and cooking, in that order. After years of practice, the Fergusons had their routine so well-honed that few words were needed in the process of unloading and arranging. Paul did his part with the animals, then gathered kindling and branches. In no time, just as twilight was creeping down over the mountains, they were set.

  “Kinda gettin’ a yen for some fresh meat, Teddy,” Ezra decided. Comfortably ensconced on his blanket, laid over a soft carpet of dead pine needles, he had pulled out his knife and begun to whittle on a chunk of dead wood. “Maybe we’ll have t’ do some huntin’ t’morrow, whaddya say?”

  She wasn’t really in the mood to say much of anything. From her earlier high point of sharing in Paul’s conversation, equal to equal, Teddy was now feeling a bit like caravan slave, scurrying around to see to their comforts.

  However, “As long as it’s somethin’ small enough to eat up overnight. Bein’ on the trail, we won’t be able to salt down or smoke any deer or elk that might be found.”

  “Nor be able t’ stretch and tan the hide,” he agreed. “Well, a rabbit or squirrel, then.”

  Capable, efficient, intent on her task, she had pounded and floured sliced pork to fry in the skillet. With that mouth-watering aroma wafting up, next came a pan of biscuits plumped out from sourdough starter, and rice cooked up with onion. All her talents, brought to bear, just to hear—

  “Man, oh, man,” drooled Paul, approving every whiff. “How soon till we eat?”

  He was hanging around and so much in the way that Teddy, irritated, was tempted to smack him with her wooden spoon. “Paul. Let me finish up, and you go get us some more stuff for the fire. The food will be ready when it’s ready.”

  “Hard-hearted woman,” he grinned. And reached down from his rangy height to ruffle her hair.

  “Hey!”

  It was the shank end of a long and arduous day of riding. She was tired. She was stiff and sore. She was feeling slightly put upon by these males who sat back and waited to be served like lords of the manor. And now, on top of everything else, just when she was trying to get done all that must still be done, she was being teased. It was too much.

  “Well, it ain’t like you had some elaborate coiffure t’ worry about messin’ up,” he hastily defended himself from the flash of temper in her eyes. “If you were a Southern lady, now…”

  She had squatted beside the fire to poke and stir and prod at her cooking. But, at that, she swiveled on her heels. “Yeah? If I were a Southern lady…what?”

  “Uh. You’d be more—uh—you wouldn’t have—uh—Oh, hell, Teddy, I dunno,” he burst out. “You’d just be different, that’s all. Not so—well, wearin’ your hair longer, for one thing. And not wearin’ pants, for another.”

  He had moved a short distance away, apparently with the idea of going off, as ordered, for more firewood. But Teddy thought she still might be able to chuck a rock at him, regardless. And hit her target.

  “Now, you have t’ admit—” Paul started off with the best intentions in the world, only to stop short, as a startled look crossed his face.

  A growl. A low-pitched growl in the trees, coming closer, growing louder.

  Toward them, beneath trees, around boulders, slunk a wolf. It was a large, thin animal, shivering and slavering in the early evening dusk. A few wobbly steps, a halt, more growls, a few additional steps, and a hitch.

  Her father was stretched out on his blanket, caught completely off guard, thus tense and unmoving; Paul stood frozen in place.

  The beast drew nearer, drawn apparently by the scent of cooking meat. Lips pulled away from fangs, tongue dripping foam, it growled again. Only yards away now, able to attack without warning.

  Slowly, carefully, Teddy stretched one hand out along the dusty ground until her fingers touched the rifle stock. Then, quick as thought, she slung the Remington to her shoulder, aimed in a flash, and pulled the trigger—once, twice, again.

  A strangled howl, a convulsed writhing of muscles, and the lobo collapsed in an unhurried cave-in of useless bones.

  Instantly Paul rushed back those few steps to pull Teddy into his arms, to hold her tight and sure against the danger that had threatened them both. In another instant, Ezra had flung himself off the blanket to join them.

  “Brave girl,” murmured Paul, his big hand gently rubbing across the cramped muscles of her upper back. “Brave girl,” his voice soothed over the chattering of her teeth and the click of her throat as she swallowed bile and saliva all mixed together.

  Composed and qualified as he usually was, right now Ezra’s sunburned face had turned almost as white as his award-winning mustaches. “My God, Teddy,” he managed to get out. “You okay, honey?”

  For the moment it felt almost too wonderful, just being comforted in such a caring way, to even answer. Resting her forehead against the pulse pounding just above Paul’s clavicle, Teddy relaxed and let herself be female. A needy, feminine, frail type of female, who relished the feel of a man’s bruising embrace that kept away the world’s woes.

  “Teddy!” repeated her father, alarmed.

  She opened her eyes. “Yes, Pa, I’m okay. I think—just a little shaky.”

