Lord Apache (8 page)

Dunaway chewed at his ragged mustache. "I can't be responsible for your safety!"

"I didn't ask you to be."

"Agustín and his people are up somewhere on the ridge behind you, and it's just a whoop and a holler down the canyon to your camp. This is Agustín's old stamping grounds; that's why there's not been a stage station here, in spite of good grass and water." Dunaway turned to Miss Larkin. "Ma'am, I warn you—this place is dangerous! There may not be other transportation along for days."

"I'm not afraid," she said.

"Me neither," Mrs. Glore agreed. "We'll stay awhile, if it's all right with Mr. Drumm here."

The lieutenant shrugged. "Suit yourself, ladies!"

In spite of his brave front, Jack Drumm felt weary. He had a longing to lie in the green grass of Hampshire with his head on Cornelia Newton-Barrett's lap, free of great resolves and weighty responsibility. But he thrust the image from his mind; there was work to be done. As Dunaway rode off with his men toward the safe haven of Prescott, he turned on his heel and spoke briskly.

"Get a shovel, will you, Eggie? We must dig that rifle pit deeper, and face it with stones."

Before the last wagon left, Jack Drumm flagged down the driver and drove a few bargains. They were not bargains exactly; gamy mutton under a cheesecloth was forty cents a pound, and beans, unwashed and containing pebbles, went for a quarter. Though the goods were consigned to L. Bushford and Co., a Prescott grocer, the whiskered driver apparently saw a way to dispose of them at an even greater profit than the goods would fetch in the capital. What arrangements Jake would later make with L. Bushford and Co. were of no concern to Drumm; he suspected the arrangements would be as unsavory as the rest of the Arizona Territory and its inhabitants.

Fortunately, he had greenbacks, converted from English pounds at the Merchants' Exchange Bank in San Francisco. There he had hesitated at giving away sound English currency for the gaudy greenbacks; now he boggled even more at bolstering the economy of the Territory with his purchases. But there was no remedy for it. If he were to stay here he would have to have supplies. Perhaps his decision, born out of injured pride and humiliation, had been a rash one, but it was now made.

Jake stuffed the bills into a hip pocket. "It's a shame, Mr. Drumm," he said, "that I ain't got a few cans of salmon for you."

"How's that?"

"When I was teamster down at Camp Bowie, we had some tame Apaches on the post. They'd steal anything—stuff they couldn't even use, like the bandmaster's tuba. But Apaches is scared to death of fish; figger they're cousin to the snake. So all a man had to do was open a can of salmon and they wasn't no Apache'd come within a hundred yards of his belongings!"

"I'll have a few pounds of sugar too," Drumm decided, counting his money.

"Cost you six bits a pound!" Jake warned. "That's a bargain, though, considering it come all the way from Frisco!"

If he continued to stay along the Agua Fria, Drumm would soon have to have more money. Perhaps there was a way he could have Andrew arrange a letter of credit with a Phoenix bank. There was certainly no sustenance along the river for anything but jackrabbits; everything would have to be brought in.

"Tell you what I'll do," Jake decided, weighing out the sugar. "You bein' such a good customer—" He reached under the high seat and handed Drumm a wide-brimmed straw hat of the kind Mexicans wore, complete with a gaudy braided cord for the chin. "Compliments of the management!"

The Bombay topi was indeed in bad repair. A rent in the crown let in the sun and the brim had nearly been torn away during the Apache raid. "Thanks," Drumm said glumly, hooking the garish scarlet cord under his chin. He must look a fright; Cornelia would recoil in horror.

Jake unwrapped his long whip, looking calculatingly at the fourteen oxen. "Them critters is bushed," he complained. "Since Weaver's Ranch went under there's no place to pasture fresh stock." He looked around, scratched his chin. "The right man could make himself some money here running a stage stop. Plenty water, grass, lots of politicians traveling to the capital." He waved farewell; the whip cracked like a rifle shot. Wearily the oxen leaned into the yokes and the heavily laden wagon creaked away.

While Phoebe Larkin and Mrs. Glore watched, Eggleston helped Drumm carry the food back to the litter and confusion of the wrecked camp. The setting sun cast shadows long and black as they staggered under the burdens. The valet put down his load with a sigh.

