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

by Morris Fenris

  Jessamine shot up like a firecracker. “Ben, you came back!”

  “Well, sure, Miss Lassiter,” he grinned. “Wanna have a looksee at my patients one last time b’fore I hit the sack. Nice place you got back here, with all these flowers and such.”

  She crinkled her eyes with amusement at him, in the way he was beginning to cherish. “It’s our little getaway spot, mine and Madonna’s, when things at the orphanage get to be too much to handle.”

  “Seems t’ me you’d be here twenty-four hours a day, in that case.”

  Rising gracefully, with a swish of her skirts, the director managed to produce a smile. “It isn’t quite that bad, Doctor. But I think Jessie and I have been able to settle our nerves somewhat by now, after this very exhausting day. Come along, let’s have a cup of coffee and some biscuits in the kitchen, and then you can visit your patients once more.”

  If he spent as much time in physical activity as he did in mulling over the latest disquieting developments, Ben mused, hustling Petronius along back home an hour or so later, he could probably have qualified as a contender in the ancient Olympic games. With Charles Holcomb apparently involved in mud and muck up to his armpits, it was time for doing, not thinking.

  Along that line, what the hell had happened to his brother, John? No reply to his first letter; no reply to his urgent telegram. Had the man fallen off the face of the earth? Ben was beginning to feel downright peeved. If he could have spared a few days, he’d have headed west, tracked down his errant sibling, and pounded lumps in his head.

  But of course he couldn’t spare those few days; that was the problem. Not with patients needing daily care at the orphanage and Holcomb running around like a wild man bent on murder and mayhem.

  What was a poor country doctor to do, anyway?

  He would soon find out.

  The sun had set and soft twilight had encompassed the town, rolling soft shadows across from street to street. Children were being called in from play, protesting, for bath time and bedtime, and shopkeepers had closed up till tomorrow. Lamps had already been fired up in most of the houses, one of which was his.

  There, three horses, tails flourishing and manes flouncing, stood tied to the hitching post.

  VIII

  “Wahoo, it’s about damn time you dragged your lazy ass home, you worthless ole son of a gun!” was the greeting Ben received as soon as he crossed the threshold.

  His first impression was that the parlor had been taken over by a gang of outlaws and horse thieves. His second impression was that the room was overfilled by a bunch of big black-haired black-browed men. His third was that it was neither. His brothers had arrived.

  Ben’s heart warmed and overflowed at the sight of them as they came crowding around to back slap and hand shake and harangue. John, the Pinkerton Man, from San Francisco; and the twins, Travis and Thomas, both important landowners near San Juan Capistrano, along the southern California coast, and both U.S. Marshals.

  He had a minute to wonder about the reason for all this firepower before the boys began badgering him for food and coffee, because it had been a long hard ride this far east, and they would appreciate some hospitality. Just then Adam appeared, with Jake thumping along at his heels, and Mrs. Langley behind them, carrying a tray.

  Chaos. Just like old times.

  Once things had quieted down, with plates of sandwiches and the coffee pot nearby, the housekeeper escaping by the skin of her teeth, and Adam invited to join in the confab, Ben was able to catch up with these noisy, raucous brothers.

  “Can’t believe you all left your wife and kids t’ come trekkin’ here, just b’cause I was lookin’ for help.”

  “Hell, yeah, you can b’lieve it,” said Travis, the more outspoken of the two. “You’d do the same for us, wouldn’tcha?”

  “Huh. Maybe. Dunno Depends on how serious your trouble was, I reckon.”

  Travis punched him.

  “Ouch! Lay off, damn it. So what’s the news farther west? Everything goin’ good?”

  John, who had taken up residence in the most comfortable chair, nodded. “Twins are fine, and Cecelia is due to deliver in another month or so. San Francisco is a grand place; I’m feelin’ it was the best thing I ever did, movin’ out here from Boston and settin’ up my own business. And gettin’ to meet my wife, too, of course.”

  Earthenware cups were clinking as Thomas moved things around in a search for sugar. “Well, I had the farthest t’ come, gettin’ here, and I just about had to hogtie Liz to make her stay home. Gotta send her a telegram, lettin’ her know what’s goin’ on, when I get a chance.”

