by Stephen Bly
“Judge, does any of this have to do with the attempt to kidnap Amanda Sue?” Catherine asked.
“I thought perhaps it might. But the sheriff told me that the kidnapping had been planned from inside the state prison in Carson City. I convicted Hop Traver for murder last fall. He was sentenced to hang, but his lawyers have been dragging it out. Traver and one of his attorneys concocted this scheme to kidnap Amanda Sue and demand his release.”
“What would you have done had it worked?” Catherine pressed.
“Judges never give in to bribes,” Amanda Sue reported. “Everyone knows that. They would just have to turn me loose when it didn’t work.”
Catherine glanced at the judge.
He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, there is no fear now. When Judge Kingston heard of the kidnap attempt, he denied all present and future appeals and had Traver hung yesterday.”
“Just like that?” Hillyard questioned.
“Nobody argues with Judge Kingston, not even the president of the United States.”
“Mrs. Kingston does,” Amanda Sue said.
“Quite right, sweetie. Judith will challenge him any time she chooses. Now come on, Amanda Sue. We’ll go down to Carson City for a couple of days while I try to figure out what to tell your mother about all this when we get home. That might be the most important judicial decision of my life.”
Only Catherine and Race remained on the train platform.
He grappled with his bloody, long sleeve shirt. “Is this where we get back on our train and go on to Sacramento?”
“I suppose so. It seems strange that I just telegraphed Phillip to inform him I would be a day late.” She helped him with the shirt.
“So he won’t be there?” Race allowed her to fasten the buttons.
“I suppose I’ll wait in Sacramento.” She peered at his drooping shirttail. “You will have to tuck that in yourself.”
“Turn around,” he motioned with his good hand. “We could just get a room here in Reno . . . I mean two rooms, of course . . . and take the train tomorrow. I can lend you the money, if you need it.”
“You know that would be compromising and I would never accept it. Besides, I have a very nice, unworn, organdy silk dress that I paid seventy-five dollars for in Ogden. I’ll sell it for enough for a room, meals and something left over to take to California.”
“Did you accept that from Zane?” He tapped her shoulder. “You can turn back this way now.”
“Yes, I rather demanded it from him. He made me wear this one . . . I was saving it for Phillip.”
“You will allow him to buy you a seventy-five dollar dress for you, but I am not permitted to loan you five dollars?”
“That is right.”
“How do you explain that?”
“I hate him.”
“And me?”
“Race Hillyard, you know how I feel about you.”
He stepped within inches. His voice softened. “Tell me.”
“Hey, did you hear the news?” The voice blasted across the platform like a shift buzzer in a coal mine.
Francine strolled up carrying a child in each arm. “A squall hit the summit and they closed the pass until tomorrow. No one is going to California tonight. We have to sleep on the train or take a room. I’m going for a room. How about you two?”
“We’ve decided on a room also,” Race said.
Francine raised her eyebrows and grinned.
“Two rooms,” Catherine scowled.
“I trust you feel better than you look, Mr. Hilly. If we don’t get to California soon, there won’t be anything about you worth lookin’ at.”
Francine stalked down the middle of the rutted, dirt street. Two mule drawn freight wagons swerved to miss her.
“There is no lady on earth like Francine,” Hillyard murmured.
“I like her.”
“So do I, and there’s a lot to like. You can go on. I need to get my bag and my saddle off the train.”
She strolled with him towards the coach. “Poor Mr. Walker, he missed all the action.”
“He never was much help in a fight. He enjoys the peace and quiet.”
“That’s exactly why I get along with him so well.” She stopped. “Race, do you have that awful photograph?”
“Yep, you dropped both pieces and the telegram out of your sleeve when you pulled your hankie.”
“Telegram?”
“To Mr. Matthew Zane.”
“Oh, I forgot that. Did you look at it?”
“The telegram or the photo?”
She took a big, deep breath and let it out slow. “The photo.”
