by Nan Ryan
The supplies for the trip were neatly rolled up in a blanket. His saddlebags were loaded. The black stallion was waiting at the stable.
And, if he judged the time correctly, Marietta was about to take the stage halfway down the block.
Maltese was seated in his private box at the rapidly filling Tivoli Opera House auditorium. He took his gold-cased watch from his vest pocket, checked it and sighed with rising pleasure.
As he waited for the opera to begin, he was—as usual—filled with pleasant anticipation. The kind of excitement that escalated with every passing moment.
The exhilaration never diminished. Each evening it was as if it were his first night at the opera, the first time he had seen the lovely Marietta. Each time the heavy scarlet curtain rose, he experienced a quick fluttering of his heart. And when Marietta appeared onstage, the fluttering became sharp palpitations.
Nothing and no one could thrill him the way she did. He had had, in his fifty-two years, everything there was to have in this world. Money. Mansions. Mistresses. Thoroughbred horses. Yachts. Private rail cars. You name it, it had been his. And until recently he had supposed that there was little left that could charm or amuse him.
But he had been wrong.
From the moment he’d first laid eyes on Marietta, he had been totally enchanted, had instantly felt as if he were twenty years younger. He was, he mused as he waited for the curtain to rise, a very lucky man. Maltese sighed again and turned around.
“Lightnin’, am I not the luckiest man you’ve ever known?” he asked the man standing at the back of the box.
“No doubt about it,” Lightnin’ replied without a change of expression.
“No doubt about it,” Maltese happily repeated, then turned back around.
Lightnin’ slowly, ruefully, turned his eyes heavenward and shook his head.
Backstage in her dressing room, Marietta was high-strung and unusually jittery. The astute Sophia was aware of Marietta’s condition, but was puzzled. She had never seen her young pupil so anxious. She couldn’t imagine why Marietta would suddenly be suffering from a case of stage fright.
“Something is bothering you,” Sophia gently accused, her eyebrows lifting. As her plump fingers worked with the tiny hooks going down the back of Marietta’s costume, she said, “You’ve never experienced the least twinge of stage fright, so it isn’t that. Tell me what is upsetting you and I’ll help if I can.”
Marietta frowned at herself in the freestanding mirror and sighed heavily. She bit the inside of her lower lip and strongly considered confiding in Sophia. She had always been truthful with Sophia and she needed to tell somebody that she was in imminent danger.
She needed to confess that she had met a handsome Texan who had pretended to be an admiring fan. Admit that she had been flattered and had foolishly agreed to a secret luncheon with the stranger. That there she’d learned he was an impostor. A hired mercenary paid by her grandfather to deliver her to Galveston.
Marietta was confident that she could trust Sophia. Sophia knew her better than anyone and she never judged or censured.
“There,” said Sophia, “your gown is completely fastened up the back. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
Marietta turned to face her friend. “Oh, Sophia, you know me too well. There is something I need to tell you and…and…you must promise me that you will not—”
“Thirty seconds, Miss Marietta!” the stage director interrupted, speaking through the door.
“Be right there,” Marietta called out and started to turn away.
“Wait!” said Sophia, and caught her arm. “What is it, dear? What’s troubling my girl?”
“There’s no time now. I’ll tell you after the performance,” said Marietta, patting Sophia’s plump hand and exiting the dressing room.
At straight up nine o’clock, Cole walked into Pollock’s Livery Stable. Once inside, he swung a leather gun belt around his slim hips and buckled it. He touched the handle of the holstered revolver and let his fingers dance over the belt’s extra bullets.
He went into the stall where the black was stabled, reached into his breast pocket and drew out a cube of sugar. He fed it to the grateful beast.
As the horse crunched on the sugar lump, Cole leaned close and said, “I’m taking you out of here, boy, but you’ve got to be very quiet. No whinnying or neighing once we’re outdoors.”
The stallion shook its great head as if it understood, and Cole grinned and stroked its sleek jaw. He led the stallion out of the stable.
