Love and Adventure Collection - Part 2

by Jennifer Blake

  So be it. With so much between them, it was unlikely they could have found happiness. She was just as well off without him. She would get along fine, just fine. She was a wealthy woman, independently wealthy. She needed no one, least of all a man who hugged his secrets to his chest, suffering all manner of misconceptions to be placed at his door rather than compromise his pride.

  Damn the man! How dare he leave her just when she was ready to absolve him of guilt? The least he could have done was to hear her out, let her make her apology. What did he mean by consigning her to this state of frustration? It was maddening. Sooner or later, they would have to have this out between them.

  Later, rather than sooner. She did not trust herself to speak calmly just yet; she was by no means sure she could be properly contrite. Outside, it was so warm and beguiling, almost like a Southern spring. She would drive into town to Serenity House and see how it was progressing. She would spend some time with the nuns, and possibly stop to visit with Consuelo. But she would not, under any circumstances, turn in the direction of Myers Avenue and the Eldorado.

  The Sisters of Mercy were delighted to see her. They displayed the new babies, three in number, who had joined the nursery. There was so much love and pride in their manner one could have been forgiven for wondering if divine dispensation might not have had something to do with their presence, rather than immorality and vice.

  Serena was persuaded to stay for luncheon, and over the meal, met four of the young women who now occupied the upstairs bedrooms. One was the wife of a miner who had been killed, a woman left destitute with three small children and no relatives closer than a thousand miles away. The nuns were anxious to be certain that Serena’s charitable impulses extended to providing the woman’s fare back to her people. The others were not so easily helped. There were two Myers Avenue girls far gone in pregnancy who looked to be ready to swell the numbers in the nursery any day. They were grateful for the aid given them, but had every intention of returning to the dance halls when they had given birth. The last woman was in her early thirties, though she looked to be seventy. She was a victim of syphilis in the advanced stages. Partially paralyzed, and with extensive brain damage, she insisted on coming to the table. The other women avoided her, despite the assurances of the nuns that she was not contagious. The kind sisters seemed to think she might be a thought-provoking influence for the others, but if so, there was no sign of it.

  Serena was not in the highest of spirits when she finally left Serenity House. There was so much human misery, and so little one person could do to relieve it. She was trying, but nothing the nuns could say in praise of her efforts thus far could make her feel that she was making any headway.

  Consuelo was not at home. Serena tooled her rig around the block and started out of town. It was a disappointment to miss her friend. Consuelo must be nearly ready to depart from the district; there was no longer anything to hold her here. Serena would miss her sorely. For all her volatile temperament, there was something firm and dependable about the Spanish girl, and it appeared their situations were going to be much the same in the long days ahead. Though it was doubtless selfish of her, Serena wished Consuelo could be persuaded to stay. They would be two women without men, taking care of small children, neither of Myers Avenue any longer, nor yet of the other side of town bounded by Carr and Eaton avenues. They could support each other, form a bulwark against all the others that were ranged against them.

  Serena was nearly at the bridge over the creek when she saw a buggy coming toward her from the direction of Bristlecone. A woman was on the driver’s seat, a woman in black. As she recognized Consuelo, Serena reined in, waiting for the buggy to come abreast. She smiled, calling a greeting as Consuelo pulled up.

  “Thanks be to Dios I have found you,” the Spanish girl said. “I was so afraid I would be too late.”

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  “It’s that crazy one, Pearlie. She has been wild, like a rabid animal, since Ward moved in with you. But this time she has decided that instead of trying to kill herself, she would much rather see you dead!”

  “She can save herself the trouble. Ward is no longer with me.” Serena met the other girl’s dark eyes, though it was an effort to keep the curve of her mouth steady.

  “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, Serena, but I doubt it will make any difference. Things have gone too far.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know that the elder who shouts after you in the streets is a visitor of Pearlie’s? It seems she has been listening to him, and has decided he is right; you should be punished for your wickedness. She does not depend on the good God to do it for her, however. She has acted herself to see that it will be done. She has hired men; drunks, petty thieves, bullyboys, the scum of Myers Avenue. As a part of their payoff, she gave them the run of her parlor house. One of the men bragged to the woman he was with, and she came to me because she remembered well your kindness when she was at the Eldorado, and thought this a fate you did not deserve.”