  “Holy Harry!” he expostulated. “And who could blame you? That wolf was rabid, and it was comin’ in on the charge. You done good, honey. You done real good.”

  Releasing his grip only long enough to push her slightly away, wrapping his hands around her upper arms, Paul looked down at her with a small unsteady smile. “Remind me never t’ mess around with your hair again when you got a loaded gun close by.” Then once again into his
arms, cradled against his heart. “God, Teddy, you’re incredible! We might all be dead by now, if not for you.”

  “Shoulda had my own gun,” Ezra was muttering over and over, in a spate of self-reproach. He had wandered away to survey the poor limp carcass draining blood into the ground. Once again he was reminded of how quickly disaster can strike, especially if one is unprepared. “Never again. I’ll sleep with my damned weapon, ready to fire, if I have to. Rabies. Helluva thing. Jesus!”

  Eventually, things calmed down and returned to normal. Teddy was able to save their supper from being completely burned to ashes; the men pulled free their axes and shovels from the camping equipment, dug a large hole far away, and buried the corpse deep into the forgiving earth.

  But Paul would never forget that, in a moment of crisis, this young hoyden had calmly, deliberately, and immediately dealt with danger, saving all their lives. A Southern girl might have screamed. A Southern girl might have fainted. Not the hardy Ferguson girl.

  And Teddy would never forget that, after the moment of crisis, the journalist had dashed to her side, her own welfare his only pressing concern, to answer a need she wasn’t aware even existed. Those few minutes of being so cradled and cosseted, like some fragile, precious specimen, had filled her hungry heart to overflowing.

  Later, supper done and chores cleared away—Paul had insisted that Teddy take some time to recover, while he and Ezra cleaned up—desultory conversation resumed in low, quiet tones while her father settled himself to sleep.

  Oftentimes it is easier to bare one’s soul to another in firelit semi-darkness, rather than the harsh tones of full glaring sun.

  They talked over the life-jarring near-catastrophe that had just taken place, and everyone’s part in it. As the protective male, Paul was feeling guilty that he had been able to do so little, letting the brunt fall upon Teddy’s slender shoulders. As one who had coolly taken charge, Teddy was still feeling a little woozy with aftermath, once the adrenalin surge had oozed away.

  Both lay wrapped in their blankets, nudged up against the cantle of their saddles, while the fire crackled and sizzled between them.

  “I’d sure want you on my side in any crisis,” Paul commented with admiration for her skills.

  In any crisis? What about—not in any crisis? What about—just normal, everyday living?

  “You keep your head, you just do what’s gotta be done. No better talent than that, my friend.”

  Turning on her side, elbow bent with her head resting on upraised palm, Teddy considered that. “Still think I oughta be more like your Southern ladies?”

  “My Southern—God, no! Why would I think that?”

  “It’s what you said. I’d be different. I’d wear my hair longer, and I wouldn’t wear pants,” she parroted his words back at him.

  “Well, it wasn’t no Southern lady that got all of us outa that mess, now, was it?” he countered reasonably.

  “I could prob’ly change, if I had to,” the girl mused on, ignoring his assertion. “Be a Southern lady. If that’s what you wanted.”

  “Oh, hellfire and damnation, hang the Southern ladies!” he burst out on a flash of irritation.

  From his blanket under the tree, Ezra rumbled a sudden rasping snore, snorted once or twice, then fell silent again.

  Paul, with a mind for the sleeper, quieted, but his tone still rumbled with exasperation. “That ain’t what I want, and I don’t want you t’ change. Why would I? I got nothin’ t’ do with that. You’re who you are, and you need t’ go on bein’ who you are.”

  “Huh. Short hair, pants and boots, and all?”

  Across the shadows, sparked by red-gold flames, he sent her a smile. “Yeah, Teddy. Short hair, pants and boots, and all.”

  She lay awake for a while, hugging that brief conversation close, taking out bits and pieces to ponder over before slipping them back into her memory. Words can hurt, as every child knows; words can also heal, as many adults discover.

  “Not sleepin’ yet?” came Paul’s muted voice under the night stars.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Things botherin’ you?”

  “I guess.”

  He meant delayed reaction to the wolf’s attack, and its subsequent, necessary killing. She meant their own interaction, physical and emotional. Cross purposes.

  The leather of his saddle creaked as he put aside his blanket and rose. Moving stocking-footed across the rough ground, and muttering a few choice cuss words with every step upon sharp rock or dead cypress needles, he rustled through his pack supplies for a moment before returning.

  “Here y’ go, Teddy.” Around the fire’s glow he handed over a tin cup filled with—

  “Spirits!” she discovered, after a taste. “Hard spirits!”

