by Bess McBride
“No, I’m not hurt, but the ladder...”
“What’s wrong with it?” she asked. “It looks pretty sturdy, although handmade. I don’t think I want to go any further into the cave through there.” She nodded toward the tunnel off to the side. “Shall we climb up?” She rose, and Clint pushed himself to his feet.
Something caught her eye, and she moved toward it. A pickaxe lay nearby along with an old rusted metal lunch pail and a canteen.
“Clint, do you think someone has been working in here? Look at this axe. It looks fairly new. And this stuff. Someone’s been in here, pretty recently I would say.”
Clint stared at the pickaxe, taking it reluctantly. He absentmindedly brushed dust off of it and studied the handle but said nothing.
“Clint?” Hilly looked at him uncertainly. “Should we leave this stuff here...or take it with us?”
Clint sighed. “We’ll take it with us. I think I know the owner of the axe.” He bent over to pick up the canteen and lunch pail.
“Do you want to go first or do you want me to go first?” Something was definitely wrong with him at the moment, and Hilly wondered if he’d hit his head in the fall.
“I’ll go first,” he said. With one hand he carried his gear and with the other, he hung onto the rail as he climbed the ladder.
Hilly followed behind him, and took the hand that he offered as she reached the top. She climbed out and moved away from the unstable edge of the cave before stretching her back. Clint stood still gazing out over the valley.
The sound of a train’s whistle caught Hilly’s ears and she turned in the direction of the sound. She couldn’t see the train, but she did notice that the dirt shoulder on the highway seemed much larger than she remembered. In fact, she couldn’t quite see the asphalt from her position, nor could she see her car.
Shouldn’t she be able to see her rental car? That bright blue car?
She chuckled faintly. “Do you see my car? I don’t see it. Gosh, I hope it wasn’t stolen.” No, she had left it right there. Panic set in, and she started to scramble down the hill. “Oh, no! It’s been stolen!”
“Hilly! Wait!” Clint called. She didn’t turn around but half ran, half slid down the hill.
Clint caught up with her, and grabbed her arm.
“Wait! I can explain!”
“What?” she asked distracted. She scanned the road again. There was no asphalt. The road was hard packed dirt, and deeply rutted.
“Where’s my car? What can you explain?”
Clint dropped the gear and turned her to face him...away from the road.
“Hilly, Hilly, I’m so sorry,” he muttered.
“Sorry for what?” Her voice was ragged. “What do you know about my car?”
“It’s not there, Hilly. It won’t be there. It hasn’t been stolen. It’s just not there.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” she almost screeched. She tried to twist out of his grasp. She’d made a mistake coming out to the desert with a stranger. He’d probably arranged to have her car stolen while they were in there. She was lucky she wasn’t dead...yet!
She managed to pull away from him and began to run toward the road. Cars would come by. That was her only chance.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “You’re scaring me. Get away.”
Clint ran after her.
“Hilly, wait!”
Hilly reached the road and almost stopped. No asphalt. But the thought of Clint on her heels made her keep running. She ran in the direction of Tombstone. Oh, please, someone come by!
Something appeared in the distance, coming from the direction in which she was running. She looked over her shoulder to see Clint keeping pace with her but not attempting to overtake her.
She turned her head forward and waved toward the vehicle—a wagon pulled by two horses with prominent ears. One of the tourist wagons she saw around Tombstone? She waved both of her arms and dashed across the road.
“Help!” she shouted. “Please stop!”
The wagon slowed, and an older grizzled man, his face half hidden by large soiled hat called out to her.
“What’s the trouble, miss?” He brought the wagon to a halt, and looked from her to Clint who had slowed to a walk and approached.
Hilly, feeling slightly foolish about her hysterical treatment of Clint, hesitated. What could she say?
“Well, my car has been stolen. I wondered if I could get a ride back to Tombstone with you?”
The old man looked over her shoulder and lifted his whip in greeting to Clint.
“Good day to you, Clint,” he said. “What’s going on here? Who’s the little lady?”
