Lord Apache

into account, even when he was tipsy with aguardiente. There was no answer. Putting his lips close to the door, he called softly.

'Miss Larkin! Mrs. Glore? Are you there?'

Pressing his ear against the door, he heard nothing. But suddenly the door opened. He fell headlong into the room.

'Don't move!' a voice commanded. 'Just lay there, spread out like that!'

He obeyed. The yellow rays of a lamp spread over his prostrate form, something hard and metallic pressed into the hollow behind his ear. The door closed, a bar fell heavily into place.

'Turn over!'

Gingerly he rolled over, blinking in the light.

'Why, it's Mr. Drumm!' Beulah Glore cried. She moved closer with the lamp. Phoebe Larkin, kneeling next him, slipped the derringer into the cleavage of her bosom.

'Jack!' she cried. 'Jack Drumm! It's you!'

Somewhat miffed, he got to his feet. Readjusting his poncho, he picked up the sombrero and said, 'You gave me a very strange welcome!'

Phoebe beckoned him to a table and poured a cup of coffee. 'We thought it was Meech,' she explained. 'Our friend—Father Garces—has seen him here, in Prescott. And tonight, when Beulah went out to buy a few potatoes and a piece of meat for the father's supper, someone in the street called her by name and began to chase her!'

'That was I,' Jack said. 'But Alonzo Meech is indeed here! I found him standing near the church, watching people pass by, probably hoping to catch sight of one of you.' He waved aside the coffee. 'We must hurry and get out of here! Where is the padre?'

'At the church,' Phoebe said, 'hearing confessions or whatever they do in the Catholic church. But what —'

'I have a wagon,' Jack explained, 'and old Bonyparts. I came to town for supplies and they are in the wagon, covered with canvas. Get your things ready and come with me! I will put you under the canvas, and we will drive out of town and back to Rancho Terco!'

In the lamplight Phoebe Larkin's face was pale and distraught. Her freckles stood out. Nervously she put a hand to her brow, pushing back the vagrant hair. The lamplight behind her shone through the red-gold hair with a shimmering halo.

'What good will that do?' Phoebe asked quietly. 'No, Jack—it's no good! That man will never give up! He chased us three thousand miles, and now he's as near as the church! It's time to give up, to let him take us back to stand trial, no matter how unfair the whole thing is bound to be.'

'Never!' Jack cried. 'If I have anything to do with it, he will not catch you! I can tell you—we Drumms from Clarendon Hall are stubborn people! We do not give up, and you and Beulah would be well advised to follow our example!'

Mrs. Glore shook her head. 'If we get back to the ranch safe— the Lord knows how I miss that place, and Mr. Eggleston—then Meech'd just find us there, sooner or later!'

'We will cross that bridge when we come to it,' Jack said curtly. 'Right now you are in immediate danger, and we must deal with that directly! Hurry and pack what things you need!'

Phoebe wrote a note to Father Garces. They turned out the lamp, slipped furtively into the snowy night, and locked the door after them.

'The padre, as they call him, is a good man,' Beulah sighed. 'Myself, I'm a Baptist. But I guess Catholics has got a stake in the true faith too!'

The dirt lanes were deserted. A dog shambled over to sniff them. 'Good boy!' Phoebe said, and the dog slunk away. Over their heads the bells of the church rang, and they all started nervously. 'Just around the corner here,' Jack whispered, 'at Peralta's mill!'

At the sight of Phoebe, Bonyparts whickered in recognition.

'Quiet!' she cautioned, rubbing the velvety muzzle. 'I'm glad to see you too, old fellow!'

Jack stowed the valises in the wagon, then held up the canvas for them to climb in.

'There are blankets in there,' he advised. 'If you huddle together among the meal sacks and cover yourselves it will not be too cold, I think.'

Phoebe helped Mrs. Glore into the bed of the wagon. While Jack continued to hold the canvas high, she paused before him. Her face was pale in the gloom, her eyes only deep shadows.

'I asked you once before! Why are you doing this for us? You're risking your own safety, your reputation, maybe even your own freedom!'

'I told you,' he said, 'the Drumms always fight injustice. If you go far enough back, they resisted King John himself and made him sign the Magna Charta.'

For a long time her eyes looked into his. Snow fell on her hair, A ray of moonlight filtered perversely through the misty downpour.

'There isn't—there isn't any other reason?'

He was uncomfortable, not knowing what she was trying to get at.

'If we stand here,' he blurted, 'discussing ethics, we are all apt to be collared by Detective Meech! Will you hurry and get into the damned wagon?'

It must have been well after ten at night when he clucked to Bonyparts and slapped the reins over his broad back. There was only one way out of Mex Town, one rutted lane leading back to Prescott, the long grade, the valley of the Agua Fria—and that way had to pass the church. The wagon moved away, iron-shod wheels crunching in the mud. Alonzo Meech had probably gone to bed somewhere. Perhaps he only had his head on a table at the cantina, empty aguardiente bottle before him, while a mozo swept out.

In any case, no one stopped them. The neatly fenced houses of Prescott slept in the snowy night; the brewery and blacksmith shops and mercantile stores were closed. Only from the Ten Strike, the Jack of Diamonds, and the other saloons came the sound of activity. Lights showed through frosted windows, a fiddle squealed, haze of blue tobacco smoke drifted from an open door. Singing and roistering, a few late revelers staggered from the gaming houses.

'Drumm? Is that you, Drumm?'

A soldier in a cavalry greatcoat lurched alongside the wagon, tugging at Jack's sleeve.

'Stop, damn it! Stop your mule! Is that you, Jack Drumm?'

The soldier was Lieutenant George Dunaway, in his cups. Dunaway motioned to another shambling figure; Corporal Bagley, the mustached brigand who seemed always near. 'Jim, c'mere!' Dunaway gestured, almost losing his balance, preserving himself only by clutching at the wagon seat. 'Here's Drumm, good ol' Drumm! Shake hands with Drumm, Jim! You remember old Englishman Drumm! I licked him once, but he's a better man than I first give him credit for!'

Corporal Bagley was also in his cups. Putting out a hand, he swayed and fell in the snow. Dunaway disregarded him.

'What you doin' in Prescott?' he demanded.

Even from the high seat Jack could smell the bouquet of bourbon whiskey.

'Just came into town to buy a few supplies.' Nervously he looked over his shoulder. Meech might be following them.

'Goin' back to your ranch this time of night?' Dunaway demanded. 'In a damned snowstorm?'

'I—I thought it might be a little safer,' Jack stammered. 'I mean—the Apaches aren't likely to bother a wagon in this weather, are they?'

Dunaway hiccuped. 'Never know. Old Agustin is unpre— unpre—' He hitched up his breeches, spat into the snow. 'He's un—pree—dickable!'

'Well,' Jack said, 'I'd better be moving along.'

Dunaway, however, was in a conversational mood. He looked down at Corporal Bagley, prone in the snow and apparently sleeping.