Strapped behind the cantle was the rolled-up blanket containing clothes for Marietta. Hanging from the saddle horn was a canteen filled with water and the loaded saddlebags were draped over the horse’s flanks.
Cole had laid out his escape route in advance. Pollock’s was down the hill and across the street from the Tivoli Opera House. He led the stallion farther on down the hill, away from town. When he was well past all the buildings and the illuminating gaslights, he guided the obedient stallion across the street and turned back toward town.
Under the cover of darkness, he moved along behind the buildings until he reached the back of the Tivoli Opera House. He loosely tethered the stallion and, making no noise in his soft leather moccasins, slipped around the side of the theater and up the alley. He silently approached the stage door.
Posted on either side of the door were the burly Burnett brothers. Just as expected. Cole knew he couldn’t handle them both, so he stayed well hidden in the shadows and patiently waited for a break.
Sure enough, not more than a half hour passed before Jim Burnett said to his older brother, “Con, everything’s pretty quiet around here tonight. Think I’ll go inside for a drink of water.”
“Don’t be gone long,” cautioned Con Burnett.
“No, I won’t. Be back in a minute.”
Jim Burnett went inside and Cole immediately seized his opportunity. He noiselessly slipped up behind Con Burnett and tapped him on the shoulder. Con automatically turned, mouth agape, eyes wide. Cole swiftly slammed a well-placed fist into the surprised man’s right jaw. Burnett crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Minutes later, the unsuspecting Jim Burnett came lumbering out the stage door. Cole tripped him, and when Jim stumbled and fell, Cole coldcocked him with the butt of his revolver. Like his brother, Jim was out cold.
Cole wasted no time.
He yanked the stage door open and rushed inside. He had timed it perfectly. The orchestra was now playing an interlude, and Marietta, having finished a lengthy aria, was exiting the stage to deafening applause.
She caught sight of Cole and her heart stopped. Before she could scream, he was to her. He grabbed her and clamped a hand firmly over her mouth. Her eyes wild, she struggled violently against him, but Cole had little trouble whisking her out the door.
He hauled her around the building, untethered the black and managed to get Marietta up across the saddle without taking his hand from her mouth. He swung up behind her and immediately put the black into motion.
The stallion swiftly carried the pair out of Central City without attracting any undue attention. When the city lights were behind them, Cole cautiously loosened his hand on Marietta’s mouth and told her in a low, calming voice, “I am not going to hurt you, Marietta. You will not be harmed.”
Her prompt reply was a vicious bite to his palm. When he jerked his hand away, she cursed him and vowed he would never get her to Galveston.
“You bastard! You sly, deceptive son of a bitch,” she shouted as she clawed at his face, drawing blood. “You let me go this very instant, do you hear me! I command you, Texan! Let me go, damn you. You’re wasting your time, you’ll never get me to Galveston! Never, never, never!” She raged on as she beat on his chest and tried her best to tear his encircling arm from around her waist.
She threatened him, promising that Maltese would come after her. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with, Heflin!” she hotly informed him. “The most powerful man in
Colorado is mad about me! He’ll never let you get away with kidnapping me. You’ll hang for this!”
“And I’ll hang if I don’t do this,” Cole said with a laugh.
“You’re laughing? Dear God, you are insane,” she screamed at him. “If I get the chance, I’ll kill you. I will, I mean it! So help me, I’ll kill you, you deranged fool.”
She reached for his loaded revolver. He beat her to it. She tried to pry his fingers loose. They wouldn’t budge. Thwarted, she promised, “I’ll get my hands on the gun somehow and when I do I’ll blow your stupid head off.” Cole never even blinked.
Marietta was still swearing at him when, minutes after leaving Central City, they had dropped five hundred feet to the bustling mill town of Blackhawk, a mile below. On the outskirts, Cole drew up on the reins. The stallion immediately halted. Marietta quit swearing, stared at him, hopeful. Perhaps he had changed his mind, was going to let her go.
