by A. W. Hart
There had been less Army activity in New Mexico Territory recently, so while there were powerful tribes, things were peaceful for now. The Apache war chief, Geronimo, led raids in the territory during the decade and after, but this year he was unseen. Was he in the New Mexico mountains? Arizona? Nobody seemed to know.
There was a left-bearing split in the trail. It headed in a more southerly direction, and Sara and Reno reckoned it was the way to Santa Fe. Maybe even part of the old Santa Fe Trail, and they took it. Used to the plains, they found themselves approaching high desert mountains. More places to be ambushed. More places to leave the trail and camp out of sight. Streams and woods, though sparse, were frequent enough to ease their travel.
It was cold, but the hills broke the wind. Game seemed more active, but Reno was not ready to fire his rifle until he felt more comfortable Geronimo was not behind the next boulder. After two camps, they rode into the town of Santa Fe.
They could tell right off why James liked it so much. It had a welcoming feel. They had seen adobe buildings during their pursuits of wanted outlaws, but not to the extent of Santa Fe.
As they rode down the main street into town, they saw the US marshal’s office and stopped.
Reno tied the three animals at the hitch rail. Sara and Apache walked in.
“Howdy. Might you have some wanted posters we could look at?” she asked.
“Why? Are you wanted, young lady?” asked a mustachioed older man with a potbelly. He was sitting behind a desk with a nameplate reading Chief Deputy.
“No, sir. My brother and I are bounty hunters. We specialize in murders, rapists, and arsonists.”
“Hmm. How has it been going for you?” the chief deputy asked.
“Pretty well. We brought down a gang of ex-Confederates known as the Devil’s Horde, and a few others here and there.”
“You the pair out of Kansas or somewhere? And killed a whole company of twenty-something rebel outlaws?” he asked.
“I didn’t know our story had made it so far south, but yes,” she said.
“How’d you do it?”
“One, two, up to four at a time. We are patient, my brother and me.”
“Y’all have a fancy church name or something?” he asked.
“There are those in the newspaper business who have referred to us as the Avenging Angels, but we are no angels. Just people on a mission to rid society of animals like the ones who killed our family and burned our ranch just because they could.”
He nodded in recognition.
“Mebbe I ought to deputize you,” he said.
“Marshals have to follow rules.”
“They surely do.”
“Then, no, thank you. But we’d like to see any interesting wanted posters you might have,” Sara said as Reno walked in grinning and nodded at the deputy.
“Wal, she looks more like an angel than you do,” he noted.
“Looks can be deceiving. I’m the nice one. She’s stone-cold, but I love her anyway. She and the dog are all I got left of a happy family. I aim to keep them.”
“She scares me a bit, but I like the dog. He’s been behaving okay in here. I might have one poster of interest if you want to hear about it.”
He thumbed through some papers on his desk, pulled one out, and put on some reading glasses.
“Name of Cudgel Holmes. Wanted in New Mexico and Arizona Territories for multiple rapes and murders. Also arson in Colorado. Total bounty is,” he took out a wooden pencil and licked the lead and did some cyphering, ”eighteen hundred US dollars. The payors are all listed on the poster.”
He handed it to Sara, who examined it closely and turned to Reno.
“Holmes is just the type Pa wanted us to bring to justice. I think he’d be worth some effort.”
Reno scanned the poster. The man was dark-haired and had a short beard. He was wearing a suit in the photograph. He looked like an evil banker to Reno.
“Might we have this, Chief Deputy?” Reno asked politely.
“You might. He was last heard of heading into Arizona Territory. Word is he has a cousin named Thaddeus Holmes somewhere around Prescott. He is suave and charms pretty women. He keeps them for a while, has his way, and casts them aside. Dead. Sometimes, he sets the building they are in on fire to destroy any evidence. He is an evil man. I would disobey what I have sworn to bring his body in or leave it in a gully rotting, but I am past time for those kinds of long trails now.”
“Chief, if I might observe, you seem more involved than normal here. Will you tell us why?” Sara asked.
