McCrory's Lady (34 page)

      
“Well, he'll be wantin' to check on Eden once he gets there and finds out she's with the doctor.”

      
“Yes, I suppose he'd have ridden out anyway,” Maggie said, distractedly rubbing her forehead. She had returned the preceding day to Crown Verde to find Eden off on a medical mission of mercy. “Do you think she's safe there? What if Win Barker tries to kidnap her again? He's the one who sent Lazlo. I know he did.”

      
“Be that as it may,” Eileen said, “Eden's well guarded. It's ye I'm worryin' about right now. How long have ye been havin' these spells?”

      
Maggie considered. “A couple of times week before last, then three times last week.” She blushed. “I didn't want Rita to have to clean up my mess... I'm usually healthy as a horse. Once my nerves calm, I'm sure it'll pass.”

      
“Aye, I'm sure it will, too,” Eileen said with a faint smile. “Yer breasts, have they been a wee bit tender? And when did yer last courses end?”

      
Maggie's head flew up and she almost spilled coffee down the front of her robe. Then, she clutched the cup and shook her head. “No, Eileen. I know what you're asking and there is no way I can be pregnant.”

      
“Is that so?” the housekeeper returned smugly. “Just because the mister is too fool stubborn to sleep all night with ye don't mean he can't get a babe on ye.”

      
Maggie's face was at once embarrassed and crestfallen. A deep, haunted sadness filled her eyes, darkening them to midnight blue. “He can't because I can't conceive, Eileen.” Maggie made the painful confession about a foolish young Boston belle who had been seduced and left to bear a child in an Omaha whorehouse, only to have her daughter die. “So you see”—she paused to swallow the lump in her throat—“the doctor told me I could never have another baby.”

      
“Twaddle, and what do the likes of them fool doctors know?” Eileen patted Maggie's hand.

      
“You know what I was before Colin married me. There were years—a long time ago—when I lay with the customers just as my girls in Sonora did. I was a whore, Eileen,” she said with self-loathing, tears welling up and stinging her eyes. “But I never got pregnant again—not after my baby died. I couldn't... I can't.”

      
“There, there, lamb.” Eileen was out of her chair and around the table to wrap her fleshy arms around Maggie's shaking shoulders. “No wonder yer such a fine mother to Eden—she must've been sent to ye and ye to her by the Blessed Mother herself.”

      
“I've often thought so—hoped so. Eden is my child now—my only child, Eileen. There can't be any more. Maybe that's another reason Colin and I...” She sniffled and scrubbed at her eyes. “A man like Colin deserves a son to inherit Crown Verde, and I can't give him one.”

      
Eileen rubbed Maggie's back and cooed to her as the younger woman struggled to bring her emotions under control. "Don't ye be too sure of that. Time will tell."

Chapter Fifteen

      
Eileen heard hoof beats pounding up to the front of the ranch house, followed by the clump of boots on the front porch. By the time she reached the door, Ed Phibbs was rapping sharply on the screen, her face flushed with excitement.

      
Opening the door, the housekeeper inspected the bizarre-looking younger woman. With her straight cropped hair, jutting jaw and tall bony body encased in a shapeless gray jacket and baggy trousers, she appeared shockingly mannish. Her pop eyes looked in danger of falling out of their sockets.

      
“Ed Phibbs here to see Mr. McCrory,” Ed announced, her calliope voice cracking, barely nodding to Eileen.

      
“And where might the mister be knowin' ye from?” the housekeeper asked suspiciously.

      
“It's all right, Eileen,” Maggie said, coming down the hall after the housekeeper. “Miss Phibbs is a friend of ours from Prescott.” Maggie took in Ed's disheveled appearance and keen excitement. Something important had happened. “Come into the kitchen and tell me what's going on. Eileen can give you some breakfast.”

      
“No time for that. I have to see Colin.”

      
“He's over at White Mountain Reservation with that fool from the Bureau of Indian Affairs,” Maggie replied as they walked down the hall.