  “And the ranch?” Ben asked. “The Catamount, right, out in Arizona Territory?”

  “Workin’ out well, so far. Got a partnership goin’ with Liz’ half-brother, Cochinay, while her paw eases back some. But Trav here has got some interests goin’ on near San Juan.”

  Leaning back against the chesterfield’s sturdy upholstery while he sipped at the blistering coffee, Travis described what would be a half-interest in the Condor Ranch, thanks to his own wife’s inheritance. “Yeah, me and Rosie really like the area. Got a lotta family and business ties roundabout. But then President Johnson ceded the Grizzly Bear to me, so we’re lookin’ int’ runnin’ that, too.”

  Ben pursed his lips into a whistle. “Sounds like all of you have got your hands full with personal life and professional deals. Makes me even more grateful that you all took time away t’ head on over here, just b’cause I asked.”

  “Aw, don’t make no never mind. We get bored after a few weeks of sittin’ around countin’ cows,” said Travis, chuckling. “Or, in John’s case, greenbacks.”

  “So I reckon you’re all plannin’ t’ spend the night?” Adam interjected at this point.

  “Betcher boots,” Thomas said. “We’ll go out pretty soon and get the hawses unsaddled and put up in that fancy stable we spied behind the house. Then I want somethin’ else t’ eat. Been ridin’ so long my belly is rubbin’ up against my backbone.”

  “Bunch of namby-pambies,” grumbled John. “Complainin’ all the way here, whinin’ about it bein’ too far and the weather was too dry and they’d take a good glass of whiskey any day.”

  “Whiskey? Hell,” it was Ben’s turn now, “I got some imported brandy here that’ll curl your hair.”

  “Imported brandy? How’s come I never got offered that?” Adam sounded offended.

  For some time the parlor rang so loudly with male laughter and male boorishness and male so-called humor that poor Mrs. Langley, trying to sleep in her back bedroom, pulled a pillow over her ears in a vain attempt to shut out the noise.

  At last, as the clock’s hands were making their way toward the witching hour, things got seriously down to business.

  “You got yourself one whale of a mess here, brother,” John finally started it off. Earlier, getting comfortable once their mounts had been taken care of, he had pulled off his boots, stacked his stocking feet one over the other onto an upholstered ottoman, and laced his fingers together behind his head with a sigh of relief.

  Leaning forward to pour another cup of coffee, Ben couldn’t help agreeing. “Sure as shootin’, I know that. Just findin’ the tip of the iceberg about this reprobate, Charles Holcomb. Smooth talker, gets away with a lot. Till you pin him down.”

  “You asked me t’ do some diggin’,” continued John, “and I did. In depth, which is what took me so long. And what I found out was so damn unhealthy that I didn’t wanna tackle this, just you and me. So I brought in the Marshals.”

  Ben scowled. “What could be worse than what I’ve already found out here?”

  “Jesus, man, you talk about the tip of the iceberg? You don’t have a clue.”

  “We talked about the orphanage here, and what you suspect, right?” Thomas picked up the refrain. “Well, multiply that by a dozen times or so, and then you can begin t’ imagine the effect.”

  “A dozen times or so?” Ben sounded as bewildered as he
looked. “What the hell is he doin’? From what I’ve found out on this level, Holcomb has taken some of the kids from the orphanage t’ be educated in various trades—kitchen work, blacksmithin’, farmin’, and so on. Can’t see much wrong with that, except for—”

  “White slavery,” said Travis quietly.

  “What?”

  “It’s been a lucrative business for him, son,” John advised. “That’s how he got t’ be so filthy rich. That’s why he can buy and sell anybody in this town. And this is how he’s worked it.”

  After the war ended, with so many men dead or about to be, children became the ultimate victims. Both sexes, all ages, healthy or not, they were left abandoned, alone, bereft of family or friends. Most of them were taken in by this orphanage or that. Maybe these were the fortunate ones. Maybe not. Especially after Charles Holcomb worked out his scheme and put it into action.

