Mobley's Law, A Mobley Meadows Novel (24 page)

CHAPTER 36

Edson searched up, down, and around on the brick sidewalk to see if he could find any evidence of the direction the man had taken after the shooting. He noted a small drop of fresh blood and some strands of black cloth near the spot where the man had stood, then another spot of blood by the corner some twenty feet away. The scrape of a hard rubber boot heel indicated that the man had made a left turn.

Edson broke into a run, Jack right behind, and did not stop until he reached the next block. Again, he searched the ground. After a few seconds, Edson ran across the street to the far corner. He examined mud and water collected in the gutter. He turned right, broke into a run and did not stop for two blocks, slowing only slightly to look at the mud of the first cross street before he continued on.

Jack was fascinated. The speed with which Edson made his decisions and the places he looked for clues was amazing. A mud puddle here, a sidewalk there, even down on his knees to sniff when there were no obvious clues. Jack could see nothing, but from the certain look on Edson’s face, he knew they were headed in the right direction.

Several more blocks of running, stopping, looking, and sniffing ensued. Edson made one last turn, cautiously pulled up against the wall of small wooden building, and drew his pistol. He motioned Jack up close and pointed to the next narrow alley.

“He’s in there. I can smell him. He’s probably tending to his wound. I don’t think he knows we’re here, but let’s be real careful.”

Edson risked a quick look around the corner, and then leaped forward into the light mud of the alley. He promptly slipped on his butt and rolled onto his back.

Jack was right behind, but did not slip. He saw panic in the eyes of a skinny pock-faced man facing him some fifty feet away.
Ferdie Lance.
The delay caused by Edson’s slip allowed Ferdie time to get off the first shot. It impacted short, in the mud between Jack’s legs, spraying him with muck. Jack fired back but did not see the impact of his bullet. It clearly missed, for the man turned and disappeared around the corner before Jack could adjust his aim.

“Damnation! This
cabron
lives a charmed life.”

Edson struggled to his feet and looked down at the new Colt’s pistol in his hand. “It’s these danged new Colt’s. I don’t think they shoot the same as the old cap and ball, so don’t aim low. They shoot pretty true.”

Jack looked at the weapon in his own hand. Edson was probably right. He’d instinctively aimed low, for the exploding cap of the old pistol and the loosely packed powder often combined to create a double recoil before the bullet actually left the muzzle, making it difficult to judge the impact point. The new .45 did not suffer from this problem.
Blast!
They should have taken time to practice.

Edson started down the alley. “Come on, Jack. I’ve got his track now. He’ll play hell getting away as long as we don’t give up.”

“All right, move on ahead. Try to stay on your feet this time.”

“Dang you, Jack.”

Edson sprinted to the corner and carefully peered around. “There he goes. He turned right at the next block. You go on straight down this alley. See if you can catch him or see which way he turns at the next corner. I’ll stay on his track.”

Jack ran straight across the street and on down the alley. He reached the next cross street in time to see Ferdie turn left. The man was now running straight away from him about a half a block away. Jack raised his pistol to shoot, but decided against it. There were too many innocent people on the streets.

Edson burst around the corner hot on Ferdie’s tail. Jack decided to try again to get ahead of the fleeing man by taking a right turn at the next cross street.

The chase took them out of the built-up area of Austin, and Jack found himself in a colony of poor Mexican workers. Jack could see the typical things one might see in a Mexican village, whitewashed adobe brick buildings, old ladies with shawls, naked little children running about, but he had no time to dwell on them. Ferdie burst around the corner ahead of Jack, coattails flying. He’d turned the wrong way. Ferdie was now running directly at Jack.

“
Ferdie Lance! Stop where you are.”

Ferdie did not stop. He turned hard left in the muddy street, slipped down on one leg and fired. Jack flinched and snapped off his own shot. It hit short, spraying mud in a tall spout at Ferdie’s feet. He fired again.
Dad blast this gun.

Ferdie bounded up and was off, firing wildly over his shoulder as he fled. He burst through the doorway of a small cantina as Edson arrived, panting. “Cover the rear of the building, Edson. I’ll go in this way.”

