Adobe Palace

by Joyce Brandon

  She looked down at her unfired weapon, then behind her to see if Ramon had fired, but he was facing in the opposite direction, firing at other bandits and missing. The shots, which had come from the southeast, puzzled her. Lars or Silas must have left the train. Samantha couldn’t imagine why they would have done that when it would have been safer to huddle in the locomotive. Lars was too heavy to run far, and Silas looked too scared to try. But she knew that men under pressure did amazing things.

  At the sight of their dead comrades, the remaining bandits reined their horses and turned tail. Another bullet struck one of the fleeing bandits. He fell off his horse and struggled to his feet, yelling, “Get my damn horse!”

  One man caught at the reins of a riderless horse and led it over to him. Two comrades helped the wounded man onto his horse again, then all four of them flogged their lathered mounts into a wild retreat. Samantha stood up. Two of the bandits lay dead beside her brakeman.

  In the sudden silence a cactus wren warbled a few tentative notes. A triumphant cry from Silas startled the bird into silence again. “Yahoo! We whipped ’em!”

  Samantha let Nicholas stand up to peer out the window. She walked to the open door and stepped outside. The railroad had certainly gotten a bargain in Lars and Silas. She would make certain Chane learned how valuable they were. As majority owner of the Texas and Pacific Railroad, her adopted brother, Chantry Kincaid III, had the authority to reward their actions.

  Relief made her knees feel wobbly. Samantha gripped the railing to steady herself.

  “Ma’am, if you know anything about doctoring, you might want to take a look at Lars…”

  Hearing Silas’s voice coming from the direction of the locomotive puzzled her. The bullets that killed the two bandits hadn’t come from that direction. She wanted to ask Silas about that, but the look on his face made her clamber quickly down the steps and follow him. As she passed Otto she checked for signs of life but found none. The sun was so hot, blood had already dried on the corner of Otto’s mouth. Flies buzzed loudly over his blood, which smelled warm and sweet. She wanted to cover him, but there was no time. Feeling sick, Samantha fanned the flies away as if that might help, then stepped around the two dead bandits and hurried to the locomotive.

  Lars lay on the floor of the cab, bleeding from a bullet wound in his side. His paunch rose and fell with his labored breathing. Blood soaked his canvas engineer’s apron. Samantha eased his shirt aside. The bullet had entered just below his last rib. They’d have to get him to a doctor soon.

  They had drinking water, but nothing to carry it in for any distance. She didn’t trust Silas to walk to Camp Picket Post; he might get lost, or the remaining bandits might intercept and kill him. She knew the way, but she couldn’t leave Nicholas. And she couldn’t take him with her. Even a mile hike was too long for a small sickly boy in this heat.

  “Let’s wait here,” she said. “I’m sure someone will miss us. They’ll have half the territory out looking for us by morning.”

  “Ya, if da Apache devils don’t kotch us first,” Lars said, grimacing at the pain it caused him to speak.

  Three years ago, in 1886, Geronimo had surrendered and been sent to Florida. In reality, few Apache warriors remained in Arizona, but people still talked as if every Indian were an Apache.

  Samantha stood up. “I’ll get the medicine box.” She prayed it would have something in it to relieve Lars’s pain. Samantha ran back to the coach.

  She found the medicine box in the kitchen and was hurrying back through the palace car when a man’s voice startled her.

  “Hello! Anybody in there?”

  Samantha pulled one of the bullet-tattered draperies aside and peered out the window.

  The man straddled a big gray calico horse splotched with red, orange, and black. Behind him, astride a spotted pinto, was a young Indian woman, wearing a fancy white-feathered headdress and a white ceremonial buckskin dress that reached to midcalf. Her cheekbones were high and sweetly curved. Something about the girl caused an uneasy feeling in Samantha, though she was certain she’d never seen her before. Both horses pulled cottonwood branches behind them.

  Gripping the smooth handle of the pistol in the deep pocket of her morning gown, Samantha walked to the front of the car. Nicholas peered out over a jagged piece of broken glass.