      
Sighing, Ed sank onto the first available kitchen chair. “Drat it all. Just when I've really stumbled onto something.” She hesitated and looked up at Eileen, who hovered like a silent banshee flaring at the intruder in her kitchen.

      
“Eileen's part of the family, Ed. Now, tell me everything,” Maggie commanded.

      
“Ed, sure and that's not a fittin' name for a female,” Eileen sniffed beneath her breath as she walked over to her stove and began to rattle pots and pans.

      
Ignoring the housekeeper, Ed launched into her tale. “I've been asking around about the stolen cattle from the reservation. Last night, one of the women from the Sazerac Saloon sent word to me that a fellow named Sug Rigley had been a, er, customer of hers...” She paused and blushed. “I'm embarrassed to mention such an indelicate matter in front of a lady like yourself, Maggie.”

      
Eileen dropped a pot with a sharp clatter, then quickly grabbed it, apologizing for the distraction.

      
“Don't worry about my delicate sensibilities,” Maggie said drily. “What did the woman at the Sazerac know?”

      
“Her customer had been drinking and bragged about the money he'd been paid when he helped a man—and here I quote her very words—‘sell some cows taken from them damn redskins.’ This Rigley person put the rustlers in touch with a buyer on the New Mexican border.”

      
“He witnessed the sale of cattle stolen from White Mountain Reservation? That means he could identify the rustlers!”

      
“Exactly. The difficulty now will be locating Rigley. He left Prescott two days ago after spending most of his ill-gotten gains on drink and scarlet poppies.”

      
“Do you have any clue as to where he's headed?” Maggie asked.

      
“The woman from the Sazerac said he planned to ride over to Globe where he'd been offered a job as a gunman for some mining company.”

      
“That couldn't be better! Colin and Wolf are both only a few hours away from Globe. We have to get word to Colin while he still has Potkin here to review the evidence.”

      
Ed let out a most inelegant snort. “That pompous idiot! I interviewed him when he arrived in Prescott—using the pretext I was a reporter from the
Arizona Citizen
in Tucson. He knows nothing about the Indian situation in the territory and cares less.”

      
“That's true, but he is our best link to Washington now,” Maggie replied.

      
“They'd most likely be at the White Mountain Agency, wouldn't they?”

      
Maggie nodded. “Yes.”

      
“Then I'm off!”

      
“You're not off alone. I'm going with you, Ed. There's a lot more at stake here than a story. There's Colin's life!”

* * * *

      
Leonard Potkin sat with his pale, knobby hands resting on the yellowed pages of Caleb Lamp's ledgers. Sweat beaded on his face and ran in rivulets beneath his stiff shirt collar, soaking through his jacket. What a ghastly uncivilized climate this was! Perfectly suited to its savage inhabitants, not all of whom were Apaches, he concluded, glancing at the glowering Scots rancher who was comparing tallies of goods purchased with those distributed. They sat at a big pine table littered with papers and books.

      
“There is a three-thousand-dollar discrepancy in the number of cattle on the hoof bought and those slaughtered here at the agency,” Colin said, shoving his notes and one moldy ledger across to Potkin.

      
“Them savages just steal cows whenever the notion strikes 'em—slaughter 'em on the spot and eat ‘em. My police can't stop it,” Lamp said angrily from where he sat behind his desk.

      
“Have you seen any fat Apaches since we rode onto White Mountain land, Mr. Potkin?” Colin asked in disgust. “They're all starving.”

      
“But I'm given to understand that they do steal,” Potkin replied.

      
“Yes,” Colin admitted. “Raiding is the Apache way. They've survived for centuries by stealing from enemy tribes, Mexicans, then Anglo settlers once they invaded Apache territory. But ride around the reservation now and see how many horses the Apaches have left—and what condition they're in. Those wretched bags of bones at Bonito's village were the best of the lot.” Colin shook his head. “Do you honestly think they could ride down hundreds of beeves mounted like that? Besides, all the reservation Indians are tagged and accounted for by Lamp's police—a matter the agent is considerably more diligent at than his bookkeeping,” he added sardonically.