“I didn’t read the telegram, but I couldn’t help but see the photo. It was face side up on the floor.”
“The Lord means to humiliate me.” She tried to rub the creases from her forehead. “And he’s done a very exceptional job. May I have it please?”
He handed her the two pieces.
She shredded them into tiny scraps. “I can explain, if you’d like.”
“It’s Catelynn, isn’t it?”
She let the snippets drift to the deck, like confetti on New Year’s Eve. “Yes.”
“And the baby?”
“Catelynn’s daughter, Marie DuClare, whom I didn’t even know she had.”
“She doesn’t look like you.”
“Catelynn or Marie?”
“Your sis. I could tell it was her right away.”
“She is totally naked,” she whispered. “And we are identical twins.”
“Yes, but she has a very tiny tattoo of a butterfly on her . . . .”
Catherine looked up. “So, you did study the photograph?”
“It just kinda caught my attention.”
She ground her teeth. “I bet it did.”
“And I immediately knew it wasn’t you. You don’t have a tattoo on your . . . .”
“How do you know if I have or don’t have a tattoo on my . . . .”
He shrugged. “You aren’t the tattoo type.”
“Do you know me that well?”
“Yep.”
“Okay, you are right.” She stared off at the parked train. “I don’t have any tattoos. I suppose you think you know exactly what I look like.”
“That was your sis. Not you. And I’ve asked the Lord to forgive me for looking and to cleanse my mind of that image.”
“Has he cleansed your mind?”
“Not yet,” he grinned. “But I reckon he’s forgiven me.”
~~ CHAPTER ELEVEN ~~
The Pyramid Lake Hotel advertised itself as Reno’s finest and sported a fresh coat of periwinkle paint with teal green trim on the false façade of the two story building. But inside, Catherine discovered another well worn, sparsely furnished western hotel.
The rough, wooden staircase squeaked. Loose handrail. A thin layer of dust smelled pungent, as if covering up crimes of the past. But she had not had a decent night’s sleep since she left Omaha. Tonight, she hoped, would be different.
Once the pass over the mountains opened, she could be in Sacramento within twenty-four hours.
One more day and she would be with Phillip.
And only one more day with Race.
She stopped in the hallway. The door to his room was cracked ajar a couple inches. The paint at the bottom of the door showed wear as if it had been kicked at with some regularity.
A door partially left open? That could mean, ‘come on in’ but call out first.
“Hi, Race. It’s Catherine.” She waited for his answer. “You’ll be happy to know that I was able to sell the organdy silk dress for thirty-five dollars. I know you said I should hold out for fifty, but I think the man in Ogden overpriced it. I didn’t bargain at the time because it was Zane’s money and I enjoyed gouging him.”
She turned her head sideways, but couldn’t hear any movement.
“I know that doesn’t sound very Christian, but I must admit I don’t feel like repenting. Some men deserve what they get. I belie
ve I’m still having trouble with ‘love your enemy’. Anyway, I bought a simple dress, paid for my room, and still have some money for when I get to Sacramento. Isn’t that good?”
She reached over and knocked on the partially open door.
“Race? Eh . . . may I come in?”
Maybe he fell asleep. Poor man, he was rather battered on this trip. I will check on him, but I will not wake him up.
She eased into the room and peeked around the door.
“Race?” she whispered.
An unused brass frame bed. One oak dresser. A porcelain basin and pitcher. Two kerosene lanterns. And a well worn rocking chair that sported a polished leather saddle.
She strolled over to the saddle.
“Mr. Walker, where has Race gone? We were suppose to have supper together when I got back from selling my dress.”
Catherine stroked the cantle with her gloved hand. “He didn’t tell you either? You just caught a nap in the rocker and when you awoke he was gone? Isn’t that just like him to go off and not tell us?”