“Howdy, George. This is Miss Hilly Creighton, a friend of mine from back East. I was just showing her my claim. I had a cart, but the darn horse spooked and took off. Not sure if I’ll ever find him. John Dorn down at the stable will have something to say about that.”
Hilly stared at him with her mouth open, her chest heaving either from running or fear, she wasn’t sure which. She wasn’t sure of anything right now. She scanned the road again. Was this the same road? Had she climbed down from the hill on the wrong side? The terrain looked somewhat similar, but horribly unfamiliar.
“I would appreciate it, George, if you’d give us a ride back to town. I know you’re heading out to your own claim, but I would be willing to pay you.”
George grinned, showing what few yellowed teeth he had left. “Sure, Clint. You know me, I’ll do anything for a buck. Hop on!” He slid over to the left side of the bench.
“Thanks, George,” Clint said. He held out a hand to her. “Miss Creighton?”
Hilly looked up at him and searched his face. His soft eyes seemed to try to pass an unspoken message to her, but she couldn’t read his expression. He took her hand in his gently and urged her toward the wagon. Hilly, made pliant by confusion, gave in and looked for a step to climb into the wagon, but she couldn’t find a toehold anywhere except the wheel spoke. With a gasp, she felt herself lifted up by her hips. She grabbed the edge of the wagon and hoisted herself up to clamber inside.
George patted the seat beside him, and Hilly sat obediently. Clint used the wheel spoke and climbed aboard easily. He settled beside her and put his hand behind her back. In a second, Hilly knew why. George flicked his whip in the air without touching the horses, and they moved forward, giving unsuspecting riders a good jolt.
Hilly said nothing as George maneuvered his horses into a U-turn on the wide road. There was not a single, solitary, meaningful, normal, sane thing she could find to say. To anyone.
“Your mules are looking good, George. What are you feeding them?” Clint asked in a conversational voice.
George chuckled. “Oh, just a little bit of sugar when I can get it keeps ’em happy.”
Hilly stared at the mules’ long ears. Mules. Of course! Not horses. She kept her eyes straight, hardly daring to turn her face to look at Clint. He was too close. George had an unwashed odor about him, but Hilly held her breath as often as possible and thanked him silently for giving them a ride, as bumpy as it was.
She scanned the terrain again looking for signs of the highway, possible flashes from cars under the bright sun, even power lines. Nothing caught her eye. She looked over her shoulder to stare at the small hill, wondering if the highway was on the opposite side. She couldn’t see the cave any longer.
She tried to focus her thoughts on locating the highway and her car and away from the words that had passed between Clint and George. Clint had told George he was working his mine. It didn’t make sense. He’d introduced her as a friend from back East—a small lie, but why? He’d said his cart and horse had run off. He didn’t mention the missing car or the possibility that they had come off the hill onto the wrong road—with Hilly leading the way. Maybe he was embarrassed to admit she had run from him. Even she was embarrassed at the thought. But he had seemed so strange, so distant, so frightening. He had just said over and over that her car w
asn’t missing, it just wasn’t “there.”
She couldn’t wait to get back to town, get off the wagon that jolted her brain, and get away from smelly George and this very strange side of Clint. She would get herself oriented, get back to the motel, find a ride out to her car—walk if she had to—and head out of Tombstone as fast as she could.
The uncomfortable ride in the wagon alone convinced her that she could never live in the past, a question she had often wondered. Never. Even at 10 in the morning, the sun seemed hot. She missed the comfort of the air conditioning in the car, the windows closed against the dust now kicked up by the mules, the smoothness of the ride afforded by proper shocks.
In short, she was beginning to obsess about the rental car. She’d even left her purse in the car and had no money with her and no identification. Stupid! Stupid!
“Are you okay?” Clint leaned near her right ear and whispered.
Hilly kept her head resolutely forward. To turn toward him would have potentially forced her to kiss him as they were so scrunched on the bench. She shook her head and said nothing. No, she wasn’t okay.
Clint continued to whisper. “We’ll be in town in half an hour. Please, Hilly, don’t run when we get there. I have to talk to you about what has happened. I know you’re confused.”
