The Avenging Angels
Page 27
Donovan’s brow furrowed. Jackson came down one step so he could look the young man in the eye.
“Let me tell you something, Sergeant,” he went on. “I came into this country when it was little more’n raw wilderness, and for the last twenty-four, damn near twenty-five years, I’ve broke my back to make it a suitable place to raise horses and a family. And besides lookin’ after my own, I have the responsibility of providing for the family of my hired hand. I do that by livin’ honest, furnishing remounts for a lot of the boys out of Fort Clark. Now, you tell me . . . why the hell would I risk the welfare of my people to give a man like Kings so much as a cup of coffee?”
Donovan looked uncertain. “Would you mind if I stepped inside?”
“Not at all.”
The ranger suggested a perusal of the upper floor. Jackson waved him on, directing him toward the staircase, then followed at a respectable and trustworthy distance as Donovan climbed with one hand on the railing. The other hand, Jackson noticed, lifted his pistol halfway out of its holster, then let it slip back, thus loosened for quick action.
Donovan’s pistol would stay where it was, because all the search amounted to was the disturbance of two rangy hounds that had been napping in the major’s study. One by one, each door was nudged open, every room explored, and, to Donovan’s thinly veiled surprise, the wanted man was nowhere to be found. Still, he was troubled by a gut feeling that Jackson’s hands weren’t as clean in the story of Gabriel Kings as they had been made out to be. History had seen its share of unlikely alliances, forged under any number of unlikely circumstances, but, in this case, what could be proven?
Not a blamed thing.
He was shown to the door and onto the veranda, where the lady of the house was serving his men coffee from a tray. With one look at Hume’s face, it seemed apparent the story would end here, at this lonely ranch on the East Frio River. Kings’s trail, if there had been one to begin with, had gone cold, and there was nothing left for the rangers to do but ride back to headquarters and report that fact.
The Jacksons watched them go in silence. Finally, with the riders fading into the distance, the major seemed to recover from a trance. His voice was gentle as he held Martha closer and kissed the top of her head.
“Proud of ya, sweetheart. Handled yourself well, past couple days.”
Her sigh was a shuddering release, as though she had been holding her breath throughout the rangers’ entire stay, but she quickly composed herself and drew straighter. “I only pray God they make it safely.”
“They will.”
“How can you be sure, Art?”
“The man’s a survivor, Martha. Keepin’ our daughter safe between here and California’ll be easy as pie for him. And remember, John said he’d go along with ’em, least till they’re out of Texas.”
“But they didn’t find him here,” she persisted. “They’ll keep hunting him, won’t they?”
Jackson shook his head and said with as much confidence as he could muster, “If they were a week late in thinkin’ he was still here, he might as well be dead. They’ll never see his dust. Not now.”
Behind them, one of the hounds bawled, and then the other joined in. The Elías girls, likely teasing them in some way, shrieked with delight. All around, the shadows were growing long and thin, which meant Titus and Fernando should be getting back from finishing their fence work at any time. With his hand on her hip, Arthur Jackson turned his wife and prodded her ahead of him into the house. It was warm within, and there was the pleasant sound of food cooking on the skillet, accompanied by Oralia’s soft Spanish singing.
Oh, yes. The major was sure of it. The initial strangeness of Belle’s absence would wear off over the next several days, and Martha’s spirits would lift again.
After all, there might be news of grandchildren not far down the road.
CHAPTER 24
It was a wintry and cloud-scudded afternoon in the Sacramento Valley when Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Kings stepped off the Southern Pacific steamer from San Francisco. It was just about the middle of February 1879, and they disembarked in anonymity, indistinguishable from the rest of the passengers. There was, to the new bride’s great relief, no reception committee of marshals or Pinkerton detectives to receive them, but she would have to endure another anxious half hour of waiting on the station bench while her husband arranged accommodations for their horses. It was an impressive string, all branded with a linked “AJ” on their left hips, consisting of three mares—two bays and a sorrel—and a splendid pair of stallions, John Reb and a younger, submissive blue-roan.
“You in the horse business?” the hostler couldn’t help but ask.
Clean-shaven below a black derby and wearing a vested suit of gray, Gabriel Kings nodded and said, “Plan to be.”
There might have been over a thousand miles separating him now from Texas, and perhaps three hundred from the nearest site of some past heist, but he still was not fully at ease. Since his final departure from the Jackson ranch, he had yet to shake hands with a man or hold a gaze for more than a few seconds. He still feared recognition, though he’d taken steps to alter his appearance. The one unchanging facet was the ivory-handled Peacemaker on his hip, just inside the skirt of his jacket.
Belle had the other secreted in her purse.
The hostler informed him their stock would be held at the J Street stable. Kings paid for two days’ board in advance, then turned from the corral and headed back to the platform. He signaled one of the porters and spit out half-truths as the fellow asked how long he intended to stay in Sacramento, what plans he might have.
Eventually Belle hurried across to stand by him, and the questions came to an end. They linked arms—a handsome, if somber-faced, couple—and waited while the baggage car was unloaded. The porter tussled three steamer trunks and a weighty wooden chest onto a pushcart, and, when all was squared away, they followed him to the front of the depot.
Kings noticed a man standing near the edge of the platform. He wore the dark-blue frock coat, seven-pointed badge, and dome-crowned cap of a city policeman. With his wife clinging to his left side, it took all of Kings’s strength to keep his right hand from moving toward his gun. But as they went by, the copper lost interest and carried on with his people watching. Kings felt Belle’s grip loosen on his arm.
