by DiAnn Mills
Weary, she stopped for the night and gathered enough wood to build a small fire. When she finished eating leftover biscuits and bacon from the morning, she opened the Bible to Genesis and read by the dancing flames.
“In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth . . .” She read through the creation and on to the struggle between Adam and Eve’s sons. Reading about Cain killing Abel tugged at her conscience. She had read as far as Noah when her eyes closed.
The following morning, Casey ignored the rumbling in her stomach to put miles behind her. She picked her way down through low brush and bluish-gray rock lining Nine Mile Canyon. The dry, bleached terrain spread nearly five times longer than its title.
Carved into the stone walls were the signs of an ancient Indian civilization. Are you haunted? What stories are engraved in your rock? She stared at the tall, silent tombs. I’m not afraid. I’ve more to fear from men.
Nine Mile Canyon eventually evened out onto the flats of the lower Colorado Plateau. Casey rested Stoney and took in one of the most majestic views of the country. Shielding her eyes from bright sun rays, she glanced eastward to see huge rock strongholds that stood as stepping stones to higher mountains.
Slowly her gaze moved to the south. She dreaded the ride ahead through parched territory where rattlesnakes and scorpions would be her only companions. Deep gullies, jagged rock, and dry riverbeds invited death to all who attempted to find their way through the rock guarding the Green River.
Many a gang led a posse into a dry canyon here, only to leave them to die from lack of food or water. Tim had once said the smartest men were outlaws, and the most cunning of lawmen had once been on the run. Jenkins had been a young officer for the Confederacy. He never liked losing.
For five days, Casey wound through the treacherous, often confusing canyon lands. She camped near the Yampa and Dirty Devil rivers, then rode on again only to face extreme isolation across the barren flats, west to where the Green and Colorado rivers came together. Only the nighttime ritual of Bible reading offered any element of peace.
Someday life will be better. She’d find her promised land.
She dreaded the next hundred miles. Buzzards circled the sky, and desert fever threatened anyone who braved forward. Luckily the springs flowed freely, and she didn’t have to battle the blazing heat.
At last she reached the part of her journey where the surroundings abounded in rich, earthy hues. Sand and clay formed the orange-red dry land, while greenish-gray sage, twisted pines, and junipers rose from remote spots. At times the clouds in the distance seemed to be outlined in tints of red, or perhaps she merely saw a reflection of the clay-baked earth.
I can’t head into Robber’s Roost. How stupid of me to consider it. Every man there will be looking for Jenkins’s reward. I can sleep a few more nights with my saddle as a pillow.
She studied the lookout points on all sides of the circular shaped hideaway, knowing more than one pair of eyes watched from behind huge rocks. Scanning the horizon line where two flat-topped buttes faced east and north, Casey hid her hair beneath her hat. Perhaps none of them would recognize the lone rider. Foolish thought. She had better sense. They already knew her horse, had heard the rumors.
Lifting her rifle high, she waved to where she knew guards positioned themselves. They’d seen her coming for miles, but the formality of a signal offered them respect, if there could be honor among desperadoes.
Morgan had been right. For a woman, there were worse things than dying.
Forty miles to the west lay Hanksville, thirty miles south lay Dandy Crossing, and fifty-five miles to the north flowed the Green River. Although she faced indecision as to which direction to continue, she held no notions of heading east into more barren territory. Riding through a graveyard had little appeal.
Morgan talked of Texas. The country was an outlaw’s refuge with miles upon miles of huge, free territory, especially for those who wanted a fresh start.
The decision made, Casey rode southeast to Santa Fe along the Old Spanish Trail for another nearly five hundred miles. She wondered about hostile Indians, but they couldn’t be worse than Jenkins.
In Santa Fe, she walked into a hotel. A young man barely old enough to shave scowled at her. “I’d like a room, please,” she said.
“Figured that.” The kid wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. “Gotta have the money up front.”
Casey lifted the saddlebag from her shoulder and dug out a few bills. “How much?”
“Depends.”