He had not.
Cole untied his black-and-gray bandanna, took it off, and before she knew his intent, he had gagged her with it.
“Sorry, Marietta, but you’re much too loud. You can’t be trusted to keep quiet.”
She went into fresh fits of rage. She flailed her arms and kicked her feet and screamed at the top of her lungs. But her loudest screams were muffled by the bandanna until they were no more than faint mewling sounds.
Cole calmly guided the black clear of the Black-hawk businesses. He skirted around behind the smelters and clapboard miners’ dwellings, small modest cubes scattered across the pale gold and russet slopes along the gulch of North Clear Creek.
Her eyes flashing, her heart hammering, Marietta savagely elbowed her attacker, hoping to hurt him badly. She shook her head from side to side in an attempt to loosen the choking bandanna. She moaned. She grappled. She cried. She fought him with all her might.
It did no good.
Cole was as determined as she.
His jaw was bleeding from the furrowed marks left by her long, punishing nails. His stomach was tender from the continuous slamming of her sharp elbows into his exposed belly. His chest was bruised from the fierce pummeling of her balled fists.
He ignored the discomfort.
He held her fast with one arm wrapped firmly around her waist. But as he guided the surefooted stallion down onto the steep, treacherous path descending into Clear Creek Canyon, he knew that getting this red-haired wildcat back to Texas was going to be one hell of a long, unpleasant, arduous expedition.
Ten
The orchestra vamped.
The crowd grew restless.
The star soprano had not come back onstage.
The puzzled baritone kept glancing toward the wings, wondering why Marietta had not returned after her costume change. The other players looked at each other, baffled.
Backstage a frantic Andreas banged on the door to Marietta’s dressing room.
“Where is she?” he demanded, looking past Sophia when the voice coach opened the door. “Where is our star? God in heaven, doesn’t Marietta realize she is at least ten minutes late getting back onstage!”
“Late getting back on…?” Sophia repeated, dumbfounded. “But…but…she hasn’t come offstage yet. Has she?”
“A good fifteen minutes ago,” railed Andreas, wringing his hands, his face growing red.
Sophia felt her heart skip a beat. “Andreas, she hasn’t been back to her dressing room. I haven’t seen her since before the opera began. I thought she was still onstage!”
Andreas pressed a slender hand to his creased forehead. “Where on earth could she be? It makes no sense. She wouldn’t just up and leave without…without…Help me look for her, Sophia. We must find her and get her onstage before the audience becomes unruly!”
Andreas turned and hurried down the corridor behind the stage’s heavy backdrop where a row of dressing rooms stretched the length of the building’s rear wall. Sophia was right behind him. Andreas pounded on doors. Sophia did the same. Startled players, some half-dressed, stuck their heads out, wondering what was going on.
“Is Marietta in here?” Andreas inquired at the first door.
“Have you seen Marietta?” Sophia asked at the next.
No one had.
Andreas and Sophia exchanged worried looks. “What shall we do?” asked Andreas, now completely distraught.
“I don’t know, I can’t imagine why…why…”
Sophia stopped speaking. Her throat tightened with alarm. She suddenly recalled how strange Marietta’s mood had been before the opening curtain. She remembered asking what was wrong and Marietta had admitted that something was upsetting her. Marietta had said that she would talk about it after the performance had ended. Sophia grabbed Andreas’s forearm and shared the vital information. He looked stricken.
“Something bad has happened to her,” he said, his voice gone shrill. “She’s gone! Someone has come in and taken her.”
“No! No, that can’t be,” Sophia offered hopefully. “The Burnett brothers are outside, guarding the stage door. They wouldn’t let anyone past. No one could get to her through them.”
The artistic director’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded. “Come, let’s go out and question them.”
Without another word, both turned and scurried toward the closed side door. Before they reached it, Maltese and his shadow, Lightnin’, appeared backstage.
“Where is she?” Maltese demanded. “Where is Marietta? She should have been back onstage ten minutes ago. Her audience is waiting!”