  “The places set aside for these throwaway kids got t’ be filled t’ overflowin’,” explained John. “Too many orphans; not enough rooms.”

  “It sounded like a good plan, t’ start off with.” Travis reached for the last ham sandwich and took a bite before continuing. “A welfare program, called the Orphan Train Movement. All these city kids with no place t’ go were shipped farther west, t’ foster homes, where they were auctioned off like cattle. Families split up. Some young’uns were nothin’ more than indentured servants.”

  “And that’s where this this rat, Holcomb, come in.”

  He contracted with crowded orphanages along the Eastern coast to take healthy, sturdy children off their hands—for a fee. With Quincy McClennon overseeing the operation, those children were then transported west into Holcomb’s greedy hands. If any proved to be more frail than expected, or sick for whatever reason, they disappeared.

  Ben managed to swallow whatever was trying to make its way back up from his outraged stomach. Suddenly that ham sandwich wasn’t tasting so good, after all. “Disappeared?”

  “Some of ’em may have been able t’ get away,” said John, watching his brother with sympathy. He had felt the same way himself, putting this report together.

  “And some—might not. Almighty God in heaven,” Ben muttered.

  “Oh, he did get these kids to learn trades, all right. Good trainin’ for the future, y’ know. And once they were ready, he sold ’em off to the highest bidder. Some, here in the States; others, overseas.”

  Fury was boiling up through Ben’s veins with the force of hot lava, ready to explode. Unable to sit still any longer, he suddenly surged to his feet and began to pace.

  Even Adam, who had survived such unending abominations during the War, looked sick. His clasp tightened slightly over the dog sprawled across his lap, as if for protection.

  “That was the boys,” Travis went on. “Now, as for the girls…”

  “Christ,” gritted Ben, already guessing what was to come.

  “Ahuh. Average-lookin’ girls, nothin’ special—why, they got t’ be indentured servants, as well. Housemaids, cooks, laundrywomen, and so on. But the pretty ones—”

  “Sent away.” This was Thomas again; as always, the twins played off each other, finishing thoughts and sentences as one. “Sold. Some to brothels or gentlemen’s clubs, where they got t’ finish out their miserable lives addicted to drugs or drink or bein’ some man’s sex toy.”

  Still pacing, Ben raked his fingers through the overlong thatch of hair as if to pull it from his head. How to absorb and comprehend such horror, the evil that one man can concoct and then inflict upon innocent victims?

  “You okay, brother?”

  “Yeah. In a minute. Just doesn’t seem possible that—”

  “After I read this, I went outside and damn near puked up my guts,” confessed John. “Felt so damn dirty and disgusted that I couldn’t kiss Cecelia for a week.”

  “No? What reason didja give her?”

  With a sheepish expression, John rubbed at an oil stain on the knee of his trousers. “Told her I had a cold, didn’t want it spreadin’ t’ her.”

  “We ain’t come t’ the last yet.” Thomas, determined to finish this once and for all, and then ready to carry the fight forward in a quest for justice, reminded them.

  “Good God! You mean there’s more?”

  “Auctions.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Ben. “You mentioned that already.”

  “No. This one is special. Really special. When Holcomb comes across an exceptional woman, one so beautiful it—well, it makes your heart stand still—then he sends out a drawin’ of her t’ everyone who’s interested. And they bid. And the highest bidder—wins.”

  “The next auction is set in a week or so. Private, by invitation only,” John informed him. “At Holcomb’s mansion.”

  “And here’s a picture of the woman he’s plannin’ to sell.” Quietly, soberly, Thomas unfolded the paper pulled out of his vest pocket and handed it over.

  Ben’s mouth went dry as dust, and his heart began hammering like a kettle drum gone berserk. Suddenly shaky hands that wanted to crumple the despicable paper into a wad, chest that had tightened under bonds no one could break, insides that were roiling with nervous energy: shock. A tiny rational corner of his brain pinpointed shock, and demanded brandy.

  “Brandy!” he croaked, and lunged for the bottle.

