the main road. There were several towns and steamer landings in that direction—Bardells, Novato, Ignacio, Millers, San Rafael—and any number of escape routes by road, rail, or boat. Over east there were only a couple of hamlets, fewer roads and transportation points, a good deal of private and unsettled land, and the rugged Sonoma Mountains. By going that way, Bodeen or whoever was setting the course might be on his way to the Valley of the Moon or the Napa Valley or points east; or it could just be that he did not know his way around these parts very well and was traveling blind. In any case, I had at least a fair chance of tracking one or both men, and the knowledge took away some of my fatigue, gave me a fresh sense of purpose.
The levee road angled through the salt marshes for half a mile to Lakeville, where the creek began to straighten out for the last few miles of its route into San Pablo Bay. From there I could go in one of three directions—on south to Sonoma Landing at the mouth of the creek, back north toward Petaluma, or east to Stage Gulch and the road into the Valley of the Moon. If my luck continued to hold, somebody in or around Lakeville would be able to give me an idea of which direction my quarry had taken. Otherwise, I would have to make an arbitrary choice.
It was coming on nine o'clock when I reached Lakeville. Once it had been part of General Vallejo's huge rancho, and had derived its name from a big pond, Laguna de Tolay, that had sat among the low hills nearby. In the years following the Bear Flag revolt, Vallejo had sold off all of this land; and in the sixties, a German immigrant named Bihler had drained the lagoon so he could plant acres of corn and potatoes. Nowadays there was not much to Lakeville other than the wharf Vallejo had built, a few houses, and Hobemeyer's General Store.
Hobemeyer was open for business—would have been since eight, if I knew old Leo. His was the only store within several miles, and he liked the feel of money more than most. I tied Rowdy to the hitchrail in front, next to a farm wagon drawn by a slab-sided bay mare, and went on inside.
Cluttered place, Hobemeyer's, with shadowy corners and overstocked shelves and overflowing tables and counters. Tools, coils of rope, and other items hung from the ceiling beams. A dozen different savors vied with each other for dominance: smoked bacon, coffee, dried onions, pepper, beeswax, strong tobacco, cloth and drygoods, boot and saddle and harness leather. Against one wall a fat-bodied stove glowed cherry red and gave off pulsing waves of heat.
Old Leo Hobemeyer was nowhere in sight. Behind the main counter, Leo's chubby and pomaded son, Dolph, was waiting on a man I didn't know, a farmer in bib overalls and a straw hat. They both watched me as I approached the counter.
"Well—Constable Evans," Dolph said in his sly way. He greeted most men as if they were a cut below his level of intelligence, which was not so high as far as I could tell; and most women as if they were simpletons and he was doing them a favor by waiting on them. Nobody liked him much, including his father. Old Leo would have thrown him out long ago, I suspected, if he didn't suffer from the gout and need someone to run the store for him. "To what do we owe the honor?"
"Business matter, Dolph."
"More calamity in Tule Bend? You look as if you've been fighting a fire."
"Razor burn," I said shortly. He always did bring out the worst in me. "I'm looking for two men who rode through on the levee road sometime around four this morning."
Dolph and the farmer exchanged looks. "Do tell," Dolph said to me, and smiled like a bratty kid with a secret.
The farmer said, "Don't believe we've met, Mister. My name's Simon Fletcher. Bought a piece of land south of here last spring, moved my family up from the San Joaquin Val-ley."
I introduced myself and we shook hands.
"Say those men you're lookin' for was around here at four this morning?" Fletcher
The levee road angled through the salt marshes for half a mile to Lakeville, where the creek began to straighten out for the last few miles of its route into San Pablo Bay. From there I could go in one of three directions—on south to Sonoma Landing at the mouth of the creek, back north toward Petaluma, or east to Stage Gulch and the road into the Valley of the Moon. If my luck continued to hold, somebody in or around Lakeville would be able to give me an idea of which direction my quarry had taken. Otherwise, I would have to make an arbitrary choice.
It was coming on nine o'clock when I reached Lakeville. Once it had been part of General Vallejo's huge rancho, and had derived its name from a big pond, Laguna de Tolay, that had sat among the low hills nearby. In the years following the Bear Flag revolt, Vallejo had sold off all of this land; and in the sixties, a German immigrant named Bihler had drained the lagoon so he could plant acres of corn and potatoes. Nowadays there was not much to Lakeville other than the wharf Vallejo had built, a few houses, and Hobemeyer's General Store.
Hobemeyer was open for business—would have been since eight, if I knew old Leo. His was the only store within several miles, and he liked the feel of money more than most. I tied Rowdy to the hitchrail in front, next to a farm wagon drawn by a slab-sided bay mare, and went on inside.
Cluttered place, Hobemeyer's, with shadowy corners and overstocked shelves and overflowing tables and counters. Tools, coils of rope, and other items hung from the ceiling beams. A dozen different savors vied with each other for dominance: smoked bacon, coffee, dried onions, pepper, beeswax, strong tobacco, cloth and drygoods, boot and saddle and harness leather. Against one wall a fat-bodied stove glowed cherry red and gave off pulsing waves of heat.
Old Leo Hobemeyer was nowhere in sight. Behind the main counter, Leo's chubby and pomaded son, Dolph, was waiting on a man I didn't know, a farmer in bib overalls and a straw hat. They both watched me as I approached the counter.
"Well—Constable Evans," Dolph said in his sly way. He greeted most men as if they were a cut below his level of intelligence, which was not so high as far as I could tell; and most women as if they were simpletons and he was doing them a favor by waiting on them. Nobody liked him much, including his father. Old Leo would have thrown him out long ago, I suspected, if he didn't suffer from the gout and need someone to run the store for him. "To what do we owe the honor?"
"Business matter, Dolph."
"More calamity in Tule Bend? You look as if you've been fighting a fire."
"Razor burn," I said shortly. He always did bring out the worst in me. "I'm looking for two men who rode through on the levee road sometime around four this morning."
Dolph and the farmer exchanged looks. "Do tell," Dolph said to me, and smiled like a bratty kid with a secret.
The farmer said, "Don't believe we've met, Mister. My name's Simon Fletcher. Bought a piece of land south of here last spring, moved my family up from the San Joaquin Val-ley."
I introduced myself and we shook hands.
"Say those men you're lookin' for was around here at four this morning?" Fletcher
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