  The man was dressed like an easterner in a dark frock coat, white shirt, and dark pants, their true color obscured by a film of yellowish dust. His knee-high boots looked new.

  “Hello! Anybody in there?” he called again, his voice clear and commanding.

  Samantha tightened her grip on the revolver in her pocket, opened the door, and stepped outside. At the sight of her, the man doffed his wide-brimmed hat. In spite of his dusty clothes, he had the sleek look of an otter, dark and lithe and smooth.

  His horse pranced sideways. He controlled it with a sturdy wrist.

  “What can I do for you?” Samantha asked, her voice more strident than she would have liked. She realized it was not a proper greeting, but this hadn’t exactly been a proper day.

  The man gave her a slow smile that called attention to the curve of his lips, the refined silkiness of his features, and the sparkle of amusement in his dark eyes, which were rimmed by long black lashes.

  “I thought I might do something for you,” he said. “Congress cut the Indians’ rations again, and a half-dozen hungry Papago are on the prowl. I reckon by now they’ve heard the gunfire,” he said, gesturing at the dead bandits. “They may be headed this way.” At first she thought she detected an Eastern accent, but by the time he’d finished, he sounded like the drawling Texans she’d admired as a girl.

  “I’ve lived next to the Papago for years now. They’ve always been good neighbors…”

  “Maybe when they’re not mad and hungry,” he said, the smile in his eyes creeping into his deep voice, which was as deep and resonant as a bronze gong.

  “What do you suggest then?”

  “Camp Picket Post is a few miles north of here.”

  “We can’t leave. We have an injured man. Another train will come along by tomorrow. And the Indians might not find us anyway.”

  The man shook his head and looked up. Samantha’s gaze followed his. Three buzzards soared overhead, their black shapes circling ever lower. His profile, made more distinctive by a slightly hooked nose, was clean and sharp against the blue sky. Navy blue-black hair curled around the white collar of his shirt.

  To the south, a flock of crows let out faint cries. A lone crow perched on a nearby cholla cactus cawed in answer and lifted into the air. The locomotive wheezed like an asthmatic, sent up a last cloud of smelly black coal smoke, and fell silent, another sign that their resources were just about used up.

  “How many in your party?” he asked.

  “Four besides me. Our brakeman was killed.”

  “I can pack double and so can she,” he said, pointing to the Indian girl. “The men’ll have to walk alongside.” He took off his hat and wiped an arm across his forehead. His smooth, ruddy cheeks were dark with the shadow of beard stubble. “My name’s Sheridan,” he said quietly. “Steve Sheridan. I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’m not going to do you any harm. After all, there’s only one of me and five of you.”

  He turned in his saddle, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. “We could just settle in and let ’em come. We might be able to parlay with them. But maybe not. They’re young and wild. And I don’t care much for shooting hungry men.”

  “Is that a buffalo gun in your sheath?” asked Samantha.

  Surprise flickered in Sheridan’s eyes. “Yes.”

  “So it was you who shot these men,” she said, gesturing toward the two bodies on the observation platform. “You saved us, didn’t you?”

  Sheridan shrugged.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sheridan.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  Samantha relaxed a little. He looked more than competent. He ha
d broad shoulders and one of those lean, whipcord bodies. It’d probably take a cannon to kill him. But the girl was Indian. And that confused Samantha.

  Sheridan saw her look and shook his head. “No danger from her. Elunami’s a Hopi. The Hopi are peaceful. Only bear arms in self-defense.”

  “She’s a long way from home,” Samantha said.

  “She and her people were ambushed by some soldiers this morning. She’s the only survivor.”

  “Oh, no. Do you have any idea why?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “North of Pichaco Peak. They’d stopped at one of the few places on the river where there was still puddled water to let their horses drink.” He looked west. “They were unarmed, except for a carbine that hadn’t been fired. And they were old.”

  “Oh, my God,” Samantha whispered, glancing with sympathy toward the girl, who sat on her horse in silence, her only visible reaction a thinning of her pretty lips.

  “I’m sorry and ashamed that something like that can still happen,” Samantha said, shaking her head.

  The girl nodded, her eyes reflecting her gratitude and her misery. Then she lowered her gaze again.

