Lone Star 80

Chapter 1

It was a night of stagnant fog that blurred the lamps and shortened the distances. It was cold; clammy hands touched his face and Carlos Ortega, the Bancroft carriage driver, hunched his shoulders as he eavesdropped on his mistress and master’s arguments in the coach behind him.

He had driven this route a hundred times and paid scant attention to the steep hill they climbed. The Bancroft lead carriage horse, Mathilda, knew her way around the Nob Hill streets in the thickest of fogs. Carlos let her go as she pleased.

His attention riveted on the conversation so close, Carlos let the reins droop.

His mistress’s voice was sharp, almost strident: What business could you possibly have with that awful Josiah Kelton?

Please, Penny, leave our financial affairs to me! I’ve done right by you so far, haven’t I?

Ortega turned slightly to see his employer, W.R. Bancroft, Sr., tuck a wisp of his wife’s graying hair under her diamond tiara and pat her cheek affectionately. W.R.’s voice had been harsh, but Ortega had been with the family too many years to be fooled by a tone. He was well aware that his employers were as much in love now as they had been many years ago when he first came to work for them. Was it two decades!?

A vagrant breeze swirled the mist into eddying spirals, coppery in the light of the coach lamps. Ortega sighed and pulled the coat more tightly about his shoulders. Mathilda and the companion horse nodded as they plodded up the hill, their hoofbeats on the hard-packed road were the only sounds in the night. He gazed fondly at the lead animal. Whenever the Bancrofts planned to be out after dark, Ortega always made sure that Mathilda was one of the team. In his opinion, she was as sure-footed as any animal alive.

He thought about the warming fire, not far off now, where he would shuck his coat and sip something hot, perhaps with a bit of gin in it. He smiled in the night as the fog frothed and curdled about him.

This was the only carriage out at this late hour. Pedestrians had long since fled the evening’s penetrating chill, locking doors and shutters behind them.

He leaned back, listening to the murmurs of the voices in the coach behind his shoulder; they were speaking more softly now. Ortega knew that Mrs. Penelope was searching for the truth in her husband’s light blue eyes, but he knew too that she would see only the troubled lines that in the last few months had become so familiar.

Her voice was stronger: Darling, please share your problem with me! Don’t shut me out after twenty-five years! We started out together with nothing, and I stood by you then—

Of course, you did ...

Why won’t you let me stand by you now?

But dear—

I know there’s something very wrong, and that Kelton person is at the bottom of it.

But dear, there’s nothing—

Oh, stop it, W.R.! Six months ago you would have laughed at anyone suggesting that you even consider accepting an invitation to a dinner party at Kelton’s. But tonight you allowed him to humiliate you and degrade us both!

Carlos Ortega shifted uncomfortably, hearing the tears in his mistress’s pleas as she attempted to pull the truth from her husband. He himself thought she was right. There had been a change in Mr. Bancroft.

Carlos glanced to his right. Were there shadows there, among the deeper shadows? He felt the reassuring bulk of the pistol at his hip under his coat.

Mrs. Bancroft was speaking again, but in a low voice he could not hear. Carlos blinked and looked around him. What could possibly happen on this familiar stretch of road so close to home?

Of course, there was always the possibility. He pulled the heavy pistol from under his coat and rested it on his thigh. Mr. Bancroft had shown him how to use the gun, and it made him feel much better. The cold steel was his friend.

Ortega frowned, glancing from side to side, his thumb on the hammer of the pistol. He must remember to pull it back before it would fire.

He realized then that the carriage was approaching Dead Man’s Drop. Someone long ago had named it, and no one quite knew why. Presumably a man had fallen at that point. But it was a curve respected by everyone on San Francisco’s fashionable Nob Hill.

Steady girl, he said breathily as the team stumbled and the companion horse whinnied in alarm. Even Mathilda shied. Something was spooking her. Usually the most placid of all the horses in the Bancroft stables, she pulled against the reins, tugging and trying to turn. Ortega stood in the box and slapped the reins. Steady! Steady!

What was the matter with her? He swore under his breath.

Then Mathilda reared up, and in the next moment, she bolted!

"Dios mio! Ortega shouted. Stop. Damn you!" His foot wet with mist, slipped off the brake, and the lurching coach threw him off balance as the reins went flying. He heard his passengers yell in surprise. Mrs. Bancroft screamed in fright, and Mr. Bancroft roared. Ortega’s thumb pulled back the hammer of the pistol—he did not know he had done it—and his finger tightened on the trigger. And the gun suddenly fired.

In an instant, the horses dashed forward, swerved suddenly away from something to their right, and ran straight for the cliff of Dead Man’s Drop!

