A Western Romance: Benton Yancey: Taking the High Road (Book 7) (Taking The High Road Series)

by Morris Fenris

  Taking the High Road

  Book 7: Benton Yancey

  (A Western Romance)

  Morris Fenris

  Western Romance Publications House

  Taking the High Road Book 7: Benton Yancey (A Western Romance)

  Copyright 2015 Morris Fenris, Western Romance Publications House

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Book List

  Prologue

  Why did life have to be so damned hard?

  The sky showed a color as rusty-red as the pile of used towels, the crumpled sheets, even the rag rug on the floor. Was it the setting of the sun? Or the rising? Who knew? The only certainty was this end of a long, exhaustive battle—one which he’d lost. And lost badly.

  From the rickety wooden chair on which he had slumped, Dr. Benton Yancey’s weary, bloodshot gaze sought out the woman who’d served as nurse.

  It was a small, overheated, airless room, stinking of gore and failure, and her anguished expression mirrored his own.

  “Nothin’ I could do,” he muttered. Not as an excuse, but as a statement of fact. Using the back of one wrist to brush too-long black hair away from his sweaty forehead, he spoke on drearily, as if to himself. “Too late. Just too goddamned late. Why—why didn’t—oh, Mary…shoulda sent for me—sooner…”

  Still in helpless denial, yet her tears were beginning to gather, prelude to racking, choking grief. Over a sob that bubbled up, and then another, she managed, “Come on too fast, Doc. B’sides, he—”

  Her flooded gaze slid sideways, toward the bedroom door, significant with fear and loathing. “—he wouldn’t let me,” she whispered, hiccupping.

  “Jesus,” muttered Ben. He hauled his beaten, battered body upright to stare down at his patient. His former patient. Dead now, after what had seemed a lifetime of shrieking labor to bring forth the scrawny, bloody girl child that lay dead and still beside her.

  “Dunno how I’m gonna get along without my Clarissa,” the woman, mother to one, grandmother to the second, whimpered over another sob. And slipped to her knees beside the cheap iron bed, keening with grief.

  Sick at heart and sick at his stomach, the doctor reached down to the small table for the last clean sheet, unfolding it to gently drape over the twisted bodies of teenager and baby.

  “Puerperal septicemia,” was his verdict now. Followed by a recounting of symptoms, as learned at the Medical University of South Carolina College of Medicine, in Charleston: “Chills, high fever, rapid heart rate. confusion, shock…too late. Just too goddamned late t’ do anything…”

  Once finally summoned, Ben had raced to the ugly shack in the woods, washed thoroughly in a chlorine solution, tried to make the straining, convulsing patient a little more comfortable, debated whether to use anesthesia. All for naught.

  Now, leaving the distraught woman with her dead, he slowly made his way out to a larger room where the girl’s husband sat stoically upright on a bench, waiting for word. A white ring showed around the iris of both eyes, like that of a wary stray dog expecting to be beaten.

  “Lemuel,” said Ben quietly, as he approached with dragging footsteps. “Lemuel, I—I’m sorry, but—there was nothin’ I could do.”

  Already alerted to some kind of terrible outcome concerning his wife and child by Mary’s muffled cries of grief, the young man stiffened suddenly, as if shot through by a bullet that hit every vital organ. “Clarissa?” he whispered.

  Wretched, Ben shook his head.

  “But—the baby…you saved—the baby—?”

  Another sluggish, sorrowful head shake. He laid a sympathetic hand upon the boy’s shoulder, as if a little of his own flagging strength might miraculously be transferred, for support. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, feeling as helpless as the family he wanted so desperately to console.

  Lemuel let out a soft groan, then collapsed forward with the upper half of his body flat upon the scrubbed plank table. At the sound of his rasping sobs, in chorus with his mother-in-law’s ragged laments from that scene of horror a few feet away, Ben visibly flinched.

  God! He was no good at offering comfort in a time of mourning, especially one so unnecessary as this. What words might his reverend brother have put forth? Come to think of it, where was this bereaved family’s own parson? Did they even have one?