Casey lifted a brow and met his gaze. How the kid had lived this long amazed her. Jenkins would have finished him right there. “Depends on what?”
“If you’re runnin’ from the law or something else.”
Casey leaned on the wooden enclosure separating them. “So my money buys me protection from the sheriff or an angry husband?”
“Whatever you need.” He slid her a cocky half smile.
“Neither. I need a room, now. Do I look up your pa, or are we doing business?”
The kid winced for a brief second, but she caught it. “My pa’s gone.”
“Then I suggest you take care of me before I let you find out who you’re riling.”
The kid’s features hardened, and the look reminded her of a younger Tim. He turned the register her way, and she scribbled in Shawne Flanagan—a mixture of her middle name and her mother’s maiden name.
She took a bath, washed her clothes, and slept for twelve hours straight. With a full stomach—more food than she’d eaten in days—she sought out a mercantile.
“Mornin’,” a thin, gray-haired, matronly lady said. “How can I help you?”
Casey glanced down at her worn jeans and shirt, grateful she’d washed them. “I need a traveling dress.”
The woman offered a generous smile. “I have just the one for you—perfect color for your pretty hair and just right for traveling.” She nodded her head to punctuate her words. “Right this way.”
In the back of the store, Casey saw the ladies’ clothing. The mercantile had six ready-made dresses, more than she had ever seen at one time—unless she counted the scant clothing the girls at Rose’s Place wore. The owner selected a dark blue dress with the collar, cuffs, and sashes in cream. Beneath a long, fitted, double-breasted jacket trimmed in midnight-blue buttons rested a deep purple skirt gathered in the back with a bustle. Fine. So very fine.
Trembling like a frightened child, Casey slipped into a back room and tried on the dress along with a suitable petticoat and the other intimate clothing that she’d worn only once when contemplating working for Rose. That lasted until the first greasy-looking man touched her.
Shaking her head to rid the memories, she glanced at the fabric hugging her thin body. I look like a real lady.
She emerged from the storage room, her skirts rustling as she’d always dreamed.
“You are lovely.” The woman clasped her hands in front of her. “And I have a hat, too.” She produced a curved-brimmed hat with a sprinkling of cream, dark blue, and purple flowers entwined with a cream ribbon. She tied it beneath Casey’s chin and snatched up a mirror. “See for yourself.”
Casey had only imagined such splendor. Outlaws were notoriously dirty and tattered. Visions of her ragged underclothes painted an unpleasant picture of her life up to now. She inhaled deeply. “I’ll take the dress and the hat, and the proper undergarments.”
This worrisome path of life had come to a fork in the road, and for the first time she wanted to ride in the right direction.
A short while later, she left the mercantile, made her way to the livery, and sold her beloved Stoney. Parting with him made her feel like she’d lost a friend, but it had to be done. She wept most of the night, almost as much as when Ma died.
The following day, Casey boarded the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad heading south to El Paso for a lonely three hundred miles. She used the name Shawne Flanagan again, believing Tim would never tell Jenkins. Her bro
ther did care. He’d proved it by leaving money with Doc. Storing her rifle and Colt in a newly purchased trunk, she shoved the derringer into her dress pocket and carried Doc’s Bible. She wore her new clothes and pulled her hair back into a fashionable bun, allowing a few curly tendrils to trail down her neck and around her face.
She studied every man in her path. A lump from inside a jacket or at the hip indicated a revolver. She searched for a lawman’s badge or the cautious glance of an outlaw. Either could recognize her. Either could end her charade.
The seats on the train quickly became uncomfortable, almost as bad as endless days in the saddle. Although she didn’t have to cook, some of the meals tasted worse than dirt coffee and burnt beans. The soot from the windows settled on her clothes and infuriated her. She wanted to continue looking like a fine lady.
From the hot, dusty border town of El Paso, the Southern Pacific rambled east into the immense, wild lands of Texas.
The first time she stepped down from the train, a deputy with hair graying at his temples stood at the depot. His thumbs hooked into his gun belt. Every point of his star glittered. He observed passengers greeting family and friends while some waited for the porter to produce their trunks.
