Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (43 page)

      
Walkman snickered. “‘N every time another family gets burned out ‘n killed, you buy up their land real quiet like, for taxes. Hear any more from that fancy eastern feller who wants to sell sections to them fereigners?”

      
Greer shrugged. “In order to really begin such massive land dealing, we need the Comanche—indeed, all the tribes—cleaned out of Texas for good.”

      
“ ‘N you need your war to do that,” Walkman said with fanatical hate in his voice.

      
“A war you want every bit as much as I, albeit for different reasons.”

      
“Yeah, Greer, I want a war. Me ‘n my boys'll kill every Injun between here ‘n the Red River. I want me a state with nary a one o' them fuckin' red bastards left alive in it. They killed my whole family, all but me. Ain't no way I'll rest till I see Texas clean o’ ‘em.”

      
Greer had heard Walkman's twisted ranting before, as well as Blaine's cowardly pleas. Busy and irritated at the interruption, he asked brusquely, “I assume there is something more you wanted to discuss besides Blaine's usual whining lament?”

      
“I got a line on another good place for Gall ta raid. Thought I'd have Zeb 'n' Pike check it out.”

      
“Whose place?” Greer asked.

      
“That rich-ass greaser Velasquez. Got him a nice big herd of prime horses all set aside fer breedin', not to mention lots of saddle-broke mustangs ‘n beef cattle. Place is far 'nough from town so's not to attract much attention. Anyways, since he feels like he does ‘bout rangers, my boys won't go near his place. Course, he ain't got no family at that big fancy ranch house since his little lady's done left him ‘ns livin' in town,” Walkman said with a sly snicker.

      
“That female reporter who writes gossip for the
Star
?”

      
”Yup. Feisty ‘n smart-mouthed for a gal. Reckon that's why that greaser got shut of her. Never could figger why a highfalutin type like him'd hitch up with a gal workin' for a newspaper.”

      
Laban Greer's face relaxed into a smile, wolfish and cold, but openly lustful. He recalled the night he'd danced with Melanie Velasquez. “Madam Velasquez is a very beautiful woman, Seth. Just a bit too, er, unconventional to appeal to a man of your tastes.”

      
“Don't go gittin' smartass with me, Laban,” Walkman retorted. “I don't like bein' talked to like I'm some cur hangin' round your back porch.”

      
“As you said, Seth, we need each other to achieve our mutually complementary goals.”

      
Walkman unfolded his tall, gangly body from the chair and loomed over Greer's desk with his big hands planted on the polished walnut surface. “Just don't you forget how much you need me. I ain't so easy got rid of like that drunk Blaine.” With that he turned and strode toward the door.

      
Melanie scarcely had enough time to crouch behind a rain barrel before Walkman's boots crunched on the rocky ground as he passed within three feet of her. Once he had vanished around the corner, she stood up on wobbly legs.
They're going after Lee! I have to warn him!

      
She walked as calmly as possible from the alley, headed for the livery stable to get Liberator, reviewing the incredible conversation she'd just overheard. No wonder Laban Greer's ranch prospered while he spent so much time in town at his small land office! “I wonder just how many murdered families' ranches he's bought up in the past year or two?” she muttered under her breath. As soon as she warned Lee, she'd go to the recorder's office and see what the public records showed. Formulating her plans, Melanie rounded the corner at Simpson's Livery when she saw Jeremy Lawrence.

      
He smiled warmly at her as she stopped abruptly in front of him. “Whoah, Melanie! You're out of breath. Where are you going in such a hurry?”

      
Looking around and seeing no one close by, she pulled the ranger into the dim interior of the livery and proceeded to relate what she had just heard.

      
Jeremy's face paled as he listened, realizing the danger she had been in. “You're certain neither of them saw you?”

      
“No. I left the alley after Walkman. Greer was still in his office.”

      
“Let me walk you back to the
Star
office, Melanie. Then I'll ride out to Night Flower,” he replied with relief in his voice.