The heavy wooden barrier splintered as the team burst through. The shock spilled Ortega from the box. He had a moment’s sensation of flying through the air; then he landed hard, very hard, the breath knocked out of him. He lay in a heap, aware that Mathilda was whinnying in terror. Someone screamed all the way down the drop. Ortega heard the carriage crash and shatter as he struggled to breathe, trying to sit up.

His head felt full of cotton—he could not think. But he could still hear Mrs. Bancroft screaming. She seemed miles away from him....

But something else entered his woozy consciousness, another sound. From somewhere off to his right, Ortega was dimly aware of several spectral figures, more vapor than being, one of whom seemed to giggle. Then a twig snapped as the figures moved, and Ortega realized they must be real.

His consciousness faded and a suffocating blackness closed about him, blessedly shutting out the horrid sounds of the screaming at the base of the cliff.

It was nearly dawn when Carlos Ortega woke, the pain seeming to jolt him. He felt himself—nothing was broken—and he could stand, sucking in his breath. The screaming had stopped. When he looked down he could see the outline of a smashed carriage, but nothing moved there. Both team horses were obviously dead, and he knew, with a deep sigh, that his employers were, too. How could either of them have escaped?

He looked around him. No one had stopped to investigate, probably because he had been hidden by weeds as he lay in a heap. And apparently no one had heard the shot or the crash. The fog must have blanketed both sounds and helped to hide him from passing eyes.

It was still foggy and clammy cold. He sat on the edge of the cliff, holding on to the splintered stump of the barrier. Did he hear sobs from down below? It was hard to tell. He took several deep breaths. He must make his way down the cliff and see.

He had no rope, and he was no longer a young man. He waited till there was more light, then with a prayer to his patron saint, he started inching his way down, holding on to every bush and fold of earth, sliding, swearing when it helped, and kicking footholds. It took forever to scrabble and slide to the bottom.

He reached what was left of the carriage. Mathilda and the other horse were dead, necks broken, but he spared them scarcely a glance.

Penelope Bancroft sat in the wreckage, cradling her husband’s head, rocking him, murmuring to him, sobs catching in her throat.

Even in the gloom as the fog swirled about them, Carlos could see that his master’s eyes were open and staring. He was dead.

How she had survived was a miracle!

She was hurt, coughing and moaning as she rocked her husband. Carlos tried to take the body from her, but she resisted, hugging it closer, whispering softly to it.

They shouldn’t allow children out so late at night, W.R. You’re going to have to talk to the mayor about a curfew for children. It just isn’t right for them to jump out and scare horses that way.

Children? Carlos stared at her. Her mind had suffered, he realized. But children? The evening’s events played through his head, and he recalled the dark shadows near the carriage, the twigs breaking, and the high-pitched giggles.

But he had not thought it a childish giggle! Where had he heard it before? Was it on the waterfront? From the Chinese coolies?

He stared up through the drifting mist at the edge of the cliff above them. It seemed to hang over them like doom. He looked back at his mistress and dead master. Was it possible the horse team had so easily broken through that heavy wooden barrier? He had never examined it closely, but its massive construction seemed to be ample assurance that no team would ever crash through to plunge over Dead Man’s Drop.

Carlos had a fleeting memory that as he was thrown from the carriage box, the horse team had crashed through the thick fence as if it had been made of matchsticks! The heavy wood had splintered. Splintered!

It had shattered too easily. Carlos crossed himself. Too easy, he said aloud in a hoarse voice. It had been no accident! He remembered now, something had spooked Mathilda! No—someone had spooked her, and it had been done deliberately. There had been darker shadows in the gloom, blending with the swirling mist. He shuddered, recalling the curious giggle.

His mistress must have seen something, too! She had whispered about children, and there were no children, of that he was certain. How could a child do these things? he thought.

No, it was his fau!t—his—Carlos’s. If he had been paying attention to his driving, to guarding his passengers, none of this would have happened. His master would still be alive; Mr. and Mrs. Bancroft would now be home in bed, and all would be well.

But he, foolish man, had been too interested in things not his business—listening to the Bancrofts—to notice the warnings, the sounds and the shadows. He should have prevented the accident, he should have! He had caused his beloved master’s death.

But was that true? He had not killed Senor Bancroft but someone had!

It was murder!

Carlos’s first instinct was to explain to his mistress that it was no accident they were at the bottom of the cliff—that they were all supposed to have been killed. But he saw she would not understand.

Someone wanted them dead! Wanted the Bancrofts out of the way. And they had nearly succeeded. They had ended the life of one of San Francisco’s wealthiest and most influential citizens. Someone had succeeded in snuffing out the life of the fifth member of the Silver Kings of the Comstock Lode. Senor Bancroft was dead.

Carlos swallowed hard and said nothing to his mistress. If she understood, it would only worry her.

