by Chuck Tyrell
Taklishim stood with his back toward Molly and Wee Willy. In a low voice he said, “The man with you, Carpenter, him and others return to the cave. Load mule, ride away. But men with John Walker cannot ride with guns. Carpenter and the other one take the guns all away.”
“Where they going?”
“Where? Simple. Out of the canyon to San Pedro River. Must have water.”
“How fast?”
“Fast enough.”
Stryker frowned. “Can we get there ahead of them?”
“I think it can be.”
“Let’s go.” Stryker turned. “Molly. Willy. Mount up. We’re going to Tucson. Molly, you ride the dun. Willy, you take the mule.”
“Mule?” The indignation on Willy’s face was plain.
Stryker gave him a hard look. “General George Crook rides a mule, Willy. What’s good for Nantan Lupan should be all right for you, don’t you think? Besides, you’re a big man and the mule’s built to carry big loads. I’d take it as a favor if you’d ride the mule, Willy, I surely would.”
“Well . . .” Willy scrubbed at some pebbles with a big boot. “Well. All right. I’ll ride General,” he said.
“General?”
“Yep. I reckon I just named that critter General, didn’t I.” Willy’s face wore a big smile.
Stryker managed a smile of his own. “General it is, Willy. You’re a good man.”
They’d watered the horses and the mule with every drop of water they had, save a couple of swallows per man. John Walker carried the canteen with that water.
Cousins returned the rifles and six-guns after he removed the cartridges. Those loads now resided in his onside saddlebag.
Walker rode out front, followed by Todd and the Alamo men. Lige Carpenter led the mule, which was loaded with six canvas packs of gold. Like Cousins, he rode with a Winchester loaded and cocked, resting on his right thigh like some medieval lance.
Garth Upton stayed close behind the gold-laden mule, muttering under his breath.
The way back along Hell’s Trail posed no special problems other than the heat of the sun and the dryness of the air. John Walker led, the rest followed. After three hours, each got a swallow of water. Walker held a fourteen-inch Bowie to the throat of each man as he took the swallow so he wouldn’t try for more than his share.
Nate Cousins took close note of how Walker rationed water. “Good for discipline,” he said.
Three more hours took them to the mouth of Hell’s Trail. Far ahead, a dark green line of foliage marked the course of the San Pedro. With the smell of distant water, the horses’ heads came up, and life returned to their gaits. Still, they didn’t reach the river until late in the afternoon. After the horses and men had drunk, Cousins brought the mule over and stationed his men around in a circle about twenty feet across.
“Hey, Alamo men,” he called. “Gather round.” He unstrapped a pack of gold from the mule and set it on the ground.
The Alamo miners gathered, bartender Todd in front.
Cousins unstrapped the flap that covered the mouth of the pack. He reached in and pulled out two ingots. “Now, I’m taking a lot on myself. By rights, this gold should all go to Tucson and be turned over to Louella Hershey. It’s what Old Dominion mine owners put together to buy Elrowe Hershey out. That said, you all would feel mighty put out if I just rode on leading this mule with all that gold on its back.”
Cousins took a big breath. “Each one of these ingots has 16 ounces stamped on it. A pound of gold. That’s worth about three hunnert and twenty dollars. Not a year’s pay, but not bad for a ride into the desert. And that’s what I’m offering. A pound of gold to each of you. Take it or leave it. And remember, it could well have been nothing at all.”
“I’ll take it,” Todd said. “Need to get back to the bar.”
Cousins held out one of the ingots. “Yours,” he said.
The rest of the Alamo men followed Todd, took their ingots, and returned to their horses. Cousins strapped the pack of gold back on the mule.
“What about us?” The question came from Garth Upton.
“What about you? You all made a deal. You said you’d ride into Hell’s Trail for ten bucks a day and found. That’s what you’ll get, and good wages they are.”
Upton shut up, but didn’t look satisfied. Rennick, Henshaw, and Kilgallen all nodded their agreement and sat stolidly on their horses with Winchesters cocked and ready to use.
“Walker, I’ll settle with you in Tucson,” Cousins said. “Is that good?”
“Let’s go,” Walker said. “By the way, Matt Stryker’s probably already in Tucson.”
“Good,” Cousins said. He gigged his horse across the San Pedro and set out on the trail to Tucson at a quick single-foot.