Jack charged into the dimly lit cantina, turned left and ducked left behind a support post, pistol scanning for a target. A stool wielded by an angry bartender glanced off his shoulder. The man swore in guttural Spanish as he tried to hit Jack a second time, but stopped in mid-swing as Jack responded with his own special Mexican oath. At that moment Jack heard another shot, an oath yelled from the rear of the building, the unmistakable sound of a horse pounding off into the distance.

Jack disengaged himself from the bartender and ran to the back door of the cantina. Edson was standing slump-shouldered, pistol hanging loosely at his side. The skinny man galloped away, mud spattered coattails flying in the wind.

“That had to be Ferdie Lance,” Jack panted. “Skinny, ferret faced, carrying a big knife.”

“Good bet.”

Edson instinctively looked down, examining the horse’s track for markings. He noted several distinctive features, pointed them out, and then stared as Ferdie Lance disappeared over the horizon.

“Should we keep after him?”

Edson shook his head. “By the time we get horses and gear of our own for a chase, he’ll have a good head start. My guess is he’ll be back in town within a few days. It’s his best chance of hiding out. He has no supplies for survival on the prairie. I take him to be a city slicker, not a country boy. He’ll be back, and he’ll show up at the boutique. Then we’ll nail him.”

“I’m not so sure. He seemed pretty scared. He might keep on running until he joins up with the rest of the Kinch West bunch. If he does that, we might not see him for a long time.”

“Yes. That’s possible. But if he intends to do that, he’d probably find
them
before we find him. Then we’d be the ones in trouble. No. The best way to track a man is to figure where he’s going, then get there ahead of him. If you’re wrong, go back and refigure. Mary Sue Doss said he comes to her at night because he can’t sleep without a woman. Not only that, the boutique is such an unlikely place, he’ll figure it’s still the safest place to be. He may join up with Kinch West, but he’ll be back here soon enough.”

“Yeah? Well, at least we know what he looks like and he knows this stalking business is a two way street. That should slow him up a little.”

Jack turned back to the cantina. The still angry bartender came out the door accompanied by a disheveled looking
vaquero.
The
vaquero
looked around. Obviously, it had been his horse Ferdie had stolen. The two men gave Edson and Jack murderous looks. The
vaquero
reached for his pistol. Fortunately for him, it was still held tightly in its holster by the hammer loop. Jack and Edson raised their weapons and leveled them directly at the man’s head.

“Easy there,
amigo.”
Jack spoke calmly in his most cultured Spanish. “I am United States Deputy Marshal Jack Anthony Lopes. This is Deputy Marshal Edson Rabb. We mean you no harm. We’re sorry the miserable murdering rat we were chasing stole your horse. However, I will personally see to it you get another, of much better quality than the one you just lost. Before I do that, you must agree to share a bottle with us. We will not leave here until we are assured of your friendship. There must be no hard feelings.”

Jack had learned long ago the danger of leaving enemies behind to cause trouble in the future. This was especially true of Mexican
vaqueros
who lived by a sense of honor only they could comprehend. Quick to anger, even quicker to forgive, it was always wise to appease such men if it was possible to do so. The bartender and the
vaquero
looked at each other curiously. Smiles grew on their faces.

“Put away your
pistolos
,” the bartender said in Spanish. “I think we can be friends. I’m sure
Cipriano
will be happy with any horse you might provide. Come on in and join us. We are a poor cantina with no fancy liquors, but more
pulque
than you could drink in a week. Do you have
cajones, señor?”

“What did they say, Jack?”

“They’ve just invited us into the cantina to share a bottle of
pulque
with them. They figure we need a drink after all the running we’ve been doing.”

“Well, they’re right about that. What’s
pulque?”

“What’s
pulque?
Do you mean you’ve never had any
pulque?
”

“That’s what I said, Jack. Do I have to repeat myself every time I ask you a question? Dang, Jack. My poor old mouth is going to fall right off if’n I hang around you much more.”

“More’n likely you won’t have a mouth left, after we get out of here.
Pulque
can do that to you. It’s a poor man’s drink, fermented juice of the maguey cactus. Now that we’ve made friends with these people, I’m sure they won’t let us get away until every man in the place has tried to drink us under the table. Take my word for it.”

