Novel 1971 - Tucker (v5.0) (14 page)

“You believe they still have it? You are optimistic, sir.”

“I am sure they still have it, or most of it. I haven’t given them time to spend it.”

Then I explained, telling all the events from the original loss of the money…the death of my father, and my meeting with Con Judy.

“I know of him. He has been here, discussing some railroad construction.”

I could see that the name had carried weight, and I mentioned a couple of others I had met.

“You make my task difficult.” He paused. “You see, sir, we cannot have strangers coming into town who are apt to cause trouble. I won’t have gunfights here. There’s been too much of that in the past, and the new people who are coming out to settle here want law and order. I am afraid, sir, that I must ask you to leave town.”

“Did Hamilton Todd have anything to do with your decision?”

He did not care for that. He gave me a sharp look. “I make my own decisions, young man. Yes, he did lodge a complaint. Miss Ross told him you were following her, that you had caused trouble for her family.”

“I will leave, Sheriff. In fact, I think the men I am following will also leave, but I suggest you go to the stage office and check the flyer they have on the men I am following, and on the woman who has accompanied them.”

He stared at me. “You mean there’s a notice out on those men?”

“Yes. And the woman is mentioned…and described.” I hesitated just a moment. “Mr. Todd is a young man…Ruby Shaw is very attractive, and very shrewd. And she is a skilled actress.”

“Who are these men you are following?”

“Bob Heseltine and Kid Reese.”

Rowland was startled. “
Heseltine?
In Los Angeles?” He stood up suddenly. “I had no idea—” He looked at me again. “You’re sure?”

“He was in Sonora Town last night. At Villareal’s place.”

Rowland was a good man, a strong man and an honest one. He had looked upon me as a potential troublemaker, which in one sense I was. That he knew who Heseltine was, was obvious.

“I have done my best to quiet the town, Mr. Tucker. And understand, I want no trouble here.”

“I understand. I’ll certainly leave.” I hesitated. “However, Sheriff, I’ll not go far; and if I were you, I’d check that flyer. It might save you trouble.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ruby Shaw is Heseltine’s girl. Maybe they are now in a scheme together, to bilk somebody out of money. If they’re not, and Heseltine should get the idea that Todd is moving in on him, Heseltine might become very abrupt. Make no mistake—he’s a fast man with a gun.”

He left me and I turned in, lying awake a long time, listening to the sounds from the Plaza and from the hotel itself. Rowland’s call had not turned out badly. He would not want Heseltine in town, and if my note did not start them moving, Rowland would.

As for Hamilton Todd, I was through with him…or so I believed.

Chapter 14

W
AS I A fool to continue the pursuit? Was the money gone? Or had they cached it somewhere? Pit Burnett had said Heseltine had given Ruby Shaw a wad of money when she took the stage for Los Angeles. Was that what she was using to hire the fancy outfit she had?

It would not be unlikely for a girl like Ruby Shaw to come here with marriage in mind. There were too few pretty women in any town, and blondes were scarce. She was shrewd and knew her way around men, and a marriage with Hampton Todd might seem a nice outlook for a girl with her background.

Did Heseltine know what was going on? In such a small community there would be few secrets, and Villareal might have warned him of what was going on between Todd and Ruby Shaw—or Elaine Ross, as she now called herself.

Awakening in the last cold hour before the dawn, I found myself filled with a sort of dread. Suddenly I wanted nothing so much as to be out of this town. What inspired the feeling I did not know, but I was never one to buck my instincts.

Only a few minutes were necessary to pack my things and belt on my gun. Downstairs I went through the empty lobby, paused to look along the street where daylight was just beginning.

The street was empty, the Plaza was empty. I crossed the street and walked quickly along it toward the livery stable, my boots echoing on the sidewalk.

It was shadowy inside the livery stable, with only a faint glow from the lantern. In the stall my horse nickered and I saddled up, swung my saddlebags into place, and thrust my Winchester into the boot.

The horse was the rented one I had ridden before. Having come west on the stage, I no longer had a horse of my own, a situation that must be remedied at once.

