by Janet Dailey
“I kept it small an’ used only dry wood so it wouldn’t make much smoke. Apache trick.” He gave her a sly smile.” ‘Sides, I had to fix the brands on the horses. We couldn’t go ridin’ with that ‘US’ mark on their flanks. Anybody’d know fo’ shore they was army horses. I changed it to ‘08.’”
“How’d you do that?” She was impressed by his cleverness.
“Heated the cinch ring off a saddle. It was easy. Now, if I can jes’ git shed of this uniform…” Bitterman opened the bundle and shook out the pants and shirt she’d bought for him. Satisfied, he began stripping off the blue pants with their telltale yellow stripe. “Did anybody see ya?”
“No.” At least she didn’t think so. “I saw Miz Wade in the gen’ral store. I ducked into a corner real quick. What d’you s’pose she was doin’ there?” Cimmy Lou sat on the ground and hugged her knees to her chest as she eyed his wiry body, so thin and narrow—and scarred up just like an alley cat.
“Nothin’ was said? No talk ‘bout anybody out lookin’ for us?” He pulled on the pants and hitched them high around his waist.
“No. All the talk is ‘bout that Apache. He tried to escape yestiday an’ the majuh killed him.”
“Maybe it took their minds off’n us.” With his pants fastened, he stuck the muzzle of his revolver in the waistband.
“When are we gonna leave here?” Cimmy swatted at a fly that was buzzing around her head. “You said we was goin’ to Colorado.”
“Not fo’ a couple days,” Bitterman told her. “I wanna give those brands a chance t’heal up.”
“But what if they did send a patrol after us?” She sighed her impatience at the delay and the unnecessary risks they were running. “We’re so close to the fort—they might find us. We could be miles away by now.”
“That’s what they’re figurin’. They’ll never think to look fo’ us this close. An’ that herd of cattle we passed wiped out all our tracks. If we don’t move fo’ a spell, we won’t leave any sign fo’ them to find. This is the safest place we can be fo’ a few days. By then, they’ll figure we’re long gone an’ quit lookin’.” He chuckled. “And ain’t it a laugh that we been sittin’ right here under their noses all the time.”
“I guess it is.” She smiled, then stretched out her arms, arching her back in a tired gesture. “I never thought I’d git so tired of doin’ nothin’.”
“You want somethin’ t’do? Come here.” He motioned her toward him and sat on the hard ground as she scooted over to be wrapped in his arms.
“Tell me what it’s gonna be like in Colorado again.” Cimmy walked her fingers across his chest with idle interest.
“It’s dreams yore wantin’. I thought it was me,” Bitterman chided, but he obliged. “We’ll find us a minin’ camp that’s really boomin’—“
“An’ you’ll get a job dealin’ faro in one of the gamblin’ houses an’ I’ll charge ten dollars fo’ every shirt I wash,” Cimmy declared. “I won’t throw the water out till I run it through a sluice an’ get the gold dust. Maybe even find a nugget.”
“An’ you’ll meet a rich prospector an’ git him to give you all his gold.” He smiled against her soft hair. “You’d be good at that.”
“What you think I oughtta buy first? A satin gown, maybe—or a fancy dress.” She snuggled against him, burrowing against his narrow chest. “I want a house someday—made outta wood an’ painted white—where people’d come callin’ on Sunday.”
“Things. Is that all you want, Cimmy?” Bitterman craned his head around to look at her.
“No. I can git them. There are ways a body can do it.” It wasn’t often that she thought deeply about anything. She flattened her hand against the warm, hard flesh of his chest, feeling the beat of his heart. “It’s this man art’ woman thing, that’s what this world is ah about. When it wears off, there ain’t nothin’ left. You might as well be dead.”
“Do you think any one man can wear you out!” he asked, half-serious and half-teasing.
Cimmy tilted her head back, bringing her lip close to life. “You can try,” she urged.
Laughter rumbled in his chest as he shifted to lay her on the ground. When he rolled his body onto her, Bitterman felt the power in those twisting, playful hips. “I’m gonna show you a time these next few days,” he promised.
She laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him the rest of the way down. This man and woman thing was a power struggle she always won.
CHAPTER 22
HANNAH PAUSED IN THE DOORWAY OF THE HOTEL’S dining room and looked for an empty table. There were few in the crowded room. Hy Boler was at his usual corner table; he was a nightly customer of the establishment, as Hannah had learned over the last three days. She made a point of ignoring him as she crossed in front of him to sit at a nearby table.
“Stew, please, and hot tea,” she requested when the waitress stopped. The selection was easily made: the stew was the cheapest item on the menu. Considering that this was a mining town and all the prices were steeply inflated, that wasn’t saying much.
The clatter of dishes and silverware combined with the loud talking in the room made it difficult for her to think. It seemed that she had tried everywhere, exhausted every possibility, and no one wanted to hire her. The town already had a schoolmaster, but they had made it plain anyway that they didn’t consider her suitable. The local seamstress insisted that she had all the help she needed, and none of the restaurants wanted her waiting on the customers. All the stores turned her down—nothing was available anywhere. She sighed in frustration, not bothering to look up when the waitress set the bowl of stew in front of her. She had no appetite, but she forced herself to eat it anyway.
Her chair faced the doorway, and as a man walked in and took off his wide-brimmed black hat, her glance idly fell on him. His frock coat and showy cravat were the trademarks of a professional gambler. His gaze searched the room; obviously he was looking for someone. Hannah picked up her teacup. Over its rim, she saw his gaze stop on her. Immediately he started forward, wending his way past the tables and chairs straight toward her. After a momentary uncertainty, she decided it must be someone behind her he was meeting, and took a drink of the tea.
“Excuse me.” He stopped before her chair. “It’s Mrs. Wade, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” She frowned in wary confusion.
“You were described to me, but the party failed to relate how very beautiful you are. Permit me to introduce myself,” he drawled. “I’m Ace Bannon.”
“Mr. Bannon.” She placed her hand in the one he offered and he bowed over it with courtly ease. The southern drawl, the smooth gallantry—it all went with the silver wings in his dark hair and the touch of aristocratic arrogance in his features.
“I have heard that you have been looking for work.” He flashed her a smile.
“Yes, I have.”
“I have a proposition for you which I’m sure will be financially rewarding for both of us. I own the Ace High Saloon and Gambling Hall. I run an honest game, but you must have noticed how much competition I have from other less scrupulous houses on the street. I need something that will attract the trade. You would make the perfect drawing card, Mrs. Wade. We’ll fix you up with a white buckskin outfit with lots of fringe and beads—why, we’ll turn you into a genuine Apache princess. Those miners will pay plenty for the chance to dance with you. Naturally, I’ll waive my percentage, and you can keep all the money from the dance tickets.”
“No, thank you.” She was curt and cold.
“I beg your pardon.” He showed his surprise. “I assure you that you’ll find it a very profitable venture.”
“No.” The dining room seemed unnaturally quiet, its customary clatter of dishes and voices suspended. Hannah didn’t have to look to know that everyone in the room was watching and listening to their conversation. She didn’t know which made her angrier—that he thought she would consider such a proposal, or that he made it in public.
“I
f you don’t think it’s enough money, we could possibly arrange for you to receive some percentage of the drinks. I am prepared to be generous,” he assured her with a faint stiffness.
Hannah set her teacup in its saucer with such force that it rattled. “Mr. Bannon, I have no intention of working for you no matter how much you offer to pay me.” She spoke clearly and concisely so that everyone in the room could hear. “Nothing would ever persuade me to work for you.”
He straightened, offended; then his mouth curved into a smile under his full mustache. “That’s what you say now, Mrs. Wade, but the day will come when you’ll be hungry—so hungry you’ll do anything. When it does, you will seek me out.”