  “Leave off that caterwaulin’,” ordered a harsh voice from a chair in the corner.

  Ah. The old man spoke.

  “She was your daughter, too, Jed,” Ben, provoked, reminded the gray-bearded patriarch. “If you’d let Mary send for me sooner, at the first sign of trouble—”

  “Hell. Wouldn’ta done no good. Born t’ sin, died t’ sin, that one.” He spat a filthy wad into a nearby spittoon.

  Jedediah Blakely, last of some offshoot religious group that called itself Christian in this backward area: sanctimonious, hypocritical, and a prime example of why Benton Yancey so vehemently eschewed the trappings of any formal creed. If this was what God demanded from His worshippers, Ben wanted no part of Him.

  Blakely stood, snapped suspenders up over his dirty grey undershirt, and kept on complaining. “Well, that girl paid the price for getting’ b’tween the sheets with you, Lemuel Hardy, b’fore the ink was halfways dry on your marriage contract. No point in carryin’ on like a baby, when it’s too late.”

  “What would you have the boy do, Jed?” asked Ben coldly. “Dance a jig, maybe? Go off singin’ down the road? He just lost his wife and child. Have a little sympathy, for God’s sake.”

  Flushing deep purple with rage, the patriarch pulled himself to his full height and snapped, “Do not be blasphemin’ of the Lord’s name in my house, you heathen!”

  As exhausted as he was, as dispirited as he was, Ben couldn’t let that one pass. He clumped across a room whose darkness and ugliness reflected its owner’s character, to halt nose to nose with the man. “What you’ve done here t’day is a blasphemy, Jed. It’s your fault that girl lies dead, and your grandchild with her. Confess that to your God next time you get down on your knees!”

  “Hmmph!” Deliberately ignoring the wailing and sobbing going on from the two parties most affected, Blakely glared at his antagonist. “Easy ’nuff for the boy t’ find hisself another wife. Anyone’ll do. And easier yet t’ get hisself another brat. You jist gotta throw your woman down on the bed, and have—”

  That was when Ben hit him. Hard.

  Much later, after a good long soak in cold water of his injured right hand, and then another good long soak in arnica, after a few hours of restless, dream-wracked sleep, the doctor sat nursing a small glass of good Kentucky bourbon at his kitchen table. He
’d shaved, he’d bathed, he’d put on fresh clothing. Now, he was rehashing every detail of his work at the Blakely house. And feeling more and more depressed by the whole situation.

  “Doc? Hey, Doc, you in there?” The back door knob rattled impatiently.

  A sigh of resignation. “Yeah, Adam, c’mon through.”

  The door creaked open to admit an elderly man whose furrowed face radiated good humor and good will. “I got Petronius curried and moved out int’ the pasture. Looked like he’d been rode hard.”

  “That he had, Adam. Thanks—I shoulda done all that myself, but I—uh. Well. Help yourself t’ some coffee, if you want some, and have a seat.”

  Limping to the stove, the newcomer happily complied. An extra-large enamel mug, several teaspoonfuls of sugar, a can of evaporated milk to top off. As he pulled out a chair in acceptance of the invitation, he was humming tunelessly.

  Ben glanced up with a half-smile and shook his head. “Can’t figure out if you really like coffee, my friend, or if you drink it t’ get filled up on all the extras.”

  “Both. Gets my poor slow ticker a-goin’. So what’s the story, Doc? You get down any lower, you’ll be peerin’ up at the sky through your boot heels.”

  Another sip of the bourbon to consider, a distant look in the dark eyes and a tightening of the wide, sensitive mouth. “Lost a coupla patients,” he admitted reluctantly, at last. And described the scene and the events of the Blakely household.

  “So you pasted him one, huh? That pious ole bastard.” Adam was not one to mince words. “Always treated Mary and the girl like dirt under his feet. Many’s the time they’d arrive here in town, come with him t’ get supplies and whatnot, with bruises still showin’.”

