Night Flower (Gone-to-Texas Trilogy) (37 page)

      
When Melanie came into the dining room, Lee was nowhere in sight. Then, she heard a noise from down the hall. Following the sounds of rustling pages and thudding books being tossed onto a pile, Melanie paused in the door to the library, puzzled. Lee was standing with his back to her, rummaging through the shelves against the window wall, pulling down volume after volume, flipping through each, replacing some, tossing others onto the growing heap threatening to spill from the desk.

      
She observed his casual attire, feeling angry at his cavalier attitude and embarrassed because she had overdressed. Nevertheless, even in a simple pair of buckskins and homespun shirt, he was elegantly handsome. While he was unaware of her perusal, Melanie watched the play of lean muscles beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the way the soft leather pants hugged his long legs. One inky lock of hair spilled over his forehead, which was creased in concentration.

      
Suddenly, he sensed her presence and looked up. If she'd pole axed him between the eyes, he would not have been more stunned. Covering the surge of breathless pain her beauty evoked, he asked harshly, “Aren't you a bit overdressed for a simple dinner at home?” With insulting thoroughness, he surveyed her lush curves encased so revealingly in red velvet.

      
“Perhaps I felt I owed you something,” she replied cryptically, fighting down the dizzying wash of humiliation his inspection brought. She walked over to the desk and picked up a Latin grammar, blowing the dust from its pages. “It seems an odd time to clean out your library,” she commented, wanting desperately to change the subject.

      
Now, it was Lee who felt an unreasoning surge of embarrassment. “I was just packing up a few old books for Father Gus,” he said nonchalantly, turning back to his task.

      
Her eyes widened in surprise. “For his school—for the Indian children? Lee Velasquez helping Indians? How out of character!”

      
“No more so than a women's rights crusader wearing a dress like that,” he shot back, tossing the last of the books from the case onto the desk.

      
Just then Kai appeared in the doorway to announce dinner. He could sense the crackling tension between the boss and his wife. Both of them seemed glad to quit the library and file silently into the dining room to eat the superbly prepared meal. It depressed Kai to realize that neither would taste a bit of what they consumed.

* * * *

      
The next morning two of the
vaqueros
from Night Flower Ranch pulled up to the weathered adobe schoolhouse with a wagon filled with books. One of the men handed the overjoyed priest a terse note.

Dear Father Gus:

Please don't try to make me a Cardinal for this, but I thought you could use these. I brought them from my Uncle Alfonso's library in Mexico City many years ago. Jim Slade saved them for me while I was in exile. Since it was his father who first gave me a love of books and a chance to read, I only repay a debt of long standing by passing them on to you.

Lee Velasquez

      
Melanie left early that morning for town. Lee was already down at the corral making work assignments to the men, trying to concentrate on the business of running his ranch. He wanted nothing more than to forget his wife, at least for the day. Seeing two horsemen approach, he recognized Jim Slade's big buckskin, Polvo, at once and a broad smile crossed his face. Then seeing the man with his friend, he immediately scowled. It was that damn ranger Jeremy Lawrence!
What the hell is he doing on my land?
His hand went automatically to the Colt on his hip.

      
Jim nodded tersely to Lee, noting the way he looked at Jeremy and touched his gun. “You won't be needing that,
mano
. I'll vouch for Lawrence here,” he said levelly.

      
“I don't want rangers on Velasquez land, Jim. You know that,” Lee replied tightly.

      
“Will you forget all the old hates just long enough to listen to what we have to say? It's important, Lee. I'm asking you as a friend...as a brother.” Slade's amber eyes pierced Lee's armor.

      
Shrugging, Lee let his hand drop away from his gun and swung up on Sangre. Several
vaqueros
lingered around the busy corral, curious about what was going on. They were aware of the hate their boss had for the
rinches
. Ignoring them, Lee said, “Let's ride out a ways where we can talk in private.”