“Well, I’m game. The more friends I make, the better I like it. Do you think there are any women in there?”

Jack smiled. “Yes. But not one of them will speak English. You may be handsome, but you’ve got to sweet talk a Mexican girl. If you can’t, you’re flat out of luck.”

Edson hesitated, and then smiled. “Wanna bet?”

CHAPTER 37

“Thank you, Mr. Mobley. I liked that story. But I still don’t understand how someone can change a pumpkin into a carriage. Is that another one of those
somethings
I will find out about when I get older?”

“No, I don’t think so. At least I never learned how. I think it’s something only a fairy godmother can learn to do. But, who knows? Maybe one day you’ll get to be a fairy godmother, and then you can come back and explain it to me.”

“Oh, that would be fun.”

Mobley shifted on the bed as Gertrude adjusted his pillow. Talking with her had become one of his great pleasures. Everything about her reminded him of Lydia, her soft skin, green penetrating eyes. It was almost like he was a child again with a schoolboy’s crush on the prettiest girl in town.

He lay back as he watched her fuss about the room, like all of the women in his life, busy, busy, busy. Never stopping. He’d always relished the satisfaction of hard work and doing a job right, but every woman he’d known had taken the matter one step farther. It was as if keeping constantly busy was satisfaction in itself. And it wasn’t something they’d come to learn as they grew up. As with Gertrude, it seemed part of their nature.

He thought about the past several weeks, of how Lydia had hovered over him, comforted him during the worst of the sweats and chills. It all seemed like a dream now. She’d ordered Jack and Edson around like children. She’d searched for a treatment, and found it. She and Edson.

Thinking of Lydia. It was all he’d been able to do in his delirium. A great welling in his chest, a growing feeling unlike any he had experienced before, had dominated him. It was a warm feeling most of the time now, but it had caused terrible fear and anxiety for her safety during his worst periods. The train battle scene had repeatedly flashed before his eyes. Throwing himself in front of her and firing, aiming, firing. He’d saved her. He knew that. Then she’d saved him. But the fight was not over. He might not be able to protect her the next time. And there
would
be a next time, of that he was absolutely certain.

Watching Gertrude, knowing everyone was working, doing something positive, suddenly became frustrating. It was time he got up. Time he started making plans and getting back in control. He was weak, but felt much better than before.

“Gertrude, would you mind leaving the room for a few minutes? I’d like to get up and into my clothes. It’s time I stopped laying around like a cripple. I think moving and walking would be good for me, don’t you think?”

Gertrude stopped fussing with the breakfast tray, turned and stood, hands on her hips. “I don’t think so, Mr. Mobley. Momma thinks you need more rest. You might hurt yourself if you get up too soon.”

“Well, you go tell your momma that I’m tired of this bed and I am going to get up. If I hurt myself, I’ll yell out.”

Gertrude stared at him a few more seconds, and then turned to go into her mother’s room. Mobley leaned forward, threw his sheets back and sat up. A wave of dizziness swept over him. He put his head down and waited it out. His wound was still painful, but the worst was clearly past. He would be able to move around, but not without his clothes. They were neatly folded on the chair next to the dresser, across the room.

Lydia walked in as he reached the halfway point. She looked at him and smiled. He felt a rush of heat on his face. The woman he loved was looking at him. He was stark naked. He turned too quickly, grimaced at the pain radiating from his side and hurriedly limped back to the bed. She followed, sat on the edge of the mattress, reached out to caress his chest as he pulled the sheets up around his neck.

Her hand traced circles from his breast bone to his navel, soft even through the sheet. He began to shake as if the fever was coming back. Lydia had a strange look in her eye, a look of love and passion. He wanted to reach out, hold her, and caress her. But something stopped him. He was embarrassed; but there was more to it. Fear for her safety. He was a target, certain to be stalked and attacked, again and again. If he allowed his passions to take over, he’d never be able to send her away, to keep her safe.
She must not be harmed
.

Lydia lowered her head to his chest. His heart pounded. He struggled for control, and lost. The soft scent of her hair coursed through his senses, firing his body as never before. He reached for her, kissed her gently on the forehead, then with force on the lips. He kissed her again, deeply. She lay beside him, cooing in his ear, hands moving sensually over his body, breasts pressed against him. His breath became ragged.