Hilly shook her head again and gritted her teeth. More of the strange talk. She hated it. In fact, she planned to do just that. As soon as she got off the wagon, she was running.
She turned her head slightly toward George to prevent Clint from talking to her.
“So, George, you’re a miner?”
“Yes, ma’am. Unless you own a saloon, hotel or a ranch, mining’s the only thing going around here.”
“How are you doing with the mine?”
George laughed—a cackle, really.
“Well, I’m doing a sight better than Clint over there. I don’t think his mine is ever gonna pay. I do all right. Got a couple ounces of silver just the other day.”
“Oh!” Hilly said. “Is that a lot?” It didn’t seem like much to her, but she knew nothing about mining. Nor had she understood that, in fact, Clint was doing some mining. She could have sworn he said he wasn’t. In fact, she knew he said he wasn’t.
George laughed again. “It is to me! Got me some food, a bottle and a little companionship for a half hour.”
“George!” Clint said sharply. “Miss Creighton is a lady.”
Hilly jumped at the anger in Clint’s voice.
“Yup, sorry about that, Miss Creighton. I don’t see ladies much, and I forget my manners.” George’s chuckle didn’t really sound repentant.
“That’s okay, George. I’m not naïve. I knew what you meant.”
“See there, Clint? Miss Creighton is a lady of the world,” George said.
“I appreciate the ride, George, you know I do, but Miss Creighton doesn’t need to hear about your goin’s on.”
Clint’s vernacular seemed to change when he was talking to George. Hilly wondered why. His speech pattern had always been interesting, a bit old fashioned at times, but he sounded positively slangy at the moment as if he truly thought he was in the Old West.
“Now, don’t get all riled up, Clint. I’m sure the little lady knows I don’t mean no disrespect. Hey, where’d you get them clothes anyway? Not around here, you didn’t!” George nodded toward Clint.
“I was up in Tucson a while back and picked up some new stuff while I was there.”
A sound caught her ear—a jingling and regular thumping which seemed to come from behind. A man on a horse came alongside them. He lifted his dark blue hat when he saw Hilly and nodded.
“Good day! Is this the road to Tombstone?”
“Sure is, friend,” George answered.
Hilly stared at the rider. Surely, he wasn’t riding a horse to Tombstone, was he? He was dressed in what she thought was a Cavalry costume, dark blue jacket and blue gray trousers, shiny black knee-high boots. Bright gold epaulettes decorated his shoulders and matched the braid around his hat. His horse’s livery jingled as he trotted along beside them.
“How far is it?”
“Bout four miles,” George said. “Where ya comin’ from?”
“Fort Huachuca. I’m new to the fort. Haven’t been out to Tombstone though, just acquainting myself with the territory.”
George grinned his partly toothless grin and winked at Clint.
“Welcome,” George said. Clint remained silent.
“My name is Captain Daniel Thorn. How do you do?”
“George. This here is Clint, and Miss Hilly Creighton.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” the young captain said affably.
Hilly waved a hand in greeting. The scene felt surreal—the wagon, Captain Thorn who looked like the epitome of a Calvary officer. Neither could she believe it was still four miles back to Tombstone.
“Well, it’s nice meeting you. I had better hurry if I’m to get to Tombstone and back to the fort by nightfall. Keep an eye out for Apaches, folks. There are rumors Geronimo is up to his old tricks again.”
Captain Thorn spurred his horse, and they resumed cantering down the road, the livery jingling, dust flying up.
“Nice!” Hilly muttered in annoyance and covered her mouth and nose.
“Yeah, he did seem like a nice sort of fella,” George said.
Hilly almost chuckled. She could feel Clint shaking by her side, but he kept his laughter quiet.
She couldn’t hold her tongue any longer. She turned her face slightly toward Clint and kept her voice low.
“So, mining?” she asked briefly.
“Yes,” Clint replied just as briefly.
“You’re a miner?” she repeated, hoping he would explain.