“One of the women he killed was my niece. He is evil personified. Bring him in over his horse or drag his ass in behind it. I will personally put the noose around his neck and spit in his face. Just get him, young lady. Get him before he kills another.”
“Do you have deputy marshals after him now?” Reno asked.
“I did. Our titles are Deputy US Marshal, but once we get out of our territory, the US marshal for the next territory claims we have no authority. They are political appointees, and most are in it as a step to Congress. They don’t understand working together very well, nor the law either. My deputies followed him to the Arizona line. Hopefully, the deputies there read our messages and picked up the chase. But who knows?”
“If it’s humanly possible, we will get him in one condition or another. On his horse or over it,” Sara said, and she turned and walked out the door. Reno nodded to the chief deputy and left behind her.
Sara met him at the hitch rail.
“What you said back there about loving me and protecting me was pretty sweet,” she said.
“Both things are tough to do sometimes, but you are all I care about in the whole world, so I will stick by what I said.”
She got up on the toes of her boots and kissed him on the cheek. He turned red and petted Apache on the head. “I love you too, boy.”
It was too late to leave for Arizona Territory that night, so they found a hotel and a livery stable and a meal. In the room, Reno unfolded his US map and computed the distance from Santa Fe to Prescott to be about five hundred miles.
Knowing James kept in frequent letter contact with all his family members, Reno decided to write a letter to the scout at Fort Dodge.
Dear James,
We have arrived in Santa Fe. It is a fine town like you said. We checked in with the chief deputy US marshal. He gave us the wanted poster for a man called Cudgel Holmes. Said he was a bad murderer and rapist, just Sara’s and my type for killing. He is supposed to be either in Prescott, Arizona Territory or ranging back and forth from to Sonora by riverboat. We will get him. Sara says hello.
Your friend, Reno Bass
Horseback was still the fastest way to get between the two towns. They left at daylight and pushed hard to Albuquerque, then over and down to Prescott. It was an arduous trip in trying weather over tough terrain. They crossed the continental divide and forded the Little Colorado River.
Sara’s comment was, “Where’s a railroad when you need it? Or even a decent road?”
Almost two weeks later, they arrived in Prescott. They got a hotel room, and Reno left the horses and mule to be brushed, shoed, fed, and watered and put in individual stalls to rest. He headed back to the hotel, stopping at both the US marshal’s office and the Yavapai County sheriff’s office to check on any word about Cudgel Holmes or his cousin. Neither agency knew his whereabouts, but the best clue was he often took the riverboat from the freighting center at Hardyville down to the end of the Colorado River at Sonora, Mexico. A deputy at the sheriff’s office said he’d heard Holmes’ main gang was in Sonora.
Reno trudged to the hotel, tired all over. Outside the room, he called, “Sara?” in a low voice and received no answer. He drew a Remington and slowly unlocked the door.
There was a metal bathtub in the middle of the floor. Small wet footprints trailed over to the bed. There were two lumps on the bed. One, under the covers, was longer and snoring. The other on top o
f the covers was black and furry. It was also snoring.
Reno stuck his finger in the bath. It was still warm. Not hot by any means, but at least not ice-cold. He saw a film of trail dirt floating on the surface. Boy, he had a dirty sister, he thought. But he realized her brother was probably worse, so he pulled off his boots and gun belt and the rest of his clothes and got in wearing his tan Stetson.
He immediately fell asleep when he hit the warm water. Sometime later, he was rudely awakened by having a bucket of bathwater poured over his head. He awoke sputtering and as wrinkled as a prune. The tan Stetson was on the wardrobe.
His sister was standing there looking at him, trying to keep a serious face. Then, she broke into peals of laughter. She was still laughing when she found a towel and handed it to him. By the time he was dry and ready to sleep, she and Apache were snoring in unison in their original positions. He joined the cacophony.