“You’ll want to get womaned up, Molly,” Stryker said, “before you go to see Dodge. He’ll be waiting, you know.”
Molly ducked her head.
“Molly?” Stryker’s voice echoed his concern. “Molly, lass. Don’t you sell Dodge Miller short.”
Molly lifted a tear-stained face. “But Matt. Look at me. My nose will never be straight again. I’m missing two teeth, thanks to Lester Dent’s fists. His two boys used me like chattel, Matt, like they owned me and did whatever they wished. How am I supposed to ‘get womaned up,’ as you put it? Dodge will know in an instant what a dirty woman I have become.” Molly sniffed back a sob.
Stryker’s voice took on a stern mien. “I said to you, Molly Miller, and I’ll say it again. Don’t sell Dodge Miller short. He’s more of a man than you might guess.” Stryker took a gold eagle from the pocket sewed to the inside of his gunbelt. “You take this, and take Wee Willy to watch after you, and you go on over to Goldwater’s. They got a bunch of woman duds over there. You get some and dress like the woman you are, the woman Dodge Miller sent me to bring back.” He shoved a hand in her direction, the gold coin on the palm.
“Oh, Matt. How can I?”
“Molly Miller. You went through more than any woman should. But Dodge knows what kind of men took you. He knows they’re scum. But he sent me after you just hoping you were alive and able to come back and team up with him again.”
“But Matt . . .” Molly’s eyes searched Stryker’s scarred face.
“Look at me, Molly. What do you see? A man who can’t smile without looking like some kind of monster. A man who has never owned anything more than a fine saddle and a good horse. A man whose most trustworthy companions are the rifle in his saddle boot and the sixgun at his hip.” He paused to swipe at the tears leaking from his left eye with the cuff of his shirt. “Dodge knows. He lay like he was dead, leaking more blood than any man has a right to and watching the Dents and what they done to his station, his customers, and his wife. Dodge Miller ain’t a man to give up. Even with three bullet holes in his hide. He wants to rebuild his station, and he wants you there with him when he does. Now. Go over to Goldwater’s like a good girl and get womaned up. Dodge deserves it.”
Stryker turned his attention to Wee Willy Dent. “What’s your whole name, son? William?”
“Oh, no, mister. William ain’t no name a mine. Pa allus called me Wee Willy on account I was bigger’n him when I were no more’n a dozen years old. No sir, mister. No William. None.”
Stryker scowled, not that he was angry with Wee Willy, he just wanted to rid the boy-man of his demeaning nickname. “One of the straightest honest men I ever knew was Willard Goddard. He was a colonel in the war. He got killed by a rebel bullet when he stood like a rock as the boys in gray came crashing in. He stood, and we stood with him. Would you mind if I called you Willard, in his honor?”
“Who, me? Um, was that Willard man a hero?”
“He was. And he told me once that kids used to call him Willy, but he’d rather people said his rightful name. Willard.”
“Willard. Willard. That sounds good, mister. Willard.”
“I reckon the colonel’d be proud if you wore his name.”
“Willard Dent.
Willard. Awright, mister. I won’t be Wee Willy no more. Just call me Willard. Yeah. Willard Dent.”
“You heard me talking to missus Miller. She’ll be going over to Goldwater’s to buy some woman duds. You go along, Willard, and see that no harm comes to her. Can I depend on you to do that?”
“Yessir, mister. I’ll allus protect missus.”
Stryker watched Molly on Carpenter’s black-pointed dun and Wee Willy—no, Willard—on General, the mule Taklishim had scrounged from who knows where—until they turned north on Stone Avenue. Obviously, Molly knew Tucson enough to find her way to Goldwater’s. His two charges out of sight, Stryker headed for Bob Paul’s office in the courthouse.
The rumble of the sheriff’s voice was audible even before Stryker limped around the corner into the hallway that ran past Paul’s office.
“How many times do I gotta tell you,” Paul roared. “You don’t arrest a man just because he looks Meskin. You either catch a crook in the act, or you have good evidence that he’s crooked. Got it? Now go turn Pablo Diaz out. He’s a good wrangler who never gave trouble to no one. Git!”
A young deputy nearly ran Stryker down as he scrambled out the door to do the sheriff’s bidding.
Stryker stuck his head in through the doorway. “Good time, Bob? Or ought I to come back?”