“Well, heck, didn’t he just take you up to see his mine?” George asked. Hilly would have thought he had too much dirt in his ears to hear them, but he had.
“Yes, he did,” she said, firming her chin. “Yes, he did.” She gave Clint a squinty-eyed look.
“Yup, Clint showed up about a year ago or so, bought out old man Wilson’s claim. Old man Wilson gave up on diggin,’ said he was tired.”
Hilly directed another narrow-eyed look toward Clint. He was a liar. But she had no idea why he lied. Though how he had time to work a mine by himself and do his shows she had no idea.
“Oh, shoot! You’re going to be late for your show.” She looked at her watch. Ten-forty. They weren’t going to make Tombstone by 11 o’clock at this rate.
“Don’t worry,” Clint said in a low voice. “You’ll see why soon enough.”
“What show?” George asked.
Didn’t George know? Tombstone seemed small enough that everybody would know everything about each other. Surely, he’d seen Clint there.
She looked to Clint, who shrugged apologetically.
“No show, George. I may have told Miss Creighton that I was in a Wild West gun-slinging show just to get her attention. She’s found me out.”
“A Wild West show?” George cackled. “We don’t need no show for that, miss. Tombstone is the Wild West. Clint, you old dog. Yer in for it now.”
With her mouth firmly shut, Hilly positioned her elbow and jabbed Clint as hard as she could in the ribs.
She heard his quick intake of breath but refused to look at him.
Take that, Clint! He was definitely lying, both to her and to George, and she’d had enough. If she could have figured out how to get off the wagon, she would have jumped, but as it was, she was stuck and there was nothing she could do. If she’d had enough room to lift her arms, she would have put her fingers in her ears to block out any further lies.”
The dusty road curved around a small rise, and Tombstone came into view. Nestled among small hills, the town sprawled much wider than when she approached from the paved road. In fact, it looked much, much larger than she had previously thought. Oddly, she couldn’t see the courthouse, the largest building in town.
They neared the town,
and several wagons passed them on the way out. George waved nonchalantly. The wagons were empty, without tourists.
Hilly strained to see the town through the dust. Something was wrong. This looked nothing like Tombstone.
“Is this Tombstone?” she asked.
“Sure is,” George said. “Town’s growing every day thanks to the mines. Everybody’s looking to strike it rich. There’s about 7000 people now, ain’t there, Clint?”
Hilly shook her head. Tombstone did not have 7000 people in it. There was no way. Hadn’t she seen a road sign that said the population was 1300-something?
Clint didn’t answer but leaned closer to Hilly, as if he understood what she felt. She looked up at him, and he nodded. He took her right hand in his, and she saw images of an older Tombstone like the one before her, Clint climbing up the ladder in the mine, falling. The images passed, and she gripped his hand.
Suddenly, everything became clear. The old-fashioned images made sense. Clint’s odd speech patterns made sense. Even George actually made sense. Of course, he was dirty. Running water was probably a luxury in the late 1800s. And dental care probably out of the ordinary man’s reach.
Hilly turned to Clint as if to kiss his cheek, and she whispered in his ear. “What year is it?”
Clint’s shoulders sagged and he let out a deep breath. He turned to her and pressed his face against her hair.
“1881.”
Hilly’s body began to shake uncontrollably, and she hoped George wouldn’t notice. Clint did, however. He gripped her hand tighter.
“Keep breathing,” he whispered. “You’ll faint if you don’t. I should know. I think I fainted when it happened to me.”
Chapter Seven
Clint’s heart ached for Hilly. She looked pale. A bead of perspiration broke out on her upper lip. He could do little to help but whisper encouragingly in her ear. This was one conversation he really hoped George couldn’t hear.
“Where can I drop ya, Clint?” George asked.
“Down at the Palace Hotel,” Clint said. “I’m going to get Miss Creighton settled there.”
“Good enough,” George said. He pulled the wagon up in front of the Palace, and Clint climbed down. He held out his hand to a wide-eyed Hilly whose eyes darted everywhere as if to take in the scene all at once. He knew how she felt.