“Get a coat, like I told you,” the gunman said.
Julia shook her head. “They’re dead. I don’t want to touch them,”
Creeds shrugged. “Then freeze.” He motioned with his hand. “Get up on the hoss. Make any fancy moves and I’ll kill you.”
“What would Zeb say about that?” Julia scoffed.
“I dunno. I guess I’d have to kill him, too. Now get on the goddamned hoss.”
She picked up her cloak and placed it around her shoulders. As the day grew colder, its thin wool would provide little warmth but she would not take clothes off a dead man.
“Let’s ride,” Creeds said. “We’ve got some hard country to cover.”
Julia heard, but said nothing. Inside she was dying a little death.
Chapter Seven
A shawled señora, holding a small boy by the hand, pounded on the door of the big house at Dromore.
The butler answered and before the man could speak, the woman said, her eyes frantic, “She’s been taken.”
“Who’s been taken?”
“Miss Davenport.” The woman looked down at the boy. “Tell him, Ignacio.”
“Three men came and took her away,” the boy said.
The woman crossed herself. “God help her, señor. She’s gone.”
“You better come inside,” the butler said. “It’s cold out there.”
Left alone in the foyer, the woman looked around her. She’d been in the house before with her vaquero husband, but the marble floors, oak paneled walls, and grand staircase never ceased to amaze her.
She recognized the men who burst out of the study and stepped quickly toward her. Mr. Samuel, tall and handsome, and Mr. Shawn, handsomer still, with his yellow hair and piercing blue eyes.
“What happened, señora?” Mr. Shawn asked.
“Ignacio was in school and—” Uncertain of her English, she broke off and looked at her son. “Tell Mr. Shawn, Ignacio.”
“Three men took her away. They came into school and grabbed Miss Julia and took her away.”
Shawn kneeled beside him and took Ignacio’s cold hand. “What did they look like?”
“Two men wore big coats, sheepskin coats like mi papá. One had a long black coat and a hat”—the boy raised his hand above his head—“this high.”
“Silas Creeds,” Shawn said, rising. “He’s taking Julia back to Santa Fe and Zeb Moss.”
Samuel glanced out a window near the door. “It’s blowing up a blizzard out there and he won’t get far. We’ll saddle up come first light.”
“No, Samuel, I’m doing this alone,” Shawn said. “I feel I was responsible for Julia’s safety and I should’ve realized this might happen. I’m going by myself.”
“The hell you are,” Samuel said. “You could freeze to death out there.”
“We could all freeze to death out there.” Shawn’s eyes met his brother’s. “I’ve got it to do, Sam.”
“We’ll see what the colonel has to say.”
“No, don’t tell Pa. Don’t tell anybody until I’ve gone.” Shawn stepped quickly to the stairs and as he mounted the steps two at a time threw over his shoulder, “Rustle me up some grub, Sam. And don’t forget the coffeepot.”
“But Shawn—”
“Do like I say. And do it quietly.”
The snow had whitewashed the land and there was no trail for Shawn O’Brien to follow. But he doggedly headed northwest, figuring he was following the same path as Silas Creeds.
An hour later, Shawn was still well south of Sun Mountain and the light was changing. The sun had long since given up the struggle and by late afternoon the darkness began to crowd close. The north wind iced the snow on the front of his sheepskin, and above the muffler around his throat and mouth, his cheeks were red and raw. Juniper and pine stood on the high country slopes like white-haired old men who had wandered into the area and lost their way in the cloud mist.
Shawn looped around a meadow, wary of open country, then swung north again along an eyebrow of game trail through the trees. His eyes scanned ahead of him, watering in the cold, as he tried to envision Creeds’ every step. Was the gunman just ahead of him, watching him with his finger on the trigger?
The windswept emptiness before him gave the lie to that question. Creeds was either in Santa Fe already or he’d gone to ground for the night.
Shawn wondered how Julia was holding up. Not well, he imagined. This high country cold could be hell on a woman.
