Dorian Chantry drew back a chair and sat down. “Uncle,” he said, “I have promised Frances that I would — ”
“Send her a note explaining you have been called away on business. She will understand.”
“Me? Called away on business? She will not understand. When have I ever let business interfere with pleasure?”
Finian Chantry’s eyes chilled. “If you do not wish to write the note, then do not do so. But I shall expect you to be riding west within the hour to overtake the stage for Pittsburgh.
“I wish you to see that the young lady in question, Echo Sackett by name, arrives safely at her home somewhere in the mountains east of Tuckalucky Cove, Tennessee.
“You are twenty years old, and — ”
“At that age you were master of your own vessel. I know. You have told me the story a number of times since I was a child. Now — ”
“If you are not in the saddle headed for Pittsburgh within the hour, and if the young lady in question does not arrive safely home, you may expect your allowance to be trimmed to six dollars per week.”
Dorian started to speak, then looked again at his uncle. Finian Chantry, in this mood, was no one to argue with. “Six dollars a week? I would starve!”
“Many a good job pays no more than that. No, you would not starve, but you would have to find a job. You would have to go to work, which would be the best thing in the world for you.”
Dorian Chantry studied the backs of his hands. Echo Sackett … He had heard the Sackett story often enough to know what it meant to Uncle Finian, and what it had meant to his father as well.
“Where is she going from Pittsburgh? I mean, how will she go? By steamboat? By stage? How? And where is Tuckalucky Cove? Is there such a place?”
“The Sacketts are backwoods people, mountain people. They have always preferred wild country. There’s a town called Knoxville — ”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Tuckalucky Cove is somewhere east of there, but whatever happens will probably happen before she reaches her mountains.”
“Happens? You expect trouble?”
“Why else would I send you? And you had best take a brace of pistols and your rifle.” Before Dorian could interrupt, he added, “Have you ever heard of Felix Horst?”
“His was one of the trials I attended when I first began studying for the law. Of course I remember him.”
“I have reason to believe he is one of those who will attempt to rob Miss Sackett.” Briefly then he explained about White and Horst, the will and the visit to White’s office. Then he added, “Do not take this lightly. Horst is a first-class fighting man and he will kill without a qualm. I suspect others are involved.”
Finian Chantry reached into his desk drawer and drew out a small sack of coins and tossed them on the desk. “Take that, for expenses. And you will find Archie waiting in the outer office.”
“Archie? You mean the waiter from the club?”
“The same, Archie will go with you, but not as a servant, as a companion. He is a good horseman, and he’s not a man to trifle with. I’d rather have him ride with you than anyone else I know. He went with me to the Dutchman’s the other night.”
Dorian stared. “You? At the Dutchman’s? At your age?”
Finian Chantry smiled. “At my age. And I discovered I am still not as old as you might believe. In fact, I feel ten years younger for the experience.” He stood up. “Go now, Dorian, and be careful. This is a deadly serious business.”
Dorian pocketed the sack of money and after a quick handclasp went out. The powerful black man, Archie, awaited him. “I have our horses at your quarters, sir, and I’ve packed what is necessary except for your weapons.”
“You are armed?”
“Oh, yes, sir! I know Mr. Horst, and White as well, but unless I am mistaken, there will be others involved. White has a man working for him named Tim Oats, a very rough man, sir.”
Dorian Chantry listened to the clop-clop of the carriage horse’s hooves, his meeting with Frances only a dim memory. His uncle, Finian Chantry, was sending him out to protect a young lady from such as Felix Horst! Suddenly he was very proud. Uncle Finian must think well of him, after all, for this was no job for a child.
His thoughts skipped back a few years. He remembered the coolness of Felix Horst in the courtroom. Once their eyes had met across the crowded room. He still remembered the contempt in Horst’s eyes, and flushed at the memory.
“If we ride hard, sir, we can overtake them at Chambersburg. It is a night stop for the stage, and they will start late the next morning.”
“If nothing happens until then.”
“There’s a brief stop at Elizabeth Town, and then they cross the Susquehanna a bit later.”
“What will Horst do?”
“I don’t know, sir, but he will be careful. He is known to the law now and would get no sympathy from the courts. He will choose his time.”
“Would he kill her?”
“Yes, sir. He would. He has killed before … and, sir? He knows the country we are going into. He used to operate along the Natchez Trace.”
“What about Oats?”
“A thug, sir. A very strong man. He was a pugilist for a time. He’s been a gambler, a shoulder striker, a thoroughly bad man, sir.”
“I’ve boxed some myself.”
Archie glanced at him, then asked, “Have you ever fought, sir? I mean really fought?”
“I could handle them all at school. Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
“No doubt, sir, but the kind of fighting Tim Oats has done is not like you would do at college. It is quite different, sir.”
Dorian was irritated. Of course it was different, but at school there had been some good fighters, and their training had been of the best. What chance would a common pugilist have against one of them? He said it aloud.
“Begging your pardon, sir, a man such as Oats would whip them all in one evening and never work up a sweat. There is no comparison between an amateur and a professional. And Oats is pretty good. I have seen him fight. I saw him go forty-two rounds with the Yorkshire Swiper.”
“Forty-two rounds?”
The most he had ever done was five rounds — sparring sessions, at that. Sometimes they got pretty heated, but forty-two rounds? By London prize-ring rules a knockdown ended a round, although a fighter could be thrown down or could slip. Even so, forty-two rounds was a lot. It could scarcely be less than an hour, probably more.
Of course, there had been that fight he had with the hostler who was abusing a horse. How long did they fight? It must have been at least thirty minutes, and he had given the hostler, supposedly a tough man, a good beating.
They rode swiftly, clattering down lanes, thundering over bridges. At Elizabeth Town, only a few miles out, they made inquiries. Yes, such a girl had been aboard the stage. Five-feet-two, reddish hair, cute as a button.
The description irritated him. “Cute” by whose standards? Harry Standish had raved about her when he came back to the table. “If they grow them like that in the mountains,” he had said, “I’ve been living in the wrong place!” But then, Harry was easily impressed.
They changed horses in Middletown and rode swiftly on. Chambersburg was not far ahead. At Chambersburg they arrived as the stage was loading. “No, sir,” the driver said, “I ain’t seen her since we pulled in. Seemed like somebody picked up her bag by mistake, and she went chasin’ after them.” He turned and pointed a finger. “Right up thataway. They turned the corner, and she after them.”
“Who were they?”
“Little ol’ lady and a burly, thickset man in a kind of checked coat. I remember he helped the ol’ lady off the stage. I hadn’t figured they were together until then. They rode separate.”
Archie swore softly and glanced at Dorian. “They didn’t wait no time at all, Mr. Chantry. They got her bag. They got her money, and maybe they’ve got her!”
“How long ago?” Dorian asked.
“Three, four hours. I called after her, but she kept a-goin’.” He pointed. “She left that bag. She opened it, saw what was in it. Nothin’ but some ol’ carpet. Then she taken out like her skirts was afire!”
Angry and frightened for her, Dorian started up the street. Bounding the corner, he stopped, staring around. It was a long, narrow street with store buildings and barns empty of people. Dust swirled, then lay still.
“Let’s move along slow,” Archie suggested. “Maybe we’ll find some clue. Maybe they ducked in somewhere, maybe they kept a-goin’.”