      
“I keep a good eye out for trouble. I'm not a man to set hisself behind a desk all day, crossing T's and dotting I's,” Lamp replied heatedly.

      
“Caleb, if all your brains were ink, you couldn't dot an I,” Colin said, slamming a ledger shut. A puff of dust rose in a plume as he lay it on the desk in disgust.

      
Potkin assumed his most pontifical air, lacing his fingers over his paunch. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please.” He turned to the irate Lamp, who had jumped furiously from his chair at McCrory's insult. “There does seem to be a significant enough discrepancy in your records to merit a reprimand, Agent Lamp. When I return to Washington, there'll be a review. I feel I must warn you that your position here is most tenuous.”

      
“Most tenuous?” Colin echoed incredulously. “That's all you can say after everything you've seen? We've hardly gone through half of these papers.” He gestured impatiently to the mess strewn haphazardly across the desk and table in Lamp's office.

      
Lamp’s face had been flushed dull red with anger at Potkin's rebuke. But now, he turned and smiled slyly at McCrory. “You ain't got my job yet, you crazy Apach lover.” He stood up, resting his hand on the butt of the .32.20 caliber Navy Colt strapped to his hip, confident the Scot would be forced to show restraint in front of a federal official.

      
Colin stood up slowly, fury singing through every nerve in his body—fury at Lamp's oily confidence that he would escape unpunished and at Potkin, whose stupidity would probably insure that he did. “Don't push your luck, Caleb.” His voice was low and deadly.

      
Potkin could feel the hate radiating between the two men and suddenly realized he was caught in the middle of a highly volatile situation. Arizona Territory was a wilderness filled with savage red Indians and vicious gunmen who often shot each other for amusement. Neither Lamp nor McCrory looked in the least bit amused—and he was sitting in the crossfire! “Now, gentlemen, please,” he remonstrated, scooting his chair back across the crude pine planks. “There is no sense in taking the law into your own hands. Washington will decide the matter of who is to be agent for this reservation—and I shall have a major role in that decision,” he added with all the grandiosity he could muster, considering that he was sweating and trembling all at once.

      
Lamp grinned sharkishly at Colin. “Whatever you say, Mr. Potkin.”
By the time you get back to Washington I'll burn the records I have hidden and be headed for San Francisco with a big fat grubstake
. As far as Lamp was concerned, McCrory and Barker could kill each other. He'd be in the clear. Potkin was too gutless to try to stop him now. All he needed was a week or two to collect the money he was owed.

      
“Yes, yes. It'll all be settled equitably. Now, Mr. McCrory, you must see that I can't stay here poring over ledgers for petty cash thievery.”
Especially not with a smallpox epidemic about to quarantine this hellhole.

      
“There are a number of things you should see firsthand before you leave,” Colin said, knowing he was wasting his breath. That Potkin had spent a few hours cursorily skimming over Lamp's clumsily doctored books was all that could be expected.

      
“I cannot remain here—and you shouldn't either. I'll require your men to escort me back to Prescott. I do have to spend some time making inquiries with the acting governor and the legislators,” Potkin said, bluffing and praying that McCrory would not refuse.

      
“I'll send my men with you. I have to stay and see to my daughter. She's still here nursing the sick.” He could not keep the contempt from his voice and knew Potkin must be aware of it, the pompous coward.

      
The older man stiffened but said nothing, just mopped the sweat from his face with an acrid-smelling handkerchief and nodded.

      
“Would you authorize me to send a full report about this ‘petty thievery’ to Secretary Schurz?” Colin asked, daring Potkin to refuse.

      
The investigator waved his hand dismissively. “Certainly, certainly. Now, I must be gone. As it is I'll not get back to Prescott until very late.”

      
“I'll have my reservation police escort you to the boundary of federal land,” Lamp volunteered. His reservation police were hand-picked Coyoteros, who had the least ties to the other sub tribal groups forced together on the reservation. Dislocated hundreds of miles from their traditional hunting grounds to the north, they were willing to work for Lamp, enforcing federal regulations prohibiting travel and checking the identification tags every reservation Apache was compelled to wear.