The Burning Range, page 14
“What do you see, dear?” she asked.
“Smoke . . . angry men . . . guns . . . death. But not the children. The children are not dying.”
Slightly embarrassed, Drake said, “Nancy’s ma was a Louisiana swamp witch. Sometimes she sees things.”
“Did Green Meadow fight back?” Rockefeller said. “Did the Fat Man lose? Ask your spirit guide.”
Drake’s embarrassment turned to irritation.
“Let’s stick to the facts, not . . . not ha’ants and stuff. When you or Miss Lee don’t show up to share in the spoils, the Fat Man will know the game’s over and head for Texas,” Drake said to Rockefeller.
“Why Texas?” the man said.
“He has friends there, enough people to swear on a stack of Bibles that he never left the state.”
“Then we must stop him before he gets there.”
“Yeah, we must.”
Rockefeller rose to his feet. “There’s a telegraph at the station and I’ll wire Washington. The president is going to get involved whether he wants to or not.”
“Your eggs, senor,” Juan said.
Rockefeller picked up an egg and a horn spoon and rapped the egg. Rapped harder.
“Damn it, man, how long did you boil these?” he said.
Juan beamed. “Ten minutes, like you said.”
“They’re as hard as rocks.”
“No, no, Mr. Rockefeller. Ten minutes, very good.”
“Ah, what the hell.” Rockefeller stuck an egg in his pocket and began to peel the other. “I’m hungry enough to eat anything.”
He stepped out the door into the dust storm, and headed for the station.
Chapter 44
An hour passed, then another, before Rockefeller returned.
His broadcloth suit was covered in dust and his eyes were red, smarting from hard-blown grit.
He sat at the table and lit a cigar before he spoke.
“I got the station master out of bed, then the president,” he said. “Neither were real happy with me.”
A silence stretched, and Drake’s impatience grew. Finally he said, “What the hell happened?”
Rockefeller let smoke trickle between his thin lips. Then he said, “The president has ordered three companies of the Tenth Cavalry from Fort Sill to effect the capture of the Fat Man, dead or alive.”
“When do they get here?” Drake asked, fearing the answer. Rockefeller did not disappoint him.
“One week hence, maybe longer.”
Drake was stunned, and as far as he could tell, so was Helen Lee.
“Damn it, the Fat Man will be in Texas by then,” he said. “He’ll have established his alibi and the cavalry won’t be able to touch him.”
“Mr. Drake, the military won’t be hurried,” Rockefeller said. “Apparently it takes time to prepare three companies of horse soldiers for the field.”
Drake rose and stepped to the door. He pulled the curtain aside and without turning, said, “Then we go after him ourselves. Slow him down until the soldiers get here.”
Rockefeller sounded alarmed. “We? Who exactly is we, Mr. Drake?”
“You, me, your friend Herr Benz, if he’ll come.”
“Mr. Drake, I’m a businessman,” Rockefeller said. “Look at me. Do I look like a . . . a frontier tough to you?”
“No, you don’t,” Drake said. “But right now, you and Herr are all I’ve got.”
“His name is Karl, Mr. Drake. Herr means mister in German.”
“Herr, Karl, what’s the difference? I need him and I need you. You were in the war, weren’t you?”
“No, I hired a substitute. I would have made a terrible soldier.”
“Out here a man doesn’t hire a substitute to do his fighting.”
Rockefeller rose to his feet, his face showing heat. “Mr. Drake, have you any idea what would happen to the stock exchange if I was killed? My death would plunge our great nation into a depression.”
Now Drake felt the stab of his own anger. “Mr. Rockefeller, I don’t give a damn about the stock exchange. You and the president cooked up some half-witted scheme to bring down an enemy of the state. Well, I could have gone along with that, but in the process you got a lot of innocent people killed. And that I can’t forgive.”
Drake stepped from the door to the table, invading Rockefeller’s comfort zone. “Don’t you think you owe those people something?”