  “And nobody ever did nothin’ about it,” said Ben with disgust. Another hearty swallow. The stuff tasted mighty good, going down, and he was ready for a refill. Or would it be a second? He could only hope no one showed up knocking at his front door, needing help.

  Adam shrugged. “What was there t’ do? Mary wouldn’t file a complaint, wouldn’t talk t’ the sheriff, wouldn’t even consider leavin’ the man. Much as anybody could feel sorry for her, she ain’t never tried t’ help herself, neither.”

  The late morning summer sunlight cut through the back window, near to blinding. Cursing softly, Ben rose to pull the curtain shut. He intended to get drunk. Very drunk. And he didn’t want anything interfering, not even a factor so elemental as glaring light.

  A slurp at the much-dilated coffee, while Adam’s rheumy blue eyes surveyed the man across the kitchen table: friend, employer, mentor, savior. “What else is goin’ on?” he wondered.

  “What else?” His chair creaked as the doctor shifted position. “You lookin’ into some crystal ball now?”

  “Not yet. Although that might help add t’ my income, should I set up a booth somewheres.” A cackle of mirth that quickly sobered. “No, you just got a strange look about you. One I don’t recall seein’ before.”

  Instead of responding immediately to the half-question, Ben held his near-empty glass up, swirled around its contents, and pondered. “How long have you lived in this place, Adam?” he finally got around to asking.

  “In Grayson, Indiana? Born ’n’ raised right here, Doc. All my life. Make that about sixty years. Yessir, that sounds right.”

  “Sixty years. Huh. And I’ve been here three.” Three, that seemed like sixty. Unspoken; yet the words seemed to reverberate across the room. “You ever wanna see any other part of the country, Adam?”

  Soberly now, the older man studied the dregs of his own cup. “Kinda got my fill of that, Doc, durin’ the War. Saw country I hope t’ never see again. And you should know, after patchin’ me up and savin’ my laig the way you did.”

  Smiling, Ben reached over to pat the gnarled hand resting atop the tablecloth. “You did your own savin’, Adam Zantner. You listened t’ what I told you t’ do, and you did it. So. I’m thinkin’ of goin’ west. Wanna come with?”

  “West? “ Adam’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How far west?”

  “California. A place called Whitfield, population about 10,000. I’ve been invited t’ serve as the town’s medico.”

  “That far?” He glanced from wall to wall of the snug, sunny kitchen with an expression of disbelief. “Well, you got sand in your craw, I’ll give you that. Whydja wanna pull up stakes anyway, Doc? What’s wrong with stayin’ right here?”

  “Dealin’ with Jed Blakely was the last straw for me, Adam.” One of the doctor’s rare frowns betrayed the depth of soul-sickness he had experienced. “I’m tired of the hidebound views of this town and its small-minded, vitriolic populace. I’m tired of the miserable cold durin’ Grayson’s winters and the stiflin’ heat of its summers. I’m ready for a change.”

  “And you say you got an invite? Word of your rabble-rousin’ reached all the way t’ the coast, did it?” That came with the easy chuckle only comfort and familiarity can inspire.

  “Rabble-rousin’. Huh. You old reprobate. Only rabble I’ve roused lately is people so set in their ways they can’t ever be open to somethin’ new. Surprised they haven’t burned me at the stake already, for bein’ a wizard.”

  “Prob’ly afraid you’ll set your evil eye upon ’em,” observed Adam with a wry grin. “Ruin their crops, kill their cattle, make their women unfertile. California, eh? Long way t’ go, Doc.”

  “It surely is. But I got a coupla brothers livin’ in San Fran, another one down in the southern part of the state, one in Virginia City, and another one in the eastern part of Arizona Territory. Thinkin’ it might be nice t’ be closer t’ family in my wanin’ years.”

  “Your wanin’ years!” He guffawed and slapped his good thigh with enthusiasm. “You ain’t but—what, late twenties? Got a long way t’ go t’ be wanin’. Okay, Doc. I got no reason t’ stay here. So I’ll go along with you. And I thank you for askin’.”