“You still wearing that crazy French kepi? Come on in. Tell me your story. Seems ever’body’s got one.”
“Lester and Finn and Lee Roy Dent are dead. You can scratch them off the wanted list.”
“Dead, eh? Got any witnesses? You get ‘em yourself?”
“Not me. Not sure who. Might be Nate Cousins and his bunch. Finn seemed to die from bloody flux or something. Bled to death through his guts and out the back end. Lee Roy and the old man were shot.”
“You don’t look so well off yourself. Limping like that. Breathing shallow and all. Arm in a sling, too.”
Stryker barked a little laugh that made his ribs hurt. “Half the mountain fell on me, Bob. Downright lucky to walk at all. Pretty dizzy for a while there. Seems good now, though. Thanks to young Willard Dent.”
“That the other Dent? Big man. Didn’t they call him something else? Willy Winkle, maybe?”
“He was Wee Willy, Bob, big man though he is. I reckon he’s no more’n about ten years old in his head, though. Be obliged if you called him Willard. He’s riding herd on Molly Miller, kinda.”
“Molly came through all right, did she?”
Stryker frowned, then swiped at the tears on his cheek. “She’s a tough woman, Bob. Almighty tough. But she’s been though more than any woman should have to. Right now, her and Willard are over to Goldwater’s. She’s buying duds to make her look like a lady again.”
“Gol.”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll be headed over to the doc’s. Need to talk with Dodge Miller before he sees Molly.”
“He ain’t there.”
“No?”
“He’s up and around, if you can call hobbling up and down Broadway on crutches getting around. Staying at the Congress.”
“I’ll go there, then.” Stryker turned to go.
“I might as well tell you. You’ll find out soon enough,” Paul said.
“Huh?” Stryker faced Paul again. “What’s that?”
“Leuella Hershey’s in town.”
“So?”
“She’ll be wanting to know where her husband’s gold is.”
Stryker’s face went hard. “Dodge Miller asked me to get his wife. That’s what I did.”
“So you don’t know nothing about the gold, then?”
“I left it in a cave in a canyon along Hell’s Trail. Getting Molly out was more important to me than hauling Hershey’s gold.”
“You just left it?”
“I did. Now. I’ll be going to see Dodge.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Sheriff?” Nate Cousins stood in the doorway to Bob Paul’s office.
Paul looked up from his paperwork. “What’ll it be?”
“I’ve got nigh onto two hunnert forty pounds of gold outside on a mule. Wondered if you had a free cell where I could lock it up until the owner takes over?”
“Here?”
“Like I said, right outside.”
“Shee-it.”
“Yeah. Be good to get it under lock and key while the getting’s good.”
Paul stood, picked up his Stetson and jammed it on his head, then buckled his gunbelt on. The S&W Russian in the holster glinted as if freshly oiled. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go jail that gold.”
At the Congress Hotel, Stryker found that Dodge Miller was out, and no one knew for sure where he’d gone. “Mr. Miller’s always here for supper,” the clerk said. “Always.”
All Stryker could do was go to the Royal and wait for Molly and Willard to return from Goldwater’s. He tied the palomino paint he’d rented to the hitching rail at the side of the hotel, and decided to have a beer in the Branding Iron, the fancy saloon that occupied the whole Scott Street side of the hotel. Armed with a brew, he chose a seat that gave him a good view of what was going on outside. The brew tasted good. A day before, water was ambrosia. Now, beer was the same. Stryker wiped the tears from his cheek without thinking. The cacophony of Tucson filtered in through the thick, wavy glass windows. Maybe now was the time to think about settling down. Hunting bounties was not exactly steady work. Stryker’d worn a star, once in Silver City, once in Rimrock, and once in Ponderosa. Every time he wore one, people died. He shook his head and sipped more beer.
“Molly! Oh, Molly! Is that you, Molly?”
Dodge Miller’s cry sounded over the clatter of wagons and snorts of draft horses.
