Gone to Texas (16 page)

"We? Who are you?"

"Billy Steptoe's the name. The Madison County sheriff sent me to find you. He said to ride all the way to Maysville if I had to."

"But how did you know I was coming? What's the matter? My mother—has something happened to my mother?"

"I don't rightly know . . . "

"What do you mean you don't know?" snapped Christopher.

"Settle down, boy," said Nathaniel. "Billy, why don't you tell us what you
do
know?"

"Yessir. The sheriff and six or seven men rode out to Elm Tree a couple hours ago. They were armed to the teeth. I dunno why. The sheriff just told me to tell you, Mr. Groves, that one of your ma's hands showed up at his place this afternoon with a story about two men with rifles holding everybody prisoner at Elm Tree."

"Two men? What two men? Why?"

"We won't find out here," said Nathaniel. "Let's go."

By the time they reached the vicinity of Elm Tree the old leatherstocking and his grandson had left Billy Steptoe behind. The boy's horse had bottomed out.
They spotted a campfire up ahead, beneath the trees, close by the road. A black shape separated suddenly from the night shadows and loomed in their path, blocking the narrow road, appearing so abruptly that Christopher let out a shout of alarm and groped for the pistol in his belt.

"Who goes there?" boomed the big shape.

"Easy, Christopher," said Nathaniel, and Christopher had a hunch his grandfather had known this man was lurking in the brush even before he had stepped out into the road. Though the night was clear and the stars were out and a three-quarter moon was just now beginning to rise above the horizon, it was black as pitch here on the tree-shaded lane, and Christopher could scarcely see the ground, much less distinguish anything about the man blocking their path. But Flintlock Jones still had the eyes of a cat.

"I'm Nathaniel Jones," said the frontiersman. "This is Christopher Groves. We're looking for the sheriff. So take a deep breath and ease your finger off that trigger."

"Sorry, Mr. Jones." The man was contrite. "Reckon I'm a little nervous."

"Well, young Billy Steptoe's about a quarter of a mile behind us. Whatever you do, don't shoot him when he gets here."

"No, sir. I sure won't. Pardon me, sir, but aren't you the feller folks call Flintlock?"

"I am. It's a name I don't cotton to, I must admit. But there's not much I can do about it."

"I'm right glad you're with us, Mr. Jones."

"Under the circumstances," said Nathaniel grimly, "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

"The sheriff's over by the fire."

They rode on. Six men stood or sat around the crackling fire. From here they could look across the lane, past the fence marking the boundary of Elm Tree, under the
sweeping limbs of an ancient pecan tree, and across a field of excellent graze to the house on a slight rise about three hundred yards away. Lamplight gleamed in some of the windows.

It was all Christopher could do to refrain from kicking the weary roan horse into a gallop and making straight for the house and his mother. But he didn't. If he did something stupid like that somebody could get killed. There was a fine line between audacity and foolish impetuosity, and the difference in this case might be his mother's life or death.

A man approached them as they dismounted. At the very edge of the firelight, Christopher could distinguish this man's spare frame and angular features. He looked worried, which did nothing for Christopher's own peace of mind.

"I'm Sheriff Ainsley. Might you be Christopher Groves?"

"I am. And this is my grandfather, Nathaniel Jones."

"The
Nathaniel Jones.
Flintlock
Jones?" The man's ear-to-ear grin expressed vast relief. "My father talked quite a lot about you, Mr. Jones."

"Your father was sheriff before you, wasn't he?"

"That he was. Sheriff of Madison County for nigh on thirty years. Died a few years back. Guess the folks gave me the job on account of him. Of course, I could never fill his shoes. Never had cause to rue the job—until now."

"I take that to mean you don't have much experience in such matters," said Christopher.

"I'll be the first to admit it. The country's pretty settled now. We don't have too many problems anymore. Oh, an occasional horse stealing. Had a highwayman prowling these roads about a year ago, but some of the folks caught him and left his carcass hanging from a rope. This business here—" Ainsley shook his head. "Beats all I ever seen."

Christopher grimaced. Sheriff Ainsley did not inspire much confidence.