  “Good t’ hear, my friend.” His relationship with Adam Zantner had become paternal in a way, one close in scope to that with his own father that helped soothe his lonely heart. Satisfied, Ben leaned back in his chair, swallowed the last of his bourbon, and poured another tumblerful. Might as well finish off what was left. “Then I’ll write t’ this Charles Holcomb, out in Whitfield, and accept.”

  As early afternoon slipped away into late, the two men put their heads together to make plans. Packing up what must be taken along, selling what needn’t, buying a modified Conestoga and three more horses to keep company with Petronius, closing out bank accounts, giving notice to the town council, emptying and cleaning up his rented house.

  Last, but certainly not least, would be a visit to the Grayson sheriff, to see what could be done for that poor wisp of a woman, Mary Blakely.

  I

  “Pretty country hereabouts,” commented Ben, swiveling back and forth from his high padded seat to take in the view.

  “Pretty country most of the way,” Adam agreed. Evidently the team of horses agreed, as they were moving along the powdery dirt road at less than top speed.

  “And mostly smooth sailin’, for some thousand miles or so.”

  “Oh, for sure. Other than crossin’ the Mississippi by barge—so far t’ the other shore I don’t mind admittin’ it scared the willies outa me. And some of that flatland prairie, with those damn buff’lo wallers that come near to upsettin’ the whole wagon. And then the Rockies—Holy Hannah, them was some mountains! Didn’t think too much of the desert, neither…no trees, no grass, jist all sand and rock and scaly critters.”

  By the time he had finished his litany of woes, Ben was laughing. Having left most of his troubled moods and feelings of malaise behind in the land of religious zealots, he had thoroughly enjoyed this journey across the nation’s midsection. He was looking forward to a new start, in a new state, free of the restrictions Grayson had arbitrarily imposed upon any free thinker such as himself.

  The wagon and team had been simple enough to procure; information
concerning their upcoming trek was not. Ben had sought out enlightenment from a couple of old-timers, whose favorite haunt seemed to be the general store’s front porch in good weather and the general store’s potbelly stove in bad. He had also visited the town’s very small library, to peruse an even smaller section of published books on the subject.

  His grocery list, added to over a period of several days, included bags of flour, sugar, coffee and tea, rice, hard tack, bacon, beans, dried fruit, salt, pepper, and saleratus.

  “What else?” he demanded once of Adam, who was mucking out the stable. “Any ideas of what else we might need?”

  The handyman leaned on his shovel to consider. “Reckon that’s a damn good start, Doc. If you’re short somethin’, you can prob’ly pick it up in a town along the way. Ain’t leavin’ civilization for a while yet, are we?”

  Ben had chuckled. “Nope. Near as I can tell, we’ll be headin’ for Council Bluffs, Iowa, and then takin’ the California Trail from there on. Uh. Gotta lay in a stock of my favorite Kentucky bourbon.”

  “Yessir,” Adam, returning to his labors, agreed dryly. “Sure wouldn’t wanna run outa that. Gotta take along the necessities, by gum.”

  “Cookin’ stuff,” muttered the doctor, scribbling away. “Skillet, Dutch oven, coffeepot, tea kettle, cups and plates and cutlery. Matches. Candles. Crocks and canteens and buckets. Soap and washboard and sewin’ kit. Whatever extra clothes’ll fit in. Tools—spade, axe, hatchet. Beddin’. My weapons and a rifle and ammunition. All my medical supplies. Books. God, yes, books.”

  “Not s’ many books there ain’t room for nothin’ else!” Adam, overhearing this last part, called out in warning.

  “Jesus,” grumbled Ben, consulting his tally. “I think Noah on the Ark had t’ pack up less than this.”

  “Noah,” added the handyman, who enjoyed getting in the last word of any discussion, “wasn’t movin’ hisself clear across the country. Didja write down harness on that there paper somewhere?”