She seemed to have no broken bones. She was scratched, and her clothing was torn, and some of her jewelry was missing, but she was whole. Only her mind seemed shattered. She continued to rock her husband and murmur to him.

Carlos thought in Spanish, Is she in any further danger? Am I? He wondered if there would be someone waiting, ready to pounce and murder him as he tried to go for help for his mistress.

He looked around for his revolver. It had slipped from his grasp when he’d been thrown from the carriage. He found it at last in the weeds near the dead horses. He wiped off the dirt and shoved it into his belt. Well, if there were enemies to face, he would face them.

His mistress was probably doomed if he did not bring help soon. He went back to her, found a mohair blanket in the wreck, and draped it around her narrow shoulders. She did not seem to notice. He assured her that everything would be just fine. But if she heard his voice, she did not answer.

The easiest way to reach help was to climb on down the hill, find a street, and follow it to life and assistance.

He started out.

Chapter 2

Melissa Sue Bancroft woke from a deep sleep. She opened her eyes, blinking in the gloom; the room was still very dark. It must be very early. What was that dreadful pounding downstairs? Was someone at the front door? She could hear muffled shouts from outside the house.

Pushing out of bed, she donned a blue robe and fluffed her lustrous brown hair as she strode into the hall. Someone was pounding at the front door! What in the world?

She stood at the head of the curving double staircase, peering over the balustrade. She called to the butler: Garfield!

Was she the only one who had heard the noise? She looked round at the closed doors, surprised that her father, W.R., wasn’t up, taking charge. A clatter as loud as that had never failed to wake him before. She took several steps down, calling again, Garfield!

Here, Missy. Garfield, in a figured magenta robe, his stringy graying hair uncombed, hurried from the back of the house. He was followed by one of the maids and a cook, both half-dressed. Seeing Melissa, the women hung back, whispering to each other. Another maid joined them.

Melissa said, See what that noise is. Have you seen my father?

No, Missy. He isn’t back yet. Garfield, a wisp of a man who seemed even smaller when only partially dressed, went to the massive front door and peered through the large square peephole.

Mrs. Oglethorpe, the housekeeper, a stout gray-haired woman, came into the hall and looked up at Melissa on the stairs. What is it, Miss Melissa?

I don’t know. Her father and mother weren’t back yet? How strange.

Good heavens! Garfield said suddenly, in great distress. He unbolted the door and flung it back. Carlos Ortega, looking as if he had been in a bloody fight, came in with three other men. The men were carrying someone on a litter.

Melissa ran down the stairs, her heart pounding, a feeling of dread inside her. What happened!?

A terrible accident, Señorita, Carlos muttered. Señora Bancroft is hurt—

Oh, no! In terror, Melissa pulled the covering away and looked down at the face of her mother. The older woman was alive, but her face was scratched and bloody. She was deathly pale, and her breathing came in shallow gasps.

Oh, my God! Melissa turned, shouting for the maids to prepare her mother’s bed. She pointed, Take her upstairs. Then she looked around for the butler. Garfield, send someone for Doctor Witherspoon at once!

He nodded and hurried away.

Melissa gathered up her robe and ran up the steps after the men, her heart seeming to flutter. An accident!? Where was her father? She ran into the room. A maid had turned back the bed, and the men were gently putting her mother into it as the maid fussed.

Carlos motioned the men out and paused by the bedroom door. Melissa said to the maid, Get some warm water—wash her face. She knelt by the bed, smoothing the sheets, then turned to Carlos. Where’s my father?

Carlos mumbled something, edging away.

Tell me. What happened?

There was an accident—The horses—

What about the horses?

Carlos shifted uneasily under the young woman’s stare. I am so sorry, Senorita.... There was nothing anyone—

She shook him. Carlos! What happened?

He moved into the hallway as the maid returned with a basin and towels. He said, An accident, Señorita. Someone spooked the horses—

Someone? Who?

I don’t know. Carlos shrugged elaborately. It was dark, and the fog—

What happened to my father?

They—they—they took him away.

She shook him again. Where, Carlos!? Where?

The words came out of him as if by the roots. To the undertaker‘s, Señorita.

Melissa released him and stepped back, her face a mask of horror. Oh, my God! He is dead?

Carlos nodded slowly, with great reluctance.

Melissa leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Oh, no, no, no—

The maid came to the door. Mrs. Bancroft is talking, Miss Melissa—

Melissa roused herself with great effort. She looked at Carlos as if seeing him for the first time, his clothes dirty and torn, face scratched and pale. She took his hand. I will come and talk with you in a moment, Carlos....

Si, Señorita.

She went into the room and knelt again by the bed. Her mother was babbling, the words scarcely more than whispers. Melissa glanced around at the maid. "Bring