"I am sorry," he blurted, trying to rise on an elbow. "Phoebe, excuse me! I did not mean to—"
Suddenly she fled; he heard footsteps diminish into the night. Along the river the coyotes howled; the frogs stopped for a moment at the sound, then resumed their drumming.
What was the mystery?
The next day he found out. After lying late abed, he wandered out into the sunlight. Raising an arm over his head, he found his shoulder almost free of pain. The fever had abated, also. Standing thus, flexing his arm, he watched a traveler approach from the direction of the capital. Alonzo Meech, the Pinkerton detective, got creakingly down from the decrepit mare and shook hands.
"Bon joor," Meech said. "That's French for 'it's a hell of a nice day.'"
Jack looked around for Mrs. Glore, hoping she had coffee on and boiling, but Beulah was not in the kitchen. He did not see Phoebe Larkin, either. Eggleston was feeding the chickens that a teamster had traded Mrs. Glore for peach pies, and Charlie stalked mice under the spreading ironwood tree.
"So the Apaches didn't get you," Drumm remarked.
The detective shook his head. He looked dusty and funereal as ever, and weary also. But there was something enduring in his manner.
"No," he said. "Oh, they stepped on my corns a little in a gulch near Prescott, but I give them as good as I got." He accepted a dipper of water; drinking part of it, he splashed the rest in his face and rubbed at his eyes. "My butt feels like a dime's worth of stew meat from all the saddle time I been putting in." Throwing the reins over the mare's head, he watched the animal shamble toward the greenery along the river. "Been on the road all night. Best time to travel, with old Agustín and his cutthroats loose."
Drumm remembered the detective's mission. "You were pursuing someone."
Meech nodded. "A pretty young lady named Phoebe Buckner. Her companion is a middle-aged lady goes by the name of Beulah Glore. They was seen around here. A freighter said he'd heard—"
"Two—two females?" Drumm tried to keep his voice casual.
"That's right." Meech walked slowly toward the bright patch of color thrown over the back of a chair under the ramada. It was Phoebe Larkin's China silk scarf, the garish print to keep her hair in place against the wind. The detective picked it up, spread it, examined it. "I'd know that anywhere," he muttered.
"I guess she forgot it," Drumm said. "But—what crime did they commit?"
The detective folded the kerchief and slipped it into his pocket. He stared around, taking in the reed hut, the half-finished adobe, the lean-tos, the earthen dam, freshly sown crops, the graves of the two Apaches.
"The young one," he said, "plugged Mr. Phineas Buckner, her husband, with a little derringer. Didn't kill him, but that wasn't her fault! Rifled the old man's strongbox, run off with Buckner's cook, an old friend of hers from Pocahontas County, West Virginia. Where are they, Mr. Drumm?"
Chapter Six
Suddenly Drumm realized that the two females must have observed the approach of Alonzo Meech from a distance. Eggleston was laying up adobe bricks in a mortar made by burning rocks, and the Papago shoveled dirt atop the dam to accommodate the steadily rising waters. But there was no sign of Phoebe Larkin or Mrs. Glore; they had fled.
"Why—ah—I—"
"They stopped here, didn't they?" Meech demanded. "Heard the two of 'em come through on the Phoenix stage, then stayed when Apaches turned the stage back."
Drumm's words came so glibly, so naturally, that he himself was astounded. He had up until now been a truthful man.
"That's right," he lied. "They were here. But one of Tully and Ochoa's wagons took them into Prescott the other day. They packed up and left, both of them. It seems Miss Larkin has an uncle in Prescott, and—"
"That was her maiden name—Larkin," Meech observed. "Her married name is Buckner."
"Well, anyway, they are not here now. They have gone on to Prescott. Quite suddenly, as a matter of fact." He wanted desperately to look around, to see whether Phoebe and Mrs. Glore might even now be rolling out pie dough or chopping wood for the kitchen fire to give the lie to his statement, but did not dare.
Meech strolled to the water butt and drank another dipperful. "They ain't in Prescott," he grumbled. "By now I know everyone in Prescott, except for the greasers. Them two ain't there—ain't been there!" Shaking water from his grizzled beard, he stared at Jack Drumm. "Seems like you favor that shoulder."
"Apaches again, a few days ago. They shot up the place, but we —Eggie and I—drove them off."
"Heard in Prescott you was planning to stay here along the Agua Fria. Seems to me like a damned fool idea, but—" Casually the detective wandered toward the kitchen, but Drumm steered him to a chair under the ramada.
"You must be tired after riding all the way from Prescott. Sit there and rest—I'll bring something to eat. I was about to have a bit of lunch myself."
While Alonzo Meech slumped in the chair, fanning himself with his broad-brimmed hat, Jack spoke in low tones to Eggleston.
"That is Detective Meech—do you remember? The people he was searching for are Miss Phoebe and Mrs. Glore."
The valet's eyes opened wide. "But what—"
Jack quickly put a finger to his lips. "Where are they?"
"Mr. Jack, I don't know! A moment ago they were working in the kitchen, but I heard Mrs. Glore make a funny noise and they hurried into the reeds along the river!"
Drumm nodded. "I thought so." He looked again toward Meech, lolling in the chair. "If you will, bring us something to eat. Remember—say nothing whatever about the ladies! I told him they left here several days ago for Prescott."
"But—"
"Shhhh! I will explain everything later. In the meantime, let us act perfectly natural. Perhaps Meech will be satisfied and go on about his business."
Together Drumm and the detective ate pie and drank coffee under the ramada. The sun climbed high in the sky; the Mazatzals turned blue and hazy. A wren dipped brazenly through the shelter and then perched atop a cactus, singing a cheerful song. Meech spooned up the last of his pie.
"Ain't had a treat like that since I come out here! Crust just like my wife makes." He looked thoughtfully at Jack Drumm and belched. "Mrs. Glore was said to be a good cook."
"Eggie is almost of chef level," Jack said carelessly. "You remember his cooking the night we had dinner here, just before Agustín and his Apaches attacked. Eggie is a real coper—he can bring off almost anything you care to mention. Really, a marvelous servant!"
Meech wiped his mouth, staring at laundry spread over the bushes. Jack suspected they were Phoebe Larkin's underthings. From where he sat he could not quite make out the laces and bows undoubtedly there.
"Eggie is quite clean, also," he added. "He insists on laundering our linen daily. Since we settled down here, we have become very regular in our habits."
"Well—" Meech sighed and put on his broad-brimmed hat. He filled his canteen from the water butt and buckled the big Colt's revolver about his waist. "Got to get on about my business."
Jack's inquiry was casual. "Where are you bound for now?"
Meech stared with reddened eyes down the road; his gaze followed the winding track into Centinela Canyon. "Just around, I guess, to pick up their trail and start all over again. I had 'em dead to rights in Phoenix but they gave me the slip." He mounted the buckskin and waved. "Churchy la femme. That's French for 'don't never trust a woman.'"
Jack sat for a long while under the ramada, watching the detective and his mount dwindle in the southern distance. Finally they were gone, but perhaps the detective had field glasses in his saddlebags. He walked slowly, casually, to the dam. Eggleston looked up, brow shiny with sweat, face smeared clownlike with dirt.