She rose to her feet. “You have forgotten something, Mr. Bannon. I lived with the Apaches. A week in the desert, and you would starve to death or die of thirst, while I would find all the food and water I need. I will never go hungry, Mr. Bannon, and I certainly will never be so desperate that I’d work for you!”
His face turned red, the veins in his temples bulging with the hot blood pumping through them. He pivoted sharply and walked with rigid strides from the dining room.
After that confrontation, she had no appetite left, and the tea was cold anyway. The silence in the room was deafening. She opened her reticule to take out some money and caught a glimpse of movement out of the comer of her eye. She turned as Hy Boler walked up.
“My congratulations, Mrs. Wade. I have always admired you, and now I know why.” He gave a deep chuckle. “I never enjoyed anything half as much as the way you told him off.”
“I’m glad you found it so entertaining.” She was still smarting from the scene, and the sting of it was in her voice.
“Put your money away. I’m buying your dinner tonight.”
“I will pay for my own, thank you.”
He wagged a finger at her, still smiling. “Don’t let your pride get in the way of practically.” He sifted through the coins in his pocket and gave the exact amount to the waitress. Hannah moved away, but he was quick to follow her. “The sun’s gone down and it should be getting cool about now. Would you care to take an evening stroll with me? There’s something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“If it’s a proposition similar to Mr. Bannon’s, you’re wasting your time and mine.”
“It isn’t.” His hand cupped her elbow to steer her outside. “Let’s walk.”
The Silver City nightlife was just beginning to hum as they wandered along the twilight-shadowed boardwalk. Several riders galloped their horses up the street, and raucous voices came from the open doors of the saloons and gaming houses. Up the street, someone was banging a tune on a piano. Late at night, the shooting usually started, but it was still too early for that.
“What is it that you wanted to talk to me about, Mr. Boler?” Hannah prodded, on guard with him.
“Your story.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your story. A few minutes ago in the dining room, I realized that there was a great deal more to it than what I wrote about.”
“And?” Hannah knew there was more coming.
“And—I would like to buy the exclusive rights to it. All you have to do is sit down and tell me everything that happened, and I’ll write the book. I know it will sell.”
“Your version of my story would likely have me dying of a broken heart over Lutero’s death. No, thank you, Mr. Boler.”
Somewhere a bottle crashed, and the sound of splintering glass broke through the night.
“You’ve been through a lot, Mrs. Wade, and I don’t mean just being captured and living with the Apaches, but also coming back and all that’s happened since. It’s an experience people would like to know about. I know I could sell it to a publisher in the East. We could split the proceeds. You want to earn a living,” he reminded her. “With a true story of your life published, you could travel around the country lecturing to different groups.”
“I see. Now I’m simply a social outcast, and you’re suggesting that I turn myself into a freak for profit. You are beginning to sound like Mr. Bannon. Earlier you wanted to buy the rights, and now you want to split with me.”
He chuckled. “You have a quick mind, Mrs. Wade. Not much escapes you, does it?” Their footsteps sounded with a rhythmic tempo on the plank sidewalk. “You’re intelligent and educated. Why don’t you write the book, and I’ll represent you—for a small percentage, of course.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“Then why don’t you give me a job at your newspaper? You’re the only person in town I haven’t asked.”
Boler stopped and Hannah paused with him. “When I suggested that you were capable of writing about your own experiences, I didn’t mean to imply that you had the qualifications to become a reporter.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that you should hire me to write for your paper. I can do anything—clean, fold papers, keep your accounts. As you said, Mr. Boler, I am intelligent and educated, and I need the work.”
“How are you at setting type?”
“I could learn.” Hannah felt a lifting of her spirits, the determined rise of hope.
He reached for her hand and studied her long, slim fingers. “Women are very dexterous. Half the time my typesetter is drunk. I could use somebody who is steady and dependable.”
“You’ve found her,” she stated.
“So I have.” They shook hands to confirm the agreement, and Hannah found that she had something to smile about for the first time in days.
“How much are you paying your typesetter now?” she asked.