“Yes, I do. And that’s why I’m getting cavalry from Fort Sill.”
“Too thin,” Drake said. “You’re carrying a rifle in my army, Mr. Rockefeller, and you’re not hiring a substitute.”
“And if I choose not to?”
“You said you aren’t a frontier tough, but I am, and as bad and nasty as they come. You refuse to follow the colors, I’ll shoot you down like a mangy yellow dog.”
John D. Rockefeller was not used to being talked to that way, and he was momentarily struck dumb, his thin face pale with shock.
A harsh, irritable voice cut across the silence.
“Was ist das? Was redust du da?”
Karl Benz stood at the bottom of the stairs, a short, stocky man dressed in a high-button suit, celluloid collar, and striped tie, kid gloves on his hands.
Rockefeller recovered his composure, but was still shocked and angry. “For God’s sake, Karl, speak English,” he said. “Save that damnable German for your horse.”
“John, I speak the language of Schiller and Goethe,” Benz said with great dignity. “My horse does not.”
He looked from the women to the white-lipped men standing almost nose to nose.
“I have intruded at a bad time, I think.”
“It’s not a bad time,” Drake said. “I want you and Mr. Rockefeller to help me slow down the Fat Man’s skedaddle into Texas.”
“And you are?”
“Name’s Chauncey Drake.”
Benz clicked his heels and bowed. “And I am Karl Benz, genius, at your service.” He looked at Drake. “Tell me about this . . . skedaddle.”
After Drake had finished speaking, Benz bowed his head in thought.
After a while he nodded. “Ya, ya, ya, I understand. The Fat Man is an enemy of all mankind, not only Americans. He is a slave trader, the worst of them. He buys Chinese girls for a few dollars each and sells them to brothels all over the world.”
Benz looked at the woman, then back to Drake. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you know a Chinese girl’s life expectancy in a brothel? Two to three years.”
“Then you’ll join me?”
“Ya, I will, Herr Drake.” He drew himself up to his full, unimpressive height. “I see mein duty clear.”
“Can you shoot?” Drake asked.
“Ya, I am a good shot. Once I had the great honor of hunting the Black Forest with His Royal Highness Crown Price Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl. He told me I was a first-rate rifle.”
Rockefeller shifted his feet. “You have shamed me, Karl. I turned Mr. Drake down, and now I feel guilty.”
“John, mein kamerad, shame and guilt are noble emotions, essential for the maintenance of a civilized society. Both add to the development of some of the most refined qualities of human potential.
“But, all that aside, you can still step up and be a man.”
Rockefeller held his silence for a long time.
Finally, his voice barely audible, he said, “Mr. Drake, I’m not a coward. But I just fought in one lost cause, and I’ve no appetite for another.”
“This one we won’t lose because we can’t afford to,” Drake said. “Will you saddle up and ride with me?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I will.”
“A coward wouldn’t do that,” Drake said.
“Nein, by Gott, he wouldn’t,” Benz said, slapping Rockefeller on the back, rocking the billionaire’s thin frame.
“Then why am I so scared?” Rockefeller said. He looked gaunt, dejected, dustier than usual.
“Because we all are.” Drake looked at Benz and smiled. “Aren’t we?”
The German grinned and whispered into Drake’s ear, “I won’t admit it in front of the frauleins, but ya, we are.”
Chapter 45
“Mr. Rockefeller, you’re the brains of this outfit,” Drake said. “What will the Fat Man do?”
To Drake’s surprise, the man looked directly at Nancy.
“What do you see, my dear?”
The girl shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Then it’s up to me,” Rockefeller said. “The Fat Man had two options. He could have called his gunmen back to his hideout in the mountains to wait developments, or he immediately headed south for Texas.”
“Ach, John, don’t tell us what he could do, tell us what he did do,” Benz said.
“I think he’s in the mountains, but only if he did indeed destroy Green Meadow. Now he’ll wait, expecting to hear from me or Miss Lee.”