"Who are the two men?" asked Nathaniel.

"The boy who came and told me about it said he thought their name was Vickers."

"Vickers!" exclaimed Christopher.

"They ain't from around these parts," said Ainsley. "Ain't no Vickers here in Madison County, unless you count Emily Cooper. As I recollect, that was her maiden name."

Nathaniel nodded. "They're related. By the way, Emily Cooper's dead."

"Dead? How? When? I knew she'd been gone from Hunter's Creek for a spell, but I . . . dead, you say? How did it happen?"

"It's a long story. I'll tell you later." Nathaniel nodded at the five men near the fire. "Is that all the help you could get?"

"I'll be honest with you, Mr. Jones. That's all would come."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean Rebecca Groves ain't the most popular person in Madison County. She done stirred up a lot of hard feelings when she went and freed those slaves of hers. Most folks around here just don't think she ought to have done such a thing."

"What do you think about it, Sheriff?" asked Christopher, his tone less than cordial.

"I'm here, ain't I? It's my job to be here."

"But would you be here if it wasn't?"

"That's enough, Christopher."

"They might as well go on home, Grandpa. We can't go charging up there and start a shooting spree."

"I don't rightly know what to do," confessed Ainsley. "I rode up there this afternoon to try to talk them into giving themselves up."

"How did that work out?" asked Nathaniel.

"They said they were waiting for Mr. Groves here. Then they fired a shot over my head."

"Well, there it is," said Christopher. "There's only one thing to do. I'll go in alone and give myself up to them, if they'll release my mother in exchange."

"There's bound to be a better way," said Nathaniel, gazing thoughtfully across the road and the field at the distant house.

"The boys and I have been discussing it all evening," said Ainsley. "We were thinking we might could sneak up there under cover of darkness and get a good shot at the two of them. But they're dangerous men. The boy told me they done killed one of the servants. An old man. Don't recall his name . . . "

"Must be Isaac," said Christopher, and a chill shot down his spine. "If they'll shoot a harmless old man they'll shoot a woman. I've got to go, Grandpa. There's no other way."

"They'd kill you, son," said Ainsley.

"Better me than her."

"You're forgetting one thing," said Nathaniel. "Your mother would never walk away if you were in danger, Christopher. They'd have to kill her first." He shook his head. "No. I can't let you do it."

"We've got to do something!"

"We will. I've got an idea. Might just work." He put a hand on Christopher's shoulder. "But it will require a cool head and steady nerves. Can I rely on you?"

"Yes."

"Good. This is what we'll do . . . "

It proved to be one of the longest nights of Christopher's life. He had to wait until a couple of hours before daybreak, when the moon had set, to make his move, according to Nathaniel's plan. The frontiersman suggested that he get some sleep. Ainsley and his men were rolled up in their blankets for some shut-eye, leaving a
single sentry to watch the road as well as the house. Nathaniel slept, too, and Christopher envied his grandfather the ability to do so. The plan was a risky one—especially for Nathaniel—yet that didn't seem to bother him, at least not enough to keep him awake. And Christopher knew that Nathaniel was just as concerned for his mother's well-being as he was. Still, Nathaniel slept. He had taught himself to do so, even in moments of crisis, a habit developed from many years in the forest stalking Indians, or being stalked by them. He awoke right on time, just as the moon descended and the darkness deepened.

They reviewed the plan once more before Christopher set out on foot, knife and pistol in his belt, rifle in hand. He crossed the road and clambered over the wooden fence and started off across the field. The distant house was still ablaze with lamplight. A hundred yards from his destination he got down on his belly and crawled the rest of the way. Reaching the north side of the house, he found the doors to the root cellar closed, but without a padlock. The doors had never been locked to his knowledge, but it had occurred to him that if the doors
were
secured for some reason, the whole plan would go up in smoke.

He tried to be careful opening one of the big wooden doors, but the iron hinges were old and rusted, and made such a loud, screeching complaint that the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He froze, certain that the whole of Madison Country had heard the sound. There was a window just to the right of the cellar doors, one of the dining room windows, and he watched it for a moment, expecting one of the Vickers boys to appear there. But no one did. There was no sign of life in the house. No sound at all. That worried him. Maybe they had slipped away in the night. Maybe they had taken his mother with them as a hostage. Or maybe . . . maybe she was dead.
He cursed himself silently, and tried to put a short rein on his imagination.