  “Well, sure.” He seemed surprised she would even question the character of the contents. “Ain’t no point in doin’ serious drinkin’ if it’s just with somethin’ mild, like milk. Bottoms up, my girl. That’ll help you get some shut-eye.”

  “You want me to get all of this down?”

  “Consider it medicine, Teddy. In this case, that’s why I’m givin’ it t’ you.”

  A bit of a sputter, a cough here and there at too hasty a swallow, and she was done.

  The effect hit fast. Shortly she had slid down, plunked back against the saddle, and dozed off.

  Just what she needed to relax her, he thought magnanimously, over a yawn.

  He hoped she would still be feeling kindly toward his gesture in the morning, when those hard spirits might be pounding a whole percussion section of bass drums inside her head.

  VI

  As if to balance out yesterday’s drama, the next day—their third on the trail—passed by uneventfully. Except that Teddy did wake slowly and painfully, crawl from her covers without a word to anyone, and seek out the coffeepot, first thing.

  “Somethin’ wrong, girl?” Ezra, watching her gulp down a first and then a second cup, asked with concern.

  If he had no idea of what had transpired last night, she wasn’t about to enlighten him. No sense stirring up trouble. Anyone pouring liquor into his daughter for any purpose, benevolent or not, would be open to suspicion. And possible repercussions. Despite his age, Ezra was as tough as they come.

  “No, Pa,” she told him, wincing at the bright morning sunlight, at the overloud whinnying of Paul’s horse, at the thunderous crash of a pan being moved onto the fire. Her mouth felt dry as the Sahara, her head had swollen to the size of a soup cauldron, and her stomach was sending out decidedly unhappy forewarnings. “Everything is just hunky-dory.”

  “A slice of bacon?” Paul offered with a sunny smile.

  One quick look whitened her face to a ghost-like pallor.

  “It’s salt, Teddy,” he assured her sympathetically. “That’ll help settle things. Believe me, I know.”

  Eventually she conceded, nibbling on a small piece of meat and a few squares of hardtack while the men finished their breakfast over convivial conversation. So he can cook, she reflected bitterly, once her inner workings had returned halfway back to normal. Good. Then he can handle supper tonight, too.

  It wasn’t until they had broken camp and started on their way that he leaned toward her to whisper, “I feel for you, kid. Been there a time or two, myself. Still, gettin’ a good night’s sleep was worth the mawnin’ after, wasn’t it?”

  “Hmmph.” But Teddy had to admit he was right. She’d been more shaken up by the experience than she’d realized, and the firewater had whisked every last thought out of her brain like a new broom at work. “What was it?”

  Paul, looking around as casually as if he were enjoying the comforts of his own front porch, was riding in his favorite goin’-nowhere pose, with one leg hitched over the saddle horn and his backside tucked into the cantle. “Brandy,” he informed her, grinning. “Elixir of the gods, accordin’ t’ the owner of Slydell’s Mercantile. Best they had t’ offer. Whaddya think?”

  She let out a groan. “I thin
k that I will knock you unconscious before I let you talk me into tryin’ stuff like that, ever again.”

  The hours slipped on by, with the roundabout slow upward climb broken by a couple of rest stops and two hours for nooning. True to his word, Ezra, keeping a sharp lookout on everything within range, had caught sight of a plump cottontail crouched down in the grass. One quick shot from his revolver immediately dispatched the animal. Thus, their dinner consisted mainly of the rabbit, skinned and gutted and fried to perfection over the fire.

  “Damn, but that’s good,” mumbled the guide, licking grease off his fingers. “Jist what I been cravin’.”

  For once, Paul was not so enamored of the food he was eating as the view he was surveying.

  Directly below their campsite lay a large marshy lake, punctuated by clumps of grass, bordered by flowering bushes and stands of great lamenting pine and enormous chunks of white rock thrown about as casually as if by some giant’s hand. On the far side, sunken into the water yet not too distant from the bank, one industrious colony of beaver had built a substantial lodge.

  A spectrum of color from dark forest green to delicate lime, in the foreground, completed the circuit of vision that encompassed earth and mountain and sky.

  “What a day,” murmured Paul, sipping from his coffee cup. “Kinda makes you wanna jump up and yell Hallelujah.”

  Teddy had seated herself on a nearby boulder, gazing off to follow his gaze. “I don’t think there’s anything prettier than the Sierra Nevada range.”

  A slight shift in his position as he glanced her way. “Oh, yeah,” he said softly. “There is.”

  “Well, you two, we’ve all of us had a nice rest,” Ezra interrupted whatever else might have been said. “Prob’ly time t’ be on our way again.”

  The horses and mules had been greedily cropping at juicy meadow turf and were not particularly thrilled at having to leave it behind. Paul’s animal, in fact, bared his big yellowed teeth in displeasure when Paul approached with bit in hand.