Stryker peered through the window to see Molly and Willard walking toward the Royal, leading their horses. Instead of Stryker’s extra shirt and rolled-up trousers, Molly wore a simple gingham dress with matching sunbonnet. She’d braided her hair and coiled it under the bonnet; Stryker could see the tail end of one braid. While riding with her, he’d grown used to the purplish bruises that still remained beneath her eyes and the odd slant of the bridge of her nose. In woman clothes, the damage to her face showed more. She’d heard Dodge’s cry and stopped at the side of the street, her hand to her mouth. She shook her head as if to say “No. No. No. Not now. Not yet.” And if it hadn’t been for Willard’s grip on her arm, she’d have fled. Stryker left the remainder of his beer on the table and strode out the front door. He felt responsible for Molly, and for Dodge, for that matter.
As Stryker hit the street, Dodge Miller hopped past, using crutches and one leg to make quick time.
“Molly darlin’,” Dodge said.
Molly now had both hands to her face and her eyes showed panic and fear. She jerked her arm, trying to free it from Willard Dent’s grip, but he held fast.
“Missus. Missus. Missus,” Willard said, like he was soothing a flighty filly. “Mister Miller don’t mean no harm. He’s your mister, missus. Just yorn.”
“Molly. Molly darlin’. I thought I’d lost you. I saw that man beat you. I saw his son use you. And I had to play dead.” Tears coursed down Dodge Miller’s face. “I’m so sorry, Molly. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me? Molly darlin’. Please. Please. Please.”
Molly said nothing. She shook her head again and again, but her eyes never left Dodge’s face.
“Molly. Molly. Dear sweet Molly. Forgive me, please.”
At last, Molly spoke. Her voice quavered. Dodge had to lean close to hear what she said. “Dear dear Dodge. Can’t you see? I’m not the Molly you carried over the threshold. I’m not the Molly that worked by your side to build Miller’s Well into a proper stage stop. I’m not, and I never will be again.”
Dodge’s face crumpled. He covered it with both hands, letting the crutches fall. He ignored the passing wagons, the horses and riders, the people walking by. “Dear God. Dear God. Without my Molly, I’m less than half a man. Dear God, please bring my Molly back.” Dodge Miller closed his ey
es and bowed his head. “Dear Lord,” he said. “Dear Lord. If thou wilt please bring Molly back. Let her know, Lord, that she means more to me than all the silver and gold in Arizona. No. All the silver and gold in the whole world. Please, Lord, soften my Molly’s heart so she can feel the love I have for her.”
“Missus?” Willard’s voice was low, like a small child telling a secret to its mother. “Missus?” He tugged at Molly’s arm, pulling her toward Dodge. When they got close enough, he reached for Dodge Miller’s arm. He put Molly’s hand in Dodge’s. “Missus. This’n’s your man. He was laying dead at the stage stop. I seen’m. Now he’s alive. He’s wanting you to be with him, missus. I reckon that’s a proper thing to do. Time for me to move along, I reckon,” Willard said. He checked to make sure Dodge was holding Molly’s hand, turned his back on them, and led his tall mule back up Scott Street, leaving Dodge and Molly together. Before he was out of sight, Dodge had his arms around Molly and she was shedding all the tears she’d held back while with the Dents. Willard turned the corner and was gone.
“Looks like the Millers are doing all right.” Nate Cousins spoke at Stryker’s elbow.
“Don’t sneak up on a man like that,” Stryker said. “You could end up dead.”
“Nah. Matt Stryker always looks before he shoots,” Cousins said.
“Where’s Lige?”
“Down to the jail.”
“Huh? Why?”
Cousins grinned. “He’s riding herd over a shitload of gold. Me and Sheriff Paul figured it oughta be locked up.”
“Glad you caught up with the gold. Rocks fell on me. Like to buried me alive. Willard knew where the gold was, so we hauled it into the cave. Had to leave it, though. More important to get Molly out of that canyon.”
Cousins pointed his chin at the Millers. “I can see that,” he said.
Stryker glanced toward the hotel. Ben Kilgallen, Marty Henshaw, and Art Rennick leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked in their pants pockets. “Where’s Upton?” Stryker said.
“Paid him off. Don’t like that man,” Cousins said. “He was still bitching about you, too.”
“Yeah, he would be.” Stryker took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He stepped over to the Millers and said, “Molly. Dodge. Let’s us get you a room here in the Royal. You all can relax and figure out what you’re going to do.” He leaned down, aiming to pick up Dodge’s crutch. His cracked ribs complained with a sharp spike of pain. He made it upright only after clenching his teeth and straining a bit. “Come on, now.”