      
“Forget me! Go to Night Flower and warn Lee! He could be killed, Jeremy—all so Laban Greer can get his land. Oh, it's monstrous—all those people butchered so brutally for revenge and money.” She shuddered.

      
“Lee already knows he's being scouted,” Jeremy said carefully, knowing he had to explain part of their scheme to Melanie or she'd stir up a hornet's nest and ruin everything. “Jim Slade and I talked your husband into helping us catch Blaine and Walkman. We didn't know about Greer, though. Thanks for that invaluable piece of information. You are some reporter, lady.”

      
“Lee—working with you?” she asked incredulously.

      
He grinned wryly. “Believe me, it took some fancy talking from Jim to persuade him. But now, thanks to you, we know Walkman's taken the bait and sent his men to scout our carefully laid trap. We're prepared. But you have to keep quiet about this, Melanie—and stay out of it.” He said the last with steel in his voice as he took her elbow, firmly propelling her toward the
Star
.

      
As soon as Jeremy had ridden out of town, Melanie left the newspaper and headed to the recorder's office. Jarvis Phelps was the town recluse, perfectly suited to hiding behind stacks of rustling papers and keeping track of all land transactions in Bexar County. Small, bald, and emaciated, he lived alone in a room above the rickety frame office. Melanie wondered if Phelps might refuse her access to his precious records and mulled over her best approach. Entering the long musty room, she gave Jarvis a dazzling smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Phelps. I have a problem and I surely do hope you can help me...”

      
While Melanie was busy at the recorder's office, Jeremy Lawrence rode hard for Night Flower Ranch. He had some very interesting information to share with Lee Velasquez.

      
“She hid in the alley and eavesdropped on Greer and Walkman!” Lee's face darkened in a combination of anger and fright. Visions of what Seth Walkman could have done to his beautiful wife flashed before Lee's horrified eyes. He forced himself to concentrate on what Lawrence was saying.

      
“Laban Greer is apparently buying up the burned-out ranches after Gall and his renegades kill the owners. I haven't had time to check on the county records yet; but after what your wife overheard, I'm sure we can confirm it.”

      
Lee's eyes narrowed. “If I know Mellie, she's already at Phelps's office going through every record book.”

      
“I took her to the
Star
office and told her to stay out of this,” Jeremy said defensively.

      
Lee smiled thinly. “If you can get my wife to do anything sensible or safe, you'll be the first man in her life who could.” He turned and began to pace, running his hands through his hair in nervous concentration. “We need to talk this over with Jim. He said Houston thought someone higher up with connections in the Indian Office had set Blaine up in business. Now we know who.”

      
“Question is how do we stop Greer?” Jeremy asked in perplexity. “Catching Blaine and Walkman won't be hard if Walkman's already got his men scouting your herd. Jim's idea about rounding up that big batch of prize horses and corralling them at Oak Creek was good.”

      
“I'll tell my foreman, Bill Ross, to alert those new
vaqueros
that Gall's getting ready to move.” Lee paused a minute and looked warily at the ranger. “You're certain those Lipans won't be recognized as ranger scouts from Travis County?”

      
Jeremy Lawrence's expression came as near to being contemptuous as Lee had ever seen it. “You think men like Walkman can tell one Indian from another?”
Can you?

      
Lee shrugged uneasily. “We need the Lipans if we're going to stop Blaine's Comanche renegades. That's for sure. Let's ride to Bluebonnet and see how Jim wants to deal with Greer.”

      
“What about Melanie?” Jeremy asked, worrying about what the boldly curious newspaperwoman might do if left unattended.

      
“What about her, Lawrence?” Lee parried in a tight voice. “I'll see to my wife tonight,” he said as he swung up on Sangre's back, leaving the ranger to follow in his dust.

* * * *

      
After spending her dinner hour poring over a set of carefully recorded notes, Melanie locked them securely in the drawer of the big oak desk in Obedience's office. She had enough on Laban Greer's activities for quite a story. But it must wait until all the other pieces were in place. From now on she would watch Jeremy's comings and goings with a great deal of interest, not to mention that scamp Lame Deer, who was apparently in collusion with the men!