"Mr. Jack," he asked, "do you really mean to stay here, along the banks of the river?"

"I do, indeed," Drumm said. "I am sorry if I compromised you, too, Eggie, but perhaps there is some way I can get you safely back to Clarendon Hall. As for myself, I intend to stick it out to show these people what an Englishman can do under adverse circumstances!"

"Then I will stay with you," the valet decided.

"It is not necessary! Already I have taken great advantage of your loyalty."

Eggleston shook his head. "My place is with you! My people served the Drumms for over a century, and I cannot abandon my duty now." He looked calculatingly at Jack Drumm. "You do need a shave, Mr. Jack! Shall I get out my basin and razor?"

Drumm shook his head. "This wound on my cheek does not yet permit it." Anyway, he thought, a beard could help to conceal the damage done to his mustache. A beard would also be more appropriate to the Mexican sombrero.

Mrs. Glore strolled over to inspect the supplies. "I've got some bacon," she volunteered. "I could boil up a mess of them beans. With a little meat they wouldn't taste bad for supper. And if Mr. Eggleston will gather some poke salat along the river there—"

The valet looked baffled.

"Along the bank, in the riffles," Mrs. Glore explained. "That stand of green shoots sticking up! My land—don't you have poke salat in England, Mr. Eggleston? Why, there's nothing better than a mess of them shoots with a little bacon grease poured onto 'em!"

Drumm picked up the shovel, watching the dwindling tracery of dust as the wagon train, under Lieutenant George Dunaway's protection, creaked toward Prescott. A breath of French scent made him turn sharply.

"Is there anything I can do?" Phoebe Larkin asked.

Put off by the shameless way she had flirted with Dunaway, afraid also that she would pity him after his trouncing, he planted the shovel in the trench and stamped viciously at it, driving the steel deep into the earth.

"No," he muttered. "Nothing you can do—not in those clothes, anyway!"

"But I want to help!"

Silent and tight-lipped, he went on shoveling.

"You're real grouchy!" Phoebe complained. "Whatever is the matter with you? Has the cat got your tongue?"

Drumm didn't know what that meant; he supposed it was an American witticism. "There's no need for you to do anything!" he snapped. "Just sit over there in the chair, and Mrs. Glore will have some supper ready directly!"

Phoebe Larkin set her lips; under the lace niching her breasts rose and fell quickly. "Now you listen to me, Mr. Drumm!" she cried. "Maybe you're mad because I invited Beulah and me to stay here, but it really was not convenient for us to go to Prescott right now! Soon we hope to—to travel on, but right now we have no choice!"

Doggedly he kept on shoveling.

"I'm strong as a horse, and willing! Show me what needs doing! All my life I worked hard for my board, and I intend to keep on doing so!"

While he was trying to pry loose a rock, the handle snapped off in Drumm's hand. Disgustedly he threw the broken shovel from him. Phoebe Larkin pushed him aside. Snatching up his mattock, she swung it high over her head. Fearing feminine awkwardness, Drumm stepped back. But the blade, accurately aimed, buried itself next to the offending rock. Phoebe Larkin, tugging the weight of her body against the handle, neatly popped up the obstinate boulder.

"There!" she cried triumphantly.

Jack Drumm glowered at her.
All my life I worked hard for my board, and I intend to keep on doing so
! What had happened to the previous story—her father, Judge Larkin, and the crowd of wealthy suitors always "hanging around the place"?

"You see?" Phoebe cried. "A determined woman can do a
lot
of things!"

There was also the matter of the derringer she carried in her bosom. And why, after being in such a hurry to reach Prescott, did she refuse George Dunaway's offer of transportation there? But Miss Larkin stared at him so challengingly Jack Drumm decided not to press the matter—at least, not for the moment.