He bitterly berated himself for leaving her alone. He should’ve known a man like Creeds would not give up so easily. There was no one to blame but himself, Shawn decided. But beating his breast and whining mea culpa would not help anybody, especially Julia.
With his head bent to the wind and snow, he rode on, a tiring horse under him and the pitch-black night looming ahead of him.
The two mounds of snow were not a natural phenomenon of wind and weather. Nor was the paint mare standing off a ways, its saddle slung under its belly.
Shawn O’Brien dismounted and with his gloved hand scraped snow off one of the mounds. He uncovered the toes of a pair of boots, then moved to the other end of the mound, where he cleared snow off a man’s face. The features were blue, and black shadows showed under the eyes and in hollows of the bearded cheeks. The frozen eyes were wide open. After doing the same to the other body, Shawn stood. Both men had been shot neatly in the back of the neck and one of their horses had been taken.
This was Silas Creeds’ work. He’d needed a horse for Julia and had casually murdered two men to get it.
Snow swirling around him, Shawn stepped to the paint, uncinched the saddle, and let it fall to the ground. He removed the horse’s bit and bridle, then patted the animal on the neck. “You’re on your own, girl. Good luck to you.”
The paint shook its head, then trotted south.
“As good a direction as any, hoss,” Shawn said.
The bodies lay in a narrow clearing and shadows were already gathering among the pines. Shawn glanced at a sky as black as coal, here and there streaked with narrow bands of pale gray. There was no letup in the snow, and the icy wind tugged at him and snatched away his breath.
Reluctantly, Shawn decided he needed to find shelter. A man exposed to the elements overnight could freeze to death without even knowing it.
He swung into the saddle again and continued north along the game trail. After fifteen minutes, frozen to the marrow of his bones, he beheld a joyful sight, a ruined, burned-out log cabin just a hundred yards off the trail. Only two walls still stood, forming a right angle, but a huge cottonwood overhung the corner and promised a roof of sorts.
When Shawn investigated, he found that only a dusting of snow had fallen into the corner. A narrow stream was nearby, sheeted with thin ice but still flowing freely underneath.
He unsaddled his horse and led it to an area under the trees where the snow was thin. The horse was mountain bred and knew how to fend for itself and was already grazing on thin grass as Shawn walked back to the cabin.
Working quickly, he gathered up some dry, charred wood, built a hatful of fire in the corner, and put the coffeepot on to boil. He inspected his grub sack and discovered that Samuel had packed a small loaf of sourdough bread and a couple of thick slices of roast beef. He’d also wrapped three cigars in grease paper and dropped those inside.
Shawn nodded. All in all, Sam had done just fine.
At first light Shawn took to the trail again, riding north into wind, snow, and cold, roofed by clouds that looked like sheets of curled lead. Santa Fe was just five miles ahead of him and he needed an excellent plan.
The trouble was, he did not have one.
Chapter Eight
“As much as I would take great pleasure in watching you beat her, she is already flawed goods,” Halim Ali said, tracing a line down his left cheek with his forefinger. “The great Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim would not care to see her pale skin damaged further.” Ali shrugged and spread his small, elegant hands. “We must thin
k of the woman’s price at the Zanzibar slave market, you understand.”
“Then rest assured she will not be harmed,” Zebulon Moss said.
“Where is the lady in question?”
“Locked up in the basement of my saloon.”
“Ah, there is one thing more,” Ali said. “The girl should not be used until Sheik Hakim inspects her and makes his judgment. If he refuses the woman, then you can throw her to your men. Is this clear to you?”
“Perfectly,” Moss said. “I won’t let a man with unbuttoned pants get within a mile of her.”
“Then that is well.” Ali smiled a small smile, showing small teeth.
Moss raised the silver coffeepot from the table. “More?”
The Arab shook his head. “No thank you. American coffee is not to my taste. It’s a vile, barbaric brew.”
“You don’t drink liquor?”
“My religion forbids it,” Ali said.
Moss leaned back in his huge, red leather chair. “How did you find out about me?”