  “But what is it they are supposed to do? Surely the sheriff will stop them?”

  “There won’t be time. They are gathered now, shouting and listening to this Elder Greer as he spreads his poison on the street corners. Soon they will march. They chose this time of day because few people are about; the day shift is in the mines, the night shift sleeping, as well as the rest of the people in that part of town. They have been told to march to Bristlecone and set fire to it over your head. Then they are to take you out and strip you, and when they have had what fun they will, give you a costume of tar and feathers and set your feet on the path out of Cripple Creek.”

  The color drained from Serena’s face. “Dear God.”

  “Exactly so,” the Spanish girl said, her face grim. “Of course, if you do not survive such rough treatment, as many don’t who are subjected to the tar at melting heat, then that will not concern Pearlie.”

  “They — they can’t do such a thing,” Serena breathed. “Not here in broad daylight.”

  “They can, and they will, if we don’t do something to stop them. Already, much time has been lost.” A thoughtful look came into her face. “What you tell me of Ward, that is the key.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It occurs to me that Pearlie knows he will not be with you when the mob comes. Ward’s being at Bristlecone must be the only reason she has not sent her hired men after you before now. She knows Ward would try to protect you, and she has no wish to see him come to harm.”

  That made sense. Serena nodded. “But what am I to do? Sean is at Bristlecone with only Mary and Mrs. Egan in the house. If I go back, it may lead the men to where they can hurt him, but if I don’t, they may go there anyway.”

  Consuelo frowned. “It’s possible Ward is the only one who can help. If we can reach him before this group of madmen set out, he will be able to persuade, or force, Pearlie to call a halt.”

  “Will that work?” Serena said doubtfully.

  “These men may pretend to be fired by the righteous wrath of the Mormon, but it is the money and the sport that attracts them. If these things are removed, they will go about their business.”

  “What if Ward won’t do it?” To Serena, the whole thing was without reality. She could not make herself believe it.

  “Are you demented? Of course he will! He loves you, he adores you until it is a sickness with him. If anything happens to you, he will tear this town apart.”

  “I think I would prefer the sheriff,” Serena said, her lips stiff.

  “No, and no, idiot girl! Do you not realize how your name has been blackened? The sheriff may well decide it is no part of his duty to risk his life for such a one. The ladies of society are against you for daring to come among them; their husbands, the mine owners, are ready to believe anything of you. And there is Pearlie telling lies, starting whispers that you are a scheming hussy who has arranged matters so she can have her cake and eat it too, meaning that you
had something unnamed to do with the death of your husband. The stories grow and grow, until half the town is ready to think you a monster, while the other half swears you are a saint, and all are none too sure that you do not have the powers over men of a witch. They love and hate you, envy and despise you, and there are few who would not be more comfortable if you were somewhere else — or dead.”

  “You frighten me, Consuelo.”

  “Good! It’s time, and past. We cannot sit here talking all day. Will you go to Ward, or not?”

  Serena glanced along the road that led to Bristlecone, a faraway look in her blue-gray eyes. Then she gave a decisive nod. “Let’s go,” she said, and began to turn her horses.

  If Consuelo had been to Bristlecone and back without incident, Pearlie’s hired bullies must still be in town, still be on Myers Avenue being harangued by Elder Greer. Would it be better to take the shortest route to the Eldorado, along the main streets, or to take the back streets and hope to avoid them? Consuelo turned off on the more circuitous route that would bring them to the back of the barroom, the way Serena had taken so often for her clandestine meetings with Ward.

  It was a mistake. With more caution than might have been expected, the mob had also opted for the back streets. They came surging down the narrow lane, a solid wall of humanity, blocking it from side to side. Some were on horseback, some piled into wagons, while others trotted along like hunting dogs behind. They brandished their fists, and shouted obscenities, their open mouths like wounds in their bearded faces, their hats pulled low, hiding the bloodlust in their eyes.