She meandered towards the open window and gazed down on the busy, dusty street. “Perhaps he found a bath house. Maybe got another shave. I’m sure he wanted to clean up before supper. I should like a bath, too, but the clean water and towel in my room provided a welcome relief. I see he had time to give you a good oiling.”
As she studied the street she noticed a crowd around the front doors of the “Dixie Saloon and Chop House.”
Race doesn’t drink . . . at least, I don’t think he does. Of course, what he went through today might drive a man to . . . no, I’m sure he wouldn’t do that.
Catherine sat down on the edge of the bed. “He’s a very tidy man, in a rustic sort of way. I bet he stacks his firewood with precision. My father used to say he could tell a lot about a man by the way he stacked his firewood.”
Why am I sitting on some man’s bed talking to his saddle? Perhaps I’m losing connection with reality. Then again, maybe I’ve never had it since before the war. The months and years have gone by so fast.
She stood. “Mr. Walker, I’ll go to my room and knit a sweater for little Marie LuClare . . . if I had any wool and knew how to knit.”
A least she and Catelynn are free from the clutches of Matthew Zane for a while. Oh, how I want to get a telegram from New York.
“These are not the cleanest of rooms. Mr. Walker, do you see that crumpled paper in the corner? Left from previous guests, no doubt. Perhaps this is quality enough for overnight guests, but one would not want to live in a hotel like this.”
She plucked up the paper and searched the room for a trash container.
No wonder they tossed it on the floor. There seems to be no alternative. If I had a hotel, there would be a trash container as well as a spittoon in every room.
She looked down at the paper.
It looks like a telegram.
She slowly unfolded it.
It’s the telegram for Matthew Zane.
Catherine hiked over to the window and held it up to the daylight that still filtered through from the street.
“Zane: wine, women and fast horses. Just like we thought. Your part of the diamond matter is the 1st National Bank in Buenos Aires. Get down here quick. You don’t need another deal. This will last us a lifetime in Argentina. Watch out for Pinehurst. Rumor is that he lost his share and is headed to Calif to sell you out to the Attorney General. Whatever you do, don’t go to San Francisco with him. See you soon, Lucky”
She stared at the telegram, then at the open window.
Matthew Zane was part of that diamond swindle! Race read this . . . threw it in the corner . . . and . . . .
“Oh, no! Oh, no!”
With the crumpled note still in her hand, she plucked her purse off the bed and scurried out of the room. The noise of her shoes hammering the stairs caused several in the hotel lobby to stop and stare.
She vaulted towards the street, then made a sudden stop as a stagecoach rumbled by. The crowd of men on the boardwalk in front of the Dixie Saloon and Chop House had doubled since she spied it from the hotel window.
She grabbed a thin old man with no upper teeth. “Is there a fight in there?”
“That Texan is beatin’ up on the easterner in the red vest again. And he’s doing it with one arm.”
She poked at two men crowded ahead of her. “I want to get in there,” she demanded.
They didn’t budge.
“So does everyone else,” one replied.
Catherine scooted to the left. A massive man with long, thick black hair and a red bandanna around his forehead blocked her way and her vision. She tapped his shoulder.
“Has he killed him yet?” she hollered above the crowd noise.
“Not yet, but it won’t be long.”
“I must get in there.”
“No one will move over.”
“I must get in there and stop it.”
“You are a tall lady.”
“Yes, and you are a taller man.”
“I like tall women.”
His eyes were black, intent, but not threatening. Dirty black boots stretched outside his trousers.
“I really must get in there.”
“Are you one of their wives?”
“Sort of.”
The man grinned. His teeth were wide, but straight. “Yeah, I have a ‘sort of’ wife myself.”
She pulled a five dollar gold coin out of her purse. “I’ll give you this if you can get me in there next to the fight.”
He plucked the coin, bit it, then slipped it into his leather vest pocket. “Hop on my back.”
“What?”
“Throw your arms around my neck and whatever you do, don’t let go. You might get trampled to death.”