“In San Francisco. At the Barbary Coast, I believe the place is called.”
“It is. Now go on.”
“Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim’s schooner the Nawfal recently raised anchor in the Embarcadero. He already has a score of Chinese girls on board and a few blacks, but what he most desires, and what our clients pay large sums for, are white women, preferably virgins with yellow hair.”
Moss grinned. “Not too many virgins around Santa Fe.”
“Sheik Hakim will sell them as virgins nonetheless.”
“You still haven’t answered my question, Ali. Why did you come to me?”
The Arab studied Moss before he answered. The man was exactly as he’d been described, a giant standing well over six feet, broad, muscular shoulders, black hair, and piercing blue eyes. His nose looked as though it had been broken at least twice and there was a scar above his right eyebrow. Moss’s gray frockcoat was open and Ali caught a glimpse of the ivory handle of a revolver in a shoulder holster.
It was said along the Barbary Coast that Zebulon Moss had killed two dozen men with brass knuckles, blackjacks, knives, guns, and his bare hands. He was described as the most dangerous, ruthless man in the West, and Ali believed it. Moss was also said to be very wealthy, and Ali believed that, too, judging by the red velvet and polished brass opulence of his office. It was vulgar, of course, but expensive nonetheless.
Ali realized he’d been quiet for too long as he saw sudden blue fire in Moss’s eyes and the man’s voice sounded as though it had just been honed on a whetstone. “I asked you a question, mister.”
“A thousand pardons, sir. I was gathering my thoughts.” The little bug-eyed Arab, dressed in a high-button suit, celluloid collar, and striped tie, smiled. “Your reputation along the Barbary Coast is that of a man who gets things done. We were told that when you were in San Francisco you shanghaied more sailors for the New York hell ships than any man alive, and that you once controlled so many brothels you employed two hundred women.”
“Half that number, and most of them were Chinese.” Moss shrugged. “The good thing about Chinese whores is that they’re expendable. They only last a year or two.”
“Yes, indeed. And white women?”
“Yeah, some of those, some of the time. Who told you all this?”
“A tavern owner by the name of Bill Gasper, for one.”
“He’s still alive? I heard he’d been hung by vigilantes years ago.”
“No, he’s still among the living,”
“He’s a rum one is ol’ Bill. Cut your throat for a dollar.”
“Was he correct, that you can you supply Sheik Hakim with white women out of Santa Fe on a regular basis?”
“How many does he need?”
“As we already agreed, five or six on this shipment, twice that number on subsequent deliveries.” Ali read the question on Moss’s face. “Mr. Moss, you have an excellent geographical situation, close to the Sonora coast of Old Mexico, and we’ve been assured you can lure women to you.”
“I can. Or I’ll shanghai them. Either way your boss will have his quota.”
“Then, on behalf of Sheik Hakim, I look forward to doing business with you.”
“A thousand dollars a head, mind,” Moss said. “That’s my price.”
“Yes, but only for those who meet our standards. The rest you can sell in Mexico and still turn a profit.”
“They’ll all meet your standards. I don’t deal in shoddy goods.”
“Then the only one in doubt is the scar-faced woman.”
“Trixie will meet your standards, Ali. She knows how to please a man.” Moss smiled. “Even a flea-bitten Arab.”
Ali smiled faintly. “Mr. Moss, I am but dirt under your feet and therefore do not mind, but do not say such words to the great and noble Sheik Abdul-Basir Hakim. He has a quick temper and has killed two score men and countless women with the sword.”
Zebulon Moss was unimpressed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The basement of the Lucky Lady saloon had been hewn out of solid rock. No bigger than a jail cell, it was dark, dank, and dreary. An iron cot stood against one wall, a slop pail against another, and nothing else.
Zeb Moss took the flight of stone steps leading down to the room, the oil lamp in his hand splashing a dim yellow light on the damp walls.
The bed creaked as Julia Davenport got to her feet and waited to speak until Moss stood in front of her. “You’ve come here to beat me, Zeb. I tell you now, you can beat me senseless but it won’t do any good. I’m not your woman any longer, nor do I wish to be ever again.”