  “That’s her!” came a cry. “There she is! Git ‘er, boys! Don’t let the bitch get away!”

  Consuelo did the only thing possible. She shouted and whipped up her horses, turning down a sidestreet. Serena followed. The houses flashed past. The Eldorado was only a dozen blocks, or less, away.

  Behind them came the men, yelling, cursing, clamoring, making a demented roaring that terrified the horses and caused Serena’s heart to beat with sickening thuds.

  And then there were horsemen on either side of her, surrounding her phaeton, reaching for the bridles of her horses, jeering as they ripped the reins from her hands. Ahead of her, Consuelo slowed, pulling in. The men began to gain on her.

  “No!” Serena shouted. “Go on, Consuelo, go on!”

  “I’ll be back!” the Spanish girl screamed above the noise, her voice shrill with rage and fear.

  Serena barely heard her. She was caught in a nightmare. Elder Greer leaned from a horse to thrust his face close to hers. His silver eyes glittered and his breath was sour as he bellowed at her, his words nearly lost in the whooping and bawling around them. “Your time is at hand, O wicked wanton! Repent and prepare for your doom!”

  Hands clutched, tearing at her, pulling her this way and that on the carriage seat. Her purse was torn from her hands before she could reach her pistol, almost before she could remember it. The sleeve was ripped from her gown. Fingers tore at her bodice, shredding it in a sparkling torrent of bouncing, scattering black jet beads. She broke free, coming to her feet with the carriage whip in a white-knuckled grasp. She flailed around her with it, her teeth clenched tight as she brought it down in fierce gladness for the yelps of pain she caused. The grays reared and backed, wall-eyed with terror, and men squalled and groaned, cursing as they were trampled or their feet squashed under the wheels.

  “Git ‘er, ye fools!” came the yelled command, and a man lunged up over the wheel, catching the whip, wrenching it from Serena’s hand. Her skirt was grabbed, jerked, and she toppled. With a despairing scream, she fell among them, into the clawing, uplifted hands. The grays bolted, dragging the empty, bouncing phaeton away down the street.

  Her hat was snatched from her head, tearing a lock of hair from her scalp as the long steel hatpin held. Her hairpins loosened and were scattered, allowing her hair to slide down her back, whipping into her face as she writhed and twisted. She gasped in pain, too winded to scream as the black crepe of her widow’s weeds was torn from her, and she felt herself pinched and pummeled and squeezed. Nails rasped burningly along her arms and thighs. Her breasts and hips were grasped. Her head spun as she was thrown here and there, pulled from one pair of arms to another. She felt dirty and defiled, her body a solid ache, her mind receding as she heard the chanted litany of the elder’s hate, his frenzied raving of women stoned for adultery, torn and devoured by dogs, scourged with whips.

  And then there was a quieting. She was set on her feet, forced to turn, pushed into a circle of men with gleaming eyes and mouths wet with anticipation. She staggered, caught herself, crossed her arms over her bare breasts. She wore only her corset and those rags of her petticoat that could not be ripped away because their fastenings were beneath her whalebone stays. She shook back her hair there in the blazing afternoon sun, and it cascaded down her back to her hips, shining and silken, vibrant in contrast to the dazed look in her shadowed eyes.

  There came the shattering, explosive crack of a wielded whip. Serena jerked her head up to face Elder Greer. He stood inside the circle, a little apart from the others. There was in his face an exalted madness mixed with the ecstasy of passion.

  “Now it’s your turn, Serena,” he said, his silver eyes gloating as they scanned her nakedness. “I have you at my mercy, like all the others. The punishment I meted out to them shall be yours, only a hundredfold greater, a chastisement without end, until you beg for mercy, or death.”

  The others. So he must have looked, the thought ran through Serena’s mind, when he had killed the other women of Myers Avenue, when he had relieved himself upon their bodies, then murdered and mutilated them. Or had they been mutilated first, dying in a welter of their own blood and the fluids of this man’s body? In the state of detached horror she had reached, the question, and the truth to which she had so suddenly penetrated, had little real meaning.