Kings tipped the porter, then hailed a horse-drawn cab and asked to be taken to the city’s best hotel. On the ride in, Kings saw firsthand that the tales of Sacramento’s riches were all true. Belle, whose experience with cities was limited, stared with girlish wonder as they traversed the paved streets, passing gas-powered streetlamps, brick buildings, and all the finest trappings made possible by the discovery of gold here decades before.
“Ever see anything like this?” Kings murmured into her ear, knowing full well she hadn’t. A gust of wind lifted a wisp of blonde hair showing beneath her bonnet, and, as she turned her face toward his, her smile was wide and her dimples deep. He marveled again at what strange luck had spared him a dozen deaths and won him this woman. At the same time, he wondered what penance he might yet have to pay, but she stifled those thoughts for the time being with a huddle and a kiss.
“No,” she said, “but I believe I could get used to it right quick.”
The cab came to a stop outside the Western Hotel on the bustling intersection of Second and K Streets, and, as soon as the luggage was unloaded onto another cart, they entered the elegant lobby. Plush carpets decorated the gleaming hardwood floor, a central common area was appointed with leather furniture, and the walls and ceiling had been painted with frescoes depicting nature and wildlife.
Belle watched as Kings leaned over the register and signed “Mr. & Mrs. John Aubrey.” He ordered a tub and hot water for the room. The desk clerk sent a brass key and a complimentary newspaper across the marble counter, and the Aubreys, with the bellhop, rode a black birdcage of an elevator to the third and uppermost floor.
While Belle stood on the balcony,
gazing out over the city, Kings stacked their trunks in the closet, choosing for the foundation the wooden chest that held the means by which he hoped to purchase the meadow he hadn’t been able to forget. In the chest there was roughly $150,000 in notes, greenbacks, and coin. Not counted was Yeager’s half of the Justicia job, which was hidden below folded pants in a separate trunk.
Would that portion ever be delivered? It was one of many questions that had occupied Kings’s thoughts for the last month or so. Had Andy outrun the posse, or had they overtaken him? Had he frozen to death between New Mexico and distant Clinch Mountain? It was Kings’s hope that his old friend might still get the chance to breed racehorses, which he’d mentioned once. If so, there could be a future yet for Gabriel Kings and Andy Yeager. A legitimate one.
But that was a question for tomorrow. It was time to focus on tonight.
Kings removed his hat and coat, unbuckled his gunbelt, and dumped it on the bed. Almost on cue, there came a knock at the door. Belle came in from the brisk evening air to see a pair of bellmen labor in and out, lopsidedly transferring a copper tub and four buckets of hot water from the hallway. When it was done, the same bellhop who had carried their luggage up to the room waited while Kings peeled a few dollars from his roll.
“Here you go, friend. Say, where’s the best eatin’ in the city?”
The man considered the question for a moment before going on to list a number of fine restaurants and their locations. He made sure, when he could think of no more, to add, “And just so you know, sir, the Western itself offers meals for its guests, dollar-and-a-half a plate.”
“Obliged.”
Time to go, the bellhop turned toward the door, and as he did he caught a glimpse of the newspaper on the dresser. He indicated it and asked eagerly, “You been keepin’ track of that story, Mr. Aubrey?”
Kings glanced at the broadsheet. “Ain’t had a chance to look at it. What’s the story?”
The bellhop stepped into the hall and started to backpedal toward the elevator. “I won’t spoil it for you, sir,” he called back, “but do take a gander when you can. You and the missus have a nice night.”
When Kings rounded back into the room he saw Belle staring down at the paper with one hand cupped over her mouth. He read the headline over her shoulder.
HUNT FOR GABRIEL KINGS CALLED TO AN END
He suddenly felt weak and wondered at it. At his lowest, he had always imagined that this moment—this fantastical day he knew would never come—would generate an overpowering rush of elation. He’d imagined he would rent the skies, whatever skies he happened to be under, with a rebel yell and pierce the clouds with gunshots. But now his throat felt dry and constricted, and he had trouble catching his breath. Why?
Unable to stand, he sat down on the bed, then sank backward onto the mattress, bedsprings creaking under his weight. His left hand touched the cool grip of his Peacemaker. Moving slowly, his fingers skittered over the screws in the frame, over the hand-tooled leather of its holster. He pushed the belt off the bed, and it clouted the floor like a judge’s gavel.
None would sound for him now, it seemed. The article, he would later read, reported that the Avenging Angels were no more, that their chief had evaded capture at the hands of former Governor Richard Hubbard’s specially conscripted posse. It went on to say that, although the gang was defeated and the posse disbanded, the man might still be at large, and the public ought to remain vigilant.
But the article was wrong on that score.
Gabriel Kings was dead.
John Aubrey felt the nearness of his wife’s body as she joined him on the bed and hid in his one-armed embrace. Coal-oil light shone golden-white off her flaxen hair, and he could suddenly breathe again.
He breathed deep.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born and raised in El Centro, California, Michael Dukes always wanted to be a storyteller, almost as long as he has loved American history, and that of the Old West in particular. A 2012 graduate of San Diego Christian College, Michael worked as a journalist for the Imperial Valley Press, covering sports, education, and agriculture over a period of three years. The Avenging Angels is his debut novel. His favorite pursuits include spending time with his family, messing with his dogs, and exploring the countryside with his wife, Elise. He currently resides in the San Diego area.
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