Lord Apache

A bit racy, that! Well, he thought loyally, Cornelia Newton-Barrett had a small waist also. He could not imagine Cornelia swinging a mattock, or for that matter shooting anyone, even greatly provoked. Cornelia was a lady of quality and breeding, which Phoebe Larkin—or Buckner—was not.

Lost in thought, suddenly he blinked. On a ridge paralleling the road a light flashed. An Apache mirror? Were they watching him, signaling his presence, a raiding party out for guns and ammunition, which they must desperately need? Reins in one hand, he picked up the needle-gun in the other and made sure it was loaded. The contentment fled.

'Get along, mule!' he barked, slapping the reins over the animal's broad sweating back, festooned with gnats and flies. Bonyparts swiveled his ears and broke into a shambling trot while Jack scanned the ridge. Prescott must be at least another twenty miles distant; he would be lucky to arrive by noon. Beginning to feel vulnerable, he wished traffic on the road were more frequent. There was something macabre in thoughts of death on a fine day. But Weaver's Ranch had probably dozed in the sun when the Apaches attacked.

Prescott was over six thousand feet in altitude, much above the playa. The road climbed steadily, passing through barrancas and canyons. His mouth felt dry and cottony. Sweat filmed his brow and dampened his grasp on the reins. An Apache might lurk beneath each saguaro, a painted warrior behind every boulder, a bandy-legged assassin in every wash. He felt cold, which might have been expected with the increase in altitude, but he suspected that part of it was due to fear. When he saw the rambling outbuildings of Fort Whipple and heard the sound of a distant bugle playing mess call he was relieved.

As a child Jack had visited his father in the state of New York, near Albany, where Lord Fifield held a consular post. Prescott was not only picturesque in location and dainty in appearance, but after the sprawling Latin character of Phoenix and Yuma it seemed a village transplanted bodily from the Mohawk Valley of New York State. Houses were built in American style, with little of the adobe and brush common to Phoenix. The doors were American doors, fastened with American bolts and locks, opened by American knobs instead of being closed by a heavy cottonwood log falling against them. The houses of sawn lumber were neatly painted and surrounded with paling fences. A light snow lay on the ground; fat milk cows watched him as he drove into town, wheels of the spring wagon crunching in the icy ruts.

Tying up the wagon, he balanced the needle-gun under his arm and went to look for Sam Valentine. In one respect, walking through the bustle and confusion of the midday throngs, Prescott was similar to Phoenix. The gambling saloons were in full swing; the game 'went' and the voice of the dealer was heard in the land. Tobacco smoke ascended from cigarillos, pipes, and cigars, filling the rooms with the foulest of odors. Even in midday the lamps were lit. High above the hum of conversation and the click of chips sounded the cry: 'Make yer little bets, gents, make yer little bets! All's set, the game's made, the ball's a-rolling!'

After inquiry, Jack found Sam Valentine sitting in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, reading the latest copy of the Daily Miner.

'Sit down!' Valentine invited. 'What brings you to the capital?' He gestured toward the bar for two whiskeys.

Jack told him.

'Rancho Terco still thriving?'

'We make do,' Jack said modestly, laying aside his sombrero. He told the legislator his needs, and Valentine recommended stores where quality goods might be purchased.

'And cornmeal,' Jack added. Eggleston had developed a passion for tortillas; Jack liked them too, with morning eggs.

'Mexican's got a mill out on the Bear Spring Road,' Valentine said. 'Best damned meal you can buy! Name's Manuel Peralta. Tell him I sent you and he may knock a few pennies off the bill. We don't have too many Mexicans up here—they prefer the heat in the valley—but they're good citizens.' He lit a long stogie, offered one to Jack Drumm. 'To tell the truth, I never thought I'd see you again! Figured by now you'd have cashed in your chips.'

Drumm looked puzzled; Sam Valentine laughed.

'Just an expression! Means I thought you'd have lit a shuck—left the game—gone back to England.' He drew deep on the slender cigar.

'No,' Jack said, 'I'm staying—at least until I'm ready to leave.'

'How long will that be?'

Jack shrugged a Mexican shrug.

'Listen,' Valentine said. He leaned forward, tapping Jack on the knee. 'Have you ever thought of becoming an American citizen?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

Jack shrugged. 'I'm an Englishman, Mr. Valentine. All that is left of my family is in Hampshire. My brother is managing the estate, and is not doing too well—he needs help. Anyway, my roots are deep in Hampshire. I must admit your Arizona is a fascinating place, especially in the winter when Hampshire is like a great meat locker. But I am only a visitor here.'

'Shame!' Valentine said. 'A great shame! We need people like you in the Territory, especially in the Legislature. There are problems, problems that take brains like yours, education like yours, stick-to-itiveness like yours, Drumm.'

The stogie was vile. Jack tried hard to hide his distaste with a sip of the whiskey. It, too, was raw and harsh.

'I appreciate your compliment, Mr. Valentine,' he said.

'Well, think about it!' Valentine urged. 'This is a land of great opportunity! We're not stuck in the mud like your old England—no offense meant, of course! But the Territory's growing! Do you know what I heard only yesterday?'

'No, sir.'

'Already the Atlantic and Pacific Railroad is planning a branch line into Prescott from the main route at Bear Spring! Once that happens, the sky's the limit! Land values will shoot up—a smart man can make a stake in a few months!'

'I'll certainly think about it,' Jack promised, and did not intend to. 'Ah—by the way,' he went on, 'do you know a man named Larkin? A Mr. Buell Larkin, here in Prescott?'

The legislator furrowed his brow, stroked his beard. 'Larkin? Don't know as I do.' He called to the bartender, busy polishing glasses behind a mahogany bar. 'Pete, you know a man hereabouts named Larkin?'

Pete pursed his lips, stared long and hard at the glass he was shining. 'Larkin? Sure—old Buell Larkin! He was from somewhere back in the States—Kentucky, I think.'

'West Virginia,' Jack suggested.

'Pocahontas County, he told me,' Pete remembered. 'Wherever that is!'

'Where is Larkin now?'

'Under six feet of sand and gravel! Someone jumped his claim up in Hardscrabble Canyon—shot the old man in a disagreement.'

'How long ago was that?' Jack asked.

Pete shrugged. 'Two years ago. Mebbe three. Time passes—I don't strictly remember.'

So Phoebe Larkin and Mrs. Glore had not found refuge with her uncle Buell! Getting to his feet and thanking Sam Valentine, Jack went out into the street. A light snow was falling. He pulled the poncho tighter about him. Though it was only teatime, lamps were turned on against the early dark; each cast a ring of golden light in the misty downfall.

He stepped aside to avoid a dray wagon hauling kegs of beer. What had happened to them—Phoebe and Mrs. Glore? Had they managed to elude Meech? Were they still fleeing? Or—

After he had completed his other purchases and filled out the necessary papers with the clerk of the Legislature, he drove out on the Bear Spring Road to look for Manuel Peralta's mill. Here was atmosphere reminiscent of Phoenix, picturesque and exotic in the gentle rain of snow: a few adobe buildings, log lean-tos, the gentle chords of a guitar muffled by the downfall. Tall conical hats like his own, women wrapped in rebozos, the liquid lilt of Spanish. He sniffed appreciatively; the winter air was laced with the smell of chiles, the slap-slap of female hands making tortillas, the cries of children playing games like el charro and escondate—hide and seek.