Is he looking for me? She swallowed hard. Her legs felt like lead. The deputy tipped his hat, and Casey stumbled and nearly fell. Within the hour, she had another ticket.
Days ventured into weeks as Casey wandered from one town to the next. She’d stay a few days in one place. At the first hint of someone recognizing her, she’d board the next train. Her traveling dress quickly became soiled, so she purchased a simple wrapper of heavy cotton, much cheaper than her blue traveling dress. The fabric featured green and gold stripes on a brown background, and it buttoned down the front to the top of a ruffled hem. A nudging at her heart made her wonder if Morgan would approve. She shrugged.
Restless and fearful, she couldn’t relax until she found the right town to call home. Her money dwindled. She’d have to find work soon. Rose would advise her to do what came naturally.
Chapter 8
Three weeks after Morgan cheated death, he saddled his horse and said good-bye to Doc. He fought the pain in his chest and leg to climb out of Doc’s bed, tug on his boots, clean his rifle, and continue his unrelenting search for the outlaw. The hate was like a fire threatening to consume him, for now he had another reason to stop Jenkins: Casey O’Hare.
Morgan realized how Jenkins’s evil mind worked. The thought pierced what little bit remained of his heart and soul, while confusion about his staggering feelings for Casey left him frustrated. It’s because she’s a woman, that’s all. Can’t protect herself from a whole gang of outlaws. So he vowed to push on, but sometimes he wondered where it all would end.
“I’ll wire you money as soon as I get to a bigger town,” Morgan said to Doc as he saddled his horse.
“Seems like you and Casey are more concerned about paying me than getting well.” Doc stood wide-legged in the middle of the stable with his arms folded across his barreled chest. “You don’t have your strength back yet.”
Morgan avoided the big man’s stare. “I need to move on.”
“To find Casey?”
“Maybe.”
“You think that’s smart?”
Morgan flipped his saddlebag over the saddle and faced Doc. “No, but I can’t seem to talk myself out of it.”
“Are you after the woman or still bent on getting Jenkins?”
“If I had the answer to that, I’d still be sittin’ on your front porch talking about heading home to Texas.”
“So it’s both. God help you, Morgan. Does Casey know?”
Aggravated to the point of hollering, Morgan hurried through his last preparations. Doc was his friend, not his enemy. “I didn’t tell her.”
“She’s a good girl, not what other folks think,” Doc said. “Oh, I know she’s got herself mixed up in a few messes, but she deserves a chance to live a good life.”
Morgan nodded. “I’ve looked at this thing inside out, and I know I have to find her. Not sure why. But I know why I have to stop Jenkins.”
“Hate’s trying to kill you, and it almost did this time.”
Morgan pulled himself up onto the saddle. His upper leg ached, and the effort strained at his chest.
“I see the pain on your face. Rest up two more weeks. By then, we might hear from her.”
“Can’t. I have to find them both.”
“Then where you headed?”
“Arizona. Got me a hunch.” Morgan reached down and shook Doc’s hand. “You saved my life, Doc. I owe you.”
“Then find Casey before Jenkins does.”
What would I do if I did find her?
*****
Casey closed the Bible and then her eyes. So much she didn’t understand. The words and ideas all jumbled together into one huge puzzle, almost like a map that had been torn and some of the pieces lost.
The train rumbled on. Its rhythmic sound lulled her to near sleep. West Texas was as hot and dry as Arizona and New Mexico. No place looked like where she wanted to settle down. Money ran low, and she didn’t want to spend it all for fear she’d have to find refuge in a hurry. Trains were expensive. Buying food was expensive. She’d make better time traveling by horseback, and she’d long since regretted the store-bought dress and wrapper. Decision made, Casey took a deep breath and patted the derringer in her pocket. Someday she’d throw it away. But not today. Probably not tomorrow.