Negotiating the steep wooden steps, he decided to leave the door open, rather than risk making more noise by trying to shut it behind him. At the bottom of the steps he crouched for a moment, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness underneath the house. The pungent aroma of old wood and older earth filled his nostrils. Straight ahead, if he remembered correctly, was one of the big piers which supported the house, a ten-foot length of hickory tree trunk buried four feet into the ground, so big that he could have just reached all the way around it with both arms. Locating the pier, he groped for and found a lantern hanging from a stout peg. He thanked the good Lord it was there, as it had been for as long as he could remember. But he could not take these things for granted—the cellar door being unlocked, the lantern being on the peg—not tonight, with so much at stake.

Taking the lantern from the leg, he jostled it. Yes! It was at least half full of coal oil. Christopher used a sulphur match he had gotten from Sheriff Ainsley and lighted the lantern. Keeping it turned down low, he proceeded further under the house. In the vicinity of another wooden staircase, this one located at the center of the house, he found a broken chair, an old armoire with one door missing, several small casks, a rack containing a half-dozen bottles of wine. He climbed halfway up the stairs. The hatch opened into the center hall of the house. He listened hard, hoping to hear something which would tell him where in the house his mother and the Vickers brothers were located. But still there was no sound. He fought the urge to go through the hatch. Anxiety was tying his insides into knots, souring his stomach, parching his throat. Waiting—that was the hardest part. Still, he
had
to
wait. Nathaniel would make his move at daybreak. That was less than an hour away.

Sitting on the steps, rifles across his knees, Christopher put the lantern out, fearing that its light might be seen leaking around the edges of the hatch. There he remained, head in hands, in the black womb of the cellar, wishing for the dawn.

Chapter 13

It was just after dawn when the Vickers boys heard an odd sound coming from somewhere in front of the house. They were in the front parlor, and Rebecca was with them. Morgan and Joshua had taken turns standing guard. Joshua had slept when given the chance, stretched out on the horsehair sofa. But Morgan hadn't been able to sleep. He spent most of the night pacing the floor, and when he got tired of pacing he sat in a wingback chair and glowered at Rebecca, or stared out the windows. Rebecca sat in another chair all night, almost afraid to move, tired but too worried to sleep. Worried for Christopher's sake. As for Prissy, Morgan had locked her in the smokehouse. He didn't need two women to keep an eye on. Neither did he need two hostages.

The odd sound was a creaking noise, and though both brothers rushed to the window and peered cautiously out, they could see nothing that would explain it. Finally, Morgan turned abruptly and crossed the room to where Rebecca was sitting, his rifle leveled at her.

"Come on," he said hoarsely.

She stood, haughtily ignoring the rifle. He motioned to the door to the hall and she preceded them out of the room and to the front door. Morgan jabbed the barrel of the rifle into the small of her back.

"Don't do anything foolish," he warned.

"I would give you the same advice," she said, "except it's too late."

She opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. Morgan followed right behind her, while Joshua remained just inside the doorway, rifle held at the ready.

Nathaniel's long frame was draped in a rocking chair at the end of the porch. Morgan made a funny sound and swung his rifle around to aim it at the old leatherstocking.

"Who the hell are you?"

Nathaniel didn't stop rocking. "Nathaniel Jones is the name. That happens to be my daughter you're hiding behind."

Smelling a trap, Morgan swept a suspicious glance about him.

"I'm all alone," said Nathaniel. "And unarmed."

"It's a trick," said Joshua from the doorway.

"No tricks. I just want to talk."

"You know who he is?" Joshua asked his brother. "He's the one they call Flintlock."

"Flintlock Jones?" Morgan's smile resembled the snarl of a wolf.

"He's as dangerous as a sack full of cottonmouths," declared Joshua.

"This old man?" scoffed Morgan.

"Don't underestimate him."