“The man’s experienced—“
“He’s also a drunkard, you said.” The sky was purpling into night, the darkening shadows making an indistinct shape of his features.
He shook his head mildly. “All right. I’ll pay you the same wages I’m giving him. I have the feeling it’s going to be a new experience working with you. Mrs. Wade. You’re going to keep me on my toes.” “Indeed, Mr. Boler.” They started walking again.
A high morning sun made an oven out of the steep-walled arroyo, the scant breezes passing over rather than through it. The Apache tracker squatted on his heels and poked through, the accumulated piles of horse dung. After testing its smell and crumbling some between his fingers, he straightened and looked at the gaunt, hollow-eyed sergeant.
“Long time here. Maybe four days,” the tracker concluded. “One dung still warm inside. Maybe two, three hours.”
“See which way they headed when they left,” John T. ordered, and jerked his hand toward the brush-blocked mouth of the gully. The Apache scout trotted past him, his moccasins making faint scuffing sounds on the sand.
“Sergeant! Look what I found.” Hooker turned toward the voice. Graver’s search of the hidden camp had unearthed a uniform, half-buried under a tumble of large rocks. He carried it over to John T., sweat streaming down his face and plastering his gray shirt to his back, and remarked. “It’s Bitterman’s, all right. Hell, I thought he’d be halfway to California by now.”
“He’s clever, but not clever enough to brush out the tracks leading into here,” Hooker said absently, and turned to issue an order to the other troopers. “All right, let’s mount up.”
No one mentioned Cimmy Lou or the way Hooker had pushed them during the last week, refusing to admit that they’d lost the trail and searching ceaselessly until they found it again. They hadn’t seen him sleep at all, and all of them had noticed the glazed, distant look about him. This wasn’t like their sergeant. Something was going on inside him that made them all uneasy.
The Apache scout had found fresh tracks leading away from the gully hideout, and they pointed to town. Another trooper muttered to Grover as he swung into the saddle, “Bitterman shoulda kept runnin’.”
“I got a feelin’ he could never’ve run far enough,” Grover murmured, and dug his heels into his horse as the sergeant gave a hand signal to move out.
; Cutter rode up to the hotel and dismounted, looping the reins around the hitching rail in front. The heavy tread of his boots echoed loudly as he walked across the raised board sidewalk to the hotel entrance. Inside the lobby he hesitated, then crossed to the desk.
“I’m looking for Mrs. Hannah Wade. I was told she came here a few days ago,” he informed the young clerk behind the counter. “Could you tell me where I could find her?”
“Mrs. Wade? She’s at the newspaper office down the street.”
Faintly surprised by the answer, Cutter pushed away from the hotel desk and retraced his steps across the lobby to the door. Outside, he swung himself into the saddle and rode down the congested street to the building housing the newspaper. When he walked in, he automatically took off his hat and smoothed his shaggy black hair.
“Captain Cutter, isn’t it?” The newspaper publisher came forward to greet him.
As of this morning, the rank was no longer his to claim, but Cutter didn’t bother to go into that. “I was told at the hotel that Hannah Wade was here.”
Boler’s look instantly turned speculative and curious. “She’s in back setting type for tomorrow’s edition of the paper. Go on through if you’d like.”
“Thank you.” The absent response was given as Cutter walked by him, his attention already shifting to the back.
The cumbersome machinery of the printing press blocked his view of the rear area. The smell of oil and ink was strong as he moved by it. Sunlight streamed through a back window, shining on the wide, slanted table where Hannah was at work. A warm rush of feeling went through him when he saw her.
Her concentration was focused on the copy she was setting, and she remained unaware of his presence. Cutter paused for a minute to watch her. Stray wisps of auburn hair had escaped the bun at the back of her neck, softening its prim style, and there was something vital and strong in the deep tan of her skin. The long, bibbed apron she wore was smudged with ink, and her fingers were stained with it, too.
“Hannah.”
When she turned around, the rush of pleasure lighting her face was a heady sight. “Cutter.” She quickly checked her reaction. “It’s good to see you.”