  “Yea, the time is at hand,” the elder intoned as he coiled the supple leather of the whip around his hands, the keen lash of her own carriage whip. “If you had come to me as my wife, you would have been spared this, but you chose the path of wickedness, and now must pay the price. Look on me and know your fate!”

  The gray-haired Mormon nodded at a man on either side of her, and her arms were grasped, pulled behind her, baring her chest. The elder flung his arm back, letting the whip trail back along the ground, then a spasm crossed his face and he brought his arm up and down. The thong of the limber lash reached for her, snaking over her arm and shoulder, its whirring crack exploding at her ear. Searing agony leaped inside her, spreading in waves. A red welt appeared, running her shoulder and down to the swell of her breast. She bit down on her lip, bringing blood, but she made no sound. Again, she writhed under the lash, and yet again. A scream gathered in her throat. She twisted her wrists, fighting the hands that held her. A red haze appeared before her eyes, through which she could see the elder bringing the whip back once more.

  Where was Consuelo? In the blinding anguish that gripped her, the soft insidious thought came seeping into her mind that of all those in Cripple Creek, the Spanish girl had more reason than any to hate her. It was possible Consuelo had never meant her to evade Pearlie’s hired mob, had never intended to enlist Ward’s aid. It was probable Consuelo had led her straight into the elder’s hands.

  The whip cracked again with the sound of a shot, but for Serena there was no pain. An outcry went up, and died abruptly away. The men around her muttered, shifting, opening a path to where a buggy stood rocking from its sudden halt. The sharp percussion she had heard had not been the whip, but the firing of the smoking rifle Ward cradled in his hand as he stood holding the strut, braced with one foot on the iron step of the buggy and one on the floorboard. At the reins was Consuelo, while Pearlie huddled beside her in a stained satin wrapper, and with her brassy red hair straggling over her face.

  Ward jacked another shell into the chamber of his gun, covering the crowd, before he jumped down. “The fu
n’s over,” he drawled. “Serena?”

  The hands holding her were jerked away as if she were hot to the touch. She stumbled a little as she moved to obey the command in his voice, reaching for the hand he stretched out to her.

  “Wait,” Elder Greer snarled, stepping in front of Serena, his fingers closing on her arm. “By what right do you interfere?”

  “This,” Ward answered, and hefted his rifle, his face like chiseled granite and his eyes murderously green as he looked from the raw red scratches and welts that crisscrossed Serena’s body to the whip in the elder’s hand.

  “She is in the hands of God. I won’t let you take her!”

  Ward ignored the shouts that were added to the stentorian words. “It’s all right with me, if you feel like dying.”

  Though the men directly behind the Mormon faded back, others closed in, a low growling sound coming from their throats.

  Consuelo spoke then, her voice soaring. “By what right do you do this, all of you? What makes you privileged to treat Serena so? She has done nothing to you. She has harmed no one!”

  “She saw to it Nathan Benedict left her a rich widow, that’s what! You call that nothing?”

  The voice came from the outer edge of the crowd. It had the sound of anger, but also of sane reason, an indication that Pearlie’s bullies had been joined by other men of the town.

  “I call it a lie!” Consuelo returned. “And who has more reason than I to know the truth, since I was her husband’s mistress?”

  “It was mighty convenient!”

  “Is she to be blamed for that? Punished for it? It was chance, no more. As well to beat a man for winning at cards.”

  “What do you know about it, fool woman?”

  “I know much, me!” Consuelo said, her accent thickening with her rage. “It was to me that Nathan Benedict said he was afraid the new hoist at the Century Lode was not rightly installed. I told him to wait until the engineer was well enough to check it, but Nathan was too impatient. He would try it, he said. If anything was wrong, he would find out without irritating delays. There would be no danger, he said, because the built-in safety devices would prevent the cage from falling. He did not realize they would be affected also.”