      
For now, she had a temperance meeting to report on, although she was certain the follow-up story about this gathering would be tame indeed compared to the riot at the Gilded Cage. In all the excitement of the past days' discoveries about Greer and Walkman's conspiracy and the trap Lee, Jim, and Jeremy were trying to spring on them, Melanie had little time to brood over her sundered relationship with her husband.

      
The meeting was slightly less crowded than it had been that evening before the saloon riot. Probably, some of the men kept their women under lock and key tonight, Melanie thought disdainfully as she seated herself near the rear of the church to better observe the crowd while Stella spoke.

      
“Move over ‘n make room fer a body ta set,” Obedience said to Melanie as she plunked her ample girth onto the groaning bench next to the amazed younger woman.

      
“What are you doing here? I thought you didn't hold with temperance ideas,” Melanie said with raised eyebrows.

      
Obedience scanned the room, then looked back at Melanie. “Jist come ta see whut all the hullabaloo is ‘bout, thet's all. ‘Sides, Wash ‘n a couple o' his friends got them a red-hot poker game agoin' down at th' Red Dog Saloon.”

      
Observing her friend's guileless expression, Melanie had a sudden sense of uneasiness. “Obedience, you wouldn't—”

      
A sharp rap of Stella Wolcott's gavel brought the whispering, tittering assembly to order. The Reverend Bixly, minister of Mount of Olives Methodist Church, opened the meeting with a prayer and several hymns. Then, Stella took over, fixing the crowd with her piercing gray eyes. They glowed like banked charcoal, causing many of the men scattered through the room to squirm uncomfortably. The audience was a motley assortment of San Antonians—well-dressed merchants in wool suits and elders in the Presbyterian Church sat next to farmers clad in homespun. Melanie’s own simple blue linen suit looked elegant alongside the calico worn by many of the women. Store owners and clerks, ranchers and cowhands, but most of all, their wives, sisters, and mothers, filled the place.

      
Stella began by telling the story of a poor motherless family of six children whose drunken sot of a father spent every last cent he earned at the local saloon, leaving his fifteen-year-old son to support the younger siblings by scrubbing floors and emptying slops in that very establishment. The tale was probably apocryphal, but powerfully told, as if it were an Old Testament allegory mirroring the sins of all husbands and fathers, including those of San Antonio.

      
Melanie watched people shuffle in embarrassment, nod in agreement, or sob in regret as Stella ranted on. Finally, Stella left the small speaker's lectern at the head of the room and began to march up the aisle. “Who will sign, sister? Brother? Come forward and sign the pledge. Not one drop more of demon rum!”

      
She waved the sheets of paper and brandished the pen like a banner and sword as she began to collect signatures. “Take home a pledge for your husband or father, your brother or son to sign, ladies. It is your God-ordained duty.” A number of stalwarts signed up and others nervously took copies of the pledge with vows to deliver them into the hands of their erring male relatives. Suddenly, Stella stopped directly in front of Obedience Oakley.

      
“What about you, Sister Oakley? I understand that your man imbibes,” she challenged.

      
Obedience had sat through the performance, passing a few backhanded asides to Melanie about the hypocrisy of some of the actors, but taking it quietly overall. Now, she looked up into Stella's intimidating hatchet face, and her brown eyes squinted. Melanie knew that look.

      
“My man has a pretty considerable o' a thirst, yep. It fits th' rest o' him,” she said proudly.

      
A few titters escaped around the room, and Melanie bent her head to take notes, hiding her smile.

      
“Then you should have him sign a pledge,” Stella persisted.

      
“Whut fer?” Obedience asked reasonably.

      
“Why, to save him from the clutches of debauchery. To keep him from spending his income on whiskey and games of chance and wicked women!” Stella looked abashed at the big woman's density.

      
“Wal, as fer a snort o' good corn likker ‘n a turn o' th' cards, I guess I'll let Wash have hisself a time now ‘n thin. As fer th' other, I don't reckon I need ta worry, none,” Obedience said dryly.