They needed a small dam to impound the scanty waters of the Agua Fria. In addition, the work would keep him and Eggleston gainfully employed; if they did nothing but sit in the rifle pit all day they would surely go mad. It was now early October. The nights turned cold and crisp, and the heat in the valley moderated. In a perverse way Jack Drumm enjoyed the hard labor—the swing of the repaired shovel, the chunking noise as gouts of dirt flew through the air and landed in line with the cord he had strung between two stakes. Mrs. Glore and Phoebe insisted on working, also, cleaning up the litter of the camp, repairing the wrecked reed hut, leading Drumm's solitary mule down to the river to drink. Phoebe named the mule Bonyparts, from the jutting hip bones and impoverished ribs.

Gradually the camp began to take on a neater appearance. With an ax Phoebe broke up old boxes for firewood, repaired camp chairs with wire she found in the wreckage, cut stalks of bamboo and made a brush awning to shelter the makeshift kitchen where Mrs. Glore worked. Phoebe was still angry with him, Drumm suspected. He watched covertly as she busied herself about the camp. In soiled traveling dress, red hair done up in a bun, and her face dirty, Miss Larkin did not in the least resemble the attractive female who had stepped off the Prescott stage. Unfavorably Drumm compared her to Cornelia Newton-Barrett. He could not imagine Cornelia chopping firewood. It was unladylike, to say the least, though he was bound to admit he appreciated Miss Larkin's efforts.

Watching her, he saw also what seemed a movement in the tall reeds along the river, a rustling not accounted for by the breeze. Seizing the Sharp's rifle, which lay always nearby, he rushed into the greenery, calling out, "Who's there?"

Eggleston, carrying his pick, ran after him. Together they stood among the reeds, sun filtering down on them in a lacy pattern like a Japanese print.

"What is it, Mr. Jack?" Eggleston finally whispered. "Did you see something?"

"I don't know." Drumm parted the reeds, rifle cocked. "It seemed to me something moved! Well—" He shouldered the gun. "Perhaps it was only an animal of some sort. At any rate, there appears to be no danger now."

That night they ate more of Mrs. Glore's boiled beans, along with mutton she fried up to prevent it from spoiling. The meat was strong but they all had good appetites. Drumm thought of dinner at Clarendon Hall; how unlike this! But the rains would soon be coming to Hampshire. The weather would turn cold and dank, the great house uncomfortable except for an island of warmth before the fireplace and in the kitchen around the cookstove. Here, on the other hand, the evening turned soft and mellow. Swallows flitted about in search of insects, and the western sky was streaked rose and saffron and the soft lavender of lilacs.

"Surprise!" Mrs. Glore cried. Beaming, she placed on the table a tin plate. "I found a can of peaches and some flour, and made a kind of—well,
pie
, I guess you could call it, though I could have done better with lard and a proper rolling pin!"

After the scanty rations, Mrs. Glore's pie was a treat. Drumm lolled in a camp chair, lighting a tattered but generally serviceable Trichinopoly cigar that Eggleston had discovered in a broken chest. In the glow of the moment, he felt almost charitable toward his unwelcome guests. He spoke briefly to Phoebe Larkin.

"You mentioned an uncle awaiting you in Prescott. Won't he be worried when you don't arrive there?"

She scraped the bottom of the tin plate with a spoon, dredging up the last juice. "My, that was good! It's been a long time since I et—ate pie!" She turned to Drumm, sucking a sticky finger. "Uncle Buell? Oh, he won't worry! He's lived out here long enough to know how uncertain schedules are on the frontier."

Drumm puffed on his cigar, watching the blue-gray smoke mingle with the sunset colors. "I do hope," he murmured, watching Beulah busy herself with soap and a pan of dirty dishes, "that Mrs. Glore's liver condition has improved."

"Her what?"

"The liver condition! You said her liver was bothering her—that jolting in a wagon to Prescott was medically inadvisable."

Phoebe looked puzzled but Beulah Glore drew quickly near, waving a damp dishcloth in the air to dry it. "That's right!" she confirmed. "That's the God's truth, Mr. Drumm! That's why we couldn't go to Prescott!"

Phoebe looked relieved. "Yes," she said quickly, "that
was
the reason, all right. Her liver still pains her, too, though it's some better." Changing the subject, she looked up at the stars beginning to wink on against the velvet mantle of the night. "I've read a lot of astrology, Mr. Drumm. Do you know—the stars tell everything?"