Mounting, I turned the horse into the dusty street and rode quickly down Main Street. Water trickled in the
zanja
. Under a couple of slender eucalyptus trees, and partly screened by clumps of century plant, I pulled off the street and looked back the way I had come.

A wagon with a double sprinkler was laying the dust on Main Street. It was the only thing in sight. I was now where the houses were more scattered, and soon I would be turning into the road that followed what had once been an Indian trail
⁵
leading west toward Santa Monica, but though I watched for several minutes, I saw no one.

There were groves of oranges, walnuts, and olives near where I waited, as well as further along, but they were poor places of concealment, so why was I so jumpy?

Abruptly, answering to instinct, I turned off the traveled way and rode down a dusty lane between two rows of orchards, past several of Holloway’s Patent mills, and into a patch of prickly pear, crossed and crisscrossed by horse trails.

Once more I stopped, watching from hiding to see if I was followed. Riding into the prickly pear, I crossed a knoll and could see far ahead of me the cienaga, ten miles long by several miles wide over much of its area. The grass grew green there even in the driest weather, for most of that stretch was sub-irrigated.

By a roundabout route I rode back to the old Mexican’s home. He saw me coming, and walked out to greet me. “Come,
amigo
, come inside! There is coffee.”

I tied my horse at the corral, and followed him into the adobe. It was cool inside, and the view from the door was good. Any rider approaching could be seen for some distance.

The boy came in. “The men you seek are gone,” he said. “I saw them find the paper I left, and when they read it there was argument. Later they brought out their horses and they rode from town, but Villareal did not go.”

“I am not interested in him.”

“But he is interested in you. He went to the livery stable looking for a roan horse, and then he asked many questions. He knows what horse you ride,
señor
.”

“I shall not ride him any more. I want to buy a horse, a good one, a tough one.”

“There are many here,” the old man said. “Since the cattle have become so few there are many horses. I will find you one.”

“Is there a way down from the mountain behind us? Some way that Villareal might know?”

The old man shrugged. “There are ways, but he will not come close.” He gestured. “I have guinea hens, and they are very alert. If anything strange moves they set up a fearful noise.”

We had guinea hens in Texas, and I knew there was no better alarm, for they were more alert than even a good watchdog. And they were scattered over the yard here and along the mountainside, feeding.

The old man saddled a horse and rode away, and I sat by the door, watching the vast open space before me. The valley in which Los Angeles lay was fifty miles long by twenty wide, and from where I sat, much of it could be seen. Like the Pico House where I had stayed, the town was lighted by gas.

Conchita, the old man’s granddaughter, brought me fresh coffee, some tortillas, and beans, placing them on a table beside me. Glad of somebody to talk to, she spoke of the town and the people. She was a bright girl, very much aware of her town and of California.

“Do you read, Conchita?”

“Yes. My mother taught me to read. She taught all of us—papa, too.”

“She was Spanish?”

“No, she was an Indian. She was a Chumash.”

“The ones who built the red boats? And who went to Catalina and the Channel Islands?”

“Yes. They lived sometimes there, sometimes on shore. My mother’s people lived up the coast near Malibu.”

We talked of the area, of her people, and of Los Angeles. From time to time I would get up and look around, for I wanted no one coming close to me unbeknownst.

“The men of business are Irish or German, most of them,” she said. “Mr. Downey is the richest man, I think.

“We are poor people,
señor
, but we live very well here, for there is game in the mountains, and we raise our own vegetables. My grandfather has cattle, and some horses. Sometimes on Sundays we go to the Washington Gardens in Los Angeles, or to Old Santa Monica, to swim. We like the old town best.”

She was leading up to something, and not just talking at random, for I had noticed that she was a young lady of purpose, rarely given to idle talk or wasted motion.

“
Señor
,” she said suddenly, “if you wish to remain close there is a cabin in the canyon nearby. It is higher up than this. My father built it, for one day he hoped to live there. It is a place no one knows, and if you wished to stay there and watch, it could be arranged.”