  Still unsatisfied, Samantha looked back at the man. “She isn’t dressed like a Hopi.”

  “I asked her about that. She said these togs were given to her people by a great white chief. I guess he didn’t know the difference between Plains Indians and Hopi Indians.”

  “What do you do, Mr. Sheridan?”

  “I’m a builder of houses, ma’am. Helping beautiful women fight their battles is not something I normally do. So I’d appreciate it if we could get moving before our situation becomes even more precarious.” Amusement flickered in his khaki-colored eyes. Samantha had never seen anyone with eyes that color.

  “I can’t believe the army can justify killing old men,” she said.

  Samantha had heard of atrocities in Texas that were just as incomprehensible. Talk of them always saddened her and brought up an awful feeling of helplessness and shame.

  “I’ll take a look at your wounded man,” Sheridan said, his tone kinder.

  “He’s in the cab.”

  Sheridan dismounted and strode toward the locomotive. Samantha turned to Nicholas. “You stay here,” she whispered.

  “Awww, Mama…”

  “Keep Nicholas here, Ramon,” Samantha said, giving him a warning look as she ran down the steps.

  Sheridan was only a few inches taller than she, but his long legs carried him much faster through the dragging sand. He strode to the cab, climbed up, and reached down to help her up. His big, warm hands around hers were deeply callused. Rough and strong, they didn’t seem to match the fineness of his clothes, which were too rich for a common carpenter.

  Sheridan pulled her past him into the engine cab. Samantha caught the scent of dust, leather, sweat, and horses before her senses were overwhelmed by the oily cab smells of grease and kerosene. As her left shoulder brushed his chest, a tiny, brief flame ignited in the center of his pupils. It was a look she’d seen in her husband Jared’s eyes—when he’d wanted her. Suddenly she felt breathless, a feeling she hadn’t experienced since Jared died, almost four years ago.

  Then Sheridan released her, turned away, and knelt beside Lars, who grunted an acknowledgment. Sheridan lifted aside Lars’s shirt, looked at the wound, and nodded. “You look like you’ll keep,” he told the engineer. “We’re going to move you into Picket Post.”

  Lars smiled. “Must ’ave been your gun I hurtd, yah?” His Swedish accent was more pronounced with the wheeze in his breathing.

  Sheridan nodded. “A .57 Sharps.”

  Lars chuckled, then grimaced with pain. “I’d recognize a buffalo gun anyvhere. How far avay vas you?”

  “About six hundred yards.”

  “Goodt shoodink.”

  Samantha offered Sheridan the medicine box. He placed a pad over Lars’s wound, wrapped it tight enough to stop the bleeding, tied it securely, and squeezed Lars’s hand. “You’ll hold until we reach a doctor.”

  “Yah.”

  “What time’s the next train come through here?” Sheridan asked.

  “Tomorrow mornink.”

  He stood up, took Samantha’s arm, and helped her down onto the sand.

  “Elunami can rig a travois for your injured man.” At Sheridan’s words, the girl slid off the side of her pony.

  Samantha flashed him a look that clearly labeled him a thoughtless brute. “Mr. Sheridan,” she said, her pale porcelain cheeks flashing with attractive color, “the girl has just witnessed a terrible murderous attack and lost people who were undoubtedly dear to her. I hardly think she should be ordered around like a chambermaid.”

  “Sorry,” Steve mumbled, thoroughly chastened.

  Samantha motioned Silas to her. “Silas, please build a travois.”

  Steve could tell by looking at the man he had no idea what a travois was, much less how to build one. So he walked over to the water tank and kicked loose two two-by-fours and carried them into the shade of the train. There he slipped off his coat, turned up his sleeves, cut off a length of his reata, and began to unbraid it.

  Samantha couldn’t seem to stop staring at Sheridan. It was hard to tell how old he was, maybe late twenties. His arms were dark, his forearms and wrists muscular and strong. Against her will, she admired the manly swell of his shoulders and arms.

  “Do you have a blanket or sheet we could use for the travois?” he asked, glancing up and catching her look.