      
After a few minutes of riding in silence, Jim said, “What I have to ask you comes direct from Houston, Lee.” As he expected, Lee's eyes narrowed in surprise, then shifted to Lawrence. “Jeremy works for the Indian Office. He was an agent for the superintendent in St. Louis for several years. Now he's been assigned to Texas.”

      
“What the hell does that have to do with me? You know I have no use for Indians or rangers,” Lee replied in a low growl.

      
“Look, Velasquez, I know we got off to a bad start—” Jeremy began but Lee cut him off.

      
“We didn't get off to any start. I don't deal with rangers—or Indian agents,” he added contemptuously.

      
“You have plenty of reasons to hate Indians and rangers,” Jim interjected, “but you sure as hell ought to want to stop a full-blown Comanche uprising incited by a crooked ranger. Or do you want the wars of a generation ago to start up again?”

      
Lee's face was set in grim lines. “From what I've been hearing lately, they already have.”

      
Patiently Jeremy replied, “The raids that have been increasing in the Bexar area are being instigated by a crooked trader who runs whiskey and guns to the renegades in return for stolen horses and cattle. The whole operation is being protected by Seth Walkman. That's why Houston and my superiors in the Interior Department picked me for this assignment. I'd been a militia volunteer in east Texas several years ago and I worked for the bureau.” He paused a moment, then smiled coldly. “Surely you'd like to stop Walkman and Blaine, not to mention a murdering bastard like Buffalo Gall.”

      
Lee looked straight ahead, digesting what Lawrence said. “So Walkman's dealing with renegades,” he murmured, half to himself. Ever since he'd first run across the cold-eyed ranger, he'd known the man was especially dangerous. “Just exactly how do you know it's Walkman and Blaine who are dealing with Gall?”

      
Jim shifted nervously in the saddle and Jeremy cleared his throat uncomfortably. Jim spoke first. “Houston knew Blaine was getting big cash payments for bills at his post supposedly run up by Comanche chiefs. He's smelled a rat as far as Blaine's concerned for years. As to Walkman—”

      
“Your wife found out about his conversation with Blaine. That's what we were talking about that day in the restaurant,” Jeremy interrupted.

      
“Melanie! How in the hell did she find out about Walkman?” Lee's eyes narrowed on Lawrence accusingly.

      
“It seems she's got a network of spies—small Indian children from that school the German priest runs,” Jeremy answered, looking Lee in the eye straightforwardly.

      
Jim watched the exchange between the two men with growing unease. He had been sure it would be difficult to get Lee to trust a ranger, but there was more to this situation than Lee’s hate for rangers. Melanie was involved, and both men were walking around the issue like two dogs worrying a bone.

      
Lee recalled that Lame Deer had given Melanie information about Gall's raid. Her going after that story had led indirectly to their disastrous marriage. Once he had stopped her from following that Comanche at the creek, he'd thought no more about the raid. But then he'd had a lot of other things on his mind. Finally he said, “I told my wife when we married that Moses French's career was over. It seems she doesn't agree,” he mused grimly.

      
“Look, Velasquez, I know how dangerous this is and I warned her to stay out of it when she gave me that information,” Jeremy said defensively.

      
“What you tell her doesn't signify, Lawrence. I'm her husband, and she'll do as I say…if I have to lock her in her room,” he finished with gritted teeth.

      
“I think we all agree Melanie isn't to be brought in on our plans to surprise Gall and his white friends,” Jim said levelly, looking from Lee to Jeremy. “Now that we have that settled, shall we discuss how to stop a war?”

* * * *

      
Lame Deer scurried through the brush, keeping low and out of sight as he watched Seth Walkman enter Blaine's trading post. As he crawled along the edge of a deep ravine, he forgot the bruises and cuts that covered his body. He must get near enough to overhear what the trader and the ranger were saying. He had left his burro, the one Father Gus let him borrow, behind a hill, tied in a cotton wood thicket. But how to get inside the big rickety log building to overhear the two men plotting? He was sure they spoke of Gall and his raiders, and he vowed to get the details for Melanie.