“We don’t know where she is,” admitted Andreas.
“She never came to the dressing room between acts. We can’t find her,” said Sophia, her eyes quickly filling with tears.
Lightnin’ was the first one out the stage door. There he saw both big men sprawled on the ground. It was instantly clear what had happened. Somebody had taken Marietta right under the Burnetts’ worthless noses.
Con Burnett was just coming around. He sat up, rubbed his throbbing jaw and looked about, bewildered. Jim was still out, lying on his stomach, face in the dirt.
Furious, Lightnin’ stepped forward, kicked Jim, stirring him, and at the same time reached down, grabbed the front of Con’s shirt and backhanded him hard across the face.
“What the hell happened? Where is Marietta?”
“She missing?” asked Con, coming to his feet, wiping the blood from his split lip.
“You tell us,” said Maltese, stepping around Lightnin’. “Where is she?” he shouted angrily at Con, the veins standing out on his forehead. “Marietta is gone! She is not inside the opera house. You’re supposed to be guarding her. What has happened to my angel?”
“Oh, God, no,” said Con, the terrible truth dawning.
Jim was shaking off the last traces of unconsciousness and rising unsteadily to his feet. The brothers were immediately peppered with questions from both Lightnin’ and Maltese. But neither was sure what had happened. They just did not know. Jim swore he never saw anybody, that he was struck from behind when he came out the stage door.
“What were you doing inside?” asked Lightnin’. “You were supposed to stand outside this door throughout the opera! You weren’t at your post!”
Jim hung his head. Con quickly spoke up, revealed that he had gotten one quick glance at his attacker.
“Tall man. Dark. Slim. Black hair. Clean shaven. Not a local or I’d have known him.”
“The Texan,” said Lightnin’ resolutely, his beady eyes narrowing.
“Who?” asked Maltese, frantic. “Who did you say? You know the kidnapper?”
“No, but I know he took her.”
Andreas and Sophia clung to each other, Sophia sobbing now, Andreas consoling her. Maltese paced anxiously, not sure what to do next. Lightnin’ took quick command.
He began barking orders at the nervous Burnett boys. “You two have exactly fifteen minutes to get your horses and weapons and round up a half-dozen men to ride with us. We’re going after her and we’d
damn well better find her unharmed if you two morons want to see the sun rise tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” the brothers said and turned to hurry away, bumping into each other in their haste.
“You’ll find her, won’t you, Lightnin’?” Maltese asked, his voice thin, pleading. “You’ll bring my sweet Marietta back to me?”
“You know I will,” said Lightnin’ and swung into action.
The twinkling lights of both Central City and Blackhawk had been left far behind. It was well after ten o’clock. A pale quarter moon had risen high above Clear Creek Canyon. But it sailed lazily in and out of thick, scattered clouds, intermittently casting the canyon into darkness.
Narrow, rocky, the trail down swiftly descended into the deep, steep-sided gorge where the cold waters of Clear Creek rushed over a bed of scattered boulders. It was a winding track that clung to the soaring rock walls high above the surging, splashing creek.
To travel the frightening trail in broad daylight took nerves of steel. To attempt it in darkness was downright foolhardy.
Cole had little choice. It was nighttime or never. So he kept a firm arm around his gagged, kicking cargo, and his eyes and mind on the treacherous path before them.
His jaw set, teeth clenched, he guided the black slowly around another switchback, well aware that they would have to drop another three thousand feet before they reached Denver.
If they reached Denver.
Cole glanced back over his shoulder as the pale moon moved out from behind a covering cloud. He squinted, saw no one. Heard nothing. He pulled up on the reins. The black stopped, blew and snorted, turned his head and looked back at Cole. Marietta, continuing to struggle, looked suspiciously at her stone-faced captor.
“There are no houses, no people for miles around now,” Cole said. “If I take away your gag, there’ll be no need to shout and scream. No one can hear you.” He looked into her upturned face. “You’ll be sensible and quiet?”