  Samantha took Elunami’s hand and led her toward the Pullman coach. “I’ll get one,” she said, leading the reluctant girl up the steps.

  “Where are you taking her?” Sheridan asked, frowning.

  “To find her something else to wear. If soldiers are looking for her, we need to change her appearance.”

  “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “It’s Samantha Forrester,” she said, watching to see if her name caused any reaction in him. She decided he probably wasn’t from around here, or he hadn’t heard about her buying the old Spanish land grant. She’d been written up a number of times, once in the Phoenix Gazette.

  Sheridan turned back to the task of unbraiding his reata. She led Elunami past Nicholas into the parlor car.

  “Be very careful here,” she said, looking down at the girl’s moccasins. With glass crunching under her own shoes, she kicked a path for the girl. In her own compartment she pulled down a heavy blanket from the cabinet over her bed and carried it outside and gave it to Sheridan. He looked up at her with a quizzical look in his eyes, as if he were judging her and enjoying it. His interest caused an odd sensation in her belly. Samantha shrugged self-consciously and climbed back into the Pullman coach.

  Elunami looked quite young, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Her lovely dark eyes were soft, the irises streaked with silver—unusual compared with the dense black of most Indians’ eyes.

  Looking into the girl’s eyes alarmed Samantha. If eyes were truly windows to the soul, Elunami’s were wide open, and her soul was in agony. Samantha’s heart ached for the girl. Violent death was a terrible thing to see, even more so of family and friends.

  “I guess you don’t speak English,” Samantha said, softly.

  “I do,” the girl replied. Her voice was an octave lower than Samantha’s and husky as a boy’s.

  Samantha opened her armoire and searched through her things. “The problem is you’re so slender…and much shorter than me.” Finally she found the new white peasant blouse and black skirt she’d bought for Juana, her housekeeper, who was short and chubby. The blouse was too big, but the skirt appeared to be the right length. She could cinch it with a belt.

  “I think these will change your appearance the most. Try them on. I’ll look for a belt.”

  “May I wash first?” asked Elunami.

  “In there,” Samantha said, pointing to the lavatory.

  By the time Samantha talked Ramon in
to taking a belt from one of the dead men, Elunami was washed and dressed in the new garments. Samantha secured the skirt around Elunami’s tiny waist and stepped back. “How pretty you look! And how different!” Elunami’s hair was deep auburn with red highlights.

  “You can’t be Hopi,” Samantha said, shaking her head.

  “Half Hopi, half Irish.”

  Still, the girl looked Spanish, at least enough to pass.

  Samantha went back outside to check on the travois. Steve Sheridan was unbraiding the strands of the reata and didn’t look up. Silas was spreading the blanket across the two-by-fours.

  “Are you from around here?” she asked Sheridan.

  “Nope.”

  Glancing around for the dead men who had been there a few moments ago, she asked, “What did you do with those men?”

  “Put ’em in shallow graves.”

  “Thank you for doing that,” she said. “I’ll get some water to fortify us for the trip.”

  A smile brightened his eyes for a moment, then he looked down at the leather cords in his strong hands. “Thank you, ma’am. A drink sounds fine.” He tied a knot, tested its strength, and stood. “If you don’t mind I’d like to take a look inside.”

  At Samantha’s nod, Sheridan gave the leather thongs and a knife to Silas, showed him how to punch holes and tie knots. Then he strode to the steps of the Pullman car, stopping to let her precede him. On the platform, she reached for the door, but he leaned around her and opened it. Inside, he stopped and let out a low whistle. “Looks like something out of the Arabian Nights,” he said, with a boyish grin.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s a mite fluffy for my tastes, but it suits you.”

  Samantha laughed. The darker blue of her gown did complement the lighter blue of the car’s draperies and upholstery fabrics, though she hadn’t chosen her outfit for that reason. Her guardians, Elizabeth and Chantry Kincaid II, had given her the Pullman coach as her wedding present seven years ago. Aunt Elizabeth had chosen the decor well and spared no expense. Satinwood paneling on the walls and ceiling complemented the intricate marquetry of the built-in cabinets.