      
Just then a small band of women, mostly Kickapoo squaws, came into sight, trailing a gaggle of half-naked children with them as they trudged toward the post. They brought dressed buffalo hides to trade for iron cook pots and other implements. If he could only melt in with the other children, he could hang around the post while they browsed. No one would pay any attention to him if he acted as if he spoke no English.

      
Taking off the necklace and headband that marked him as a Lipan, he bundled them up in his shirt, which was far too new and clean. Clad only in worn buckskin pants and moccasins, he slipped in behind the last couple of small girls, unnoticed.

      
The post was dark inside, dank-smelling. The walls and aisles were piled high with goods—cooking implements, skinning knives, blankets. Brightly colored bolts of cheap calico were piled in a gaudy heap in one corner next to a large set of crude wooden boxes filled with multi-colored loose beads. The pungent smell of tanned leather emanated from one corner where large stacks of tanned bison hides stood. Soft, glossy furs lay in a fluffy pile across one crude plank table that served as a work counter.

      
A cash box and bookkeeping ledger sat next to the furs. Lame Deer knew how the trader kept everything written down, making the Indians sign their marks next to the lists of items purchased. He also knew the bills for a few handfuls of cheap beads and a moldy blanket often were presented to the Indian agents for a greatly inflated value.

      
A man in greasy buckskins and a coarse homespun shirt ambled over to the Kickapoo women and began to speak to them in a crude hodgepodge of Spanish and sign language. Lame Deer looked around, searching for the tall ranger and the fat Firehair, Blaine. Then he heard the low, growling tones of Walkman's voice coming from a back room. The conversation was muffled when Blaine appeared suddenly and slammed the door. Lame Deer swore to himself and then recalled how Father Gus would feel about his lapse. Quickly repenting the profanity, the child looked for a way around the back so he could eavesdrop. It only took a moment to slip outside, find an old wooden barrel and shove it below the open window to Blaine's office.

      
“I tell ya, Seth, I don't like givin' them Comanch Brown Bess muskets. Better ta jist git 'em likkered up ‘n let 'em raid stock fer us. With them guns they's killin' too many settlers. Gittin' too bold. Afore yew know it, we'll have thet damn Neighbors down on us.” Lucas Blaine's wheezing voice rose a bit as he finished speaking his piece and took a sip from a glass of clear liquid on the table in front of him.

      
Walkman watched with contempt as the other man folded his hands across his paunch. “Forget that fool Injun agent Neighbors. He's busy now up in Austin playin' at bein' a crusadin' reformer in the legislature. Tryin' to get the state to give the Injun Office land for reservations.” He sneered.

      
“Some chance o' thet happenin,” Blaine agreed. “Still, if ‘n Gall ‘n his braves keep gettin' supplied with guns ‘n ammunition, th' army might git involved. Cud git real unhealthy for me out here in th' middle.”

      
Walkman sneered again. “You're gettin' rich in the meanwhile—robbin' the Injun agents and them dumb redskins out there blind,” he said, gesturing to the closed door, behind which the Kickapoo women made their purchases. “Sellin’ whiskey's even more profitable, not to mention picking up them herds of prime beef and horseflesh. You want the money, you take your chances the same as me ‘n him.”

      
Blaine's watery hazel eyes shifted away from Walkman's leaden ones, and he lifted his glass of whiskey again. “He's gettin' too greedy, Seth. Yew ‘n him been pushin' Gall ta raid too often. With them guns they's not jist takin' off stock—they's killin' folks—settlers, women and kids.”

      
“You gettin' religion?” Walkman snickered.

      
“Jist makes me nervous, thet's all,” Blaine said thickly, tossing off the last of his whiskey.

      
“Tell your pal Gall I got him a real sweet place to raid. I'm takin' my men on a patrol to the south for a few days. Up northwest a ways a fellow named Broughton has him a real fine corral full o’ mustangs, all broke and ready for sale to the army. I think Gall could pick them off real easy. Only the rancher 'n his family are there with half a dozen men. None of them got any guns better'n the Injuns.”