Rifle fire pierced the air. She startled and peered out the window. Nothing. Had she been thinking about the gang and thought she heard gunfire? Two more rifle shots echoed. Visions of the past blew past her mind like a dust storm. The train pulled to a grinding halt, like a powerful horse snorting and pawing at the bit. Two dirty men boarded the train from the rear, both wearing bandannas and carrying Winchesters. They wore the mean look of hunger, not for food but for those things that belonged to other folks. One poked his rifle barrel under a man’s hat, then lifted it into his hands. Realization hit her hard. For the first time, she was on the receiving end of outlaws. She stole a quick glance at the two. They didn’t look like any of Jenkins’s men. Would they recognize her?
“Jewelry, watches, and money,” one of the outlaws said. “No one gets hurt as long as we get what we want.”
She’d pinned her money in the lining of her dress, except for a small amount in her Bible. That should suit them. When the two walked by, she avoided peering up into their faces. The second man told a woman to stop her sniveling. He sounded familiar, and then Casey remembered. He’d ridden with Jenkins for a short while before joining up with the James gang.
“Put it all in here.” The man held his hand open.
Casey opened her Bible and pulled out the small amount. Her heart thudded like a scared rabbit. He snatched it up and kept walking. She inhaled sharply. No more chances. She’d not ride another train.
Once the outlaws left, her thoughts turned to the people around her. A woman cried. A mother clung to her baby. The faces of men paled. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t robbed anyone or stuck a gun in someone’s face. She knew the kind of men who’d rather take from hardworking folks than get an honest job. Greed spurred them on just as she grasped for peace and freedom.
Casey’s mouth went dry. She massaged her arms. The wanted posters were right. She deserved whatever happened to her—either at the end of a rope or a bullet. Maybe she should turn herself in and rid this country of one more outlaw.
At least working for Rose wasn’t against the law.
Rose Meadows. Casey doubted if that was her real name, but it sounded good to the men who stood in line for her and the other women who worked for her. Rose said she once worked at the Bird Cage in Tombstone, and that’s where she learned her trade.
“Come see me when you’ve had your fill of Jenkins,” Rose said. “Don’t worry about him. If he gives you any trouble, I’ll cut him a percent of what you make.”
The idea of Jenkins and Rose getting a share of her pay while she worked her backside seemed no better than riding with the outlaws. But at sixteen years old, after he’d blackened both of her eyes for refusing him, she’d agreed to Rose’s business arrangement.
One night was all it took. Rose painted Casey’s face and lips, then dressed her in a blue sleeveless “gown” that dipped low in the front and was tight across the middle. Casey came down the steps with the rest of the girls into the smoky bar only to hear the lewd remarks and applause of drunken men. One paid the price for her, and she led him upstairs. When the door closed and she took a whiff of his breath and unwashed body, she grabbed her old clothes and headed back to the gang. That’s when she taught herself how to throw a knife with her left and right hand. From then on, a knife rested in both boots.
Now at twenty-one years old, she’d only been with one man—Jenkins—and each time he forced himself on her, she hated him a little more.
As the days and weeks continued, her mind lingered on Morgan, the man who had nearly died to save her life. He’d captured a part of her that she believed could never be caught—her heart. Had he healed? Was he safe? Many a restless night she wrestled with his identity. If she knew the truth about him, she could deal with it. But wondering about where he came from and his reasons for tracking down Jenkins occupied too much of her time.
After the train robbery, Casey got off at the next town and headed straight to the livery. The owner had a fine-looking zebra-dun stallion for sale. She rubbed her hands over his legs, all the while talking to him softly. No horse could ever replace Stoney. The gelding seemed to sense her moods.
“You sure you can handle this one?” the owner said. “A fine looking lady like you should have a gentle horse. I’ve got a good mare in the back.”
“Oh, I can handle this one. Does he have a name?”
“Stampede.”
“Good name.”
The livery owner laughed. “I gave it to him ’cause when he takes a notion to run, he doesn’t leave anything behind but dust—and sometimes me.” He scratched his chin. “Sure hate for you to get hurt.”