“He’d also want to know if the rest of the settlers are scared and pulling out,” Drake said.
“And if he didn’t destroy the town?” Helen said.
“Then he’s lit a shuck for Texas,” Drake said.
Drake took time to build and light a cigarette; then he said, “We’ll head for Little Yancy Mountain and see if the Fat Man is there. If he’s not, we’ll ride south after him. His armored wagon cuts a clear trail.”
He looked around the table. “Anybody got a better idea?”
Nobody had, and Drake nodded. “So be it. Let’s saddle up and ride.”
“I’ll tell the station master what we intend,” Rockefeller said. “Have him send the troops after us when they arrive.”
“Nancy and I are coming with you, Mr. Drake,” Helen said.
Drake smiled. “I didn’t figure it any other way.”
Away from Wilburton, the wind was no longer a stinging lash, but it shredded the trees on each side of the wagon road and slapped angrily against the five riders.
Drake thought he smelled rain, and to the south dark clouds were building above Blue Mountain.
He glanced behind him at his small command.
Rockefeller and Benz were well mounted on blood horses, Nancy on her mule taking up the rear with the packhorse. He turned to the front again, uncomfortably aware that he was asking two aging millionaires and a couple of women to slow the progress of one of the most ruthless criminals in history.
Benz was game, Rockefeller less so, but he’d stick. The women had the kind of quiet courage that endures and he had no doubts about either of them.
And of his own courage, Drake would not venture an opinion.
By the time they reached Red Oak Mountain the day tinted slate gray with the coming of evening and the keening wind had found an ally in the rain.
Drake led the way north through the pass, then crossed two miles of flat into the foothills of the Sans Bois.
Rockefeller and Benz had broken out slickers that they passed to the ladies, and by the time they reached the mountains, like Drake, they were well and truly soaked.
An arroyo thick with cedar and pine gave some shelter from the teeming downpour. They dismounted, and Nancy and Helen improvised a tent by spreading their slickers over lower branches and everyone huddled underneath.
But Drake swung into the saddle again.
“I’m going to check out the clearing,” he said. He smiled at his companions, cowering and miserable under their meager shelter. “And no dancing or loud singing while I’m gone.”
“Mr. Drake, you go to hell,” Rockefeller said.
Drake laughed out loud. It seemed that even billionaires needed to vent now and then.
Drake rode through the wide valley that led to the cutoff toward Little Round Mountain. He swung due west, riding through heavily timbered country, then drew rein at the sound of hoofbeats behind him.
He pulled his Colt and swung the mustang around, only to thumb down the hammer as he saw Nancy astride her mule emerge from growing darkness and rain.
“Damn it, girl, I could have drilled you for sure,” he said.
“You didn’t really think I’d let you go alone, Chauncey?”
“Well, now you can head right back. I don’t want a woman trailing along.”
“I’m here and I’m staying,” Nancy said, a stubborn frown wrinkling between her eyes. “Besides, it’s getting too dark and there might be growly bears back there.”
“And the Fat Man might be right ahead of us, girl. He’s worse than any bear or boogerman.”
“I’m coming with you, Chauncey Drake. There’s no use in arguing the point.”
Drake gave up. When a woman makes up her mind about something no amount of protesting is going to change it.
“All right, then,” he said. “But stay close. And keep quiet.”
“Yes, Chauncey,” Nancy said in a stage whisper.
Drake shook his head, then led the way through the rain-lashed, hissing night.
He stepped out of the saddle at the mouth of the gully leading to the clearing and slid Silas’s Henry out of the boot under Nancy’s knee.
“Keep this ready until I get back,” he said. “There could be a sentry posted on the rim.”
“What if I see you come running?” the girl asked.
“Then shoot whatever is chasing me—man, bear, or boogerman.”
Drake smiled and patted the girl’s thigh, then clambered onto the top of the ridge.
Wary this time, he moved carefully, his Colt up and ready.