Like a snow plow leading a train, the big man shouted and shoved his way through the cluster of men. Some pulled guns or knives in protest, but the sight of Catherine riding his back made them hesitate. Once inside, the raucous, volatile crowd parted like the Red Sea.
Catherine slid down off the man, shoved a busted chair aside, and stumbled as she neared the fight. Hillyard straddled Zane, pinning his arms with his knees. Both men were bruised and bloodied.
She shoved between the final two men.
Where is Chet Pinehurst? Why hasn’t he come to rescue Zane?
Hillyard’s left arm hung to his side. Blood seeped through the linen of his shirt. His right fist pounded the face of Matthew Zane.
The crowd noise deafened her shouts and she couldn’t hear her own voice.
“Race, stop it. You’ll kill him!”
Hillyard kept beating the man.
“Race! Race!” she screamed.
Zane offered no resistance.
When Hillyard pulled his right hand back for another blow, Catherine dove on his back and clutched the arm. His forward motion slung her against the wall behind Zane.
The crowd hushed.
She couldn’t breathe.
Hillyard looked startled.
“Catherine?”
She held up her hand and fought to find a breath.
“I didn’t know you were here.” He cocked his fist to strike Zane again.
“Don’t, Race. Don’t do it.”
“You don’t know . . . .”
“I read the telegram. I do know!” She flopped across Zane making it impossible to strike him, without hitting her first. “Race, listen to me. There is no honor in beating to death an unconscious man.”
“He doesn’t deserve to live,” he yelled. “Go back to the hotel, Catherine.”
She crossed her arms. “I will not.”
“Then, get out of my way. I’m killing him right now.”
“I know Zane is a leech and the world will be better without him. There is no one on this planet that I hate more than him. But killing him is not your job.”
“It is now. No one else seems up to the task.”
“Please, Race . . . please. You chastised me for throwing away
my heart. You said I would have none left. You were right. I needed to hear that. Well, you are throwing away your soul . . . .”
“My salvation is secure. Jesus made sure of that.”
When Catherine shook her head, strands of hair drooped across her eyes. “But you will go through life without any soul. You will be pathetic, worthless and a mockery to mankind.”
“I’ll take the chance, get up.”
“No. No, I won’t.”
“I don’t care if they hang me or shoot me. I’ll go to heaven a satisfied man.”
“You can’t go to heaven yet. This world needs men like you. Please, Race.”
He grabbed her shoulder. “Catherine, get out . . . .”
She threw her arms around his neck and clutched him. Tears rolled down her face. “I need you, Race Hillyard. I need you, soul and all. Please don’t do this.”
He jerked his head back. His bloodied eyes focused on her.
A murmur rolled through the crowd behind them.
“I’ve had enough of you two. I should have locked you both up this afternoon. I won’t make that mistake again.”
Catherine pushed back and spied Sheriff Walker with gun drawn. He waved the muzzle at the crowd. “You men help me escort these brawlers to the jail.”
Race Hillyard didn’t know how long he had been standing, handcuffed to the rail at the far end of cell number two in the Washoe County jail. He had passed out or slept for some time. He did note that a lot of blood in his hair, face and hands had now caked dry.
He shut his eyes again. A holler from the opposite end of the adjoining cell caused him to turn and survey the jail.
“That man assaulted me for no reason, I should not be in jail. Get Pinehurst. He’ll pay my bail.”
“Shut up, Zane,” Hillyard said. “No one is listening to you.”
“I’m going to bring attempted murder charges against you, Hillyard.”
“If they turn me loose first, you could drop the ‘attempted.’”
“Are you doing all of this over that tall Virginia spinster? You can have her. I never wanted her. I never want to see her again.”
“I’m going to kill you because of that diamond mine swindle.”
Most of the blood had been washed off Zane’s face, but the bruises branded him. “Diamond mine? That was months ago. Are you a hired gun from Crocker and that gang?”