  “Hey, Ben—”

  “That’s Jessamine…Jessie. At the orphanage, the assistant, the girl I lo—like. A lot.” Another hefty gulp of the warm soothing stuff, then a third. “Are you tellin’ me that that filthy piece of shit Holcomb is plannin’ t’—t’ actually—”

  “From all we can see,” assented Travis.

  Slamming the brandy bottle back onto the table, Ben pulled himself together and erect. “Then we gotta stop him,” he said. As simple as that.

  John laughed. “Well, o’ course we haveta, brother. And we will.”

  “But not t’night,” added Travis. “Bed us down somewhere, Benton, my boy. I need to catch some shuteye.”

  That was worked out easily enough. The twins in the spare bedroom, John in with Ben. After another raid on the kitchen, to sample a lemon cake left on the sideboard and several more slices of leftover ham, guests and residents alike finally settled down. Too much coffee, too much fatigue, and an over-stimulated imagination kept only Ben awake longer than usual, staring up at the darkened ceiling.

  Downstairs, Mrs. Langley listened to the silence, relaxed every tight muscle, and gave thanks to God above for long-overdue peace.

  Until the snoring started. Enough to rattle every windowpane from hither to yon.

  Tomorrow, Mrs. Langley vowed, grabbing her pillow once more, she would start looking for a house of her own.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Early next morning, she took pity on them, after all. How could she not, these four handsome strapping young men—well, and one worse-for-wear older one, limping—with boyish charm written onto every feature? They crowded around her kitchen table, discussing plans and options, while she played short-order cook, frying bacon and potatoes, slicing bread, preparing omelets. Where did they manage to stash so much food?

  Finished at last, the brothers pulled themselves away from temptation and began packing what they would need. John bent low over Mrs. Langley’s hand, pressed his lips to her palm, and thanked her profusely.

  “Not only for this delicious meal you fixed for us,” he assured her. “But for puttin’ up with us and all our noise and carryin’s-on last night. I know it must notta been easy for you.”

  “Why—why—you’re entirely welcome, Mr. Yancey.” The housekeeper, not often flustered, had trouble putting two words together in response.

  “And now—I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re leavin’ you with an awful mess here.”

  Ten years of hard-lived life just slipped away when she smiled, until she was almost pretty. “Don’t worry a thing about it. He—” a tilt of the iron-gray head toward Adam, “—will be happy to stay and wash dishes for
me.”

  “I’m s’posed t’ what?” squawked Adam in protest.

  “Oh, just deal with it, you ole cockatoo,” sniped Ben, passing him in the hall. “Other’n takin’ that dog out t’ walk, what else d’you have t’ do?”

  The grumbling went on, in bits and pieces, until it was abruptly shut off, like a pump that stopped pumping. Probably by the redoubtable Mrs. Langley and a wooden spoon, briskly applied.

  Bellies full, clothes fresh and clean, bodies somewhat rested, the brothers saddled up their horses, added the packs, and climbed aboard. It was a new day, full of challenges, and the Yanceys were ready to meet it.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  “H’lo, Barrington, my man,” said Ben as the Holcomb front door swung open to reveal the butler, standing smack-dab in the way to bar entrance. “Lookin’ for your master. Is he anywhere around?”

  A sniff of disapproval from the overlong British nose, which he did so well at looking down from. “No, Doctor Yancey, he is not.”

  “Ahuh. Got any idea where he is, then?”

  The servant’s narrow eyes shifted from his visitor, pushing forward as an in-your-face force to be reckoned with, to the three tall, stalwart specimens behind him. Each in western gear of sombreros and boots, flannel plaid shirts and faded denim trousers; each buckled into an impressive array of weaponry—Colt .45’s that meant business. Barrington’s stoic mask slipped a little.

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Took off without tellin’ his main house boy? Bullshit. You’re just tryin’ to cover your ass.”

  Ben’s aggressive stance finally made headway, as the butler, cowed, fell back a step or two. “No, Doctor, I truly have no idea. He left quite early this morning…hours ago.”

  “Then you won’t mind if we have us a look around,” suggested Travis pleasantly. And flashed his badge.

  “Oh.” For once Barrington had nothing more to say. However, he was wise enough to move aside before he could be trampled by four resolute and righteous Yanceys on the warpath.