No
. He pushed himself back, turned away.

Lydia lifted her head. She leaned over him, willing him to snuggle her breasts. But, something was wrong. She tried to look into his eyes, but he refused contact. She’d wanted only to comfort him, to hug and kiss. He’d responded, but not as she’d thought. Seeing him standing naked had stirred her, but after caring for him so long, caring for him like a baby, she’d sought only to tell and show him how much she cared.

She sat up, moved to the side of the bed. Her lower lip began to quiver, tears of love, frustration and fear, trickled down her cheek. She thought she’d been too aggressive, not realizing how sensitive he was. She lowered her head. “I’m sorry, Mobley. I—I’ve embarrassed you. Please forgive me.”

Mobley’s mind raced. Other than his youthful bout in the hay with Dolly McGee and a few Cuban girls, he’d had no experience with women. The only high class ladies he’d ever met demanded courtesy, protection, gentlemanly behavior from their men. They behaved properly, bore children, went to church. That was not the way he wanted Lydia to be, a follower. He liked her strength of will, her love of life. He wanted to cater to her, be her gentleman and protector. But it was impossible now, with so much killing, so much danger. He could not give in to his passions. But how to explain it to her, how to get her to leave him and go back to the safety of Waco, eluded him. Even now, the thought of her leaving sent chills of panic through his senses. If he allowed himself to go further, to make love to her, he’d lose all self control.

Lydia Sweetgrass was the first woman he’d ever met who really knew who she was, capable of taking and exercising power and remaining a lady through and through. He understood she was a widow, certainly not a virgin, and more sexually experienced than he. Making love to her would be—a thing of his dreams.

Lydia waited.
What’s the matter here? Is he really that upset?
She stood up. “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. I will not come in again without knocking.” She turned and walked out.

Mobley got up slowly and walked back to the dresser. He put on his clothes, taking care not to strain himself or his injury. A bottle of sourmash whiskey was next to the water basin. He picked it up and took a long pull. His weak stomach turned, but did not further embarrass him. The whiskey felt good as it burned its way down his throat. He took another pull, then another, the pain in his side receding with each long swallow. The pain in his heart and mind, for having hurt Lydia, remained.

* * *

Edson paced back and forth in the hallway outside the hotel suite. “There’s something wrong with Mobley. He’s been acting strange and stiff-headed for more than a week. It’s almost as if he’d died and come back as another person. I don’t know what it is, but it has something to do with Lydia.”

“Of course it has something to do with Lydia. Can’t you see he’s fallen in love with her? I thought you were supposed to be perceptive.” Jack leaned against the hall wall and toed the carpet. “Men in love do the stupidest things.”

“Of course they do, but stupid isn’t exactly what he’s doing. I think he feels less of a man since being wounded. He’s lost some of his confidence. My old grandfather told me people are born thinking they’re immortal, that they can’t be killed. When they find out it ain’t so, it can hit pretty hard. Maybe that’s it. Being shot has him worried about death and all that would mean.”

“Like what? When you’re dead, you’re dead.”

“Your body’s dead. Not your soul.”

“True, at least I hope it’s true. But what would it mean to Mobley?”

“I don’t know. He clearly loves Lydia. Maybe he’s worried about what would happen to her if he was killed.”

“Or what
might
happen to her, if she stays around?”

Edson nodded. “Maybe.”

“What do you think we ought to do?”

“I don’t know, Jack. If we could get him out of his room, back out on the prairie, he might come around. I’ve seen towns mess people up before; but never this bad. He’s got to get out before he can start thinking straight. I think Lydia would agree.”

“Yeah, I think she would.” Lydia came in from her shopping trip, and saw Edson and Jack standing in the hallway. She had a smile on her face. “Guess what, boys? We’ve all been invited to a party at the governor’s mansion tonight.”

Edson looked at Jack. His eyes had turned a strange shade of black and violet. Jack fingered his pistol as his lips curled and twisted. Edson felt himself becoming angry as well. Governor Davis was responsible for everything. He had to be stopped.

Lydia looked back and forth between them. “Come on, boys. It should be fun. We need to get out. It’s been too dreary around here. “We all need some cheering up.”