Moss smiled, huge white teeth gleaming in the gloom. “I’m not here to beat you, Trixie. Nor do I want you. Hell, I’ve already got another woman, and she’s a sight prettier than you.” As cruelly as he could, he added, “And her face ain’t scarred.”
“Then what do you want from me?” Julia said. “Let me go.”
“I need you, Trixie.”
“For what? You don’t need anyone.”
“It’s true that I don’t need your body any longer, but I do need the thousand dollars you represent. A few of my business ventures have not gone well of late.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Zeb?”
“I’m selling you, my dear.”
“I didn’t think I was worth that much.”
“You’re not, but my Arab friends think otherwise.”
Julia was an intelligent woman, and she knew immediately what Moss was saying. “You’re selling me into slavery?”
“Bravo!” Moss said. “How very perceptive of you, my dear.”
“Zeb, you can’t do that to me!”
“Oh, but I can. You’re destined for the Zanzibar slave market. I’m told it’s a very pretty island off the coast of East Africa. You’ll like it there. Sunny all day long, I’m told.”
“That can’t happen . . . the authorities . . .”
“What authorities? The Americans don’t care and the British thought they’d shut down the Zanzibar slave markets, but they still prosper.” Moss smiled. “As do the officials fresh from London who turn a blind eye to what’s going on. I believe some of them get quite rich off the slave trade.”
Julia felt a spike of real fear. “You’ll never get me there alive.”
“That is a matter of complete indifference to me, Trixie. I get paid when I deliver you to the Arabs. As to what happens after that . . . well, I just don’t give a damn.”
Julia was unable to talk, but Moss spoke into the silence. “Look on the bright side, Trixie. You’ll end up in a brothel or some rich Arab sheik’s harem. You’ll be kept alive until your prettiness fades and your body sags, say in two, three years.”
“You filthy rat!” Julia shrieked. She lashed out at Moss, but he caught her wrist and pulled her close to him. “You ran away from me once, Trixie. You won’t get a chance to do it a second time.”
The woman wrenched free, then sat on the bed, her fa
ce in her hands. When she looked up at Moss her face was streaked with tears. “Zeb, have mercy on me. Let me go. Please, let me go back to being a schoolteacher.”
Moss snorted. “A whore schoolteacher. I never heard the like.” He turned and walked to the steps, then stopped. “You’ll end your days as a plaything for horny men. See, Trixie, some things really never change.”
Chapter Nine
Near the Santa Fe plaza, Shawn O’Brien checked into a small hotel with the luxury of a kiva fireplace and a thick native rug on the floor. The bed was soft and clean and there was a plentiful supply of logs for the fire. Normally, he would’ve been content, but worry over Julia gnawed at him and gave him no peace.
His only plan was to visit every saloon and cantina in the city, starting with those owned by Zebulon Moss. It was likely he’d put Julia back to work in one of his own establishments, but he could have stashed her away in some other smaller place until the threat of rescue had passed. The city’s many brothels didn’t enter into Shawn’s thinking. Julia was Moss’s woman and he wouldn’t degrade her in that way.
Shawn wore a sheepskin coat, shotgun chaps, boots, and a battered Stetson and could pass for an ordinary puncher in town on a tear. Around his waist, belted high in the horseman’s style, his gun belt carried a long-barreled .44-40 Colt. In the right pocket of his coat he dropped a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber sneaky gun, as Luther Ironside had taught him.
“You go into a shooting scrape with a feller you reckon is faster than you, put your hands in the pockets of your coat and tell him you don’t want to fight,” Ironside had said. “Then when he starts to strut around and sneer at you and brag on himself, whip out the sneaky gun from your pocket and cut loose. Keep shootin’ at his belly until he drops and there ain’t no more brag left in him.”
Stepping out of his room, Shawn smiled at the memory. Luther had a way with words.
The desk clerk looked up from a ledger when Shawn stopped in front of him. “Can I help you, sir?”
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