The trees stirred uneasily in the wind, sending down fat raindrops that bounced off Drake’s hat. The ground was muddy underfoot, silencing the patches of gravel.
He reached the spot where his dynamite had done its damage.
Pines had been uprooted and a few huge boulders dislodged. It looked like a battle had been fought over this small patch of ground.
There was no sentry, he was sure of that.
After another twenty yards, the rim ended abruptly, a steep rock face falling away from where Drake stood to the flat.
But he could look out over the whole clearing from here, though most of it was shrouded in darkness.
There were no fires, and when he looked to the east he was sure the Fat Man’s cabin was gone. Several tents still stood, inverted Vs of dull white in the gloom, but there was no sound and no movement from the camp, only the relentless racket of rain and wind.
Drake retraced his steps. Nancy emerged from under a tree, the Henry in her hands.
“Skedaddled,” Drake said. “All of them.”
He gathered the mustang’s reins and walked forward, scouting the ground.
The soft earth was scarred by the tracks of heavy wheels.
Drake cursed under his breath.
The Fat Man was on his way to Texas.
Chapter 46
“The rain hasn’t broken down the wheel tracks,” Drake said.
“What does that mean?” Nancy said.
“It means the Fat Man’s wagons passed this way not more than two, three hours ago.”
“We just missed them, Chauncey.”
“I reckon.” Drake smiled. “Lucky for us.”
He looked into the violent night. “I want to take a look at their camp.”
“Why? They’ve gone.”
“There might be something . . . I don’t know . . . something ...”
But Drake knew, he just didn’t care to voice his forlorn hope aloud.
Maybe, by a miracle, Reuben Withers had survived and was now sheltering in one of the abandoned tents.
He was clutching at straws, he knew, but it was worth a few minutes of his time to find out for sure.
Nancy’s face was pale under the brim of her battered hat.
“Only the dead, Chauncey,” she said. “You’ll find only the dead.”
Drake nodded. “Maybe so, but let’s do it.”
Without another word, he led his horse forward . . . into yet another nightmare in a life that seemed full of them.
Drake stopped at the spot where the cabin had stood. Despite the rain, the dead-line was still visible and he was sure he could smell the man’s vile stench.
Nancy felt the evil of the place. She recoiled in fear and quickly stepped away, the mule, head up and stiff-legged following her.
“Did you smell it?” Drake asked.
The girl nodded. “It’s the stink of evil, Chauncey. Hell smells like that.”
“Yeah, I guess it does. And I reckon it’ll smell even worse once the Fat Man gets there.”
Two blanket-wrapped bodies lay on the ground close to where the cabin stood. Both had been hit by gunshots and died hard from belly wounds.
“What’s that?” Nancy said. “Over there in the trees.”
Drake’s eyes followed her pointing finger. A shimmering white gleam was visible through the rain, like an alabaster column in the darkness.
“I don’t know what it is,” Drake said. “But I got the feeling it’s gonna turn out to be nothing good.”
He led the mustang toward the trees, Nancy following him.
Despite being nailed to a huge hickory and disemboweled, the pain-distorted face of the man was still recognizable.
It had taken Henry Roberts a long time to die, and even a tinhorn like he was had not deserved that kind of death.
“Poor man,” Nancy said. “What an awful way to die.”
“Helen Lee ran out on the Fat Man, so he took his revenge on good ol’ Henry.”
“Chauncey, can you get him down?”
Drake shook his head. “He’s nailed up there pretty good. The coyotes will bring him down.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“Nancy, he brought it on himself. Isn’t my fault, isn’t your fault, and we owe him nothing.”
“He was a human being.”
“So was Reuben Withers,” Drake said. He held up his stump of a hand. “And me.”
He let his words hang in the air, then looked around him at the desolate camp. “Let’s get back and join the others.”
But the Fat Man’s lingering, malevolent presence was not done with Chauncey Drake quite yet.
“Help me ...”
The voice was thin, weak, and it came from inside one of the tents.
“Who’s there?” Drake said.