“I have men to follow,” I said doubtfully, “and I must find them.”

“They will come to you,
señor
. Villareal looks for you, and it is not for himself. I think when he finds you he will tell them.”

The vague, haunted feeling stayed with me. I had an idea I had been followed, even though I had seen no indication of it. Perhaps they had traced my actions on my previous ride…a few inquiries might have done that, for almost no one moves entirely unseen. People are curious, wondering at strangers, or curious about anyone who is seen at unlikely times or in unlikely places.

I did not want to endanger my friends. “This place you spoke of, Old Santa Monica?” I asked Conchita. “It is near the sea?”

She explained that the trail to the plateau would take me there. The carriages would stop at Old Santa Monica Corral and at Frank’s Saloon, a large pavilion with a rustic porch running across the front. There was a brook nearby and a clump of alders.

For another hour I waited, and then the old man returned leading a line-back dun, with legs black to the knee, and black mane and tail.

“Seventy dollars,” he said, “and it is cheap.”

When evening came to the valley below, and when lamps were being lit in the scattered houses, I said my good-byes and rode down the slope through the brush, turned off the trail, and cut across the grassland, losing myself in the shadows. It was chill, for when the sun goes down in that country the cold air comes, as it came now.

The dun went with a long, easy stride. Westward I rode, across the darkening plains, down the slope of the long hill and across the wide pastureland, until I could see the Santa Monica road, white in the moonlight, but I avoided it, holding to the north of it until the lights of the town were close.

I felt sure there would be little about the area that Villareal did not know. I rode over the plateau and down to Old Santa Monica, where there were lights in Frank’s Saloon, and the sound of the surf along the beach. Dismounting at the corral, I tied my horse, and waited there in the shadows, letting my ears get used to the rustle of the leaves, the movements of the sea, and the sound of voices from the saloon. Only then did I cross the hard-packed clay of the yard and go up the steps to the wide porch.

There were half a dozen people in the saloon, several drinking at the bar, and two who sat at a table nearby with a bottle of country wine.

The table I chose was at one side, on the edge of the light. I sat down, put my hat on the chair beside me, and soon a waiter came over to my table.

When I had ordered a meal and coffee, I began to relax. It was an easy, pleasant place. The talk was friendly, and I sensed at once that it was a good place to be.

Frank—I supposed it to be Frank—came to my table. “You wish to stay the night? I have rooms,” he said.

“I would.”

He glanced at the pistol in its holster. “You will not need that here, my friend. We are a friendly people.”

“I am sure.” I smiled at him. “I do not carry it for you or your people,” I said, “but for others who may come along.”

“You have enemies?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But tonight I want only to rest and listen to the sea, to eat a good dinner, to drink coffee, and to wait. Tomorrow? It is another day, and when tomorrow comes I shall go over the mountain, I think, or follow some of the Chumash trails toward Ventura.”

“You know about the Chumash? They were a good people, and a daring people. There are caves in these mountains with their paintings. I have found many myself. They were not such a simple people as some would have you believe. Their lives, yes, and their customs were simple, but not their thinking.”

When he had gone I ate and listened to a girl singing somewhere out of sight, a pleasant old song in Spanish.

Soon, after a good dinner and several cups of coffee, I was thoroughly at ease. So much so that when the stranger walked in I scarcely noticed him. Not, at least, until his face turned toward me.

It was Doc Sites.

Chapter 15

H
IS EYES MET mine across the room, and for a moment he remained still. His fingers were on the bar-edge, his body close against it. I did not want to kill him, and to draw against me he must move back from the bar and turn. For the moment the advantage was mine.

“How are you, Doc? Looking for me?”

He had difficulty saying it, but he finally got it out. “No,” he said hoarsely, “no, I ain’t. I’m lookin’ for them. They cut out and left me. They took it all.”

“They aren’t going to keep it, Doc.”

“You’re damn right they ain’t! I’m goin’ to find them, and—”

“Find who?” It was Bob Heseltine. He stepped in out of the darkness, a gun in his hand.