Before they got to Prescott, Wild Bill Hickok got Reno’s letter. He saw the return address and smiled. Those kids were all right. His smile turned to a frown when he read the name Cudgel Holmes. A former rebel spy, Holmes was deadly and smart. He had given Hickok one of the several bullet holes in his body and left him to bleed to death. The scout had vowed to shoot Holmes dead if they ever met again. The man had too much experience for the twins. Both being quick on the draw was not enough this time.
He walked out of the scouts’ barracks and strode to the commanding officer’s headquarters. He went to a specific office. It was not the base commander’s, but someone sent to Kansas to do a job.
Wild Bill wore buckskins and long auburn hair. The officer behind the desk stood and smiled as Hickok entered. They had known each other since early in the War of Succession. He also wore buckskins and long hair, but his was light blond.
“General, I got a favor to ask,” the scout said.
“Go ahead, Mr. Hickok. I’m all ears,” George Armstrong Custer said to his friend.
“I have a family emergency and need to take leave for a week or two if it’s okay.”
“I have a fair assembly of good scouts. I guess I could do without my best one for two weeks,” he said. He took out a leave form, filled it out, and signed it. He handed it to Hickok, and they shook. James nodded, turned on his heel, and walked rapidly out. He had a long way to go and a short time to get there before those kids bit off more than they could chew.
The next morning, Reno shared his finding about Holmes having a gang in Sonora, Mexico. They agreed it would be a tough proposition for two non-Spanish speakers to go up against. They would have to catch him either in Hardyville or riding between Hardyville and Prescott.
“Ambushing him on the road between Hardyville and Prescott would be ideal,” Sara said, “but I really doubt he would chance coming back here with the sheriff of Yavapai County and the US marshal both waiting for him.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Reno said.
“If we get him on the steamboat, we don’t know how many of either his gang members or people he bribes might be on there to defend him against us. I think we have to be like Pinkertons with this one. We have to observe him. See who he travels with. Is he ever alone? If so, when and where? Maybe even go in different, not as Avenging Angels with our two-gun rigs showing.
“Perhaps we should dress like a citified couple. If we do, we have to gun down. Going down in power worries me, but there is no way to hide a pair of .44s with a suit on or you hide .36s in a dress. We might have to do a lot of shopping tomorrow,” Reno said.
The next morning they bought a suit, shirt, tie, derby hat, and tie shoes for Reno, and a satin dress with an under-slip and shoes for Sara. She let the sales lady choose a hat, which she later told Reno was “stupid looking.” She also bought a purse, mainly to carry a pistol and ammunition.
The stop at a hardware store selling guns was almost as nerve-wracking as buying clothes. They bought four new Smith & Wesson #2 Army .32 rimfire cartridge revolvers. Not only did they shoot brass cartridges like their Winchesters, albeit smaller, but they were also considerably more concealable than either of their Remingtons.
“These will be faster to load and easier to hide, but the Smiths lack the power we are used to, so head or throat shots are the best,” Reno said as he gave Sara her two, several boxes of ammunition, and a dagger to wear in a garter under her dress.
The last items they purchased were two small carpetbags to carry clothes and more weapons.
They returned to the hotel and dressed for their role. The weapons, pistols, and daggers hid well.
As they walked to lunch, arm in arm like a proper couple, Sara noted, “We look like we are going to our wedding.” Reno shrugged, and she punched him in the bicep.
They stopped after lunch at a stage depot on Gurley Street, the main drag in Prescott. They bought stage tickets for the late afternoon for Hardyville and were assured of a room at the only hotel in the freight center. Tickets on the riverboat to Sonora had to be bought on site. They left their normal guns at the sheriff’s office for safekeeping.
Neither Bass had ever ridden in a stagecoach before. The lack of comfortable suspension and the hard seat reminded Sara her strategic arrow wound had not totally healed yet. Reno could not give her his coat to fold as a pad without displaying the two revolvers it hid.
Hardyville was not a memorable place. It had warehouses for freight, a hotel and café, and the steamboat dock on the Colorado River. The streets were dusty when it was not raining and muddy when it was.
They walked into the hotel, again arm-in-arm for the undercover role they were playing.
“Hello,” Reno announced, “We are the Basses. I believe you have a room for us?”
Sara beamed like a newlywed. She really seemed to be getting into the role.
Reno signed in and paid for the first night. He requested a room upstairs and “facing the street so we can watch the riverboats coming and going.” What he really meant was watching the street for Cudgel Holmes coming and going.
Reno commented, “Sara, I can’t get over you dressed like a real lady. It makes me so proud to see how you have grown up.”
“And yet,” she began, “you are the one I had to drag by the ear from the girlie show last year with drool runnin’ down your chin, watching those non-ladies prance around on the stage. It’s hard to figure out what you really like.”
He knew any answer would be the wrong one, so he kept his mouth shut. Ya never know what you were going to get with Sara Marie Bass. No question about it, he thought.
They went out onto the street of what would never really be a town.
“You know, Reno. As pretty as we are, all gussied up, we stand out like sore thumbs. I doubt it’s the way Allan J. Pinkerton would locate the man he was looking for,” Sara said.
“I’m afraid you are right. The only thing we have accomplished is not looking like dangerous bounty hunters. One more man looks lustfully at you, and I’m going to try out these new cartridge revolvers.”
“These little guns will surely kill my lust-lookers—about two weeks after you shoot them. After they have beat us silly with a stick. I fear we are not carrying enough gun with the Smiths,” Sara said. “It will take five shots to do what one with my Navies will do.”
“I wish somebody would make a revolver chambered for our .44 Henry cartridges like in our old Henrys and the new 1866 Winchesters replacements,” Reno said.
“Maybe one day. In the meantime, Detective Bass, let’s go back to the room and watch out the window for Holmes. Wish we knew what his cousin looked like. The likeness on the wanted poster of old Cudgel looks like a real picture, not the usual drawing. We can recognize him. However, we don’t have clue about his cuz,” Sara said.
They picked up food to take back to the room. Once there, Reno could not wait to remove the silly derby hat and the uncomfortable coat and tie.
Sara took off the dress, and wearing just her chemise, attempted to stand the stiff dress up on the floor unsupported. It
stood for a minute, then collapsed.
“See why I hate these things, Reno?” she asked without expecting an answer. She pulled up the shaky wooden ladder-back chair and sat watching out of the window.
She took the first watch since she was sitting there. About midnight, she kept thinking about the Dr. Brown’s soda she had seen offered at the all-night place next store. It was not really a bar or a café, but a combination, accommodating the freighters and stevedores who worked all hours.
She slipped on the dress and shoes and said to Reno, “I’m gonna grab a couple of sodas downstairs. Back in a minute. He mumbled something unintelligible and she left with the key, one S&W .32 and two bits, or twenty-five cents, for the drinks.
“Stay, boy,” she said to Apache. He rolled over and continued snoring. She rolled her eyes.
Sara walked out of the hotel and went next door. She stood in line behind three thugs who openly stared at her. The got draft beer and stepped outside. She made her purchase and had the bottles of Dr. Brown’s put in a bag. She stepped back outside and took a deep breath of Colorado River, horses, hay, freight, and other smells she could not identify.
The three thugs stepped out.
“How ‘bout coming with us for a little fun?”
“Fun for you. I cannot imagine having fun with any of you under any circumstances,” she snarled.
“Well, ain’t you tough? But mebbe you’re right. It would be fun for us and any friends who come along to have a go at you in the alley.” The one speaking seemed to be the leader. He was big, dirty, and had brown teeth and a twice-broken nose.
Sara dropped the bag, and the bottles broke with a crash of glass. She reached in her bag for the .32 and got hold of it as the big one grabbed her arm.
Sara cocked and fired three times, once in his face and twice in his torso. He screamed like a schoolgirl and staggered back. The other two started hitting her.
Before she passed out, she saw a tall man in a dark suit step forward, and he shot both men. Reno? But the blasts sounded louder than a .32. The lights went out for Sara as she fell into the dirty, muddy alley.